by Edith Layton
“Without her, I hope,” the blond duchess breathed to her husband. “Oh, Warwick, I don’t mean to be cruel, and I’ve no title save for what you gave me at our wedding, but I cannot like her, she’s so…”
“Common?” the duke supplied lightly. “But don’t hesitate to say it, for it’s not a quality of birth, it’s one of breeding and will. I’ve met common countesses and noble beggars, and by the by, the only title I gave you at our wedding that I want you to never forget is ‘love.’” And as she gazed at him with an expression of just such wondering love, he touched her cheek and whispered, “Yes, there is something about weddings. Julian had best beware. He’s too much the gentleman to be rid of her easily, but too much the man to want her now that he knows her well. And as to celebrating weddings”—he smiled, his thin face illuminated with the sort of joy he’d seen now and again, when he couldn’t quite conceal it, on his friend Arden’s face today—“are you sure the doctor said it was safe now…?”
“He did,” she said, understanding at once, for it was what she’d been thinking all day as well, and smiling said, “and you mentioned you’d those new devices to make it even safer…in a way?”
“Oh very well put,” he grinned. “I can hardly say if it’s your tact or your newly restored body which entices me more now, and I agree we ought to try them because two children is blessing enough for this year, but,” he whispered as he led her back to the wedding breakfast, his head bent low so as to tease her without anyone further than her ear knowing why she blushed so nicely, “as to them being ‘new’ devices, I assure you they’ve been around for a few centuries. Why, Cassanova himself, they say, carried some in his wallet…” he lectured, as the wedding guests who noted them reenter the room remarked on the lovely young duchess’ high color.
*
“We’d never have made it so far as my…our home by nightfall,” Arden corrected himself with a smile, “and there’s no sense exhausting the horses and ourselves,” he added as the coach was waved past the gatehouse and slowed as it came in sight of the lovely house set deep in the park. “I’m glad Warwick lent us this place. An inn would be both too impersonal and too easy for some of my old friends to locate. It’s an unhappy tradition in the army to make wedding nights uncomfortable for the groom. This way, by the time they admit we’ve given them the slip, they’ll have drunk themselves under the table even if some are fools enough to try to scour the countryside’s inns for us tonight—especially if they stop at each inn,” he said lightly as he helped her out of the carriage, “but then even I find it hard to believe our friend Warwick inherited so many houses with his title that he could put up the entire lot of them in separate rooms tonight, if they’d asked nicely enough. It is lovely, though, isn’t it?” he asked, nodding in satisfaction at what he saw.
They were no more than a few hours’ ride from London, but the park was alive with birds and its smooth green lawns led to a charming house, half-timbered and surfaced with many small windows that glinted in the late-afternoon sun.
“He sent servants ahead too,” Arden sighed, “so there’ll be a bath waiting. I don’t know about you, Fancy, but I yearn to be out of these constricting clothes…” He stopped then, and as she laughed at him she noted that he grew unusually self-conscious, and for all his sense of humor, never so much as smiled at his unintentional double entendre. Instead, he led her to the house, and took her arm as the housekeeper led them to their rooms.
“Ah, only the one tub here,” he said at once, “but I see there’s an adjoining room, so if you’ll excuse me…”
He sounded suddenly stilted, which he’d not been all through the day—no, she thought in puzzlement, which he’d never been through all their relationship—as he bowed like a stranger before he let himself into the room next door. Weariness. It was simple exhaustion, she thought as she sank back in her steaming tub. She felt it now too, along with the greatest joy she’d ever known.
The greatest joy she’d ever known yet, she amended, grinning at her soapy toes. For she awaited her wedding night with a delicious mixture of excitement, curiosity, eager anticipation, and a dollop of fear to give her patience. She knew, of course, the basics, of the matter, as there’d been a year or two at school when the girls had whispered of little else. And there were those cards, she giggled now, even though surely, hopefully, she thought, sitting bolt upright at the idea, being caricature, some of them were exaggerated. It made no matter, she decided at last, settling down again; nothing that was part of Arden’s person could distress her, as nothing he would do, she was convinced, would ever harm her. She only feared being inadequate to his purposes and expectations. He was an experienced man of the world, and she had only her willingness to learn. But he knew that, she comforted herself as she rose from her bath, and love should count for something, and so she had only to wait for him, she thought, glad that she was between maids as she was between houses right now, for she wanted to be alone to prepare for him.
But it seemed she would spend most of her wedding night alone, even though he was with her. For after she’d perfumed herself entirely and dressed in an elegant but casual flowing gown of midnight blue, he knocked upon her door, and then, himself dressed as nicely as though they were going to pay a social call, he invited her for a walk with him in the gardens. He did know about flowers, she learned, for he lectured to her about them at some length as they strolled in the knot garden, the rose garden, and the kitchen garden until it grew too dim to make out a nasturtium from a delphinium.
Then he took her in to dinner, and made interesting conversation about the wedding they’d just been to, but with little of the high humor that was his hallmark, and with none of the long, lingering glances and sweet smiles that he’d been pleased to visit upon her these last days of their engagement. After several of her jests had gone unmatched, she fell silent, and they sat and watched the fire in the salon grow from blaze to glow before he yawned and arose, and stretched and said it was time, he thought, for bed, since they’d likely to get an early start in the morning.
He left her to change his clothes for bed, and he left her to sit upon her bed and worry, wondering where her Arden had gone tonight. Because it might possibly be that he hadn’t wanted to wed her after all, but had done so because of her situation, and all the longing he’d seen in her eyes.
He closed the door to their connecting rooms and closed his eyes. It had been the most difficult evening of his life, this wedding night of his, and he dreaded the rest of it far more than he’d dreaded the battles he’d faced, at home or abroad. Because he burned for her. Every glance, every touch, every glimpse he got of her added to the heat of desire that threatened to immolate him. And yet each time he gazed at her perfect, fragile beauty, he grew more terrified. He, who’d feared nothing that had ever threatened him before, feared her disillusion with him to the point of sheerest terror. Now, at last, he understood that poor devil, Devlin, for hadn’t he turned just now, mindlessly, to run—from her?
Yes, he told himself as he unbuttoned his shirt, of course she enjoyed his humor and his conversation. And it was altogether possible she liked his temperament and tall tales too. But now their love called for him to involve his body, and although he’d always been proud of certain of its functions before, he blanched at the thought of doing what he most wished to do.
For all his past experience, all the things he knew would please a woman of experience, having to do with matters he excelled in—such as proportions and stamina—were things he believed would not matter to a virgin, or even especially delight her, in fact. He’d never known an untried female, but it would be rather the reverse with one, he’d think. It was a daunting prospect. And this was not just any woman, but his own beloved Francesca. No sooner had he uncovered his powerful, suddenly regrettable body than he flung on a robe and sat down to think.
He never realized, as he did so, that the two other attributes that always went with the ones he noticed—his gentleness and considerat
ion—were the ones his former bedmates had valued just as much. But “monstrous,” “elephantine,” and “enormous,” and all the vulgar epithets he’d ever heard used against a big man ran though his head like the bars of a tune overheard in the street that then refused to leave all day, and he hesitated to begin his marriage now that he was faced with the actuality of it, fearing he’d end her love by doing so.
Oh, yes, he burned, he thought worriedly. But he was a strong man, an iron man, they said, and so, he smiled grimly, his humor stealing back to him in his time of need, perhaps this time he’d have to test his mettle—by dousing his flame just as he’d temper fine steel, plunging it into a basin of cold water, rather than as a human lover ought quench it, by sheathing it in equal heat. For he wasn’t sure she burned as he did, and doubted it, and he wouldn’t sear her tender flesh for all the world, for all his aching yearning. He waited, he brooded; it was, he thought, smiling even in his distress at the incorrigible wit that surfaced to cheer him at such times, certainly not a thing to hurry into.
She went from anxiety to self-doubt to dismay and then to fear for him and finally to a combination of them all, with slow anger and a sense of ill-use capping them, as she sat and waited for him. Because for all she was unsure of herself, she was, inescapably, a lady, and so had some small sense of her own worth. She’d put on a delightful filmy night-rail, but she thought, rising at last and pacing to the connecting door, it would be morning by the time he finally decided to so much as say good night to her. He might have fallen asleep, he might have fallen ill, his wound was only lately healed, after all, and he might, she thought at last as she came to the door, have decided to ride back to London. She must know. She knocked.
“Ah, yes?” he answered immediately.
“Arden,” she asked softly, “are you all right?” “Fine,” he said, from what seemed to be directly behind the door, “just dressing for bed.”
“It’s fairly late…” she said.
“Is it?” he asked.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” she inquired. “Perfectly,” he announced immediately.
“I’m not,” she muttered. “Is there anything amiss at all? Are you coming in to…say good night?” she asked finally, when she heard no reply.
“Oh, yes, soon,” he said with a patently false enthusiasm. “I just lost track of the time.”
“Arden,” she said, beginning to smile, “I thought I was supposed to be doing that. I mean, making excuses from behind the door.” She emitted a hastily stifled but distinct giggle.
The door swung open.
“Wretch,” he said in the first natural accents she’d heard from him all night.
But then he looked down at her and saw the gauzy night-rail, and the way it didn’t quite conceal her high breasts and the way it helped to outline them, as well as the darker halo of shadow that crowned each of them and the patch of deeper mystery beneath, and he looked away, and let out his breath, and said all in a rush, “Good God, I can hardly bear to look at you.”
“Why?” she asked, her eyes widening, suddenly frightened.
“Because I want you so much,” he answered, lost, gazing down at her helplessly.
“But what’s wrong with that?” she asked, disbelieving.
“I don’t want to hurt you, or frighten you, or disillusion you,” he explained painfully. “Ladies have romantic ideas of love, but it’s a matter of bodies as well as souls, and I am rather…a large man, and you are a gentle lady and…”
“And you are a great fool if you think I don’t know that, or if you think I’ll break. I doubt I will,” she said a little tentatively, for he had planted a fear where there wasn’t one before, but then, as she looked up at his yearning face she decided talking would never show her, and so she cast herself upon his great chest and spoke into it as she whispered, “For heaven’s sake, Arden, don’t you want to risk it? I do. I’m a gambler’s daughter, after all. And I do so love you.”
This was more than he could withstand, or would endure. He picked her up as though she were light as a snuffbox, which delighted her, for she was not a small girl, and as he held her, his lips to her hair, he whispered, “Which room?” and she, suddenly shy, giggled. “Yours. I don’t entertain men in my bed.”
He took a long while proving he could see very well in the light of only a few candles, before he gently removed her night-rail to prove he could do more, although by then she was scarcely aware of it, since his touch was so intoxicating. And then he told her in words as well as with his hands and lips of how beautiful she was, and when she was not responding to his great art, when she could think, she was glad of it if it made him do this to her. She’d known of his unexpected grace and gentleness, but never guessed how expert he’d be at the games of love, so much so that he never made her feel foolish or inept as he led her from delight to fear to yearning once more.
His speech was soft, but his body was huge and rock-hard, and when he moved she could feel his muscles bunch and slip beneath his skin, beneath her fingers, but for all his power, he was as delicate and skilled as a master craftsman as he molded her to match his desire. He took far more time than even he had ever done before with this beginning of the culmination of their love, to ensure she wanted him, to be very sure of his ultimate welcome in her smooth, sweet body.
It was when he wasn’t sure he could bear it any longer, long after he’d already brought her to temporary peace with his skill, and long after he’d set her to burning again, that he forgot to hold her so that she couldn’t see him in his need, his robe being dispensed with, long before. And then it was her indrawn breath that called his mistake to his attention.
She gazed at him and then looked up to his face. She had seen his naked back before, of course, and at that time, glimpses of his great chest with its light fuzz of ginger hair, as well. But now she was, although she’d not tell him this, very glad of her father’s gift, for as Arden had said once about the blind man and the elephant, the feel of a thing didn’t prepare one for the look of it. Now she saw that the cards hadn’t lied, or if they exaggerated, then so did he. And so she wasn’t so much shocked as amazed at how she reacted. For she thought, after a moment, that not only was it not so unknown then, after all, and obviously survivable, but it was also all in perfect keeping with the rest of his massive form, and so he was all of a piece to her, glorious in his strength and power in every part. But after she’d wonderingly noted that aloud, and he smiled down at her in love and gratitude, she noted something else, even in the dim room. She giggled, and that stopped his breathing.
“Arden,” she whispered, glancing down quickly to that nether thatch again, “at least one thing’s true, though I’d not have guessed from your head or your chest, but now I do believe your mustache must grow in red, after all.”
And his laughter released the tightly coiled springs of his fear and it fled, and he brought his lips to hers, and his body to hers at last, in joy and unafraid.
He’d prepared her so well for the pain, she waited for it, acknowledged it, and then even as it expanded, discounted it. He waited until she tugged him closer and whispered, “Fine,” and knowing she meant it, allowed himself some small abandon, and so it wasn’t long before he knew, at last, the greatest moment of this love, and found it to be greater than any he’d known before. She held him as he rocked with the intensity of it, knowing from what he’d told her that she’d know the same someday, knowing from what she felt that simply providing him this and being so much of a part of him was enough and more than she could have asked for, for now.
When they were done, and when he held her near, long after he’d tended to her and assured her that she’d never know such pain again, just as he’d never known such pleasure before, she spoke in dazed wonder.
“Arden,” she asked in honest amazement, “how can you do this with strangers?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, his lips buried in her hair, breathing in her scent as if it were his only s
ource of life, speaking with absolute truth. “Dear God, love, I do not know how I did. For the life of me, that’s true. Now, I do not know.”
*
He didn’t know why Warwick had warned him about weddings. As he lay back on the bed and watched her readying herself to share it with him, Julian did not know. All he knew was that he must have drunk more than he’d had in the whole of his life, and all it had netted him was a dull headache and a bad taste in his mouth, and unfairly, all before he’d even had the momentary felicity of feeling foolish or giddy or good. As he watched Roxie wriggling out of her gown, he wished for the third time that he’d got himself a separate room when she’d left Warwick’s town house when Susannah came to town. For now, all he wanted was sleep, and all she wanted, he saw, was to entice him.
It wasn’t that her body wasn’t delightful. He watched her through half-lidded eyes and saw the tight skin, the uplift of the little breasts, the nicely rounded line of her bottom, the light flexible swell of her belly. But not even his eyelids rose at the sight. He’d seen it all a dozen times before, and felt it against himself a dozen times more than that, and so he found nothing new in it, and nothing, he admitted at last, in her. He was bored with her, and felt guilty for it, and dreaded her finishing with stroking her brush through her blond hair, for he wanted nothing but his sheets beneath him tonight, and, he accepted, trying to face the matter bravely, he was done with her, and didn’t know how to tell her of it.
