The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (13 page)

“
Here,” Derek said. “Take these.”

The boy’s eyes widened in startled surprise.
He stared at the mink-lined gloves. “But—”

“It’s all right. I don’t
need them anymore.”             

Chapter
Fourteen

The collective fragrance of women—Calla had almost forgotten how comforting it could be. As she breathed in the lovely, powdery aroma of Madame LeReau’s shop, she could almost believe she was back in the
cramped, cluttered bedroom she shared with her sisters. Layers of soft feminine scents hung in the air. Traces of the perfumes worn by previous customers mingled with the delicate waft of hothouse roses, the sweet vanilla aroma of the biscuits Madame served, and the spicy tang of ginger tea. 

Everywhere she looked, she was greeted by warm shades of pinks and rose—from the broad striped silk that blanketed the walls, to the richly pat
terned Aubusson rug, to the plush velvet upholstery on the delicate settees. Whispers of women’s voices drifted through the hall, accompanied by the echoes of soft laughter.

It was a perfect haven from the masculine hustle and bustle of the outside world, a feminine refuge from the offensive smells, frigid air, and barrage of loud noises that assaulted one on the streets of
London. Calla didn’t realize until that moment how pent-up her nerves had been. She relaxed immediately, letting herself be ushered into the main salon for her appointment with Madame LeReau.

Calla, whose experience with French modistes was admittedly limited, was nonetheless surprised by the shop’s owner. She had anticipated a stern-faced taskm
aster with a critical demeanor. Instead she was greeted with genuine warmth by a short, plump woman with an easy smile and dark, mischievous eyes.

“If you’ll come this way, Lady Keating,” she said. “I have
reserved a private salon for you.”

Within minutes, Calla found herself stripped down to her plain cotton chemise, drawers, and stockings. Madame surveyed her with a cool, clinical eye, her lips pursed in thought. Turning, she spoke in rapid-fire French to her assistants,
two young women dressed in simple charcoal gowns, over which they each wore a multi-pocketed pink apron bulging with pin cushions, spools of thread, scissors, and various necessary accoutrements of the trade.

“We will start with the undergarments,” Madame declared.

“Thank you,” Calla said, “but that’s not necessary. I’ve really just need a gown or two.”

“Of course
,
cherie
. We will look at that later. First we must begin with a proper foundation.” Her assistants stepped forward, each pushing a wooden rack fitted with clever little wheels. “Gowns are for you,” Madame continued. “How you present yourself to the world. Undergarments are for your husband. How you present yourself to him. So. What does he like?” Madame moved to the first rack and lightly brushed her hand over a row of prim white shifts bedecked with ribbons, lace, and bows. “Little girl innocence, perhaps? The virgin to conquer night after night?”

Calla’s expression must have revealed her mortification, for Madame gave a soft chuckle.

“There is no shame in it,
cherie
. It is all a fantasy, a game played between a husband and wife.”

“I see.” Calla nibbled her lower lip as she considered the garments. While she had been a virgin when she’d come to Derek, she didn’t sense that he’d particularly relished that fact. He’d treated her gently, of course, but that had been the extent of it. The combustible heat they’d generated had sprung from some other source. He did not seem keen on deflowering young virgins, nor did she believe he spent his days lusting after schoolgirls.

“No,” she said.

Madame LeReau gave a matter-of-fact nod and moved to the next rack. “The seductress, perhaps?” She nodded at an array of black brocade bustiers and crimson silk corsets, some garments so sheer they were barely there at all, while others were
outfitted with sleek leather cording, fur trim, and metal hooks and eyelets that looked vaguely dangerous.

Calla’s brows soared heavenward. “Women actually wear that?”

A knowing smile curved Madame LeReau’s lips. “You would be surprised,
cherie
. My clients include some of the most prim and proper ladies of the ton, including several notable dowagers.”

Well. T
hat would certainly keep Calla occupied if she grew bored at an evening’s entertainment—discerning which society matron wore such scandalous underthings beneath her gown. Would the look on a woman’s face give her away? Or was it perhaps the way her husband looked at her that made her choice apparent?

Madame cocked her head and peered at her expectantly. “Yes,
cherie
?”

“No,” Calla replied. “Not for me.”

“Very well.” Madame clapped her hands and shooed the rack from the room. Her assistants rolled it away, and then brought in another group of undergarments. Calla was immediately drawn to the shimmering array of colors. Colors that shifted with the light and melted into one another with graceful fluidity. Rich, complicated hues that were impossible to define, but reminded her of the Indian horizon at dawn, before the midday heat bleached the sky white as bone.

Yes. Those were for her.

Moving instinctively, Calla stepped forward and brushed her hand over the cool silks and satins. At Madame’s urging, she allowed herself to be laced into one exquisite corset after another. A few had matching garters and drawers, others were worn on their own. The garments were distinctly feminine—lifting her breasts, nipping in her waist, and rounding her hips. They displayed her natural assets to full advantage and gave her a quiet sense of power and confidence.

Madame LeReau nodded approvingly. “Yes. One can tell if a woman is wearing the right undergarments simply by watching the way she moves. You must be as beautiful beneath your gowns as you are with them on.”

Calla glanced in the looking glass, startled by what she saw. The woman who stared back at her was every bit as lovely as her sisters. In Calcutta, her siblings had been the undisputed beauties. She’d enjoyed watching them fuss, primp, and pamper as the male suitors flocked to their door for the privilege of courting them. Her satisfaction had been found in running the household from behind the scenes, quietly wielding her power in the background.

But as she considered that, Calla wondered if her motives were perhaps not so altruistic. Between her mother’s helplessness and her father’s absence, she had been largely left to her own devices. Her drab attire and prim demeanor had rendered her nearly invisible,
giving her liberty to do as she liked. In truth, she had reveled in the freedom of her relative obscurity.

While she was being honest with herself, there was another truth that had to be faced. She had never met a man in
Calcutta who stirred her the way Derek did. She had never had a reason to seek a man’s attention. Until now.

The sensation of dressing herself to please her husband excited her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Rather than question it, Calla let herself be swept away, caught up in the luscious, harem-l
ike atmosphere of Madame LeReau’s, where the only duty a woman had was to make herself desirable to a man.

As she surveyed the selection of ready-made gowns Madame’s assistants carried in, her gaze shot past the demure pastels bedecked with ruffles and bows, lingering instead on a grouping of richly colored velvets and silks. There she hesitated, sending a questioning glance Madame’s way.

“What is right for one woman is not right for another. Do not be afraid to define yourself,
cherie
. Choose what you like.”

Calla
drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “Those,” she said.

Gowns that would no longer allow her to hide in a crowd, but would announce her presence boldly. Gowns designed to entice and enthrall. Gowns that would not allow a man to dismiss her quite as easily as her husband had earlier that morning. At that thought, a small, satisfied smile curved her lips.

She chose a velvet claret saturated with color, deeper than ruby, but not so garish as to be called purple. A rich indigo with just enough hints of iridescent peacock blue to make it interesting. A vibrant emerald gown trimmed with ebony lace, and a gown of shimmering, liquid gold. Lastly, a heavenly cream silk brocade that fairly sculpted itself to her body.

Derek’s words drifted through her thoughts.
Buy anything you like, so long as it is both exquisite and expensive.

S
he had certainly accomplished that. Furthermore, if Madame was correct in saying a woman defined herself by the clothing she wore, she had done that, too. Bold and brave to the outside world, but softer and vulnerable beneath, where only Derek could see.

As she waited for her cloak and gloves to be retrieved, she considered her purchases. Only a few minor alterations were necessary, so th
e garments would be delivered to her by early evening. Standing at the threshold of Madame’s shop, sudden doubt assailed her.

“Will I be in fashion?” she asked.

Madame LeReau brought up her chin, triumph blazing in her dark eyes. “You will make the fashion, Lady Keating.”

Chapter Fifteen

Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d
felt so irritated. Beyond irritated, actually. Nearly ready to crush the skull of a man he considered one of his best friends. All because of the way Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, was smiling at Calla. Not leering at her, not touching her, just
smiling
at her.

The trouble was, Derek knew that smile.
He had watched Jonathon employ it on countless occasions to entice all manner of women, from lowly barmaids to lofty duchesses, to his bed. In their raunchier past, he and Jonathon had even shared a woman—not on the same night, but close enough. It hadn’t bothered Derek in the least that they had both courted and bedded the woman within days of each other. The three of them had even enjoyed a sophisticated laugh about it.

But Derek wasn’t laughing now. Bloody hell, Calla was
his
.

Worst of all, he had no one to blame for his predicament but himself. He had inv
ited Brooksbank for a casual supper to discuss a joint business venture, something he’d done on countless other occasions. But all notions of commerce were driven from his mind when his bride drifted downstairs dressed in a gown of rich indigo blue. A gown that displayed a mouth-watering amount of décolletage, encircled her slim waist, hugged the graceful swell her hips, and swirled about her ankles with such natural fluidity she appeared to be walking on air.

Good God.
Apparently her afternoon at Madame LeReau’s had been successful. He had wanted Calla when she’d appeared at the London House dressed in the garb of a traveling missionary. This was simply too much.

Calla
effortlessly slipped into the role of hostess, presiding over the table with warmth and grace, ensuring that the meal was properly served and conversation flowed smoothly. They touched on weather, politics, the state of trade, foibles of the wealthy and titled. A footman removed the beef course and set a plate of pickled vegetables before each of them. Calla lifted her fork and smiled at their guest. “I understand you and my husband met at Eton.”

“Yes,” Jonathon replied.
“Though I suppose ‘met’ isn’t precisely the term for it.
Collided
would be more apropos.”

“Oh?”

Ignoring Derek’s warning glance, Jonathon baldly continued, “Fisticuffs.”

“You fought
one another?” Calla looked appalled.

“
With all the fury contained within our scrawny, thirteen-year-old bodies.”

“
But…why?”

“
What choice did I have?” Jonathon replied with a shrug. With a cocky grin, he lifted his wineglass and gestured in Derek’s general direction. “Just look at him: a dark, brooding, hulk daring to trespass on the sacred, glittering shores of Eton. It was my duty—handsome, intelligent, wealthy, and titled young lord that I was—”

“I could think of a few other adjectives
,” interjected Derek.

“T
o defend our territory against all manner of unwelcome foreign invaders,” Jonathon finished without missing a beat. 

“What happened?” Calla asked.

“I trounced him.”

“Not precisely the way I remember it,” Derek
returned dryly.

Jonathon dismissed his objection with a casual wave of his hand
and continued to address Calla. “He may appear a scoundrel of the first order, but you needn’t worry. Once you get to know Keating, he’s nearly tolerable. Despite all rumors to the contrary.” He turned to Derek, his face a mask of innocence. “What is it they call you? The Black Baron? The Dark Peer? Or is it the Dark Baron and the Black Peer? I can never keep it straight.”

“It will be your spine you can’t keep straight unless you cease.”

Jonathon
gave a good-natured laugh and dutifully steered the conversation in a more benign direction, regaling Calla with stories of the daring pranks they’d pulled at Eton, moving from there to the juvenile absurdities they’d engaged in once they’d reached young adulthood (when they certainly should have known better). He skirted dangerously close to the topic of their ribald nights spent drinking, gambling, and womanizing, but upon receipt of Derek’s warning glower, seemed to think better of it and asked instead, “What do you miss most about India?”

Calla
tilted her head to one side and considered the question. “Well—aside from my family, of course—I suppose it would be the chaos.”

Derek frowned. “The chaos?”

She turned to look at him, her deep blue eyes sparkling. “You do remember, don’t you? How each day brought such endless possibilities.” She released a soft, wistful breath. “I never knew what a ship would bring to into port, or what would be for sale in the market from one day to the next. It was always something different. Consider my last week in Calcutta. On Monday morning I rounded a corner to find a vendor selling gorgeous lengths of silk. Wednesday morning the man offered fine wines for sale. And on Friday…”

“Yes?”
Jonathon prompted. “What was he selling on Friday?”

“A tiger,” she gushed
. “He had a fully grown, male tiger for sale. The creature was leashed by chain to his stall. I came around the corner so fast it nearly had me for breakfast.”

Derek smiled.
His gaze drifted over her face, noting how the flickering candlelight warmed the pale ivory of her skin and enhanced the ripe cherry fullness of her lips. His attention moved to the scar that ran just below her jawline. He fought a ridiculous urge to pull her into his lap and brush his tongue along the length of that scar, to stroke her and pet her and kiss her until she was writhing atop his thighs, her breath coming fast and hot against his ear.

“And
London?” Jonathon asked, interrupting his fantasy. “What do you like best about our fair city?”

“Well, that’s easy.”
Impish delight shone in her eyes as she replied, “The fact that I won’t round a corner and find myself face-to-face with a hungry tiger.”

Derek and Jonathon shared an appreciative laugh.
She’d thoroughly charmed them both. More than that. She had them both eating out of the palm of her hand. Derek couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever enjoyed a meal as much.

“You’re not what I expected,” Jonathon remarked
after a moment, eyeing her curiously.

“
Really? What did you expect?”

“
I’m not sure,” he mused. He lifted his fork, absently toying with the tines as his gaze moved from Calla to Derek. “You can imagine how astonishing it was to learn that Keating had a fiancé hidden away all these years. Particularly one as lovely as you.”

“She wasn’t hidden away,
” Derek returned, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“
The truth is,” Calla said, “our engagement came as much a surprise to Lord Keating as it did to anyone.”

“Oh?”

She turned toward Derek, her lips curved in that wry, engaging smile that had enchanted him the first time he’d seen it. “Shall I tell him?”

“Yes,” Jonathon answered for
Derek, leaning forward. “You certainly shall.” He sent Calla a conspiratorial wink. “Whatever the secret is, I can assure you it’s safe with me.”

“There is no secret,”
Derek interrupted, instantly annoyed by the implied intimacy of Jonathon’s wink. “Ours was an arranged marriage. My wife simply arrived before the missive informing me that she was en route.”

“I see,
” Jonathon replied. His rakish grin returned. “Pity no one ever sends me such a delectable package.”

Calla blushed prettily. Before Derek could throw his guest out on his ear for his outrageous remark, Calla
leaned toward Jonathon and announced, “As it happens, I have three unattached sisters at home.”

“Matchmaking, are you?”

“Shamelessly.”

Jonathon gave a light chuckle and leaned back in his chair.
“All right, then.” He sipped his wine, regarding her steadily over the rim of his glass. “Are they all as lovely as you?”

“Far more attractive, actually.”

“Not anywhere near the same caliber,” Derek countered.

Calla
blinked in surprise, then turned toward Derek and gave a thoughtful frown. “That is either a charming compliment to me, or a shameful slight against my sisters. I can’t decide which.”

Derek inclined his head. “Naturally I meant it as a compliment of the highest order.”

Calla hardly looked mollified, but he supposed couldn’t blame her. His words had sounded stiff and pompous even to his own ears.

“Come, now, Keating
,” Jonathon prompted. “Surely even you can do better than that.”

Derek
opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly closed it, feeling as awkward as a schoolboy goaded into declaring his devotion for a schoolyard crush. Ridiculous. He’d courted countless women before Calla and wooed them all with lavish tributes to their beauty, their grace, their charm. His words had slipped effortlessly from his tongue, empty tokens of praise and affection that had garnered him entrance to their beds.

But not now. Now that he needed the words, now that they actually
meant something
, they lodged in his throat, refusing to come out. He’d used phrases of seduction so freely he’d cheapened them, squandered their value entirely. He had nothing left to say to his wife.

Calla
forced a tight smile and waded bravely into the ensuing silence. “It’s not necessary,” she replied, attempting a tone of breezy cheerfulness. She gave a light shrug. “As my husband said, ours was an arranged marriage, not a love match. That suits me perfectly. Truth be told, I’m not unhappy.”

Jonathon’s eyes widened.
“Not unhappy,” he echoed. He broke into a wide smile. “Yes, Keating does have that rapturous effect on women.”

Derek ignored the jibe.
“I have words,” he said, looking directly at Calla, “but they are only for your ears.”

H
e switched to Hindi, reaching back once again to the language of their childhood. A language Jonathon didn’t share. Thereby reducing the evening to just the two of them, as he’d wanted to do from the moment he watched Calla drift downstairs looking like something out of a dream.

“You are the sun that warms my day and the moon that lights my night,” he began, reciting
the lyrics to an ancient Indian love song. He was amazed he remembered the song at all. He had never been a sentimental man. Yet the words seemed to have buried themselves in some deep, forgotten chamber in his heart, waiting for just this moment.

“
You are the sky above my head and the earth beneath my feet. You are the stars that guide me and the sea that carries me home. You are my wife.”

Calla’s eyes brimm
ed with emotion. She took a deep breath, then let out a soft, slow sigh. A single word, like the note of a song, slipped from her lips. “Oh.”

“Very nice,” Jonathon drawled. “I’ve no idea what you sa
id, but perhaps you could teach me to mimic the words. They seem to be very effective.”

Derek spared him a brief glance, then returned his attention to Calla. “There’s
one other thing you should know,” he continued in Hindi.

“Oh?”

“Your sisters can do better. Trust me.”

Cal
la gave a sharp peal of laughter. Her eyes darted toward Jonathon, then she clapped her hands over her mouth and composed herself.

“
Excellent,” Jonathon drawled. “Evidently you were able to find some note of humor at my expense. How delightful.”

Derek shrugged. As Jonathon had been goading him all night, he felt little remorse for it.

The footman entered and gave a formal bow. “Would you care for coffee and brandy in the front parlor, my lord?”

Unwilling
to postpone the satisfaction of taking Calla to bed another moment, Derek shook his head. “It’s late, and I’m sure our guest would like to depart.”

Jonathon arched one dark golden brow and consulted his pocketwatch.
“Ten o’clock is late?”

“For you it is.”

A knowing smirk touched Jonathon’s lips. “In that case, I suppose I must go.”

“Must you?”
Calla asked.

“Yes,
” Derek said flatly, “he must.”

Jonathon
rose and bent over Calla’s hand. “Lady Keating—”

“Please
, call me Calla.”

“Calla, then.
Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Dismissing the footman, Derek escorted Jonathon to
the front foyer. Jonathon shrugged on his heavy woolen overcoat, then paused to collect his thoughts. His expression sobered as he looked at Derek. “You’ve been quite the subject of talk lately.”

“What kind of talk?”

“Rumors that you’ve been stirring up trouble. Spending too much time down at the docks. There, and in the East End.””