Marry in Scandal

by Anne Gracie

  He stepped into his own room and shut the connecting door to give her privacy. He picked up the pitcher and poured some water into the basin. The water wasn’t even lukewarm. He was about to ring for hot water and his valet, then hesitated.

  Her water would be cold too, but he was reluctant to interrupt her private female ablutions to ask her. If she wanted hot water she could ring for her maid—though fifteen minutes to dinner wasn’t enough time for a bath. Blast it, he could do without a shave, and if she wanted a bath, she could order one after dinner.

  The everyday intimacies of married life. He supposed he would get used to it.

  Why was it so different from the day-to-day intimacies he’d shared with lovers in the past? He didn’t know, but somehow with a bride—with this bride—with Lily—it was different. Old habits, old understandings no longer fit. Marriage, Lily, it was all new territory.

  He washed quickly, combed his hair, then paced about the room. The brandy arrived—a decanter as well as a glass—and he drank the whole glass down in two gulps and poured himself another. Lord, he’d needed that.

  She probably needed one as well.

  Though once again, she’d seemed to take it all in her stride without a fuss. He was sure other bridegrooms—the ones who’d bungled things as he had—he never lost control!—had to deal with tears and recriminations, or stiff, martyred silences. What had that aunt of hers told her? An unpleasantness to be endured.

  He’d probably ensured that, pouncing on her like an eager boy. But Lily seemed quite philosophical. He was certain she wasn’t trying to disconcert or tease him—she wasn’t that sophisticated. She was simply trying to be candid.

  But lord, to be on a wretched sliding scale somewhere between bliss and endurance vile! He snorted at the inadvertent pun. But it wasn’t the least bit funny.

  He prided himself on his skills in the bedroom. Never before, not since he was an awkward youth, had he left a woman less than thoroughly satisfied.

  And now, to fall short of his usual standard, on his wedding night, with his innocent new bride—it was mortifying. He wanted to take her back to bed and show her how it was supposed to be.

  Only she was bound to be sore. He had a feeling he’d been unwontedly rough. He’d utterly lost control. He couldn’t recall the last time that had happened.

  She hadn’t complained—but that was Lily; she wasn’t the type to whine. In any case, she’d been a virgin. He was the expert here, the one who was supposed to induct her into the pleasures of the bedchamber.

  Somewhere between endurance vile and bliss. A vast gulf between the two.

  Next time they lay together, he’d take it slowly and bring her to—forget bliss!—he’d show her the meaning of ecstasy. And in the meantime . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  The minute Edward closed the door behind him, Lily slipped out of bed. She found a large jug of water behind a screen in the corner of the room, cold now, of course. She quickly washed her face and sponged the rest of her body, especially between her legs, which was a bit sticky.

  She pressed the wet cloth against her heated skin, enjoying the cooling sensation. She was a woman now, a wife. Emm’s explanations of what to expect on her wedding night had been a little vague and unclear, and Lily could see why now. Who could find words to describe . . . that?

  She tried to recall that almost-feeling. As if she’d quivered on the brink of . . . something. And then lost it.

  Had she done something wrong? The trouble was she couldn’t think of anything she’d actually done. As well to expect a gale-tossed leaf to remember the journey it had taken.

  But she could tell Edward hadn’t been quite happy about it.

  Imperfect or not, the experience had been . . . breathtaking. She’d had the physical procedure of the act explained to her, but she hadn’t been in any way prepared for how it would make her feel.

  She shivered deliciously in remembrance. It had been blissful at the start . . . those kisses and caresses, and the way he’d removed her clothing, piece by piece, as if unwrapping a very special gift.

  The touch of his hands . . . of his mouth . . . She’d felt like a candle, ignited, melting.

  And when he’d slid into her—it had hurt a little, of course, but she’d expected that—but oh, the way it had made her feel. Strange and raw and yet somehow, right. The intense intimacy of it was a little overwhelming. Then when he’d started to move inside her . . . her body responding without her volition, shuddering and gripping him, in a way she’d never imagined . . . And that buildup of almost unbearable intensity . . .

  As if they were caught in a storm—she’d clung onto him for dear life, giving herself up to the rhythm and the power—and oh, if that wasn’t glory, it was close. Then that sound he’d made at the end, primeval and masculine—possessive?—before he collapsed on top of her. She had held him tight—her husband—feeling his ragged breathing slow, his big, beautiful, powerful body, relaxed and satiated, stroking him through his jacket.

  What might it be like if they were both unclothed, lying skin to skin? Another delicious ripple of sensation passed through her at the thought. She smiled to herself. She knew now what those inner shudders meant.

  Emm had said it would get better with practice. Lily couldn’t imagine how, but she was eager to try.

  Poor Aunt Agatha, with her unpleasantness to be endured. Three husbands and it seemed as though none of them had made her feel the way Lily had felt after one time with Edward.

  A sound outside startled her. Oh, heavens, she’d been dreaming for goodness knew how long. Dinner would be here any second and she didn’t want strange and unknown servants to catch her in her beautiful but flimsy nightdress. She put on the bed jacket that went with the nightdress, but a glance in the looking glass showed her that it was just as delightfully improper and failed entirely to protect her modesty.

  She looked in the wardrobe and found a pretty Chinese-style silk wrapper. She slipped it on and was searching for slippers when a knock sounded on the connecting door.

  “Are you ready? They’re here with the food.” Edward’s hair was damp and combed carelessly back. It curled a little at the end. He wore a robe, a long green brocade banyan, embroidered with glints of silver thread that brought out the color of his eyes in his somber, tanned face. He looked magnificent, like some exotic eastern potentate, with glittering, frosted emerald eyes.

  At his command, the door opened and in came two footmen carrying trays ladened with covered dishes. The butler followed with a silver tray on which rested glasses and a champagne bottle, gently fizzing. They moved a side table close to the bed and set out everything on it, then, at a silent signal from Edward, the servants withdrew.

  “They’re very well trained,” she said when they’d left. They hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction. “They must have wondered—well, you can imagine what they must be thinking. But they didn’t look in the least bit shocked.”

  “I never worry about what servants might think.” Edward picked up the silver covers one by one and inspected the contents. “In any case these fellows are accustomed to much more scandalous goings-on when Tremayne is in residence.”

  Really? Lily wanted to ask for further details, but the food smelled wonderful. Her stomach rumbled again. So embarrassing.

  “What would you like first?” he asked her.

  She hurried over to inspect their dinner—it was a feast. Everything looked delicious.

  A juicy capon roasted to golden perfection rested on a bed of lacy greens, carrots glistened with honey and a hint of nutmeg and delicate spears of asparagus came with a bowl of herbed buttery sauce, for dipping. There were tiny crispy tartlets containing scallops and mushrooms in a creamy pink sauce, potatoes sliced in layers and oozing butter, and fresh rolls, still warm from the oven. Lastly there was a sherry trifle in a crystal dish
, a bowl of jewel-like berries in syrup and a dish of thick country cream.

  “Everything,” she said, and immediately wanted to bite her tongue. She always seemed to be stuffing herself in front of him. She could almost feel Aunt Agatha’s lorgnette boring a hole in her.

  But Edward only laughed. “A woman after my own heart. I’m starving too.” He picked up one of the little tartlets and popped it into his mouth whole.

  “How ungallant!” Laughing, she reached over, grabbed one herself and nibbled on it. “Mmm, that’s delicious.”

  “Hop into bed and I’ll serve you.”

  Lily slipped into bed. Dinner in bed; how delightfully decadent.

  He set up a bed table, then poured the champagne and sat on the bed, the bed table between them. He raised his glass. “But first, a toast to my lovely wife.”

  “To my magnificent husband, and to a very happy marriage,” she responded, clinking her glass against his.

  He raised an eyebrow, and she wondered whether she’d been too effusive; her emotions were spilling over.

  But he didn’t comment, just drank and then began to carve the capon. “White meat or dark?”

  “Dark, please. It’s juicier.”

  “I prefer breasts,” he said, his eyes on her. “They’re more delicate and tender.”

  Lily felt herself blushing. He was flirting with her. She’d never been much good at that. But all things improved with practice. Which reminded her . . .

  She took a large gulp of her champagne and said, “About before—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Here”—he handed her a laden plate—“eat it while it’s hot.”

  “But I need to know, did I do something wrong? I mean before, when we—”

  “You did nothing wrong. Eat your dinner.” He served himself.

  “But I think perhaps I—”

  “Don’t talk. Eat.”

  The food looked and smelled glorious and she’d hardly eaten anything all day, so Lily, recalling she’d promised him obedience, ate.

  For a while there was only the clink of cutlery against china and the sounds of two people enjoying their food. But after a while, Lily realized he’d stopped eating.

  She looked up guiltily and found her husband watching her with an intent expression. “You enjoy your asparagus, don’t you?”

  Flushing, she used her napkin to wipe her mouth. “Sorry, but it is correct to eat it with one’s fingers.”

  “Don’t be sorry, I know. And you must never hide your pleasure from me.” Without waiting for her answer, he picked up a spear of asparagus, dipped the end in the rich, buttery sauce and offered it to her. “Open up.”

  She parted her lips and he slipped the delicate morsel between them, tilting it so the sauce ran into her mouth, feeding her the tender shoot in slow increments. Without taking his eyes off her, he took another spear, dipped it in sauce and fed it to her, inch by slow inch.

  The atmosphere hummed with a strange tension. She was embarrassingly aware of the little sounds she made as she ate. And achingly aware of his fingers, brushing her lips as she nibbled the asparagus to the end.

  Why wasn’t he eating? Didn’t he like asparagus? Some people didn’t.

  “Enough?” he said when he’d fed her three more juicy spears, and she nodded. She lifted her napkin to blot her mouth, but in a surprise move he caught her hand in his, leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers, letting his tongue linger, cleaning the sauce from her lips.

  Sensations shivered through her, pooling in her middle.

  He sat back, seemingly unaffected by an almost-kiss that had her practically dissolving into the bedclothes. “Now, ready for some sweet dishes? Trifle, or berries—no, don’t tell me—both!” His smile erased any sting she might have found in the comment.

  He piled a bowl with rich creamy trifle and added berries and a large dollop of cream. Heavens, if this was the way he was going to feed her she was going to be enormous by the time they got back to London. But he presented her with a spoonful of the delicious combination, saying, “Open,” with such a look in his eyes that any willpower she might have had evaporated. She opened her mouth and again let him feed her, mouthful by mouthful, like a baby.

  Only no baby ever felt the way Lily felt as he slipped each slow, luscious spoonful between her lips, his winter-green eyes dark and burning into her.

  She finished the bowl, and as the last spoonful slipped down, he asked, “Enough?”

  “Mmm, more than enough. That was delicious.” She sighed and leaned back against the pillows. “That was the most perfect feast,” she managed to say, and felt quite proud of herself for being able to speak even though her mind—and body—was halfway to mush.

  He rose and rang for the servants, who must have been waiting outside, for they appeared immediately, swiftly removing all remnants of the feast. Lily watched sleepily from the bed, feeling full, perfectly replete and content.

  Once they were alone again, Edward moved to the bed and looked down at her with an expression she could not read.

  “Would you like to go for a walk?” she asked. She needed to do some exercise to wake herself up. It was only just after dusk.

  “No. We haven’t had dessert yet.”

  “Dessert? You mean pudding? But I just—” She broke off. He was undoing the fastenings of his banyan.

  Her mouth dried as little by little the banyan slipped open, revealing smooth, firm, masculine skin. He was naked underneath. Had she realized that earlier, she would never have been able to eat a mouthful.

  He tossed the banyan aside and stood there, stark naked, apparently unconcerned and unembarrassed, letting her look her fill. And look she did. She couldn’t drag her eyes off him.

  He was sleek and smoothly muscular—not like a stevedore or a farm laborer, which were the only men she’d ever seen even halfway unclothed—but lean and hard, a masculine kind of beauty, leashed power and grace. A broad, firm, flat chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair, narrow hips and long muscular legs—horseman’s legs.

  Like a marble statue she’d seen once, only she couldn’t imagine a fig leaf big enough to cover that. He was warm, and alive—and he was her husband.

  Taking her hand, he drew her from the bed and undid the fastenings of her wrapper, murmuring, “A pretty thing, but we don’t need it now.” He slipped it off her shoulders, and smiled when he saw what she was wearing underneath. His eyes devoured her. “My compliments to whoever came up with this delightful little piece of nonsense.” His voice was deep and slightly husky.

  “It’s from Miss Chance of the . . . H-House of . . . the House . . .” Words became gasps as he caressed her through the layers of silk and lace, the friction delicious against her skin. With one tug, the bow of the ribbon tie holding the front together unraveled and the bed jacket slid down her arms.

  His eyes darkened, burning into her, as with one swift movement he whisked the frail nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. He drew her by the waist, his hands big and warm, and pulled her against him, skin to skin, her softness molding deliciously against his hard angled planes.

  His hands slipped over her hips, caressingly, and cupped her bottom, lifting her so she was pressed against his hard, thrusting manhood. He stood, rocking her silently against him. Was this how he’d take her? Standing up? The heat of his body soaked into hers.

  He released her with a sigh, cupped her breasts, then bent to kiss them, one by one. She shivered, barely able to stand as hot spears of pleasure spiked through her. She ought to do something, caress him back, but she could only stand—barely stand, her legs were like jelly—and hang on to him, while he lavished pleasure on her. Pleasure? She was unraveling.

  His mouth wrought exquisite, delicious havoc as he tasted, teased, plundered . . . and teased again. He feathered kisses along her jawline, her eyelids, sucked gently on h
er earlobe, sending shivers through her whole body. His long, clever fingers stroked, and pinched and tantalized just to the edge . . . of what? . . . and then moved on, arousing her to a fever of blind, aching need.

  She clung to him dizzily, her blood pounding, her whole awareness narrowed to each place on her body he touched. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

  And then somehow they were on the bed, and he was nibbling at her breasts, her full and aching breasts, unbearably sensitive, laving them with his tongue, nibbling, as she trembled and shivered beneath him in uncontrollable pleasure. He sucked hard and a spear of pleasure-pain arced through her, and she shrieked as her body spasmed beneath him and almost came off the bed.

  By the time her wits returned he was moving down her body, kissing her soft belly, nibbling at the tender skin. She was frenzied, burning, aching with need. She tugged at his shoulders, his hair, wanting him back at her breasts, to do that thing again. But he was relentless, his mouth moving lower as he kissed her thighs, and stroked the backs of her knees. Her legs quivered in expectation and fell apart.

  “Now,” she muttered. She knew what she wanted now.

  He pressed her legs further apart and she readied herself for the surge of his possession. He was more than ready for it, she knew, his member huge, hard and so hot against her skin.

  And then she felt his mouth on her, between her legs, moist and hot and . . . unbelievable.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, craning her head to stare down at him, lying between her legs. He looked up at her over the soft swell of her stomach and grinned.

  “Having dessert.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  License my roaving hands, and let them go,

  Behind, before, above, between, below.

  —JOHN DONNE

  Lily came slowly and sleepily awake the next morning. She lay, her eyes closed against the chinks of bright sunlight coming through the gaps in the curtains, gathering her thoughts. She stretched sleepily, languidly. She felt wonderful, as if her whole body wanted to smile.