The Wedding

by Edith Layton

  The girl bobbed her head and scurried out. Dulcie wished she could do the same, but there was nothing for her to do but wait for Crispin to return. She could hardly dress and join him—he’d think she distrusted him.

  She did.

  He’d said it was a meeting to do with finances. Why should she doubt him? There had been nothing in his behavior in the past few days to hint at anything so awful. She’d talked with him; she’d lain in his arms, completely at his mercy, and he’d been far more than merciful. He’d been tender and gentle, and impassioned. But she hadn’t matched his passion, not really, she thought dismally. She always obliged him, but she knew he wanted more from her. She just didn’t know how to give it.

  Maybe he was weary of her. He was always carried away at the end of their lovemaking and, after it, always disappointed because she hadn’t been transported to rapture. He blamed himself, and the newness of it. But maybe, she thought, he also blamed her. And who could blame him if he did? She no more knew what he wanted of her than she really understood the ecstasy he obviously found.

  But he had asked her to come along with him tonight. Would he have done that if he was going to an orgy? Would he go to an orgy after promising her that she would never have to share his attentions? But what if all he meant by that was that he was willing to let her share, too? What did she know of orgies? Or noblemen? What had her rash act in the Fleet chapel led her to? And why, she asked herself briskly, as she paced the room waiting for him to return, should she believe a sly, gossipy serving wench and not believe Crispin, her husband? Her immaculate, handsome, gentle, and beautiful lover. The man who had never wanted her, but was making the best of the marriage, as best he knew how.

  Dulcie had to wait a long while for Crispin.

  The clock downstairs in the common room had chimed well into a new morning when she heard him open the door. She leaped to her feet and rose to face him. When she saw him she caught her breath. All her worst imaginings seemed not too foolish now, but too true.

  The fire had died long since, and the candles were burning low. She saw in their guttering light that he looked weary unto death, and disheveled. Strands of hair drifted around his face; his coat was half open, his shirt half out, his stockings smudged, rumpled, and uneven. And worst of all, the harsh light and shadow showed a look on his face that she’d never seen before.

  “I see you thought fit to return,” she said haughtily. “I wonder why you didn’t spend the night.”

  He stopped in the doorway. “I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said.

  “Ah. Is that what I am supposed to be doing?” she asked defiantly.

  He closed the door carefully. “Dulcie,” he said very quietly, “I’ve had a long night. I’m very glad to be here at last. If I’m late, and if I kept you waiting up for me, I’m sorry. I never intended that to happen. I’d have told you to go to bed without me if I’d known how long it would take.”

  “How long does an orgy take?” she asked angrily. “Not this long, I should think, if there was only one woman for you. Unless you were supposed to watch first. But two or more—why, then, I’d think—”

  He reached her in a few long steps and took her by the shoulders. His grip was so firm that the rest of the hateful words she was going to say died in her throat. The fury in his eyes was clear even in the flickering light.

  “Who told you?” he asked quietly.

  That broke her spirit.

  “Oh, Crispin!” she cried, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, Crispin,” she whispered, her eyes wide, her rage turned to grief, “how could you?”

  He stood looking down at her and at her tears, and then he sighed. He drew her close and held her against him in spite of her struggles to be free. “Dulcie,” he said into her hair as he buried his face in her disordered curls, “what mischief is afoot? Who has spoken to you? Someone grossly misled me tonight. And now here you are, all upset—and this I cannot bear, darling,” he said.

  She stopped weeping, because she loved it when he called her that, but she had never heard that soft, despairing tone of voice from him before.

  “I was sent on a wild-goose chase—say, rather, a wild-gander chase,” he said. “No new investment was offered to me tonight—only a chance for some vulgar sport. Had I known, I would not have gone. Now, who told you what I would find there? I wish they’d told me before I left.

  “Look at me,” he said with rueful laughter in his voice, as he stepped back from her. “I look as if I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, don’t I? I have been, or at least I stumbled into enough of them. I left Sir Francis’s folly—was ever a place so well named!—and since it was the middle of the night and everyone else was too occupied to find me transportation, I had to walk miles in the dark till I reached the road. There I found Willie, bless his crafty soul, waiting with an ancient farm horse. God knows what lies he told in order to borrow it. God, I hope he only borrowed it! But it was for a good cause. We rode home double, and I stink of the stable because of that. But at least it’s better than the stink of the incense that Dashwood uses in his damned chapel. To say nothing,” he muttered, “of the cheaper perfume of some of his guests. And how could you have believed ill of me?” he added, with no laughter at all in his voice.

  She touched his hair and his shirt, trying to neaten them, before her hand fell to her side in a hopeless gesture. “I tried not to, Crispin, honestly, I did. But you were gone so long. Here, get out of those clothes,” she said more briskly. “The water in the pitcher’s not hot anymore, but at least it’s not icy cold. I’ll get some soap. My towels are dry now…”

  He took her hand and held it before she could leave. “Now,” he said, “tell me, Dulcie. Who told you? And what did they say?”

  “The serving wench. She came up to bring me some pastries and fruit after dinner. She started talking, and then hinting. I forced it from her. She told me about the so-called Society of Saint Francis and all about the abbey, the pictures, the sculptures, the bushes and…and the nuns. I think she did it because she was jealous of me, Crispin.”

  “Ah,” he said, “I see. That remains to be seen, but you believed her.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I didn’t know what to believe,” she confessed, “and so I suppose I believed it—yes. Because she talked about all the gentlemen and the women from London and all the fun they had. I’m not as…tutored as they are, Crispin. I could understand you wanting someone more…adept. I’m not very good at what they do, I know that,” she said as she brushed a leaf from his coat, not meeting his eyes.

  “Dulcie?” he said, and something in his voice made her look up. “Dulcie,” he said very earnestly, “did I ever say that? Did I ever make you think you weren’t good enough for me? After we came to terms with our marriage, I mean.”

  “Well, no, but—” she said.

  “But you thought I would want a whore from London instead of you?” he asked, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

  “Well, you were in such a fine place, with all those exotic things in it for men of experience, and women from London were there,” Dulcie said, each word paining her.

  “You think I am eager to copulate on the floor of a drafty chapel with a painted, worn-out London whore?” he asked in wonder. “You think I’m so jaded, so coarse, that I’d become aroused by rooms filled with badly painted erotic pictures?” he asked with a little more anger. “You think I’d find sport in climbing into fusty monks’ robes with a clutch of fools pretending to be schoolboys? Or that I enjoy the idea of public fornication? Do you think what we have means nothing to me?” he thundered. “That I would leave you to sport with drabs? And, God in heaven, whatever you imagine I think of you, do you really believe I find a garden full of bushes shaped like breasts and ballocks appealing? God help you, Dulcie, but you are a silly fool!”

  He stood, hands on his hips, staring down at her. He was rumpled and smudged, dirty and tired, and absolutely furious with her.

&nbs
p; She giggled. She tried to stifle the sound, but she was tired and relieved and delighted with his anger. No excuse could ring so fine upon her ear as his fury did. She’d lived with a father who, when he was guilty, met every accusation with a pretty story and reassurance. Crispin did neither. He looked ready to kill her, and she believed him entirely. She could almost imagine that he loved her. At least, he’d as much as said he loved making love to her. That was good enough for her, for she loved him very much.

  He was beginning to smile sheepishly himself when she stopped giggling.

  “I’m sorry if I made you mad,” she said, “but you really frightened me tonight.”

  “Oh, Dulcie,” he sighed, pulling her into his arms, “I’m sorry. That was the last thing I thought would happen.”

  He’d first stayed at the abbey because he couldn’t believe he really understood what they were about. Then he lingered because he didn’t quite believe what they were doing. When he did leave, it was without a word, in disgust. The men here jaded fools. He had only been angry at the inconvenience until he saw how unhappy Dulcie was. Her sadness has more than he could bear.

  “Forgive me, Dulcie. I didn’t want you to have to know,” he said. “I thought I might wander those lawns forever, or fall into the river in the dark. But I never thought you’d be hurt in any way. I’m glad I didn’t know how upset you were, for that would have made me—What’s that scent in your hair?” he asked, drawing in a deep breath.

  “I washed it,” she said, “so it’s soap, or vinegar, I imagine.”

  He breathed in the fresh, clean scent of her, and his arms tightened around her. The chapel had smelled of the heavy perfume of the whores and the gentlemen; the room itself had reeked of narcotic incense. When Sir Francis had done with his stupid ceremony, the whores had been brought out, and the stink of sweaty excitement had hung heavy in the thick air. The scent of the cool spring gardens to which he’d escaped had been like a deliverance, but nothing smelled as sweet and pure as his wife’s clean hair did now.

  And her mouth was sweet and fresh, and her skin was scented with soap and tasted of lemon and roses and salt.

  “I’ll wash,” he muttered, pulling off his neckcloth. “I must smell like the old horse.”

  He was a riot of scents, she thought—horse, yes, but incense and strange perfumes, too, the perfumes of the spring night, and a unique scent that was only him: tangy and complicated by shaving soap.

  “No,” she murmured, pulling him back, “stay here with me.”

  She might not have known what she’d asked of him, but he did. He drew her to the bed with him, struggling out of his coat and shirt as he did. She was so anxious to have him whole and naked against her that she helped him from his breeches and hose. She had only the silken gown to remove. And that was removed in the space of a sigh.

  They didn’t bother with much play. She was too impatient to have him, too eager to reassure herself that he desired her, to convince herself that she was good enough for him. And he was too overcome by her desire for him to temper his yearning to have her. The eroticism he’d seen earlier hadn’t left him entirely untouched, but the unaccustomed eagerness of her touch almost undid him. He was as avid as a boy, with just enough control to remember some of the refinements of a man. They met in mutual passion.

  She forgot her fears of inadequacy and simply rejoiced in his return, feeling the blessed need and heat and touch of him. And then she felt something more. A stirring, a gathering, a tingling sense of something that was neither him nor her but the two of them together as he rocked against her and caressed her. Before she could think about the feeling and what it meant, it overcame her. She rode with it, and with him. She followed where it led, though it led her far away from herself. It made her shiver and gasp and finally emit little sobs that might have embarrassed her if she’d been aware of them or of anything but the pulsing surge of devastating feeling that followed.

  He paused above her, and she felt his chuckle deep in his chest. “Yes,” he said with enormous pride and satisfaction, his voice low and rich against her ear. “Yes, Dulcie. There you are.” And while she still shuddered and wondered, he took his own pleasure, made exquisite now because of hers.

  “Is it always like that for you?” she asked when he lay beside her again, their heartbeats slowing as he held her and soothed her.

  “Always, with you,” he said dreamily, as he stroked her.

  “Then I can understand why men buy women,” she said in a brave voice. “If it always feels like that for them, who can blame them?”

  “It doesn’t,” he said, on the edge of sleep, scarcely knowing what he’d said. “It’s not anything like this, I promise you.” Then he said no more, because he slept.

  She did too, after she’d thought about what he’d said and stored it in her memory for comfort during whatever lay ahead.

  *

  The serving girl was gone in the morning.

  “She’s feeling poorly, sir,” the innkeeper said.

  “Good,” Crispin said. “I’d have made her feel worse,” he muttered as he helped Dulcie into the coach. “We’ll be in London by this afternoon,” he told her. “Willie will be ecstatic.”

  “You’re keeping him on?” she asked. “I had hoped so, because he did help you last night.”

  “More likely he was spying on me and just happened to be there when I needed help,” he answered, smiling. “Willie is like a force of nature. One doesn’t keep him on any more than one keeps it raining. He stays because it suits him. I think I know some of his reasons, but probably not all. That wise, I am not. Silly wench, why are you looking at me like that? So doting? Just because I pleased you once? Why, then,” he said, when she giggled and nodded, “we must see what two nights will do, mustn’t we? Or one morning,” he said, advancing on her, in spite of her screeches.

  “Oh, no!” she cried, not joking anymore. “Crispin! No! Someone might look in!”

  “We’re traveling in a carriage, Dulcie,” Crispin said in a silky undervoice. But then he raised his head, sighed, and sat up again. “But you’re right. I know who might look in.”

  “Willie?” she asked, grinning so merrily he tweaked her nose for her.

  He nodded. “He’s riding with the baggage. I’ve assigned him a room in my house this time. He’ll go where he pleases—I might as well pretend it pleases me to have him there all the time.”

  She kissed him without caring who might be looking in.

  *

  After the coach arrived in London, Willie stowed his belongings in his new room, admired it for a half second, and then went out again. He sidled past the footmen and slipped out the door. Then he squared his shoulders and made straight for his meeting. But he stopped in the alley behind the viscount’s town house and looked back for a moment, his small face grim in its stark longing before he remembered to erase all expression from it. He had a report to make and didn’t know how it would be taken, or if he could ever come back.

  CHAPTER 16

  There was no moon, but Willie Grab never needed light. He’d grown up in the dark, and he found his way to the appointed spot at the exact hour he was expected. He had no clock, but didn’t need one. He’d learned to count the hours from his heartbeat, mark the day by the rising of the moon and sun, and he measured out his days in breaths. He wanted to keep counting them, so he decided he would speak as little as possible at this meeting, for he didn’t trust his voice. It was weaker than his will and might betray him. And he was frightened, though no one watching him walk down the street would have guessed it.

  He went on his way undisturbed, for those who knew how to look also knew what they were looking at. Willie Grab was many things, but he did not look like a victim.

  He swaggered, for one thing. Small as he was, he walked like a man with a weapon, though his only weapons were speed and guile and a certain furtive grace. He was also armed with experience far beyond his years. Most of all, he possessed intelligence, which was why
he was so frightened tonight.

  He stopped at a tavern with the sign of a hissing cat hanging over its door. He drew in a deep breath and went inside. The room was hot and damp, in marked contrast to the cool night. No fire burned in the hearth; the heat was provided by the people packed inside—too many people, too much smoke and noise. The smell of ale and gin wafted in the stale air, and everyone seemed to be talking or laughing. There was even some raucous singing going on. The laughter was very loud, considering no one could hear a word that was spoken unless he put his ear to the speaker’s mouth. But it wasn’t necessary to hear, not with so much gin available for a halfpenny, not with the ale flowing so lavish and cheap.

  Willie went straight to the barkeep and got a wink and a quick nod to indicate a table in the back. He turned and made his way through the crowd to it. He wasn’t the only boy there and not the youngest, either, but he was the only sober one. Twelve glasses of gin wouldn’t have gotten him high tonight. He’d already had two at his last meeting, and they might as well have been water. He was used to drinking. But even so, he was too nervous to allow anything as simple as alcohol to muddle his wits. He needed them too badly. He had another report to make, and a handsome payment to get for it. Still, he thought he’d be lucky to escape with his wits when he was done tonight.

  The man he’d come to see sat in the shadows with his back to the wall. He wore a black cloak, and a black tricorne was tipped forward to hide his face, but Willie knew him immediately.

  “I’m not late,” Willie said defensively, sliding into a chair beside the man. “You must have got here early. I just came back today, and I come soon as I could, like I said I would.”

  “Nice place you have here,” the man observed.

  “Well, I couldn’t come to you, could I?” Willie said in grieved tones, “and I didn’t know where else we could meet. No one would expect to see you here, even if they could recognize you in all that black. And everybody would expect me. So I reckoned it was best.”