Wicked Delights Of A Bridal Bed

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “No, my lady, not yet,” Denton said. “A caller arrived a short while ago, however. I took the liberty of putting him in the drawing room to wait, since he refused simply to leave his card.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  Denton frowned, an unusually reserved expression on his face. “No, your ladyship. He did say he is acquainted with you however. I can have him escorted out if you wish.”

  She paused for a moment, wondering who in the world could be calling in such an unorthodox fashion. “No, I shall see him, but do not send down to the kitchen for refreshments quite yet. I will ring when we have need.”

  Likely the visitor was some old acquaintance who’d just arrived in Town and wanted to offer best wishes on her recent nuptials. Well, she would give him a few minutes, and perhaps Adam would be home by the time their guest was ready to depart. Crossing the wide foyer to the downstairs drawing room, she paused on the threshold, then strode inside.

  The man stood gazing out one of the windows, his back turned toward her. Her step slowed as she studied him, finding something oddly familiar about the set of his firm, thin shoulders and the golden wave of his hair.

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted, suddenly even more curious to know who he was, a peculiar tingle shivering along her spine. “My butler informs me you have been waiting. Not too long, I trust.”

  Slowly he turned to face her. As he did the floor seemed to drop out from beneath her feet, her heart thundering madly between her ears. Numb with disbelief, she stared, wondering fleetingly if she’d lost her mind. Either that, or she was seeing a ghost.

  I must be, she thought, since he can’t be real. Can he?

  “Michael?” she whispered in a voice that didn’t sound anything like her own.

  “Mallory.” He smiled, holding out a hand. “My love, I’ve come home.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Mallory swayed on her feet, a noise like a thousand bees buzzing in her ears. If she didn’t know better, she might think she was on the verge of fainting, which was absurd considering that she never fainted. Although she supposed there was always a first time for just about anything.

  Apparently alarmed that she was about to collapse in a heap on the carpet, Michael Hargreaves rushed forward and caught her inside his arms. “Mallory, are you all right? I knew this was going to come as a dreadful shock, but I didn’t see any easy way to avoid it. Here now, do you need to sit down? Lie down? Maybe I should get you some smelling salts. Do you have any nearby?”

  Pressing quavering fingertips against her brow, she shook her head. “No, nor are you to try administering any.” She hated smelling salts.

  Pausing, she drew a deep, bracing inhalation before lifting her gaze to his. A jolt went through her at the sight of his eyes, such a pure silvery grey she’d nearly forgotten the vibrant depths of their hue. Or the shape of his pleasing, aristocratic features—proud forehead, narrow cheekbones, long, straight nose and sculpted lips. He was thin though, she noted, much thinner than he’d been the last time she’d seen him. He looked careworn as well, and older, with the faintly gaunt cast of someone who was recovering from a very great illness—or ordeal.

  Trembling, she stared again, still not believing what she saw. “Michael,” she whispered, “is it really you?”

  His mouth turned upward into a smile, and he gave a little nod. “Yes, it really is.”

  “B-but how? You’re d-dead. They told me you’d been killed in battle, that you died alongside dozens of your men.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been given to understand,” he said in a doleful tone. “I suppose I ought to have died with them, but I was grievously wounded instead. A scavenger came along during the height of the battle and robbed me of my possessions. I was too weak and insensible to stop him, even when he stripped me of my uniform tunic, weapons and the signet ring that had been in my family for generations. I understand that’s what the Army used to identify the body.”

  “But if that’s true—”

  “Then the man buried in my grave isn’t me. I was told there wasn’t a great deal left of my remains. Or rather the grave robber’s remains, since he’s the one who was killed bearing my possessions in a subsequent, distant volley of cannon fire.”

  A shudder racked her frame. “But if you were injured, why didn’t anyone know? What happened to you, Michael? Where have you been all these months? It’s been more than a year.”

  “Most of which I spent locked away in a filthy French prison. Everything was in such a shambles after the battle that I was abandoned and left for dead. There were hundreds of casualties. So many fell, it was—” He broke off, his throat moving as he swallowed down the memories.

  “It was barbaric,” he continued. “As providence would have it, however, a very kind couple found me and nursed me back to some semblance of health. They kept me hidden, but their farm was later raided, and I was taken prisoner. When I told the blasted Frogs that I was an officer, they laughed and refused to believe me. They thought I was lying, trying to earn parole and an easy way home.”

  “So all of this time, I’ve believed you to be dead, and you were being held prisoner instead?”

  He nodded, running a consoling hand across her back. “I’d nearly given up hope of being released, when Wellington’s men captured the town. When they did, I was finally set free, finally able to explain who I really was. Imagine everyone’s shock at learning I wasn’t dead after all. Imagine my own in discovering that all my friends and family and loved ones had been labouring under the belief that I wasn’t just missing but that I had been killed.”

  “Oh, Michael.” Mouth trembling, a tear slid down her cheek.

  Reaching out, he brushed it away with the edge of his thumb. “Shh, don’t cry. It’s all right now. I’m whole, and I’m back, ready to pick up where I left off, where we left off. I came to you as soon as I could. I haven’t even been home yet to tell my parents. I wanted you to be the first.”

  Her chest gave a sharp squeeze, guilt rushing upon her.

  “I thought I’d try here in London,” he continued before she could speak, “and if you weren’t in residence, I’d ride on to Braebourne. I assume the duke is here and your mother most likely. Won’t they be surprised as well.”

  He doesn’t know, she realized, her stomach churning with alarm. He doesn’t realize how very much everything has changed.

  “Michael, there’s something I have to tell you—”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait,” he interrupted, drawing her more fully into his arms. “We’ve talked far too long as it is. All I want to do is hold you, kiss you, love you. Sweet heaven, how I’ve missed you, Mallory. I don’t think any man could have missed a woman more.”

  Then before she could prevent it, his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her with a hungry longing that made her want to weep all over again. For a moment she let him have his way, closing her eyes as he claimed his long-awaited homecoming embrace. But then she knew she must end it. Knew as well that his kiss wasn’t right anymore.

  His kiss wasn’t Adam’s.

  Sliding her palms between them, she prepared herself to push him away.

  Suddenly, a footfall sounded behind her.

  “What in the bloody hell is this?” demanded Adam’s enraged voice. “Get your damned hands off my wife!”

  Shoving against Michael’s chest, she sprang away and whirled around to face Adam.

  Adam’s eyes blazed like dark coals, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t snap.

  With her pulse thundering like a drum in her chest, she reached out a hand to him, silently beseeching.

  Adam ignored it, his entire attention fixed on the man at her side. Suddenly his eyes widened, some of the colour leaving his face as recognition set in. “Hargreaves? What in the—aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

  “Yes, but as you can see, I am clearly not.” With lines of confusion etched on his brow, Michael glanced between her and Adam before coming to rest on h
er. “What does he mean, Mallory? His wife? And what is Gresham doing here anyway, if not to pay a social call?”

  “There’s nothing social about it,” Adam stated. “I live here, for the time being at least, while Mallory and I are visiting in Town. And by wife, I mean that she and I are married. We were wed a little over two months ago.”

  Michael was the one whose complexion paled this time, his eyes boring into hers with a dawning agony. “Is it true, what he says? Have you really married him?”

  An aching hole opened up in her chest, and she clasped her hands over the spot as if to keep her heart from spilling out. “Yes. Adam is my husband.”

  Michael glanced away for a moment, his pain terrible to behold. Then he looked at her again. “Why?” he asked in a thin voice. “Why would you marry him when you were engaged to me?”

  “Because she thought you were dead,” Adam said, stepping to her side. Sliding a notably possessive arm around her shoulders, he pulled her against him. “And before you accuse her of not grieving properly, she did. She nearly tore herself apart over your loss. But she had a right to move on and she has—with me.”

  Knees threatening to buckle, she leaned into Adam’s strength, not sure if she would have remained standing otherwise. She wanted to bury her face against his chest as well, unable to bear the clear devastation revealed on Michael’s face. Somehow, though, she mustered the resilience not to hide.

  “Michael, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  Adam stiffened against her, his arm suddenly like a steel band around her shoulders.

  Sweet mercy, she thought, how can this be happening? Not only was Michael back from the dead, but now Adam was clearly angry with her, wounded over having caught her in what he must think of as an illicit embrace.

  But surely he would understand once she had a chance to explain? Surely he must realize the untenable vice in which she suddenly found herself? Although truth be told, she could barely understand it all herself.

  “I think you should go,” Adam told the other man. “There is no point in further explanations.”

  Michael straightened to his full height, shoulders back and looking suddenly every inch the soldier he was. “I believe that decision should be up to Mallory. Mallory, do you want me to leave?”

  Yes.

  No.

  I don’t know. Rather than answer, she said nothing.

  “I believe you have your response,” Adam said. “Now kindly be on your way.”

  But Michael made no effort to depart, holding his ground as though he intended to defend the position by force if necessary. “Mallory?” he asked again.

  “I…” she said, her voice breaking as she met his gaze. “He’s right. Y-you should go.”

  A light went out in Michael’s eyes, and a pain slashed her like a knife. “As you wish, my lady,” he said. “Pray be of good health.”

  “You as well,” she murmured.

  Turning on his heels, he strode from the room.

  Neither she nor Adam moved until they heard Denton show Michael out the front door.

  “Adam—” she began.

  He freed her, releasing her so abruptly that for a moment she nearly lost her balance.

  “Not now, Mallory. I cannot speak of this now.”

  “But—” She stared as he prowled away from her, his hands clenched into hard fists at his sides. A knot wedged inside her chest, making her want to weep.

  “Go upstairs to your room,” he told her, his words rough and sharp as ground glass. “Tell Penny to pack your belongings. We are leaving for Gresham Park in the morning.”

  Her lips parted. “Leaving! But why?”

  He rounded on her. “Because we’ve been here long enough. You’ve bought sufficient furnishings and whatnots to fill up the house twice over. My business is nearly concluded, and the little that hasn’t can be done by post. Now go on. Go on before I—” Pausing, he turned away, stared out one of the windows. “Just go, Mallory. Please.”

  A shiver rippled through her, shaking her so hard she crossed her arms over her chest to keep herself steady. If only he would let her explain, give her a chance to reassure him that what he’d seen hadn’t meant anything. Instead, he was acting as if she’d betrayed him.

  It wasn’t her fault Michael was alive.

  It wasn’t her fault he had sought her out here at the house, or even that he’d kissed her.

  Michael had taken her completely unawares. What was she supposed to have done?

  Slap him?

  Realizing it was useless trying to reason with Adam while he was in such a black mood, she turned and went to the door. Pausing on the threshold, she glanced again at Adam but found his back to her still, clearly shutting her out.

  Stifling a wrenching cry, she fled into the hall and up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  CHAPTER 23

  Adam spoke barely a word that evening, causing dinner to be a quiet, awkward affair. Nor did the two of them attend the opera as originally planned, the relaxed, frolicsome good mood of the morning now such a distant memory it seemed as if it had happened a lifetime ago. Still, she expected him to come to her bedroom as he always did.

  Instead, he bid her good night at her door. “Get some sleep. We’ll leave first thing on the morrow.” Then, without so much as a peck on the forehead, he turned and strode away, entering his own bedchamber without another glance.

  And for the first time since their marriage, Mallory spent the night alone. Cold and restless as she lay in the wide bed, she tried to sleep, her thoughts tumbling over themselves like pebbles cast upon a troubled shore.

  Adam was so angry with her. In all the years they’d known one another, she couldn’t recall a time when he’d been quite so furious with her. Yet as she considered the events of the day, she couldn’t think how she might have acted differently.

  She had been utterly shocked to see Michael again.

  Even now, it didn’t seem possible that he was alive, the astonishment of seeing him again as strange and unreal as the news of his death so many, many months ago. If she hadn’t stood in the same room with him, talked with him, touched him, she might not believe his return to be real even now. Yet there he’d been, whole and safe and undeniably alive.

  Truly it was a miracle, one that only a short time ago would quite literally have made her weep with joy, cry out with elation.

  But now she didn’t know how to feel.

  Confused?

  Sad?

  Guilty?

  She’d seen the pain on Michael’s face and witnessed an equal measure of anguish on Adam’s as well—the sight of their combined misery threatening to tear her apart.

  For a moment, she thought of going to Adam and trying to explain about the kiss and that it hadn’t meant anything—at least not to her. But then she remembered his arctic good night, as well as the unspoken rejection in his eyes.

  She swallowed, tears welling until one spilled over and slid down her cheek. Wiping it away with the edge of the sheet, she rolled onto her side and tucked herself in as tightly as she could get. Maybe a good night’s sleep would put a new perspective on matters, she told herself. Perhaps tomorrow things wouldn’t seem quite so bad.

  Nevertheless, many long, dark, unhappy minutes passed before she finally managed to drop into a doze. Her sleep was fretful, her dreams filled with both men, each alternately beseeching, then angry with her, and one another, as they competed for her love and allegiance.

  Bleary-eyed and weary when Penny awakened her not long after dawn, she rose from the bed and let her maid help her bathe and dress.

  She was just finishing her ablutions, attired in a pewter grey wool traveling gown that exactly suited her mood, when a housemaid tapped on the door and brought in a well-laden tray. “Good morning, my lady. His lordship said you would be taking breakfast in here today.”

  Mallory arched a brow at the announcement. “Did he now? How very considerate of his lordship.”


  Apparently missing the sarcasm in Mallory’s tone, the girl laid out the dishes on a nearby table, then withdrew.

  So he won’t even dine with me now, she thought, a sudden burst of affront burning like coals in her stomach.

  Well, he isn’t the only one who can be angry. From the way he was acting, one would think she’d committed some unpardonable sin. Yes, Michael had kissed her, but it hadn’t been her idea. And she’d been in the process of ending the embrace when Adam happened along. Had he arrived even thirty seconds later, there wouldn’t have been anything for him to see.

  Briefly, Mallory considered sending back her breakfast along with a note giving Adam a few ideas about exactly what he could do with it. Instead, she forced herself to take a seat at the table and choke down a few bites of eggs and toast and tea.

  In spite of their present difficulties, she expected Adam to join her inside the coach. Maybe then he would give her a chance to explain what had really happened yesterday between her and Michael—and more importantly the fact that it had no bearing on her marriage to Adam.

  To her dismay, however, Adam did not join her. Instead, she glanced out the coach window and saw that he had decided to ride. As the vehicle rolled out of London, he and his horse, Eric, kept pace a couple of yards ahead, precluding any possibility of a conversation during the journey. With her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she leaned back against the black velvet upholstery and silently fumed.

  The remainder of the day proved equally vexatious, with only occasional, quick stops to change teams and a single, hour-long break for nuncheon at a busy coaching inn, where he left her to dine alone in a private parlour.

  Thoroughly annoyed by the time they arrived at the estate, she refused to take his hand when he came to assist her from the coach. Instead, she sprang to the ground on her own and swept past him with a rigid posture worthy of the daughter of a duke.

  After exchanging a few words of greeting with Brooke, she lifted Charlemagne into her arms—the cat having appeared in the front hall to mill around her ankles—then marched up the stairs to her bedroom.