by Diana Lloyd
When they were chest to chest, he lowered his gaze, blatantly staring at her exposed breasts. “Is this the sort of attention you desire, madam?”
Her face flushed. “You told me I could live as I please. This evening, this is what I please.”
“Under the condition that you first provide me with an heir. Until then, ye will do as I please.” He lowered his gaze to her expanse of skin once again. “It would please me to remind you to whom you are married, and with whom you will be spending your evenings until your part of our bargain has been fulfilled.”
“I never agreed to any such bargain,” she reminded him.
He tugged at the bodice again. Elsinore followed without argument or resistance, refusing to give him a victory by default. Guiding her into the nearest doorway, he placed his hands on either side of her, blocking any exit. “Do you know what gowns like yours make gentlemen think of?” he asked her.
Still quietly defiant, Elsinore’s eyes met his as she shook her head in response.
“It makes them wonder about all the flesh they still canna see.” As he spoke, he moved one hand to her hip, drawing the tips of his fingers against the silk in a lazy circular pattern.
“And then we wonder,” he continued, “exactly what that flesh would feel like.” Leaning closer so that her breasts slid against his chest with every breath, he smiled menacingly. “Sometimes,” he said, as the hand at her hip began to gather up handfuls of her skirt. “Our imaginations run away with us.”
“Well, lass, what have we here?” he whispered, slipping his hand under her gathered skirt and the thin chemise underneath. Unencumbered by fabric, their heat mingled as he held her in his palm. Breath caught in his chest as he cupped her sex. If tonight’s ball had been any other occasion, he’d have carried her back to the bedroom to complete their wedding vows.
Sliding his other hand against the smooth flesh of her hip, he reached around to her bottom, pulled her close and ground his hips against her. He wanted her to feel the length and heat of his erection through the thin fabric separating them. “You’re playing with fire, Elsinore, and yet, you claim to have no experience with it.”
“You’ll not bully me, Quin. I’m not afraid of you.”
“Ye should be.” He shifted his weight, keeping her pinned to the door, and teased his fingers through the wispy curls he found there. Elsinore’s body went rigid, and she drew in a shaky breath. He urged his fingers deeper. “Open for me.”
“Oh.” Her breath caught as she eased her legs apart a few precious inches.
“Mo leannan.” Quin pressed forward, dipping the tip of his finger into her folds and finding them slick with want. His mouth sought hers. “Mo chreach.”
His tongue mimicked the movement of his finger as it teased and retreated. Her hands slid up his arms and grabbed at his shoulders, pulling him in again. These weren’t the same sweet kisses of that afternoon. These were carnal, full of want and need with no regard for love or affection, and he wanted her to know it.
Quin felt a shift in her demeanor and read it as surrender. Surrender to what, he wasn’t sure. He’d gone too far to stop now; he would show her the pleasure they might find together. Ever eager for an adventure, she rushed to her completion, bucking her hips and pushing herself onto his hand. He would not disappoint her. A second finger joined the first, deepening the penetration and quickening the pace until he felt the fluttering of her orgasm pulse against his hand.
Tearing her lips away and burying her face in the lapel of his coat, Elsinore panted and gasped for breath. Quin held her close until the convulsions ceased. If she made one move to touch him, he’d disgrace himself in his breeches like an adolescent. He took short measured breaths until the moment passed, and he could think clearly again.
His hand left her slowly, savoring the last few moments of their contact. Only when the silk had resettled itself around her ankles did he trust his voice enough to speak. “Elsinore, I…” But his words faded away as he looked into her eyes.
He expected anger, disgust, maybe even hatred—all emotions he was familiar with and could tolerate. But what he saw struck him to his core. Her face reflected a mixture of wide-eyed awe, rosy-cheeked satisfaction, and something that sent a shiver down his spine. Determination. “I’m a monster, Elsinore. You’d do well to remember that.”
“I thought you were my husband.”
“I’ll abide no childish illusions of love from you, Elsinore. When the time comes, you will want to leave,” he said, hating himself for the look of hurt that flashed across her face.
“I may indeed,” she said, as determination glittered and hardened behind her eyes. “But you won’t want me to.”
The sharp truth of her words cut him to the quick. To hell with the ball, to hell that it was in their honor, he’d take her into the bedroom and finish what she’d started. But his intention was interrupted by the sound of someone ascending the stairway. He had only enough time to take a step back before they were discovered.
“Begging you pardon, milord, but the coachman says to let you know the carriage has been brought around as you requested.” Yvette approached and dipped a curtsy, the look on her face telling him she suspected what they’d been doing.
“Tell him we’ll be right down,” Elsinore said, stepping out from behind him. The maid turned and scurried away. “The ball is in our honor,” she reminded him. “We shouldn’t be late.” His only response was to offer his arm and escort her to the waiting carriage.
…
Elsinore’s first inkling of trouble came when Watson, the butler she’d known all her life, visibly blushed as she removed her wrap. “My felicitations, miss. I m-mean, ah, Lady Graham,” he stammered out.
“Shall I announce you, milord?” Watson recovered himself enough to ask Quin.
“Might as well, Watson,” he said with a smirk. “Let the games begin.”
Watson rapped the brass end of the ceremonial staff against the marble floor, the sharp sounds echoing in the cavernous ballroom, and heads turned to the doorway. “The Baron Graham of Menteith and Lady Graham,” he announced in a loud, clear voice.
Her parents looked up from their position at the end of the receiving line, and Elsinore saw her mother’s mouth drop open. Her father shook his head and blinked hard as if not believing his eyes. From beside her, she heard Quin mutter, “I hope it is everything you wished for, Elsinore.”
She lifted her chin, willed her cheeks not to blush, and stepped forward with him. An expectant hush befell the room as they approached the duke and duchess. Quin made his bow, so she dropped into a respectful curtsy. “Your Graces,” she heard him say. She opened her own mouth to speak, but the words died on her lips as she saw her parents’ shocked faces.
Just as she thought she might be denied entrance to her own wedding ball, Quin leaned over and whispered something into her father’s ear. Then he offered his arm and escorted her away.
“What did you say to my father?”
“I simply reminded him that you were my problem now.”
“Is that what I am, a problem?”
“You are tonight, my dear.”
As they made their way to the ballroom, Elsinore realized that she’d made a grave tactical error. Her new husband needed to be taught a lesson to be sure, but she should have done it privately. In her effort to hurt him, she’d opened herself up to even more public ridicule. She could do nothing now but try to make the best of it.
A few people stopped and wished them well as they made a promenade around the edge of the ballroom. One of her dearest friends stopped to speak but was hustled away by her mother after she squeaked out her felicitations. More often than not, people merely stepped out of their way. It wasn’t the cut direct she’d been raised to fear; it was more a subtle shunning. By their second turn, she was rescued by a most unlikely source, her own sisters.
One by one, each countess approached, kissed her cheek, and wished her well. They made small talk, mostly about t
he flowers and other decorations set about the room. Elsinore had to admit, her parents spared no expense in making it beautiful. There were fat white rose blooms everywhere, large bows and sashes of gold satin and white tulle along the balustrade in the upper gallery, and clay pots painted in gold-leaf overflowing with pink peonies surrounded the dance floor.
Imogen, the eldest, greeted her last. As she offered her cheek for a kiss, Elsinore felt her sister push something into her hand, and she instinctively closed her fingers around it. It was soft and warm—cloth by the feel of it. Had her sister embroidered her a keepsake of this catastrophic day? It was comical to think of a handkerchief or lace cap embroidered with flowers and a date she already knew she would never forget.
As her sister pulled away, she nodded once toward Elsinore’s hand with a raised eyebrow and then placed her hand discreetly to her bosom. Curious, Elsinore opened her fist and looked into her hand. It was nothing more than a wide strip of cream-colored lace. What on earth? She looked back to her sister and shrugged.
Imogen cleared her throat and touched her bosom once again. Good gracious, her sister had brought her a fichu to cover herself with. Had she only thought to present it before they’d already made their way about the room, Elsinore might have been tempted to employ it. As it was, it was too late. Too late to change her gown. Too late to change her life. Too late to do anything but make the most of the mess she’d helped create.
It was her choice. She had gained something after all. She was a married woman with choices. The thought made her smile. The gown had been her choice. Granted, it had been a poor one, but she’d been free to make it without her mother or her sisters or anyone else’s say-so. She was allowed to have an opinion, and she could make her own choices. She could choose to not agree to the bargain Quin offered. She opened her hand and let the bit of lace flutter to the floor.
After her sister walked away shaking her head, her brother and his wife made their presence known. After that, aunts, uncles, and cousins lined their path, waiting to wish them well as they passed. It was the only time that Elsinore could remember being glad of having such a large family. The backs that had been so subtly shown to them started to turn.
Even Libby Chalford came forward to wish them well. Elsinore had sent a note begging forgiveness after the social cut at the Winchcombe ball when she’d been in pursuit of Byron but had never gotten a reply. “Dear friend, I am so glad to see you. My behavior was inexcusable; please tell me all is well between us.”
“Of course we are still bosom friends, you silly goose. I wish you happy.” She leaned in and kissed Elsinore’s cheek. “You must write me pages and pages of letters.”
“Yes, I will. And you as well.” Elsinore almost cried with relief.
“I’ve much to tell you, too,” Libby whispered. “But first you must tell me about that gown—your mother’s face went positively purple when you walked in.”
“It is a bit more extreme than I thought. Is it as awful as all that?” Elsinore blushed.
“No…” Libby looked to be struggling for words. “It’s very…French.” It was the last thing she said before she was whisked away for an introduction.
“You were right about the dress,” she admitted to Quin when no one else was within earshot.
“And you were quite correct in that I treated you abominably.” One eyebrow rose at her confession, and he regarded her seriously. “Shall we call a truce for this evening?”
“For this evening,” she agreed. “The musicians are about to begin the opening set, and the party is in our honor. We should dance.”
The dance floor cleared except for the few eager couples who lined up for the opening cotillion. Due to their rank, her parents would act as lead couple, but she and Quin would be expected to join in. While a long dance, the cotillion had the advantage of making meaningful conversation nearly impossible with all the partner changes and complicated figures. She aligned herself across from Quin and stepped forward as the music started.
The steps had them quickly changing partners, and she didn’t meet with him again until she’d passed through the hands of all the other male dancers.
“I should probably mention something,” he said as they joined hands to promenade a small circle.
The hand-hold changed, and they switched directions. “And what is that?” she asked.
They performed the allemande before she was close enough to hear him again. “Some of the men are betting on which of your breasts will be the first to pop out of that dress during the Roger de Coverley,” he said, referring to the lively country jig traditionally danced last at any ball.
Her face flamed red, but she had to pass through several partners before nearing him again. “Is that what you call a truce?” she hissed at him, when he was close enough to hear.
“Of course, madam,” he smiled at her sweetly. “I’ve fifty quid on lefty,” he said as he winked and danced away with yet another partner.
Chapter Ten
“With any animal, working, sporting, or pet, consistency is the key. Begin even-handed and steady and stay that course.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine
Quin removed his clothes slowly, pacing himself, finding distractions that would delay him from what must be done. He would go to his wife tonight, but what would he say? With receipt of the latest threatening note just that morning making him late to his own wedding, he owed her an explanation. Didn’t he? I will take all that you love, was all it said. Did his tormentor assume they were a love match? Surely society gossip had already confirmed it was not. Odd, but no less disturbing. Whoever it was, they knew about Elsinore now and included her in their threat. What had he done?
In attempting to keep himself from coming under more suspicion, he’d endangered an innocent woman. A curiously wild, beautiful, and confounding young lady was now being threatened because of him. He was a coward and a cad, the lowest sort of human being—and he was now her husband. Her protector, her provider…and soon to be her lover.
He never loved Sorcha, never thought it necessary. Yet he had trusted her at first. Too much as it turned out. Trusting Elsinore was another matter. She’d already proven herself hard to manage. And, yet, her heart called to his. In a different world, in another lifetime, he might be free to answer. In this world it was…impossible.
People in his life had the most inconvenient habit of dying. Especially those he cared for. Elsinore was beautiful, witty, intelligent, and adventurous—she was also willful and impulsive. They were all qualities that would make her difficult to safeguard and hard to hold. He could not lose his heart to her. Loving him was death.
Watching the clock tick away the minutes, he gave her what he thought was sufficient time for her ball gown to be removed and her anger to cool. She was probably sitting at the dressing table, her long golden hair being brushed by her maid. He’d like to see Elsinore with her hair down, all brushed and shiny, flowing over her shoulders and resting lightly upon her breasts. He was going to have to put his smallclothes back on. Walking into her room with a hardened cock was not the way to make a difficult conversation any easier.
And he’d have to talk to her, say something about what happened that afternoon. How to convince her that the true fault of their circumstance did not lie with her but with him? They would both suffer regardless. Best not to frighten her with all the details, not yet. There’d be a time for that later. No, not the whole truth, then. He’d redouble his efforts to keep her safe, let her enjoy a few precious days of blissful ignorance.
The notes must stop. Every slip of paper was a reminder of his failing as a father, as a husband, and as a man. He’d armed his staff, hired a runner, contacted his solicitor, and taken every other precaution he could think of. He would keep Elsinore close to him, take the responsibility for keeping her safe upon his shoulders. He would not fail again. And, when the time came, he’d find somewhere safe for her to go. She’d be alive and happy. Would he?
Once in
the hallway, he stared at the door leading to her room. Should he knock or just walk in? He listened for a moment and heard the soft low sound of women’s voices. The maid was still in, then. It was as if the servant hadn’t the sense to make herself scarce on her mistress’s wedding night. Elsinore might have asked her stay, he supposed. Perhaps she was hoping to put off the inevitable. He tightened the knot of his banyan, making sure no excess of skin was showing from beneath the floor-length garment, and opened the door.
A teacup slipped from Elsinore’s fingers and clattered to the floor, the handle snapping off with a fatal brittle crack. He swallowed the urge to apologize, as if his mere presence caused the cup to fling itself to the ground. He nodded to the maid. “After you take care of that, you may be excused for the evening.”
The girl stooped down and snatched up the pieces of broken china. With one backward glance at her mistress, she scurried from the room. Best not to give her an opportunity to dump a pot of boiling hot tea in his lap tonight.
“Tea so soon before bed?” He’d meant it as a tease but realized too late that it sounded more like the start of an interrogation.
“Yvette was kind enough to fetch me a calming tea from your kitchen. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
He took a step closer and tried to smile. “How thoughtful.”
Elsinore nodded and glanced at the bed. She was nervous and looked it. It was understandable, he knew, for a maiden to be anxious about her wedding night. There was nothing between them now but a few layers of cloth that could easily be stripped away. He’d prefer her naked. Despite this afternoon’s interlude, he hadn’t lain with a woman since…well, best not to think of such things tonight.