It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  The road smoothed. His knee bumped hers and it was definitely not a fault of the road.

  She held firm, but inside, her stomach tumbled more than the carriage wheels.

  He peered out from his lashes, the sides of his lips rising higher. ‘Pardon.’

  ‘You could tell the driver to slow,’ she said to him, ‘if he is driving too fast. The jostling appears to be keeping you awake.’

  ‘I like to be jostled. In the right way. And I like to be kept awake.’ A companionable glint followed the words.

  So, he liked to be kept awake.

  ‘Don’t let me disturb you.’ The carriage moved and she steadied herself by putting a hand on his knee—moving it so he couldn’t rest his leg against her. Her palm burned with the feel of the skin beneath the trousers. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you awake.’

  His eyes opened wider. ‘We disagree on that.’

  She took her hand away, leaving behind the heat of his skin, but not the increase of her heartbeats.

  His lids closed again, but he had a half-smile. Exactly as she would render him. But didn’t dare. Oh, that was a lie. She would dare.

  ‘You’ve really not been jostled properly, Em. I beg your forgiveness.’ He kept his lids down.

  She moved closer to the edge of her seat. ‘One wonders. About things. Just in passing.’

  ‘One does? What does one wonder about?’

  Heat flamed in her cheeks.

  His smile widened a second. ‘You mean...that?’

  ‘I would not know what you are referring to.’

  His leg touched her knee. ‘That.’

  ‘You are purposely jostling me.’

  ‘Husbands do that to their wives. On occasion. I’ve heard. Rumours.’

  ‘Should you trust rumours?’

  ‘It depends.’ The wheels covered a lot of distance in the time it took for his eyes to fully open. Nothing moved inside her. ‘I’d like to have faith in that one.’

  ‘I am concerned.’ She interlaced her fingers.

  His gaze didn’t falter from hers. ‘Don’t be.’

  He sat straight, then moved his upper body closer to her and put his hand on her knee, and rested it there. She couldn’t swallow, but she didn’t need to.

  ‘We’re getting a late start, Em. But it’s not because I don’t want to hold you. I do. And it’s not because it will be unpleasant. It won’t.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marcus remained so close the heat from his body caressed her. ‘Kiss me.’

  The kiss began slowly, but instantly moved into something more, melting her. He put his hand on her waist, holding her, letting the moment linger, combining their movements with the carriage and holding them together as one.

  When it ended, with less effort than a twist of his wrist, he tucked her beside him and pulled her close, her hands snug between them.

  She let herself lean into him and he held her upright. She grasped his waistcoat to remain steady and it didn’t work.

  ‘Marc. Carriage,’ she pulled back to whisper against his cheek while his lips trailed the skin of her neck, tasting.

  ‘Carriage club.’

  Where had she heard those words before? Then she remembered something she’d overheard the men boast about and she kept his waistcoat bundled in her hands. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Later.’ He muttered an oath. ‘I would never—Not the first time. Maybe the third or fourth.’ His lips swept her cheeks and found her mouth. She savoured the warmth of the kiss, and his caresses, both with his mouth and his hands.

  Her nipples hardened and he brushed a palm over them. ‘We are too close to the end of our journey.’

  She kept her eyes closed as she acquiesced, ‘It wouldn’t be proper to do such a thing in a carriage.’

  ‘I suppose it isn’t,’ she heard him say into her hair. ‘Not for the first fortnight after a marriage. Then, the rules change.’

  The carriage bounced and she reached out, holding him to steady herself.

  He moved his jaw against the soft skin of her neck. ‘I am very busy right now getting to know the feel of you. A man must know the taste of his wife’s skin. The feel of her breasts and the scent of her hair. No true husband would leave a treasure unexplored in front of him without unearthing the passions they could share. And you will have some things to discover as well.’

  She grasped his waistcoat buttons. His waistcoat was no true barrier, except, it was. She undid one button, then continued.

  He reached to hold her other shoulder, rubbing soft circles, brushing the fabric of her dress against her skin. She slipped her hands under his waistcoat and snuggled close.

  The coach rocked them together, easing Emilie’s fears. The pads of Marcus’s fingertips soothed her as he cupped her close, erasing the uncertainty of what the next nights would bring.

  ‘We’re almost there, Em. We must put ourselves back together.’

  The carriage slowed and she fumbled at the buttons on his waistcoat. The closures seemed much smaller than she remembered and the fastenings much larger. His hand tangled with hers and he kissed her while she finished with the buttons, and the wheels below them stopped.

  Then he opened the door, jumped to the ground and didn’t give the groom a chance to help Emilie, as he reached for her himself.

  Before she touched the road, he grasped her waist and swirled her around, putting her lightly on her feet. She stumbled into his grasp and he took up her vision.

  ‘I will make this right for you. For us. For our children. Don’t be upset by what you see. I’ll make it better.’

  * * *

  Emilie’s ears rang with the words Marcus had just spoken and overtook all her other senses. Our children. The words splashed against her and it wasn’t that she was upset by the thought of motherhood, but the task daunted her.

  She’d never taken any part in the direction of servants. Or marriage. Or anything more than the blending of a few colours. That she could do. Everything else would be new.

  Except, she scrutinised, Stormhaven. The ancient structure hadn’t weathered well.

  An estate loomed in front of her. The columns of the front portico were braced by timber, shutters were missing and there was little to recommend the abode but the flowering vines that climbed over it.

  A dwelling that had been ignored and abandoned, to return to the earth. She’d never seen such disrepair.

  Once, the home had held children’s laughter and the scents of baked goods and memories of Christmases and celebrations and maybe even anniversaries—until it had been forgotten.

  She’d expected imperfections and faded walls inside. Not this. Not a grim monument to the past, crumbling back into the earth.

  Then she understood. This could be her salvation. This would not be a universe of soirées. No one could entertain here. No one could question a marriage. Or tell her this was too far above her. This was a blank canvas. She swallowed. The abandoned structure was perfect for her. A place she could find her own direction and live comfortably without censure.

  Just the right distance from her family that she could see them on occasion, yet far enough so her blunders would be ignored. A place where children could roam and no one would shout at them for laughing too hard or hiding in the cupboards.

  Marcus hadn’t moved, waiting. She turned to him. He studied her, lines at the side of his lips, jaw locked.

  ‘The forests. The leaves. Such variety. Amazing.’ She touched his forearm. ‘I cannot believe you have brought me to such a perfect place. And it is perfect, Marcus. It really is.’

  She couldn’t tell him the reason behind the perfection. No one would sneer at her for her choices in the fabrics of the house, or the splatters of pigments she might spill when mixing them, or the errors she might make in dressing the chi
ldren.

  She studied the acreage, shading her brow. She’d seen neighbouring homes along the way, but now she could see the land as it had first been formed. No one would condemn her here for ambling about with a canvas, or question why she was not roaming the rooms insisting a maid scrub or polish or clean.

  She stole a peek at Marcus and the expectation of her disappointment remained on his face.

  ‘I’ll have all the space I need for roses and lilacs. The scents inspire me.’ She could not let him suppose her unhappy with the estate. She couldn’t. This would be a perfect place for her creativity. True, the house was in disrepair, but the woodland appeared glorious.

  Then she stilled. She bent her knees slightly and gave a bounce. ‘I hear a chicken cackling. I am so glad the chickens are already here. And a colt.’ She pointed to the animal tied to a tree. ‘It’s a beauty, if you get past the fact that it’s all legs.’

  She moved to pet the foal, noticing that it was skittish. The animal ran to the end of its rope, but calmed and nuzzled her hand when she approached.

  Hugging the colt’s neck, she hoped some day she would be able to ride it into the fields.

  The little one was as new to the place as she was.

  She’d never had a horse of her own. She was pleased, but to suddenly have a pet, and the whole estate, and a husband she didn’t know, daunted her. She’d married and there was no going back. It was what she’d blundered into, but she’d never foreseen the upheaval. She’d been plopped down in the middle of somewhere she’d never seen, with a man she hardly knew.

  She embraced the colt again, so Marcus couldn’t see her.

  She’d tried to show her contentment with the land, but her insides quivered. This was the house she was to be a wife in and, while the structure fitted her—or would—she didn’t know how the aspect of being a helpmate would suit her disposition.

  She’d struggled not to cause rows with her sisters and some days only hiding away kept the harmony.

  Emilie remembered her plan to create as she wished and she’d gained it. But, in her considerations, she’d blurred away the time from the vows until the husband became wearied with her.

  Stormhaven she could live in. It had a roof and walls.

  But the husband. He’d stood so stern while examining the area. And they might as well have been a universe away from everything she had known.

  True, he’d been glorious in the carriage, but he’d known exactly what he did to her and she’d moulded into him because to do anything else would have been impossible.

  Marcus came with the acreage and he scowled so, only envisioning Stormhaven as a ruin. Oh, heavens, she would be destroyed if he took her back to the ton.

  She’d wanted her paints and now she had them, plus more than she bargained for.

  She stole a glance at him. Marcus regarded the house as if it were a calamity, and she looked at the colt’s eyes, sensing unease, and tried to soothe it, fearing it sensed her worry and Marcus’s displeasure.

  If only he hadn’t appeared so stern. The soirées had been such a trial for her, but she’d managed, knowing the efforts would soon be over. Now she had a respite from them.

  No man she knew would take on a structure such as this. So many cracked and broken windows and so much effort needed. She would not blame him if he wished to return to London, but, oh, how she wanted to stay.

  * * *

  Marcus had watched Emilie. Then he followed the direction of her gaze. The house appeared to be undergoing a demolition, not a renovation.

  Rotted boards. He’d never seen so much decayed wood. Boards for repairs lay scattered about, but not the forest of felled trees the repairmen would need.

  He saw disrepair upon disrepair. His father had been right. This was no place to be. Blooming thistle had taken the place over and he could scarce see the entrance.

  Weeds had been stomped into routes the men had created, but no actual repairs were in evidence. A wagon remained to be unloaded. Supplies were askew in every direction. He could only pray that the few rooms he’d instructed to be attended to first had been taken care of.

  He would have to send Emilie and Robert back to London. They would not be able to bear this. He couldn’t tolerate such a tumbledown residence.

  Emilie stood, hugging the colt’s withers, and concealing her face.

  He’d not anticipated her putting on such a brave front.

  Robert moved to him from the other carriage loaded with supplies, staggering after his boots touched the ground. ‘We will all die. The house will collapse on us. The two of you can be buried together. I will aspire to be interred as far away from this as possible.’ Robert blew a puff from his mouth in such a way that it touched his eyebrows.

  Then he beheld Marcus, paused and groaned.

  ‘Sir.’ Robert stared at Marcus’s waistcoat. ‘They were properly done this morning when I dressed you.’

  Marcus realised his buttons were fastened askew.

  ‘I pray you will teach her how to put things back as she found them,’ Robert grumbled, reaching out.

  Marcus threw Robert’s hands away and refastened the buttons.

  He strode to Emilie, clasped her arm and pulled her snug to his side without looking down.

  Blast it. Blast it. Blast it.

  He should have waited before bringing her to Stormhaven. He should have burned the monstrosity and started afresh.

  ‘Get the stack of boards out of the road,’ he shouted to the men. ‘Put them behind that decrepit heap.’

  He kept her tucked close and ordered the wagon to be pulled to the back door and told Robert to get the maids organised.

  The lead man for the work crew, a man named Jonas, rushed to Marcus.

  Marcus gave orders rapid-fire, anticipating half to be forgotten.

  He paused, mid-sentence. They would all go back to London. Everyone would understand.

  She quivered at his side.

  He inspected her.

  Eyes, dark, alluring, stared at him. No tear streaks. ‘I like the house.’

  * * *

  Marcus dismissed Jonas and bathed in the sight of the one delightful thing on the estate.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘It needs windows replaced. A board or two, but they’re already here. You said you wanted to be away from a life of wagering and drink. This is a chance for both of us to pursue our passions. Give it time.’

  ‘There’ll never be enough time to right this disaster.’

  ‘Look around and commit this view to your memory,’ she said. ‘The cracked glass, the rotted boards, the lumber strewn about. Remember the sight of it now. Then, after a week, a month, a year, pull that sight out of your recollections and compare the progress you’ve engineered with it.’

  He searched into the past and remembered the images of his grandparents and the games he’d played in the dirt. No one had reprimanded him for destroying the gardens or returning to the sitting room soaked from falling into a pond.

  This place could be returned to its glory and fulfil him.

  He squeezed her close. He wouldn’t have to send her to London and hear his father’s opinions. He wouldn’t have to risk falling back into his old lifestyle.

  He savoured a feeling and he investigated what it was. Something he’d not anticipated. And then he understood. He might care for Emilie. Not just desire her. Not just support her. But he might grow fond of her.

  ‘Come.’ He offered a hand. ‘We must find you a room. I’ve had the workmen correct the kitchen and two bedchambers first. They should be the most usable.’

  * * *

  They were to select a room for her? She didn’t move at first. Then she trod fast enough that his arm fell away from the caress. But at the door, she stopped.

  Marcus shoved the door open and Emilie didn’t want to see if he might ca
rry her over the threshold, or forget the tradition. She rushed ahead.

  Inside a stairway greeted her. She didn’t even turn to the kitchen, but went upstairs to the family quarters. She needed a place of her own, a space of her own, and a chance to feel at home.

  She went to the family rooms. First, she went to the biggest chamber where his trunk rested and there was a bed with a fresh covering on it. Oh, that was a mistake. The bed was large.

  Then, she went to the next, a smaller one with new fabrics hanging from the four poster. All the wood gleamed. The room smelled as a lady’s room should smell. Dried flowers? She didn’t know. She liked the scent of it. A soft scent that made her think of a sanctuary or harbour.

  She walked down the hall, inspecting the interior, aware Marcus followed.

  One dust and dirt-filled room held a cheval mirror, cracked, and she stopped for a moment and brushed some of the dust away to peer into the glass.

  ‘Gracious,’ she said, when she saw her reflection, with tendrils of hair hanging loose. ‘Why did you not tell me?’

  She examined the glass after straightening her hair. ‘I’m no different. That surprises me.’

  ‘What did you anticipate?’ he asked.

  She pressed her hand to the mirror. ‘I expected I would look older. Married.’

  * * *

  She didn’t appear married to him either, but more like a woman who could stop his heart without any weapon but herself. He must be on guard and not let a shapely vision spiral him into a trap with no release.

  She shouldn’t bend towards the mirror like that. Her derrière pointed in his direction and her skirts were hardly full enough to be proper, and with the mirror and her bottom in sight, he saw almost as much of her breasts as he had seen in the carriage.

  Her mussed hair and rumpled clothes somehow made him want her more.

  Marriage had its moments.

  She turned to him, wary and unsure.

  ‘Among all this ruin, I see you,’ he said. ‘And I’m thankful for that special licence and the chance to partake of your aspirations.’