by Lisa Kleypas
“Bless you, my lady!” the maids cried. “Bless you an' the master both!”
“There never was a prettier bride,” Mrs. Plunkett exclaimed with tears in her eyes.
“The happiest day in Southgate Hall,” Mrs. Knaggs said emphatically.
Mr. Orrie Shipton, the town mayor, raised a toast. His chubby face flushed with selfimportance as he lifted a glass of wine high in the air. “To the marchioness of Stokehurst—may her gentle kindness grace this home for many years to come—and may she fill Southgate Hall with many children!”
To the delight of the gathering, Luke laughed and bent to kiss his blushing bride. No one could hear what he murmured in her ear, but the words caused her cheeks to flame even brighter.
After a few minutes Tasia left in the company of Mrs. Knaggs and Lady Ashbourne, while Luke lingered and accepted the hearty congratulations coming from every direction. Charles stayed at his side, beaming as if he were personally responsible for the entire situation.
“I knew you would do the right thing,” Charles said sotto voce, seizing Luke's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “I knew you weren't the rutting scoundrel Alicia claimed you were. I defended you on every point. When Alicia called you a lecherous, interfering swine who was stuffed on your own conceit, I said she was putting it much too harshly. And when she said you were overbearing and heartless, I told her it simply wasn't true. And when she began to rant about your swelled head and your selfishness—”
“Thank you, Charles,” Luke interrupted dryly. “It's nice to know I was so well-defended.”
“By God, this is a happy day, Stokehurst!” Charles exclaimed, and gestured to the merry gathering. “Who could have predicted this would happen when I introduced Tasia to you? Who would have thought Emma would take such a liking to her, or that you would come to love her? I must congratulate myself on—”
“I never told you I loved her,” Luke said, staring at him quizzically.
“Afraid it's obvious, old man. Knowing how you feel about marriage, I was certain you wouldn't propose unless you loved her. And I haven't seen you so lighthearted since our days at Eton.” Charles chortled into his cup of wine. “But I won't envy you, Stokehurst, when London society gets its first glimpse of her. You'll have to work hard to keep other men away from your wife. I can't decide whether you'll have more problems with the young bucks or the old rakes. Tasia has the kind of feminine mystery that most Englishwomen lack, and that combination of black hair and white skin—”
“I know,” Luke said shortly, frowning in annoyance. Charles was right. Tasia's youth, beauty, and delicious trace of foreignness would make her a fantasy creature in many mens' eyes. Luke wasn't used to feeling jealous, and he didn't like it. For an instant he remembered how it had been with Mary, how comfortable and easy everything was. There had been no heart pangs with her, no jealousy, nothing but the familiarity of old friends.
Charles gave him an astute glance. “It's certainly not the same, is it?” he remarked with the deliberate blandness he always used to mask words of importance. “I confess I wouldn't know how to begin again, especially with a young wife. The things you've already experienced, Tasia knows nothing about. She has years' worth of mistakes, lessons to learn…and yet, to see the world through her eyes is rather like seeing it again for the first time. I rather envy you that.” Charles smiled at Luke's arrested expression. “What is that quote? ‘Though youth gave us love and roses, age still leaves us friends and wine…’” He raised his glass in a toast. “My advice is to enjoy your second taste of youth, Stokehurst. And leave the wine to me.”
The lamps were turned discreetly low as Luke entered the bedroom. Tasia was alone, waiting for him with her hands clasped at her midriff. She was dressed in a linen nightgown trimmed with lace, her hair falling in a cloud of curls down her back. She was so beautiful, so fresh and innocent. Luke caught a glimpse of the gold band on her finger, and the knowledge of all that it signified was overwhelming. He had never wanted to care about a woman like this, had actually feared it, but now that all was said and done, he was glad. He had never felt such happiness, and with it came the curious relief of being unguarded, humble, human.
“Lady Stokehurst,” he whispered, pulling her against his robe-covered chest. “You look like an angel in white.”
“Cousin Alicia gave this to me.” She fingered the sleeve of the gown, staring at him with luminous cat-eyes.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Tasia wore a little frown. “My lord, I wish to discuss something important with you.”
“Oh?” Luke toyed with her long curls as he waited for her to continue.
She rested a supplicating hand on his chest. “I expected that we would share the same room tonight. But I thought that you should be made aware of my instructions to Mrs. Knaggs that beginning tomorrow we will occupy separate bedrooms.”
Luke's only visible reaction was a slight quirk of the eyebrows. They had never discussed sleeping arrangements. He had thought there would be no question that they would share the same bed. “I didn't marry you in order to sleep apart from you,” he replied.
“Naturally you will have the right to visit my bed whenever you feel the inclination, my lord.” Tasia smiled shyly. “My parents had this kind of arrangement, as do the Ashbournes. It's only proper. Alicia says that it's very common in England.”
Luke contemplated her silently. No doubt there was a variety of marriage manuals and ladies' magazines that recommended separate beds as a feature of a respectable home. He didn't care about anyone's arrangement but his. He'd be damned if he spent one minute sleeping apart from Tasia merely to satisfy someone else's notion of a proper marriage.
He tightened his arm around her back. “Tasia, I will want you every night—and I don't much care for the idea of ‘visiting’ my wife. Don't you think it would be more convenient if we shared this room?”
“It's not a question of convenience,” she said earnestly. “If we have only one room, people will know that we occupy the same bed every single night.”
“God, no,” he said, looking appalled. He scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the raised bed, and dropped her onto the wide expanse of ivory silk.
Tasia frowned at his sarcasm. “My lord, I'm trying to explain about propriety—”
“I'm listening.”
But he wasn't, really. His hand played over her body, sliding from her hip to her breast until her explanation became all muddled. He bent over her breasts, licking through the bodice of her gown as he searched for a taste of skin beneath the rough screen of lace. Finding the hardened peak of one nipple, he bit lightly, and then stroked the damp lace with his tongue. Tasia gasped and fell silent.
“Go on,” Luke murmured, peeling the gown away from her breast. His breath fell hotly on her naked skin. “Tell me about propriety.”
She only moaned and reached for him, pulling his head closer. Smiling, he kissed the velvety tip and opened his mouth, drawing her tender flesh gently between his teeth. The idea of separate rooms was abandoned, as Luke gave her a thorough demonstration of why they would require only one room and one bed.
Tasia had married Luke with the expectation of finding peace. The past year had been so tumultuous that all she wanted now was a quiet, orderly life. She soon found out that Luke had different plans in mind. He began by taking her to London, despite her objections to leaving Emma. “My parents will be coming to stay with Emma,” Luke said, lounging on the bed as he watched Tasia comb out her long hair. “She understands that newlyweds require some time alone to get used to each other. Besides, Emma likes nothing better than to bait my mother.”
“She'll be up to mischief,” Tasia warned, frowning at the thought of Emma left to run wild, with only the servants and two elderly grandparents to restrain her.
Luke smiled at her prim reflection in the mirror. “So will we.”
Tasia was enchanted by the Stokehurst house in London, an Italianate villa situated on the Tha
mes River. The house had three round towers with cone-shaped roofs. It was surrounded on three sides with picturesque shaded loggias. There were several indoor fountains adorned with antique tiles or marble sculpture. The previous owner had liked the sound of splashing water so much that he had wanted to hear it from every hall in the house.
“It doesn't look lived in,” Tasia remarked as they strolled from room to room. In spite of the villa's elegance, it was bereft of knickknacks or any items of a personal nature. “One would never guess whose house this is.”
“I bought this place after the other one burned,” Luke said. “Emma and I lived here for a while. I suppose I should have hired someone to decorate it.”
“Why didn't you live at Southgate Hall?”
He shrugged. “Too many memories. At night I kept waking up and expecting…”
“To find Mary beside you?” she asked softly, when he didn't finish.
Luke stopped in the middle of a circular marble hall and turned her to face him. “Does it bother you when I mention her?”
Tasia reached up to brush the hair off his forehead, her slim fingers combing through the dark locks. The tender lines of her mouth curved in a smile. “Of course not. Mary was an important part of your past. I only count myself fortunate that now I'm the one who sleeps next to you at night.”
Luke's eyes were dark, fathomless blue as he stared at her. He traced the delicate tip of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face. “I'm going to make you very happy,” he whispered.
“I am—” Tasia began, but his fingers stilled the movement of her lips.
“Not yet. Not nearly enough.”
He spent the first two weeks showing her London, from the original site of Roman occupation to the areas of Mayfair, Westminster, and St. James. They rode thoroughbreds through the lush acres of Hyde Park and visited Covent Garden, where they walked under the glass-canopied market rows and paused to watch a Punch-and-Judy show. Tasia smiled slightly at the antics of two puppets battering each other, but she didn't share the uproarious laughter of the crowd around her. The English had a strange sense of humor, finding a great amusement in pointless violence that seemed at odds with their civilized nature. Bored with the show, she tugged at Luke's arm to urge him closer to vendor stalls filled with flowers and fruit, and others laden with toys.
“It's like the Gostinny Dvor!” she exclaimed, and laughed at his quizzical glance. “A merchants' place in St. Petersburg, where everything is displayed in rows. This is very similar—except there are no icon stalls.”
Luke smiled at the way she shook her head, as if a marketplace without icons was hardly worth visiting. “Do you need more than one icon?” he asked.
“Oh, one can never have too many of them. Icons are good for prayer, and they bring blessings and good luck. Some people carry an icon in their pockets all the time.” She frowned a little. “I wish you had one. It never hurts to have extra good luck.”
“I have you for that,” he murmured, his fingers closing around hers.
They visited several shops on Regent Street, and a dressmaker's on Bond. The designer, Mr. Maitland Hodding, was a small, neat Englishman. Tasia liked the sense of economy in his designs, knowing that simplicity suited her far more than masses of ruffles and bows. She found it impossible to contain her excitement as she was seated in a gilt chair near tables piled high with books and fabric samples.
“I've always worn French gowns before,” Tasia said, an idle comment that brought an emphatic response.
“French fashion,” Mr. Hodding said scornfully, as he sorted through a sheaf of sketches to show her. “They raise the hemline and lower the décolletage, add a few flounces, and dye the whole of it a garish shade of magenta…and for this thousands of Englishwomen sigh and dream of owning a gown from Paris! But you, Lady Stokehurst, will be a vision of elegance in the gowns we will create for you. You'll disdain to wear a Parisian fashion ever again.” He beamed at her and lowered his voice, as if they were a pair of conspirators. “I expect you'll be so dazzling that Lord Stokehurst won't even notice the cost.”
Tasia glanced at her husband, who was seated in a velvet chair. Two showroom assistants were seeing to Luke's comfort. One of them insisted on bringing him tea, while the other dedicated herself to stirring until ever grain of sugar was dissolved. Disliking the way the girls hovered over him, Tasia gave him a frown, which he answered with a helpless shrug.
It had not been lost on Tasia that other women were excited by her husband's dark handsomeness. At a small soirée the Ashbournes had given, she had seen how female guests of all ages had fluttered and giggled whenever Luke was near, and had stared at him with unblinking eyes. At first it had amused Tasia, but then she had begun to simmer like a pot on the stove. It didn't matter that Luke did nothing to encourage them. She hated the sight of the eager women milling around her husband, and she had an urge to rush over to him and shove them all away.
Alicia had appeared at her side, sliding a sisterly arm around her shoulders. “You're staring daggers at my guests, Tasia. I invited you here to make friends. This is not the way to go about it.”
“They would like to lure him away from me,” Tasia had said darkly, watching the group.
“Perhaps. But they've all had their chances for years, and he's never given any of them a thought.” Alicia had smiled. “Don't think he isn't aware of your reaction, little cousin. Luke isn't above trying to make you jealous.”
“Jealous!” Tasia echoed, indignant and surprised. “I'm not—” But she stopped, realizing that was exactly the reason for the hot, riled sensation in her chest. It was the first time she had ever felt that he belonged to her. For the rest of the evening she had glued herself possessively to Luke's side, giving cool nods to every woman who so much as glanced in their direction.
Recalling the episode, Tasia decided it was high time to have some new gowns so striking and beautiful that Luke wouldn't be able to take his eyes from her. She interrupted Mr. Hodding's display of sketches, resting her hand lightly on his arm. “These are all very lovely,” she said. “Clearly you are a gifted designer.”
Maitland Hodding pinkened with pleasure at the compliment, staring into her cat-shaped eyes as if mesmerized. “It will be my great honor to do justice to your beauty, Lady Stokehurst.”
“I don't wish to copy anyone else, Mr. Hodding. I would like your help in creating a unique style for myself. Something more exotic than what I've seen in these sketches so far.”
Excited by the idea, Hodding motioned for an assistant to bring a fresh sketchbook. They conferred for a long time, drinking countless cups of tea. Luke soon tired of the delicately perfumed atmosphere of the shop and the tedious details of fabric and design. He drew Tasia aside for a private conversation. “Will you be all right if I leave for a while?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, certainly,” she replied. “We'll be busy for hours yet.”
“You won't be afraid?”
Tasia was touched by his concern for her safety. Luke understood how afraid she was of being found by Nikolas. He saw to it that she was never left alone in public. Their home was well-protected by fences and locks, and the servants had been given thorough instructions concerning any strangers who might come to the villa's gates. On the occasions when Tasia wished to pay a call to someone, she was accompanied by two footmen and an armed driver. Most important, she continued to maintain her ruse as Karen Billings. Everyone except Emma and the Ashbournes believed her to be a former governess who had been fortunate enough to marry a Stokehurst. Tasia knew that after these precautions, it would be unreasonable for her to worry about Nikolas Angelovsky…and yet the secret fear was always in the back of her mind.
She looked up at her husband with a smile. “I'll be perfectly safe here. Go, and don't worry about me.”
Luke bent to kiss her forehead. “I'll be back soon.”
After Tasia and Mr. Hodding had come to several mutually satisfactory agreements, they found the
mselves half-buried in a mountain of silk, velvet, merino, and poplin. Mr. Hodding paused to regard Tasia with frank admiration. “Lady Stokehurst, I have little doubt that when you wear these designs, every woman in London will want to emulate you.”
Tasia smiled as he helped her to her feet. It had been so long since she had worn a beautiful dress. She would dearly love to burn the black gown she was wearing. “Mr. Hodding,” she asked, “is there a day dress already made in the shop that I might take away with me this afternoon?”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “I suppose I could manage something along the lines of a simple blouse and skirt.”
“I would be very grateful,” Tasia said.
One of the female assistants, a petite blond named Gaby, brought Tasia to a back room lined with ornately framed mirrors that multiplied her reflection into infinity. She helped Tasia change into a wine-red skirt and a high-necked white blouse with a fall of snowy lace down the front. There was an ivory jacket-bodice that fit over the blouse, its long hem forming a slim overskirt. Delighted, Tasia fingered the delicate embroidery of pink flowers and green leaves around the sleeves of the jacket. “It's lovely,” she exclaimed. “Please have this put on my account.”
Gaby stared at her admiringly. “There's not many who have the figure for it. Only a woman as slender as you could wear it well. But the waist of the skirt is too loose. If you'll wait, my lady, I'll bring a needle and stitch it, in the twitch of a cat's tail.” She left Tasia alone in the room and closed the door behind her.
Tasia swished the skirts and turned in a circle, admiring the flowing red fabric. She could see herself from every angle in the parade of mirrors around her. The ensemble was jaunty and stylish, far more sophisticated than the girlish dresses the had worn in Russia. She wondered what Luke would say when he saw her, and laughed excitedly at the thought. Pausing in the middle of the room, she fluffed the lace of the blouse and smoothed the ivory silk jacket in feminine preening.