‘They’re all having such fun here together,’ Aunt Thea continued, ‘that Rosalind has invited us all to come again at Christmastide. I do hope you and Jane will come—we shall be here from a week before Christmas right up to Twelfth Night.’ She looked at Alex hopefully. ‘It would be lovely for the entire family to be together.’
‘Oh, what a wonderful idea,’ said Jane, before Alex could reply. ‘I remember coming here at Christmas. How I loved all the old traditions—the Yule log, the Christmas Candle, decorating the house with greenery on Christmas Eve. Do you remember, Alex?’ Her eyes turned wistful. ‘The fun, the laughter, the games—so different to Christmas at Stowford Place. Stepmama never countenanced those old traditions. To her, Christmas is a religious observance and all about charity for the poor. We never even exchange family gifts, whether on St Nicholas’s Day or on Christmas Day as your family did.’
‘I remember. I’m sure we’ll be able to come.’ He said the words, but didn’t mean them. Christmas was far too soon—he doubted he would be ready by then to stomach all that enforced gaiety.
Jane smiled happily at Alex. ‘I shall look forward to it, especially as we won’t be spending much time with you all now—assuming you still wish to leave tomorrow, Alex?’
‘I do.’ He averted his gaze, guilt at misleading her making him brusque, but there were months to go yet. Time enough to prepare her for disappointment. ‘Father has ordered the carriage for nine so, if you’ll excuse us, Aunt, I think it’s time we retired.’
It was their wedding night. The perfect excuse to go to bed early...no one would question them doing so, especially with an early start in the morning. He stood, helping Jane to rise. Her hand trembled in his as they said their goodnights. If the circumstances had been different and if Alex had been his brother, or his uncle, there would have been a few pointed, if not ribald, comments made. There were none. It was as though they’d been married for years: no teasing; no winks; no nudges.
He told himself he didn’t care. He was used to being the outsider. He read the concern on every face in that room. Well, they needn’t worry about him—he was determined he and Jane would be happy together. It wasn’t until they were walking side by side up the stairs that it occurred to him the concern was for his bride. He squared his shoulders and hardened his heart. What did he care? He would be the very best husband he could possibly be to Jane. Surely her life with him couldn’t be any worse than life with that old witch of a stepmother?
Chapter Five
Jane stared into the mirror. She was ready, clad in her best nightgown, trimmed with lace at the neckline and sleeves and fastened at the bodice with three pairs of blue ribbons. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and Peg, her maid, had brushed it until it shone. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring a little colour into them. Huge, troubled eyes stared back at her, revealing the dread coiling and writhing in the pit of her stomach. Dread at what was to come.
Eyes...the windows of the soul. What would Alex see in them? Would he even care if she was nervous?
She reached for the scent bottle on the dressing table and dabbed a spot above each collarbone and at her wrists, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent that always calmed her.
Jasmine. Her mother’s scent. Not that she remembered her mother but, after she died of childbed fever, Peg had transferred her devotion to Jane, ensuring she grew up knowing about her mother. Peg had even saved a half-used bottle of her mother’s scent to give to Jane when she was old enough to understand and, since then, jasmine had infused her with a feeling of peace, even in her most troubled moments.
Except...now...tonight...peace evaded her. Her stomach still swarmed with nerves. She knew what must happen. And she desperately wanted to please Alex. She could not bear for him to regret this step they had taken. But, try as she might, she could not banish the memory of Pikeford.
The weight of him on her. His hands scrabbling at her body. The stink of spirits and of foul, hot breath and stale sweat.
Her stomach lurched and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, swallowing hard.
To give the newlyweds privacy, Jane had been allotted a room in the east wing of the Abbey with Alex in the adjacent bedchamber. The rest of the family slept in the main part of the house, apart from the children who occupied the nursery wing to the west. The quiet weighed on her...no distant murmur of voices, no doors opening and closing, no footsteps coming and going. She could almost believe she was entirely alone...until the sound of the door opening behind her set her pulse galloping.
She swallowed again and stood to face her new husband. Her nerves eased a little. This was Alex. He would not hurt her. As long as she kept her mind on tonight, and the present, and blocked all memories of the other day—surely she could manage that?—then she would cope.
She could hardly believe her long-held fantasy had come true as she gazed at him. He was still half-dressed, his shirt—open at the neck to reveal a tantalising glimpse of chest hair—tucked into his trousers. His thick mahogany brown hair was dishevelled and his amber eyes were fastened on hers, a look in them she had never seen before. She had dreamed of this moment, all those nights she had spent alone in her bed. If only... She thrust that thought away before it could take hold and spoil the night to come. Their wedding night. She clamped her teeth together, determined not to reveal her fear. She forced her lips into a smile as Alex stepped closer, scanning her from top to toe and back again.
‘Your hair...it is beautiful. Before I saw you in church, I never imagined...’ He lifted a lock that draped over her shoulder, allowing it to slide through his fingers. ‘It is so soft, so silky.’
He tipped her chin, tilting her face to his, and his mouth covered hers. A gentle caress. She closed her eyes and concentrated on that. Only that. The warm smoothness of his lips as they moved over hers, unhurriedly. Soothingly. His thumb and forefinger still beneath her chin. No pressure. No force. Her heart lurched, and her breathing hitched.
‘Shh...’ A whisper of sound.
Concentrate. It’s Alex. My love. My handsome hero. This is my dream.
His mouth moved, kissing and nibbling a path from her cheek to her ear. He nipped gently at her lobe, then caressed her neck with lips and tongue, and pleasure...anticipation...tiptoed through her. His arms came around her and tightened, bringing her close, and she relaxed into him. Into his hard body...his lean but muscular form shaping her softer flesh. Then his lips found hers again, moving gently. When his tongue probed her lips, she opened her mouth and let him in.
Alex. Her love. Her husband.
As he explored her mouth, she curled her arms around his waist and then slid her hands up his back, palms flat, learning the size and shape of him through his fine lawn shirt: the muscles either side of the dip of his spine, the wings of his shoulder blades, the broadness of his back, the width of his shoulders, the corded muscles in his arms. The strength of him. The maleness of him.
He murmured, deep in his throat. A sound of appreciation. And a strange, achy feeling gathered at the juncture of her thighs.
His hands wandered lightly over her back, shoulders and arms. Learning her, as she had learned him. They moved lower, cupping her bottom, kneading gently. Without volition, she pressed closer and the ridge of his erection pressed into her stomach. She could not prevent her whimper of distress, and pulled back. He released her bottom, but one hand at the small of her back stopped her moving away completely.
‘Shhh, Honeybee. It’s all right.’
His warm breath feathered over her lips and then he took her mouth again, deepening the kiss. Despite the anxiety building within her, she responded, kissing him back with fervour and when he again kissed and nibbled her neck, she tipped her head back, exposing it, giving him access, as she clutched at his biceps. She tensed as his lips dipped lower, tracing her collarbone, feeling increasingly helpless and at his mercy as he sl
owly bent her backwards over his supporting arms. He kissed the upper curve of her breast and then straightened her, soothing her with another kiss even as he played with the lace ruffle at her neckline.
‘May I?’ His fingers paused at the first of the bows securing the bodice of her nightgown.
She stared into his eyes.
Alex. It is Alex. He won’t hurt me.
‘Yes.’
She looked down, watching as he untied one bow after the other until all three were undone and her nightgown gaped at the neck, exposing the valley between her breasts. Alex’s breath turned ragged, and Jane battled the fear that spiralled within her...the memory that sound evoked...the harsh rattle of Pikeford’s breath in her ear as he—
She choked back her cry of distress.
Alex. Alex. It’s only Alex.
‘Alex... I don’t...’
He smiled at her and, in one smooth movement, he pulled his shirt over his head. Distracted, she stared at his torso—the hair covering the curved muscles of his chest and narrowing into a thin line as it dipped below the waist of his trousers. Tentatively, she reached out and touched him. One finger at first, then all five and, finally, she flattened her palm against his warm flesh, the coarse hairs rough against her skin.
* * *
She’d be the death of him. When had Jane blossomed into this attractive and desirable woman?
Patience. Patience. We’ve got all night.
That glimpse of her bosoms was nearly his undoing. How he longed to dive in there and see...touch...taste. But he reined in his passion. A Herculean task when her hand splayed across his chest and her eyes darkened, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lips. He desperately tried to think of something else, to distract him from all that warm, sweet-smelling female flesh within his grasp, but it was nigh on impossible. He was an experienced lover, but this...this was different. It was erotic in a way that coupling with the most beautiful of partners had never been; partly due to her innocence and knowing he would be her first, but mainly—and this surprised him most of all—it was that she was his wife. It was new and it was scary, but it was sensual at the same time. He, who had always prided himself on his independence and his need for no one, was aroused by the bond that now linked them together for the rest of their lives.
A groan tore free from deep, deep within him—and he reached for her again, sliding his hands across her shoulders to hook his thumbs inside the neck of her nightgown. Gently he slipped the bodice from her shoulders, exposing her breasts—so much fuller than he would have imagined given her slender figure—round and firm, with dusky pink nipples at their peaks. He held the bunched fabric at her waist as his other hand drifted over the soft curve of her breast, his fingers closing around perfection, kneading gently.
‘I didn’t expect—’ He fell silent as Jane tensed, even more drastically than before. This time, she was as rigid as a statue carved from stone. He released her breast and lowered his hand. ‘What is it, Janey?’
She shook her head, mute, but he could feel her distress.
‘I won’t hurt you. You know that, don’t you?’
She nodded.
But she didn’t believe it yet...he could tell. He reined in his rampant desire, curbing his needs.
‘Come. Let me warm you.’ He tugged her nightgown up to cover her again and then drew her into his arms, holding her until she stopped trembling.
‘I’m sorry, Alex.’ She stepped back, holding her nightgown close, covering her breasts.
‘You have no need to fear me, Janey. I will never force you to do anything until you are ready.’
She searched his face. ‘I know. I am being foolish.’
He shook his head. ‘You are not foolish.’
She held out her hand and he took it and followed when she led him to the bed, her breaths short and sharp in the silence. He did not fool himself it was passion that quickened her breathing. They lay down, side by side, and he turned to her, resting his hand on her ribcage, beneath her breasts. He leaned over and kissed her, ignoring the clamour of his own body to possess her. To possess his wife. He could be patient. There was no hurry.
He focused his mind and his senses on the pleasure of kissing. Just kissing. He explored her mouth without haste, teasing responses from her until she was relaxed and following his lead, their tongues dancing, the occasional low moan vibrating in her throat. He stroked her face...her hair, neck, shoulders, arms...until she embraced him, her fingers threading through his hair. Still he held his passions on a tight rein, waiting for the right moment.
Her restless shift on the bed was his cue and he brushed the side of her breast. She turned slightly, pressing into his touch. Her breasts were still covered as he stroked and caressed, slowly nearing her nipple. He pinched lightly and she gasped into his mouth.
‘Was that good?’
‘Yes.’
She gasped again as he gently flicked, then moaned as he bent his head and licked her nipple through the fabric, turning it transparent, the darker areole visible when he raised his head to look.
‘Beautiful,’ he breathed.
A word he had never linked with Jane before. She had always been...Jane. But seeing her, lying beside him, a smile hovering around her parted lips and her eyelids heavy over passion-filled eyes...it was the exact word he needed. Of a sudden, his throat tightened and his heart skipped a beat.
Jane.
Beautiful. Sensual. And his wife.
But frightened, too.
The responsibility...his obligation to another human being...almost sent him fleeing from the bed. But then...
‘Alex,’ she breathed and pulled his head back to her breast, her fingers tangled in his hair.
And that fleeting moment of fear...of uncertainty...passed.
He tugged her nightgown down to expose her breasts again and took his time—licking, suckling and nibbling, smoothing and stroking her silken skin until she was moving restlessly and moaning softly. He moved so he half-covered her and gathered her nightgown at the hem, caressing her exposed leg, from shin to knee to thigh to hip. Again, he went slowly despite his throbbing desire to bury himself inside her. Again and again he returned to her thighs, stroking inwards and upwards, inch by tantalising inch. His fingers touched her intimate curls and played for a while, tugging gently and twirling. Then one finger slipped between her thighs, sliding along her cleft.
And she froze.
‘Steady, sweetheart. It’s all right.’
He went back to circling her lower belly. But as soon as he touched between her thighs again she stiffened, a tiny sound of distress escaping her. He’d expected it, but disappointment still coursed through him. He didn’t snatch his hand away, but stroked from between her thighs, across her curls and on to her hip. He kissed her, taking his time, then turned her on to her side to face away from him, unwilling to push her any further tonight. He spooned his body into hers, gritting his teeth against the ache of unfulfilled arousal, and wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her close, knowing she would feel the hardness of his erection against her bottom, knowing she must eventually grow accustomed to him and to his body, hoping she would soon learn she had nothing to fear and that she could trust him to never force her or lose control.
‘Sleep, my Honeybee. It’s been a long day.’
‘Alex?’
‘Yes?’
‘Aren’t we going to...to...?’
‘Not tonight. We have the rest of our lives together. There’s no hurry.’
He willed himself not to drift off. He would wait until his wife slept and then he would go to his own room to sleep.
He’d thought he was done with those bad dreams that had haunted his childhood and his youth, but they had returned since his arrival at the Abbey. Last night’s nightmare had been even worse—prompted, almost certainly, by Pikeford’s attack.
The vision of that animal ripping at Jane’s gown haunted him, as did the sounds—Pikeford’s grunts as she tried to fight him off, the ringing slap, her cries of distress.
But behind that memory lurked another.
Bigger. Blacker. Colder.
Waiting to catch him unawares.
Waiting for him to sleep.
Once the soft, even huff of her breathing told him Jane slept, he eased himself away from her warmth and returned to his cold bed to face his nightly ordeal.
* * *
Jane awoke with a start. She leant up one elbow, wondering what had disturbed her. The happenings of the day before...and the night...gradually surfaced. She reached behind her, feeling for Alex, but her hand met empty space. She sat bolt upright, throwing back the covers, at a shout. That was Alex’s voice, she was sure. She scrabbled on the nightstand for the tinderbox and, with shaking fingers, lit the bedside candle in its silver holder.
She listened for any further disturbance, but heard nothing. She sat on the side of the bed, irresolute. Should she go and investigate? Was she overreacting? What if it was just a bad dream...? Surely Alex wouldn’t thank her for disturbing him? And while all those thoughts rushed through her head one bigger, more important question hovered.
Why did Alex leave?
He must be so very disappointed in her, to wait until she slept and then creep away to his own bed. Yet he had been so sweet at the time...his care and consideration for her had filled her with trust and love, and she had vowed to overcome the trauma of Pikeford’s attack and to become a wife to him in every way.
Christmas with His Wallflower Wife Page 5