by Baird Wells
“God,” Spencer groaned, standing up. “Major Burrell is rubbing off on you.” Then he stopped and pressed a hand to Bennet's shoulder, realizing he hadn't thanked him yet, for anything. “Bennet, I'm grateful you did not die in that Spanish brothel.”
“There are worse ways to go.” Bennet patted his arm and led them out. “Anyhow, I suppose I love you too.”
Spencer paused when they reached the top of the stairs and wondered if he could have done more. There had been no time, even after sending word ahead from London, for his steward to do much with the house and grounds. They would hold a ball, eventually, to celebrate the wedding, but for now that was all. Tonight, he had been determined at least to have a lavish dinner. Yeast rolls, boiled potatoes, glazed carrots, baked apples, ham, partridge with marmalade, and if his nose hadn’t deceived him earlier, fish were all on the menu.
His stomach protested a lack of breakfast as he mentally ticked off the menu. Cook had chafed at the restrictions he’d had to place on Alexandra's behalf, but judging by the rich peppery smell of roasting meat filling the house, Mrs. Tate was managing just fine.
They went out to the garden by the west hall. Sun glinted off the black and white marble, catching gold gilt on the scroll work iron railing as they passed through high French doors and onto the terrace. Mare's tails streaking a blue fall sky promised more unseasonably warm weather. A handful of crimson maple leaves blew down the stone steps ahead of his boots, welcoming him and Bennet into the garden.
Spencer stopped at the foot of the balustrade. Their little party formed a handsome collection. The newly-minted Lord and Lady Grayfield, a dark-haired and captivating matched pair, stood to one side. John was opposite them, smart in his olive green frock and hovering attentively at Laurel's elbow, his tall frame dwarfing her rounded body into doll-like proportions. Their minister waited apart from the group, a sore thumb in his black cassock and hat.
He took in those few details, and then nothing more, not when he caught sight of her.
Alexandra had never worn red in his presence, that he could recall. Strange, because it suited her perfectly. His fingers itched to brush the cherry velvet of her pelisse and trace the full skirt falling from her bust, its train sweeping behind her. Wide satin lapels hugged her ivory neck and gathered sleeves draped her willowy arms. A matching silk bonnet framed the beautiful oval of her face, unable to contain dark waves tumbling over her shoulder.
Bennet was crossing to her now, bowing like a prince and holding out his hand for hers. Spencer continued staring, hardly breathing, wondering again how he'd gotten so lucky. She was so beautiful that it ached behind his ribs. Her face, her figure, and that something deep in her eyes when she looked at him.
Alexandra did look at him then, prompted by something Bennet had said. She turned, her movement almost shy. Still and unblinking, she watched him with lips slightly parted. Spencer could only return her gaze, suspended in the amber of a solemn moment. She smiled and ducked her face. Love, anticipation, even lust twined into a reanimating thread and drew him to her across the garden's crisp expanse.
* * *
Spencer stopped at arms-length and bowed. Alix looked him over, taking her time. “You wore your uniform.” The brilliance of his red coat stamped him onto the landscape. A black velvet collar outreached even his white cravat, stiff with yards of fine gold embroidery. His buff trousers she skipped over, being in the presence of clergy. The omission was brief; Spencer's high black boots raced up to meet the tan fabric. ‘Handsome’ was too thin a term for the figure he cut, too shallow a sentiment for the warmth in his eyes now. Her husband. Alix smiled and tears pricked her eyes.
He nodded, openly admiring her pelisse and smoothing the scarlet wool of his coat. “I thought we should match. So that everyone will know that we are together.”
She grinned. “Like a pair of socks. Very practical of you.”
His shoulders relaxed, and he nodded slowly. “Precisely like an old pair of socks.”
'Old' was not lost on her. Alix narrowed her eyes.
Reverend Munroe scowled from under the flat brim of his black felt hat, downturned eyes sad and disapproving all at once. “Shall we begin?”
Bennet leaned to her ear. “He's having an apoplectic fit over our locale. Your choice of color, the time of day,” he snorted. “Just think if he knew about the rest of the commandments you’ve violated.”
“I will throttle you after,” Spencer promised in a whisper, and she nudged Bennet with an elbow, giving him a wide smile.
Reverend Munroe raised his chin mightily, looking down on them despite the deficit in his height. His eyes widened and nostrils flared. A grimace spread his plump lips and Alix expected at any moment that he would bellow out actual fire and brimstone. He drew a sharp breath, taut as a bowstring, and then: “Join hands, please,” he said, exuding all the fury of a pond on a still day. She exhaled, relaxing.
Alix didn't know that she heard any of the words he spoke next. Her heart brimmed with love, thoughts shot through with nervousness, a hint of fear; only a sonorous mumbling from Munroe's bowed head pierced her fog. She answered when he paused, or after Spencer spoke. Then Munroe's words pricked something.
“Consider the causes for which matrimony was ordained:”
Spencer cleared his throat meaningfully, causing her to focus on his eyes.
“First, it was ordained for the procreation of children…”
Eyes widening a fraction, Spencer wiggled his brows. Heat rose in her cheeks, burning against a crisp breeze. Nothing was sacred.
“Secondly, it was ordained as a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication …”
Seizing the opportunity, Alix formed a small “oh,” and cocked her head at Spencer's twitching lips.
“Thirdly,” Munroe hung dramatically, reaching his crescendo, “It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other …”
Spencer clutched her hand, constricting her heart and bringing forth a spring of unexpected tears. She squeezed back and mouthed his name.
“Who gives this woman?” Spencer winced and she almost giggled. 'Woman' was bellowed, as though she were tardy coming to the dinner table.
“I do.” Bennet, still beside her, squeezed her arm and let go. It should have been Chas; at least, it was his rightful place. But he had not answered her letters, not for weeks. It hurt, but deeper than that Alix was forced to admit to herself that she was relieved. Instead of dwelling on it, she pecked Bennet on the cheek, and could swear that he colored before turning and joining the others.
They promised to obey and serve, love and honor. Promises made in emptiness for hundreds of years by drunks and adulterers, wife beaters and cheats. Alix had no doubts that her vows with Spencer were sincere, but the words were flat and rote; not what she would have chosen to say in that moment. Nothing about how he had chased and desired her and brought her back to life, how they had willingly risked so much for one another; how they had looked at each other that day in Haywood and known, but hadn’t realized they had been in love long before that moment.
Spencer held his free hand out to Bennet, who fished in his tail and produced a ring.
“With this ring I wed thee, with my body I worship thee.” He fit the band over her third finger without resistance, a tad too large around cold flesh. It was a wide band, hewn from heavy and ancient looking silver. English roses notched its argent metal, set between finely carved scrolling leaves. Alix closed her eyes and judged its weight.
She inventoried head to toe, discovering that despite her doubts she felt different. She didn’t belong to someone else, but she was part of something else, something lasting.
“I charge you now to go and live together in holy love unto your lives' end. Amen.”
Nerves ratcheted a knot in her gut. Oakvale wasn't her home, a voice protested. The small band of people behind them were not her friends, save Laurel. Her body, her interest in Paton & Son, all that she
owned or ever would own belonged now to Spencer. For the first time in her life, excluding Silas’s manipulation, someone could control her. The old familiar fear, colored by the last week’s events, flushed through her.
They had both made that bargain, she argued back. Spencer's friends were here to celebrate his happiness, and hers. She would make Oakvale her home now, out from under Van der Verre's thumb. And, most of all, Spencer loved her.
He claimed her hand more tightly, thumbed her ring and then bowed and kissed her knuckles. She took his other hand, and they were married.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Once the papers were signed, John took the initiative of opening champagne, half a smuggled crate Spencer had been hoarding since his last campaign in France. In his estimation there was no better occasion to open the remaining half. He chuckled; it wasn’t as though Napoleon could be deposed twice.
They had passed their glasses and clinked them, and Spencer estimated he’d blushed as much as Alix at all the cheers and well-wishes. After a deluge of disjointed conversation during which no one person could hear the person speaking to them, they concluded their toast in exchange for his second-most anticipated event of the evening: dinner.
Spencer dropped his napkin beside his plate, wondering if just once, on such a special occasion, he could be forgiven sliding beneath the table and lying on the rug. Canned sardines and stale biscuits, or even the thin but comparatively opulent sauces of the officers’ mess, were reduced to a bad memory.
He'd stolen glances at Alix through dinner, pinching himself while Bennet held her captivated by a tale as only Bennet could. When she laughed, she laughed with her whole body; perhaps what had caught his attention that first night. If they were strangers at the table just now, he would do any number of things to win her again.
Now that the meal was nearly finished, Spencer sat quietly and basked in the moment, quietly watching his friends. John teased Sofie about trouble she'd gotten into in Portugal. She looked to her husband for defense, but Ethan only raised his hands, smiling and taking no part. Laurel lifted her voice over the others, interjecting laughing disapproval at parts of Bennet's questionable story.
This was his life now, at home with Alexandra, their friends. Soon, there would be children. A warmth spread through him, contentment, and he reached out and squeezed her hand without thinking.
Even in the midst of Bennet’s interrogation about the Carolinas, she squeezed back.
They passed the night hand-in-hand at the table, in the drawing room. Whether they were whispering to one another or lost in conversation with their friends, Spencer refused to let go. He might grow tired of it, or she would, in a decade or two. For now, he intended to hold her every possible moment.
Bennet was the first to make his excuse, engaged to spend the week at Henry Taylor’s estate and eager to get started debauching himself. John and Laurel were the last to leave, which suited him just fine. He stood beside Alix on the front step, one hand raised, steady in contrast to her furious waving, until the Hastings were out of sight down the drive. He would have been happy to stand there with her indefinitely, gazing up at the night sky and holding her close, but Alexandra's breath clouding out beneath the lamplight caused him to bundle her against his side and shoo her in.
In the dim foyer, she rubbed her hands together then smoothed the front of his uniform coat. “I really can't express how smart you look,” she murmured, wrapping arms around his waist.
He cradled her head against his chest and fought the trembling in his hands. They were well and truly alone for the first time since Haywood. And they were married. Everything felt new, unexplored. He kissed the top of her head. “What would you like to do?”
Alexandra pulled away and slid arms around his neck, playing in his hair. She bit her lip in a fashion he knew well, and his heart raced.
“Laurel told me something about you.” Her nose traced his jaw. “Something very shocking.”
“Is that so?” The potential for Laurel, married to John, to know something shocking about him was rather high.
“Mmm.” She took one of his hands and studied it, and traced it a finger at a time with aching slowness. “You're better with your hands than I'd been led to believe.” She nipped the end of his index finger. “And I was certain I knew what they were capable of.”
He laughed in spite of the moment, nearly doubling over when he finally caught on. Getting a hold of himself, he twined their fingers. “I think I comprehend.” He winked, turning her cheeks a fetching pink. “Would you like me to show you?”
Her smile was brilliant, answer breathless. “Very much.”
“It's been a long time,” he warned, leading her down the hall. “This may not be as good as you're expecting.”
“I'm sure I'll be perfectly satisfied.”
“Lady Reed,” he chastised, enjoying her new name, bringing a chair from against the wall, “there is a shocking quantity of innuendo in your words.”
One slow button at a time, Alexandra unfastened her coat. It whispered over naked arms, pooling into her chair and set his imagination ablaze. She settled in a rustle of crisp ivory satin, sliding down until her breasts pressed her neckline in a demonstration of pure torment. “Shocking,” she repeated, biting into a smile.
He settled on the piano bench an arm’slength away and flexed his fingers, stealing a few last glances. “Ready?”
“Mmm.”
His first key taps were hesitant, but his fingers found their pace soon enough. He was ashamed, upon hearing the pianoforte’s rich sound, that he rarely played anymore. Alix clasped her hands, sitting up now and studying him carefully, insuring it would not be his last time.
“My choice of song pleases you?” he asked, still focused on his finger work.
“You could play scales and it would please me.” She chuckled, “But yes, it’s lovely.”
“Hm. When you accosted me in the hall, I did not perceive that ‘lovely’ was your desire. Shall I play something else, a more seductive piece?” He finished and sat back.
Alexandra applauded, looking more delighted than he could have hoped. “Whatever my desire, that was perfect.”
“I'm pleased Beethoven and I could impress you.”
“He's no Liszt,” she teased.
“Liszt is for the seduction of rich widows only.”
She gasped and pressed a hand to her lips. “I had no idea.”
“Mmm. Bennet taught me that.” He waved a hand over the keys. “So, now you know my secret. What else would please you?”
He anticipated a second cheeky request, but Alix slid from her chair in a whisper of silk and circled him. She rubbed palms up his shoulders, slid hands down into his coat. He held his breath and waited for her next blow. Her palms warmed him through the linen and her lips brushed his cheek, his ear. His heart pounded at his temples. Above his collar, at his throat; she teased everywhere while avoiding his mouth. He groaned when she pulled away.
They were still and he stared at the piano, listening to Alexandra's soft breathing behind him. Her fingers buried in his hair, nails scraping before she claimed a fistful and drew his head back. Her lips slid over his until they fit together.
Spencer fought an instinct to raise up, press her for more, and subjected himself to her seduction.
Her small hand cradled the back of his head while she settled beside him, facing opposite atop the bench without breaking their kiss. She cupped his face and Spencer gripped the bench to keep from touching her, determined not to interfere. He was rewarded when she brushed kisses over his cheek, his chin, and the border of his cravat where it hugged his throat. Then she got up, and stood behind him again.
A slender arm draped him, claimed his hand, and she pulled. “Spencer,” she whispered, “How long has it been?”
He swallowed, dry-mouthed, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I stopped counting the days without you, for my own sanity.”
He got up, wrapping her waist, and swept
her feet out from under her. Cradling her against his chest, he laughed down her protests. “Hush, Alexandra. You'll have reason to complain soon enough.”
She stopped fighting and frowned, head against his shoulder. “Why?”
He nipped her ear. “For the rest of the night, you have to endure more pedestrian attention from my hands.”
* * *
She wriggled closer to Spencer under the quilt and worked around her belly in order to get her head onto his chest. “I learned something very terrible from Laurel,” she murmured over his heartbeat.
His hand pressed the small of her back. “You learn a great many terrible things from Lady Hastings. Perhaps you two should be separated.”
“Did you know,” she continued, pointedly ignoring him, “that husbands and wives do not share a bedchamber?” She chuckled. “I suppose my parents' house was too small for me to know better.”
“Oh,” he started gravely, “Well, it's too late now. Common practice. We’ll have to go on sharing.”
“Ignorance of sin is no excuse.” She fought a laugh, wriggling until she was braced over him. “We should mend our ways.”
“I have bad news on that score.” Spencer played with the hair at her temple. “The chamber adjoining mine is empty. Entirely cleared out.”
She rose up further. “Why?”
He shrugged, still twining her hair and not meeting her eyes. “I thought we could go to London, before the snow falls. Visit the shops,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably.
She swatted him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He worried his lip in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “A nursery has consumed my every thought, waking and sleeping.”
Kissing him, Alix slid arms around his neck and squeezed him close, fighting the joy and fear whenever she thought of the child growing inside of her. “What if… should we? If something is wrong…” She couldn't bring herself to finish.
“Whatever happens can't take away from our joy right now, Alexandra.”