by Golden Angel
Far too soon, however, Mrs. Banks looked at the clock on the mantle and closed her book. “Come dear, we need to dress you for luncheon.”
Vivian’s fingers faltered over the keys. “Dress me?” she asked. The sudden silence made her voice seem louder than usual.
“Yes, you’ll be having lunch with your fiancé today,” Mrs. Banks said calmly, as if her announcement was completely commonplace. Vivian’s fingers came down on the piano with a crash of sound as she clutched at the instrument. Her head was suddenly whirling.
“Why didn’t anyone say anything?” she cried out. Panic, dismay, anxiety—her chaotic emotions were too turbulent to pin down any single one. The slight peace she’d managed to achieve during her playing had been wrecked.
Mrs. Banks gave her a quelling look, though her blue eyes were as kind as they always were. “Would you have been able to relax at all this morning, dear, if you’d known that you were to have luncheon with him? I didn’t want you to work yourself into a panic, and I decided the less time you had to do so, the better.”
Put that way, it made sense. Part of Vivian still wished she’d known beforehand to give her more time to mentally prepare herself, but the other part of her was glad she’d had an anxiety-free morning. Who knew what emotional state she’d be in if she’d spent the morning fretting about the upcoming lunch.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Banks and the maid had Vivian dressed in lavender muslin with green trimming, her coppery hair piled in a loose coiffure. She did her best to hide her trembling as Mrs. Banks led her to the front parlor. The door was closed, and the closer Vivian stepped to it, the larger and more intimidating it seemed to appear. She stopped several feet back, grabbing onto Mrs. Banks’s sleeve and looking up at her imploringly.
“What do I say?” she whispered, anxiety making her feel almost faint. It felt like she could barely drag enough air into her lungs to live, much less speak. “What do I say to him?”
Seeing the panic in Vivian’s eyes, Mrs. Banks drew the younger woman into her arms, hugging her comfortingly. “Speak to him as you did to the matrons at the tea a few days ago. He’s not going to expect anything from you but conversation. Ask him about himself, if you’d like.”
“Can you stay with me?” Vivian asked, clinging just a bit. After the success of her tea with society’s matrons, she’d been feeling quite mature. Now, she felt like a little girl again, uncertain and terrified that she might misstep.
“Of course, I’ll be with you,” Mrs. Banks said with a little laugh. “Even if he is your future husband, you won’t be allowed to socialize unchaperoned with him on school grounds.” The companion didn’t mention that training was not considered socializing; it wasn’t something Vivian needed to know just yet.
Taking as deep a breath as she could, Vivian straightened up, pushing down her panic. She trusted Mrs. Banks; the companion had never steered her wrong before.
The other woman opened the door.
Entering the room, which Vivian was already familiar with, her eyes went immediately to the small table set up near the window, where a man stood up to greet her. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was him. The man from Mary’s wedding. Not a figment of her imagination.
Young. Tall. More than attractive, he was darkly handsome with piercing eyes. He looked like the hero of one of the gothic romances by Mrs. Radcliffe she and Emily loved to read. Mrs. Cunningham frowned upon those books and didn’t keep them in the library, but Emily’s mother kept her well-stocked, sending her a new one almost every month. Emily always let Vivian read the newest one when she was done with it, and they giggled and whispered over their favorite passages.
It was all too easy for Vivian to imagine swooning into Lord Cranborne’s arms, only to be carried away to some dark, distant castle where he’d keep her captive until she agreed to marry him. Except that he didn’t need to do that, did he? The marriage was already assured.
But the fantasy brought color to her cheeks and sent a shiver down her spine. Even after the shiver went through her, her body felt as though it was still trembling; tingling almost, in her lower belly.
“Lord Cranborne,” Mrs. Banks said with a curtsy. Scrambling for her wits, Vivian immediately followed suit, lowering her eyes. The dark, piercing gaze of the earl as he approached made her feel incredibly uneasy— at least, that was the only explanation she had for the sudden butterflies in her stomach. “May I present my charge, Miss Vivian Stafford.”
“Miss Stafford,” he murmured in a deep voice she felt all the way down to her bones. Vivian nearly gasped as he reached out to take her hand, feeling his touch like a lightning bolt even through her glove. “A pleasure.”
“You’re too kind, my lord,” she said automatically. Her legs were unaccountably weak as he kept his hold on her fingers. It was all she could do not to fall to her knees in front of him. There was something incredibly dominating about his presence, overpowering even, like he sucked all the air from the room just by standing in it. He acted as though they were just meeting for the first time, and she didn’t know what to do.
Of course, technically, this would be the first time they were being properly introduced.
“Look at me, Sunrise,” he said in a soft voice. The fingers of his free hand came up and pressed against her chin, making her gasp at the presumption of his touch. It was Mary and George’s wedding breakfast all over again, except this time she was even more aware of him because he wasn’t just a stranger. He was the man who was going to be her husband. Mrs. Banks said nothing, so Vivian could only conclude that it didn’t break the bounds of propriety for him to be so free with his fiancée. Her eyes met his grey gaze, the dark silver orbs flecked with green, framed by thick lashes.
His thumb caressed her cheek, making her swallow nervously. Her mouth was suddenly dry. A swipe of her tongue across her lower lip had his eyes lowering, something sparking in them that made her feel quite breathless in response, though she didn’t know why.
“Sunrise?” she asked, her voice coming out in a whisper. More color flooded her cheeks. The second sentence out of her mouth and she couldn’t even speak correctly!
A small smile tilted his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him look slightly less intimidating. “Your hair. It’s the color of a sunrise.”
Vivian blinked at him, too astounded to censor herself. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about it.”
” His smile widened, relieving her. Normally she didn’t speak quite so directly, and she really had wanted to make a good impression on him. But he didn’t seem to mind. “Not everyone is a slave to fashion, Miss Stafford. There are those of us who adhere to our own preferences.” He held out his arm, offering it to her. “Come, I’d like to sit and talk with you.”
“Thank you,” she said, a bit in a daze. Whatever hazy expectations she’d held in the back of her mind, this domineering, highly desirable man with his surprising compliments was not it. While no one had ever said anything outwardly cruel about her hair color, she was constantly receiving suggestions on how to make it more fashionable, less garish and less bright.
But he liked it. He called her “Sunrise.”
A happy little hope rose in her heart as he led her to her seat.
“How would you like your tea?” she asked, picking up the pot, taking some comfort in the expected rituals. She really had no idea how to start a conversation with him. With another lady, it would be easy. What did one say to a man who was soon to be her husband?
“Just a bit of cream,” he said, watching her pour. He made her nervous, but she managed not to spill any, even if she trembled a bit. Adding cream to his and cream and sugar to hers, she breathed a sigh of relief when she passed him his cup. At least she could successfully serve tea. Thankfully, he ignored her trembling hands.
Looking at him, her face solemn, she lowered her voice. She had to ask, but if she were wrong somehow, she didn’t want Mrs. Banks to overhear. “Have . . . We have met
before, yes?”
“Not formally, no,” he said, a slight twinkle in his eye that made him much less intimidating. “But yes, at my friend George’s wedding. I believe you’re a cousin of his wife, Mary.”
“Yes . . .” Vivian’s voice trailed off. She couldn’t believe he was real. That moment had been real. Like before, everything felt too surreal to be possible.
“I’m told Mrs. Cunningham informed you that you are my betrothed?”
The shiver that went through her nearly caused Vivian to upset her own cup of tea as she lifted it. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so forward, although perhaps she should have. As he clearly didn’t follow the fashions, he didn’t seem to adhere to the expected social niceties either.
“Yes, my lord,” Vivian said quietly. “Yesterday.”
“Your birthday,” Lord Cranborne said, holding his saucer in one hand. Avoiding his eyes, Vivian nodded. She found herself horribly intimidated by him. She didn’t know what he wanted, and yet she was supposed to please him.
More than that, now that she’d met him, she desperately wanted to please him. There was something about his commanding demeanor that garnered instant respect, and he’d been so complimentary about her hair, and he made her feel so warm and tingly inside . . . and she had no idea what to do.
“Yes,” she said, wishing she could think of something better to say.
Lord Cranborne reached into his jacket and pulled out a small package wrapped in white tissue paper, placing it on the table between them. “Happy birthday, Sunrise.”
With trembling hands, Vivian put down her saucer and teacup and picked up the package. She glanced up at the earl through her eyelashes. The expression on his face was one of anticipation, but he wasn’t looking at the box. He was looking at her bosom. Heat flickered through her, and she immediately dropped her eyes. Beneath his gaze, her nipples puckered and tightened, and she felt a strange throbbing between her thighs that made her press her legs together.
Doing her utmost to ignore the strange reaction her body was having to him, Vivian unwrapped the package. A book fell into her hands and she gasped with pleasure, meeting his eyes completely on her own for the first time.
“Thank you! How did you know?” She cradled the precious book, Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest gothic romance, so new that even Emily hadn’t received it from her mother yet.
A small smile played on his lips at her pleasure, which only made her feel guilty. After all, she owed him. Shouldn’t she be the one finding ways to please him? “Mrs. Banks wrote to me of your reading preferences. I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it,” she said, wrapping her fingers around it as if she was afraid it might disappear if she didn’t hold it tightly enough. “My parents can’t . . . I mean, I often borrow the books from my friend Emily, but I usually have to wait until she’s done with them. Which is only fair, as they’re hers, but it’s lovely to have the latest novel as my own.”
“So you enjoy reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s works. What else do you like to do, Sunrise?” The way he asked the question made it seem as if he were implying something, but Vivian was unsure of what.
“I like to paint watercolors—no, I truly do,” she said, catching the slight change in his expression. “I know all the young ladies here are taught to say they do, but most of them really don’t. I love painting and seeing a picture slowly being created out of a blank canvas, every brush stroke bringing it one small step closer to being a complete image.”
The look the earl gave her now was filled with a bit more respect. He leaned forward. “May I tell you a secret?” he asked, his low voice inviting her to lean forward as well. Feeling helpless to the spell he seemed to be weaving around her, Vivian leaned in, expecting at any moment that Mrs. Banks would say something about their proximity to each other. “I sketch . . . and I feel the same way.”
vivian blinked and then smiled at him, feeling a touch of kinship. It wasn’t that unusual for a nobleman such as himself to have a hobby like sketching, but it wasn’t exactly common, either. Then again, he’d already professed himself to not care about what was fashionable. She suspected he’d wanted her to lean in to be close to him, not because he actually cared whether or not anyone knew that he sketched.
“What do you like to draw?” she asked.
“Whatever I find beautiful,” he said smoothly. The look he gave her warmed her from the inside out, while at the same time making her shiver. “In fact, I think you might be my next subject, sweetheart.”
The warmth inside of her blossomed at the second compliment. He must truly think she was beautiful. There was no reason to charm her or court her. After all, they were already betrothed and she and her family owed him a great deal. Although Vivian wasn’t used to thinking of herself as particularly beautiful, there could be no doubt of the earl’s truthfulness.
“What else do you like to do?”
“I like to play the pianoforte,” she said shyly. “I was playing this morning, before this. I also like to walk out on the grounds in the gardens. While there’s always something to do in the school, whenever there’s sunshine, I try to go outside, even if it’s only for a few minutes.”
Remembering she was supposed to ask questions as well, she did her best to turn the tables on him. They both talked about their families, and she learned his mother had died of an illness when he was younger, after his second sister was born. A few years ago, his father had remarried—to his daughters’ governess, no less. It appeared the earl’s disdain for convention and the opinions of others was a family trait. Marrying a governess wasn’t a complete scandal, but it was certainly something that would cause quite a bit of talk. Most of it unkind.
In return, Vivian told him a little about her younger sisters, Persephone and Rose, and her little brother, Alistair. She was in the middle of a story about Rose’s determination to study the same subjects as Alistair, when Mrs. Banks cleared her throat and stood.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Miss Stafford needs to return to her usual schedule for the afternoon,” Mrs. Banks said.
The sharp pang of disappointment that Vivian felt was reflected on her face for just a moment before she covered it with the usual social mask. She’d managed to relax and had been enjoying talking to the earl, forgetting, for a bit, to be nervous.
“Of course,” the earl said, exchanging a look with Mrs. Banks as he stood. He held out his hand to help Vivian up, and, to her shock, pulled her close to him as he did so.
They were standing so close that if she breathed too deeply, her chest would brush against his. For the second time that day, her breasts were tingly and sensitive, and she felt completely breathless. Which was probably good, considering that a deep breath would put their bodies in contact, and then she might just faint.
Bringing her hand up, the earl looked into her eyes as he kissed her palm through her glove. There was something achingly intimate about the gesture, and it certainly crossed the bounds of propriety. But Mrs. Banks didn’t protest and Vivian felt too dizzy to consider saying anything.
“I expect to hear you’ve been applying yourself to your studies,” he said in a low voice. His eyes bore into hers. It was like being caught in a predator’s gaze, as if he was one of those exotic snakes brought back from India. Heat surged inside her. She was acutely aware of her hand in his and his other hand on her waist. “Be a good girl for me, Sunrise.”
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered. For just a moment, his eyes lowered to her lips and she wondered if he would kiss her. Mrs. Banks cleared her throat, and instead he stepped back. Vivian almost regretted the need for a chaperone, but she knew that she also would have never become comfortable in the room with the earl if Mrs. Banks hadn’t been there from the beginning.
“Come along, Miss Stafford,” Mrs. Banks said.
As she exited the room, Vivian glanced over her shoulder to see the earl watching her go, a contemplative expression on his face.
Once Mrs. Banks and Vivian wer
e gone, Gabriel sat down and waited for Mrs. Cunningham to come fetch him.
He thought the first meeting with Vivian had gone very well. In the time since he’d last seen her, she’d matured into an attractive young woman, more than ready to be married. Ready to be initiated into the rather decadent and debauched world he inhabited.
When Mary had found out Gabriel’s plan, she’d endorsed it quite enthusiastically, saying she’d found great comfort in learning so much before she and George were expected to be intimate together. Apparently the “talk” she’d had with her mother the night before her wedding had left a great deal to be desired. She thought the school’s methods were much more informative, and less frightening for a young woman about to embark on marriage.
Mary’s mother had told her to lie back and let her husband do as he wished and hope he didn’t desire to do it very often. She’d assured her daughter that it would probably be over with quite quickly and that after the first time it wasn’t as painful, although it could be tedious if it took too long. Therefore, it was best to just be as still as possible and let him get on with it. Mary had done a spot-on imitation of her mother’s condescending tones, interspersed with wild giggles. Both George and Gabriel had been appalled. It made him wonder what his stepmother had said to his sisters, because he couldn’t imagine Audrey saying anything like that.
If that was the kind of advice mothers gave their daughters . . . well, Gabriel was glad he’d heard about the school from George and Mary. Otherwise, his needs and desires might have frightened the hell out of Vivian, even though he would have tempered them for her at first.
Considering Mary’s recommendation, and knowing that his own desires when it came to the marriage bed were broader than that of most men, he knew having the school prepare Vivian was the right thing to do.
CHAPTER THREE
