A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

  “Elisabeth,” he heard himself say, “I cannot.”

  She turned her head to draw a ragged breath. He descended on her neck.

  “Cannot what?” she asked.

  “Stop,” he said, scooping her up, reaching for the doorknob, and pushing it open. “I cannot stop.”

  He glanced right and left, not really caring who might see, and kicked the cupboard door shut behind them.

  He looked down at her. She did not fight him; she felt close and snug in his arms. She buried her face in his chest.

  It was enough. He strode down the hall, all the while his mind spun, justifying, reasoning. It was the night of their wedding, after all. The dynamic between them was not amorous, not anymore, but the marriage was real. Was it not his right—his duty—to consummate the union? In the lifetime that followed, he would have only intermittent claim to her body, but did the arrangement not afford him this night?

  He came upon his bedchamber door and jerked it open, maneuvered them inside, and slammed it shut. He fell against the door and put his lips to her neck.

  “Elisabeth?” he said, speaking against her skin, “I’ve no right to ask this, but I would consummate the marriage tonight.”

  “Oh,” she said, winded, against his ear. He felt her hand reach up inside his jacket and clasp the fabric of his shirt.

  “If you are amendable,” he said, soldiering on. The roar of blood in his ears made it difficult to think. “We need not make it romantic or overblown. There is a way to do it without descending into, er, pleasured oblivion.”

  That was a lie, but his brain was barely functioning. Later, he would marvel at the utter ridiculousness of this statement. Even in the moment, he wondered how many wholly false promises he would pass off as truth.

  He went on, rambling now, dropping intermittent kisses on her neck between words, “Consider it a duty of marriage, if you must. Detach. You’ll remember how to do this, I’m sure, from your time—”

  She made a strangled noise and the words froze in his throat.

  He jerked his head back and stared at her.

  She looked up, blinking. Her mouth fell open. Her face had gone white.

  Oh, no.

  He hadn’t thought. His brain was shot. The words—they simply . . .

  And he—

  “Elisabeth . . . I didn’t . . .” he began.

  Her arms fell, and she struggled, trying to pull away. He set her down. She staggered and reached for the closed door to steady herself. His hands shot out to catch her, but she shrank away.

  She shut her eyes, working to control her breathing, and pressed a hand to her mouth.

  After a long, horrible moment, she said, “Of course.” Her blue-green eyes swam with tears, and his own heart stopped. “I’ll remember how to do this from the brothel,” she went on. “That is what you would think.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Elisabeth felt as if he’d doused her with icy water. “The brothel is ever present in your mind,” she said. “I understand. I would expect nothing less.”

  He rasped, “Elisabeth—no.”

  “Your preoccupation with it is no different than any other bridegroom’s would be.” A pause. “If anything, you are far more charitable. So charitable, in fact, I allowed myself to forget.” She tried a sad smile. His face was taut with misery; she could actually see his regret.

  She looked away. “The great irony, of course, is that you are not a proper bridegroom. Not really. And I am not a real bride. We are colleagues.”

  “It is not ever present in my mind, Elisabeth,” he said. He turned to the door and leaned against it, bracing his hands wide. “I don’t dwell on the past—mine, yours, anyone’s. My own past is wretched. What matters to me is the future.” He paused, staring at the door beneath his hands. “And now, what matters is the present.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Now matters to me very much.”

  Elisabeth considered this. He stared back, his blue eyes studying her, imploring her. She had seen many versions of that same look over the course of the day. Each time, some subtle, nuanced quality caused her own heart to bob up a little, as if it were trying to hop out of her chest to capture whatever feeling shone there. If she had to name it, she would call this look . . . desperation. She’d seen it when she’d walked to him down the aisle. When he’d said his vows. When he’d taken her from the party. And she saw it now. It seemed to say what words could not.

  She looked away, wondering if this could possibly be enough. A look. A desperate look that had grown increasingly more desperate as the day wore on. She shook her head. Perhaps . . . perhaps it could make up for words that he could not seem to say, but it could not take words away.

  “Elisabeth,” he said, studying her, “I cannot believe that I am asking you to forgive me again—but I am. I have behaved abominably. There is no excuse.”

  She waited.

  “And I do not say that because I would like to make love to you. It is not an appeasement to have my own way. I . . . I am lost. I . . . it is an entirely new sensation, and I cannot say I enjoy it. But I can say that the solution seems to be . . . you.”

  Something about the admission caused her heart to bob again, rising up, seeking him. She took a deep breath and felt herself begin to nod.

  “I am not angry, Bryson,” she said. “And I should like to consummate the marriage, as you said.” This was the truth. Isn’t this what she had demanded—that they all simply tell the truth? He had done so and laid his apology at her feet.

  “We are here, in your room,” she went on. “We’ve just been married. We might as well consummate the union, as you’ve said. I will rely on you to . . . make it as you wish. If there is a less ‘overblown’ way to go about it, and that is what you prefer, then let us do it.”

  As if to prove herself, she looked purposefully at the massive bed that dominated the far wall. It was a raised, canopied affair, with a sheer curtain cordoning it all the way around, shrouding the coverlet and a heap of pillows at the headboard.

  He pushed off the door, watching her study the bed.

  “I should warn you,” she said, suddenly overcome with nerves, “I don’t . . . won’t know what to do.”

  Lead me, she wanted to add, sweep me away again.

  He took another step toward her. The look on his face was still desperate, but something new also lurked there. Purpose? No, she thought, forcing herself to stand her ground. Possession.

  Her heartbeat ticked up, and she babbled on. “It is a rare situation indeed that finds me at age thirty in my familiar little world, not knowing how to proceed. I know you regard me as a veteran seductress because of—”

  “Elisabeth, no.” Another step.

  She held up her hand and rushed to finish. “But whatever you think of me, you are, almost certainly, mistaken. So . . . ” He was coming for her, but suddenly it wasn’t fast enough. She was running out of things to say. “I will rely entirely on you to direct the, er—well, to direct me.” She blushed, warmth spreading from her hairline downward, like a veil of shyness had been drawn across her face.

  His expression was less careful. His eyes melted into a deeper, hotter shade of blue.

  She felt compelled to add, “You do know what to do? Don’t you?”

  “Yes, Elisabeth,” he said gruffly. “I know what to do.”

  You do know what to do? Elisabeth’s question resounded in his head. The understatement of the century. His knowledge of “what to do” seized him with such excruciating clarity that, at the moment, he felt as if he knew little else.

  And yet. Not like this. Not—how had he described it?—unromantic or overblown. Without descending into pleasured oblivion. Ever poetic. Ever impossible, especially since pleasured oblivion was the only state he now wished to pursue.

  Meanwhile, despite her prompting, it was clear Elisabeth was nervous. Likely, she longed to get it over with. She was exhausted and wished to lose herself to sleep. He’d insulted her grievously. The lea
st he could do was to make it quick. And painless. And, as he’d so impossibly termed it, not overblown.

  He crossed to the gentleman’s chest beside the bed and yanked open a drawer. First things first. He would free himself from the constricting cravat, the jacket, the heavy boots.

  “I appreciate your accommodation,” he told her, reaching for the top button of his waistcoat. His voice was gruff, abrupt, harsher than he intended.

  She answered, “Should I lie down on the bed?”

  Oh, God. He groaned inwardly.

  “Or snuff the candles?” she continued helpfully.

  “Elisabeth—”

  “I . . . I think I shall,” she said, but she didn’t move. Instead, she watched him unbutton his waistcoat.

  He glanced at her. Her open curiosity made his pulse jump. Some unknown stripe of male vanity bade him turn, just a little, allowing her to see. He made quick work of the buttons, flicking them open with short, impatient movements. First the waistcoat, then the shirt. He raised his chin, fumbling with the pin in his cravat. He yanked it free, nearly rending the linen, whipping it from his neck.

  “The candles are as good a start as any,” he said. “At least one of us has some notion of how to get on.” He shrugged free of the waistcoat and flung it on the back of a chair. The shirt, he left hanging on his shoulders, baring his chest.

  “You said you knew what to do.” She sounded breathless.

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, I suppose I do.” He jabbed at his cufflinks, plunking them into a glass tray with a clatter. “You’re doing a lot of talking. In future, there will be less talking.” He fell into a chair to pull off his boots.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “In future. The ‘strategically timed appointments.’ ”

  He looked at her. “You agreed to the pursuit of children.”

  “Yes, but I never agreed to conceiving them in silence.”

  “No. You would never agree to that, would you?” He laughed briefly, ending on a frustrated sigh. “You see, Elisabeth, I find myself deciding upon the lesser of two evils. Should you ‘lie on the bed,’ as you suggested, while I drop my trousers and lumber on top of you? Or should we go to bed, so that I may accost you in the middle of the night and hope that you’re half asleep?”

  She bit her lip. “Neither of these sound half as pleasant as . . . the cupboard.”

  His head shot up, and he stared at her, unsure of what he’d just heard.

  She held his gaze for a moment, her aquamarine eyes wide and courageous and . . . hot? She looked away, suddenly abashed—and he knew. She did want him.

  His body’s response roared to life, and he shoved away from the chair.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said, coming upon her. “But first, will you disrobe? Take off the dress. If nothing else, we can begin there.”

  Elisabeth blinked at him, trying to comprehend this new mood. Had it been a mistake to mention the cupboard?

  She was operating without a script, mincing through so many layers of hurt and distrust. She could not remember ever feeling so uncertain. But she’d already mentioned the closet. If nothing else, that had propelled him from his chair across the room.

  And now he appeared aggressively, urgently . . . attentive. His movements were distracted and impatient, but his eyes remained levelly locked on her. He watched her as if she might, at any moment, turn tail and run.

  For better or worse—silly girl—it was a look that intrigued her. She wanted to revel in it.

  Collecting the heavy mass of her hair and veil in one hand, she dropped it over her shoulder. “I cannot remove this crown or dress without aid. It took two maids and my aunt to bind me into it,” she said.

  His gaze dropped to the bodice of her dress and back up to her face. “Of course it did. Naturally. Inevitably. And what should we do about that? I have been charged with the impossible task of bedding you without . . . inciting you. Few things are more inciting than undressing a woman.”

  Yes, please, incite me.

  She said, “You will have to do it. Or ring for a maid.”

  “No maid. Turn around.”

  “I am not afraid of you,” she asserted. She reached up and began to pull the pins that held the coronet in place from her hair. “Please be aware.”

  “That makes one of us. Turn.” He made a spinning motion with one finger.

  She narrowed her eyes, considering him. When she finally complied, she spun slowly, watching him over her shoulder as she went.

  He stepped to her proffered back, grabbed what must have been the first available lace, and yanked. The dress was a thatch-work of hooks and eyes, buttons and holes. One pull would have little effect. Still, she was overcome with the closeness of him and the deft, efficient pressure of his hands. She quickly pulled at the network of pins in her hair and tugged the veil free. The coronet listed sideways. She grabbed it and tossed them both on a nearby chair.

  “Are you finished?” he asked.

  “Are you?” she answered.

  His only response was to clear his throat and return his hand to the lacings. He pulled. Elisabeth listed this way and that as he worked his way down her back.

  The only sound was the rustling of his loose sleeves and the slipping and snapping of silk. She became increasingly aware of the warmth on her neck. Occasionally, he would draw a lock of hair out of the way and graze her skin. Awareness crackled up and down her spine.

  “Hold still,” he said gruffly. “This dress lacks only lock and key.”

  She tilted, and he palmed her waist to steady her.

  When the sweet relief of looseness finally freed her ribcage, she drew her the first deep breath in hours. Hook by hook, her posture relaxed, the blood returned to her middle. The gown went slack, and he attacked the laces of her corset. She drew a deep, shaky breath. Cool air touched her spine. The gown gaped at the neck, the bodice and corset sagging.

  “Right,” he said, his voice clipped. “Out.”

  She clasped the fabric to her chest and held up a finger. “One question . . . ”

  “No more questions.”

  “I feel very strongly that there should be unlimited questions.”

  “Fine. What is it?”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to decipher that bed. Not without assistance.”

  “It’s a bed. It does not require deciphering. You are stalling.”

  “Yes, but you are sprinting. And if I’m meant to step out of this dress, I will be naked—well, nearly naked. And as such, I’d like to know my destination. It’s the bed, I assume. But to be honest, I’m confused by the curtain and the pillows and—are there steps? It’s so high off the floor?”

  “Confused?” His voice broke. “My God, Elisabeth, there is only so much I can—”

  His hands froze on the neck of the gown at her shoulder. The room fell quiet.

  She shivered. “Bryson?” She half turned, trying to see behind her. “Bryson?”

  Oh. And then she realized.

  The scar.

  After fifteen years, she rarely gave it a second thought. How could she have forgotten?

  In this, it would be . . . glaringly, fundamentally, obviously . . . unforgotten. A grotesque reminder of what had brought them together and, likewise, what drove them apart.

  The sight stunned him, obviously. It repulsed him.

  It was ironic, really, for all her worry about not knowing what to do, about saying the wrong thing or behaving the wrong way. She had mortified him without doing anything at all.

  “Elisabeth,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  She sucked in breath to say something—to implore him to cover it up, to make some small joke or apology—when slowly, carefully, he leaned down and placed the lightest, softest kiss to her shoulder.

  “Elisabeth,” he repeated. “Sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  The endearment nearly toppled her, but he reached to catch her around the waist. He held her up. While they stood together, stock-st
ill, he bent and kissed the scar again.

  “I . . . I wanted so badly to do this that night, all those years ago. I wanted to care for you, to make it better.”

  She shook her head. “I was damaged in so many ways. I could not have borne it if you had touched me.”

  “And now? Tonight? Can you bear it, Elisabeth? If I touch you?”

  “I cannot bear it if you do not.”

  He groaned when she said this, and dipped to collect her, sweeping her off her feet. The wedding dress hung loosely from her body, and she buried her face in his neck. He carried her across the room to the bed, slowly lowering her, scattering pillows.

  “I may have misrepresented what will happen here,” he whispered, hovering above her.

  She waited.

  “Detachment, I’m afraid, will never be the guiding force when I make love to you. Ever.” He lowered his face to hers and nuzzled her lips, once . . . twice. Not a kiss, just a brush. She chased his mouth with her own, and he growled, kissing her harder, and dropped on top of her.

  She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, drawing him in. She’d fantasized about this—what it would feel like to have the weight of his body on top of her. It was a perfect kind of heaviness, a pressure so essential, she wondered how she would ever feel truly satisfied without it again.

  He went up on his elbows to gather her beneath him, staring down at her, taking in her limp, half-stripped gown. His eyes filled with appreciation and need.

  The kiss that followed was languid, thorough, and, for a moment, she was lost to it, but now she explored, her hands drifting from his neck to his hair and down again. She moved lower, grazing the edge of his collar until it gaped, revealing his broad back. She massaged his neck, fingers reaching deeper with each pass. She felt the hard, muscled plates of his shoulder blades, larger than her hand. All the while, he kissed her, and her own body melted into a dark, hot pool of need.

  Consciousness left her, and a fog of sensation descended. They had never felt so much. Time stopped or spun; she didn’t know, and she didn’t care. He devoured her mouth like a man starved, pulling up only to gasp for breath.