Emma did not need to look at him to understand the meaning of that casual gesture. It was a sign of possession.
"Jamie, what on earth has happened to Emma?" The dowager had taken Jamie aside as soon as they returned to the main house. She sounded very concerned. "She looked as if she were on a tumbrel, being taken to the guillotine. And what possessed her to wear rouge? It makes her look like a cheap painted doll."
Jamie was as concerned as Richard's mama. "It was her aunt's doing, I am sure. As matron of honour, I should have been there to help her dress, but Mrs Warenne insisted on taking my place. She could see that I cannot bend, or kneel. At least, not very well. But now I wish I had not agreed. I am convinced Emma has the headache. And it is small wonder. The woman never stops fussing."
"I will do my best to keep her away from Emma for the rest of the day," said the dowager firmly. "Thank heavens we insisted on having the wedding breakfast here. At Longacres, she would have been impossible. Meanwhile, you must look to Emma herself. Help her to—" She stopped very suddenly. Then she looked down at the floor. "Oh, dear. It occurs to me that— Jamie, Emma has no mother to prepare her. I wonder if her aunt—" She did not continue. Jamie could see that she was blushing.
"Whatever the problem, I promise I will help her, Mama," Jamie said solemnly. "You may rely on me." In an attempt to relieve the dowager's obvious embarrassment, she added, "Provided, of course, that I can rely on you to deal with the impossible aunt."
The dowager's lip curled in scorn. "In that, my dear daughter, you may certainly rely on me." She moved purposefully towards Emma's aunt, who had entered the room on her brother's arm.
Good. The gabblemongering aunt would now create no more trouble. But as for Emma… Jamie frowned, scanning the room. Emma was standing between Hugo and Richard. All three appeared to be conversing amicably enough, but the patches of red on Emma's cheeks had begun to look like fever spots. At this rate, she would collapse before the day was half over.
Emma would have to sit through the wedding breakfast, but with such a small gathering—even with the chaplain, they were only eight—it could be kept quite informal. Jamie should be able to ensure that it did not last too long for Emma's comfort. She had given orders for a suite of rooms to be prepared in the guest wing, since there had been no time for Hugo to make honeymoon arrangements. Hugo had been quite apologetic about that, when he and Richard had finally arrived back from London, dog-tired, but he had accepted with good grace when Richard invited them both to remain at Harding for a few days. In a house as large as this, their privacy could be guaranteed.
The problem, Jamie realised, would be the interminable evening. Somehow she must create an opportunity to speak to Emma alone without arousing the suspicions of her father or her aunt. And, before that, she must work out exactly what she was going to say.
Jamie glanced back towards Emma once more. Good grief, she looked as if she were about to faint. She must be rescued, now, before ever the wedding breakfast began. There was no time for finesse. It must be a frontal attack.
In spite of her awkward bulk, Jamie reached Emma's side in a few quick strides and began to steer her away from her husband. "Major Stratton," she said archly, "I do declare you have much to learn about the duties of a husband. Your poor wife is worn out with all the preparations and much in need of a little respite. You will allow me to take her upstairs for a few minutes?"
Hugo made to bow his agreement, but Jamie did not wait. She was halfway to the door when she heard her husband's laughing voice say, "I suppose it's a little late to warn you against managing females, Hugo."
"May we have a private word, Richard?" Hugo drew his best man away from the other guests in the drawing room. "I ought to tell you that I've received word today from Lake Manor. Apparently the house will be ready to receive us by the end of the week, so we shall not be trespassing on your hospitality for more than a few days. I must say I'm amazed that everything has been done so quickly. The steward must have excelled himself."
"I can understand your desire to have Emma to yourself, but are you sure the house will be habitable? I thought you said no one had lived in it since your mother died?"
"That's true, but John has been very good. He installed an excellent steward while I was abroad and visited occasionally to ensure that no essential repairs were neglected. He paid for some of them, too. I couldn't have wished for a better brother, you know."
A slight smile quirked a corner of Richard's mouth but he said nothing. Hugo could read that smile. Richard was thinking about the unpredictable Kit, and wondering why Hugo's two brothers had so little in common.
"The land will need a great deal of work, admittedly," Hugo continued, remembering the report he had received that very day, "but I am glad of that. I know I have much to learn about estate management—I was not brought up to it as you were—and I would much rather do that well away from my father-in-law's watchful eye. Oh, don't mistake me, I have nothing but admiration for the way Sir Edward runs Longacres. In fact, that's the problem. There would be nothing for me to do here, nothing to change. I need to make my own mistakes, I think."
"Knowing you, I doubt there will be many," Richard said with a short laugh.
"You may laugh, but it's one of the most important things I learned in the army. You only do things wrong once."
"What does Emma say about moving so far away from her father? They have always been very close, you know."
"I haven't told her yet." Hugo frowned at the sight of Richard's raised eyebrow. "You know as well as I do that there has been no opportunity to speak to her about that, or anything else. However, I am sure she will be pleased to be away from the gossips for a while and, with a new household to manage, and a whole new set of tenants, she won't have time to worry about what society thinks of us. I'm sure it's for the best."
"You won't be going to London?"
"Not while Kit's there. Not this year, at least. It could be awkward for Emma."
Richard nodded. "But won't Emma be bored? Lake Manor is pretty remote."
Hugo was sure that remoteness was one of the main advantages of the small estate he had inherited from his mother. There would be no gossip and precious little social intercourse at all. They would have time to become accustomed to marriage. And one day, there might even be a child, a sturdy little fellow like Richard's Dickon.
Richard cleared his throat rather too obviously.
Hugo hauled himself back to the present. "I am not planning to keep my wife in isolation, you know," he said. "We shall come here often, to visit her father. And you, too, of course."
"I'm glad to hear it," Richard said with a wry smile. "Otherwise Jamie would never forgive either of us. Still, at least you'll both be here tomorrow for Dickon's birthday. Jamie is planning a party on the lawn and Emma, as godmother, will have an important role to play, especially as neither of Dickon's godfathers will be making an appearance. Perhaps you'd like to deputise for them?"
Hugo bowed, smiling. "I should be honoured." Richard was much to be envied, having been blessed with a son so early in his marriage. In the wider Stratton family, there were many childless couples. Hugo's elder brother had no children at all, which was a source of much sadness to them all. Hugo fervently hoped that he was not destined for the same fate.
He glanced out at the sky. "Lady Hardinge's wishes may be thwarted by the weather, though. I think we're about to have a storm."
As he spoke, thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. The sky had become dark and threatening in the space of a very few minutes, but the air was hot and sultry, even with the windows open. Emma's father and aunt would be bound to leave early if the weather did not improve. That would be a pity. And Dickon's birthday tomorrow might well be spoilt, too.
It occurred to Hugo that he should mention the fact that he and little Dickon shared a birthday, but, after a moment's thought, he decided against. After all these years apart, Richard had clearly forgotten the date. He would be mortally embarrassed to be remi
nded of it now. Hugo would say nothing. Today had been his day. And Emma's. Tomorrow should be for the child alone.
He would not allow himself to think about the night between.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emma straightened the sheet yet again, tucking it under her body as far as it would go. It was really too hot for so many covers, especially with the bed-curtains drawn and the shutters closed, but, even in the dark, she felt a need to cover up the lacy nightgown that Aunt Augusta had insisted she wear. Emma was not sure what kind of a woman would wear such a confection but it was certainly not a garment for a lady.
Another rumble of thunder shook the house. It seemed to have been going on for hours, yet it did not rain.
Emma had given up trying to fathom out her aunt's advice. First Aunt Augusta had told her to say she was shy, and then she had given her a nightgown that was fit only for a—
He would be here soon. How was she to put Aunt Augusta's advice into words? What was she going to say to him? All the words she tested sounded stilted, or stupid, even to her own ears. What's more, she did not even know how to address him. He had called her by her given name at least twice now, but he had never invited her to do the same.
Her restless fingers twitched at the sheet. It seemed to be sticking to her skin. If only the storm would break.
He would never believe her shy if she used his given name. Better to avoid any name at all. It was important to receive him in the dark, she remembered that, but she could not remember why. Aunt Augusta had said something about Hugo's wounds, but Jamie had made no mention of those. In fact, Jamie's advice had made even less sense that Aunt Augusta's. Jamie had said that love between husband and wife could be wonderful. She had said a great many other things, too, but Emma had understood none of them. She had felt too ill and too tired to try. And by the time the tisane had finally cleared her throbbing headache, she had been back among the wedding party, playing the part of the happy bride.
He would be here soon.
Hugo leant back against the oak and drew deeply on his half-smoked cigar. Its tiny glow seemed much brighter than usual. The thunder had passed over at last, but it had left darkness behind. Pity that it had not rained, to break the oppressive heat.
He pulled out his watch but could not see the hands. It must be very late by now. There were almost no lights to be seen in the house. And none at all in the guest wing. Emma must be there, in the dark, waiting.
Emma Stratton. His wife.
His wife had behaved like an automaton throughout her wedding day. She had looked like a painted doll. And she had acted like one, with stiff limbs, wide eyes, fixed smile. The woman he had kissed in the chapel had been as cold as marble and she had looked at him in horror. If she found him so repellent, why had she agreed to this marriage in the first place?
His simplest attempts at reassurance had been rebuffed. She had bristled with hostility at the slightest touch of his hand.
Hugo swore roundly at the oak above him, using words that the meanest of his soldiers might have used. It solved nothing. His wife had married him because she had no choice. His wife despised him. Had she not told him so?
He had done everything he could think of to make this day less of an ordeal for her, but not even Richard had succeeded in making her laugh and he had certainly tried. The wedding breakfast had been a trial for them all. Emma had been polite, so polite that he had wanted to slap her. It had been a blessing when her father and her aunt had left. They had blamed the approaching storm, but Hugo had not believed them. Even the dowager had seemed relieved to say her farewells.
And now Emma would have retired. She might even be in bed by now, waiting for him to come to her. Would she welcome him? He doubted it very much. She had no feelings of love, or even liking, for her new husband, as far as he could tell. And if she truly detested him, she would be as unyielding as the oak at his back.
Dear God, this was no way to think about his wife. He ought to be able to make her first experience of love a pleasure, but he was not sure that he knew how to begin. Emma was a lady, and a virgin besides. And Hugo had experience of neither. There had been plenty of women willing to become the mistress of a handsome young British officer, but not one of them had been a lady, and they had been anything but innocent. When he had first arrived in the Peninsula, young but far from green, the dark-eyed Spanish women had been happy to teach him everything they knew about the arts of love. They had taught him to give pleasure as well as take it, and shown him that physical love could bring unbounded joy to man and woman alike.
But that had been aeons ago.
That was long before those last hectic weeks with Wellington's army, before Waterloo, before the noise and the stench and the gore, before all those hours that he had lain on the battlefield, soaked in his own blood and unable to move, staring up at the smoke-streaked sky. That was long before those months of lying on a filthy bed, trying to remember who he was and wondering if he would survive to see the next sunrise.
He had been forced to be celibate for a long, long time. Tonight he would find out whether it was too long. That knowledge could not be put off any longer.
Hugo threw away the remains of his cigar. He watched it arc through the darkness and disappear into the night, and then he strode back to the house and up the side stairs to the guest wing.
As instructed, his valet was nowhere to be seen, but everything was ready. His blue silk dressing gown lay across the chair by the empty grate. Beside it, on a small table, was a decanter of brandy and a single glass.
Hugo pulled off his cravat and poured brandy into his glass. Then he thought better of it. He could not go to her reeking of strong drink. He owed her that, at least.
He methodically removed the rest of his clothing and donned his dressing gown. He would not take a candle. Its light, so close to his scarred face, would horrify her even more. He would trust to the light from the night sky.
Quietly, he opened the door to Emma's room. It was pitch dark. The shutters were closed and locked. And the curtains were drawn tight round the huge bed.
It was as hot as Hades, and as dark as a tomb.
At the sound of the opening door, Emma plucked convulsively at the damp sheet, trying to ensure that every last vestige of the nightgown was hidden. She did not know what she would say to him.
In a moment he would slip between the bed-curtains and—
The crash of opening shutters echoed like thunder through the room. Hugo was pulling them back with incredible force, as if he hated them. And he was throwing open the windows too.
Emma felt the merest breath of cooler air through the tightly-drawn bed-curtains. It was dark, but she could sense the lightening beyond. She drew the sheet more tightly around her body, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Hugo's footsteps were not loud, but she knew he was standing beyond the curtain, between the bed and the open window. She saw two strong hands appear through the dark velvet. Then, in a single powerful gesture, the curtains were thrown open. Silhouetted against the dim light from the window was Hugo's tall figure, its arms raised, forcing the curtains apart.
Without a thought, she shrank away from him. She could not prevent herself. His outline looked so huge, so dark, so menacing. If he wanted to humiliate her, to provide the final proof of his ownership, he could not have chosen a better way.
His hands dropped to his sides. Still she could not see his face. She closed her eyes, tightly.
"Emma?"
Keeping her eyes closed against the light, she said, "I am sorry about the shutters. I–I thought that, in the dark, it would be easier to, um, easier for—" She could not go on. The words would not come.
She did not move. She could feel that he was looking down at her, thinking. For a long time, he did not move. She could not even hear him breathe.
At last she heard a tiny rustle of silk and then the edge of the sheet was lifted. The cool air touched her body. She shivered. It felt as if a hand ha
d hovered a hair's breadth over her naked skin. Then the bed dipped as he lay down beside her and drew the sheet back over them both. Now, she could feel the waves of heat from his body reaching out to encircle her like a comforting arm. She opened her eyes in surprise. She could see now, a little. Hugo was watching her, but his expression was unreadable.
He reached out a hand to touch her cheek. "Emma—"
Dear God, he was naked. She closed her eyes in panic at the realisation. What on earth was going to happen now?
The scrape of curtain rings provided her answer. She opened her eyes to find that Hugo had closed the bed-curtains once more, offering her the gift of blessed darkness.
She screwed up her eyes again, not to shut out the light—for that was gone—but to stop the tears that threatened. She had not expected kindness, not from this man who had been so cold and forbidding. But she would not allow herself to weep. No matter what this night might bring, she would not weep.
Hugo lay awake, staring up at the canopy. Beside him, his wife was asleep at last, curled up like a child, with her back towards him. Had she wept? He did not know. And, in the dark, he could not see her face.
Surreptitiously, he pulled open the curtain on his side of the bed. The cooler air was sweet and refreshing but he did not dare to move. He might wake her if he rose. And then she would see the naked body that repelled her.
Was it always to be like this? He had always hated making love in the dark. He wanted to make her respond to him, to see her face come alight with passion, to run his fingers over her silky skin and watch it glow.
But none of that had happened. Even in the darkness she craved, she had not yielded to him. She had not even said his name. This was not the soft responsive woman he had kissed in the conservatory. This was the woman in the chapel, who received his kisses as if she were made of cold white marble. Nor was she the dreamer, beautiful as the flowers around her, who had sat in the garden looking as if she longed to melt into a lover's arms. Here, in the dark, he had felt the tension of her skin and the tightening of her muscles wherever he touched her. She was capable of responding—he knew she was—but he must have frightened her into silence and revulsion with the strength of his own passions and the sight of his shattered body.
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