But this wasn’t that kind of wedding. She’d been a fool to even begin thinking it might be anything more than a convenient arrangement for them both. For her to pitch a fit of pique at his cavalier treatment of her would indicate to him that she would expect more of him than she’d initially agreed to.
“Yes. Tonight, Emily. But we must hurry. The blacksmith said his dinner is waiting for him, and he’s nearly ready to close up shop.” Marcus barely met her eyes before running his gaze over her appearance and then casually winging her his arm.
And that was all.
No flower arrangement or special gift.
No sweet smile or gentle touch of reassurance.
Not even one of those searing kisses he’d given her the day before.
No acknowledgment of the momentous occasion they were about to undertake whatsoever.
Biting back her complaints, Emily donned her shawl and then slid her hand in the crook of his elbow. She’d ignore that surge of awareness sweeping through her with his touch. This was nothing more than a business deal. She needed to remember that.
They descended the stairs and exited the inn without another word.
And then her mouth took over. “Can we not be friends anymore? Because of the things we’ve done? Because we are marrying?” She hated that she sounded forlorn and lonely, but where had the Marcus she’d come to know gone? He had become something of a completely different person today.
Marcus slowed their steps and then stopped altogether. He took her hand in his and then sighed. “I don’t want to hurt you, Emily.”
Exactly what she expected. She straightened her spine and focused on one of the buttons on his jacket. A burnished gold, probably worth a chambermaid’s monthly salary if not more. This jacket was likely one of his favorites. “I don’t want you to hurt me either.”
“We’ve… We shouldn’t have… It’s just that I’ve already taken advantage of your good nature and curiosity. I don’t want you to develop unrealistic expectations.”
“Such as?” She’d have him be perfectly clear on this. Heaven forbid she demand more than he wanted to give. This was why Rhoda had suggested Lord Carlisle would be better suited for her.
She’d somehow forgotten Lord Blakely’s reputation. Stupid of her really. But she could get past this.
At least she wouldn’t be sent to Wales.
It would be the new mantra in her life. When she lived alone in the country, not knowing if her husband would ever return… she’d say to herself, “At least I wasn’t sent to Wales.”
And when her friends had babies and celebrated the holidays with happy contentment and love… “At least I wasn’t sent to Wales.”
“Emily.” He didn’t want to answer with anything specific. She could tell by the tension in him. She needed to learn how to do that. How to turn off her emotions, stop caring for a person and not be pierced by the memories of shared pleasure.
“Miss Goodnight for a few more minutes at least,” she reprimanded him. “No, really, Lord Blakely.” She’d not call him Marcus. That had been a mistake. “Please be perfectly clear in what my expectations ought to be. Because I’d expected nothing less than friendship… and perhaps a child or two. If you’re not willing to give me either of those…” What was she saying? Wales awaited her! Perhaps something far worse after she’d tossed her reputation into the wind and run off with a single gentleman.
His shoulders relaxed. “We are friends, Emily.” He touched his forehead to hers. “And, yes, I’ll give you a child or two… as many as you wish. But…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know how long I’ll remain in England after we return to London. I’m blacklisted, and God help me, I don’t see that changing until my father quits this world. It burns inside to think that he’s won.”
“But he won’t win. I thought that was what this was all about.” She felt some relief at his promises, but also a dark, sinking feeling. His hatred of his father drove him. “Showing him he couldn’t manage your life. But by leaving, by allowing him to run you out of England, you’re giving him all the power.”
“It’s not just that.” He tipped her chin up and finally looked into her eyes. “I don’t want you to expect anything more than that.”
Yesterday, and late last night, for one of the first times in her life, she’d felt like a woman—not a freak, not a spinster, or bluestocking, not somebody to be forgotten. And she supposed if he were to get her with child, she’d feel that way again. Even if only temporarily.
When had she decided to demand more?
“I haven’t asked for more, have I?” she finally answered. “I just thought we were… passing the time.”
Oh, yes. That’s all it was.
“What if your father didn’t kill her? What if this is all a mistake?” She blurted it out in a rush, unwilling to compound the misunderstanding, if it was one, after all.
He tilted his head and regarded her for a moment longer. “It doesn’t matter, Emily. It’s already done. You’ve run off with me. Alone. If we don’t’ marry, I doubt even your evil aunt in Wales would take you on now.”
She knew this. She’d known it as the carriage drove away from Eden’s Court. She’d only fooled herself into thinking she had control over the rest of her life.
Thank God, Marcus was an honorable man.
“Do I have your favor again, then?” He searched her eyes as though this truly mattered to him.
Emily forced herself to smile. “Of course.”
He studied her for a moment longer and then turned and walked her once again toward a long flat building at the end of the road. Several lights burned inside, and the sound of a hammer hitting metal rang almost melodically. Marcus opened the door for her.
Fires glowed from two separate pits and the warmth of the room immediately wrapped around her. “Be with you in a moment, my lord!” hollered the man pounding the metal, barely taking a moment to see who’d entered his shop.
Marcus led her toward a long counter and pulled a few pieces of paper out of his jacket. The room smelled of smoke and hot metal and sweat. Emily couldn’t help but compare this with Cecily’s wedding or either of Sophia’s weddings. They had each taken place in a church, with flowers and a beautiful dress. Not to mention an eager groom. Instead of an organ playing, the ringing of the anvil echoed in her ears.
She stared down at her empty hands. Not even a small bouquet of flowers. The man who approached them had black streaks across his face and his hands were nearly black with coal. “You wish to be married then?” he asked her.
She nodded.
“You aren’t married to another?”
She answered this question by shaking her head. And then an unsteady, “No.”
“You’re old enough?”
Again, a nod.
“And you, my lord?”
“The same,” Marcus answered.
“Well, then. You’re married.” The blacksmith then examined Marcus’ paperwork, handed her a pen to sign her own name, and then returned to his work.
“That’s it?” Emily glanced around as though something surely had been forgotten. “That was our wedding ceremony?”
Marcus simply grinned and indicated they should leave. “Efficient, aren’t they?”
She’d spent more time purchasing a pair of gloves.
The entire transaction—she couldn’t even refer to it as a ceremony—had taken less than one minute. One single minute that would change her life forever.
Disappointed and dazed, she allowed Marcus to drag her back to the inn.
She was married. She’d been a bride for all of sixty seconds.
“I don’t imagine supper’s cooled down.” Marcus seemed oblivious to her emotions.
And she’d wanted to hide them from him. She’d wanted to prove that she wasn’t getting too attached, or heaven forbid, expecting too much. “No, I don’t imagine it is.”
Now what?
Marcus walked her through the taproom and upstairs. He looked a l
ittle sheepish when they arrived at the door to her chamber. “I’ll return in a while?” The wicked glint that appeared in his gaze had an opposite effect upon her tonight. She did not feel beautiful. She did not feel sensual.
“So that you may eat and then… prepare for the night,” he added.
Having assured himself that she would not become too attached, he looked eager enough to further their intimacies. Emily nodded vaguely and closed the door. What did he mean, prepare for the night?
She glanced toward the food, which indeed was still warm.
She was a married woman now. A wife.
She drifted across the room and stared into the glass above the wash basin. She looked the same as she had twenty minutes ago. Same brown hair, same spectacles. She peered closer. Same smattering of freckles across her nose.
She’d always thought she’d feel so completely different after she’d married. Cecily had seemed different after marrying Flavion. Not in a good way, but different. And then again after marrying Stephen. And Sophia had changed.
She picked up the glass and poured herself some wine. It was good. Spicy and a little dry. She swallowed it and then poured another glass.
Marriage was overrated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Men’s Blissful Ignorance
He’d missed her today.
Marcus bought himself a pint and then took his time drinking it. He’d not expected the anticipation he now felt. He oughtn’t to have worried about Emily getting clingy and emotional. Although bookish, she’d always exhibited a level-headedness absent in most silly debutantes.
He looked forward to tonight with a gusto he could never have imagined.
She’d not shown the slightest signs of squeamishness. This thought alone sent blood racing to his cock.
He’d wanted to join her for supper…in her chamber. He’d wanted to rush ahead, see what crazy musings flew from her brain tonight. But she’d seemed overwhelmed. As though she needed a moment to herself. A moment to allow the momentousness of such an occasion as her marriage to seem real.
He contemplated the weddings many of his peers had been forced to endure and nearly laughed out loud. This was the way a man ought to do it, if he had to get leg shackled. No sentimental squalling. No lengthy ceremony.
No nervous waiting at the altar.
Surely, he didn’t regret the lack of pomp and circumstance, did he? Marcus rubbed the muscles that had suddenly tightened at the back of his neck.
No tearful bride beaming at him from the back of the church, holding a bunch of flowers. He pulled his shoulders forward, stretching out the kink that had suddenly developed along the top of his back.
No religious vows to love, honor, and obey. No music. No joining of hands. His heart grew traitorously heavy at the thought.
Realizing his glass was empty, he ordered another.
No wedding breakfast.
Damn his eyes! Surely, Emily wasn’t experiencing a similar regret?
Only, he didn’t regret it. Did he? Hell if he knew.
He didn’t intend living in one of those marriages, like Dev’s or Nottingham’s. He’d never seen a benefit to husbands and wives living in one another’s pockets.
Emily had assured him she wanted to have children and she’d expect independence otherwise. He dismissed the small ache that settled in his heart at the idea of abandoning a family. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t provide for them. And return often.
Anticipation for the physical nature of his duties this evening gnawed at him. He had a responsibility. God knew, she aroused him. Her combination of innocence and lack of inhibitions…
What was he doing, sitting in a taproom alone while his bride awaited him?
Marcus paid his tab and pushed himself away from the bar. A quick wash, perhaps a change of clothes. Memories from yesterday stirred him to make haste.
What other things had Emily read about that she’d consider trying?
Thirty minutes later, Marcus knocked on the door to his wife’s chamber. Silence.
He knocked again and then heard some shuffling. His pocket watch revealed that it was barely ten o’clock. Surely, she’d not fallen asleep already?
The lock sounded and then the knob turned. Sleepy brown bespectacled eyes peered through the small gap she’d allowed. “What are you doing here?” Her voice rasped in a loud whisper, as though it was the middle of the night and he was scandalously sneaking into her chamber.
Not the invitation he’d expected.
Marcus slipped his boot inside and pushed the door open wider. Something felt… off. Ignoring her feeble attempts to prevent him from entering, he stepped through and perused the room. Three candles illuminated her untouched dinner. Her clothing from today had been strewn onto a chair, and a book lay open on the ruffled bed.
Emily wore her night rail. Was it on… backward? A sock remained partly on one foot and her other one was bare. Although she’d removed the pins that held her hair in a chignon, she’d yet to braid her hair. It hung in luxurious silky waves down her back.
A croaking sound escaped from her mouth. She had the hiccups. Marcus’ eyes swept back over the table and this time, he noticed an empty wine bottle and a nearly half full glass of wine.
Had she drunk the contents of the entire bottle?
“Ickup.” Her chest jumped again. “Marcus.” She waved her hands around the room. “Don’t you have your own chamber?”
Good lord, Miss Emily Goodnight was as bosky as could be.
“Ickup.”
“I hadn’t thought I’d need it tonight.” He spoke mostly to himself. To suggest that he was stunned would be putting it mildly. He dropped onto the chair with her clothing and studied her. Perhaps she was only tipsy…
“That… That thing we did thiseevening.” Her words slurred together in a sweet sing-song voice he’d not heard from her before. “Theseremony…”
“Our wedding?” He lifted one brow to her questioningly. She did remember then that this was their wedding night.
“Yes.” She made a pouting face and leaned one hip against the bedframe. She grasped the post with both of her hands and hugged it, he supposed, for balance. Was it possible she realized how seductive such a pose was? “If thaswhat you wannacall it.”
Uh oh. Perhaps he’d not been alone in feeling the tiniest regret at the lack of… ceremony within their… ceremony. “Er.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose the fellow could have injected a tad more… tradition?” He wasn’t sure what to call it even.
Emily hugged the post and pressed her cheek against the wood. “Do you wish to marry?” she mimicked the blacksmith. “Poof! You’re married! Not ‘do you take this here gent’… Etcetera, etcetera… Ickup” She closed her eyes and for the next twenty seconds, Marcus wondered if she’d fallen asleep standing up.
The anticipation he’d felt earlier seeped away as he realized that even he couldn’t consummate their vows with her in such condition.
“I s’pose you’ve come to cossummate with me.”
Marcus couldn’t decide if he found her behavior absolutely adorable or deserving of a thrashing.
With closed eyes, she released the post and then crawled onto the bed. Twist, crawl, tug at gown… when she finally managed to make her way to the center, she dropped onto her stomach and with an exasperated sigh, proceeded to roll over. “Do as you please.” She crossed her feet at her ankles and threw one arm over her face. “Ickup.” Likely, she’d have fallen asleep if not for her hiccups.
“Emily.” Marcus scooted the chair closer to the bed. “Why?” His question was half groan, half exasperation. “Why tonight?”
She peeked out from under her arm and opened drowsy eyes. “All your rules about this marriage. I don’t mind them. And it’s only fair. Especially because of Prescott’s man and all that.”
What was she babbling about?
“But, Marcus.” She met his eyes with a glassy gaze. “Today you didn’t even treat me like a friend.” A
tear slipped out of her eye and dripped onto the pillow. “I may not be good enough for all kinds of other people. Nor good enough to be a real wife to somebody, but… Marcus. I’d believed us to be friends. And today you treated me like I wasn’t even good enough to be your friend.”
Marcus didn’t know how to respond.
“I didn’t like it. Especially after…” She covered her face with her arm again and turned her head away from him. “It hurt.”
Oh, hell. Confusion balled up inside of him, scrambling most of his thoughts. Friend? He’d never considered the concept in reference to a wife. He stared at this woman who’d been so open with him. She’d done so trustingly.
Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “I’m sorry.” He whispered the inadequate words against her soft warm fingertips.
He’d known her for over a year, but had he ever truly known her? The secrets of her heart? Her dreams? Initially, he’d treated her like a younger sister, somewhat entertaining but in need of protection. And then she’d revealed more of herself to him. She’d admitted that her inquisitiveness was not that of a sexless spinster, but that of a woman with needs. And he’d taken enjoyment from that. But he’d kept her at arm’s length. He’d done his best to avoid anything… emotional.
And now she was his wife.
And he’d hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.
She nodded, her arm still covering her face. “I’m not quite feeling myself right now.” Her voice came out muffled.
“Your hiccups stopped.” Marcus kept hold of her hand. The area around his heart felt heavy, more than that, it ached. He decided to follow his instincts.
Sitting up, Marcus struggled to remove one boot, and then less so with the other.
They would not be making love tonight.
No, instead, he would make up for the stupidity he’d exhibited today.
“Drink this.” He handed her a glass of water. “Trust me.” He’d over imbibed enough in his lifetime to know that a little water before falling asleep could make all the difference in the morning.
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