Lord & Master (5 page)

“Good Lord,” was all I could say.

My hands had lost their power to act. Mr. Call lifted out the prodigious necklace, draping the long bright strands over my stunned head. He re-fluffed my veil but did not retreat. “This necklace is designed to look like a rope. You can wear the tassels in front or back, but I think they’re best in front with this gown.”

As he stroked the sparkling dangle, his fingers whispered along my garment and caused my nerves to spark. I tried not to shiver, but he knew I’d reacted. His fist closed lightly around the diamond knot, the gesture stirring odd but not unpleasant feelings inside of me.

A rope was an implement for leading chattel. Was that what I wished to be?

I felt as if I swam in a dream. His gemlike eyes met mine. “You are so magnificent my soul hurts.”

I twitched. No one had ever called me magnificent. I doubted very much I was.

“Mr. Call,” I said, feeling that I must speak. “I fear you put me on too high a pedestal.”

“Damien,” he returned throatily.

“What?”

“My name is Damien. We are to be married. You may use my Christian name.”

“Damien,” I said tentatively.

He flushed slightly when I obeyed. The wash of color along his chiseled cheekbones brought an answering heat to mine. Though it made me uncomfortable, I discovered I could not look away from his magnetic gaze.

“Mia,” he said. “You need not fear how beautiful I find you. My intent is not to harm you but only to bring you happiness.”

“Only me?” I dared to ask.

His eyes darkened, his attention dropping to my lips, which Regina had dabbed with tinted salve. His large body seemed to coil, his fingers tightening on the necklace. I tensed as the pressure of the strands on my nape increased. For a moment, I thought he would try to have me—as the French maid foresaw.

“Us,” Damien said, obliging me to recall what we’d been speaking of. He released the necklace and hesitated, an unexpected shyness entering his expression. “I want us to be happy. I confess I . . . feel encouraged about our prospects. Though the business I do surrounds me with people, much of my life has been solitary—even lonely, some would say. Finding a partner is difficult when one is different. At last, I dare to hope my long-held aspirations have found a safe resting place.”

He made me ashamed of my pragmatism. “I pray you are correct,” I said primly.

My stiffness seemed to amuse him. He touched my sleeve, his fingertips glancing down it before skating across my palm. Such a thrill that light touch caused! This time I could not contain my shiver of arousal.

His grin flashed openly.

“I will see you in the chapel,” he said, smiling now like a wolf. “We can pray for happiness together.”

~

The estate’s ancient fieldstone chapel wasn’t the pocket-sized sanctuary I expected. Twenty nicked old pews stretched from vestibule to apse, enlivened by a smattering of servants and strangers in their Sunday best. Too late I’d remembered I had no male patron. Goddard the chauffeur had to be dragooned to escort me down the aisle.

Some kind soul, I know not who, provided him a beribboned bouquet of lilies of the valley to hand to me. The blooms were freshly misted and thus left a little wetness on my short gloves.

As the sun sent lengthening rays through the peaked windows, I processed down the white carpet. Though no music played apart from birdsong, my mood was fittingly solemn.

Damien waited at the altar with the vicar and another man, who stood silently to his left. This individual was dark-haired and lean and nearly as tall as my fiancé. Though he wore a suit, it was that of a workingman—a lounge suit, I believe it was called. Its fit was baggy, as if it were much worn. The shirt beneath it was clean but plain.

An employee?
I wondered. Did Damien have no close friend to serve as his best man? But perhaps there hadn’t been sufficient notice to call one here.

“This is Mr. Reed,” Damien murmured when I reached them. “He is the master of my stable.”

This was a bit eccentric—besides which I’d thought the person who filled that role was referred to as a head groom.

“Miss Beck,” said the man he’d just introduced.

He bowed, hand to heart, his hat already having been set elsewhere. When he straightened, his gaze met mine. Mr. Reed was dark where my bridegroom was fair, but he too was a strikingly handsome man. His eyes were a deep, unbelievable blue. Their border of thick black lashes made them every bit as piercing as Damien’s. My pulse jumped in my throat as his look narrowed. His demeanor was watchful, as if he were wary of me for some reason.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said faintly.

Damien offered me his left arm.

As was custom, we knelt briefly before the clergyman. I remembered Damien’s little joke that we should pray for happiness together.

At least let us not be
un
happy
, I petitioned, considering that more reasonable.

The marriage service followed the usual formula. I promised to honor and obey, and Damien undertook that he would cherish. With every word, I kept thinking:
This feels so real
. It was real, or course, but the haste with which the ceremony had come together prevented the truth from registering.

Damien removed my gloves, each gentle tug sending shocks through my wrought up system. My eyes welled as he slid the plain gold band—which Mr. Reed had supplied from his jacket pocket—onto my left finger.

My emotions were in such turmoil I couldn’t put names to them.

“Mia,” Damien said softly. My small trembling hand was clasped between his larger, steadier pair. To my surprise, he smiled at me. His expression was so warm and fond my heart ached to believe what it implied. He barely knew me, and he looked at me more kindly than anyone ever had.

“I mean my promises,” he said. “I shall always cherish you.”

His voice was husky, his eyes assuming a shine as well. I’m afraid I gaped to see this evidence of sentiment. He cleared his throat and released my hand.

The vicar ignored our irregular exchange. “What God hath joined together,” he declared, “let no man put asunder.”

At his instruction, Damien threw back my veil. Apprehension tightened my ribcage. Was he going to kiss me as he had yesterday, in front of everyone? I very much disliked being a spectacle.

He bit his grin to control it, the twinkle in his eyes suggesting he’d divined the reason for my alarm. His hands lightly clasped my head, his thumbs steadying my jaw. His beautiful mouth descended to cover mine . . .

To my relief, the kiss he laid upon my lips was gentle and perfectly proper. It lingered only for a moment before traveling to my ear.

“Later,” he whispered, “I’m going to lick and kiss your pussy until you scream with pleasure.”

I jerked back to the limit of his hold, my cheeks violently ablaze. I
believed
I knew what a pussy was. At any rate, I could guess. Did people truly scream with pleasure? If some did, surely I wouldn’t be among them!

I felt less certain when I realized how powerfully the part he’d called my pussy was throbbing.

Chapter Six

I WOULD
have been glad for guests at our après-wedding supper, if only to distract from the awkwardness of making conversation with my new husband. Damien and I sat alone at the end of the lengthy table in the imposing dining room. Since it was just he and I, a single footman served.

Rather extraordinarily, he did so without gloves. I noticed because his hands were unusually callused. I marveled he didn’t scratch the crystal decanter as he refilled our wine.

Though I didn’t mean to call attention, Damien saw what had drawn my gaze.

“Sawyer,” he said in a tone of censure. “Why are you serving us like that?”

“Forgive me, sir,” said the man, his accent strongly American. “Those cotton things kept getting dirty. I thought it made more sense just to wash my hands.”

My eyes widened. This household was growing stranger by the second.

Damien knuckled a spot between his brows. I suspected he was smiling. “Sawyer,” he said. “While I’m sure your strategy has merit, that isn’t how footmen do things in good households.”

“Sorry, sir,” the man apologized. “It won’t happen again.”

He retreated to the sideboard, where he stood at attention. He was very tan for a house servant, his lean face pleasant but sun-lined. His bearing at least was flawless—military, I would have said.

Realizing I shouldn’t stare, I returned my eyes to my supper plate.

“Sawyer is new to service,” Damien explained. “He used to be a . . . pugilist.”

“A pugilist!”

“I thought he’d be handy to have around. You know, for extra security.”

“Are we in danger?” I asked, alarmed.

“Probably not,” Damien said blithely.

Unable to respond to that, I focused on slicing my cold venison into bitable pieces. Though I had little appetite, Regina had been correct. The food here was excellent. I searched for a topic to fill the growing pause.

“Your stable master was kind to stand you in place of a friend today.”

I saw at once that I had misstepped. Damien set his fork down with a sharp clink. “Mr. Reed
is
my friend, the truest I could wish.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to give offense.”

Despite my apology, Damien’s manner remained severe. “Do you think because he is not rich or titled I cannot regard him as my equal?”

“Of course not. I only meant—”

“In truth, he is better than my equal. Certainly he is braver. He fought at Ardennes!”

I was not familiar with this battle, or what war it might have been part of. Sawyer muffled a choking noise. Perhaps he too found the name fishy—not that he should have revealed this.

“That must have been terrible,” I said.

“Jake was scarred by it. The things he saw . . . I could not have held my powder as well as he.”

My husband’s stubborn expression declared that he believed every word he said. He didn’t strike me as a coward. Then again, I didn’t know him well enough to judge.

“I am sorry,” I repeated. “You must think you’ve married an awful snob.”

He saw I was repentant, for his face cleared. He looked at me, his hands relaxing on the spotless table linen’s edge. “It is I who must beg your forgiveness. I forgot to make allowances for the sphere in which you were raised. Naturally, matters of rank and status concern you. In any case, this is no way to begin our first night as man and wife. I shall only add that if you treat Jake Reed with the same consideration you do myself, you will please me greatly.”

“I cannot treat him
exactly
the same,” I teased, thinking to lighten the serious atmosphere. “
He
is not my husband.”

Though I had observed my spouse had a sense of humor, he didn’t smile. Instead, he regarded me in silence, with what I judged to be an edge of displeasure.

Who is this Jake Reed,
I wondered,
that slights to him inspire such ire?
I tried to resume eating but found it difficult to swallow.

“I have distressed you,” Damien observed. “Do you wish to leave the table?”

Shameful relief flooded me. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I would not,” he said.

He nodded to Sawyer, who pulled back my seat, allowing me to rise and move toward the door.

“I shall join you in half an hour,” Damien said, causing my steps to hesitate. “See that you are ready.”

“Of course,” I murmured, my pulse springing to too-quick life in too many areas.

Damien’s eyes met mine, the intensity of his stare sending more heat through me. He was my husband now. He could do with me more or less as he pleased. I recalled his threat from the church.
I’m going to lick and kiss your pussy until you scream with pleasure.
Moisture welled within me, the ache I was becoming too familiar with rising. My nipples tightened behind my décolleté. As if he knew, his gaze dropped to them and rose again.

His cheekbones darkened, color flooding them just as it flooded mine.

“
I’ll
be ready,” he promised.

~

Someone—Imogene most likely—had laid a pale apricot negligee across the heavy tester bed in my suite. It was the sheerest nightgown I’d ever seen, its sole claim to modesty a few strategically embroidered sprays of flowers.

“Isn’t there more to it?” I asked Regina as she helpfully held it up in front of her black and white uniform. She was nearly as short as I was and slightly built. “That fabric looks slippery. Perhaps another layer slid away to the floor.”

“It’s supposed to be like this,” the maid giggled. “As if your bridegroom need only breathe on you and you’ll be nude.”

“Well, it’s succeeding in that.”

“Put it on,” Regina urged. “I want to see how you look in it.”

I sighed and stepped behind the dressing screen, aware this was part and parcel of what I’d agreed to. Since we’d already freed me from my corset, I removed my regular underthings. The negligee tickled like a breeze as I wriggled into it. I had no mirror, though this may have been a blessing. Looking down revealed every part of me was exposed: breasts, legs, even my pubic triangle. Heartily I wished for a Diana’s form, tall and slender and sylphlike. It was too late for that. My body as it was would have satisfy Mr. Call’s hopes for it—or not, as Fate decreed.

When I emerged from behind the screen, Regina pressed her fingers together before her mouth.

“Oh milady,” she breathed. “You’re beautiful!”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” I admonished—referring to her
milady
. The
beautiful
bit secretly pleased me. “I’m just a plain missus.”

“I’m practicing,” Regina said. “I hear Mr. Call is angling for a barony. With all the lucre he has to spread around, you’ll be Lady Call in no time.”

I shook my head. Damien’s servants weren’t the only ones who were peculiar. “You fit right in here, you know.”

“Isn’t it lovely?” the maid exclaimed happily. “Everyone has been ever so nice to me!”

I was glad for her, simply nervous for myself. I resorted to my old habit of biting my thumbnail.