Regency Innocents

by Annie Burrows

  Linney rang for the next course, which turned out to be a whole roast chicken, and a game pie, along with several side dishes of vegetables.

  It was not until Linney began to cut up the food he had placed on Captain Fawley’s plate into tiny pieces, that Deborah had any inkling of just how awkward her husband found it to feed himself. She lowered her eyes to her own plate as he scooped up a mixed portion of meat and vegetables with a spoon.

  Now she knew why he never stayed to supper at any of the gatherings where she had met him in London. He must feel so clumsy, so … so exposed to the pitying stares or snide comments of others.

  She raised her eyes to his, briefly, and met a challenging, almost hostile look. It was as though he was daring her to make any comment. Startled, she realised that, in having her to sit down and eat with him, he was permitting her to witness a vulnerability that he normally never revealed to anyone. True, he was uncomfortable with her being here, but it was a start. She dropped her eyes at once, flustered by a strange feeling of intense intimacy.

  ‘That was delicious.’ She sighed once she had demolished the contents of her plate. Raising her eyes to his, she attempted a smile. ‘No wonder Lord Walton hired rooms for us here, if he has sampled the cooking.’

  ‘I see that it was certainly to your taste. I only wonder, having witnessed that demonstration of just how much you manage to put away at one sitting, that you manage to stay so thin,’ he replied, cuttingly.

  Deborah eyed him with sadness. It was as if he was determined to rebuff her attempts to lighten the atmosphere or establish any sort of rapport with him. He confirmed that suspicion by then saying, ‘If you are finished, you may return to your room until I send for you.’

  He did not even wish to while away the last few moments of the day in conversing with her. Where had the man who used to be so kind to her, at the balls where she had been a wallflower, gone?

  Puzzled and hurt, she pushed back her chair, and left him in solitary possession of the dining parlour.

  Why bother to send for her at all? Or insist he wished her to share his bed? It was not as if he wanted to cuddle her, or talk over the problems of the day, which was what her parents had always told her was the main purpose of having their own big bed. He did not seem to want her as a companion at all.

  And when he saw her in the nightdress Lady Walton had packed for her, he would probably laugh out loud. She was far taller than the Countess, and much thinner. She had known that the confection of silk and lace was entirely insufficient to keep her warm in a draughty inn, from the first moment she had set eyes on it. But once she had put it on, and seen how little of her it managed to cover, she felt positively annoyed. Why had Captain Fawley not warned her he intended to leave town at once? She could have packed her own, warm nightgown, and the thick flannel wrapper that would have covered her from neck to toe. Even the Countess’s wrapper exposed more than it covered, she grimaced. Once she had dismissed the maid, she went to the bed, seized the coverlet, and wrapped it round herself like a cloak. Then she padded barefoot to one of the armchairs that flanked the empty fireplace—for, naturally, the Countess had not thought to pack her a pair of slippers—and curled up in it. Before she knew it, she had pulled her plait over her shoulder, and begun chewing on the end of it.

  Disgusted with herself for reverting to a childish habit she had firmly believed she had grown out of, angry with her husband for pushing her until her nerves had reached such a pitch, she spat it out, got to her feet and padded over to the window.

  Night had fallen while they had been eating supper, but the yard below her window was still a hive of activity. With a determination born of desperation, Deborah concentrated on the little figures bustling about, refusing to allow her mind to drift back to her own sense of ill usage. She did not wish to arrive in her husband’s chamber in an angry frame of mind. Their first night together would set the tone for the whole of the rest of their married life.

  She forced herself to remember that she had married him because she thought she loved him. It was not easy to dredge up any fond thoughts of him, after the abominable way he had treated her today, but she could refuse to allow her mood to teeter over into downright hostility. She frowned down into the bustling yard, wondering what demons had driven him to act as he had done.

  At the supper table, she had glimpsed how uneasy he felt to have her sharing something as simple as a meal. Unwittingly, she slipped the end of her plait into her mouth again, chewing at it absently as she struggled to make sense of his attitude towards her. She already knew that he was convinced he was ugly, and clumsy and that no woman could possibly like him, never mind love him. How could she make him see that she did?

  She sighed. She had thought she could tell him she loved him, once they were married, but right now, she was so upset with him, she knew such a declaration would ring hollow. And she was afraid that if she tried to show her affection in a physical way, he would rebuff her. Her mind went back to the day when she had caught a party of village boys scrumping apples from her orchard. In their haste to escape, one of them had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. When she had gone to his aid, he had pushed her away, the belligerent expression on his face almost exactly like the one she had seen in her husband’s eyes today when she had been watching Linney cut up his food.

  ‘An injured male is a dangerous creature,’ she remembered her mother explaining to her when she had asked why the boy had been so rude, when all she had been trying to do was help him. ‘Rather than accept sympathy, they are inclined to lash out. Just like a wild animal, which would bite your hand should you try to help it escape from a trap.’

  Suddenly everything he had done and said today made sense. Far from being grateful to her for helping him to achieve financial independence, he resented the necessity of having her involved at all. He equated admitting to any kind of need as a slur on his masculinity. That was why he had behaved with such uncharacteristic unkindness, she decided, letting her plait fall from her mouth. Though how she could convince him to cease hostilities, she could not imagine. The little village boy’s hostility had been obdurate. In the end, she had been obliged to leave him in a crumpled heap at the foot of the tree and go and fetch a doctor.

  She rather thought her husband’s hurts were of the sort no doctor could treat. While she was still pondering how she could express her regard, without wounding his male sensibilities any further, there was a knock on the door, followed by the gentle cough, announcing Linney had come to fetch her.

  He said not a word, merely opening the connecting doorway, and ushering her through. If anything, he seemed even more embarrassed than she felt as she marched past him, the coverlet clutched to her chin.

  ‘What the deuce have you got on?’ were her husband’s first words when she entered his chamber.

  ‘A blanket,’ she replied, as Linney softly closed the door on his retreat. She noticed that a fire was smouldering gently in the grate, and though she had vowed not to give in to her sense of ill usage, she could not help saying, ‘My room is really cold. And you should have seen the ridiculous get-up Lady Walton packed for me to wear!’

  ‘I should like to see it,’ he agreed. ‘Knowing Heloise, it was probably intended to show off rather more than it covered.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  He shrugged one shoulder, with a knowing smile.

  ‘How any woman could consider wearing such an impractical outfit to bed mystifies me completely. Never mind lending it to a friend. What was she thinking?’

  ‘Impractical,’ he said, an arrested expression on his face. ‘How do you mean, impractical, exactly?’

  She advanced on the bed, in which he reclined against a bank of pillows. His right hand lay on top of the coverlet. His left arm, the one which she knew ended just below his elbow, was concealed beneath the blankets. A single candle burned in a holder on a night-stand, to the right of the bed, illuminating his uninjured side, and casting his left into dee
per shadow. Her heart went out to him. Just having her invade his room was a monumental concession for him. In fact, she frowned, she did not really know why he was forcing himself to go through this torment.

  ‘Well, it is certainly not designed to keep a body warm. There is hardly anything to it. And what there is, you can see right through! What is the point of donning a covering that does not cover anything?’

  ‘I expect she thought I would keep you warm tonight.’

  ‘Oh!’ She looked dubiously at his chest, which was completely bare. Her father had always worn a nightshirt to bed. And usually a cap too. And had drawn thick velvet hangings round the battered old four-poster, to keep out the draughts. ‘You don’t exactly look as though you will be very warm tonight, either,’ she said with concern. ‘Were you in too much of a hurry to remember to pack a nightshirt?’

  It was slowly dawning on Captain Fawley that his wife was a complete innocent.

  ‘Did your mother never explain what went on in the marriage bed?’

  ‘Not exactly, no.’

  He bit down on a savage oath. He had been so intent on rushing the ceremony through in complete secrecy that he had forgotten she might need to learn a thing or two from her mother before sharing a bed with a man. Only now did her mystified looks when he had spoken of dragging her to his bed make sense.

  To his surprise, while he was wrestling with the concept of having to explain to a naïve virgin what a man generally did with his wife, whilst repressing the overwhelming desire to just get on with it, she smiled, and shrugged off the blanket.

  ‘I suppose we will just have to keep each other warm, then, won’t we? At least there is a fire in here.’

  His mouth went dry at the sight of her in her borrowed nightwear. The bodice consisted of a few slivers of peach-coloured silk holding together panels of lace, which were strategically positioned to entice a man’s gaze.

  He gazed. And saw the skirt was split to her thigh, revealing tantalising glimpses of her pale slender legs with every tentative step she took towards him.

  She hesitated in the act of climbing up into the bed, her face turning bright pink as he growled when the silk slithered from her bent leg in sinful invitation.

  ‘What is the matter?’ she whispered. ‘Do I look dreadful in this gown?’

  He saw the uncertainty in her face, the need for reassurance.

  And something dark and bitter welled up within him. She was seeking reassurance from him, for the way she looked! Didn’t she know she was perfect? Perfect face, perfect body, perfect skin. No man looking at her, in that seductive outfit, could fail to react as he was reacting at the sight of that bared thigh. He was rock hard. Sweating.

  ‘Take it off,’ he growled.

  She flinched back, an expression of shock on her face.

  ‘I said, take it off,’ he repeated, as a fine tremor began to ripple through the blighted arm he had hoped to conceal from her sight by placing a pillow over the mangled stump where his hand ought to be.

  ‘You don’t like it,’ she said, shaking her head ruefully. Then, lifting her chin, added, ‘Nor do I.’

  She kept her gaze fixed on his bare chest, as she reached for the ties that bound the wrapper over her breasts. He probably felt naked, and vulnerable, without the artificial limbs his servant had removed to make him comfortable for the night. In his mind, it probably seemed fair that she, too, should be stripped of some of her dignity.

  She wondered if he was completely naked under the covers. A strange shiver went right through her at the thought of lying next to all that hair-roughened flesh. Her knees had gone weak, her heartbeat had fluttered when she had leaned up against him the night she had almost fainted. Being in such close proximity had affected her profoundly, even through her clothing and his. What would it be like with no barriers at all?

  Her legs began to tremble as her heartbeat accelerated. Her fingers shook so much that she was convinced she would tear the delicate garment in her clumsy haste to divest herself of it.

  Finally, as she stood completely naked before her husband, she drew the courage to look into his face. His expression was stark, unyielding—not at all welcoming as he flicked back the covers, indicating that it was time to get into the bed and join him.

  ‘Wait!’ he said, just as she began to climb up on to the bed for the second time.

  She paused, one knee already bent on the mattress, her hands splayed out to balance her. Had she misinterpreted his wishes? He certainly did not look at all pleased to see her attempting to scramble in beside him. Slowly, she retreated and stood up, catching her lower lip between her teeth at the dreadful prospect that he was going to send her back to her room after all. He had tried, but when it came to the crunch, he just could not bear to have her near him. Just as he did not like anyone to see him eating, he probably hated anyone except his trusted manservant getting a good look at the full extent of his injuries.

  She wanted to reach out and put her arms round him. But, remembering the reaction she had got from that village boy, she sensed it would only make him resent her all the more.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wondering what on earth she ought to do.

  ‘Undo your plait,’ he growled, settling back into the pillows.

  ‘My plait?’ she echoed, at a loss to understand what could possibly lay behind that request.

  ‘You promised to obey me this afternoon, woman,’ he growled. ‘Undo your plait. I want to see your hair down.’

  Giving a mental shrug, she reached over her shoulder and undid the ribbon that held the ends of her hair in place. His eyes roamed her body as she worked the strands loose, the expression on his face growing fiercer by the second. By the time she had freed her hair, she was trembling from head to foot. He did not appear to like what he saw at all. She knew she must compare unfavourably with Susannah, the woman he wished was here with him tonight. She felt a strong urge to cover the breasts that were so much smaller than her friend’s. She felt gangly, and awkward and ashamed of the ribs and hipbones that were so clearly visible through her skin, instead of being covered by the feminine lushness of a woman in the peak of health. She was not sure how much more of this testing she could take before she ran back to her room and gave way to the tears of humiliation that were only an eyeblink away.

  If she did not love him … if he did not need to reduce her to the level of exposure he was suffering, by having her invade his personal space …

  ‘You are shivering,’ he finally observed. A wave of goose pimples had swept across her body, tightening her nipples into the hard peaks that also betokened arousal. He knew she was not aroused. She was just plain scared. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, fixed on him as though he were a wolf, and she Little Red Riding Hood.

  He felt wolfish. He wanted to devour her. Claw at her and bite her, and hear her cry out as he sank into her soft warm flesh.

  Yet he also wanted to wipe away that look of uncertainty, and replace it with yearning, and wonder and rapture.

  She knew nothing of what went on between a man and a woman. How could she? She was standing there, completely naked, completely bemused by his request to take down her hair. She shifted her weight from the foot she had been favouring, stroking the sole over the arch of the other, chewing at her lower lip, like a little girl, completely unaware of what the sight of her naked body was doing to him.

  Any man with a shred of decency would let her grow accustomed to intimacy by gradual stages, he sighed. Not plunge her straight into the sort of torrid encounter he had planned to subject her to tonight.

  ‘Get into bed now,’ he said, ashamed of himself for toying with her like this, ‘and I will warm you.’

  ‘Th … thank you,’ she breathed, scrambling in beside him with alacrity, and pulling the covers up to her chin as she lay down. ‘I am all over goose bumps.’

  ‘I saw.’ He put his arm about her waist, pulling her closer. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Mmm �
��’ She nodded, the top of her head bumping the underside of his chin. She kept her arms demurely by her sides, knowing he would not wish her to hug him, dearly though she wished to. But the entire length of her leg rested against his. He was warm, and hard and his skin was covered all over, it seemed, with coarse hair that made her want to rub herself against him—twine herself about him like a cat. Each breath he took, expanding his chest, brought him temporarily, tantalisingly closer to her upper body and made her yearn to roll on to her side, and press herself up against him, till there was not a single inch of air between their naked bodies. She wanted her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs entangled with his. She wanted the right to put her arms about him, and kiss the scars on his face, and, yes, the ones she had briefly glimpsed bubbling down the left side of his chest. She wanted to plunge her fingers into his overlong hair, while she kissed him with all the love she felt welling in her heart.

  But she was so afraid he would repulse her.

  He gritted his teeth, lying rigidly upon his back, while he felt his naked young bride shivering with cold, and probably a large dose of trepidation, against his side. He did not know where to start. Not so long ago he had feared he would never want to lay with a woman again. Yet now he was experiencing a hunger so fierce he scarce knew how to hold it back. The things he wanted to do to this innocent young woman were so brutal they even shocked him. He gritted his teeth, knowing she needed a gentle introduction to a pastime she scarce knew existed. Not a clumsy, blundering cripple, who, even at his peak, had never known an innocent. His encounters, as a soldier, had been of the mercenary kind. Pleasurable enough for him, but not exactly good training for the polite coupling that he guessed ought to go on in a marriage bed.

  She deserved far better than to marry a wreck like him. She had made it possible for him to have everything he had ever wanted. A home of his own, financial independence and revenge on the perfidious Lampton family.

  And all she was getting in return was a bad-tempered cripple, who had scant idea how to initiate a virgin. Perhaps he ought to tell her to put her nightgown back on. If she was not naked … but then he imagined her getting out of bed, and bending over to retrieve that seductive confection of textures from the floor, raising her arms to slide it over her head … he would just want to rip it straight off her again.