The Baronet's Bride

by Emily Larkin

  His engagement to Miss Swinthorp had been severed upon his return to England, but the emotion she’d evoked still lingered: shame. And that made him angry. Angry at her, angry at himself. He’d fought at Waterloo, he’d lost his arm, and this was who he was now. A different man with a different body. No longer Captain Locke of the Royal Horse Guards, but Sir Gareth Locke of Mulberry Hall, Somerset. He might wish he hadn’t lost his arm—might desperately wish it—but he refused to feel ashamed of it.

  Cecily didn’t make him feel ashamed, and that was what he needed to hold on to. The kisses they’d exchanged had been sweetly eager, passionate even, and as long as she never saw him naked, as long as he wasn’t clumsy and awkward and fumbling in bed, everything would be all right between them.

  If my arm pains me, I mustn’t let her see it. Because his arm often did still pain him, and that was a certain way to destroy Cecily’s enjoyment of their lovemaking: if she thought it hurt him.

  Somewhere, a clock started chiming. Gareth didn’t need to count the strokes to know what time it was. Ten o’clock.

  Gareth listened to the last note die away. He was almost as nervous as he’d been before battle. The muscles in his stomach were tight, and the ones in his chest, making each breath shallow, and the muscles in his shoulders, his neck, his jaw. Was he sweating? God, he hoped not. He rubbed his face roughly. Yes, that was sweat on his face, and that was just what Cecily didn’t deserve, a lover who was as sweaty as he was tense. “Pull yourself together, Locke,” he told himself aloud.

  He inhaled a slow breath, and a second, a third, and looked at the door that led to Cecily’s bedchamber.

  The man he’d been before Waterloo would have wanted to open that door. He’d have been a little nervous, yes, because it was their first time together, but mostly he would have been eager, looking forward to making love to his bride, learning her body, discovering what made her gasp, what made her moan, confident in his ability to please her.

  He needed to be that man tonight—the proficient lover—even if it was only pretense.

  He could do that: pretend. Hell, he’d pretended every time he’d gone into battle. Pretended a courage and confidence and calmness he hadn’t felt, and it had worked, he’d been that man on the battlefield, the clear-headed and fearless officer, even if he’d been terrified inside.

  If he’d done it then, he could do it now. It wasn’t as if Cecily was a French cuirassier. She wouldn’t try to run him through with a sword.

  No, she was no cuirassier, but her disappointment would be as painful as if she’d stabbed him, her pity even worse, and if she recoiled from him, if he somehow managed to disgust her . . .

  It would slay him just as surely as any sword could have.

  Gareth took a deep breath and set his jaw with determination. I can do this.

  He crossed to the door, and somehow it felt exactly like going into battle. England’s future didn’t rest on what happened tonight, but his future with Cecily did. It would set the tone for the rest of their marriage. Success, or failure.

  Be the husband Cecily deserves, Gareth told himself. Don’t make her regret marrying you.

  He forced his mouth into a smile and rapped lightly on the door.

  Chapter Three

  Cecily opened the door. “Gareth,” she said, and suddenly his smile felt much more natural. How could he not smile when she stood there in front of him, candlelight gilding her golden hair, a shy smile of her own on her sweet, soft lips? Gareth lost himself in her eyes for a moment, so incredibly blue, like gentians and summer skies, and then remembered his wits. “Would you prefer to do this in your room or mine?”

  And then he mentally kicked himself. Do this? That was the sort of thing a farmer would say when putting a ram in with the sheep. Shall we do it in this paddock or that one? Blunt and matter-of-fact and not at all romantic. Nothing like a man about to make love to his wife for the very first time.

  He felt himself flush with shame, but Cecily didn’t seem offended by his choice of words. “I don’t mind,” she said, and she took his hand, her fingers warm and slender, and Gareth stepped into her bedchamber and the decision made itself: her room, not his.

  Cecily tilted her face up to him in silent invitation.

  Gareth bent his head and kissed her gently, reaching for her with his left hand to draw her into an embrace—only to remember that he no longer had a left hand. He felt the familiar sick jolt of realization, the jolt that came a hundred times a day, and his kiss faltered for a moment, and then he managed to force his way past it, to pretend that it didn’t matter if he couldn’t put both his arms around his wife.

  Cecily’s lips parted and her tongue shyly touched his lower lip. Gareth mirrored the movement. They eased into the kiss slowly, two people who were still discovering one another. Cecily released his hand and slid both her arms loosely around his waist, and if he couldn’t do the same to her at least he could bury his fingers in her soft hair, could cradle the back of her head in his palm and draw her a little closer. They leaned into one another, their bodies touching lightly, and it was a new intimacy: standing this close to his wife, only two thin layers of linen separating them, his nightshirt, her nightgown. He felt Cecily’s warmth, her slenderness, her curves.

  Gareth set himself to learning how his wife best liked to be kissed, discovering what made her tremble and what made her clutch his nightshirt and press herself eagerly against him. The softness of her lips was intoxicating, the smoothness of her teeth, the heat of her mouth, and the tiny moan she uttered when he sucked on her tongue made him groan in response.

  Heat began to gather in his groin—and confidence began to gather in his heart. He could do this: satisfy his wife, give her pleasure, make love to her.

  They kissed . . . and kissed . . . and kissed, kisses that were sweet and eager and tender and passionate, while the candlelight flickered and the shadows shifted and the fire mumbled in the grate. Finally they parted, both breathing raggedly. Gareth dragged air into his lungs and stared down at his bride. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy and kiss-swollen, her pupils dilated. She looked as dazed as he felt.

  Dimly, he heard the sound of a clock chiming the quarter hour. Had they really been kissing for almost fifteen minutes?

  Cecily blinked several times, and he saw awareness flood back into her face. Her gaze dropped from his and the flush in her cheeks deepened, shyness now, not arousal—and he was suddenly a little shy himself.

  Gareth turned towards the bed—and the shyness became anxiety. Kissing, he could do; it didn’t require two arms. But sex?

  The warmth at his groin evaporated abruptly. His chest grew tight. It was suddenly a lot more difficult to breathe. I can do this, Gareth told himself. I can. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, forced a smile to his mouth, and took Cecily’s hand.

  He drew her towards the bed, with its pillows piled high and the covers turned back at one corner to display clean, white sheets, and was faced with a dilemma. He couldn’t hold Cecily’s hand and pull the bedcovers back enough for them both to climb in. Gareth released her and tried to peel back the covers, but they were tucked in so tightly that he had to tug, and when he tugged the pillows spilled everywhere.

  Cecily caught one before it hit the floor. She met his eyes and uttered a little giggle.

  Gareth struggled for an answering laugh. He gathered up the pillows awkwardly while Cecily pulled back the covers, her movements as swift and deft as his were clumsy. His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. If this had happened to him last year, when he’d had two arms, he’d have laughed. Now, though, it wasn’t amusing; it was mortifying. He couldn’t even turn back the covers without making a mess of the bed, because he had only one goddamned hand—

  He caught himself before he could spiral into futile, helpless anger. Not anger at Cecily—anger at the world for doing this to him, and at himself for coping so badly with it. He breathed in through his nose, exhaled slowly, and released as much of his te
nsion as he could. Tonight wasn’t about pillows; tonight was about making love to his wife.

  Except that he’d never felt less like making love than he did at this moment. What he wanted was to scuttle back to his bedchamber and shut the door and pretend that this wasn’t his wedding night.

  Gareth set his jaw. He’d never deserted in battle; he wasn’t going to desert now.

  The pillows were all in place again, a teetering pile against the headboard, and the covers were pulled back enough for the two of them. The bed should have looked inviting; instead, it looked intimidating. He tried to smile at Cecily, to project a confidence he didn’t feel. “After you.” He held out his hand to her and Cecily clasped it and climbed up onto the bed and slid sideways, making room for him.

  The eagerness he’d experienced while kissing her was completely gone. The hum in his blood was anxiety, not arousal.

  Cecily was waiting for him to join her in the bed, sitting in her nightgown looking shy and flushed and quite delicious—and Gareth was horribly afraid that he was going to disappoint her tonight. He dragged a shallow breath into his lungs. I can do this.

  Cecily had climbed onto the bed gracefully; he did it awkwardly. A panicked little voice whispered in his head: Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Gareth sat back against the piled-up pillows and inhaled another shallow breath. He didn’t like to rush things in bed. He enjoyed taking his time, bringing his partner to release with his hands or his mouth before taking his own pleasure. But most of the things he was good at were things he could no longer easily do. It wasn’t just that he had no left hand, it was the tenderness of his stump, the fact that he couldn’t rest his weight on his left arm at all, couldn’t brace himself on it while he knelt over Cecily and teased her with his right hand or with his tongue.

  Gareth’s brain froze in something close to panic—everything he wanted to do with Cecily required two hands and two arms—and then began to work again. He managed to smile at his bride, sitting shyly in the bed alongside him. “Um, I think riding St. George would be best tonight.”

  Cecily’s shyness became tinged with confusion. “Riding St. George?”

  Gareth tried to think what other names her husband might have called it, but came up with nothing. “Did your husband never lie on his back and have you, um . . . mount him?”

  Cecily shook her head. “Frederick and I were only married for two weeks before he died.”

  “Oh,” Gareth said, dismayed. He knew she’d been widowed not long after she’d married, but he hadn’t realized that her marriage had been quite so appallingly brief.

  Perhaps Cecily saw his dismay because she said, as if offering an apology: “Frederick and I only had congress with one another five times.”

  “Oh,” Gareth said again, while he realized two things. Firstly, that Cecily wasn’t nearly as experienced as he’d thought she was. And secondly, that tonight was going to be a lot more awkward than he’d feared.

  Chapter Four

  Cecy had thought she’d known everything that a wife needed to know about sexual congress, but clearly she hadn’t. It had never occurred to her that a woman could mount a man, but, now that she considered it, it was physically possible.

  To ride St. George. To sit astride a man and ride his organ.

  She could quite see that it would be easier for Gareth if they did it that way, on account of his arm, but that didn’t stop embarrassment sweeping through her. And with the embarrassment was a twinge of anxiety, because Gareth was expecting her to ride him and she didn’t know how to.

  What if she did it wrong?

  Cecy remembered her journal. It is natural to feel shy and nervous, she had written, and then: The act will likely embarrass you at first, but you will soon come to regard it as commonplace.

  She repeated those words in her head, and said resolutely, “You must teach me how to do it.”

  “Yes,” Gareth said. He was still smiling at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes and he didn’t look relaxed. Nor had he moved closer to her on the bed. In fact, he looked as if he’d rather climb back out of the bed.

  Cecy had a moment of insight. He’s as uncomfortable as I am. That realization made her own embarrassment fade slightly. She reached out and touched Gareth’s hand where it lay on the sheet, and felt the tension there. “It’s not that difficult, is it?”

  “No. A matter of rhythm, that’s all.”

  “Then let’s do it now,” Cecy said, in as cheerful a tone as she could muster.

  Gareth seemed to become even tenser. She felt it in his hand—muscle and tendon tightening, almost a flinch—and thought she understood why. “It will be a little embarrassing at first, won’t it?” she said.

  Gareth grunted a laugh, and some of the tension in his hand eased. “Yes.”

  “So we may as well get it out of the way, don’t you think?”

  Her choice of words seemed to amuse him. He grunted another laugh, and then looked away from her and sighed. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.” His voice was apologetic, and when he glanced back at her his smile was wry and rueful.

  “I think wedding nights must always be a little awkward,” Cecy said. “It’s hard to imagine that they wouldn’t be.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Gareth turned his hand over and clasped her fingers lightly. After a moment, he said, “We don’t have to do this tonight, you know.”

  “I think we should,” Cecy said, because if they didn’t do it tonight they’d have to go through all this awkwardness and embarrassment tomorrow night.

  “Of course,” Gareth said, and released her hand.

  “Tell me what to do,” Cecy said, and perhaps it sounded a little businesslike, but businesslike was better than embarrassed, because the more businesslike they were now, the more quickly the act would become commonplace and ordinary.

  “Uh . . .” Gareth cheeks flushed faintly and he looked away from her again. “We should start by you, um, sitting on me.”

  “Sitting on you,” Cecy repeated, feeling her own cheeks flush.

  “Yes.”

  Gareth sat with his back to the pillows, his legs outstretched, his feet tucked beneath the folded-back covers. His nightshirt covered him from throat to ankle, but she could clearly see the shape of his thighs beneath that thin layer of fabric. For such a lean man, his thighs were surprisingly muscular. The thighs of a man used to spending hours every day in the saddle.

  Thighs that he wanted her to straddle.

  Cecy’s embarrassment surged. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Ah . . . your nightshirt?” Was he going to pull it up before she sat on him?

  Gareth’s flush deepened. “Let’s leave it as it is, for now.”

  Cecy nodded and rose on her knees.

  Gareth glanced at her for a brief half-second, and then away. “You don’t have to face me if you don’t want to. You may face away if you’d prefer.”

  “Oh, no!” Cecy said. She wasn’t certain why that suggestion was so horrifying. Because he’d be able to watch her, but she wouldn’t be able to watch him? Or because it implied that she might not want to look at his face? “I’d like to be able to see you.”

  Gareth glanced back at her. Their eyes caught and held.

  One of the things Cecy liked most about her husband was his face. He wasn’t handsome—his jaw was a little too long for that, his cheekbones a little too prominent—but he had one of the most attractive faces she’d ever seen. One glance at it told you that he was honorable, that he was kind, that he liked to laugh.

  How could he doubt that she wanted to look at him? It made her heart squeeze painfully to think that he might believe that.

  Cecy reached out and touched Gareth’s cheek lightly. He’d shaved again before they’d dined. His skin was smooth beneath her fingertips. Smooth and warm.

  She trailed her fingertips down his cheek, along his jaw to the faint cleft in his chin, then retraced her path. She gazed into his eyes. Hazel eyes, with laughter lines
at the corners. “I like your face very much,” she whispered.

  Gareth blushed.

  Cecy leaned closer and kissed him.

  Their lips clung together for a moment. “I like your face, too,” Gareth whispered.

  Cecy drew back and smiled at him, and felt in her heart how much she loved him. That was what was important tonight—how much they loved each other—not whether learning to ride St. George would be awkward and embarrassing. Get it over with, she told herself, and then she climbed determinedly onto his lap.

  Gareth stiffened. Every muscle in his body went taut, and then—with apparent effort—he relaxed. Not completely, though. She could feel the tension in his thighs, could see it in those braced shoulders.

  Cecy was tense herself. She felt as ungainly as a marionette, all stiff limbs and wooden joints.

  She tried to relax, tried to smile at him. She wished she was more experienced. What if I do this wrong? And then she reminded herself that if even she did this wrong, it didn’t matter. Because this was merely the first night of their marriage. There would be dozens more opportunities to get it right.

  She saw Gareth’s throat move as he swallowed. His hand lifted and came to rest lightly on her hip, warm through her nightgown. “Let’s kiss for a while,” he suggested.

  “All right.”

  Cecy leaned closer and touched her lips to his.

  They kissed for several minutes, slowly at first, gently and tenderly, then more deeply, their tongues delving into each other’s mouths. Cecy slid her arms around Gareth’s neck and pressed closer. His chest was warm through the thin layers of linen, broad and firm.

  They broke for air, both breathing raggedly. Cecy no longer felt like a marionette. She felt alive, blood rushing in her veins. It was surprisingly exhilarating to sit on Gareth. His lap felt very warm, hot even, and much fuller than it had been five minutes ago.

  Cecy stole a glance at Gareth’s lap.

  Yes. His organ was tenting his nightshirt.