by Sharon Page
He ran his finger around his collar and a blush washed over his high cheekbones.
The gong rang then, summoning them into dinner. Two places were set—at the ends of a long table. Zoe sighed. They could have dinner, but not a conversation unless they shouted.
Tomorrow, she intended to change that.
So as not to offend Cook, Zoe went through course after course, watching Nigel along the length of the table. Watching him drink wine and eat was terribly erotic. A voice kept whispering in her head: This is your wedding night.
Dessert came—a charlotte russe, large enough to feed a whole house party.
That had to be it.
No, trays of cheeses were brought out. One of the footmen stepped forward. “Coffee in the drawing room, Your Grace?”
“Very good,” Nigel said.
She was bouncing on her seat in irritation. He didn’t look perturbed at all. How could he want coffee? Didn’t he want to get up to bed? She didn’t get it. She thought the groom was supposed to be even more eager than the bride.
He had been pretty eager in her airplane—
They retired to the drawing room. There was no fire—apparently one was never lit during the summer. Her shoulders jerked involuntarily. Cold seemed to whisper through the house like ghosts. She faced Nigel, who had settled in a wing chair. “Don’t you want to go up to—?”
She had to break off as coffee came in, a huge silver urn of it, carried on a large silver salver. It was a procession: first the urn, then the cups, then cutlery, then trays of delicate cakes.
Of course, again, they weren’t alone. A footman remained, to cater to their every wish. Everyone in England talked in front of the servants. She supposed it helped force them to engage in proper, polite conversations and keep ladies from raising their voices.
“The drive was good,” Nigel remarked. “From the station.”
She was not going to make small talk on her wedding night. “Sure it was. But I think I’m ready for bed.”
Nigel got to his feet. “Good night,” he said.
Good night? Bugger that, to use one of Sebastian’s expressions. “I’ll see you soon,” she said jauntily.
* * *
Zoe flopped back on her bed. She yawned. Her body wanted to fall into sleep, but she was fighting to stay awake. This was her wedding night and Nigel had to come to her sometime. She’d been upstairs for an hour. Where was her husband? A discreet rap sounded on the white paneled door that connected from her room to Nigel’s bedroom. Their bedrooms were side by side, and on the opposite sides, they each had apartments consisting of a combined bathing and dressing room, and one small parlor each. All in a smaller scale than Brideswell, of course.
It probably wasn’t even Nigel, Zoe thought, annoyed. Probably her maid or another servant. “Oh, come in,” she called.
It was Nigel. In a robe of dark blue, belted at the waist.
Her heart pounded and her breath came fast. He could do this to her—make it almost impossible to appear jaded and sophisticated. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed.
She rolled onto her side, propped up so her body made a sensuous line. Her white satin nightgown spilled over her thigh and poured onto the bed, revealing almost all of her bare legs.
She lifted a brow at her husband. “It took you long enough.”
“My apologies.” His hands gripped the belt of his robe. But he wasn’t taking it off. “Should we get into bed?”
“Get into bed?” Zoe jumped off her bed, stalked over to him, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.
He was strong, but she must have startled him because he fell over, landing on her mattress.
“We’re not going to do something as boring as that,” she said.
She stretched out on top of him in her formfitting nightdress and wriggled suggestively over him.
It worked. His erection swelled beneath his robe. Even beneath the thick velvet she could feel it. Planting her hands on his chest, she kissed him.
He responded. His mouth opened and he kissed her hungrily. Their tongues dueled. Their lips crushed together, hot and hard. Nigel tore his belt open, then his robe.
Pajamas. He wore a set of pajamas.
Zoe slid her hands all over him to torment him for wearing pajamas when this was their wedding night. She caressed him over his chest under the fabric. Then slid her hands into his trousers.
He groaned in surprise against her mouth.
But he drew back from her kiss—he always did that. He would stop when she was raring to go. His large hand wrapped around her wrist. He stilled her hand. “Zoe, no.”
“Why not?” Nerves hit her. And doubts. She might be bold but she had no experience. And dukes—rich, autocratic men—were supposed to keep strings of mistresses before they married. Had Nigel done that? Before the War, before he was injured and scarred? He had seemed to know what he was doing in her airplane.
Gathering courage, she stared boldly in his blue eyes. “Don’t you like it?”
“Yes, but you shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what? Touch you? Don’t you remember what we did in the airplane? I’m not going to lie on back and shut my eyes and do my duty. Sex is supposed to be fun. I intend to have fun. A lot of it.”
She wriggled down his body. His trousers had a drawstring waist, so it wasn’t hard to tug them down.
One quick glance up at Nigel’s face showed he looked shocked.
Did he really think she planned to be proper now they were married? That afternoon in the airplane—or when they’d kissed in her car—she’d felt connected to him. Closer to him than she’d felt to anyone.
She wanted that feeling on her wedding night.
“I’m not going to be proper,” she warned. “I bet most ladies are only proper in bed because they don’t feel any desire for their husbands.”
Pursing her lips—which she’d painted with lipstick while waiting for him, to look as alluring and pretty as she could—she bent down a planted a kiss to the most intimate part of his body.
“Zoe—” Her name came out terse, and before he could say more, she parted her lips and took him in her mouth. She knew girls did this—girls in New York talked about it. Young men had even asked for it in the backs of cars, though she would never have done it with them.
But she wanted this with Nigel. She wanted to shock him right down to his toes.
And she wanted to delight him. He was her husband. This was what marriage and intimacy was all about, wasn’t it?
He started moaning and groaning, and his head tipped back as if he were in severe agony.
She loved seeing him like that. So out of control. His feet were bare because his slippers had fallen off, and his toes were stretched out straight.
He groaned, “Zoe, you have to stop.”
No, she wasn’t going to do that. Not even at a duke’s command.
Nigel’s hips jerked right off the bed and his fist slammed against the mattress and he howled.
Zoe was stunned. She’d made him yell.
Suddenly she was lifted. Lifted by his strong arms and he kissed her.
He rolled her onto her back. He pushed at the thick counterpane and the bedcovers, trying to get them down underneath her. She helped him by shimmying them under her. Finally she was lying on soft, cool sheets—her experience in England was that the beds were always cool or cold.
He got over top of her, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders, his legs open over hers. She gazed up at him, aware of his size. He was so much taller, his legs incredibly long. Supporting himself on his strong arms, he bent to her. His lips brushed her collarbone.
Skimmed lower and touched the swells of her breasts.
She trembled underneath him. Yes, this was what she’
d dreamed her wedding night would be.
He kissed her breasts through her nightdress, kissed his way down her abdomen. Watching her from beneath his thick, black lashes, he took hold of her satin skirt and lifted it.
Higher. Higher.
He bared her to him. She caught her breath, thrilled to be so exposed, but nervous, too. Her heart beat faster with anticipation than it had ever done.
His mouth lowered to her most intimate place.
And his kisses there made her moan, shiver, then scream with sheer pleasure. She climaxed, her eyes shut tight, her hands gripping the sheets.
Gasping in the aftermath of ecstasy, she giggled, squealed and wriggled on her bed.
This was glorious. Just what she’d dreamed of. She felt she could fly without an airplane. She felt filled with power, naughty, wicked and so very happy she wanted to sob with joy.
Stupidly, she felt a bit shy. Even after all they’d done together. She fought that—she was not going to be a wilting flower.
* * *
Zoe pulled up her nightgown and drew it over her head, tossing it off the bed. She rolled onto her tummy, wiggled her bottom, and Nigel felt all the blood drain out of his head as he covered her. God, she was beautiful. Naked. Exquisite. Luscious.
This wasn’t what Nigel had imagined his wedding night would be. His father had told him to expect a nervous bride, trapped by ignorance, frigid and afraid.
Of course, Zoe had never been like that.
He took off the top of his pajamas, kicked off his trousers.
He wanted to give Zoe pleasure. He’d sensed her unhappiness. If he gave her pleasure here, maybe she would forgive him. For his awkwardness on their trip here.
She moved with him, wild and wanton.
He fought to hold on. All the sounds she made, the words she gasped in her lovely voice, were the most erotic things he’d ever heard.
She screamed, “Nigel! Nigel, oh, goodness!”
At that instant, his control snapped and he climaxed. A bright light burst in his head, and exquisite pleasure shot through him. He almost collapsed, consumed by ecstasy and exhaustion.
He leaned over her and captured Zoe’s mouth in a series of quick, frantic kisses as they drew in deep breaths.
Zoe was his wife. How had he ended up such a lucky man?
Gently he moved away from her, collapsed on the bed and drew her down with him. He took ragged breaths. His heart still hammered.
Zoe sat up getting off him, and she fumbled through the evening bag she’d tossed on the bedside table. From her gold cigarette case, she took out two and held one out to him. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. Even after the wildest, most intimate sex, just that touch sent sparks through him.
With her manual strike lighter, she lit her cigarette, then his.
She sat up. Her naked, slender legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Her lipstick was mostly gone, some still smeared on her lips. Her bobbed hair was a tangle.
She looked indescribably sensual.
Nigel rolled onto his stomach to be closer to her. He brushed his knuckles along her thigh.
“You know, I was starting to worry,” she said.
His heart lodged in his throat. “Worry about what?” he asked cautiously.
“I told Lady Chawley-Sourpuss that it didn’t matter what was outdoors on a honeymoon since all the fun is indoors.”
He sucked in a lungful of smoke and coughed. “Good God, Zoe. You did not say that to Lady Chawley-Lampkin.”
She tipped back her head and blew a smoke ring. “I did. She was trying to pry into why we weren’t going to Nice or Monte Carlo.” She gave him a bold gaze. “Anyway, I was telling the truth. That’s what I expected out of a honeymoon.”
He blushed. They weren’t going because he couldn’t face crowds and couldn’t face the memories that would surge when he traveled. He didn’t know what it would do to him.
“But when we got here, you didn’t seem too anxious to come to bed.”
“I was, but it would not have been proper to rush upstairs, Zoe.” Not entirely untrue. Nigel took a draw on the cigarette. “I hope it was worth the wait.”
“It was.” A silver tray sat on the side table. Zoe stubbed the cigarette in it. “But I’d like to spend as much time in bed as we can. This is our honeymoon.”
* * *
Making love to Nigel had been sexy and naughty and erotic. Zoe lay down beside him and pressed her body tight to him. She felt dizzy and glorious.
She knew people who had to smoke all the time. They got irritable and nervy when they didn’t have a cigarette in their hands. She never wanted to be addicted to anything. For the same reason, she didn’t use cocaine or morphine. She drank, but not to excess.
But making love to Nigel? She could get addicted to that.
“Good night, Zoe.” Nigel kissed the top of her head, and then he sat up. “Breakfast will be served downstairs. Your maid will bring you your tea in the morning. I’ll see you at breakfast. Unless you prefer your breakfast in your bed now that you are married.”
The covers rustled and he slid out of bed.
She bolted up. Gaping in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘at breakfast’? Aren’t you going to sleep with me?”
“It isn’t done, Zoe.”
“Of course it is. People do it all the time.”
But her husband shrugged on his robe. At the connecting door, Nigel bowed to her. Bowed! Then he was gone.
15
NIGEL’S MEMORIES
“Get your head down. Goddamn it, get your bloody head down!”
The shouts wrenched her out of sleep. Confused, Zoe opened her eyes wide and sat up, groggy. Who was yelling? The cries were muted, but they sounded so desperate and awful.
“Dear God, what in hell are you doing? Get back, Cromwell! Get back before you get your head blown—” A loud yell of horror and agony pierced her right through to her heart.
Oh, Lord, it was Nigel.
Zoe jumped out of bed, let out a scream herself as the cold grabbed her and hugged her tight with its icy arms.
“Nigel!” She ran toward his door. What was wrong? He sounded as if he were dying.
She wrenched the old ornate doorknob and ran into his bedroom. It took her moments to understand the scene before her eyes.
One of his curtains was open, throwing moonlight into the room and casting silver-blue light over Nigel.
He wasn’t in the bed. Naked, he thrashed to and fro on the hardwood floor. Garbled words came out of his mouth. He shouted names and incoherent sentences. She recognized one word. Blood.
She stood, gripping the doorknob, looking down in shock.
She must stop this. He could hurt himself. His face was a mask of tortured agony.
“They’re coming. They’re coming. Get out. Save yourself.” He didn’t shout that. It was a fervent, desperate demand.
How did you snap a man out of a nightmare? She got on her knees at his side. She must snap him out of this as quickly as she could. He could hurt himself. He was suffering terrible pain. And it was terrifying to watch him. He acted as though this were real.
She was trembling. But she grabbed his shoulders to shake him, sure it would wake him—
He let out an unearthly yell and he threw her. Now she knew his strength, for she slid back along the floor until her back stopped by hitting something hard. Pain exploded in her shoulder. She’d slammed into the front of a leather chair.
Should she get away from him?
She couldn’t leave him like this.
Zoe struggled up onto her knees. She put so much pressure on her shoulder to do it, she cried out. It was a fight, but she got to her feet. Then she gathered her strength and shouted, “Nigel, wake up! You’re ha
ving a nightmare!”
But this was like no bad dream she’d ever had. He seemed to be living it.
She needed to make some sort of loud sound to shock him awake. She grasped the fire poker and the shovel and struck them together.
The explosive crack of sound didn’t do what she’d hoped. Nigel threw his body, outstretched on the rug, hands trying to gouge into the floorboards.
This was what he would have done when something exploded. She saw it with cold, harsh clarity. He would throw himself into the muck to avoid the explosion, the shrapnel.
“Nigel. It’s Zoe.” She knew it was a risk, but she’d always declared she wasn’t afraid of anything.
She went to him again. Touched his face. She flinched, expecting him to strike her again. But he didn’t move. His body heaved with his deep, ragged breaths, as if he’d exhausted himself. As if he had no more strength inside him.
Even though she knew he had shell shock, she hadn’t really understood what it meant. She’d thought it was awkward shaking—which surely he could fight. She hadn’t dreamed it was this.
Was he plunged back into hell every night?
He hadn’t escaped war at all. He wasn’t being shot at, but his mind thought he was. It was as real for him at night as it had been for four horrible years.
Her hand on his face seemed to soothe him. She tried shaking him again gently. He mumbled in protest, but finally his lids flickered.
Deep blue eyes gazed up at her. Eyes filled with agony.
He rolled onto his back, and she got on top of him. She hugged him, her satin nightdress pressing to his bare skin, tangled around both their legs.
“Zoe,” he whispered. “What happened?” He sucked in a deep breath. “I was having a nightmare, wasn’t I?”
“Yes. I heard you and I came in to wake you.”
He lifted her off him, horror and disgust written on his face. “I didn’t want you to see that.”
“I know you suffer from shell shock.”
He didn’t say anything. He sat up, arms dangling off his knees.
“Where are your servants? You can’t tell me they didn’t hear you scream.”
“I have forbidden them from coming in when I am having one of the fits.”
