Starlight (The Christies)

by Carrie Lofty

  She’d threatened to withhold marital pleasures, but that rash, frankly furious threat made no sense. He might expect retaliation along those lines. Instead she would head straight for the weakness she knew was there. She would do her damnedest to remind him whom he’d chosen. No prim miss.

  He was marrying a woman with appetites and an infatuation for seeing him come undone. His passions and his feelings would not remain divided for long. She would weave them together, as surely as she’d spun cloth for the better part of fifteen years. She could do just the same with their separate lives.

  Reverend McCormick entered the vestibule and signaled that the ceremony was beginning. On her father’s arm, Polly gave herself one last look in the mirror.

  Alex Christie didn’t stand a chance.

  Alex hadn’t expected her to meet his eyes, let alone smile when she did. Polly practically floated down the aisle. Her father walked beside her with plodding steps, but Alex hardly noticed. His attention was reserved for his bride.

  How different, his two weddings. The day he’d taken Mamie as his wife had been a lavish affair, no matter the animosity between their families. For appearances, the Christies and the Todds had invited half of New England. Flowers, champagne, delicacies of all kinds. Their parents had undertaken a secret war, each intent on outspending the other. He remembered having been surprised by his father’s generosity. Only later did he realize that the uncharacteristic loosening of the family purse strings had been to spite Josiah Todd’s snobbish blue blood ways.

  He’d appreciated that about his father.

  As he stood awaiting Polly, however, Alex counted fewer than a dozen witnesses. Her family. Agnes, with Edmund in her arms. The clergyman. No one else had been invited. The difficulties of announcing their union would be saved for another day.

  Now was the time to ensure that Polly would be his. Safe and protected—the honorable thing done. And on the most primal level he’d ever known, he wanted her for his wife.

  When had possessing her taken precedence over every other concern? He needed to keep his perspective, to remember his reasons for marrying her at all. But how could he? She glowed like a shooting star—an ethereal princess with a crown of fire-gold hair. Her eyes were impossibly vivid when the church’s stained glass cast rainbows over that precious green. Alex read turbulence there, despite her fixed and serene expression. Equally was his attention diverted to her mouth, particularly her lush lower lip. What she had done with her mouth, to him, for him . . .

  Polly reached his side on a waft of light floral scent. He noticed the lack of factory smells—the dry-dust tickle of cotton and the petroleum stink of machine oil. She had left those behind because they were necessities no more. He was her future.

  That made him stand a little straighter, proud and determined. Soon she would see the advantages in accepting him.

  Reverend McCormick looked up from his prayer book. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

  Short and plump, McCormick continued the customary words. Alex, however, was beset by a redheaded demon. Rather than keep her eyes forward, Polly turned toward him and fixed a cool stare on his face. The reverend noticed, as a tight frown marred his brow. But she never wavered. She studied Alex with the dedication of a scholar on the verge of the century’s biggest scientific breakthrough. He was tempted to stare back, if only to see how long she would persist.

  He already knew the answer. Despite her apparently calm expression when walking down the aisle, she had yet to forgive him. But something more curious had taken the place of her anger, as if she were lit with inner bonfires that made her eyes spark a sharper, clearer green. His heart beat like pagan drums.

  Just what spell was she casting now?

  “Will you, Alex Christie, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  To have and to hold.

  From this day forth.

  Through all the days of your life.

  He realized too late just what had been brought to bear. Another wife. Another potential for untold worry and pain. He had been thinking with his chivalrous instincts and, to be brutally honest, with his cock. Something so groundless, based on caprice—no matter how wonderful—could not be trusted. The flurry of his attraction had only added to the logic that seemed so clinical and sound. His reliable system of assessing the world had been nothing more than a tool for making Polly his.

  The words formed on his tongue anyway. Deep, potent desire gave them voice. “I will.”

  Polly’s lips tipped in that smile. Did she think this was a joke? Did she assume that married life was a lark? He knew better. He knew it required serious work.

  “I will,” she said, still watching his face.

  He couldn’t help it. He faced her directly, accepting her unspoken taunt. Just as he’d suspected, he regretted it almost instantly. Christ, she was beautiful. The gown was likely a hand-me-down, but it suited her curves as well as if it had been designed by a talented dressmaker. Pale blue was just the shade for her personality, like the sky before sunrise—all possibilities made real. Cream lace contrasted with her thick auburn hair. Her expression was that of unexpected warmth. He hadn’t earned it, not with how she resented his actions.

  “You may now kiss the bride.”

  She tilted her chin. Quiet challenge blazed across her flushed cheeks. Her grin took on a lopsided humor, as if she could burst into laughter at any moment.

  “If not now, then when?” she whispered.

  Alex tensed. She had said those exact words when he’d accused her of teasing him—only, she’d been on her knees at the time. There in the church, she not only read the deepest secrets of his mind, she was making toys of what she’d discovered.

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. Quickly. No lingering sweetness, despite how his body made greedy demands. He straightened and offered his arm. Polly scowled briefly, the only time her smile slipped. But as she faced her family, she tucked away any frustrations. That false serenity had reclaimed her mouth, as if she were a perfectly happy bride.

  Alex couldn’t find it in himself to wish otherwise.

  Across the span of only two pews, her brothers clapped her on the back—heartily, as if congratulating a teammate after a well-struck goal. The younger of the two boys, Wallace, handed her a flask. Alex watched in stunned silence as she unscrewed the cap right there in church. And drank deeply.

  Ah, God. That throat. He couldn’t look away from the way her muscles constricted over each swallow.

  Perhaps she knew he watched. When she finished, she handed it to Alex. Grinning. Licking her lips. At least this was a dare he could accept. He took two hearty gulps, which helped offset the burn that had invaded the rest of his body.

  Married. A wedding night.

  Yet she had spat such furious words, threatening no such privileges. Was this behavior some elaborate means of revenge? Taunting him with sensual prospects, only to drop him cold when they were alone? He steeled himself to that possible disappointment.

  A more resilient corner of his soul refused. To seduce his own wife. No guilt or worry or thought to the reputation their vows now protected. Such a gift. Such a challenge.

  Such glorious rewards.

  What had he been thinking? Walling off that passion? Little else seemed important when she looked at him as if he were the biggest mountain she would ever climb. She was an opiate. Like throwing a punch, or riding a colt barely broken—one as likely to kick as to obey. This woman, the new Polly Christie, was the personification of his lost control.

  Alex couldn’t wait for the sun to set.

  Twenty

  Polly didn’t return to Calton that evening.

  Instead she accompanied Alex, Agnes, Edmund, and Griggs to Dennistoun, with her few possessions stacked at her feet. Her mother had packed them into two carpetbags borrowed from a neighbor, because their family had never required luggage. They were the sorts to live and die within the span of a few streets—b
oundaries as sure as any holding cell. Alex hadn’t just fetched her from the police station. He’d dragged her out of a far more cozy prison.

  That traitorous thought shot a shiver up her back.

  She would not let circumstance change who she was. She would remain the same girl.

  And yet, Polly Gowan now longer existed.

  The silent, stern-faced man sitting across from her in the carriage was her husband. She was stepmother to the infant asleep in her arms. Some strange sense of new loyalty had compelled her to hold Edmund on their journey to her new home. She would be his mother from that day forth.

  At least it seemed an easy task—not that she held any mistaken thoughts of motherhood being easy. Loving the child that looked so much like his dear father would be as simple as breathing. She did just that, breathing the scent of his downy blond hair. So soft and warm, he smelled of the milled milk soap Agnes insisted was best for his tender skin. The vitality of Edmund’s small body against hers made her heart swell. He would be a man someday, and she would see that happen. She would help Alex make him strong and honorable, and likely rather stubborn. That made her smile, and she kissed the boy’s head once again.

  Already she had been altered—transformed into Polly Christie with the recitation of a few simple, powerful words. She had no idea who that woman was.

  Throughout the subdued festivities that followed the ceremony, she’d felt Alex’s gaze on her at unexpected times. Never coy. More like he was suddenly struck with the notion that she was the only person in the church, and that no one would notice his attention. Polly noticed. When she lifted her eyes now, she found Alex staring once again. He appeared as if he’d just witnessed a miracle. Awed. Stricken. Almost agonizingly hopeful.

  She would dig inside of her new husband until he spoke that hope aloud. It would take time and then a little more time, until she could trust him with the love she no longer denied. The barest concessions would make him the center of her world.

  That was the scariest, most daring thought she’d ever had.

  First, before he learned what a mistake it was to begrudge her what she deserved, she needed to keep control. Keep the pace. The easiest way to do that, of course, was to take advantage of what their encounters had taught her. Her husband was a man with needs he thought he could deny. But he was no monk. Polly smiled a very different sort of smile, in anticipation of ensuring she had his complete attention.

  “You’re staring, Mr. Christie,” she said softly.

  He bit his back teeth together and answered with a nod. Lord, he nearly looked apprehensive. She wanted to shake him by the lapels of his fine, deep charcoal suit until his secrets rattled out.

  The carriage rolled to a stop. Griggs opened the door and affixed the step. Agnes offered to take Edmund, but Polly politely declined. She used Griggs’s proffered hand as balance and brought the boy out into the gathering twilight. A warm, humid breeze promised summer days would return eventually.

  But the nights . . .

  She could no more predict the outcome of their first night as husband and wife than she could chart the paths of the planets. Perhaps Alex could do so, but if he fancied he possessed any more certainty about the next few hours, he was only deceiving himself. They were an experiment the world had never seen. Explode. Melt. Fizzle. No telling.

  He followed them out of the coach and assisted Agnes. Griggs started on the luggage. Alex maintained his odd silence, wearing it like a blanket around his proud shoulders.

  The next few hours were filled with familiar routines of evening, yet everything was made new. She made tea in Alex’s kitchen. She watched, taking mental notes, while Agnes bathed and fed Edmund. Polly offered to rock him to sleep.

  “Tonight of all nights?” Agnes gave her a playful scowl. “Go now. You’ve tiptoed around long enough.”

  “Tiptoed?”

  “Deny it, girl, and I’ll get really testy. Off to bed with you.”

  Agnes walked toward the nursery with Edmund and a burping cloth over her shoulder. Griggs had taken the bags upstairs. All Polly had to do was climb the stairs to meet her future.

  Where had Alex ordered her established? In his room? In another? All her life she’d wanted a room of her own, a place of privacy for quiet thoughts and quiet breathing. Did she still want that? Truly? The answer was as fleeting as ribbons of color dancing across the sky. Alex had shown her that. Yet the aurora was more stable than her excited, confused emotions.

  Desire added gunpowder to the mix and only made it worse. She was crawling out of her mind and completely out of her skin. The brief climb up the stairs pacified her not at all. Each step pinched with tension.

  Through an open door, she saw that her bags had been deposited in what appeared to be a guest bedroom. It was made up with dark drapes that would block the light of morning, and more curtains of the same midnight-blue wool lined the bed. The candle she lit made it seem like a somber cave.

  The glorious dream of a room of her own looked very, very lonely.

  Damn him. She damned him for the tears she blinked back. Whether done maliciously or with respect for her privacy. This felt like banishment.

  Rifling through her carpetbags, she found her best nightgown. It was the closest thing to a luxury she owned, having sewn the garment using cotton and thread purchased with her tiny savings. After completing the finishing touches, she’d fought the notion that it was too showy for a girl in a tenement. Only when in need of a special moment of luxury had she worn it to bed, just for herself. That it was three years old barely showed.

  She had carefully washed and ironed it when Ma and the boys were out of the flat. Da had been sleeping. No matter her lingering resentment of Alex’s methods, she wanted to appear beautiful for him. She touched the snow-white lace she’d knitted herself. Little had she known then that she would wear it on her wedding night—or maybe she had known, harboring secret hopes.

  After unwinding the plaits from her hair, she brushed until its auburn color shone, even in the modest candlelight. Almost reverently, she unfastened the ties of her mother’s wedding gown—now Polly’s wedding gown, too—and laid it across the bed. She smoothed the fabric just so, knowing even as she did that nervousness was the root of her fussing. With her resolve in place, she took one last look at the gown that held such meaning, then removed her undergarments. The nightgown was a cool breath from heaven against her skin. She shivered, imagining Alex’s hands running along the smooth fabric before diving beneath.

  But first he would see her in it. In his bedroom.

  If Alex wanted a wife, he would get one. He would get the only one she knew how to be. That meant being strong enough to set her own terms. No docility when better, happier, more satisfying days glowed on the horizon—or, in this case, in the intimate darkness of passion’s greatest night.

  Satisfied with the result of ministrations that only added more fire to her belly, she nodded to herself in the mirror. He wanted her. She wanted him. Nothing simpler.

  She pulled her laundered tartan around her shoulders and crept out of the guest room on bare feet. She knew the location of his study, there at the end of the corridor. A faint sliver of light stretched out from beneath the closed door.

  Having reached his bedroom, she assessed it with a keener eye than on their first foray into that intimate place. The space was nearly as stark as the rest of his home. A washstand occupied one corner, and a plain wooden chair sat in another. The dressing screen and wardrobe were as austere as possible. For such a wealthy man, he lived with incredible simplicity.

  Yet, it was Alex. The scent of him. The resonance of the air. She breathed deeply, and clasped her hands against her breastbone. This was where she needed to be. She would stake her claim as thoroughly as he had forced his demands on her.

  The bed seemed his only concession toward high living. Bed curtains the color of summer leaves at twilight created a refuge for the large, plush mattress. A matching duvet and pillows sent a little dan
ce up her spine. She would lie with him again, wrapped in that place of softness and warmth. That they were married only added to the excitement pooling low in her belly. They would awaken there, together as husband and wife, with no fear of consequences.

  If only he would give her a sign. Something. Anything to nurture this unexpected new faith. Then she could imagine waking in his arms for the rest of their lives.

  She sat on the bed, with her lips still curled into a smile.

  Alex finished his whiskey. Not that it cleared his mind. The enormity of what he’d wrought would not let him be. He had never given thought to walking down the aisle again. He had mused, on occasion, that Edmund would benefit from the tenderness of a woman. But for himself? Not once.

  Not before Polly.

  Even the idea of taking her as his mistress hadn’t been enough to assuage the hunger to possess her. All of her. She would never know the touch of another man.

  Only his—his hands, his mouth, his body joined with hers.

  The excitement of those images was undeniable. He shoved up from the chair behind his desk and paced. He could’ve used his influence to negotiate or even threaten the police. Diminishing the rumors about her arrest would’ve meant the application of a few bribes. He had little money to spare, but he would’ve been able to do that much for her. His sense of duty was an unshakable thing.

  He fought his arousal and his misgivings with the science he loved: star charts, his telescope, thoughts of the aurora that had faded with the coming of spring.

  No, Polly had invaded even those calming places. He shoved the telescope and watched it swivel away.

  Her freedom had not required marriage. His need for her had.

  How else would he have claimed such a fiery, stubborn, incredible woman? She could not be bought. She could not be coerced. Even earnest seduction would’ve bounced off a shell honed of determined sacrifice, coupled with her insistence that their stations were unequal.

  Fear and want had determined his actions, while he remained dizzy and weighed down at the same time. The man he’d become in Glasgow was as unfamiliar as life under the sea.