The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

by Marguerite Kaye

  Heartsore at what he’d told her and moved by the raw emotion in his voice, she smoothed her hand over his hair. ‘That’s not going to happen. We’ve not even been here a week. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, Estelle.’

  ‘It’s no wonder you’re finding it difficult to adjust, being confronted with such dreadful memories.’

  ‘No longer. We’ll put it all behind us now.’

  ‘Yes.’ A weight had lifted from her shoulders. She understood completely now why he didn’t want to discuss it. She didn’t need any more answers. All she needed was this, his arms around her, dissolving the distance that had grown between them in the last few days. She tightened her embrace, nestling closer.

  Aidan nuzzled his cheek against hers. ‘Do you realise that it’s nine weeks and six days since we first encountered one another? And nine weeks and three days, since we first spoke?’

  The contrast of his smooth cheek and his beard was having its usual effect on her senses. His fingers were stroking the skin on her nape under her hair. ‘Then today is a very special day.’

  ‘How should we mark the occasion, do you think?’

  She curled her fingers into his hair. ‘I’m sure we can think of something appropriate.’

  He kissed her neck, then her throat. His eyes were lambent, reflecting her own desire. ‘I don’t know about that, but I can certainly think of something utterly inappropriate. I know we shouldn’t but...’

  ‘We definitely shouldn’t,’ she said, ‘but will you kiss me regardless?’

  ‘Regardless? It is never, ever anything other than a pleasure.’

  He kissed her, but it was a teasing kiss, his lips just brushing hers. And then he kissed her again, butterfly kisses along her bottom lip, his fingers stroking the skin at the back of her neck. And then he moaned, pulling her tight up against him, and kissed her again and the pulses which he had set fluttering began to thrum. She clung to him as their tongues touched and their kiss deepened, their mouths clinging, hungry for each other, the kiss seemingly endless, and yet still not enough.

  She ached for more. Her body was alive with longing, yearning to be touched. When Aidan broke the kiss, breathing raggedly, her mouth sought his and it started again. Their kisses grew wilder. She was dimly aware that they had staggered backwards, that she was leaning against the door.

  He touched her. His hands on her back, on the curve of her bottom, sliding up to her waist. His hand closed gently over her breast, and as his fingers brushed lightly against her nipple, she moaned. His other hand covered her other breast, and his fingers teased her nipples to an aching peak, the pleasure so intense that it made her whimper. She barely registered that they were no longer kissing, aware only of his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body, of the throbbing tension building between her legs, of his ragged breathing and her own shallow, rapid breaths, and the desperate desire that he not stop, so unprepared for the sudden lurching conclusion that she flailed wildly, clutching at his arms for fear of falling, only half-caring if she did, as the hot, liquid pleasure pulsed inside her.

  ‘Estelle, I swear I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I should have stopped. I’ve gone too far.’

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Aidan’s pupils were dark pinpoints, his lids heavy. A bubble of elated, slightly hysterical laughter escaped her. ‘I have no idea where I have gone.’ She straightened, pushing back her hair, which had come undone, still dazed by the turmoil reverberating inside her. ‘I’ve never experienced that before.’

  Aidan shook his head, his smile crooked. ‘You’ve no idea, have you, that you’re testing my powers of restraint to the limits.’

  She was, rather late in the day, mortified. ‘It was my fault. I asked you to—regardless, that’s what I said, but I shouldn’t have. It was selfish of me.’

  ‘Shush. You’ll be offering to return the compliment in a minute.’

  ‘Ought I to?’

  ‘No! I was teasing you.’

  She put the backs of her hands to her flaming cheeks, but every bit of her seemed to be on fire. ‘I simply abandoned myself, expecting you to ensure that we did not break our agreement and you did, but you must be feeling—’ She broke off, at a complete loss. ‘I don’t know what you must be feeling.’

  He swept her into his arms. ‘You’ve no idea how adorable you are.’

  ‘How naïve, you mean,’ she muttered, her face pressed into his chest.

  ‘Innocent. There’s a big difference.’

  ‘So innocent I have no idea how I would go about returning the favour.’

  He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Please don’t take offence, it’s just that I find your somewhat unique way with words endearing.’ Setting her at arm’s length, he waited until she met his gaze. ‘There’s no equation that needs balancing in this case, Estelle. Believe me, it was every bit as delightful for me as I hope it was for you. You’ve no idea.’

  ‘I really haven’t, Aidan.’

  He laughed softly. ‘That’s not what I meant, but it doesn’t matter. You know you can trust me, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, and I know it’s unfair of me too.’ She hesitated, but guilt forced her to continue awkwardly. ‘When we decided to get married, it was my idea to insist that it was in name only.’

  ‘For very understandable reasons.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t think it would prove to be so difficult to adhere to.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘Perhaps if we argued a bit more, I might be less tempted to lead you astray.’

  He let her go, his face clouding. ‘The whole point of us marrying, Estelle, was to provide a safe haven for our children. Discord between us is not something to aspire to.’

  ‘I was teasing.’

  ‘I know!’ He smoothed out the furrow between his brow with his thumb. ‘I think we both need a little bit of time on our own to reflect.’

  * * *

  After he had gone, Estelle sat down at her desk, but the writing in her notebook was a blur. Absent-mindedly, she poured a cup of cold tea, screwing up her face when she took a sip. Throwing herself down on a more comfortable chair, she closed her eyes, reliving the extraordinary delight of—was there a name for what she’d felt? What had happened between them, was that lovemaking? No. She was woefully ignorant, but she was not completely uninformed. They had not made love. Besides, she hadn’t for a moment felt passionate, not in her parents’ sense of wanting to scream and shout and taunt and provoke. She’d felt the most sublime pleasure, and then sheer bliss. And she’d felt safe. And what’s more, she believed Aidan when he said that he hadn’t wanted more. His delight in her delight was unmistakably real, in the way he looked at her, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened, as if she was the one and only person in the world. And for a moment, a perfect moment, that’s how it had been, just as it had been before.

  She had been right to marry him. She had been naïve to expect everything to be perfect from the start, but he had come to her of his own volition and explained his strange moods, She now understood why it was going to take time for them to adjust and why she had to stop asking questions because all they did was rouse the ghost Aidan was trying so desperately to bury.

  He thought her curiosity morbid. It had been at first, but if she really had wanted to know more about Aoife, she would have asked Mrs Aherne. What she really wanted to know was why Aidan seemed rather morbidly obsessed with his dead wife. Why did he find it so difficult to lay her ghost? Aoife had been dead almost three years, and he’d spent the first two here in the castle, more than enough time to accustom himself to her absence. He felt guilty for not doing more to help her, and though he must know, rationally, that there was little he could have done, he probably wouldn’t have been at all rational at the time.

  But three years had passed, and Aidan still couldn’t bring himself to say his wif
e’s name. Was that odd? And his reaction to the harp, and to poor Hera, wasn’t that rather extreme? If he’d been in love with Aoife, she could understand his wretchedness, but he hadn’t been in love with her, and in any case, a man still mourning his beloved dead wife did not make love to his second wife with such obvious pleasure.

  Not that they’d made love. Made up? No, that had horrible overtones of what her parents had constantly done. They’d bonded. Reaffirmed. Reunited. Until she’d made that silly joke about arguments being useful, that is. She really needed to think a bit more before she spoke, though that did not come at all naturally. Estelle sighed. Had Phoebe and Eloise had the same problem? She smiled at the very notion of Eloise trying to guard her tongue. She owed both her sisters a letter. She could ask their advice about the party.

  Sitting back down at her desk, she pulled a sheet of notepaper from the drawer and selected a pen. Onwards and upwards.

  * * *

  Aidan stood at the edge of the lake. The waters were intensely blue today, under a perfect summer sky, the gentle breeze just enough to cause a few wavelets to ripple on to the little stretch of shore where the boat used to be moored. He sat down on the grass verge, digging his boots into damp gravel, his hand automatically searching for and finding the iron ring which they’d used for tying up. His grandfather had put it there. A chunk of rust came off in his hand. He cast it into the water. The lake had always been a source of happiness. His father had taken him out fishing in the boat, and taught him and Clodagh to sail there, when the wind was right. In the summer they’d swim, all three of them, sometimes wading in from this little bit of shore, sometimes from the island, other times diving in from the boat. His father’s teaching methods had been basic but sound, tying a rope around their waists and making them jump in after a very elementary demonstration of what to do with their arms and legs. It had been one of the many things he’d dreamed of doing with his own children, though he’d jump in with them, and not leave them floundering. Now he could make his dream a reality, with the family he and Estelle would make together. That’s if he could ever bring himself to go into the lake again.

  As if the weather had read his thoughts, a cloud scudded over the sun, turning the ruined tower and the island into a dark silhouette just as his eyes were drawn to it, making him shudder. It had been October, that last journey out to the island. The skies had been appropriately leaden, the wind blowing in stiff gusts. The heavens had opened on the journey back. When they returned to the house for the wake, he remembered the steam rising from the wet wool of the men’s clothing. Those of them that came.

  The cloud moved on. The sun blazed down once more on the island. They used to cook the fish they’d caught on a fire in the ruins of the tower, he and Clodagh and his father. He could see the spot from here. The other, more sacred spot, was not visible from anywhere on the shore. It was set in a little hollow, quite private, completely peaceful. Was she at peace? Was it too much to hope, that she’d leave him be?

  In the distance, a dog barked and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Another possession of hers he should have returned, but her family would have none of poor Hera. He rolled his eyes at the taunting irony of the name. Goddess of marriage and childbirth. The dog adored her mistress. It would have been kinder to have got rid of her, Finn had said, for the wolfhound was miserable with him. But even in his shock and grief, Aidan hadn’t been able to stomach that, and Finn said she’d settled well enough now. If only she hadn’t found Estelle.

  Estelle. He’d been home less than a week, Aidan reminded himself. His plan was to make new memories, he reminded himself, picking up a handful of pebbles to throw into the water. Like this morning. He hadn’t any notion of kissing her when he sought her out to apologise. But she’d been as relieved as he, to put an end to the coldness that had been insidiously developing between them, and when they’d kissed, it had reminded him of why he’d been so sure, that day in Florence when he proposed, that this time, he’d get it right.

  He’d lost himself in kissing her, just for a few perfect moments. It was as much her sheer delight in kissing that went to his head, as the taste of her and the touch of her. She was such a sensual creature, though she had no notion of it, and heaven knew, it was a miracle that she could be even half as abandoned, from what she’d told him of her childhood. To kiss, to touch, for the satisfaction of simply kissing and touching—just remembering was making him hard, and though she’d never understand, being hard was enough for him. A simple, primal affirmation.

  Estelle. He said her name softly to himself like a talisman. He’d spoilt the moment. She’d been glowing, so frankly, delightfully sated, and he’d spoilt it, snapping at her over a silly joke, when one of the things that he liked so much about her was the way she spoke without thinking.

  He dropped his head in his hands, cursing. If he wasn’t careful, he’d leach the spirit out of her. Had it been wrong of him to marry her? He’d been so sure they could be happy, but he was doing a fine job so far of making her unhappy, and she was so valiantly struggling to succeed.

  He owed it to her to try harder. And to tell her the whole truth? Ah, no! He’d already told her more than enough. No more! Aidan got to his feet and headed off in the direction of the stables. From now on he really was done with looking over his shoulder. He had a lovely wife, and it was time that he concentrated on making sure she didn’t live to regret marrying him.

  Chapter Eight

  They had settled on Aidan’s birthday as the date for their wedding party, with the party for the estate tenants and staff to be held the following night. Just over a month after their arrival at Cashel Duairc, the day had finally arrived, and the castle was a hive of activity. Seated at her desk in her little parlour as the afternoon drew to a close, Estelle checked her list for the tenth time that day, but everything seemed to be in hand. She had taken responsibility for most of the arrangements herself, for Mrs Aherne, with whom she had established a comfortable relationship, had not had the heart to remain at Cashel Duairc for the party, and had departed, relieved and eager to start her new post, at the end of the previous week.

  Estelle was determined to ensure that the ghost of the first Mrs Malahide did not intrude tonight. This was her party, and she was going to put her stamp on it—with some assistance from her sisters. Cook had been delighted to try out some of Phoebe’s suggestions for the supper which would be served. Tonight, Estelle would wear the evening gown Eloise had sent her.

  She was looking forward not to the party itself, but what it represented, establishing her as Aidan’s wife, confirming she and Aidan as a happily married couple, a significant step in their journey towards becoming parents. Things had settled down between them. Though there were still times when Aidan was morose and distant, his mood never lasted more than a few hours, and it was easier, Estelle had discovered, to ignore these minor aberrations which were, after all, part of the natural process of adjustment. They breakfasted and dined with each other, but spent much of the day apart, Aidan on estate business, while she concentrated on putting the house in order—her order!

  They were admittedly careful with each other, a fraction too polite, not quite as entirely at ease in each other’s company as they had been in Florence. They were learning their new roles, concentrating on practicalities, making a conscious effort to play the companionable husband and wife they had contracted to be, proving themselves, as Estelle thought of it, as ideal future parents. By tacit agreement there were no more kisses, though the absence made them both strain towards each other in different ways, a hand on the shoulder or a hand clasped, the brush of an arm or a leg as they passed each other, fingers touching when they handed something over.

  Pushing her list aside, Estelle left the parlour to make one final check upstairs. The party was to be held in the Gothic Salon. Second only to the ballroom in size, the vaulted ceiling was painted white with the ubiquitous serpent coated in gold le
af coiled at the intersection of the main ribs. Standing beneath it, Estelle thought, was like being under a particularly large umbrella, or an Arabian tent, an illusion which was enhanced by the gold-flocked wallpaper and heavy curtains. The room had been cleared of most of its heavy carved furniture, the remaining side tables, sofas and chairs pushed back to the walls to allow their guests to circulate. She had decided not to draw the curtains and to risk leaving the windows open, for the weather was still balmy.

  In the grand dining room every leaf of the table had been inserted, so that it stretched almost the full length of the room. Cook had been delighted with Phoebe’s suggestions, and far from taking offence, had seemed genuinely honoured to have a famous chef think her worthy of attention and capable of executing her personal receipts. No one in the whole of Ireland would be able to boast as Cook would now be able to, that they had served up dishes that rich Londoners were paying through the nose to sample.

  Retiring to her bedchamber, Estelle bathed and changed into the gown which Eloise had sewn for her. Made of ivory silk, it had puffed sleeves and a deeply ruffled hem, the whole embroidered with tiny leaves and flowerheads picked out in silver and gold. It reminded her, as she knew Eloise had intended, of a much-loved, though much simpler gown, her eldest sister had made her for her eighteenth birthday. She was very nervous. Seated at the dressing table, watching Niamh carefully threading a silver ribbon through her hair, her hands shook as she dabbed perfume on to her wrists.

  ‘There, madam, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look stunning.’

  A light tap at the door sent Niamh scurrying to answer it, and Aidan peered round the door. ‘Am I allowed to come in?’

  ‘Of course. You can go, Niamh, thank you, and don’t wait up.’

  The maid left, and Aidan stepped into the room and gave a low whistle. ‘Is that the gown your sister sent?’

  Estelle gave a twirl. ‘She has excellent taste, don’t you think?’