by Anne Gracie
* * *
The wedding breakfast was, Emm supposed, a rousing success as far as Miss Mallard was concerned. As well as Lord Ashendon’s family and a few friends, mostly of his aunt, Emm had a bare handful of her own friends attending, and some acquaintances from church.
The rest had been invited by Miss Mallard, apparently with a view to highlighting what she’d come to regard as her own personal triumph. “. . . three duchesses, two marchionesses, five countesses, six viscountesses. . . . and now our beloved Miss Westwood has become the Countess of Ashendon!” If Emm heard her say it once, she heard it a dozen times. And guess who was the partridge in the pear tree?
Emm talked to everyone, acting much as if this were one of the usual school events involving prospective parents. Lord Ashendon introduced her to his best man, Mr. Galbraith, and a couple of distant cousins who had traveled from adjacent counties to attend the wedding.
Her bridal attendants, Rose and Lily and Georgiana, who’d muttered that she only answered to George, looked fresh and young and lovely in varying shades of pink to palest lilac—the first time in forever, Rose told her, that they’d been allowed to wear colors.
Lady Dorothea, dressed in deep purple, was busy explaining to everyone that it was her late nephew’s desire, expressed in the Strongest Possible Terms in his will, that nobody should wear mourning for him. And that Ashendon, as the Head of the Family, had made it An Order.
“You’ll meet most of my relations when we go to London,” Lord Ashendon murmured in her ear, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. She jumped.
“And when shall that be?” Emm asked, realizing she had no idea where she was going next—not even where she would spend the night tonight. Her wedding night.
She was wholly in her husband’s control now.
“Soon,” he told her. “I need to attend to a few matters at Ashendon Court, my principal estate, first.”
“And where is Ashendon Court, my lord?”
He said, as if he expected her to know, “In Oxfordshire.” And when she continued to regard him with a faintly quizzical air, he added, “Not far from Stanford-in-the-Vale. You’ll see it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, it will be too dark to see anything by the time we arrive tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.” He glanced at a clock on the overmantel. “We leave in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” she echoed, feeling somewhat like a parrot. “But I haven’t . . .”
“Haven’t what? Packed?” His brows drew together. “Surely you anticipated a bridal trip.”
“I did, of course,” she told him. “Foolish of me, no doubt, but I assumed I would be consulted on the matter. And at least asked whether I would wish to undertake a long journey by carriage on my wedding day.” She gave him a cool smile and went to begin saying her good-byes, a little knot of irritation stiffening her spine.
She supposed an earl would be naturally autocratic, especially one who’d been an officer for most of his adult life. But she didn’t have to like being ordered about like one of his soldiers.
She’d assumed he would have engaged a suite at York House or one of the other premier hotels in Bath. Or that they would spend a few days at some grand home belonging to one of his friends or relations. It had even occurred to her that they might sleep the night at Lady Dorothea’s—though that was not ideal.
She would rather have as much privacy as possible for her wedding night.
Because that was a hurdle yet to come.
* * *
The carriage pulled away to a chorus of good-byes and well-wishes, some of them surprisingly tearful. Emm waved through the carriage window until the school was out of sight. Battling with unexpected emotion herself, she sat back against the well-padded leather seats and found Lord Ashendon’s hard gray eyes observing her closely.
Without a word, he handed her a large white handkerchief.
She took it and wiped away the few tears that dampened her cheeks.
“You are sad to leave?”
She thought about it. “Not really, but I’ve lived there for most of my life—pupil and teacher, and . . . I have friends there.”
She’d been content enough at the Mallard Seminary, but never really happy. She’d been granted refuge there seven years ago and was grateful. She’d loved working with the girls, but they passed through the school and went on to make new lives for themselves, no doubt never giving Emm or any of the teachers another thought.
Emm’s future prospects had been depressingly predictable. Now, married to Lord Ashendon, she had no idea what the future would bring. It was exciting . . . and a little daunting.
“You will be able to visit your friends when you visit my aunt.”
“I know.” But it wouldn’t be the same. What friendships she’d made had developed through proximity and habit, mostly.
He glanced at her maid, sitting quiet as a mouse beside her. “You will too . . . er—”
“Milly,” Emm told him.
Miss Mallard had told Emm that Milly should wear her thickest coat and take a rug, as she’d be riding at the back of the carriage, but Lord Ashendon had handed Emm up, then turned to Milly and indicated she was to ride inside as well.
The conversation for the next few miles was general and a little stilted, consisting mainly of comments on the passing scenery. Milly’s presence prevented anything intimate or personal from being discussed, for which Emm was grateful.
Was that why he’d seated the girl inside, or was it kindness on his part? It was a cold day, and his coachman was wrapped and muffled to the eyebrows.
She hoped it was kindness.
At the first stop to change horses, Lord Ashendon produced pillows and rugs from a compartment inside the carriage, saying, “Get some sleep, if you can. It’s a long journey and we won’t arrive until long after nightfall.”
Emm and Milly wrapped themselves warmly and snuggled down. The carriage was comfortable and beautifully sprung. Milly dropped off quickly, but Emm found herself feigning sleep. She was too aware of Lord Ashendon. At first he simply watched the scenery slip by, then his gaze came to rest silently on her. She could feel the weight of it, even though her eyes were shut.
Was he also thinking of the wedding night to come?
She was wound tense as a spring.
A blast of sound woke Emm from a fitful doze.
“Hawkins, requesting the gates be opened,” Lord Ashendon explained.
“We’re here, then?” She tried to peer out but could see only the carriage lights and shadowy darkness beyond.
She heard the coachman grumbling, “Who? Who? Lord Ashendon and his lady, of course, who did you think! And you knew we was coming so why the ’ell didn’t you ’ave the gates open and waiting?” The gatekeeper mumbled something she couldn’t make out, and the gates opened.
The carriage passed between two large brick pillars and continued along an avenue of twisty old trees so ancient their branches met overhead. It was like passing through a tunnel.
“Yews,” Lord Ashendon commented. “Planted by some long-dead ancestor.”
Ashendon Court came into view. Lights were blazing from a dozen windows. “It was originally built in the sixteenth century, a manor house, but my great-grandfather had it extended and modernized last century. He added the wings. But you’ll see it all in the morning.”
The carriage halted and half a dozen servants came running down the front steps to greet them. Lord Ashendon introduced them all to Emm, then said, “Mrs. Moffat, the housekeeper, will show you to your room. Wash, refresh yourself, and when you’re comfortable, come down to the dining room. You must be famished.”
Emm wasn’t in the least bit hungry. Quite the opposite.
Entering the house, she followed the housekeeper and caught a gli
mpse of what must have been a medieval hall. A great, gloomy cavern of a room, it was paneled in dark wood with an arched, smoke-darkened ceiling crisscrossed with heavy wooden beams. The walls bristled with weapons—swords, blunderbusses, pikes, shields—and antlers. Knights, or rather their suits of armor, stood sentry at each corner of the room, watched over by the dull, reproachful eyes of a dozen or more mounted and stuffed animal heads and half a dozen portraits of dour and disapproving gentlemen—presumably her husband’s ancestors. A roaring fire blazed in a huge old stone fireplace, the light thrown by its flames causing the knights and weapons to glitter and the dead eyes of the dead beasts to gleam.
“This way, my lady.”
Emm followed the elderly woman upstairs.
Twenty minutes later she was seated at one end of a long, highly polished table. Lord Ashendon sat at the other end. Servants flowed back and forth between them, serving what the housekeeper called a simple meal: soup, roast chicken, a dish of vegetables and a custard tart. And wine, several different kinds, one with soup, one with chicken and so on.
Emm ate very little and drank even less, though she knew that wine might help relax her. It might also cause her to throw up. There was little talk exchanged—they were seated too far apart for it to feel in the slightest bit conversational, and she wasn’t about to shout commonplace pleasantries at him.
After what seemed like an age, Lord Ashendon made a gesture and the servants silently withdrew. He set his napkin aside. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry.” The serpents were back, writhing in her stomach.
There was a short silence, then he said quietly, “Would you prefer to delay the wedding night? Wait until you are less tired. And we are better acquainted.”
“No.”
He gave her a searching look. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She wanted to get it over with.
“Very well, then. I’ll join you in your bedchamber in half an hour.”
* * *
Cal sipped his cognac slowly. He’d never lain with a virgin before. He’d have to take it slow and careful. Gently does it.
He closed his eyes. Like restraining wild horses. He’d wanted her, dreamed of taking her ever since he’d kissed her that one time. One taste and . . . fire in the blood.
But he would control himself. Tonight, at least.
He finished his cognac and went upstairs.
His valet was still abroad, but his father’s elderly valet, Higgins, had unpacked and put all his things away and was waiting with hot water. Higgins seemed to have been kicking his heels here for the last year. Had Henry done nothing at all to organize the estate?
Cal had no need for a valet, but Higgins waited hopefully, so he allowed the man to help him remove his coat, waistcoat and boots, then dismissed him for the night. Higgins left, carrying Cal’s boots.
He stripped to the waist, washed, cleaned his teeth and then, as an afterthought, shaved himself carefully. Her skin would be tender. He dried his face, splashed on a little cologne water and combed his hair.
He turned and saw that Higgins had laid out a nightshirt and dressing gown on his bed. A nightshirt? He never wore the things.
But she was a virgin. Maybe he should wear it so she was not too shocked by the sight of a naked man. A naked, erect man. His body was already thrumming with anticipation.
Start as you mean to go on. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and shrugged into the dressing gown.
Would she even know what to do? What he was going to do to her?
He’d heard stories of ladies who had no idea of what passed between men and women, who’d screamed and fought on their wedding night, who’d been horrified and disgusted by the whole process.
Of course the first time was supposed to be a little painful, but he’d always heard that if you took care with a virgin, took things slowly, made sure she was well warmed up, her passions ignited and her juices flowing, the pain would be negligible.
Trouble was he’d never taken a virgin before. His previous lovers had all been experienced women who knew what they liked and demanded he give it to them.
Cal prided himself on his ability to ensure a woman’s satisfaction as well as his own. This was his wife. First time or not, he would do his best to make it good for her.
He knocked softly on the connecting door.
* * *
Emm lay in bed, waiting, tense as a violin string, straining her ears. She could hear him moving about in the dressing room that connected their two bedrooms, the low hum of male voices—talking to a servant?—a few splashing noises. A lot of silence.
She’d washed quickly, using the French rose-vanilla soap that was a gift from one of the girls, and cleaned her teeth. She slipped on her bridal nightgown, a gift from a favorite former pupil, Sally Destry, now married and a countess in London. Arriving in a box from something called the House of Chance, it was unlike any nightgown she’d ever seen: peach silk, almost transparent, with soft, loose ruffles that almost—but not quite—preserved her modesty.
If ever she needed a nightgown like this, it was tonight.
Then a knock, and before she could say a word, the door was open and there he stood, a dark silhouette against the light in the room behind. “You haven’t fallen asleep, then,” he murmured.
Her laugh was a little forced. He was wearing a silk brocade dressing gown in dark reds and golds. There was a deep vee of bare skin at his throat and a slight dusting of chest hair.
She’d left just one candle burning beside the bed.
“I suppose you would prefer darkness,” he said.
She made a noncommittal sound. She’d prefer some light. She wanted to see him. But that wasn’t very bridal, she supposed.
He snuffed the candle out. The room was dim, lit only by the light from the fire, dancing and ephemeral. Just enough for her to see him. She was glad of it. He was worth looking at.
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, his arms braced on either side of her body. He smelled clean and warm and his cologne was light, bracing, enticingly masculine.
“It will be all right, you know.”
Emm hoped so. She was trembling a little. She shouldn’t be, but she couldn’t help it. She ran her tongue over her dry lips.
He made a low sound deep in his throat, bent and touched his mouth to hers. The lightest of caresses, a bare brush of skin against skin. Masculine aromas teased her senses. Heat, spice, a beguiling hint of tooth powder and brandy. He teased, tantalized, aroused. She wanted more, heard a soft murmur and realized it came from her.
His fingers were in her hair, cupping her head, angling her mouth to him as he eased her lips apart. The taste of him flowed into her, potent, dark heat of man. His mouth sought, demanded a response she hadn’t expected, hadn’t known was in her.
His mouth enslaved her. Ripples of sensation washed through her. She melted, mindless, clutching onto him as if she were falling, not pressed beneath his hard heated body.
He cupped her breast, brushed fingers across her nipple, and a jolt of pleasure-pain-heat speared through her. She arched herself against him, moving restlessly, not knowing what she craved, except more.
He sat back, a sudden withdrawal that abruptly chilled her. Her eyes flew open. He rose and pulled off his dressing gown. His eyes locked with hers, he stood naked before her, a Greek god sculpted in alabaster, his member proud, erect.
She’d never seen a man wholly naked. She devoured him with her eyes, knowing she ought to be more modest, more bridal. More virginal. But she couldn’t help herself. He was magnificent.
He bent and flipped the sheets back, cooling her heated body. He stood looking down at her for a long moment. She couldn’t read his expression. His face was in shadow. “Pretty nightgown,” he murmured. “But we don’t need it tonight.”
He lifted her nightgown up, over her legs. “Lift your bottom.” She lifted. Then it was over her belly and breasts. “Raise your arms.”
She was naked before him. Exposed.
She wanted to hide, to cover herself, and not out of modesty. She was too tall, too thin, not endowed with the kind of curves that women should have. But she was what he’d married, for whatever reason, and she braced herself for his examination.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and lay down beside her, his body half covering her, skin to skin, from thigh to breast, all hard masculine heat.
She supposed all men said that to their brides on their wedding night. She appreciated his kindness. She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. She wanted more of his kisses. Heated, drugging, luscious kisses.
He explored her then, thoroughly, with hands and lips. He ravished her with his mouth, nibbling, licking, finding places on her body that she had no idea were so sensitive. Or arousing.
His hand slipped between her thighs, and he lavished attention on her breasts, while all the time his cunning fingers drove her mindless, teasing, soothing, drawing ripples, waves, shudders from her body.
Her body vibrated to his every touch. Absorbing him, enraptured by the relentless, seductive ravishment of his mouth and hands, she slowly lost all sense of herself. She was nothing, a being consisting of nothing but sensation. And aching, desperate need.
He moved over her, and without conscious volition her legs parted, trembling with anticipation.
She felt him, hot and heavy and blunt at her entrance, and her body clenched with longing. He hesitated, and without thought she pushed herself against him.
He entered her with a long, hard thrust and a loud moan. She took him with something between a whimper and a gasp. He paused, lodged deep within her, then began to pull back.
She locked her legs around him, hauling him closer, taking him deeper.
And then with a heavy, guttural sound he was moving inside her, plunging . . . thrusting . . . driving her . . . to frantic need. Desperation. And ecstasy.