The Rebel Bride (19 page)

She observed with a feeling of vague ill-humor that Julien seemed to be enjoying himself, his fluent French blending with that of the small, dark, mustachioed chef. She didn’t particularly find favor with the innumerable references to
la belle comtesse
and remained silent and aloof, her lips curled disdainfully. The two men laughed. In all probability, they were exchanging ribald jokes. No, she thought quickly, Julien would never do that. Somehow she simply knew that.

When Monsieur André finally bowed himself out of the room, an undisguised knowing look in his black eyes, Kate felt the urge to fling her delicate fillet of fish with wine sauce in his face. Damned foreigner. She should have refused to eat, but she was so very hungry.

Julien looked across the table at his wife. She looked exhausted, the shadows beneath her beautiful eyes emphasized by the white satin of her wedding gown. As he savored a bit of the light, flaky fish, he said, more to himself than to her, “It would be interesting to pit Monsieur Andre’s skill against that of François.”

“Yes, it would be a fierce competition. I would hope they’d poison each other, for they’re both French and unbearably conceited. François tried once to kill the kitchen cat at St. Clair when poor Tom stole one of his lamb chops.”

“So, you know about my temperamental chef?”

“Yes, but only through the colorful pictures painted
by Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw. Mannering was most upset about Tom. Didn’t you notice that he’s missing a good inch of his tail?” She lowered her head quickly again to her plate. Surely it was a betrayal of herself even to speak to him, to feel even the slightest enjoyment in the kind of banter she’d enjoyed with him so long ago, when he’d pretended to be her friend.

“When we return to London, François can prepare the same dish and you can judge the winner. I didn’t see Tom on my last visit to St. Clair. He always was an ugly bugger, though. Perhaps missing some of that swishing arrogant tail of his improved his appearance.”

She made no answer.

He began to think of how he would approach lovemaking with her. He could not but dismiss the thought after only a moment of weighing her evident exhaustion against his ardent desire for her. Ardent, he thought. What a milquetoast word. What he felt was consuming lust. He wanted her more than he himself could begin to imagine. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to wrap her so tightly against him that they would be as one. Ah, but she was a virgin, an unwilling bride, truth be told, and he imagined that she would likely try to slit his throat if he tried to make love to her.

As if she read his thoughts, she raised her face, and he saw such apprehension in her eyes that any faltering in his determination was effectively stilled.

Once the covers were removed and a bottle of chilled champagne was set in front of Julien, he dismissed the footman.

Kate looked up as the door closed and warily met her husband’s eyes. She simply couldn’t believe she was now married to this man. It seemed as though the footman had locked the door to her prison cell. She had little knowledge of lust and desire, her experience having been confined primarily to the stilted declarations of love proffered by Squire Bleddoes. But she was certain that she read both of these on Julien’s face. Unconsciously her hand stole to her neck.

“Here is your champagne.” Julien handed her a flute.
As he could think of no toast that would not in all likelihood upset her, he simply clicked his glass to hers.

She took a long, deep drink of the champagne and barely managed to restrain a sneeze from the spuming bubbles. Julien refilled her glass. She was beginning to think that champagne was not at all the nasty sort of drink she had once believed, and confirmed her new opinion by quickly downing the second glass. The third glass gave her a certain sense of warmth and light-headedness that dissolved the gnawing fear and the shaky feeling in her stomach. She grew quite warm, both inside and out. Her once-taut nerves began to loosen, and the room, indeed even Julien’s face, took on a pleasant blur.

Julien had never before seen her take more than a few sips of any drink, including the mild orgeat at Almack’s, and as he watched her finish her fourth glass, he grew concerned that she would make herself ill. He gently leaned forward and removed the glass from her fingers.

“Surely you’ve had enough. It’s time for you to retire. It’s been a long day, at least for me and my nerves.”

His nerves.
She very much disliked being disturbed in her foggy haze, and he’d had the gall to say something about
his
bloody nerves. Then he was at her side, his hand firmly gripping her arm. He pulled her to her feet. She weaved uncertainly from the effects of the champagne and, to her horror, leaned heavily against his chest.

“I can see that you are in need of some assistance. I hope I’ve not married a wife who’s a tippler.” He ignored the slight flutter of protest and swung her up into his arms.

“I’m not drunk. It’s
my
nerves. Your nerves indeed.”

He smiled at that, as he carried her through the adjoining door to her room and sat her down on a chair. “Try not to fall off the chair,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled the bell cord.

She huddled in the chair and watched tensely as he spoke in a low voice to the maid. But a moment later she curtsied and Julien left the room.

A small voice deep within her told her that now was her chance to escape. She could render the maid
unconscious and flee. But her mind seemed strangely befuddled, and the door seemed such a great distance away. But it didn’t matter. She forgot the maid, lurched to her feet, grabbed up the train of her wedding gown, and dashed to the door.

T
he damned maid yelped.

Julien was in the bedchamber in an instant, and behind her in the next, his hands firmly against the door over her head. “If you wished to take a stroll, you should have told me.” Slowly he turned her about and studied her upturned face. “No, I believe you’re too tired for a walk. I wouldn’t want the French watch to arrest you as a drunken bride and whisk you away from me. Come, my dear, let Anne put you in your nightgown. I won’t harm you, I swear it. Nor will I come to you tonight. Will you contrive to trust me in this?”

“I don’t believe you. You’re a man and you do anything you wish to do. I don’t want you near me. I—”

“Believe what you wish to. Now, can I trust you not to try to snaggle off again? If you don’t promise me, I myself will stay here and put you in your nightgown. What do you say?”

“I think you’re a bastard.”

“And?”

“I’ll stay.”

He looked at her for another too long moment, patted her cheek, and left.

She stood quietly as the maid, Anne, began to unbutton the many tiny hooks of her wedding gown. The dress dropped to the floor. Next came her petticoats, stockings, slippers, until finally she stood with only her chemise. As if from a great distance, she heard the maid ask her to sit at the dressing table. Her body obeyed the request, and she sat down. The maid unfastened her long hair from its pins, and it uncurled down her back. As the
maid brushed out the tangles, she thought that this was the strangest wedding night she’d ever seen. The young lady had acted odd this afternoon, but now, goodness, she acted as if the devil himself were after her. She was drunk, that was it. She was drunk and she was afraid of her bridegroom, the silly girl. With her French common sense, Anne could see no reason why the lady shouldn’t be excited about the prospect of being bedded by such a handsome gentleman. But the lady was quite young, and in all likelihood innocent. Her maidenly display of modesty was probably just what the English gentleman would wish. She wondered what the groom thought of his bride’s drunkenness.

Anne finished brushing the lady’s hair, slipped the chemise off over her head and found herself staring for a moment at her body. She was delectable, no doubt about that, even though she was very English. All long and white and slender, a nest of auburn curls between her thighs to match the thick hair on her head. The gentlemen would lose his head when he saw her, no doubt about that. At least he would once he got the nightgown off her.
If
he managed to get the nightgown off her. She thought it far more the thing for the lady to await her husband naked in her bed, but the English gentleman had given her explicit orders to put the lady in her nightgown. This she did, fastening the ribbons around the new countess’s throat and straightening her long hair. Finally, according to her instructions, she walked to the adjoining door and lightly tapped on it.

She turned and curtsied to the lady, who was standing, still as a malacca cane, in the middle of the room where she’d left her, seemingly oblivious of her presence. At first the maid had believed her to be only drunk, but now she saw her fear. She felt a stab of pity and quickly sped to her, whispering, “It won’t be of a badness you won’t like, my lady. Your husband, he has that air about him, he knows, that beautiful man, he knows how to do these things you will like. Do come now, and put on a good face to him, a little smile, eh? You might even enjoy yourself once you have the understanding of it.” Yes, he
should be kind, Anne thought, wondering if she would want any kindness from him if she were going to be bedded by him. No, she’d want him urgent and rough, his hands everywhere. She heard his approaching footsteps, darted one last glance at the lady, and left the room.

Julien pulled up short at the sight of her, standing still as a tombstone where the maid had left her, covered from her chin to her feet in the fine white-lawn gown. Her hair fell like soft clouds of rich auburn down her back and over her shoulders. The nightgown was a bit large for her, and it made her appear more like a frightened child than a bride.

He strode over to her, cupped her chin in his hand, and forced her to look up at him.

“You’re beautiful, more delectable than I’d ever imagined, and believe me, I’ve imagined you every which way. But you’re tired, my dear, are you not? And I’m not a pig.”

She nodded mutely, her eyes huge and dark against her white face.

“Come, then, I’m the gallant tonight. You may call me Lancelot, or was it Galahad? Either one will do, I daresay. I won’t get into that bed with you, but know that it tests me, Kate, tests me more than I’ve been tested in my life. But alas, I’m not a monster, nor am I a randy boy. I want you utterly sober and well rested when I come to you. I want you to want me.”

She didn’t move.

“Come, sweetheart,” he said again, and pulled her arm through his.

She was trembling, although the room was quite warm. She tried to still her shaking body, but to no avail. She thought inconsequentially that his brocade dressing gown was very soft to the touch. Her fingers twitched nervously on his sleeve.

He wondered what thoughts were going through that drunken mind of hers. Her face was pale, far too pale, and he felt her fingers clutching at his arm. He gently disengaged her hand and lifted her onto the bed. Lord knew he didn’t intend it, but just lifting her, just feeling her
through the batiste of her nightgown made him want her so much he thought he would die from it. She turned her head away from him on the pillow, and without intending to, he sat down beside her, his hand reaching out to touch her hair, to feel it. Perhaps he even wanted to crush a handful of her beautiful hair against his cheek. He reached out an unsteady hand and stroked the rich auburn hair. It felt like silk, smooth and soft in his hand. She didn’t move. He saw the outline of her full breasts, made more prominent by their rapid rise and fall.

He didn’t think, just acted. She wasn’t too drunk or too tired, no, she couldn’t be, she hadn’t moved, had she, when he’d touched and stroked her hair? Perhaps she was just shy, just waiting for him to take charge. He laid a hand on her breast and began to caress her.

She rolled suddenly away from him, a low cry of panic escaping from her throat. She jerked about and stared at him, her hand out to ward him off, him or the devil, he thought, freezing, his hand still outstretched. He took a deep breath and with a strong effort drew back his hand. “I’ve wanted you too much and for too long. I’m sorry to frighten you. Go to sleep now. Everything will be different in the morning.”

He forced himself to rise. Mechanically he pulled the covers over her. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to reassure her. All he had on his mind was stripping off that bloody nightgown, caressing her breasts with his hands and with his mouth, and feeling her, all of her, those long white legs of hers spreading for him. He shook himself. He said only, “Sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He had meant his words to be calm, but even to his own ears there was a tremor of lust. He drew a deep breath, turned from her bed, and walked slowly to his own room, disbelieving that he’d left her, actually left his bride on their wedding night, that he hadn’t taken her, made her his wife.

Long after she heard him close the door behind him, she drew her knees as close to her chest as she could
and burrowed into the covers for warmth. Her hand stole to her breast, the breast he’d touched. For the first time in her life she became aware of her own womanliness, of the softness of her body, of her differentness, of what she was to him, a man. She could still feel his hand upon her, caressing, wanting her, his fingers stroking through her hair.

A shock of fear ripped through her, and she gulped down a sob. The sound of her own voice brought with it a certain calm, and with forced detachment she tried to examine her fear. She knew that men took total possession of women’s bodies, that they had this long thing between their legs that they stuck into a woman. She saw his hands on her hair, her breasts, and then moving elsewhere on her body. He would touch her everywhere. He would see it as his right as her husband. There was nothing he couldn’t or wouldn’t do to her. She pressed her thighs tightly together.

Strangely, she thought about Julien’s French mistress. Lady Bellingham had let her name slip. What was it? . . . Yvette. How many other women had Julien touched and caressed? How many other women had he possessed? Unbidden, innumerable faceless women rose in her mind, and she pressed her fists against her temples to blot out their images. There was an unaccountable bitter taste in her mouth, and for the moment she encouraged a contemptuous disgust of him, a man, a lecher. She didn’t understand herself, but the contempt was there, deep inside her, for him, for herself, ah, yes, particularly for herself. Hadn’t she allowed him to do just as he had wished with her? Even forcing her to wed him against her will? She saw herself as weak and despicable, capitulating to a will stronger than hers. In vain she tried to excuse herself on the grounds of Julien’s physical threats. She should have fought him, forced him to rely on the drug. Anger at herself welled up within her. She’d been contemptible, a gutless, worthless female, and now she hated herself for it.

She forced herself to be calm again. She sought to understand why she’d lost all will to fight him, why
indeed she had executed his every command. The thought that he’d been right, the thought that she had wanted him to force her gained a foothold in her mind, and anger surged through her again. She forced herself to relive the moments when Julien had carried her, unresisting, and laid her on the bed, when he had stroked her hair, when he had caressed her breast. She sat up in her bed and shook her head in blind confusion.

Her thoughts flew again to Julien’s French mistress. How was she different from that woman? After all, Julien had bought her just as he had Yvette. He would tire of her, just as he had tired of Yvette. That he had married her did not count to his advantage, for she wasn’t so naive as to believe that even the powerful earl of March would attempt to seduce an unmarried lady of quality. No, he’d been forced to wed her. Her own destiny, whatever that might have been, had been wrested from her control the moment he had decided he wanted her. He’d won, and she wondered bitterly how long it would be before he left her to preside alone over his household and search out his next quarry.

She smiled, a mean smile. Undoubtedly Julien now thought her cowed and submissive. Her jaw set itself into a stubborn line as she resolved never again to show weakness. He had compared her to Shakespeare’s Kate. Very well, that’s just what she would become.

Possession of her body would be his next object. She fought back the sudden unreasoning fear that accompanied this thought. Damn him, no. He had made a very expensive purchase, but she would see him in hell before she would allow him to enjoy it. Her life had been a constant battleground since she met him, and it didn’t seem likely to her now that anything would change. Nay, she wouldn’t let it change.

As Julien lay in his own bed, his head propped up on his arms, he reviewed the day’s events with some satisfaction. He was pleased that he had forced Kate to wed him as soon as he had, for he had allowed her to hold on to her pride. He could have waited another
week, but he’d not been able to bring himself to do it. He hadn’t wanted an admission of failure from her. No, he hadn’t wanted her on those terms. In all truth, to Julien their marriage was not a victory over her but rather a natural course of events.

He raised himself on one elbow and blew out the candle beside his bed. He lay back, wondering how long it would be before she would admit to her love for him. At least now she appeared to be more reasonable, and he felt confident that being at his side continually, she would learn to trust him. He planned to begin by explaining his high-handed treatment of her. He would become her friend again. He would speak openly to her of lovemaking, for they were, after all, now man and wife. He had acted precipitately this evening. He had to remember that she was young, innocent, and quite vulnerable, despite her independence, her bravado.

Before dropping off to sleep, he decided to quit Paris on the morrow and remove immediately to Switzerland, to the villa he’d hired in the mountains near Geneva. They would be alone, save for two servants. There they would have time to come to an understanding.

He awoke the following morning light of heart and full of confidence. He patiently bore with a valet provided by the hotel, having given Timmens a congé until his return to England. His coat, at least, was properly pressed. He was impatient to see his bride, and so contented himself with the first result achieved on his cravat. A hotel lackey arrived just as he finished dressing, bearing the hearty English breakfast he’d ordered, hoping to please his new wife.

With a light step and a gleam of anticipation in his eyes, he tapped on the adjoining door. Receiving no immediate answer, he opened the door and stepped into the room.

She was seated at the dressing table, engrossed in the coiffure the maid had achieved. She didn’t turn immediately, but rather patted her hair here and there,
straightened the collar of her gown, all in all making a fine show of ignoring his presence.

He approached her and stood behind her chair so that she could see his reflection in the mirror.

“Good morning.”

She turned slowly in her chair, gazed at him with great indifference, and said, “Good morning to you, sir. I trust you slept well.”