Love in the Afternoon

by Lisa Kleypas

  Beatrix’s eyes widened. “You think this letter might harm him?”

  “I’m not sure. In spite of our kinship, I don’t understand Christopher well enough to judge.” Audrey shrugged helplessly. “You’ll know what I mean when you read it. I don’t want to give it to Christopher unless I can be sure it will do him good, and not create some unintended torment. I leave it in your hands, Beatrix, and trust in your wisdom.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A month later, on a sunny and dry October day, the wedding took place at the parish church on the village green. To the general pleasure of Stony Cross, the ceremony adhered to long-standing village traditions. The wedding party emerged from their carriages a few streets away from the church, and walked the rest of the way along a path heavily strewn with flowers and fertility herbs. More and more people joined them as they passed, until it was less of a wedding procession than a jovial mob.

  Additional flowers had been piled into a pair of massive baskets that were strapped across the back of Beatrix’s mule, Hector. The little mule led the crowd at a dignified pace, while the women walking beside him reached into the baskets and tossed fresh handfuls of petals and blossoms to the ground. A straw hat festooned with flowers had been tied to Hector’s head, his ears sticking out at crooked angles through the holes at the sides.

  “Good God, Albert,” Christopher said ruefully to the dog beside him. “Between you and the mule, I think you got the best of the bargain.” Albert had been freshly washed and trimmed, a collar of white roses fastened around his neck. The dog looked wary, clearly not liking the close-packed crowd around them any more than Christopher did.

  As the women occupied one half of the street, and the men the other, Christopher caught only occasional glimpses of Beatrix. She was surrounded by village girls dressed in white, ostensibly to confuse evil spirits that might have had designs on the bride. Christopher, for his part, was surrounded by an honor guard comprised of friends from the Rifle Brigade, and a few men from his original cavalry unit.

  Finally they reached the church, which was already filled. Violin music filled the air in buoyant strains.

  While Christopher went to the front of the church to wait at the altar, Beatrix remained at the back with Leo.

  “Beatrix,” her brother asked, “what did you do to Hector?”

  “He’s a flower mule,” she said reasonably.

  “I hope it won’t distress you to learn that he’s eating his hat.”

  Beatrix stifled a giggle.

  Bending his head over hers, Leo murmured, “When I give you away at the altar, Bea, I want you to remember something. I’m not really giving you away. I’m merely allowing him the chance to love you as much as the rest of us do.”

  Beatrix’s eyes watered, and she leaned against him. “He does,” she whispered.

  “I think so, too,” her brother whispered back. “I wouldn’t let you marry him otherwise.”

  The rest of the morning and afternoon passed in a daze of happiness. After they exchanged vows, they left the church beneath an arch of swords held up by the honor guard. The front gate was closed—another Stony Cross tradition—and would not be opened until the groom paid the toll. Christopher reached into a velvet bag, pulled out a fistful of gold coins, and tossed them to the crowd. The shower of coins elicited squeals of glee. Three more handfuls were sent into the air, most of the glittering pieces caught before they ever reached the ground.

  When every last coin had been retrieved, the assemblage swarmed to the village green, where long tables had been piled high with cakes brought by everyone in Stony Cross. Beatrix and Christopher fed each other bites of cake, while villagers showered them with crumbs to ensure the couple’s fertility.

  The crowd continued their celebration on the green as the wedding party departed for Ramsay House. A massive wedding breakfast ensued, with endless rounds of toasting and merriment.

  When the lengthy affair was finished, Beatrix was relieved to be able to go upstairs and remove her wedding dress. As Amelia and a housemaid helped to remove the voluminous dress, the three of them started laughing as a shower of cake crumbs fell to the floor.

  “That is my least favorite Stony Cross wedding custom,” Beatrix said ruefully, brushing at the remaining few crumbs that clung to her arms. “On the other hand, it’s probably made more than a few birds happy.”

  “Speaking of birds, dear . . .” Amelia waited until the maid had gone to draw a bath. “That brings to mind the line from Samuel Coleridge’s poem about spring, ‘The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—’ ”

  Beatrix gave her a quizzical glance. “Why do you mention that? It’s autumn, not spring.”

  “Yes, but that particular poem mentions birds pairing. I thought you might have some questions for me on that topic.”

  “About birds? Thank you, but I know far more about birds than you.”

  Amelia sighed, giving up the attempt to be delicate. “Forget the blasted birds. It’s your wedding night—do you want to ask me anything?”

  “Oh. Thank you, but Christopher has already, er . . . provided the information.”

  Amelia’s brows lifted. “Has he?”

  “Yes. Although he used a different euphemism than birds or bees.”

  “Did he? What did he reference, then?”

  “Squirrels,” Beatrix said. And she turned aside to hide a grin at her sister’s expression.

  Although they would be leaving on the morrow for a fortnight in the Cotswolds, Beatrix had assumed that they would spend their wedding night at Phelan House. She had sent a trunk containing some clothes, toiletries, and a nightgown to Christopher’s home. She was surprised, therefore, when Christopher informed her that he had different plans in mind.

  After bidding her family good-bye, Beatrix went out to the front drive with Christopher. He had changed from his uniform, with its gleaming jangle of medals, and wore simple tweed and broadcloth, with a simple white cravat tied at his neck. She much preferred him this way, in rougher, simpler clothing—the splendor of Christopher in military dress was nearly too dazzling to bear. The sun was a rich autumn gold, lowering into the black nest of treetops.

  Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher’s large bay gelding.

  Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. “Don’t I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?”

  His lips twitched. “We’ll ride together, if you’re willing. I have a surprise for you.”

  “How unconventional of you.”

  “Yes, I thought that would please you.” He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her.

  No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth.

  “Where are we going?” she asked against his coat.

  “We’re almost there. Don’t look.”

  Soon Christopher reined in the horse and dismounted, helping her down.

  Viewing their surroundings, Beatrix smiled in perplexity. It was the secret house on Lord Westcliff’s estate. Light glowed through the open windows. “Why are we here?”

  “Go upstairs and see,” Christopher said, and went to tether the horse.

  Picking up the skirts of her blue dress, Beatrix ascended the circular staircase, which had been lit with strategically placed lamps in the wall brackets where ancient torches had once hung. Reaching the circular room upstairs, Beatrix crossed the threshold.

  The room had been transformed.

  A small fire glowed in the formerly dark hearth, and golden lamplight filled the air. The scarred wooden floors had been scrubbed clean and covered with rich, thick Turkish car
pets. Floral tapestries softened the old stone walls. The ancient bedframe had been replaced by a large chestnut bed with carved panels and spiral columns. The bed had been made up with a deep mattress and luxurious quilts and linens, and plump white pillows piled three deep. The table in the corner was draped in mauve damask and laden with covered silver trays and baskets spilling over with food. Condensation glittered on the sides of a silver bucket of iced champagne. And there was her trunk, set beside a painted dressing screen.

  Stunned, Beatrix wandered farther into the room, trying to take it all in.

  Christopher came up behind her. As Beatrix turned to face him, he searched her face with a gently quizzical gaze. “If you like, we can spend our first night together here,” he said. “But if this doesn’t suit you, we’ll go to Phelan House.”

  Beatrix could hardly speak. “You did this for me?”

  He nodded. “I asked Lord Westcliff if we might stay the night here. And he had no objections to a little redecorating. Do you—”

  He was interrupted as Beatrix flung herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

  Christopher held her, his hands coursing slowly over her back and hips. His lips found the tender skin of her cheeks, her chin, the yielding softness of her mouth. Through the descending diaphanous layers of pleasure, Beatrix answered him blindly, taking a shivering breath as his long fingers curved beneath her jaw. He shaped her lips with his own, his tongue questing gently. The taste of him was smooth and subtle and masculine. Intoxicating. Needing more of him, she struggled to draw him deeper, to kiss him harder, and he resisted with a quiet laugh.

  “Wait. Easy . . . love, there’s another part of the surprise that I don’t want you to miss.”

  “Where?” Beatrix asked drowsily, her hand searching over his front.

  Christopher gave a muffled laugh, taking her by the shoulders and easing her away. He stared down at her, his gray eyes glowing.

  “Listen,” he whispered.

  As the thrumming of her own heart quieted, Beatrix heard music. Not instruments, but human voices joined in harmony. Bemused, she went to the window and looked out. A smile lit her face.

  A small group of officers from Christopher’s regiment, still in uniform, were standing in a row and singing a slow, haunting ballad.

  Were I laid on Greenland’s coast,

  And in my arms embrac’d my lass;

  Warm amidst eternal frost,

  Too soon the half year’s night would pass.

  And I would love you all the day.

  Ev’ry night would kiss and play,

  If with me you’d fondly stray.

  Over the hills and far away . . .

  “Our song,” Beatrix whispered, as the sweet strains floated up to them.

  “Yes.”

  Beatrix lowered to the floor and braced her folded arms on the windowsill . . . the same place where she had lit so many candles for a soldier fighting in a faraway land.

  Christopher joined her at the window, kneeling with his arms braced around her. At the conclusion of the song, Beatrix blew the officers a kiss. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she called down to them. “I will treasure this memory always.”

  One of them volunteered, “Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Phelan, but according to Rifle Brigade wedding tradition, every man on the groom’s honor guard gets to kiss the bride on her wedding night.”

  “What rot,” Christopher retorted amiably. “The only Rifles wedding tradition I know of is to avoid getting married in the first place.”

  “Well, you bungled that one, old fellow.” The group chortled.

  “Can’t say as I blame him,” one of them added. “You are a vision, Mrs. Phelan.”

  “As fair as moonlight,” another said.

  “Thank you,” Christopher said. “Now stop wooing my wife, and take your leave.”

  “We started the job,” one of the officers said. “It’s left to you to finish it, Phelan.”

  And with cheerful catcalls and well wishes, the Rifles departed.

  “They’re taking the horse with them,” Christopher said, a smile in his voice. “You’re well and truly stranded with me now.” He turned toward Beatrix and slid his fingers beneath her chin, nudging her to look at him. “What’s this?” His voice gentled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Beatrix said, seeing him through a shimmer of tears. “Absolutely nothing. It’s just . . . I spent so many hours in this place, dreaming of being with you someday. But I never dared to believe it could really happen.”

  “You had to believe, just a little,” Christopher whispered. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have come true.” Pulling her between his spread thighs, he wrapped her in a comforting hug. After a long time, he spoke quietly into her hair. “Beatrix. One of the reasons I haven’t made love to you since that afternoon is that I didn’t want to take advantage of you again.”

  “You didn’t,” she protested. “I gave myself to you freely.”

  “Yes, I know.” Christopher kissed her head. “You were generous, and beautiful, and so passionate that you’ve ruined me for any other woman. But it wasn’t what I had intended for your first time. Tonight I’m going to make amends.”

  Beatrix shivered at the sensual promise of his tone. “There’s no need. But if you insist . . .”

  “I do insist.” He smoothed his hand over her back and continued to hold her, making her feel safe. And then he began to kiss his way along the side of her neck, his mouth hot and deliberate, and she began to feel not entirely safe. She drew in a quick breath as he lingered at a sensitive place.

  Feeling the ripple of her convulsive swallow, he lifted his head and smiled down at her. “Shall we have supper first?” Standing in an easy movement, he pulled her up with him.

  “After that enormous wedding breakfast,” Beatrix replied, “I’ll never be hungry again. However . . .”—she gave him a brilliant grin—“I wouldn’t mind a glass of champagne.”

  Taking her face in his hands, Christopher kissed her swiftly. “For that smile, you can have the entire bottle.”

  She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Would you unfasten my dress first?”

  Turning her away from him, he began on the row of concealed hooks that held the back of her dress together.

  It felt like a husbandly act, this unfastening of her dress, both comforting and pleasant. As he bared her nape, he pressed his lips to the delicate skin, and strung more lingering kisses to the top of her spine.

  “Shall I do the corset as well?” he asked, his voice close to her ear.

  Beatrix was privately amazed that her legs were still supporting her. “No, thank you, I can manage that by myself.” She fled to the privacy of the dressing screen, and tugged her trunk behind it. Opening the lid, Beatrix found her neatly folded clothes and a drawstring muslin bag containing a brush and a rack of hairpins, and other small necessities. There was also a package wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a matching ribbon. Picking up a small folded note that had been tucked under the ribbon, Beatrix read:

  A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this.

  —Poppy

  Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked . . .

  After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let it slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair,
she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk.

  Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen.

  Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. “My God,” he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers.

  “Do you like my nightgown?” Beatrix asked.

  Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “This was all I could find.” Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. “I wonder if I put it on backward . . .”

  “Let me see.” As she turned to reveal the naked line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath.

  Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn’t take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin. She went to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, relishing the billowy softness of the quilts and linens. Reclining on her side, she made no attempt to cover her exposed leg as the gossamer fabric fell open to her hip.

  Christopher came to her, stripping off his shirt along the way. The sight of him, all that flexing muscle and sun-glazed skin, was breathtaking. He was a beautiful man, a scarred Apollo, a dream lover. And he was hers.

  She reached for him, a breath catching in her throat as her hand flattened on his chest. She let her fingertips trail through the crisp, glinting fur. He bent over her, his eyes heavy lidded, his mouth firming in the way it did when he was aroused.

  Overwhelmed by a mingling of love and desire, she said breathlessly, “Christopher—”