Tangled (14 page)

"I suppose you are right," he said, frowning at the almost threadbare upholstery of the carriage. No, there really was no point, he thought. Not unless one could do something about it. Some events of the past were irrevocable. Feeling guilt was pointless.

Except that guilt about some things was not something one could shrug off at will.

There was a general air of neglect about Stedwell. The massive gateposts were surmounted by stone lions—or had been. One lay in the grass beside its flat-topped post and looked as if it had lain there for a long time. The iron gates stood open. The square lodge was empty. One window, devoid of glass, was boarded up. Grass grew long on the banks of the river they had to cross to reach the house, almost obscuring the water. The grass stretching before the main house was tidy, but more in the way one might expect a spring meadow to be tidy than a lawn. Daisies grew in gay profusion. Trees to the west of the

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house had been allowed to crowd too close to it. Branches obscured some of the long western windows. Grass was growing in several places amongst the gravel of the terrace fronting the house.

And yet the house itself looked as sturdy and as picturesque as David remembered it. Only a hundred years old, it had been built of gray stone in the best style of the eighteenth century. The central section had been designed in imitation of a Roman triumphal arch, its four massive columns topped by classical deities apparently striding forward to victory. Long-windowed wings stretched to either side with a second story above. Wide stone steps led up to the front doors.

The marble hall, two stories high, was clean and tidy, though David was not permitted a good look. Mrs. Matthews, his housekeeper, was there to greet them and to present the staff, most of them newly hired, all lined up stiffly to greet their new master and mistress.

David would have nodded and smiled pleasantly at them and moved on, but Rebecca had other ideas. She approached the line of servants and moved along it, smiling and exchanging a few words with each servant. Frightened looks from the younger ones turned to smiles as she moved along. David followed her example. Oh, yes, he thought, he needed a woman in his home to teach him something about gracious living. There had been no woman at Craybourne while he was growing up.

His lordship and her ladyship would wish to see their rooms and refresh themselves before a late tea in the drawing room, Mrs.

Matthews said as she led them through the stairway arch and up the broad stairway at last. The carpet on the stairs was faded and worn, David noticed. Dinner would be served at seven, the housekeeper explained, if that met with her ladyship's approval. The chef was new and had been brought from London at a moment's notice. He came well recommended.

Seven o'clock would do very well, Rebecca assured Mrs. Matthews.

Rebecca's bedchamber was extremely shabby and gloomy despite the fact that it faced the front of the house and late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the window.
Curtains and bedhangings that had once been blue were now a nondescript gray. So was the carpet. But that was not the worst of it.

"I am afraid the mattress was found to be mildewed with the damp when we came to ready it for you, my lady," Mrs. Matthews said, trying to coax the curtains wider at the window in order to dispel more gloom. "There was no time to replace it. I have prepared another room for you, my lady, just in case, but—" She glanced significantly at David.

But this room connected with the master bedchamber and they were newly weds, her look said.

"It does not matter, Mrs. Matthews," he said. "My wife will instruct you in the days to come on changes to be made. In the meantime she will be sharing the master bedroom with me." He spoke matter-of-factly and crossed the room to look down on flat lawns and ancient trees and the river beyond with a three-arched stone bridge that had been hardly noticeable as they had crossed it a short while ago in the carriage. It felt strange calling Rebecca "my wife." It still seemed unreal.

"It is a well-shaped room," Rebecca said calmly from behind him.

"It will be cozy in time, Mrs. Matthews. Does this door lead to my dressing room?''

"Yes, my lady," Mrs. Matthews said, opening it. "There is warm water on the washstand, and your trunks will have been carried up already. The other door leads into the master bedchamber."

David followed them through the dressing room to the room he had occupied on the few occasions when he had visited his home. It was large—twice as large as Rebecca's room—with wine-colored draperies, gold-and-wine bedcovers, and a Turkish carpet. All looked as if they had seen better, brighter days. But the mahogany furniture gleamed, and there was a fire burning in the grate despite the fact that it was a warm August day outside. Obviously there had been dampness to dispel here too.

"Thank you, Mrs. Matthews," Rebecca said. "Tea will be served in the drawing room?''

"Whenever you are ready, my lady," the housekeeper said, inclining her head and turning to leave.

David watched his bride as she waited for Mrs. Mat-

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thews to leave. He had intended all along that they would occupy the same bedchamber. He had never thought that the custom of a husband and his wife occupying separate rooms would suit him. He had never pried into the bedroom habits of his relatives and acquaintances and did not know, for example, whether his father slept all night with Louisa. He did not know what Julian had done or what Rebecca had expected.

Was she shocked, he wondered, at the turn of events that apparently gave them no choice? Embarrassed? Upset? Accepting?

Was it what she expected anyway? One could not tell with Rebecca.

She was always—almost always—so thoroughly the lady that it was impossible to know what her feelings on any matter were just by looking at her.

"I'll wash my hands and face, David," she said, turning to him with the calm dignity that almost never deserted her. "I'll not change my dress if you will excuse me since it is already rather late for tea. Will you knock on my door in ten minutes' time?"

"Yes," he said. He wondered if she was as aware as he that they were a bride and groom alone together for the first time in their bedchamber. If she was, she did not show it.

"Tea will be very welcome, won't it?" she said as he strode past her to open the door into her dressing room.

"Yes, very," he agreed and closed the door again behind her.

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Perhaps if she hurried, Rebecca had thought at first, she could be out of her dressing room and decently in bed before David appeared.

But though she had undressed and washed and donned her nightgown—decently high-necked and long-sleeved—in something of a hurry, she had lost time over her hair. She always wore it loose to bed even though it was more than waist length and would be easier to comb in the mornings if she kept it confined; but it was more comfortable to wear it loose.

She had always worn it loose during the nights of her first marriage. She had never thought of doing otherwise. She did not know why she had given the matter a thought now except that she watched herself absently in the mir-

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ror as she brushed through it—she had dismissed her maid—and saw herself suddenly through someone else's eyes. Through a man's eyes. She looked—wanton.

She could not go to David with her hair hanging loose down her back. She would feel—naked. The thought made her flush painfully and she dropped her brush in order to gather up her hair and start braiding it. It was not easy to braid such thick, long hair when she could not stand behind herself to do it. It took three tries before she had it plaited to her satisfaction.

And so by the time she opened the door into the master bedchamber, turning the handle slowly and pulling the door quietly toward her as if she thought that quietness was going to help anything, he was there before her, standing at one of the windows looking out, wearing a brocaded dressing gown. She felt deeply mortified that she had not thought to put one on herself.

It was a situation very new to her. Julian had always come to her in her own room, always after she was in bed. She could not remember a time when he had come to her before. She busied.herself with closing the dressing room door as quietly as she had opened it, while David turned from the window toward her.

She did not know what to do. She did not know whether to cross calmly to the bed, without even looking at him, and climb in—but which side was to be hers?— or whether to stay where she was and await instructions. She felt gauche and embarrassed. She felt like a virgin bride again.

And how was she to sleep beside him all night? Julian had never been in her bed for longer than ten or fifteen minutes at a time.

Fortunately she did not have to make any decision or even reveal her indecision. He came striding across the room toward her. Oh, dear God, it felt wrong to be in a bedroom with David, both of them in their nightclothes. Where was Julian? Her mind actually thought the thought in one blank moment of panic.

"Rebecca." He took both her hands in his—she had not realized how like ice they were until they were in his warm ones. He raised them one at a time to his lips.
"You will not regret today. I will see to it that you will not regret the decision you have made."

She already regretted it. Had regretted it from the moment when she had given in to temptation and said yes. And yet the alternative had been emptiness and dependence. It would be all right, she told herself. Just let the next few minutes be over with so that she could know she had twenty-four hours in which to adjust her mind to her new role and responsibilities before it was all to face again tomorrow night. And the next and the next.

Really it should not be so bad. Not painful. Only a little uncomfortable and humiliating. But it was her main marriage duty.

And she had married him quite freely that morning. She looked into his eyes.

"And I will do likewise for you, David," she said. Should she now release her hands and cross to the bed? She wished she were there already so that she could have calmed her breathing before he came to her.

"You are nervous," he said, releasing her hands for her and setting his own on her shoulders. "You do not need to be, Rebecca. I'll not hurt you."

His eyes were very blue. She had not had to tip her head so far back to look up at Julian. She felt very helpless. "I know you won't, David," she said. "But I think it is natural to be nervous. Forgive me."

He lowered his head and kissed her. She was taken by surprise.

Kissing was something that she and Julian had done in places other than the bedchamber. It had been part of their love and romance, the sort of physical closeness she had enjoyed. Bed had been for something else. It had been for his enjoyment alone. Her first instinct now was to pull away in bewilderment and fright. But David was her husband and she did not want to compare. She must not compare.

He had a right to do with her what he wished.

His lips were warm and slightly parted, their pressure light. They moved caressingly over hers. She realized suddenly that her hands were touching the smooth brocade at his waist. She could feel the fabric too with the tips of her breasts and with her thighs.

"Isn't the braid uncomfortable when you lie on it?" he asked.

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She stared dazed into his eyes before the meaning of his words penetrated her mind. "I don't usually braid it at night," she said before she could think of a more suitable reply.

"Just for your wedding night?" His eyes smiled briefly.

"I did not know what you would wish," she said.

His mouth touched hers again, unmistakably open this time, as his hand came behind her head and the labor of the past half hour was undone in seconds. She felt her hair fall loose and felt his hands twine in it.

"Rebecca," he said, not taking his mouth quite away from hers,

"this is what I wish." He lifted his head. "Come to bed."

She calmed herself by looking at the clock on the mantel.

Twenty-five minutes past ten. By twenty-five minutes to eleven, twenty to at the latest, it would be all over for tonight. She would be able to settle for sleep on her side of the bed, knowing that she had done her duty, that she had allowed him his conjugal rights without shrinking.

She lay flat on the bed, drawing deep breaths and letting them out silently through her mouth as he removed his dressing gown and turned out the lamp. There was still light from the fire, which had been built up to counter any damp that might still linger after the long inoccu-pancy of the room.

He lay down beside her instead of pushing up her nightgown and coming immediately on top of her as Julian had always done. But she would not compare. She must not compare. And she must not—oh, she must not think of Julian now. All men must have different ways of taking their pleasure. She must not expect it to be the same. She must learn to accept David's way.

Ten minutes. Only ten. Probably less. It was usually less. Ten minutes at the outside.

He raised himself on one elbow and leaned over her to kiss her again. His mouth brushed hers, opened over hers, deepened the pressure. She spread her palms against the mattress as she felt his tongue press lightly against the seam of her lips and then push through and curl up behind her upper lip. There was a great gush of sensation that had her almost clawing at the bed. His tongue

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brushed back and forth across her clamped teeth until she realized in sudden shock that he expected her to open her mouth.

She kept herself calm. Nine minutes. Perhaps even eight. He was her husband. He had the right. It was her duty to submit. She opened her mouth with slow reluctance. And felt his tongue slide inward and out again. He moved his mouth to her chin and her throat.

Let it happen quickly,
she pleaded silently.
Let it be over with. Let
him raise my nightgown soon and come on top of me. Let it be over soon.