Marry in Scandal

by Anne Gracie

  She was smiling, she realized, though there was nobody else there.

  She was married. She was alone in bed.

  When had he left? Last night, after . . . dessert. She smiled again to herself. Bliss. Glory.

  But only for her. She’d lain boneless, replete, satiated in every way, and waited for him to enter her, to take her as he’d taken her earlier.

  Instead he’d slipped out of bed, picked up his robe, kissed her on the nose and murmured, “Sleep well.” And left.

  She remembered watching him in the firelight, walking naked to his own room. His back was straight, the slope of his shoulders and the line of his spine beautiful, his backside firm, taut, shapely. He’d closed the door.

  She’d felt cold then, without him. She felt cold now.

  He’d kissed her on the nose. The nose! Like a child. And he hadn’t taken her in the way a man was supposed to take a woman—not if he wanted heirs. An heir was his main reason for marrying—scandal aside. He owed it to his family name and title.

  His body had wanted it; she remembered that proud hard shaft, velvety skinned with heat beneath. She must have done something wrong that first time. And now he was reluctant to repeat the experience.

  But what he’d done to her—calling it dessert—would he call it that if he didn’t enjoy it? She thought he had, but then he didn’t follow through.

  And he’d left her to sleep alone. Her brother and Emm always slept in the same bed.

  It was all very confusing. But they were married; she had a lifetime to work it—work him—out.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ned knocked softly, wondering whether she was awake yet. He opened the connecting door and found Lily sitting bolt upright in bed, hugging her knees, the covers huddled around her. “Yes? I mean, good morning.” She looked a little apprehensive.

  He didn’t blame her. If she realized how eminently beddable she looked, all soft and flushed and sleepy, with tawny curls clustering around her face and bare shoulders—well, he wasn’t going to pounce on her. Not this morning, at any rate.

  “Did you sleep well?” He was dressed for riding in buckskins and high polished riding boots. He’d shaved, which he wouldn’t normally do before a ride, but he was a married man now and the decencies had to be preserved. His hair was still damp.

  “Yes, thank you, very well.”

  “I wondered whether you felt like a ride.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced at the window, where the sun was peeping in through the curtains. It was a glorious morning. “Now?” she asked.

  “Yes, before breakfast.”

  It was as if the sun rose in her eyes. She glowed. “Yes, please.” She flung back the bedclothes and sat there, rosy and naked, a creamy mermaid in a welter of sheets. She made no move to get up, no move to dress herself. She simply sat in her bed, wearing nothing but a smile and an expectant look.

  He moved to stand behind a chair. His body had reacted predictably to the sight of her naked loveliness. “Do you want me to ring for your maid?” he asked stiffly.

  “No, of course not.” After a moment her smile faded and became a look of puzzlement. “I thought you wanted ‘a ride.’”

  “I do. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I just thought, seeing it’s a beautiful morning, we should make the most of it. It could very well be raining by the afternoon.”

  “Oh.” A blush suffused her whole upper body. It was fascinating. He tried not to stare. “You mean a ride?” She pulled the covers back over herself.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “On horses?”

  “What else would I be wanting to ride?” He tried not to let the sarcasm show.

  The blush intensified. “Nothing. I just thought . . . with your boots . . .”

  “My boots?”

  “Nothing, it’s nothing.” Avoiding his gaze she said in a low, hurried voice, “Thank you, yes, I would love to go for a ride, and if you would please ring for a maid, I’ll put on my habit and be with you in a trice. I’ll meet you downstairs, shall I?”

  He didn’t move. He stared at her, and his lips twitched in the beginning of a smile. “You thought a ride meant—?” He arched a brow suggestively. “Because I came to your bedchamber in my boots?”

  “Y—no, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was half asleep. Now, please ring for my m—” She was adorably flustered.

  His smile grew. “You did. You thought I wanted to f—have marital relations with you in my boots, didn’t you?”

  “Well, you did yesterday,” she said defensively. “How am I to know what you mean when you say and do such strange things?”

  “Strange things?” He prowled slowly toward her.

  Her face was flaming by now. “Well, you called what you did last night dessert.”

  “And it was delicious. Am I to take it that you wouldn’t object if I took you again this morning—boots and all?”

  She looked up at him, earnest and very sweet. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. It was very nice yesterday, though I don’t think the housekeeper would be very happy about you wearing boots in bed—” She squeaked as he pounced on her.

  “Nice, was it?” He edged her knees apart.

  “V-very nice.”

  “Pah. I’ll show you something better than nice.” And he did.

  * * *

  • • •

  A mistake. That was what it had been. A damnable, stupid mistake. A complete lack of self-discipline. Ned glanced sideways at the woman alongside him. They’d been for a fine gallop and now had slowed to a walk, giving their mounts some breathing space. Lily was glowing, and not from the exercise. At least, not this particular exercise.

  His plans to apologize to her for his actions the day before—coming at her like an animal in his boots, not even bothering to disrobe—kept falling awry. He’d meant to do it last night over dinner, and then she’d started eating that blasted asparagus. All thoughts of an apology—in fact, all logical thought—had been driven from his mind.

  And then dessert. He groaned.

  So after that fiasco—pleasurable as it was—he’d been determined to get the apology over and done with this morning.

  Instead he’d pounced on her again, fully clothed and in his boots, because instead of being appalled at his ungentlemanly behavior, she’d said she liked it. Liked it! He ground his teeth together.

  And because of all that—damn him for a randy, unrestrained fool—it was as if someone had lit a candle inside her. She couldn’t stop smiling, seemed to be bubbling over with it, finding delight in everything—the horses, the estate, lambs, flowers, birds—but the smiles that spilled out of her told him what was really going on.

  She was making him out—again—to be some kind of hero.

  Misplaced romantic expectations—they had to stop. If she kept going this way—no, he had to stop it, now, before any more damage was done.

  He was nobody’s hero, and the sooner she learned that, the better it would be for her.

  He glanced at her, lit up with the afterglow of a vigorous round of bedsport, and imagining it to be some kind of romantic nonsense. He hated to do this to her, but it was kinder to crush those unrealistic expectations now, before they could develop any further. Better a small disappointment now than a big one later.

  “You’re new to this,” he began.

  She turned her head. “This?”

  “Bedsport—sexual congress between a man and a woman—you’re not used to it yet.”

  “No, but I do enj—”

  “That’s not what I mean, though I’m glad you didn’t find it distasteful.”

  “Not at all, in fact—”

  “But it’s just bedsport,” he said bluntly. “These feelings you’re experiencing at the moment? It’s the act that creates them. It’s
common to mistake those feelings for love, especially when one is new to sexual congress. But it’s not.” He gave her a steady look. “It’s just bedsport. So don’t fool yourself into imagining it’s anything more.”

  There was a long silence. They rode on. Clouds were starting to build up. The breeze freshened, whipping the waves in the distance.

  “You mean all the women you’ve lain with feel like”—she gestured vaguely—“this?”

  “No, the women I lay with in the past were all very experienced. They knew it meant nothing, just pleasure.” And how cynical was that? But it was true.

  “I see.” Her happy glow faded. “So you’re telling me that lo—what I feel is just the result of . . . what we did in bed?”

  “Yes.” He felt like a brute, but it had to be done, for her own sake. “I know it sounds hard, but don’t make yourself miserable crying for the moon. The best basis for marriage is liking and respect—friendship. If we can achieve friendship between us, that will be enough.”

  “Friendship. I see. And what if . . .” She hesitated, then lifted her chin and decided to say it anyway. “What if I want more than that?”

  Ned knew what she was saying. This was the girl, after all, who’d told him she wanted to marry for love. But life wasn’t what you thought it was at eighteen. He’d learned that the hard way. He’d rather die than put her through what he had.

  “Then you’ll be courting disappointment,” he said in a hard voice. She didn’t realize it, but he was letting her down gently.

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look, then turned her horse around and headed at a fast canter back in the direction of the house. He didn’t follow. She looked a bit upset, but that was understandable.

  He watched her disappearing over the hill. He’d done the right thing. So why did he feel so . . . wretched?

  Better to have lowered expectations early on, than to dream of glory and be shattered.

  * * *

  • • •

  Lily urged her horse faster. The breeze, crisp and cold and smelling of salt, was bracing, invigorating. But it didn’t cool her anger.

  She hate-hate-hated the term bedsport—it was nothing of the sort! What she did with her husband—in or out of the bed—“riding” or “dessert” or whatever silly name he wanted to call it—was not sport! It was part of the blessed sacrament of marriage.

  And she hated hearing about the women he’d lain with in the past—even if she had been the one to bring them up. Lesson learned. She’d never do that again.

  So he didn’t want her to have feelings. Such a ridiculous, manlike thing to say. As if she had any choice in the matter.

  But if he didn’t like her having feelings, she’d just have to keep them to herself.

  And if he thought friendship was enough, well, fine—he could think what he wanted! It wasn’t enough for her.

  Maybe she was being unrealistic in hoping he would come to love her, but better to aim for the moon than not even try. Why wouldn’t he try? Why try instead to crush all possibilities—on the very first day of their honeymoon? And after such a beautiful start.

  She was so angry she could spit!

  Did he really not believe in love? How could he not? There was evidence of love all around them. The whole world operated on love. Oh, she wasn’t a fool—she knew there was hate and violence and terrible things—and people—in the world, but what held families together, what gave people hope, and strength, what nourished children—and adults—was love, an endless well of it.

  It was almost as if he were somehow afraid of it. But that was ridiculous. Everybody wanted to be loved, didn’t they?

  Everyone except her husband, apparently.

  It was a puzzle. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t love. She was sure he loved his grandfather, and that his grandfather loved him. The other day he’d told her about the time he’d almost married a woman his grandfather had chosen for him, just because he thought it would please the old man, who he thought at the time was dying.

  “I didn’t even like the woman. I was dreading it. Luckily for me, she cried off just before the wedding.”

  “But why didn’t you call it off yourself?” she’d asked him. “What if she hadn’t changed her mind? You’d be stuck with a wife you disliked.”

  “I know, but a man—a gentleman—once betrothed, cannot, in honor, back out of it. If he did, it would be an utter disgrace.”

  “I know, but I’ve never understood why.”

  “A gentleman’s word is what separates us from the rabble,” he explained. That was why cheating at cards was regarded as such a heinous act, because it was a breach of honor. A man caught cheating at cards was ruined socially forever.

  The same rules didn’t, apparently, hold true for women. Lily thought that was wrong. How peculiar the masculine world was, where a man could beat his wife or be unfaithful or neglect his children and still be regarded as a gentleman, but cheat at cards or break a betrothal and he became a social pariah, persona non grata.

  More sobering was the thought that Edward had been prepared to marry a woman he didn’t even like. What did that say about her own marriage? She didn’t want to think about it.

  Arriving back at Tremayne Park, she handed her horse over to a stable lad and, as soon as she entered the house, ordered hot water for a bath.

  She undressed and took out the tiny sliver of soap that was left from the piece Edward had given her at the inn so long ago. It was almost finished. She would have to get some more. She loved using Edward’s soap.

  Lily sank into the hot water and smoothed the rich lather over her body. The scent, so clean and fresh and distinctive, calmed her.

  It was early days yet in their marriage. It had taken Cal quite a while to realize he loved Emm, and then it was only because Emm had been shot. Lily had been there when it happened, had seen the horror on Cal’s face when Emm collapsed, bleeding. Lily had witnessed her brother’s stunned realization that he cared for his wife more than he’d known.

  Over and over he’d told the unconscious Emm he loved her, admitted to Lily that he’d never told her before, didn’t even realize it himself—until Emm was shot.

  She hoped it wouldn’t come to that with her and Edward.

  Maybe, as a rake, Edward was simply uncomfortable with the idea of love. It was no wonder, really. All those cynical, experienced women of his, who called it bedsport, and to whom it meant nothing. It meant something to her.

  But if talk of love disturbed him, she would not talk of it. Her feelings were her own business. She would be patient, give him time.

  You couldn’t make someone love you, no matter how desperately you wanted them to. And if you pushed too hard, it could make people withdraw further. She’d seen that with girls at school—poor Sylvia, for one—trying too hard to be popular and failing dismally.

  She’d gone into this marriage—this arranged marriage—blindly, with hope in her heart. She had no excuse. Nobody had deceived her, not Edward, not her family.

  If her heart yearned for love and was disappointed, she had only herself to blame. And if friendship was what her husband wanted from her—if it was all he wanted—there were worse things than friendship.

  Besides, friendship could turn into love. She would not give up on him yet.

  * * *

  • • •

  Edward wrote a lot of letters. Each day he sat down and dealt with a small pile of correspondence. Lily had never seen anyone write so many letters.

  “Who do you write all these letters to?” she asked him one rainy afternoon.

  “A variety of people.” He kept writing.

  Of course. She should have known better than to ask.

  He glanced up. “Don’t you have letters to write?”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Most women I know are always scr
ibbling off notes and letters to their friends.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, you haven’t received a single letter since we’ve been here.”

  A chill ran down Lily’s backbone. “I—I didn’t know where we were going, so how could I tell anyone where to write?”

  “You could write to them now and tell them.”

  “I know, but there isn’t anyone I want to write to.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. “You don’t want to write to your sisters or aunts or any friends?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather wait. It’s more entertaining to talk to them in person.”

  “I’m amazed. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who wasn’t forever dashing off a note to this friend or that, or writing down secret thoughts in a diary.” He glanced at the writing desk, all set up with a freshly trimmed pen, a stoppered bottle of the best ink, and a neat pile of perfectly trimmed writing paper. “You don’t have wedding letters to write—thank-you letters?”

  Her mind went blank. Everyone knew the bride always wrote the thank-yous. But then it came to her. “I do, of course, but I left my address book at home. I’ll do them when we get back to London. Besides, I’m not in the mood,” she added, thinking he’d suggest she write the dratted letters now and post them when they returned to London.

  “So you’re not in the mood for writing letters—what about reading?” His voice was deep, almost accusative.

  She stiffened, thinking her secret had been discovered. “N-no.”

  He put his pen down, rose and prowled toward her with a menacing expression. “Then I think, young lady, you need to be banished to your bed where you will contemplate the sin of idleness.” He tossed her over his shoulder and carried her, shrieking and laughing, up to her bed.

  It wasn’t the sin of idleness she contemplated, either; he kept her very busy until dinnertime. Which they ate, again, in bed.