Tallie's Knight (21 page)

His voice was low and
deep and resonated through her bones like music.

She blushed, shook
her head, and raised her face for his kiss.

Tallie learnt two new
things about the marriage act that night. First, that it didn’t hurt the second
time —not one little bit. And, second, that it was very much more difficult for
her to remain still and dignified while her husband’s ministrations evoked all
sorts of wondrous and thrilling feelings. It took all her will-power, every bit
of concentration and determination she possessed, to lie passively under him,
making no sound or movement, as her cousin had warned her to.

But she managed it.

The very most she
allowed herself was to press several soft, moist kisses on his chest and jaw —and
that was only after he had fallen asleep. He could not be disgusted by what he
did not know she did. And he could not know the intense pleasure she gained
from snuggling up to his warm, relaxed, naked body while he slept.

She was very proud of
her efforts, too. She wanted so much to be a good wife to Magnus, wanted so
much for him to be proud of her, to respect her —even, perhaps, to learn to
love her, just a little. He wanted a child, that much she knew. Perhaps he
would come to care for her if she gave him one.

She lay in the dark,
enjoying the feel of her husband’s arm draped heavily across her, his chest and
torso pressed against her back, one long, hairy leg thrust between hers.
Sleepily she wondered whether she was increasing, and, if so, how she would
know.

The princess gazed
out through her prison bars, straining for a sight, a sound to indicate that
someone was coming to rescue her. But all she could see or hear were the happy
celebrations of the townspeople far below her. There would be no rescue today
for the princess. She would have to remain here, in the highest turret of the
Callous Count’s castle. But wait, what was that scraping sound? She turned
again to the high, barred window. A muscular hand reached out and effortlessly plucked
the bars, one, two, three, from the window.

“Tallie, my love,” a
thrillingly deep masculine voice called. She ran to the window and looked out.
There, clinging to a rope, was her handsome outlaw prince, his dark hair
blowing in the breeze, his grey eyes glinting. No! Not grey! Blue eyes,
perhaps, or brown or green —anything except grey! People with grey eyes were
selfish. And disobliging. And horrid!

Tallie sat fuming in
a chair by the window of her hotel room, glaring out. Outside were people and
noise and activity such as she’d never seen or heard before in her life. She
shifted restlessly in her seat and punched a cushion into a more comfortable
shape.

Outside was a
thrilling concoction of smells and sights and sounds that shrieked Paris! She
bounced up and paced angrily around the room.

Outside was a huge,
exotic city, and she’d never in her life been in a city. And where was she?
Stuck inside a stuffy parlour, that was where, under orders from her stuffy
husband not to venture out until he gave her leave! And where was he? Outside,
that was where! Exploring this wondrously exciting city. For the last four
hours! While she was forced to wait.

It wasn’t fair. He’d
muttered something about preparations to make before she was ready for Paris
and gone out into the city himself, needing, apparently, no preparations for
his magnificent self! Leaving her with nothing better to do than study
Sinderby. A guidebook. When the real thing was just outside her door! She
snatched up the cushion and hurled it at the door in frustration.

“Oops! Sorry,” she
gasped as the object of her fury ducked, regarded her with a raised eyebrow and
then closed the door carefully behind him. His face was utterly impassive and
Tallie’s spirits sank. He was The Icicle once more. Ignoring the cushion at his
feet, Magnus came forward and presented her with a large brown paper parcel,
tied with string.

“A modiste will be
here within the hour to fit you out with some decent clothes. You will need to
don these before she arrives.” He strolled over to the window, glanced out into
the street, then opened up a newssheet and began reading it, quite as if he had
nothing more to say to her.

Tallie, clutching the
parcel to her bosom, stared at him, suddenly confused. Part of her wanted to
rail at him for leaving her for such a long time with nothing to do, but the
large, squashy parcel in her arms intrigued her. A gift? She could not remember
the last time anyone had given her a gift. Only her wedding pearls. And now, a
gift for no reason. With trembling fingers she unknotted the string and spread
open the wrapping. Soft, silken things dripped from her fingers and slithered
to the floor.

“Ohhh,” she gasped,
enchanted. She bent and lifted them. A chemise —no, six, in soft, silky
material. And petticoats, in fine lawn and muslin, trimmed with lace. Silk
stockings, dozens of them —silk. And six finely embroidered nightgowns, so thin
and fine and delicate you could almost see through them. She had never seen the
like, except once, on a friend of her cousin’s. And… good gracious!

She picked the last
few items up and frowned in confusion. These were surely not for her. But they,
too, were made of the finest, most delicate lawn… pink lawn. Tallie fingered
the garments, stunned.

They could not
possibly be for her husband, for they had lace on them, and besides, they were
too small for him. But she had never worn such things… never heard of such
things, except in a scandalised whisper.

Not even Laetitia
wore garments like these.

“I cannot wear these,”
she whispered.

Magnus did not turn
his head.

“Of course you can.
You will oblige me by retiring to your chamber and donning them immediately,
madam. The modiste is coming.”

Madam. Tallie gathered
up the clothing and left the room, feeling mutinous. The first true gift she
had received in years and was she allowed to be excited about it? No, she must
be silent and obedient and don them ‘immediately, madam’, for we would not wish
to inconvenience an unknown French modiste, would we? Madam.

In her chamber, she
stripped off her clothes and quickly slipped into one of the new chemises and a
petticoat, savouring the cool, silken feel of them against her skin. The
chemise was close-fitting, with gussets under the arms and side gussets to
accommodate the flare of her hips. The neckline was extremely low and edged
with a tiny frill of lace. The petticoat was long and straight, made of fine,
sheer muslin.

It was almost like
wearing nothing at all. She felt very daring and sophisticated.

She glanced at the
other garments on the bed. Drawers! For a woman! Pink ones, with fine French
lace around each knee. She had never seen anything so scandalous in her life.
Drawers were male attire. For a female to wear them would be truly shocking.
Miss Fisher would have fainted at the very notion. Tallie picked up the drawers
and held them against her. She ought not to… but her husband had instructed her
to wear them.

Quickly she bent, and
with some difficulty she pulled on the drawers.

They felt very
peculiar. She had never felt her bottom and legs so enclosed, so restricted. It
was indeed very shocking. Tallie rather liked the feeling.

But however would she
manage when she had to… She pulled the drawers away from her body and peered
down inside them. Good heavens! There was a slit. How very shocking! But
practical, she supposed.

A knock on the door
made her dart behind the screen in a panic.

“Qui est-ce que?”

The door opened. It
was her husband.

“I came to see
whether the… er… things fitted.”

Tallie, blushing,
nodded from behind the safety of her screen.

“Yes, thank you. They
do.”

“Well, let me see
them,” he said a little impatiently.

Blushing furiously,
Tallie took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen.

Magnus’s eyes
narrowed as he took in the picture of his bride dressed in nothing but fine
undergarments. His mouth dried as he noted the way the fine silk of the chemise
did nothing to hide the creamy swell of her breasts or the faint dark pink of
her small thrusting nipples. He dropped his gaze to her hips and frowned in
surprise, as he saw what appeared to be pink drawers under her petticoat.

He had not actually
selected the garments himself, had simply given the manageress of the
establishment an order for the finest, most fashionable underclothes Paris
could provide. So the drawers were a shock. He had heard that some women were
wearing them, not just women of the demimondaine —ladies, too, but these were
the first he had seen.

“Take off your
petticoat,” he said in a deep, husky voice. Tallie undid the tapes, took a deep
breath, closed her eyes and dropped the petticoat. It pooled in a whisper
around her feet.

Magnus felt all the
breath leave his body at the sight of his wife dressed in intimate male attire.
A feminised version of male attire, to be sure, but no male had ever looked
like that. He had never seen anything so erotic in his life. The drawers were
gathered at her knees and he wondered how far he could run his hands up inside
them.

The delicate material
hugged her thighs and her skin glowed beneath the fine weave. The drawers
bunched slightly at the apex of her thighs over a shadowy, unmistakably
feminine ve shape, and then pulled tighter against the slight swell of her
stomach.

“Turn around,” he said
huskily. Slowly she turned, her eyes still clenched shut. Magnus stared. The
drawers hugged her rounded bottom and hips and suddenly he longed to see her
bending over.

“You have dropped
your new petticoat on the floor,” he said hoarsely, and she bent to gather it
up. The material pulled tight across her bottom and Magnus could stand no more.
He embraced her from behind, running caressing hands up over her body, cupping
her breasts, moulding them, seeking out the hardening nipples.

“Magnus!” Tallie
squeaked in surprise. “It is the daytime.”

Ignoring that, he
turned her in his arms and lifted her onto the bed, his hands feverishly
exploring her scandalously clothed body. He ran his palms up under the knees
and gloried in the smooth, satiny feel of her thighs. He bent down and suckled
her hard pink nipples through the silk of the chemise and felt her shudder
beneath him. He ran his hands down over her backside and up between her legs.

“Aha!” he exclaimed
triumphantly as he found the slit. His hands caressed her and he frowned as he
felt her stiffen.

“But you said the
modiste was coming soon,” said his wife through gritted teeth.

“Damn the modiste!”
He caressed her more gently, determined she would, this time, participate in
his passion.

“But—”

“The modiste can wait!”
he growled, annoyed with her hesitation. He continued to stroke and caress her
with one hand, fumbling with his own clothes until he was free of their
restraint, and then passion overcame his control and he surged into her and was
lost.

Tallie clenched her
teeth and hung on, determined she would not disgrace him by moving or calling
out. It was getting harder and harder for her to behave as she knew she should.
Her husband’s desire for her thrilled her, and she probably would have wept
with joy —if only she didn’t have to concentrate so hard on controlling her own
recalcitrant body. But it was so very exciting. Tallie locked her legs into a
stiff line and repeated the usual words over and over in her head. It was the
only way she could concentrate on her duty to him.

The rest of the day
passed in a whirl. The modiste, Mademoiselle Celestine, arrived —luckily a
little late— with an entourage of assistants who draped, pinned, snipped and
pulled as they discussed, with much hand-waving and Gallic imprecation, exactly
how milady should be attired. Tallie was utterly scandalised by the new French
fashions.

They seemed to her to
consist of nothing but a few wisps of gauze or muslin, and she felt almost
naked wearing them. But the modiste and her assistants laughed and assured her
everything was perfectly comme il faut, and milady didn’t wish to appear dowdy,
did she?

Tallie looked
doubtfully down at her almost naked chest and the transparent veil of
embroidered muslin covering the rest of her and thought that milady might
indeed prefer to be dowdy if that was the only alternative. It was one thing to
appear almost naked in front of her husband —she was becoming accustomed to
that— but she could not imagine wearing these… these little wispy things out in
public. But she was assured she must, absolument, and she supposed when in Rome…
or Paris. However, at that point Magnus entered the room.

“Just thought I’d see
how—” He came to an abrupt halt, took one long, burning look at Tallie’s flimsy
new gown and snapped, “No! It will not do. Not at all.”

“Oh, but, milord—”
began Mademoiselle Celestine.

He strode forward and
felt the fine embroidered muslin in long, disdainful fingers.

“Too thin, too
flimsy. Shoddy goods.”

“Mais, non, milord,”
gasped Mademoiselle Celestine, horrified. “It is of the very finest—”

“No matter.” He
brushed off her explanations. “I should have made my requirements clearer. My
wife requires much thicker clothing than this.” He flicked the material
scornfully. “You would not think it to look at her, but she has a very delicate
constitution—”

Tallie gasped in
indignation.

“She catches cold at
the slightest draught and I will not allow her to risk her health for the sake
of mere a la modalite. No, mademoiselle I wish Lady d’Arenville to be warmly
and decently clothed, with high-necked gowns in thick, warm fabric.”