The Viscount Needs a Wife

by Jo Beverley

  * * *

  Again they were in an awkwardness. Kitty was tingling with expectation but also fretful about the hows and whens. She wanted to suggest they get it over with, but there was something odd in his manner. She didn’t want him to think her a shameless hussy.

  When they entered her boudoir she saw the pretty gaming table with the marquetry chessboard on the top. She had no intention of playing chess with a man like Braydon. She fiddled with the top and found how to flip it to reveal a baize-covered surface with indentations at the corners to hold the players’ coins or counters. “Do you play cards?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Some have moral objections. We could play piquet.”

  “I have an excellent memory for cards,” he warned.

  “Then I’ll hope for luck, but as my husband is responsible for my gaming debts, it hardly matters. In any case, I’ve only ever played for penny points.”

  She took out the cards and counters, but he said, “Counters aren’t much use in piquet. There’s paper in your desk.”

  She hadn’t yet explored the walnut writing desk, but indeed there was paper, and he brought a sheet to the table, along with a silver inkpot and a pen. The paper was monogrammed. She picked it up, surprised that it looked so fresh. The imprint read KD. Kathryn Dauntry, her new name.

  “Mine?” she asked.

  “I purchased it in Town.”

  “Thank you,” she said, absorbing his thoughtfulness. Or was it simple efficiency? She could ask, What if I’d jilted you? He would have responded, It was only a small amount. How did she know him so well and yet not understand him at all?

  As he shuffled the cards, she wondered if many wedding nights were as awkward as this. She supposed most couples had courted for some months and were ready when the time came. She’d heard of one couple who’d scandalized their servants by rushing upstairs as soon as they entered their house, shedding clothing as they went. Such impetuous passion sounded like fun, but there’d be nothing like that tonight.

  She remembered hearing about the Regent’s wedding night. He hadn’t been the Regent then, only the Prince of Wales, obliged to marry before Parliament would pay his debts. The marriage had taken place in Germany by proxy, but when he’d met Caroline of Brunswick, he’d taken an instant dislike of her.

  Braydon suddenly asked, “Do you like cognac?”

  “I’ve only ever drunk it for medicinal purposes.”

  “Then I hope it wasn’t the finest. Cateril didn’t drink it?”

  “He was a claret and ale man, but he didn’t overindulge.”

  Opium. That was another matter.

  “I’ll get some.”

  It was as if he wanted to escape.

  It was said that the Regent’s bride had been unclean and uncouth, which was possibly true, for she’d behaved oddly ever since, creating scandals all around Europe and supposedly taking lovers. They must have consummated the marriage, for Princess Charlotte had been the result, but they’d soon separated.

  Kitty fiddled with the quill pen. How had Caroline been so intolerable that they’d never conceived other children? It was a simple enough business, and if they’d done their duty, there wouldn’t be such fears about the succession.

  She put the pen down. She couldn’t imagine why she would be intolerable, and she’d thought she’d felt the earthy desires between them at times, but clearly there was a reason for wooing and courtship. This situation was odd.

  He returned with a decanter and two glasses and poured some brandy for each of them. Then they began the game.

  It had been some time since Kitty had played, and he was good. Very good. She didn’t think it was entirely his memory. He knew what to do with what he remembered. She began to enjoy the challenge, even though she was losing. She was having to stretch her mind.

  “Ten shillings down,” she said later, placing her cards on the table. “My luck was insufficient to overcome your skill. You could make your living as a card sharp.”

  “‘Sharp’ implies cheating,” he objected, but mildly.

  “Perhaps any extreme talent is.” She sipped more brandy. The fine cognac was far more pleasant than the brandy she’d drunk before, and this was her second glass. “Is it fair if a strong man fights a weak?”

  He seemed relaxed, one hand at ease on the table, fingers light on the stem of his glass. “You’d have wars fought between scrupulously balanced armies?”

  “I’d not have wars fought at all.”

  He raised his glass and toasted her. “I crown you queen of the world. But are talents not of God’s providing?”

  She shook her head. “No, please. Not a philosophical discussion this late in the day.” She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock. Not so very late, but she couldn’t bear to draw this out any further.

  “Time for bed,” she said. Damnation, the brandy had made her blunt.

  But he responded, “It is.”

  He rose, picked up the decanter and his glass, bowed slightly, and left.

  Kitty rang for Henry, then drained the last of her brandy. She’d never expected to be so nervous about this.

  Chapter 19

  In his bedroom Braydon rang for Johns, still plagued by ridiculous uncertainties.

  Nightshirt or no nightshirt?

  He should probably have asked which she’d prefer, given that she was a plain-talking, experienced woman. Nightshirt would be the safe choice, but when had that ever been his way? Wise if possible, wary sometimes, but cowardly safety? No.

  Even though they’d rarely touched, he was aware that she was a sensual woman. She showed it in the way she enjoyed sweet coffee, cake, and brandy. He saw it in her movements and her glances. She didn’t ogle him, but at times her gaze had heated his blood.

  She’d been a widow for over two years, and he doubted that she’d sought consolation. No matter what her previous behavior, impropriety would have been close to impossible at Cateril Manor.

  He didn’t even know what he wanted. If she was as hungry and passionate as he sensed, this night could be memorable. Too passionate, and it would support his fears that she’d not kept her marriage vows. Could a badly injured man have satisfied an adventurous wanton? He recognized a base instinct beneath these concerns. Whatever and whoever Kit Kat had experienced before, he needed to outdo every man jack of them.

  Johns arrived with the washing water and the usual sour face.

  “I’m not willingly lingering in the rural wasteland, Johns. Sometimes fate dictates.”

  “Yes, milord.” Johns used “milord” rather than “sir” as a rebuke.

  “In a while we’ll be able to spend more time in Town.”

  “It is to be hoped for, milord.”

  Braydon reined in his temper. To be picking a fight now was proof he was all on edge. Why? Kit Kat was a box of surprises, but she’d have no shocks for him in bed.

  Then he remembered how often she’d surprised him.

  To hell with it.

  He dismissed his valet. His wife should have had enough time to prepare.

  * * *

  Kitty told herself there was nothing to be nervous about, but she couldn’t block awareness that she’d be coupling with a different man. After a day spent mostly in Braydon’s company, she felt she should know him, but the marble box remained closed. She liked him better, but she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Or expecting.

  Henry had undressed her and brushed out her hair in a way Kitty could only think of as motherly. How peculiar. The lady’s maid was unmarried, so Kitty could read her a lecture on the subject of marital duties.

  Before her marriage to Marcus, her mother had not been particularly informative. She’d given a mechanical description of what would happen and then added, “If he’s able. If not, don’t mention it.”

  It had all sounded
so odd, Kitty hadn’t been sure which to hope for, but above all she’d been curious. She’d arrived at her delayed wedding night eager to learn more, but also eager to do her wifely duty. If he were able. She had loved Marcus—adored him, in fact—and after a couple of days in his company, she’d been even more deeply devoted. He’d been so kind, so tender, and so grateful.

  He’d also begun to touch her and kiss her in more intimate ways, which she’d enjoyed very much, so when the time came, she hadn’t been confused or fearful. She’d been carried along by love, desire, and Marcus’s kindness. She remembered that he’d apologized at least three times for the awkwardness. Despite the pain of losing her maidenhead, it had been lovely, and she’d learned how to do it better so that it brought both of them pleasure, despite his injuries.

  This husband was uninjured, so it should present no difficulties at all.

  After Kitty had washed behind the screen, Henry passed through the nightgown. That showed how little she knew.

  “Just the robe,” Kitty said.

  Once wrapped in the blue woolen robe, she emerged and sent Henry away. She needed a moment to steady herself against returning doubts.

  Marcus had always seemed pleased with her, but he’d been so damaged. Perhaps that had led him to overlook her flaws. She didn’t have the body of a Greek goddess or the face of a Botticelli Madonna. What’s more, Braydon hadn’t chosen her from a host of others. She’d been conveniently to hand.

  She was sure he could have—had!—attracted the finest, most beautiful women to his bed, in England, France, Spain, and even Turkey. Now he had her.

  She studied herself in the mirror. Her nose seemed even longer than usual and her chin squarer. At least her hair was unchanged. Henry had thought Braydon would like it, but what did Henry know? He probably preferred hair as sleek and polished as he was.

  Enough. The choice had been his. It would be unreasonable for him to find fault now, but he could complain of tardiness. She extinguished the candles and hurried to the adjoining door.

  Sillikin came with her.

  Kitty crouched down. “No. I’m married again, so you can’t sleep in my bed. Oh, I wish you could truly understand me. Stay!” Then she slipped through the door into her husband’s bedroom, closing it quickly in case the dog disobeyed, and turning.

  He wasn’t in bed. He was standing facing her, in a fawn banyan robe. He, too, had extinguished the candles, so only firelight lit him, casting a ruddy tone on his blond hair.

  One difference from before: this husband preferred less light.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, slightly breathless. “I took too much time.”

  “You must always take as much time as you wish.” His tone seemed strange, but that was probably her nerves. Her heart was thumping.

  And he wasn’t in the bed.

  Another difference.

  All she could do was carry on. She undid her robe and took it off. His intent look could be appreciative. Or not. He was so damnably unreadable.

  After a moment he said, “Your hair is magnificent.”

  A small, relieved breath escaped. “It will never be smooth and shiny.”

  “Nor should it be.”

  She placed her robe neatly over a chair, wondering how to proceed. She was sure he was experienced, but perhaps not of marriage. Whores and concubines could well do things differently. In fact, she’d seen some interesting pictures. In chairs. On swings. Almost upside down. She could only continue as normal, but he was still standing there.

  “If you would get into bed, husband?”

  He smiled. Perhaps it was only the softening effect of firelight, but it seemed untarnished by other emotions. He took off his robe and laid it neatly over a chair, just as she had. With Marcus, his valet had already settled him in bed and he’d worn a nightshirt.

  She was glad Braydon had turned away to disrobe, or he might have seen her reaction to a naked male. And such a one! She’d known he lacked significant wounds and was well formed, but not that he would be perfection. His long, sleek muscles reminded her of a statue she’d seen of a classical athlete. She’d read that such athletes oiled their bodies. A vision of oiling her husband turned anxiety into a flush of pure desire. Instantly she clenched inside.

  He glanced at her only briefly before climbing into the bed and lying there, on his back, just as he should. And ready. There’d be no need to help that along. Thank heavens, for she was ready, too. It had been so long, so very long, and he was stretched out in manly perfection, waiting for her pleasure.

  She climbed onto the bed and straddled his thighs, smiling at him. It was only polite to smile, but it was genuine. He was so beautiful, and his thick, thrusting cock promised her such pleasure.

  She slid a finger inside herself, then stroked the cream up his penis to the tip. It jerked. He inhaled. Smiling even more, she slid down over him, slowly, slowly, appreciating every inch, but watching him for signs of discomfort. But this man didn’t have poorly healed bones and knotted sinews, and the way he was filling her was pure ecstasy.

  She forced her eyes open to be sure he was all right.

  He was watching her. His lips were parted, but in the dim light she couldn’t read much. It was for him to object if he needed to, or to guide her if he wanted something more.

  She was aching with need and could race toward her pleasure, but she made herself move slowly, trying to serve his needs, as a good wife should. But her eyes kept closing on their own as she sank deeper into the sliding heat.

  His hands gripped her knees. She looked, but he wasn’t objecting. The grip was from his passion. Thank heaven. She leaned forward to brace her hands on the bed on either side of him, and raced to the relief she so desperately needed.

  Suddenly he pumped up into her, meeting her movements and thrusting her up again and again and again. Marcus had never been capable of such strength and she gasped at the power of it, driven by him into a blinding white heat.

  After the release, she almost collapsed onto him, but corrected in time and settled beside him, heart pounding, hot and sweaty, still rippling with pleasure, but so very, very satisfied. She kissed his shoulder, stroked his chest. She could very easily purr.

  His hand covered hers, but the silence became uncomfortable. Marcus had always thanked her. It had become a rote courtesy, but she’d come to expect it. He’d meant it, but she’d sometimes thought it would be pleasant to break the pattern. Not into complete silence, however. Had she done something wrong? She leaned up to look at him. He was looking at her, but his lids were lowered, his face in shadow and completely unreadable.

  Then he took a handful of her hair, raised it, and let it drift down. She almost said, Marcus used to do that, but stopped herself in time. Then he cradled her face and kissed her gently. Perhaps that was his way of saying thank you.

  It seemed she was acceptable.

  * * *

  Braydon considered his sleeping wife. In general he preferred to sleep alone, and if they’d been in her bed he would have left, but it would be churlish to send her on her way now, especially after such generosity. Especially after a silence he hadn’t seemed able to break. What should a gentleman husband say after such a performance?

  He hadn’t expected that, though he might have if he’d accepted that she’d known only one man, Marcus Cateril, crippled by serious wounds. Cateril would have been put to bed by his manservant, and Kitty would have joined him. When summoned? That wasn’t Cateril’s fault, but it seemed too much like a sultan summoning a woman from his harem. Had Kitty been allowed to decline?

  Irrational to be vexed on her behalf. In truth, he was vexed with himself for his doubts about her. She’d known only one man, and Cateril had not been a thoughtless husband. She’d expected to find her own pleasure. Now she lay sound asleep, tangled in her magnificent hair, her generous lips relaxed. There would be more kissing next
time. Abundant kissing, and other pleasures that might be new to her. He didn’t think she’d object.

  Here was one blessing from the mess his life was in. He had a frankly sexual lover in his marriage bed.

  He sank into sleep himself, thinking that every man should marry a widow. And then smiling at the impossibility of it.

  * * *

  Kitty woke in a strange bed to strange smells and strange everything.

  Of course, she was in Braydon’s bed. She was turned away from him on the very edge, where she’d used to sleep with Marcus to try not to bump into him in the night and possibly hurt him. And to avoid the way his arms sometimes flailed around, as if he were fighting.

  She rolled toward the center but she couldn’t see much in the dark. The fire had gone out and the air was nippy on her nose. It must still be the middle of the night.

  She considered the event.

  She thought it had gone well. There’d been something about that kiss that denied any anger or disappointment. She certainly felt none.

  It was going to be lovely not to have to worry about putting weight on a painful place. She could probably bounce up and down on his hips if she wanted, which had her fighting a chuckle at the thought.

  But the way he’d surged up into her. Oh, my!

  He might be easy to rouse again, but she stopped herself from reaching out to try. She had the impression from Marcus that there was no such thing as a too-demanding wife, and that only his physical state had constrained him, but that might not be true of all men, and Braydon seemed to prefer control.

  She began to fall back into sleep, but then remembered that she had a bed of her own. Heavens, she’d made a mistake! A viscountess was supposed to return to her own bed.

  She slipped carefully out of bed, shivering in the cold air as she fumbled around for her robe. She wrapped it closely around herself and picked her way out of one dark room into another. She heard Sillikin, so didn’t yelp when warm fur brushed against her in eager welcome.

  “Yes, yes,” Kitty said quietly, “but I’m going to trip over you.”