Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  “Anywhere you think, Abe.” He nodded, and she went back into the bedchamber. Tilly was there with a jug of hot water.

  “No point getting dressed, Miss Ari, not if the seamstresses are coming,” she said, pouring water into the basin. “But there’s plenty of hot water for a wash.”

  “Later I should like a proper bath, Tilly. D’you think it could be arranged?” She wrung out the cloth, spreading it over her face, luxuriating in the warm, moist cleanliness.

  “Reckon so, miss. I’ll warn ’em below ahead of time, they’ll have to heat the coppers, but it ought to be possible.” Tilly was remaking the bed.

  “I shall need your help,” Ari said, sponging between her breasts. “Before supper.”

  “Oh, aye?” Tilly looked at her curiously as she plumped up the pillows. “To do what?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Ari took up her hairbrush and brushed her tangled black curls. She grimaced. “My hair’s so dirty, it feels full of grit from the road. I shall wash it when I have my bath. Do we have any rosewater or lavender?”

  “There’s lavender aplenty in the garden here, and rosemary.” Tilly smoothed out creases in the coverlet. “And I’ve some rosewater I brought along when we left the valley. And a bit o’ soap, I reckon.”

  “Good.” Ari nodded briskly, and a little smile played in the corners of her mouth. Ivor would not be able to resist her plan. No red-blooded male could possibly resist what she had in mind.

  The two seamstresses arrived punctually. They were mother and daughter, Mistress Tabitha and Mistress Mary, fashionably dressed and coiffed, and they regarded Lady Chalfont with narrowed, assessing eyes as she stood before them in her shift. “Have to do something about the bosom, Mary,” Mistress Tabitha pronounced.

  “Indeed, Mama. Something sewn into the gowns to push them above the décolletage.” The daughter nodded, her side ringlets shivering against her powdered cheeks.

  Her mother was going through the piles of rich materials spread out over the table and the settle. “Well, we can do something with these. Nice bit of taffeta, this. Make a good jacket, it will, over a skirt in that gold damask.”

  Ariadne began to feel like a dressmaker’s mannequin for all the notice they took of her. And they took even less of Tilly. After a while, she went into a trance, obeying instructions to move this way and that, to hold her arms like this or like that, as the two women went about their business. They didn’t ask for her opinion, and she didn’t think she’d have one, anyway. Tilly sat on a stool by the fire in a huff, darning stockings with sharp jabs of her needle as the hours passed, broken only by a short interval when dinner was brought up.

  “A cloak in that sky-blue silk with an ermine lining, I think, Mary,” Mistress Tabitha declared, setting a pin into what would be the sleeve of an emerald-green damask gown. “And that will do for today.”

  Ari jerked her head around. “No, I don’t want you to take any of the furs,” she said, speaking, it seemed, for the first time. Her voice sounded almost unfamiliar.

  Mistress Tabitha looked astounded. “Not take any of them, madam? But they are to be part of the wardrobe. You must have muffs and fur lining to your cloaks.”

  “Indeed, and you may do that another day,” Ariadne said firmly. “It seems to me you have quite enough to be going on with, with all these gowns and jackets and skirts. When you return, we will discuss the furs.”

  Tilly had ceased her needle stabbing and looked at Ari in surprise. Mistress Tabitha frowned, sniffed her disapproval, then said, “As you wish, my lady.”

  “That is my wish,” Ari reiterated calmly. “When will you come back for a fitting?”

  The seamstress looked at the pile of pinned silks and satins, damasks and brocades. “In two days, madam, these will be ready for a first fitting.”

  “Then you may take the furs at that time.”

  “Very well, madam. Mary, send down for John Coachman to carry these down to the carriage. You will be needing shoes, my lady. Should I bring the shoemaker with a selection when we return for the fitting?”

  “Indeed, if you would be so kind.” Ari gave the woman her most dazzling smile, hoping to make up for the offense she had so clearly committed.

  Mistress Tabitha’s haughty disapproval seemed to abate a fraction. “I think my lady would look very well with a heeled shoe. It would provide height. Jeweled heels are most particularly fashionable at court.”

  For one more accustomed to going barefoot inside and booted outside, the idea of shoes with jeweled heels seemed utterly ridiculous, but Ari merely smiled and murmured that she was sure Mistress Tabitha must be correct, as knowledgeable as she was. And the lady, her daughter, and the vast quantities of materials disappeared on the broad shoulders of John Coachman and his youthful assistant.

  Ariadne sighed with relief as the door finally closed on the seamstresses. The afternoon was already drawing in. Ivor had said he would return for supper, so she had close to two hours for her preparations.

  “Would you see about that bath, Tilly? Set it up in here.”

  “Right away, Miss Ari. They should have enough water by now. I told ’em to be ready by sundown.”

  Ari went into the bedchamber and stood assessing the room, tapping her teeth with her forefinger. Then she gave a short nod of decision and returned to the parlor, where a copper hip bath was already in place on spread sheets before the fire and two burly menservants were filling it from copper kettles.

  Steam curled from the bath, and Tilly was adding drops of rosewater. The delicate scent filled the warm chamber. Two more kettles were added, and Tilly sprinkled rosemary and lavender on the surface before setting a screen between the tub and the door.

  Ari stepped out of her night-robe and shift and into the hot water with a small exhalation of pleasure.

  TWENTY

  It was close to eight o’clock when Ivor returned to the King’s Head. He had had a productive but tiring day and was hungry for his supper. The inn was lively at that hour, but he ignored the taproom and went upstairs. The parlor was empty, although the fire burned, and the candles were lit. There was no sign of supper anywhere, but the air was perfumed with a faint, elusive, flowery scent.

  “Ariadne,” he called with a degree of irritation.

  “In here.”

  He frowned. What was she doing in the bedchamber at this time in the evening? It was suppertime, and he was sharp-set. He opened the bedchamber door. “Is something the matter? Are you ill?” And then he stood, gazing dumbstruck at the bed.

  Ariadne’s naked body lay in a nest of sable and ermine, her pale skin glowing softly in the light of two candles on either side of the bed. The only other light came from the fire, and that same delicate scent infused the air.

  Ivor swallowed involuntarily, his senses swirling as he gazed at her, her glossy black curls tumbled around her head on the white pillow, the daintiness of her body against the rich furs, the rosy crowns of her small breasts, the smooth lines of her form, the concave belly and luxuriant black tangle of hair at its base, the creamy length of her thighs, the perfect dimpled knees, the slender ankles and long, narrow feet.

  She was perfection in miniature, he thought, taking a step to the bed. “What is this?” His voice sounded thick, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Me,” she said softly, smiling up at him. “Just me, husband.”

  “Dear God,” he muttered, putting a knee on the bed. A necklace of emeralds circled her pale white throat, and the great Daunt emerald ring glowed on her finger as she moved her hand seductively over her breasts in a gesture of offering. It was not an offer Ivor could refuse. No man on God’s green earth could refuse it.

  He bent to kiss her breasts, his tongue flicking at the pink nipples that lifted to the moist caress. He drew his tongue between the small mounds and then painted a trail down her belly, dipping into her navel, down between her thighs. Her skin carried the scent that had so struck him earlier, delicate, flowery, fresh, and s
o seductive.

  He lifted his head. “No, I cannot.”

  Shock filled the gray eyes as they gazed up at him, and he shook his head. “No . . . no, I cannot touch you until I have the washed the day’s dirt from me. You are as fresh as morning dew on a snowdrop, and I cannot bear to sully that.” He stepped back from the bed, his eyes never leaving her body. “Do not move an inch.”

  She lay still, watching him as he threw off his clothes. He poured water into the basin. It was warm water, all part of the elaborate preparations she had made for this little scene, he thought with wonder. There was even a piece of soap. He washed the sweat from his skin, aware of her hungry gaze.

  “Hurry,” she murmured, shifting slightly on her fur bed, feeling the soft silkiness of sable and ermine caress her already tingling skin.

  He smiled at her, his old mischievous smile, except that it was now filled with a deep sensuality. “Has no one told you of the pleasures of anticipation, my sweet?”

  The endearment sent waves of delight through her, and her eyes fixed on the pulsing erection that gave ample evidence of his own pleasure in anticipation. He came to kneel at the foot of the bed, taking her feet in his hands, lifting them in turn to kiss the toes, taking each one in his mouth before stroking his tongue down the soles of her feet, making her wriggle against the furs, which did even more to stimulate her sensitized skin. His hands grasped her ankles lightly as he lifted her legs onto his shoulders, running his hands down the backs of her thighs, his fingers creeping ever closer to her moist and opened core.

  She heard her own gasp of wanting escape from her lips as the tantalizing touch came close but never quite close enough. He held her legs apart and dropped his head, his mouth finding her sex, his tongue licking, stroking, his teeth lightly grazing the little nub of flesh as it rose hard with longing. His tongue entered her, and she gave another gasp of surprise and delight, feeling his breath cool on her heated flesh, the wicked, tantalizing twist of his tongue inside her. When he lifted his head and moved up her body, his mouth taking hers, she could taste the essence of herself. Her hands grasped his buttocks, kneading the hard muscle, trying to drive him into her, but he held himself back as his tongue danced with hers, stroked the insides of her cheeks.

  Finally, he took her legs again onto his shoulders and knelt back between her thighs. He lifted her bottom on his palms and drove hard inside her in one swift thrust that made her cry out in surprise. He moved hard and fast within her, his eyes never leaving hers, watching as she rose up and up with him. Suddenly, he slapped her flank, and she bucked like an unschooled pony as her climax rushed over her, her fingers knotted into the taut flesh of his buttocks. His head fell back, the corded muscles in his throat standing out as he was swept with his own wave. And then only the most delicious release as, still joined, they fell together into the furs.

  Ari lay beneath him, one hand still resting on his backside, her other thrown to the pillow behind her. Ivor released his hold on her ankles and let her legs fall to either side of him. After a moment, he raised his head and looked down into her face.

  “You are a very wicked woman, wife of mine.”

  “Merely fulfilling my conjugal duties,” she returned with a weak smile.

  “Indeed.” He moved sideways, disengaging from her body, and lay with his hands flung above his head, gazing up at the tester as his breathing returned to normal.

  Ari rolled onto her side, placing a hand on his still fast-beating heart. “Ivor, we must make this a beginning. I love you in the only way I can, the only way I know. It is as it is. Can we not build on what we have?”

  Ivor said nothing for a moment. He had in truth been unhappier these last weeks than he could ever have imagined being. And she had done this for him . . . for them. This elaborate play was meant to give them a springboard. From this platform of sublime joy, they could move up, beyond the sour taste of the past weeks to an acceptance of what they had.

  Gabriel Fawcett was in the past, in Ariadne’s past. So she held some lingering feelings for him, but this was now, and there was no denying that in this now he and Ari had a bond that transcended most others. It wasn’t possible to make love like that without there being some real feeling beneath. He knew it in his blood.

  “Love,” he mused, placing a hand over hers as it rested on his heart. “Such a complicated feeling.” He smiled, stroking with his free hand through the glossy, fragrant curls scattered across his chest. “I think I have loved you, Ariadne, in some way or another, since I first knew you . . . a small child with a determined chin, a vocabulary to make a stable hand blush, and the most accurate eye for a knife throw of any grown man.”

  “I was only three,” she protested, kissing the hollow of his shoulder.

  “Well, maybe it took a couple of years,” he conceded, drawing black curls through his fingers. “But you are somehow a part of me, of my life, and I cannot bear to be at odds with you. These last weeks have been worse than any I could have imagined.”

  “For me, too,” she murmured, nestling her head into his shoulder. “Can we put them behind us now?”

  He twisted a curl around his finger. “We must,” he said, hitching himself onto an elbow to look into her eyes. His gaze was deep and penetrating, yet still a shadow lingered. He touched her lips with a forefinger.

  And Ari felt Gabriel in the room with them. She could see in his eyes that Ivor could not forget the man she had sworn she loved, the man who held her heart, and Ariadne knew that she could not forswear Gabriel. It was not in her nature.

  They were silent for a moment, and then Ivor seemed to shake himself out of the shadows. He kissed her lips and declared, “I was hungry when I came home, and now I am as ravenous as a wolf.” He reached down and patted her bottom. “Don’t tell me you have not organized supper, wife of mine.”

  “Oh, it’s organized,” Ari responded, thankfully accepting that the moment of darkness had passed without comment. “You’ll find everything in the parlor by now.” Tilly would have played her part, and supper would be set by the fire next door. Smoked oysters, a roast chicken, a dish of sweetbreads and salsify, and buttered parsnips. There would be macaroons and Canary wine, and afterwards, well . . . that would take care of itself. Gabriel’s shadow had to fade eventually.

  She rolled off the bed, drawing a thick sable around her, and went barefoot into the parlor. Ivor followed, shrugging into a dressing robe. “Smells good,” he said, pouring wine into the goblets on the table. He gave her a glass and raised his own. “What shall we drink to?”

  Her eyes met his over the rim of her goblet. “To the next step.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, to the next step, and every one after that.”

  It was a promise. The ground was cleared, and each step they took upon it from now on would only make them stronger.

  And when supper was done, Ivor pushed back his chair and came to Ariadne, drawing her to her feet. He cupped her chin in one hand, tilting her face upwards. His eyes glowed. “I want you now to put yourself in my hands, Ariadne. I know it won’t be easy for you, but so far, this night has been of your making, and it’s my turn now. Give yourself to me.” He laid a finger over her lips. “You will not speak; this will not be a time for words.” A smile touched his lips. “I’ll not insist on silence, though. You may find that hard with what I have in mind.”

  Ari felt a deep quiver of excitement at the base of her belly, a quickening, a moistening in her loins. Lust, pure and simple, engulfed her, her nipples hardening already beneath the sable robe.

  “Do you understand?” he asked softly, and she nodded, feeling herself melting into a liquid puddle of desire.

  It was a long, languorous night. Ari wasn’t sure whether she slept in between the lovemaking or merely floated in a trance of delight. Ivor seemed tireless, moving over her, around her, within her, turning her this way and that, positioning her as he chose, and she gave herself to him completely, discovering the pleasure of passivity. He drew little m
urmurs of delight from her, and sometimes she heard herself moan with longing when he paused in his pleasuring, and more than once, she cried out, and he stifled her cries with his kisses.

  Dawn was breaking when at last she fell asleep, curled against his body, and it was full morning when she awoke again, once more to find herself alone in the feather bed.

  “Lord, Miss Ari, you’ve been abed half the morning,” Tilly exclaimed as she bustled in with hot water. “I had your breakfast taken away; it had gone cold.”

  Ari struggled effortfully up against the pillows and blinked in the sudden sunlight. “Where’s Sir Ivor?”

  “Oh, bless you, miss, he’s been up and about these two hours past. Told me not to disturb you but that he’d be back later when he’s seen to our new lodgings.”

  Ari pushed aside the coverlet and swung her legs out of bed. Her body felt sore and used up in the most glorious way. She wanted to lie in bed all day, savoring the feeling, reliving the memories of those wonderful hours, but it wasn’t possible. She wasn’t ill, and there could be no other reason for lying abed all day.

  “I’d like some small beer and bread and butter, Tilly.” She went to the washstand to splash water on her face. Her eyes wouldn’t seem to open properly.

  “Why? Are you ill, Miss Ari?” Tilly looked at her with concern. “That’s no breakfast at all.”

  “Maybe not, but ’tis all I feel like this morning.” Ari toweled her face dry vigorously. “I shall go for a walk and get some fresh air.”

  She went to the window of the bedchamber as Tilly departed and looked out on the green below. It was alive this morning, black-clad lawyers hurrying by with their heavy tomes under their arms, clusters of them paused in earnest conversation across the green, their black gowns flapping in the brisk wind. Messenger lads raced in various directions, entering and leaving the tall houses lining the outer rim of the square. A trio of scruffy urchins kicked a bundle of something between them, and two washerwomen emerged from one of the houses, laundry baskets held effortlessly on their heads as they walked, skirts swinging with each step.