Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (18 page)

She was his wife, not his mistress.

Shame scorched her body. Had he reached just a little further he would have found that slick heat. He would have known. Known that she
wanted
him to touch her there. He expected his wife to behave as a lady. Which she was patently incapable of doing. Perhaps he had known, despite not touching her. Known and been disgusted.

She drew a shuddering breath. Foolish to remain here shivering all night. The room was pitch dark. She strained her eyes, staring into the emptiness, trying to remember where things were. The bed was directly opposite the door. She moved cautiously towards it. And stumbled over a chair.

There was a tinderbox near the fireplace, she recalled. Only the way her hands shook, she would probably end up burning down the house if she tried to use it.

She found the bed, fighting her way through the hangings, and dragged in a sobbing breath as she huddled under the bedclothes. In all her nervous imaginings of this night, it had never even crossed her mind that she might end it as she had begun—a virgin. He had expected her to do her duty, but apparently he had been far too disgusted to do his.

Julian stared up at the shadowy canopy of his empty bed. It was some sort of judgement on him, he supposed, that after
years of seducing other men’s wives, he now couldn’t seduce his own. His closest friends would be hard pressed not to chuckle at his predicament.

He swore and punched his pillow as the clock on the chimney piece chimed endlessly. Midnight. Over two hours since he’d sent her back to her room. By now, if he’d behaved like any normal husband, his marriage should have been consummated, his bride irrevocably his.

Instead he was lying here, wondering if he should have continued gently and got the deed over and done with. He would have to do precisely that eventually. His stomach clenched at the memory of her white face. Never before had a woman feared him. Never. It was not a pleasant feeling.

It looked like being a very long night. And then there would be tomorrow. He was taking her down to Abbey House, a small manor he owned in Monmouthshire. It was a quiet, secluded place near the river. Ideal for a newly-wed couple head over heels in love. Precisely the impression needed to stem the murmur that a scheming little adventuress had trapped him. She didn’t deserve that.

But what the devil did he say to her? How could he reassure her that he would not press his rights immediately? And what was he to do about this marriage all together? A marriage of convenience was what he had always intended and there was no reason he could not have it. Desiring his wife was perfectly convenient. As long as he didn’t allow it to rule him.

As long as he remembered that a wife and a mistress inhabited two different spheres of a man’s life and it was not wise to combine the roles in one woman.

J
ulian trod up the worn stone stairs of Abbey House the following evening, shielding his flickering candle from draughts. Had he been mad to choose this shabby old manor for the bride trip? It held memories of mad boyhood summers, when he and the Blakehurst twins had come here with Serena and run wild fishing, climbing trees, riding their ponies all over the place and not always coming home at night. Carefree holidays when all that mattered was who caught the biggest fish, jumped the highest fence, or climbed the tallest tree, and the next day might see the record fall to a new victor. Days his memory insisted had been endlessly sunny.

Why had he brought Christy here? Shouldn’t he have taken her to Bath? Shown her off publicly as his chosen bride? Surely she would have preferred Bath where she could shop, meet people and be acknowledged as the new Lady Braybrook. Yet when he had suggested it she had demurred, saying she would prefer a quiet place. So he had thought of this house. But what would she do here?

And why hadn’t he sent instructions for a second bedchamber? The housekeeper here, Mrs Braxton, was a farmer’s daughter. In her world husband and wife shared a bed. A flash of memory came—when his father had joined them in the
summer holidays he had always shared Serena’s room. No, it would never occur to Mrs Braxton to prepare two rooms. Not for two newly-weds.

He reached the upper corridor. Who would he find in that bedchamber? The self-possessed woman who had bid him goodnight an hour ago? Or the terrified bride of the previous night? If the latter, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.

He found his bride ready for, but not yet in, bed. Closing the door behind him, he surveyed his property. Never before had he questioned the legal decree that a man’s wife was literally his property. Now he did. It seemed absurd. Even wrong.

Christy was…Christy. Herself.

She sat curled up in a wingchair beside the fire, wrapped in a pink silk robe. A wine table beside her held an oil lamp and a tumble of bright embroidery silks. The mellow light shifted and gleamed on the thick tawny braid hanging over one shoulder as she looked up from her sewing. Something flickered across her pale face, instantly stilled.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked.

Her surprise was palpable. ‘Of course not. This is your room too.’

He frowned. Was her calm real, or feigned?

‘I did not like to say anything tonight,’ he said, ‘but tomorrow I shall speak to Mrs Braxton about a separate room for myself.’

Again that indefinable something flickered.

‘You must do as you please, my lord.’

‘Dammit, Christy! We’re married! This is our bedchamber—you may call me Julian!’

He dragged in a breath. Yelling at a nervous bride wouldn’t help.

‘Does our marriage give me that licence?’

He stared. ‘Of course it does!’ He thought about it. ‘In private, at least. Publicly you would call me “Braybrook” or “my lord” and refer to me with anyone but family or a very intimate acquaintance by my title.’ He added, ‘I think.’

‘You
think
?’

Laughter welled up as he went towards a screen set up across
a corner of the room. Of all the things to be discussing! ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think about it. It’s automatic.’

‘Bred into you, in fact.’

He shrugged. ‘Yes.’ And saw the barely perceptible withdrawal—if a woman as reserved as Christy could withdraw any further. Belatedly he saw where the conversation had gone as he stepped behind the screen. ‘It’s not very important, Christy,’ he said from behind it.

‘Not to you,’ she agreed.

But to her most definitely. He eased his coat off and untied his cravat. The story of their suspiciously swift marriage was buzzing about with a sting in its tail. Any slip she made would be magnified and bandied about in every drawing room from Hereford to Ludlow and beyond. Discussed with smiling malice between ladylike sips of tea. A raised brow here. A knowing look there. The inevitable way of the world, he acknowledged as he unbuttoned his shirt and hauled it off over his head.

Sitting down, he pulled his boots off. The only reason a man of his rank would willingly marry a woman like Christy was if he had fallen head over heels in love. Ergo, in the eyes of the world, he had not been willing and Miss Daventry had trapped him most cleverly. Never mind that the whole damn thing had been his fault, he thought, stripping out of his breeches and drawers. A ewer of water and basin stood on a night table. He poured water and washed before donning the nightshirt left ready and walking out from behind the screen.

He didn’t have to spell it out to the woman sewing in the pool of light. She knew. For the first time he wondered if she would be happy. He’d taken it for granted. Rank, wealth, security. What more could she want?

Climbing into bed, he looked at his bride. She was still sewing. Quiet, industrious—she appeared to be embroidering a handkerchief. Firelight flashed off her spectacles. Memory tossed up an odd scrap of knowledge gleaned from Serena—the light…didn’t seamstresses often go blind sewing in poor light?

‘Shouldn’t you stop sewing soon?’ he asked.

She finished setting a stitch and looked up, her face still. ‘If…if you wish it, I will come to bed now.’

His stomach clenched. Did she think he was ordering her to his bed?

‘That was not a command, Christy,’ he said quietly. ‘I was concerned that sewing in this light would hurt your eyes.’

‘Oh. I thought—’

‘I know what you thought,’ he said shortly. ‘And you need not worry. I’ve never taken a woman who was less than willing, and I’m damned if I’ll start with my wife.’

Christy, sliding her needle into the handkerchief, looked up sharply. ‘Last night,’ she began, ‘I thought you…that it was because I…that you did not want—’ her face flamed, but she held his shocked gaze ‘—that I had somehow—’

‘No!’ He found his tongue and stumbled into speech, searching for words to reassure her. ‘No. That was not a problem,’ he said in careful understatement. ‘I wanted you.’

She looked disbelieving.

‘You were frightened,’ he said simply.

She was silent for a moment, then nodded and said, ‘But not unwilling. Just nervous.’

Nervous? She’d looked terrified.

‘Nor am I unwilling now.’

Nor was she…His heart skipped a beat over the sudden, slow, heavy rhythm of his blood. Light caught in the thick braid over her shoulder, silken tawny fire. He could almost feel his fingers sliding through the mass, tumbling it over the pillow…her mouth, lush and sweet; his to ravish and plunder…No. That way lay madness with her. Her kisses, for all her inexperience, were incendiary and kisses were not necessary when making lo—having sex—he didn’t want that intimacy, especially not now when it threatened to tear him apart.

‘My lord?’

He drew a ragged breath. She was a virgin. He must not lose control and hurt her. ‘Julian,’ he corrected her softly.

She nodded. ‘Julian, then. We must do this, must we not?’

‘Yes.’ His control would not increase with waiting—rather, the opposite.

An indrawn breath, as though she braced herself. ‘Then I would prefer to get it over with sooner rather than later.’

Not the most flattering invitation he’d ever received from a woman, but tension cried out from every taut line of her body. And she was being as honest as she knew how. Painfully so.

‘Come, then.’ He flipped back the covers on the other side of the bed, his eyes never leaving her. She nodded and began to put away her embroidery. He watched, not missing a movement of the careful, clumsy hands that fumbled over the simple task, the heightened colour of her cheeks, or the way the silk robe flowed around her.

Dear God, he was hard to the point of pain, just watching her. Finished, she stood up and doused the lamp, leaving only his candle and the firelight. Slowly she slid her robe off, laying it neatly across the chair. Either the same demure gown as last night, or its twin, enveloped her.

His breath shortened. Familiarity wasn’t helping. He remembered those buttons, the softness and fragrance of creamy, rose-peaked breasts. His groin ached.

‘Come,’ he repeated. If she could not come to him of her own free will, then he had no business taking her.

Panic shuddered through Christy. His expression was unreadable. He was very still, but there was no hint of relaxation in the corded tendons of his neck, and his eyes possessed her darkly.

If she could not walk to that bed and climb into it, she would have another day of strain to face. Folly! If she knew anything about him, she knew he was not a brute. That she remained virgin bore testament to that.

The room was not large. A shaky breath and a few steps took her to the bed. She circled the foot, startled when he leaned over to blow out his candle. Just the firelight now. She reached the other side of the bed. Steps led up into it. A mountain to be climbed.

Trembling, she climbed up and slid under the covers beside her husband who lay propped on one elbow now, watching with
dark intent…
and the two shall become one flesh
…he was so still, a statue, not flesh and blood at all…
one flesh
…Steadying her hands, she removed her spectacles and placed them on the bedside table.

There was a sudden movement beside her and she jumped.

He stilled again. ‘Christy?’

‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, but he made no move.

The previous night he had unbuttoned her nightgown…Clumsily she undid the top button.

‘No.’

Embarrassment burned her. No?

‘That’s my privilege.’

He thought it a privilege?

Banners of heat unfurled as large, gentle hands took over, opening button after button until her bodice hung open and he carefully cupped one breast, stroking his thumb over the suddenly aching peak. She sat rigid, fighting her body’s melting response to his caress and hot, hungry gaze. His free hand tugged at her nightgown, sliding it up over her legs.

‘Lift up,’ he said.

She suppressed an instinctive protest and wriggled so that the nightgown came free to be taken off over her head. Her breath caught and she slid lower into the bed. But he sat up, hauled off his nightshirt and came to her, pushing back the bedclothes. Skin to skin. Hot flesh to hot flesh…sparks flickered and leapt under her skin. She lay still, trying to control her trembling, reminding herself that he would not hurt her, that he would be gentle…but she was
naked
. And
he
was naked—lying against her, looking at her, touching her, undoing her braid, freeing the thick, unruly mass. She gasped as he pressed a knee between her legs,
opening
her. Her breath shortened as fires danced beneath his warm hands sliding, feathering over her so that she ached
there
, between her legs where she was becoming moist and warm as she had the night before. The same fear shook her—would she disgust him?

‘Ssshhh,’ he murmured. ‘Relax.’

Relax?

She lay half under him as he leaned over her, one powerful thigh wedged between hers, holding her open for his hungry gaze and wicked, invading fingers on her inner thigh. She felt vulnerable, helpless. No—not helpless. One word would stop him, and she didn’t want him to stop…Oh, but she had to force herself to lie still, wanting to touch
him
, fighting the surging need to lift her hips against his hand in restless wanting—and then his fingers were
there
, where she ached, sliding easily on slick flesh.

‘Good,’ he murmured, smiling down at her.

So he didn’t mind the embarrassing wetness, it pleased him…it felt strange though…it should have felt immodest, but it felt good…Her whole body jerked and quivered as one finger pressed, and slid just inside the hot, slippery ache. She gasped, tensing against the cataract of sensation, of stretching.

He stilled.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘N…no.’ She wanted…
more
.

He lowered his head to her breast, kissed the taut nipple, then drew it into the shocking heat of his mouth and sucked. She bit back a cry as bright pleasure speared from her breast to where he so gently penetrated her body. Involuntarily her hips lifted, her body winning free of her control to arch towards him, around him.

And she had
more
. Fierce strength took her, covering her, and she cried out in shock as his hard weight pressed her into the mattress, her thighs pushed wide, wider than she could have believed. Hot pressure at her core, stretching her, burning as he came into her and she gasped, biting down on sudden pain, closing her eyes against it.

A ragged curse, and he stilled.

Then, harshly, ‘I’m sorry,’ And he thrust the rest of the way.

Pain cut, tearing a choked cry from her throat, and he was still again. Blessedly still. She lay quietly, forcing herself to breathe, half-surprised that there was room for breath, she felt so…full. He was deep, so very deep inside her, pain easing to discomfort.

‘Are you all right?’ His harsh voice. At odds with the gentle,
clumsy fingers sliding into her hair;
he
was shaking, she realised on a burst of shock. Actually shaking as he brushed moisture from her cheek…she was crying? She opened her eyes.

‘Christy, are you all right?’ His expression was urgent, taut. As though
he
were in pain.

‘Y…yes,’ she lied, shifting to ease that shocking fullness.

A groan tore from him. ‘For God’s sake—stay still.’

She tensed, staring up at his hard face, the blazing eyes. Sweat beaded his brow, a muscle flickered in his jaw.

He groaned again, shutting his eyes, and pulled back so that she sighed in relief, only to catch her breath on a gasp as he pushed in again. And again. Slowly. His eyes shut tight and sweat sheened his face. That first flash of pain over, she could bear it now. And he slid more easily, it was almost…almost pleasant, despite a lingering soreness. But he was distant. Closed away. Shut eyes in a taut mask. He was moving faster, his breath hoarse and ragged. Harder, faster so she felt the push and pull within her where his body invaded hers, until with a groan he pushed deep, his whole body shuddering and convulsing, before he collapsed on to her, burying his face in her hair.