by Ann Stephens
Curling onto his side between lavender-scented sheets, Kieran sleepily reflected on the kiss he had just experienced. Intending only to discover her reaction to basic physical contact, both their reactions surprised him. When she had addressed him by name, he had hoped for an invitation to her bed after all.
He shifted restlessly. His sense of the ridiculous appreciated the irony of being thoroughly aroused by a virgin, but that did not ease the ache between his thighs.
Part of his response had to stem from months of near-abstinence. His engagement had necessitated only a few discreet meetings with tactful professionals.
Most men did not take such care to keep their liaisons hidden, of course, but he had no wish to make himself the subject of gossip. Besides, to flaunt a mistress during one’s engagement was the height of bad manners.
Before drifting off to sleep, he congratulated himself on such foresight. His bride demonstrated more passion than he had dreamed possible in a sheltered girl. He looked forward to introducing her to more sensual delights, ones that would provide both of them with a great deal of pleasure.
Kieran put his plan into action the next morning. An habitual early riser, he enjoyed a cup of tea and read the New York Times front to back before hearing anything through the door to her room.
He tapped lightly before entering, to see his bride grab her robe and hold it in front of her with one hand. The other brushed her loose hair out of her eyes. “Your lordship! What are you doing in here?”
He stifled a sigh. These nervous starts of hers made him jumpy. Hiding his exasperation, he gave her the smile that usually coaxed women into doing as he wished. “I thought we might enjoy breakfast together.”
An expression of confusion crossed her face. “I expected we would, sir. Breakfast will be laid out downstairs by the time we’re dressed.”
“I meant up here. And I thought we were on a Christian name basis after last night.” He added a mournful note to the last sentence. She rewarded him by coloring a little.
“If you would prefer it, sir—Kieran.” Her shy manner disappeared the next moment. “But Mama and Papa do not allow trays in our rooms. We must go down to breakfast.”
“My dear girl, I have no intention of permitting your parents to run my life.” He strode to the bellpull and tugged. A maid scurried in a few minutes later. When he ordered two breakfast trays brought up, she gulped and nodded weakly before hurrying back out.
“That should take care of that.” He turned to his wife.
“I’ve only been allowed to eat in my room when I was too ill to stand. Mama will be furious.” Having shrugged into her robe, she observed him with a mixture of glee and apprehension.
“Really? My aunt does so on a regular basis, and, of course, my mother seldom comes down to the table.” He prowled the room, taking in the overdone decoration.
“Perhaps because they are married ladies.” She shrugged, absently rearranging a bouquet of lilacs. “Mama does so occasionally, as well.”
“You are married yourself, now.” He chuckled at her dazzled expression as he paused near the dressing table.
“So I am!” The morning sun picked out a few caramel highlights in her brown hair as she faced him.
The table held a display of silver-backed brushes arranged on top of an embroidered cover. Moiré fell in stiff folds below the protective cloth. He traced the scrolled monogram on the back of the brushes and slanted a glance at the mirror above the cloth.
Its reflection showed his bride eyeing him nervously. He gestured to the chair at his side. “Would you like me to brush your hair?” She looked as shocked as if he had suggested they swing from the chandelier overhead. “Come, surely I can’t be that frightening!”
She shook her head and bit her lip, gazing at the chair longingly. “You’re not.”
Triumph at so simple a beginning to his wife’s seduction pulsed through him. He picked up a brush.
The next instant, she rushed toward him as if he handled a poisonous snake. “Please, sir—Kieran—put that down! Mama intensely dislikes having her things touched.” She twitched it out of his hands and replaced it with a care all out of proportion to the act. “I’ll be sure and let the housekeeper know.” The soft murmur barely reached his ears. “None of the maids will get in trouble that way.”
She followed the words with a deep breath which did wonderful things to the lace-covered breasts visible under her wrapper. As she addressed him, he wrested his attention away from them to focus on her face.
“I’ll get my own things.”
He nodded, still bemused by her outburst. She moved across the room and bent over a leather-covered case. Turning back, she held out a brush and comb of similar quality on the table, but simpler in design.
Taking them, he seated himself on the bed. She took a half step back, but he patted the tousled bedclothes invitingly. “Perhaps it would be best to avoid the dressing table altogether?”
Slowly approaching, she climbed up and settled herself as though braced for instant flight.
Careful to move slowly, he smoothed the heavy strands down her back before running the bristles through them. She tensed under his palms, but did not move. He had learned long ago that most women enjoyed the rhythmic sensation of having their hair brushed. Judging from the smile he saw reflected in the vanity mirror, Diantha was no exception.
The thick mass flowed under his hands like satin as he carefully worked his way through it. He became aware of a rich rose scent rising from her hair. He inhaled appreciatively. Unlike the cloying floral perfumes worn by so many women, this one did not make him want to throw open the windows for air. To make conversation, he asked about it.
“Attar of rose and cedar. Granny swears by a drop of cedar oil for hair.” She shivered a little as his fingertips whispered against the silken skin at the nape of her neck. His body tightened at such sensitivity. His bride would require careful handling, just the kind he excelled at.
Seeing her slightly closed eyes in the mirror, he scooted himself closer to her, so that his thighs lay on either side of her hips. To distract her, he talked of their plans for the day, when they would return to New York harbor for the start of their honeymoon trip to Paris. “Do you know much about the Columbia?”
After an initial intake of breath, she stayed still, hands resting in her lap. “Papa’s flagship? I’ve only been on board once, a few days before Mama christened her. It seemed to be quite comfortable, from what I remember.” She twisted around to see his face. “The rooms looked cramped at the time, but Papa ordered alterations combining four staterooms into one suite for us.”
“I’m sure our quarters will be most comfortable.” Without breaking the rhythm of brushstrokes, he maneuvered her hair to one side.
She shrugged. “They should be. From the plans, I think the additional square footage will make the voyage quite tolerable.”
He had never heard her speak with such assurance. “Oh? Do you often read building plans, dear wife?” She flushed hotly then and fell silent.
Just as he bent forward to graze the nape of her neck with his lips, the door opened to admit two maids laden with their breakfast trays, and a third bearing coffee and tea.
Either in embarrassment at his teasing or alarmed at his attempted intimacy, she slid off the bed and breathlessly ordered the food to be set down on a table under the window. Mentally cursing prudish brides, Kieran caught himself on his hands to keep from tumbling off after her.
Diantha wanted to sink with humiliation as the maids set down the trays and scurried out of the room. How could she have been so remiss as to sit on the bed with her husband, clad only in her nightgown and robe? The smirks on their faces indicated that the servants’ hall would soon buzz with that juicy tidbit. Shutting the door firmly after them, she turned back to Kieran.
She met his glare squarely as he balanced on all fours. The sight affected her strangely. For a moment she could not breathe as his robe loosened to expose an expans
e of muscular chest and dark hair. On his hands and knees like that, he reminded her of a painting she had once seen of a panther stalking a jackrabbit. Her knees buckled for a second at the image.
Recovering, she gestured weakly to the trays with their covered dishes. “I fear we shall have to serve ourselves.”
The spell broke at her words. Leaving the bed, he padded over to investigate their breakfast, once again the well-mannered aristocrat. Seating themselves, they enjoyed an unexceptional meal.
She found his vivid aqua eyes resting on her frequently as they ate. Alarmed at the way his regard set her heart pounding, she heaved a sigh of relief when he finally tossed down his napkin and excused himself to dress.
She wasted no time summoning her maid to do the same, for their ship left early that afternoon. As she sat in front of Mama’s three-sided mirror, she could not help reflect on how much nicer her husband’s hands felt in her hair than the servant’s.
She grimaced as the woman fastened up the buttons on a coral twill driving dress with old gold trim.
The maid frowned. “I’m sorry, your ladyship. Have I laced you too tightly?”
Diantha wondered if she would ever get used to having a title. “No, my stays are quite comfortable.”
In fact, they squeezed tightly, but she ignored the discomfort. “I have never thought this color flattering on me. Why my mother insists that I wear it so often is a mystery.” She crammed the matching hat on her head. “I would rather have worn yesterday’s dress again.”
“But, ma’am, imagine what all those papers would say if you wore the same dress two days running.” The servant handed her a pair of kid gloves.
Grumbling, Diantha descended to the drawing room on the first floor. It did not help her mood to see an echo of her dissatisfaction in Kieran’s eyes when they met, although he said nothing, doubtless out of good manners.
After the footmen loaded their luggage onto the carriage, they climbed inside for the drive south to the docks on the New Jersey side of the river.
She gazed out the window at small landmarks she and her brothers had picked out years ago: a tree leaning over the road like a giant, an ancient rock fall beside their route. Her throat tightened at the realization that she would not see them again for years, if ever.
“It’s difficult to leave home?” His lordship studied her as he leaned back on the cushions, legs crossed. “I don’t blame you; it’s beautiful.”
Surprised at his perception, she considered how best to express her feelings. “Cliff Heights was never exactly a home. We only stayed there during the summer, or visited for Thanksgiving.”
Absently, she watched the dappled sunlight play over his features as they drove through the woods. “Mama would send us here with our governess and tutors when she visited her friends at Newport. We always knew we would experience a degree of freedom here that was never permitted us at other times.”
“I think as a peeress, you will find yourself free to do a great many things.”
She stared at him, thinking of hours spent memorizing rules of etiquette and precedence for the British nobility. “I fear I have never seen your title as anything but an encumbrance.”
He straightened up, brows snapping together. “My family’s title predates the union of Great Britain in 1707, and we can trace our line back to the days of Robert the Bruce. Those are hardly burdens.”
She arched a brow. “And I suppose your lineage is why you ended up seeking help from my father.” He glared at her as though searching for a rebuttal. “Sarcasm is unbecoming in a lady.”
She sniffed. “Snobbery is unattractive in a gentleman.” She subsided then, pleased at scoring her point.
They did not speak again until the Columbia’s iron hull rose beside them on the dock. Kieran cleared his throat.
“We’re going to be in close quarters for the next week. Don’t you Americans have a saying about burying the hatchet?” He held out a hand. She took it, marveling at the warmth she felt even through her kidskin gloves.
“I’m not entirely displeased with my choice of bride, you know.” She gasped with shock at the blunt words before realizing he was teasing her. Even in jest, however, they hurt.
His eyes filled with remorse, and he moved to the seat beside her. “Forgive me, Diantha. At times I forget that not everyone shares my twisted sense of humor. Truly, my words weren’t meant to wound you.”
He squeezed her hands gently. “I only meant that despite our difficult situation, I think we can make happy lives for ourselves.”
Lives, plural, she thought with a wry smile. She had always secretly hoped to find someone who wanted to make a single life with her. But that dream had died yesterday. As Granny said, this was the only path open to her.
The aristocratic mask had dropped from Kieran’s face, and she believed he meant what he said. She nodded.
Leaning forward, he barely swept his lips over hers. “Thank you. I will be sure to guard my tongue in the future.”
“Diantha!”
They both jumped as her mother’s parasol rapped sharply against the window. Her family had arrived while they conversed. They now stood outside, waiting for a servant in Quinn livery to open the door.
Kieran’s whisper caressed her ear as he assisted her out. “We are quite sure she’s not coming with us, correct?”
Aware that her mother would have invited reporters and photographers to observe their departure from a respectful distance, she answered through a fixed smile. “If she is, I’m throwing myself overboard.”
His shoulders shook at her hissed reply.
Fortunately, her father soon monopolized the conversation, describing the ship in glowing terms for his son-in-law’s benefit. “Five thousand tons, and four-hundred-and-sixty feet long, bow to stern. It might not compare to your Great Eastern for size, but my goal is to provide passengers with the most comfortable passage on the seas, not stick a mess of cabins on top of a cargo ship.
“My idiot sons told me I was cracked to take out three perfectly good cabins and make them into a suite. Ha!” He clapped Kieran on the back. “We’ve sold it for every crossing in the next year, and at a higher price than all four cabins together.”
He stopped and faced the younger man, waiting for congratulations. Judging from the revolted look on her husband’s face, Diantha gathered that felicitations were not forthcoming. She stepped forward.
“That was exceedingly clever of you, Papa.” Placing a hand on her father’s arm, she coaxed him into moving toward the foot of the gangway, where the ship’s captain and higher ranking crew members waited to be introduced.
After meeting the captain and his first and second mates, her family escorted them to their quarters. Diantha, remembering the original cramped cabins, walked through the suite of two bedrooms, dressing room, and dining room with relief. Even Kieran could not repress exclamations of admiration at the arrangements.
Even the decoration, in her mother’s favored neo-Gothic style, did not lower her spirits. The only difficult moment came when a young steward, after a timid knock on the door, invited Lord and Lady Rossburn to dine with the captain that evening. Her father waved the young man aside. “I didn’t have that dining room put in for my daughter to eat with my employees. Bring their dinner here as planned.”
“Please inform the captain that my wife and I would be honored to join him this evening.” Kieran did not raise his voice, but the words cut across her father’s easily.
“How dare you countermand my orders on my own ship!” She flinched as her father bellowed and the steward fled.
Kieran remained absorbed in examining a writing table cleverly built into the wall. “Kindly restrain yourself from answering questions addressed to me.” He turned a glacial stare on the older man. Only the glitter of his eyes betrayed his anger.
“By God, you spoiled whelp, I’ll take back every penny I promised.” Her father’s face turned nearly purple with fury. Even her mother watched him nervous
ly, while her brothers seated themselves on the berth to watch the battle.
“Not unless you want a lawsuit. The contract we signed went into effect yesterday.” Her husband shrugged as though bored. “By all means, break it. It’s your reputation.”
Several squeaks and gasps emerged from her parent’s throat before he recovered his full volume and gestured to the doorway. “We are leaving! All of you, now!”
Diantha jumped. Her mother and brothers scrambled to follow his pointing finger, and she automatically started to follow. A large hand on her wrist stopped her.
“You’re supposed to stay with me.” Kieran let go of her and calmly shut the door behind her family.
“Of course. How stupid of me.” She laced her fingers together, but to her relief, his anger appeared to have evaporated.
“Old habits?” He gave her a wry grin. “He was rather alarming, wasn’t he?”
She regarded him with some awe. “He scared you, too?”
“Not exactly.” His lips thinned. “I meant it when I said I’d drag him into court.” His hand slid up her arm in a caress. “But he does use that roar of his to get his way, doesn’t he.”
“Among other methods.” She shivered.
His hand dropped from her arm, leaving her oddly bereft. “I think I’ll go explore the ship for a bit.”
Diantha bit her lip, wondering what she was supposed to do in her cabin by herself. “May I come with you?”
A smile lit up his handsome face. “I would appreciate the company.”
“Really?” In answer he held the door open and bowed her into the mahogany-paneled passageway.
* * *
They walked the decks and passages until late afternoon. Diantha told him what she had gleaned about the Columbia from listening to her father and brothers talk. Kieran freely confessed that he knew next to nothing about shipbuilding, and listened attentively to her.
When the ship slipped out of its berth, they took their place at the rail to witness its passage down the Hudson. She hoped a few photographers had stayed at the dock. Pictures of the two of them mixing with the rest of the passengers would infuriate her parents.