by Emily Larkin
Mayhew had kissed her after the ball, and he’d kissed her this morning before the wedding ceremony, and again afterwards, and he’d kissed her quite a few times in the six hours since they’d departed from Southampton. So many times, in fact, that Willie had quite lost count of today’s kisses.
Last week, when she’d left London on the stagecoach, she’d been so excited that she’d been hard pressed not to wriggle in her seat. Today, as she sat in a post-chaise while afternoon ripened into early evening, she wasn’t excited in a wriggle-in-her-seat way; she was excited in a huge, uplifting way. She almost felt as if she was floating.
As of ten o’clock this morning, she was married.
She was no longer Willemina Culpepper. She was Willemina Mayhew, and she was sitting in a post-chaise with her husband, en route to Oxfordshire to meet Mayhew’s parents and brothers, and then they were going to Kingston upon Thames so that he might meet her aunt, and then they were going to France. Home to the army. Home to the Rifle Brigade.
Willie turned her head and found Mayhew watching her. “Hungry?” he asked. “Tired?”
Willie shook her head. “Neither. Happy.”
He grinned at her and leaned in for another kiss. “So am I,” he whispered against her lips.
The post-chaise slowed to a trot while they kissed, and then slowed further. The wheels rattled over cobblestones. They drew apart. Mayhew looked out the window. “We’re coming into Nettlebed.”
Nettlebed, where they’d break their journey for the night. Nettlebed, where they would consummate their marriage.
Willie gave a tiny shiver that was equal parts anticipation and excitement, with a dash of nervousness thrown in.
She gave another of those delicious little shivers when they climbed down from the carriage, and yet another when the innkeeper showed them to their bedchamber. It was a handsome room, with a washstand and a dressing table and a four-poster bed hung with green curtains.
“Does it meet with your approval?” Mayhew asked, smiling down at her.
“It does,” Willie said, and another tingling shiver ran through her, from her scalp to the tips of her toes.
“The private parlor is taken, but you’ll be quite comfortable dining in the coffee room,” the innkeeper said, and showed them where the coffee room was, and while he was doing that more travelers arrived, an elderly man and his wife.
The man could have been anything in his younger days—a clerk, a farmer, an apothecary—but Willie looked at his weather-beaten face and his bearing, upright despite the way age had curved his spine, and thought soldier.
“We’re full, sir,” the innkeeper said. “Try one of the other inns.”
“We have. We’ve tried them all.” The old soldier’s voice held a Yorkshire brogue and an indefinable hint of something that Willie’s ears identified as sergeant.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to drive on to Nuffield, sir.”
“We’ll take anything,” the old sergeant said. “Even truckle beds in the stables.” He looked exhausted, and his wife even more so.
The innkeeper hesitated. “I have a room up in the attic, but it’s only fit for servants.”
Willie exchanged a glance with Mayhew. He lifted his eyebrows fractionally, a silent question to which she returned a nod.
“We’ll take it,” the old soldier said.
“No, we’ll take it,” Mayhew said. “You and your wife may have our room.”
Three pairs of startled eyes swung around to look at him.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the old man said, assessing Mayhew’s rank with the merest glance at his shoulder. “But it’s not necessary.”
“We insist,” Mayhew said. “Which regiment were you?”
The man hesitated, and then said, “The Fifty-First.”
“You were a sergeant?” Mayhew asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, Sergeant, we’d be pleased if you would take our room.”
“You’d prefer not to climb all those stairs, I think,” Willie said, with a smile at the elderly couple.
The old soldier wavered for a few more seconds, then gave a stiff, courteous bow. “Thank you, we would be most grateful.”
Their original bedchamber had been well-appointed. Their new one was not. The ceiling sloped so steeply that Mayhew had to duck his head, the floorboards were bare, the bowl in the washstand was chipped and the four-poster bed was missing one of its posts, but the room had the quaintest of tiny-paned windows through which the setting sun cast a golden glow.
There were dust balls on the floor and the bed linen wasn’t clean, a fact that discomfited the innkeeper greatly. He went as red as a lobster, promised to have the floor swept and the sheets changed immediately, and hurried back down the steep, narrow stairs, shouting for his servants.
Mayhew glanced at her. “What do you think?”
Willie looked at that delightful little window and the bed with its three posts. “I love it,” she declared.
He laughed, and said, “Of course you do,” and she could tell from his expression that he was thinking about kissing her again.
Willie stepped closer and tucked her hand into his. “Thank you for changing rooms. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? Of course not.” Mayhew drew her even closer and bent his head—and then stepped back as someone clattered up the uncarpeted stairs. A maid hurried into the room with a broom. On her heels was another servant bearing an armful of bed linen.
Willie and Mayhew retreated downstairs. The coffee room was comfortably snug, with a low-beamed ceiling and a small fire burning in the grate. Two of the little tea tables were occupied by other travelers, and the hearth was occupied, too—by a basket containing half a dozen kittens.
“Look!” Willie said, and headed for the kittens.
Dusk fell, that magical gloaming hour. Willie sat near the fire with her husband alongside her and a tortoiseshell kitten on her lap, drinking home-brewed cider. The cider was crisp on her tongue, tart and sweet at the same time. She sipped it and felt happy enough to burst.
They ate a raised pie for their dinner, and the pastry was buttery and the meat tender and fragrant, and while they ate, Willie said, “I think the Fates were watching over us the day we met.”
Mayhew smiled at her over the rim of his tankard. “The Fates?”
“Yes,” Willie said, and although she was joking, she also wasn’t quite joking. “I think they made certain that we had enough time to become properly acquainted.”
“They did, did they?”
“Yes,” she said again. “Because if those things hadn’t happened—the horseshoe and the storm and the tree falling over—then we’d have sat in the same carriage for a whole day and never known we’re meant to be together.” Her throat tightened at that thought.
Perhaps Mayhew’s throat tightened, too, because he didn’t laugh at her; instead, he raised his tankard. “To the Fates,” he said. “And to us.”
They touched brims and drank, and despite that fact that it was mostly a joke, the moment felt weighty and ceremonious.
Servants cleared their plates, lit the candles, and closed the shutters. Other guests came and went, eating, drinking, reading the Gazette beside the fire. A kitten found its way onto Willie’s lap again, the same kitten that had been there before: a tortoiseshell with one ginger paw. She stroked it and listened to the tiny vibrato of its purr and thought that no one had ever had such a good wedding day as she was having.
A faint melody crept into the coffee room, teasing her ears. “Where’s that music coming from?” Mayhew asked, when a servant came to place more coals on the fire.
“Taproom,” the woman said. “The Barrett brothers brought their fiddles in again.”
Mayhew glanced at Willie. “Would you like to listen for a while?”
If Willie had been by herself she would never have dared venture into a taproom; in the company of her husband, she did. A rollicking jig spilled out when Mayhew opened the do
or. Willie looked around with interest, but the taproom was no dangerous den of iniquity; it looked very much like the coffee room, although the furniture was a little rougher, trestle tables and wooden benches instead of tea tables and chairs. The clientele was a little rougher, too, and quite a lot rowdier. Not rowdy in a bellicose way, but rowdy in a loud, cheerful way, people stamping and clapping in time to the music.
They found space at a bench and a servingman brought them more home-brewed cider. Willie settled in to enjoy herself. The tunes weren’t tunes she knew, but they were lively and infectious, and she sipped her cider and tapped her feet to the music and felt happiness bubble in her veins.
Mayhew got up to speak with one of the fiddlers, and when he returned to their bench he didn’t sit, but held out his hands to her.
Willie let him pull her to her feet.
The fiddler struck up a new tune, and called out, “A dance for the newlyweds! Married today, they was.”
A whoop went up, and the second fiddle joined the first, and thus it was that Willie danced her first dance as Mrs. Mayhew.
She had danced in a private ballroom last night, wearing pearls in her hair and silk slippers on her feet. Those dances had been formal—the waltz, the quadrille, the cotillion. Tonight’s dance wasn’t formal at all. It was fast and foot-stomping. Mayhew whirled her around and around, while the fiddlers fiddled and their audience clapped and stamped and whooped, and when it was over, Willie clung to her husband, breathless and laughing, and she just knew that no one had ever had such a marvelous wedding day as she was having.
They returned to their wooden bench. Mayhew put an arm around her shoulders and Willie leaned into the heat of his body and enjoyed this gift of an evening: the strangers, the music, the good cheer.
She sipped the last of her cider and smothered a yawn.
“Time for bed?” Mayhew asked.
“Time for bed.”
They went up the steep, narrow stairs and discovered that their luggage had been brought up, the candles lit, and the bedclothes turned back. Mayhew eyed the three-poster bed somewhat dubiously. “We can wait, you know. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“It’s good luck to consummate one’s marriage in a three-poster bed,” Willie told him.
His eyes creased at the corners with amusement. “Is it, now?”
“Very good luck. Quite auspicious, in fact.”
Mayhew laughed. “Auspicious?”
“Exceptionally auspicious.”
He took both of her hands in his and smiled fondly down at her. “Well, then. Let’s not wait.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mayhew had undressed a woman before, but it had never been like this, unhurried, a sweet and slow disrobing, minutes slipping by in quiet murmurs and gentle touches, in the whisper of fabric sliding over skin, in the feather-light brush of his fingertips across the nape of Willie’s neck, in reverent kisses placed on her bare shoulders.
When they were both standing naked Mayhew couldn’t help but gaze at Willie, because she was so damned beautiful, all creamy skin and slender curves, sweet rosy lips and sweet rosy nipples.
Willie gazed back, taking him in from head to toe, a blatant perusal that made his balls tighten and heat flush beneath his skin. Then she tilted her head and said, “You look very fine, Lieutenant Mayhew.”
Mayhew laughed—somewhat breathlessly, and said—somewhat hoarsely, “You look a great deal more than fine, Mrs. Mayhew.”
She laughed, too, and Mayhew realized in that moment that his hands were trembling slightly. He wasn’t sure whether the tremble came from his eagerness to make love to Willie or his fear of hurting her. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “It might hurt a little bit.”
“I know,” Willie said. “Your sister told me about it.”
Mayhew blinked at her. “My sister did?”
Willie nodded. “She said it would probably hurt the first time, maybe even the first few times, but after that it would become a lot more enjoyable.”
Mayhew stared at her, bemused. His sister had talked to Willie about sex?
His expression appeared to amuse Willie, because she laughed, and then she climbed up on the three-poster bed, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her derrière as she did so. “Come to bed, Lieutenant Mayhew.”
Mayhew did.
He’d never felt shy when making love to a woman before, but he found himself a little shy tonight. Willie was shy, too, of course—shy and blushing, but she was also eager and trusting. She laughed at him while he worshiped every one of her fingertips with kisses, and she giggled when he nipped and teased his way down her throat, and she gasped and squirmed as he kissed his way up her inner thighs.
He did his best not to hurt her, entering her more slowly than he’d ever entered a woman before, more carefully. He watched her face intently while he sank in those final inches and he thought that he’d mostly succeeded. Willie looked flushed and wide-eyed and a little disconcerted, but not pained.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
Her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Odd.”
It didn’t feel odd to Mayhew; it felt unbelievably good.
Willie shifted her hips slightly, making the breath catch in his throat. She heard it, and grinned up at him. “How does it feel to you?”
“Good,” Mayhew said, and the word was almost a groan. He was trembling—the muscles in his belly, in his thighs, in his arms as he braced himself above her. Trembling with the need to move and the equally strong need to stay still until he was certain he wasn’t hurting her.
He bent his head and kissed Willie. Their lips clung together for a long moment, and then he began to move—slow slide, slow glide—coaxing a rhythm between them.
Willie enjoyed it. He could tell from the way she gasped and the tiny, guttural moans she uttered, and also from the way that she moved, clutching his arms, arching into him—and he could tell from the way she laughed at the moment of her climax. Mayhew laughed when she laughed and climaxed when she climaxed, because it was impossible not to do either, and then he held her tightly while they both floated down from that soaring high.
He would have liked to have stayed inside her all night, but he couldn’t, so he carefully withdrew and cleaned her with a handkerchief, and then he blew out the candles and crawled into bed and tucked Willie into the curve of his body, her back pressing snugly to his chest, his arm securely around her waist.
They lay curled together in the cozy warmth of the three-poster bed. Willie stroked the back of his hand. “I know your sister said it would get better, but I honestly can’t imagine it.”
Mayhew couldn’t imagine it either.
When he woke, it was dawn and his wife was still in his arms. He pressed his face into her hair and inhaled her scent—orange blossom—and wondered how he’d been so damned lucky as to meet Sweet Willie Culpepper, let alone marry her.
Mayhew tightened his arm around her, but only a little bit; he didn’t want to wake her. But it appeared that she was already awake, for her fingers intertwined with his. “Careful,” she whispered. “Don’t disturb the kitten.”
“Kitten?” He lifted his head and peered over her, and there on the pillow was a tortoiseshell kitten, curled up asleep. He found that he wasn’t surprised. It felt almost like fate. “How long has it been there?”
“I don’t know. It was there when I woke.”
Mayhew was fairly certain it was the same kitten that had sat on Willie’s lap in the coffee room. “It must like you.”
Their voices woke the kitten. It blinked its eyes opened and yawned, pink-tongued and sharp-toothed. It looked adorable. Almost as adorable as Willie.
Willie slipped her hand free from his clasp and reached out and stroked the kitten. “It was born a marmalade tabby, I think, but someone took it by the paw and dipped it in a cauldron of magic and stardust, and now it looks like the night sky.”
Mayhew huffed a laugh. “Very poetic.” And accurate, too; the
kitten’s coat did look like a night sky speckled with stars. Except for that one golden paw.
Willie carefully rubbed between the kitten’s ears. Mayhew heard the tiny rumble of its purr. “My brigade major had a kitten that looked a bit like that,” he told her. “He found it at Badajoz, carried it around with him for months.”
“He did?” Willie said, and he heard her surprise.
“He did. His name’s Reynolds. Major Reynolds.” Mayhew smothered a yawn. “Actually, it was Reynolds who rescued Scout and Mr. Bellyrub.” Or Princess Plum Blossom and Prince Purr-a-lot, as they’d been renamed by the twins.
“Is he on furlough, too?”
“Sold out after Waterloo. Henry Wright’s our brigade major now. He’s first rate. You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I will,” Willie said, and then, “Colonel Barraclough didn’t mind one of his officers keeping a kitten while on campaign?”
“Not at all. He was rather fond of it. Was forever bringing scraps for it to eat.”
“Was he now?” Willie said, her tone thoughtful.
Mayhew yawned again. “I think Barraclough likes cats.”
Willie was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Good,” and tickled the kitten under its chin with a fingertip.
Mayhew watched her fingertip and heard that tiny purr and made a belated realization. “We’re taking the kitten with us, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Willie said. “It’s our wedding gift from the Fates.”
Mayhew didn’t laugh at that statement because he had a feeling she might be right. “What shall we name it?”
“Stardust,” Willie said, and tickled the kitten under its chin again.
Mayhew pressed his face into his wife’s hair and inhaled her orange blossom scent, and then he laughed softly, his breath stirring her messy ringlets. “I love you,” he told her.
Willie stopped stroking the kitten. Her fingers intertwined with his again. “I love you, too.”
