Wicked Delights Of A Bridal Bed

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “Who knows?” she’d told him. “There might be a fine old piece of furniture or two that we can still use.”

  Rather than point out the futility of such a hope, he’d let her do as she wished.

  And so this morning, he’d idled in her dressing room for a few extra minutes as Penny helped Mallory don her shabbiest gown. Mallory next wrapped a clean kerchief around her head, then tied a voluminous apron she’d borrowed from Cook around her waist. Sending her on her way with a grin and a warm kiss, he’d gone downstairs while Mallory ascended the stairs to the attics. As he knew, having seen the servants gathered in the hallway, she’d taken a pair of housemaids and a strong footman with her to help in the effort.

  He smiled again now as she strolled forward, finding her absolutely adorable in her cleaning attire. A few wild brunette tendrils had escaped her scarf and were peeking out from under the material, her formerly white apron smudged with dust and grime.

  Seeing her, Charlemagne leapt to his feet and arched his back in an obvious bid for attention. Leaning down, Mallory stroked a hand over the grateful feline, his adoring purrs filling the air.

  “It is rather dismal upstairs,” she said in answer to Adam’s initial question. “The attics are a horrible mess and in immediate need of cleaning, which I’ve set the maids to tackling. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s been twenty years since the rooms were touched.”

  “Probably more, considering my mother would have been the last one to bother. You’ve a bit of dirt just there, by the way.”

  Automatically, she reached up a hand to locate the spot. “Do I? Where?”

  “On the side of your nose.” Slipping his fingers inside his pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief. “Here, allow me.”

  Doing as he asked, she bent at the waist so he could wipe the spot. When the smudge was gone, he tugged her near to steal a kiss, finding her lips as smooth and moist as petals. Her eyes were gleaming with a lambent light by the time he let her go.

  “So,” he said, grinning as he relaxed back in his chair, “did you manage to find anything worth keeping, or is it all junk?”

  “Most of it is junk, but there’s something I do want to show you. I had one of the footmen leave it in the hall. Stay here, and I’ll bring it in.”

  Hurrying back across the room, she disappeared for a moment before returning with what looked to be a painting in tow. The front of the canvas was turned away from him so he couldn’t see the image.

  “One of the maids found this hidden behind some boxes stacked in a very dark corner. I wondered if it might be a relative of yours since I couldn’t help but notice a resemblance.” Turning the painting around, she revealed the work.

  Air whooshed out of his lungs in a gust, his heart thumping hard beneath his breastbone, as he stared at the girl in the portrait.

  “Do you recognize her?” Mallory asked.

  Gazing raptly at the painting, he nodded. “Yes,” he said in a thick voice. “It’s Delia. It’s my sister. My God, I thought he’d sold it.”

  Or else destroyed it, just as the old bastard had destroyed her.

  “Your father, you mean?”

  Throat tight, he nodded.

  “She was beautiful. And young,” Mallory observed. “How old was she when this was painted?”

  “Fifteen,” he said, somehow managing to find his voice again. “I remember the summer it was done.”

  The last summer, as he thought of it now. Those final months before he’d left for university, little knowing the fate that awaited them all the next year.

  Silently, he studied her pert features—gentle brown eyes, rounded chin and small, soft mouth that were fixed forever in an innocent, unsuspecting smile rendered in brushstrokes and oil.

  Seeing her again made him realize how dull his memory of her countenance had grown over the years. How could he have forgotten for so much as an instant?

  If only I’d never left her, he thought. If only I’d had an inkling what he might do, I’d have taken her away before it was too late.

  “Where shall we hang it?” Mallory said, her tone deliberately cheerful, as if she were aware of his ruminations. “I thought the drawing room might be an excellent location. Or we could work on rebuilding the family portrait gallery, starting with Delia.”

  For a moment he stared. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Mind? Mind what?” She looked confused.

  “Displaying her portrait in the gallery. Considering how she died, I wouldn’t blame you if you’d rather choose a less obvious location. I could keep her portrait here in my study, for instance.”

  Mallory’s lips drew into a line. “But why would I object? If you want to hang her painting here, then by all means you should do so. But if you’re placing the canvas here in your study merely to hide her away, then I couldn’t disagree more. Surely you’re not ashamed of showing Delia’s painting?”

  “Of course I’m not,” he said vehemently as he shot to his feet.

  With obvious care, she set down the painting. “Then why would you imagine I might be? No matter the circumstances of her death, she’s still your sister, whom I know you loved.”

  Pacing to the window, he stared out, arms folded across his chest.

  Mallory followed, halting quietly at his side. After a moment, she laid a hand on his arm. “Tell me about her. Tell me what happened.”

  “You know what happened,” he said, biting off the words.

  She shook her head. “I know how she died. I don’t know why.”

  “And you don’t want to know. Leave it alone, Mal.”

  Jesu, why did I say anything? He cursed to himself. Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

  All he would have to have done was tell Mallory that he wanted Delia’s portrait hung here in his study. She would have accepted his wishes and left it at that. Now she was curious. Now she wanted to know more, to know everything, all the lurid details he’d never revealed to another living soul. He hadn’t even told Jack Byron, and Jack knew more about him than anyone else.

  Except Mallory.

  She knew him—or at least as much of him as he had shown her over the years.

  Could he reveal this secret?

  Should he?

  And if he did, what would she think?

  Plainly deciding to ignore his verbal dismissal, she slid her arms around her waist, then tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “Tell me, Adam,” she insisted. “Delia looks so young and lovely in her portrait. Why would a girl with her whole future ahead of her become so despondent that she would take her own life?”

  Reaching up, she stroked a palm over his chest. “You said she wrote you a letter. What did it say? After all these years, you really ought to tell someone, you know.”

  He arched a sardonic brow. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “If you had, it wouldn’t be so hard to talk about it now. Unless you don’t trust me.”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  She pressed herself closer, letting silence speak for her.

  Suddenly he lowered his arms and locked them around Mallory. “I don’t want you to think badly of her.”

  “I shan’t. I promise.”

  Gazing into her eyes, he studied her for another long moment, his throat swollen with suppressed emotion. “You know my father was in debt, that he gambled and drank and caroused with the most unsavoury sorts of blackguards.”

  “Yes, that’s why the house is bare. Why he sold all the furnishings and valuables.”

  He glanced away. “That’s not the only thing he sold.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sold her, Mal. Once I was out of the house, he started trading her to his gaming cronies in exchange for debts he couldn’t pay.”

  She drew a harsh breath. “Surely you aren’t saying—”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he said, looking at her again. “He turned his innocent daughter into a whore.”

  “But she was only a chil
d—”

  “All the more reason they liked her, disgusting animals that they were. That he was. I’m ashamed to admit a man like that was my father. I swear I had no idea. If I’d thought for an instant he was capable of such heinous deeds, I would have moved heaven and earth to take her with me, to keep her away from him. But she didn’t tell me, and I wasn’t aware of the truth, not until it was too late.”

  “Oh, Adam—” she said, trembling inside his arms.

  “When she found out she was with child, the shame was too great for her to bear, so she drowned herself. After I received her letter, I drove here to Gresham Park intending to kill him. I nearly did. I beat him to within an inch of his life before a pair of the servants pulled me off. Only the thought of Delia and the knowledge that she wouldn’t have wanted me to hang for his murder kept me from following through.”

  He drew a breath, then slowly released it. “She didn’t name the men who’d used her, but I had a fair idea who they must be. I tracked them down and confronted them, horse-whipping the ones who were too cowardly to fight me man-to-man. I told them if they ever breathed a word of what they’d done to my sister, I’d kill them and the consequences be damned. Over the years, they’ve all gone to the grave, taken early by the ravages of one vice or another. If justice be served, they are burning in hell even as we speak.”

  “They must be. They deserve no less for what they did,” she agreed.

  “My father most of all. I trust the devil has a special torment set aside just for him.” He paused, his thoughts carried back to those terrible times and the anguish that had followed. “I never saw or spoke to him again after I left Gresham Park that day. To me, he was as good as dead, and I wanted nothing more to do with him. From that moment forward, I had no family, I had no home.”

  She stroked her hand across his chest, her aquamarine eyes glittering with a fierce light. “You’ve always had a home with us. I don’t wonder now that you spent all your summers and holidays with my family. I wish I’d known. I wish I’d done more.”

  His lips curved. “You did plenty. You and the Byrons were my shelter from the storm, and now you are so much more. Now you’re my wife, my new family.”

  “And this is your home once again,” she said. “I promise that we’ll drive away the last memories of your father and leave only the good ones behind. If I should happen upon a painting of him tucked away in the attic, I’ll order it burned with the rest of the rubbish.”

  A fierce warmth radiated through him, as a laugh burst from his throat. “And I’ll provide the tinder.”

  “Delia’s painting goes in the family hall,” she stated in a decisive tone. “She’ll be placed right next to you and me once we commission our own portraits. She’ll be remembered for the wonderful young woman she was, not for the horrible things your father forced her to do. The world believes she died in an accident, and that is what they will continue to believe. You loved her and esteemed her, and that’s all anyone ever needs to know. I only wish I’d had a chance to meet her. I feel certain we would have been friends.”

  The laughter fell away, leaving behind a new warmth and something more, something deeper that he could no longer entirely conceal. Drawing her closer, he took her lips, losing himself in the heady pleasure and the tender benediction of her touch.

  Emotions welled within him, clamouring to escape their bonds. “I must have done something right to have found you,” he murmured against her lips. “Sweet heaven, Mallory, I love you.”

  For a moment he didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud, certain he’d simply said the phrase in his head as he had so often before. But then he noticed the way she’d stiffened in his arms and how her mouth was no longer moving beneath his own. Drawing back, he met her gaze, aware that he’d not only uttered the words but that she’d heard them.

  She stared, eyes wide.

  Rather than let the silence lengthen, he forced out another laugh, ignoring the sudden pain blossoming around his heart. “I love you standing up for what’s right rather than what Society deems proper. I can always count on you to buck tradition. Thank you for taking Delia’s side—and mine.”

  “Well…um…there’s no other side to take.” Pausing, she continued gazing at him, puzzlement in her eyes.

  Before she could question him, or give him further cause to repine, he kissed her again. “Speaking of bucking tradition, what do you say to an afternoon tryst? You need to get out of those clothes, and I wouldn’t mind helping you.”

  Her eyes widened again but for a completely different reason this time. Without waiting for permission, he bent and swept her into his arms, cradling her high against his chest.

  If he couldn’t have her love, he decided, then he’d have her body instead. Perhaps it showed a marked lack of pride on his part, but he’d take whatever portion of her he could get and be glad, since anything else was unthinkable.

  Ignoring the curious looks of the servants, he carried her upstairs to her bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. Standing her on her feet, he reached for the apron strings at her waist and slid the ties free. After tossing the garment aside, he began undoing the fastenings on her dress, one slow button at a time. Claiming her mouth with passionate, possessive kisses that made her shiver and moan, he stripped her to the skin.

  Sweeping her once again into his arms, he carried her to the bed, where he joined her, seeing to it he made good on his promise and so very much more.

  Some while later, Mallory lay relaxed and replete against the well-rumpled sheets, her body humming from the surfeit of pleasure still pulsating through her system. Adam was sprawled beside her, and from the rhythmic tempo of his breathing, she knew he was asleep. And no wonder, since the intensity of his lovemaking had pushed them both to their limits and beyond. She wasn’t sure the exact number of postures she and Adam had tried so far, but they’d certainly added a couple of new ones to the tally today.

  Releasing a contented sigh, she closed her eyes and let herself drift, deciding that a bit more afternoon decadence couldn’t hurt under the circumstances.

  Scarcely a minute passed, however, before her eyelids opened again, his earlier words playing once more in her mind.

  Sweet heaven, Mallory, I love you.

  At first she’d thought she must not have heard him right.

  Love her?

  Adam didn’t love her.

  Or did he?

  She’d been so surprised, she hadn’t said a word, distracted enough by the phrase that she’d been momentarily jarred out of the delightful haze of their kiss. Before she could respond though, he’d sloughed off the declaration by making some new comment about his sister. Then he’d whisked her up here to her room and hustled her into bed so quickly she hadn’t had time to think of anything but the overwhelming rapture of his embrace.

  But he was sleeping now, and she was awake. Awake and wondering about his words, his feelings.

  And her own.

  Quite likely Adam hadn’t meant to convey anything deeper than the friendly affection they’d always shared, the phrase slipping imprudently from his lips.

  Yet what if he had meant more? Was it possible that he was in love with her? And if he were, how did she feel in return?

  She loved him, of course, but was she in love with him?

  A shiver ran through her at the idea, her fingers tightening into a fist where they lay against her bare stomach. Suddenly she was viscerally aware of him beside her, his large body so warm and strong and familiar now that they were lovers. Now that she was his wife.

  But love?

  God knows she didn’t want to be in love; it hurt too much. And yet…and yet she could imagine how sublime it would be to love him, to give herself wholly to the emotion and forget about the uncertainties, the fear.

  For therein lay her dilemma—she was afraid.

  After Michael’s death, she’d never thought she would find a way to escape the pain, unable to do much more than survive each day and pray for a
n end to her suffering. The thought of going through that again, of risking such profound loss if anything should happen to Adam…well, she didn’t think she could manage such grief another time.

  Still, she hadn’t thought she could be happy again either—and she was. She hadn’t imagined a new life, new pleasures and a future that stretched bright as a rainbow before her.

  And all because of Adam.

  He’d led her out of her darkness. He’d shown her how to live again. He’d shown her how to love.

  Her soft gasp echoed in the air, her heart thundering suddenly beneath her breasts, pummelling her ribs.

  Was it too late? Did she, could she, be in love with him already?

  And in that moment, she knew the truth. Without realizing when or how, she had fallen in love with him, the feeling creeping up on her with such stealth that she hadn’t even been aware. What delicious irony, what rich surprise, to find herself in love with her husband, her friend.

  Smiling, she let out a little laugh. Then she grew still again, as the fear returned. What if some tragedy were to befall Adam? How would she endure his loss?

  But Adam wasn’t a soldier like Michael, she reassured herself. He didn’t put himself in harm’s way on a daily basis, literally tempting fate to take his life. He was young and healthy—very healthy if their recent lovemaking was any indication—with years and years ahead of him. Anything could happen, of course, accidents did occur, but she had more chance of dying in childbirth than he did going about his usual routine. If either of them was to be widowed, it was far more likely to be him.

  But enough of such maudlin speculation, she thought. She was in love, terrifying as that prospect might be.

  Rolling over, she pressed herself against Adam’s long, bare frame, glorying in the smooth heat of his skin, the crisp texture of the hair on his chest. Leaning down, she laid her mouth against his shoulder and began kissing a path along his body. He shifted beneath her but didn’t wake, turning his head against the pillow, clearly lost in dreams.