Lord of Secrets (11 page)

“So...” Rosalie scraped together a smile, though her own nerves were getting the better of her now. “Here we are on our wedding night.”

“Yes.” He looked up, his face pale. “Rosalie, I don’t wish to force myself on you, if you would rather we—”

“Of course you wouldn’t be forcing yourself on me.” Oh, yes, David was even more unsure of himself than she was. Whatever he’d meant to confess in her uncle’s drawing room, she must have been right in supposing him inexperienced with women. “We’re married now.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never done this before, of course.”
Please
don’t
let
me
have
to
take
the
lead
. “I assume you know what to do?”

There was a brief silence. She’d shocked him. She was just about to apologize for having bluntly called his sexual expertise into question when she noticed how tightly his hand was gripping the back of the chair beside him.

“Yes.” He looked away. “Yes, I know exactly what to do.”

Oh, dear, now she’d only made him more self-conscious. “Then how shall we begin? Should I get into bed? Would you rather talk for a time first?”

She regretted the question at once. She was making the most natural thing in the world sound so contrived, so orchestrated, when deep down she longed for it to be passionate and romantic and perhaps even a little wicked. She wanted
him
to begin, and she wanted him to make it as exciting as the kiss they’d shared aboard the
Neptune’s
Fancy
on the night he proposed.

He shook his head. “We’ve started on the wrong foot. My fault, of course, but...Rosalie, this strikes me as a bad idea.”

“What strikes you as a bad idea?”

“This...” He gestured with a wave of one hand at the bed. “This whole business. I think it would be wiser if we each simply retired to our own rooms tonight.”

She blinked at him in confusion. “But it’s our wedding night.”

“I realize that.”

“I thought it was customary—”

“Yes, I know it’s customary, but there’s little point in going through with it tonight when you’re clearly tired and nervous.”

“But I’m not tired, and not really all that nervous.”

His eyes flitted over her, lingering for only a second on where the modest curves of her breasts showed through her nightgown before quickly darting away again. “So you say, but the timing seems wrong.”

She’d been both anxious and eager to please, this first time with him. Now it appeared he didn’t even want her. Mrs. Howard’s strident voice popped into her head.
You’ve
no
feminine
allure
at
all
. Rosalie was determined not to give in to her misgivings, but what other explanation for David’s reluctance was there, when even the most inexperienced gentleman ought to show some interest?

She gathered her courage. “Do you find me unappealing, then?”

“Of course not. You’re the loveliest girl I’ve ever...” He let go of the chair, though even after his hand dropped to his side, his posture remained stiff with tension. “The point is, I can wait. I
should
wait. I want it to be—I want it to be good for you, your first time...” He looked about him, as if searching for a way to finish his speech. “There’s no point in rushing things.”

With the exception of his strange effort to warn her away two nights before, she was used to seeing him cool and self-possessed, but tonight he was neither of those things. He would only look at her obliquely, dropping his gaze whenever their eyes met.

What on earth was he afraid of? Even if he was inexperienced, they were husband and wife now. She wasn’t some jaded courtesan determined to find fault with his performance.

But perhaps new bridegrooms, too, sometimes fell prey to wedding-night jitters. “David, have you really done this before?”

His brows came down. “I’ve already told you I have.”

“I didn’t mean to call you a liar. It’s just that you seem so ill at ease.” A troubling thought struck, something she’d heard hinted about only in whispers. “You do prefer women?”

“Prefer them to what?” His face registered shock as he realized what she meant. “You mean to men?”

“I’ve heard of such things.”

“Good God!” He laughed shortly. “That’s one avenue, at least, I’ve never been tempted to explore. Yes, I definitely prefer women.”

“But you—you can do it? I mean, there’s no physical reason we can’t? Because if you should be incapable for some reason, David, I promise I’ll understand.”

He made a hollow attempt at a smile. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d suspect you were trying to offend me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

His smile faded. “Yes, I’m perfectly capable. I should have thought that was evident on the night I proposed.” He strolled across the room to stare out the window at the starry night, his back to her.

She regarded him in dismay. “Then I don’t understand. If you find me appealing, and you prefer women, and there’s no physical reason you can’t take me to bed, why should we spend our wedding night apart?”

“Because I...it’s too soon.”

“David, I realize I said I was nervous, but I never meant to suggest I was
afraid
. I’m not going to shriek or struggle with you or faint dead away. I already know what a new bride—”

“We should wait.”

She needed to let the matter drop. She could see that. But she was too upset to listen to her common sense. “Wait for what? Did I do something wrong? Is there something I’m supposed to know, something I’m supposed to do or say?”

“No.” Still with his back to her, he looked to the door that connected their two rooms. “It’s nothing personal, and you’ve done nothing wrong, but I—I can’t. Not yet. I think it best we both retire for the night, and talk about this some other time.”

“David, you don’t have to go.”

“We could both use some sleep.”

“Then why not stay and sleep here with me? We don’t have to do anything more. We’ll just
sleep
, that all.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I sleep better alone.”

“But—”

“Good night.” He looked in her direction only long enough to sketch a hasty bow, then he bolted for the door, disappearing through it so quickly she was looking at his back one second and at empty space the next.

* * *

Snuffing out his candle, David sank down with a sigh onto his bed. He’d botched his wedding night in every way possible—dull silence over dinner, an insulting lack of enthusiasm and a frustrating encounter that had left them both miserably dissatisfied.

If only Rosalie hadn’t seemed so cheerful and sweet and
trusting
, he might have been able to talk to her, perhaps even confess some portion of the truth about himself. Even if he dared not tell her everything, he’d hoped he might at least give her some sense of the kind of man she’d married. But then she’d turned those wide, guileless eyes on him, not just in the carriage but then again when he’d entered her bedroom, and he’d realized with a sinking feeling that only a brute would tell an innocent girl like Rosalie the unwelcome truth on the very first night of her married life.

He wished he’d found the courage to make his confession before the wedding. This stupid delay was only going to hurt her and further complicate matters. No doubt she’d been expecting him to greet the prospect of bedding her with enthusiasm and savoir faire. They were newlyweds, after all. How many ribald jokes had he heard in his lifetime about newly minted bridegrooms? How many blushing young couples had he watched practically devouring each other with their eyes? He was supposed to be eager for this first night together.

And part of him
was
eager. Tonight she’d looked positively bewitching, her gown of sheer white lawn hinting at the slender curves beneath, her cloud of dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. He knew if he took her in his arms, she would smell like that same French soap that had perfumed his cabin on the
Neptune’s
Fancy
, and she would cling to him with that same breathless eagerness she’d shown on the night he proposed. It had taken all his self-control to stick fast to his resolution.

But he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to make love to her until he’d confessed the worst of his transgressions. Marrying Rosalie was the one good thing he’d done in his life, the one act he could view as basically decent and honorable. She deserved to have some inkling of his true character before she gave herself to him.

Only, now that he’d actually married her, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he was. The way she looked at him, as if he could do no wrong...how could he knowingly destroy that? How could he confess the truth when confessing was bound to turn her regard to disgust?

He would have to be honest with her, but not yet. Not when they’d been wed less than a day. Not when he’d only just brought her here to Lyningthorp.

He wasn’t ready to lose her quite so soon.

Chapter Nine

And ceremoniously let us prepare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

—
William Shakespeare

Though Rosalie tried to sleep, she lay awake for hours after David’s abrupt exit, staring up into the darkness. After everything her aunt Whitwell had told her about a bride’s first night with her husband, she’d been prepared for a little pain and occasional moments of embarrassment, but both those potential drawbacks had faded to insignificance beside the prospect of greater closeness with David.

Was there something she should have done differently, something she might have tried or said that might have sparked his interest? She’d worn the new nightgown she’d had made up for her trousseau, and done her best to tame her unruly curls into loose waves. But now that seemed woefully inadequate. She had the dismal suspicion most new brides didn’t just stand about in their bare feet, asking foolish questions, waiting for their husbands to be seized by a fit of wild passion.

Mrs. Howard had been right—she was hopeless. Alone in the still, strange surroundings of her new bedchamber, Rosalie felt small, unwanted and miserably sorry for herself. By the time she dropped off into an exhausted sleep, the clock in the corridor outside her room had already chimed most of the night away.

Despite her unhappy reflections, however, her first thought upon waking the next morning was
Poor
David
.

Now that she’d slept on her disappointment, now that she recalled the details in the clear light of day, she could see he’d been ill at ease for hours leading up to their encounter. She still had no notion why that should be so, given his bitter insistence he’d had prior experience. She could only suppose it wasn’t very extensive experience, or it had gone badly.

And she’d only made matters worse, for it wasn’t as if she knew how to attract a man. She’d grown up motherless and spent the last nine years of her life thrown together with strangers on foreign shores, or sailing on cramped ships manned by rough-spoken sailors. Drawing masculine attention under such circumstances could have been hazardous. And so she’d latched on to older, nonthreatening companions—matronly women like Mrs. Howard, mostly—and wound up with no notion what men found seductive. She didn’t know how to dress or flirt, how to be arch and captivating. She’d never even been properly kissed until the night David proposed.

Well, her pitiful lack of feminine allure was going to have to change. She rose and reached for the bell pull.

For most of her life, Rosalie had scraped by without a lady’s maid. She and her father had traveled light, and during their brief stays at Beckford Park she’d simply enlisted the aid of an upstairs maid. Now she was a marchioness, and with the title came her own abigail. Mrs. Epperson had chosen one of the staff for her, a gangly, sandy-haired young woman called Bridger.

The girl soon answered Rosalie’s summons, casting a curious glance at the bed as she entered. Rosalie wondered what Bridger hoped to see. Bloodstained sheets? Tangled bedding? Pillows rent asunder in the throes of passion? Rosalie couldn’t decide whether to feel ashamed or relieved that she had nothing of the kind on display.

Bridger gave a respectful bob. “Good morning, my lady.” Like all the servants at Lyningthorp, she spoke in an undertone, the kind of hushed voice one might use in a sickroom. After her time with Aunt Whitwell—whose every pronouncement wasn’t just spoken, but declaimed—Rosalie found it disconcerting.

“I’d like to wear something becoming today,” she said, realizing as the sentence crossed her lips that it had to be one of the most witless things a lady had ever told her abigail. What woman set out to wear clothes that were unbecoming? But to Rosalie’s relief, Bridger turned briskly to the clothespress, showing no sign of scorn for her new mistress’s gaucherie.

Still, even the most ingenious abigail couldn’t make something out of nothing, and Rosalie’s trousseau remained pitifully small. She’d never owned more than she could fit into a single trunk, and of the limited gowns she’d possessed, she’d had to dye most black in mourning for her father. Since her arrival in England, she’d had time to have only a handful of new gowns made up—a riding habit, a walking dress and a new evening gown, plus the single nightgown she was already wearing. Bridger stared into the clothespress, the corners of her mouth turning down in a pensive frown.

Observing her expression, Rosalie suffered a fresh pang of insecurity. No doubt Bridger had been thrilled at her elevation to lady’s maid, never suspecting that the new Marchioness of Deal would turn out to be such a sad disappointment. “Is there a modiste nearby whom the ladies of the neighborhood patronize?”

Bridger’s freckled face brightened. “Yes, my lady. Would you like me to send for her?”

Rosalie nearly sagged with relief. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea.”

Together, they settled on one of her older dresses, a morning gown of white eyelet that had been too lightweight to withstand the North Atlantic breezes on the
Neptune’s
Fancy
and had thus escaped the dye pot. It was girlishly simple and even a little threadbare at the hem, which only added to Rosalie’s self-consciousness.

As Bridger fastened the back of her gown, Rosalie asked, “Do you know if Lord Deal is up and about yet?”

“Yes, my lady. He’s in the breakfast room.”

Rosalie squared her shoulders. The important thing was to be patient. She’d heard rumors of retiring young ladies who’d gone to their wedding nights quaking and terrified. In such cases, society expected any husband with a jot of sensitivity to treat his new wife with forbearance and understanding. Didn’t David deserve the same consideration, even if in this case the groom was more nervous than the bride?

She shouldn’t have pressed him so hard for an explanation the night before. She’d not only failed to attract him—indeed, made the sort of graceless remarks guaranteed to stamp out any desire he might feel—she’d also backed him into a corner. Now she started down the stairs, resolved to let David set the tone for their honeymoon.

He rose to his feet as soon as she entered the breakfast room. Seeing him, Rosalie regretted her old eyelet gown even more. He was dressed with his usual elegance, everything from his superbly cut bottle-green coat down to his gleaming top boots representing the union of country informality with urbane good taste.

He smiled fleetingly. “Good morning. I trust you slept well?”

His tone was polite, pleasant. So they were simply pretending the night before had never happened. If that was the way David wanted it, she would do her best to oblige him. “Yes, I—I slept soundly, thank you.” It seemed the most tactful way to describe the brief spell of rest she’d managed.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He waited for her to take her place across the table before resuming his seat. “I’m afraid I have a bit of estate business that requires my attention today. Would you mind if I attend to it?”

“Not at all. Might I go for a ride, do you think, while you’re otherwise occupied? I’d love to explore a little of the countryside.”

“You’re mistress here now. Make yourself at home.” Though his expression remained one of relative self-possession, he had yet to look her directly in the eye. “You’ll find a lady’s mount waiting for you in the stables. Just be careful not to wander too far afield your first time out, and take a groom with you if you have any thought of venturing off the estate.”

“Why, are there footpads in the area?”

“No, not footpads, not that I’m aware. But it’s...not the friendliest of neighborhoods.”

Rosalie was about to ask what he meant when she remembered his words on the night he’d proposed.
My
neighbors
have
made
it
abundantly
clear
they
consider
me
persona
non
grata
. Well, she would see what she could do to change that.

Not quite an hour later, she’d traded her old gown for her new habit and was surveying the grounds from atop a neat bay filly. She liked everything she saw about Lyningthorp, from its situation between softly rolling hills and a wooded valley to the clean and well-kept stables, the meticulously tended gardens and the parkland beyond. The mount David had provided for her was a joy—beautiful and light in the mouth, with a biddable temperament and a smooth gait. She circled an ornamental wall, fragrant with the same lilacs that perfumed her bedchamber, and then rode at a canter across the park.

Yes, Lyningthorp was beautiful. Only one thing about her new home bothered her—that eerie stillness. After less than a full day at Lyningthorp, she was chafing for the hum of activity, some sign of vitality and cheer.
What
this
house
needs
is
children
.

Immediately the image of David’s face the night before came flooding back, together with Mrs. Howard’s withering assessment of her appeal—she was unremarkable, girlish, unsophisticated. Rosalie longed for children of her own, and she’d imagined David must want an heir. What if they never enjoyed a normal married life? What use was she as a wife if David felt no desire for her at all?

Patience. She’d already resolved to give David as much time as he needed, and she intended to stick to that resolution. And in the meantime—well, perhaps she could learn how to be more desirable.

Still, the dismal sense of failure lingered. If only her aunt Whitwell hadn’t made it all sound so natural, so
expected
, perhaps her disastrous wedding night wouldn’t have been such a let-down. Or if only she had someone else to talk to, some trusted confidante to assure her all would turn out well. But she didn’t. There was only David.

She should head back soon. Crossing the valley atop the spirited little filly, she was just about to turn her mount around when she caught sight of a gentleman riding at a distance. The gentleman spotted her, too, and after a few seconds of remote assessment, horse and rider came trotting in her direction.

The gentleman looked to be about the same age as David, though dressed in a more countrified style—buckskins, a sturdy brown riding coat and well-worn top boots. Fair hair peeked out from beneath his curled beaver hat, and as they neared each other his broad, freckled face wore a welcoming expression.

“Hullo.” He tipped his hat to her, reining in his mount. “I haven’t seen you around these parts before. Are you staying at Lyningthorp?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I suppose you’ve come with the new Lady Deal?”

“You could say that. I
am
the new Lady Deal.”

The stranger’s sandy brows shot up. “Indeed? How astonishing! You’re not at all as I expected.”

A flash of disappointment assailed her. “Dare I ask what you expected?”

He scratched his jaw. “Well, I thought you’d be older, for a start. You can’t be many years past the schoolroom. And I pictured someone with a...let’s just say a more sophisticated air.”

His words so closely mirrored Mrs. Howard’s assessment of her shortcomings that Rosalie’s spirits sank lower still. The new habit she’d changed into, dark green and trimmed with braid
a
la
Hussar
, was one of the smartest articles of clothing she owned. No wonder David didn’t want her, if even in her modish habit and plumed shako she still looked like a child.

“What I mean is, you seem most cordial,” the stranger said, observing her crestfallen expression. “Assuming Deal decided to marry at all, I’d always supposed he would choose a marchioness with a more fastidious air. You might say that’s what the Linneys are known for in these parts.”

Perhaps it wasn’t all bad, then, differing from the gentleman’s expectations. There was nothing wrong with fastidiousness, but given her choice, Rosalie would pick cordiality every time. “Well, I’m indeed Lady Deal. In fact, I have been for almost a full twenty-four hours now.”

The gentleman laughed. “That long, eh? In that case, how do you find our little corner of the kingdom, Lady Deal?”

“It’s lovely, but I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”

“Robert Melton.” He reached down and patted his horse. “I own the house on the other side of this valley, Radcombe Priory.”

“And are you a single gentleman, Mr. Melton?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I have an excellent wife and three young children, two boys and a girl.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting my new neighbors. Perhaps you and Mrs. Melton would like to come to dinner at Lyningthorp tomorrow evening?”

Mr. Melton peered at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses. “Does Lord Deal know you’re inviting company to dinner?”

“No, but I’m certain he won’t mind.”

Mr. Melton looked anything but certain. He shifted in the saddle. “I tell you what, ma’am—just in case matters don’t fall out as you expect, suppose you and Lord Deal come to the Priory tomorrow evening instead. I believe my wife and I are...er, more in the habit of entertaining.”