He would not accord her gentlemanly courtesies. “You are to remove your clothing, madam,” he said, his voice as clear and cool as an icicle.
Her eyes widened for a hint of a second, then she moved to the edge of the bed, blew out the candle and began to unbutton her gown.
“I want the candle lighted,” he said harshly. “I am your husband, and I want to see what I’m getting.” He scooped up the candle, strolled to the fireplace and relit the wick from the flames. Walking slowly back to her bed, he watched her lift the gown over her head, then clutch the coverlet to hide her breasts, her face flaming.
He set the candle on the marble top of her bedside table and leaned over her, lifting her chin with his finger. “I cannot believe the former Miss de Mouchet blushes over the prospect of displaying her lovely body.”
“It is just…” Anna whispered, “I did not know this act was performed… totally naked?”
His laughter shook the room. “Yes, my dear, we shall perform the act totally naked. I pity your former lovers if they were denied the pleasure of your entire body.” His hand moved from her chin, down the slope of her chest, where he flicked off the covering and cupped a full breast while his thumb plied her pink nipple.
“There have been no lovers, my lord,” she said in a shaky voice.
He removed his hand and met her bewildered gaze. “Do you mean to tell me you’re a virgin?”
All he saw were her huge, brown eyes staring at him like a frightened doe as she nodded.
“So you say. There are ways a man can tell if a woman has been with a man.”
She lifted her chin and spoke in a voice now devoid of shakiness. “I’m very happy to learn that. Then I will be exonerated of at least one odious deed.”
“Oh, but my dear,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and stroking her breast, “there is nothing at all odious about the deed.”
“Then you’ve done this before?”
He guffawed. “God in heaven woman, I’m two and thirty years old!”
Softly, she asked, “How old were you the first time?”
He remembered the fair Denise at Oxford and smiled. “Eighteen.”
She spoke in a whisper. “I am eighteen, too.”
He struggled with himself not to feel sympathy for her. He would soon know if she was a whore.
Her eyes flicked to his hand as he kneaded her breast. “I suppose this a ridiculous question to ask one’s husband, but what is your first name, my lord?”
A smile curved his lips. “Charles.”
“Have you ever had a mistress, Charles?”
“That is no concern of yours, my dear. I vowed to your priest tonight that I would forsake all others, and I intend to keep at least that part of my vows, provided you satisfy my bedroom needs.”
“I will endeavor to try,” she said softly. “Oblige me by being a good teacher.”
He got up from the bed and blew out the candle. She was either a damned good actress or truly a virgin. If she had never seen a naked man before it was no wonder she was shaking. He began to remove his own garments, determined to end this charade of her virginity. His breeches fell to the floor and he climbed on the bed beside her.
“Wife,” he said formally as she moved to make room for him beside her, “Let us begin to discover a few things about each other.”
He could hear the lonely howl of the wind outside the casements as he pulled her to him, slipping one arm beneath her and wrapping his other around her. He felt her warmth as his chin nuzzled in the hollow of her neck, the fragrance of her rose water mingling with the softness of her loose hair. God’s teeth, but she smelled good and felt good! His manhood throbbed.
He would not kiss her, not yet. She wanted consummation. She would get that, and only that. She was stiff as a poker. He forced her thighs apart, and she quickly clamped them back together.
Entry would not be easy with such resistance. He could see he would have to relax her. He began by stroking her back, and as he sensed an easing in her tension, his large hands slid along the smooth flesh of her bare hips, pressing into her roundness, nudging her closer with his hands, establishing a rhythm that continued when he ceased to pull her toward him.
While their bodies rolled into one another with a lulling, hypnotizing motion, his hands kept up their fluid stroking of her satin skin.
With unexpected pleasure, he felt her body mold into his, and he took delight in hearing the shortening of her breath. Virgins and wives, he had been told, lay rigid while their husbands took their pleasure. That Anna was no ice maiden brought relief mingled with disappointment.
He eased her back flat to the bed and leaned over her, his lips finding her breasts and closing around a nipple. She began to softly whimper.
Once again, he forced her thighs apart, and this time she widened even further. When his fingers found her wetness, her whimpers turned to moans as she raised her hips toward his stretched out body. He lowered himself into her and felt himself sheathed in her tight slickness. In a frenzy matching his movements, he called out her name once. Twice. Three times.
As he sunk deeper into her sweetness, he felt her stiffen and cry out in pain. And he knew he must be gentle with her. For she was indeed a virgin. As well as his wife. Holding her tightly and whispering her name, he heaved a gasp as his seed spilled into her.
He lay very still, loosening the tightness of his hold, staying within her, brushing the moist hair from her brow, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and at last pressing trembling lips over hers.
He had never before called out a woman’s name as he had with Anna. But, then, he’d never had a woman like Anna. He had always avoided deflowering virgins. And there was no shred of doubt that Anna had brought her virginity to this bed tonight. The thought softened his anger and hatred for her.
Yet as his wife’s name had tumbled almost reverently from his lips, her blatant enjoyment of their intimacy made him want to curse her and the long line of cyprians whose blood ran in her veins.
Why couldn’t this sexual encounter affect him as all the others in his past had? He had always been able to take his pleasure with commitment of nothing more than a few pounds. But tonight was so different. The physical pleasure, he must admit, had been, indeed still was, intense. By far the most intense he could remember. But there was something more. Something that seemed to envelop his mind and his emotions like nothing he had ever experienced. An alien tenderness toward the mere girl who shuddered beneath him, bereft of her innocence, nearly overpowered him.
He cursed himself for his weakness. And for the first time in his life he wished he could have been more like his heartless father. Why couldn’t he have taken his pleasure from Anna without feeling? Why had he bent like a spring shoot and blown out the blasted candle? He had treated her with the same compassion he would have shown were she his own chosen bride and not a scheming chit who would stop at nothing to gain his title.
Yet against his will, his arms closed around her even tighter, and her feel and her scent swamped him with an odd sense of tenderness.
~ ~ ~
NOW THAT IT WAS OVER, Anna willed herself not to stroke the supple muscles of his body. Now that she could gather her thoughts somewhat clearly, she wanted to die of shame. Years of careful grooming to act like a lady, to look like a lady and to think like a lady had come unraveled like a cheap ball of yarn. All because her body betrayed her.
She had thoroughly succumbed to the intoxicating love making of the selfish traitor who was now her husband.
She had acted like a whore. Like the woman everyone thought her mother was. But Anna had never believed what others said of her mother. Her mother had told her that what happened in privacy between her and Anna’s father was beautiful because they loved each other.
At least Annette had her own self respect in the knowledge that her body belonged to the man she loved.
Anna could not even say that.
She must be a whore. That’s what the
English said of beautiful French women. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps there was a curse over French women that caused them to be slaves of the flesh.
Two things kept her from gathering up her things and fleeing: the knowledge that she was helping England, and the fact that the marquess would be the only person who knew of her shameful weakness.
~ ~ ~
REMOVING HIMSELF from Anna’s bed while she slept started a perplexing quandary in Haverstock. He would have enjoyed staying with her all night and taking her again when she awoke. He would like to awaken with her beside him, the morning light displaying her youthful voluptuousness.
He quietly dressed, collected a small valise containing gold coins, then braced the cold and took himself to his house on Half Moon Street. There, he packed for his journey. Not only did he not wish to wake his valet, but he did not want even Manors to know of his mission.
Once he had packed, he sat down to pen a letter to his mother informing her of his haste to marry before his business journey. He would tell no one the circumstances under which he and Anna married. He told his mother the clandestine marriage was necessitated by his mother’s dislike of Anna’s family. Now that the act was done, he wrote, his mother would have to accept his choice for a bride. “I beg you will welcome my wife and accord her the respect she deserves,” he concluded, after telling her Anna would be mistress of Haverstock House within a fortnight.
Next, he wrote to Anna.
Lastly, he left a letter requesting his secretary inform the newspapers of the nuptials between Miss Anna de Mouchet and the Marquess of Haverstock.
With those duties done, he personally walked round to the stables to collect his horse for the ride to Morgie’s town house. As Haverstock had instructed Anna’s servants, they had roused Morgie and taken him home.
When Haverstock arrived, Morgie awaited him, fully dressed in riding clothes and packed for the journey. Hanging his head rather shamefully, Morgie asked, “Is France still our destination, or do you take me to Newgate?”
“We will discuss your indiscretions once we are on the boat for France,” Haverstock said sternly as the two men mounted their horses and rode off into the early morning’s darkness.
On the ship, though the two men shared a private cabin, little conversation occurred. Their dialogue consisted of Morgie, who unpleasantly expelled the contents of his stomach, insisting that he was dying and Haverstock assuring him his discomfort was the result of the ship’s motion or an overabundance of liquor.
Once in Bordeaux, they took rooms at an inn near the waterfront. Over dinner, which Morgie barely touched, he ran a thin hand through his hair and said, “I say Haverstock, I’m bloody ashamed of losing the deuced money. How’d you get it back?”
“I won it back,” Haverstock lied.
Morgie appraised him admiringly. “Thought you detested high-stakes gaming—because of your father.”
Haverstock washed down his bread with the wine this region was famous for. “What else had we to lose?”
“Right you are,” Morgie said cheerfully. “By the way, did you not find Miss de Mouchet quite the loveliest creature you’ve ever beheld?”
Haverstock’s heart quickened as he remembered Anna’s lovely, pliant body beneath him. “Indeed I did. In fact, she is no longer Miss de Mouchet. The next time you see her, you may address her as Lady Haverstock.”
Morgie spit out his wine. “The hell you say!”
Haverstock’s black eyes shone mischievously. “How could I possibly leave for a minimum of two weeks and hope she remained unattached when I returned? There was only one thing to do. I rode to Lambeth Palace for a special license.”
Morgie pursed his lips. “You’re teasing me. I don’t believe you for a minute. You’ve never done an impulsive thing in your life.”
“Ah, but my dear friend, I never before met the ravishing Miss de Mouchet.” Remembering Anna’s extraordinary beauty, he almost believed his own words.
~ ~ ~
EXHAUSTED FROM PLAYING CARDS with Sir Henry throughout the previous night, Anna slept for ten hours. When she awoke, warmed by the sun that directed through half dozen windows, she felt something else, too. Between her thighs a deep soreness reminded her of what had occurred between her husband and her.
Her eyes snapped open and she turned to see if he were still beside her, knowing by the light outside that he would have left hours ago. She wondered if he had departed as soon as he had taken his pleasure or if he had slept all night within her arms.
She saw the indentation on her satin sheets where he had lain and experienced a feeling of loss. A chill settled deep in her bones. She pulled the covers around her snugly. How much more reassuring it would have been to awaken with him beside her, pressing soft kisses on her, letting her know their lovemaking had been acceptable, that she was a wife, not a whore.
Enveloped by her eternal loneliness, she now felt bereft and soiled by his seed which still moistened her sheets. The Haverstock seed, she thought, her heart pounding painfully.
FIVE
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, a page from Haverstock House brought Anna a letter from her husband. She carried it to her chamber, now their chamber, and quickly broke the seal with trembling hands and stood beside the bed to read it.
My Dear Wife,
By the time you read this I will be far away. I disliked taking my leave without saying good-bye to you, but you slept so soundly I knew you needed the sleep too badly to be awakened. My mother has now been informed of our marriage and has been instructed to make Haverstock House your home. I will call upon you when I return to London, and I look forward to continuing your instruction.
Yours,
Haverstock
Anna held the letter to her breast, a warmth blanketing her. The letter was an unexpected pleasure, coming from a man who fully intended to honor his vows. This dark lord was indeed not his father’s son. This man she had married—this man who had taken complete possession of her—intended to honor his vows.
If only he could be honorable toward his country, she thought bitterly.
She tied the letter in pink satin ribbon and placed it in a drawer of the table beside her bed.
In bed that night, she had difficulty falling asleep. She wondered if Haverstock had given the money to the French by now. She rued his treachery. Inexplicably, she wondered if he had given a thought to her.
~ ~ ~
DURING THE NEXT TWO WEEKS Anna attempted to keep so busy that Haverstock would not intrude upon her every thought. At the beginning of each day, she dressed meticulously in the latest fashion, expecting a call from her mother-in-law, whom she knew was informed of the marriage. But that call never came.
Anna and Colette—with outriders in addition to their already formidable assortment of attendants—visited the East End and distributed clothing, coins and food to the unfortunate.
Anna kept busy at a number of other tasks. She started fancy work of her own complicated design. She portioned off each of her servants and oversaw the packing of her most essential possessions. She made arrangements for letting her house on Grosvenor Square.
When two weeks had passed, Anna found herself running to the window with each clop of horse hooves, checking to see if Haverstock had arrived. With every breath she took, she thought of him. And cursed herself for doing so.
~ ~ ~
WITH AN ARMED Morgie standing watch, Haverstock met with his French contact at a farm house on the outskirts of Bordeaux. The meeting went well. Monsieur Herbert presented Haverstock with several pages of dates and descriptions of shipments to troops in the Peninsula as well as their locations. In exchange for the information, Haverstock handed over the fifty-thousand pounds.
“My necessity for the money grows urgent,” the fleshy Frenchman said. “Soon, I will be forced to leave France.”
Haverstock cocked a brow. “How so?”
“Our government has been informed that a traitor is passing information to the British. As yet,
no one knows my identity.”
“I have told no one your name,” Haverstock said.
“Are you aware that someone who works in your Foreign Office is a spy for the French?”
Haverstock experienced a sinking feeling. “Are you sure?”
The Frenchman nodded. “Just as he does not know my name, I do not know his. But I must warn you to be very cautious.”
During the journey home, Haverstock was thankful he could keep busy reading, translating, and memorizing the documents. For the first time since he left London, he was too busy to think of his strange marriage and the unwanted attraction his devious wife solicited in him.
He was pleased to learn some of the documents even sketched out battle plans and enumerated French troops. All in all, England had struck a good bargain by paying Monsieur Hebert for the information.
Near the end of the journey, Haverstock translated a great deal of the information into code and burned the originals, keeping the coded papers on his person at all times.
As he and Morgie approached London, Haverstock faced a dilemma over whom to see first: Anna or his mother. He had written to Anna that he would see her immediately upon his arrival, but he also wanted to smooth things out with his mother before bringing Anna home.
In the end, his impatience to once again look upon Anna won out. Was she really as lovely as he remembered? He could still remember how it felt standing before the cleric holding her slim gloved hand within his own and placing his signet ring on her finger. Her recalled how small her voice had sounded when she recited her vows. And he would never forget the picture of her sitting in the bed, attempting to cover her exquisite body while declaring her innocence in a shaky voice. Most of all, he remembered the feel and smell of her naked body against his own. As he drew near Grosvenor Square, he felt like a schoolboy in the flush of his first flirtation.
SIX
MORGIE ACCOMPANIED Haverstock to Anna’s house. Haverstock brought his friend along to prevent himself from raising her skirts and taking her on the floor of her parlor. For when it came to Anna, he was consumed by lust.
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