But for some horrible reason he wondered what it would be like if he’d married her truly for love, if he didn’t have the queasy sensation in his stomach that he’d been lying to everyone about himself.
Lying about his life had long been something to which he was accustomed. Lies had been vital to his continued success as a spy. This, though, exceeded any of his previous omissions. For the first time, he looked around him at people living lives without secrets and was aware of a rare sensation…envy.
Chapter Twenty
He was a stranger.
And worse, he was a stranger who struggled to tolerate her.
His jaw was set, and his face, which often flickered with emotion, was fixed into a scowl once she joined him. His expression couldn’t seem more unwavering, if a sculpture had carved him from stone.
He’d spent the rest of the wedding reception chatting with his brother and sister-in-law, inquiring about their journey, his brother’s leg, and his sister-in-law’s archaeological career.
The only thing his topics had in common was that they did not touch upon the wedding or on Madeline.
The raindrops ceased their relentless descent and stopped splattering onto the cobbled square. Even the clouds floated away, and the waves turned blue under the now cerulean sky. Light scattered over the ocean, and the waters seemed to calm. Ships no longer bobbed in the water, and they seemed to sit regally as their crew raised their sails.
“How beautiful,” Fiona said. “What a good sign for the start of your marriage.”
Madeline gave her a tight smile. The appropriate response was likely a demurral, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
She missed the baron. Her late husband might have had his faults, but he always had a jovial smile for her. The baron had always told everyone he was lucky to have a pretty wife, appreciating her role as hostess. He’d never demanded respect or deference as some men might, and remained grateful that she’d kept his secret. He’d laughed at any sarcastic comments she might have on those less imbued with fashion sense, enjoying discussions on fabric cuts and table placements more than her cousins.
It hadn’t been a romance, but it had been a friendship, and that was more than she would ever have with Arthur.
By marrying her, Arthur had given up any hopes he might have for happiness. When he inquired about his brothers’ children, it would be with the understanding that he would not have any of his own.
Her stomach tensed.
Or perhaps he did intend to bed her. He likely would have no inability to display his masculine prowess. Likely he excelled in that activity as he did in everything else.
In fact. She knew he excelled in it. She’d heard the rumors.
And he’ll learn…
She wrapped her arms together.
Fiona gave her a worried look, and she dropped her arms to her side and attempted to laugh.
Unfortunately the sound seemed devoid of confidence, and Fiona strode toward her.
Madeline closed her eyes. She adored her cousin. But she wasn’t going to admit to her that she was anything else except happy.
She still remembered when she’d viewed Fiona with suspicion. She’d tried to warn Fiona to take more care of herself. Fiona had seemed to live in a dream world, one that left her dresses curiously always muddy and which sent her scattering whenever a man of means appeared. Fiona had seemed to view her as the harbinger of duty and all things unpleasant.
Thankfully those days were past.
That said, the thought of confessing her fears to her cousin… She shook her head. The thought was impossible.
“Is there anything you would like to speak about?” Fiona asked.
“No.”
“You’re happy?”
“Naturally?” Madeline squeaked. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Fiona’s expression remained grave.
“I’m a marchioness, after all,” Madeline continued. “Not quite a duchess, like you, but awfully grand.”
Fiona nodded. “Your parents would have been proud.”
“Indeed,” Madeline chirped.
“But that’s not the only reason you married him, is it? You do love him?”
Love.
The word was the sort that poets mulled over, usually before they started some stanzas on a peaches-and-cream complexion.
Arthur didn’t have a peaches-and-cream complexion. Those seemed reserved for milkmaids, but he was more handsome than any man Madeline had ever met.
She’d thought so when she was eighteen and on her first season.
“I never told you why I didn’t spend more time with you when we debuted.”
Fiona stiffened. “We-we needn’t speak about it.”
“I think we should. I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have made certain you were happier.”
“You seemed to have had no trouble then.”
“I was confident—overly so. I had met somebody. Arthur.”
Fiona blinked.
“You might not remember him. He wasn’t a marquess back then. Just Arthur Carmichael.”
“You loved him back then,” Fiona breathed.
Madeline glanced to see where Arthur was. He was deep in discussion with his older brother, his back turned to them.
Madeline nodded. “I did.”
Her heart trembled. She shouldn’t be admitting this, especially not to herself. It was hopeless.
Arthur would always remember her as a thief. He’d always remember her as the woman who forced him from the comforts of bachelorhood.
And yet—
Of course she loved him.
She always had.
She loved his appearance, his quick wit, and the kindness that had made him not hesitate to tell Admiral Fitzroy and the comte that he would marry her—
Heavens, she did love that about him.
The man seemed to have an ability to send butterflies flittering through her stomach and chest.
She forced herself to smile. “I’m sorry if I’m acting strangely. I—I just never expected this to happen.”
That much is true.
“I was worried when you were late to the wedding.”
“Too many canals,” she lied. “Quite a maze. The gondolier was stuck because of the rising waters, and I was so foolish and thought I could find my way to the chapel myself.”
“Oh,” Fiona said.
“Silly me.” Madeline beamed, hoping the words did not come off as being overly forced.
“I wonder why you didn’t have a large London wedding.”
“I already had one,” Madeline said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“But if you really wanted one—”
“I don’t,” Madeline said hastily. “Too much fuss. I’m no longer a doe-eyed debutante.”
Fiona smiled. “I doubt you ever were a doe-eyed debutante.”
“Darling,” Fiona said. “Let me tell Percival that we should go. He’s been occupying your dear husband dreadfully.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Madeline exclaimed.
“Of course I do,” Fiona said. “It’s your wedding night.”
Was Fiona possibly winking? But then her cousin turned around and sauntered to her husband, leaving Madeline with a hard feeling in her stomach.
Chapter Twenty-one
The light had vanished, and the long damask curtains that covered the windows of the hotel room were unnecessary: Madeline and he couldn’t see anything outside.
A knock sounded on the hotel room door. Percival and Fiona had left earlier in the evening, and Arthur’s heartbeat quickened. No one should be here now.
He maneuvered past gilded furniture and the four-poster bed. Sumptuous linens and velvet pillows adorned the latter with such excessiveness that he’d struggled to avoid looking at it all evening. The majestic crystal chandelier that dangled from the ceiling, and the hotel’s generous supply of candelabras and accompanying six-hour candles, further hampered any attempt at avoidance.
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br /> Madeline had taken the one armchair that faced away from the bed and seemed quite fixated on reading a book another guest had left, even though the book was written in Italian, and Arthur had not known her Italian was so fluent.
Madeline and he might be husband and wife, but they had not yet consummated their marriage. If Admiral Fitzroy had doubts on the validity of their union—
He opened the door.
It wasn’t Admiral Fitzroy.
A maid beamed at him. “Roses for you.”
Thank goodness.
The hotel staffed had seemed genuinely happy for them, spouting platitudes about romance and true love with glee. Arthur took the vase from her and set it before Madeline.
Heavens, she was beautiful. Her blonde hair lay in long curls over her shoulders. She’d taken the pins from her hair, and they lay in a neat row on the vanity.
She was so lovely. She’d always been.
“My darling,” he said, and her shoulders tensed.
He cursed himself inside. She wasn’t his darling. This was a marriage for convenience. She might be his wife, but that was purely for practicality. He shouldn’t be sentimental. She wouldn’t succumb to such old-fashioned urges.
He cleared his throat. “My wife,” but her back remained rigid and perfectly straight, like the meter sticks Bonaparte had placed all over public buildings in Paris so as to best learn the new unit of measurement he’d created.
Her dress might make her eyes even more blue, like some exotic flower one might only find in some African savannah, hidden from prying eyes and only visible to the giraffes and lions that roamed there in secluded bliss.
He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that everything was fine. After all, she’d done it all before, hadn’t she? She was not some simpering virgin on her wedding night. Madeline had been married for four years, and then she’d been a widow, the sort who’d roamed about foreign countries. He wouldn’t fault her for being active: he’d been himself.
He moved toward her, forcing his steps to remain small, lest she turn and laugh at him or leap from his arms and lurch out the window, fleeing to who knows where.
This was a contract, he reminded himself. Not love.
He was vowing to protect her. Consummating their marriage was another step toward formalizing it.
Light still shone through the curtain, dimmer now that it was evening, but still too bright for what he wanted to happen next. He moved toward and closed the curtain.
They were swathed in darkness.
Perhaps drawing the curtain had been a bad idea. He wanted to see her, blast it.
He fumbled for the candle that he’d seen earlier and lit a match. The process took longer than it should have, but for some reason his fingers were shaking, even though his fingers didn’t shake when confronting rugged Frenchmen armed with multiple muskets. Somehow the thought of being alone in the same room with Madeline, knowing that she was his, made his body quiver quite uncharacteristically.
He gazed at her. The candle made her hair glimmer. She wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of the paintings by the Italian masters she so admired.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
Her eyes widened further, and she moved an elegant finger over her throat, running her hands over the necklace as if for comfort. She was unlike the other women he’d been with.
Most of them now would be twirling before him and inviting him to remove their dresses. They might slide into silky ebony or scarlet gowns, or might perhaps prefer to recline on the bed like Titian’s Venus of Urbino.
None of them equaled Madeline in beauty. She’d always been the prettiest girl he’d ever seen: perhaps that was why he’d never felt a desire to marry someone else. Romance could be confined to the odd evenings when he was not working, with women eager to make themselves available to him. Romance could be fun, perhaps even passionate with them. But he’d never thought of sharing a country home with them, or declaring them his marchioness. He’d thought he’d never wanted to limit his options, but perhaps he’d simply been cognizant that he couldn’t have his favorite option.
But now Madeline was his wife.
Now everything had changed.
He took her hand in his, noting the soft, perfectly formed slender hands. Jeweled rings sparkled from her fingers, and he bowed to kiss her sweet flesh.
She seemed to shiver, and he released her hand.
He gazed at her. Her face remained pale, and her shoulders remained tense.
He’d imagined that she’d be eager for this moment as well.
Arthur did pride himself on his appearance, and many women had been eager to confirm his belief. Bedding was an activity at which he thrived.
Yet Madeline hardly looked eager for the experience. He’d thought consummating their marriage might be one of the few things she might enjoy, even if committing herself to him for eternity did not bring her the delight he wished it did.
She almost acted as if…
He shook his head.
It was impossible.
Madeline had been married for five years, a sizable time.
There was no way she could be a virgin.
The thought was absolute nonsense.
Or perhaps…
He thought of her late husband. The man had been rumored to roam the seedier sides of the capital, a task easy to do when such a large proportion of the population worked as whores.
His eyes flared. “Did Mulbourne ever hurt you?”
She blinked. “No. Of course not!”
“Tell me the truth,” he said sternly. “There shouldn’t be any lies between us.”
The statement seemed to belong to the overly romantic variety, the sort a husband might say to his wife whom he hadn’t married for sheer convenience.
He didn’t take it back, though.
“He never hurt me,” she said softly. “He was always a perfect gentleman.”
Oh.
Perhaps she missed him. Guilt swept through him. She’d chosen the baron instead of him. Perhaps the baron had been older, perhaps Arthur had always considered himself superior—but perhaps that had all been lies.
Madeline was intelligent, far more intelligent than anyone had given her credit for. He’d known that even then.
If she’d married the baron—surely there’d been a reason.
Perhaps even love.
Pain shot through his body. He tried to imagine losing a spouse. People might not live for long, but most wives were right to expect to see their husband for longer than five years. The baron hadn’t been a soldier, hadn’t even been a farmer which might expose him to accidents.
Arthur sighed. “I never told you how sorry I was that your husband died.”
She stared at him, and he averted his eyes, vowing not to become lost in her cobalt gaze.
“We don’t—” He stepped away from her. “Of course, we don’t have to—”
“Consummate?”
He gave her a tight smile. “You always were good at finishing my sentences.”
His legs were not working as well as they had been before, and he settled into a seat.
Madeline inhaled. “I—I should probably tell you.” She gazed down, and her cheeks pinkened. “I’m not, I mean, I haven’t—”
He blinked.
The thought was occurring to him again. But it was impossible.
Madeline couldn’t be…untouched.
Could she be?
Her skin continued to pinken. “It’s just…”
“You can tell me anything,” he said gravely.
She smiled at him. “That’s right, isn’t it? I told you I was an art thief, and look where I am now.”
“You’re my beautiful bride.”
“I’m not…experienced,” she said finally.
He blinked. He must have misunderstood. “You were married. For years. Your husband never even went to war. He lived with you.”
“Maxwell tried, but—” She sighed. “He did not
feel the urge to bed that other men are rumored to possess. Or at least,” she said more softly, “he did not feel the urge to bed me.”
She laughed and swept the hairpins together and placed them in a small container. “It’s of no importance.”
“On the contrary,” Arthur said gravely. “It’s of every importance. Everything that concerns you is.”
“I warned you that I wouldn’t be a good wife for you,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Arthur said. “If Lord Mulbourne didn’t see it, he was foolish.”
“I don’t think he was capable of appreciating me in that matter.”
Arthur nodded. That might explain the man’s predilection for brothels. Perhaps it had not been ladies of the night the man had been seeing.
“He was a good friend,” Madeline said. “The best one I ever had.”
“You deserved more.”
“You left.”
His eyes widened. Had she implied that she would have preferred him?
Madeline spoke quickly. “He could have been worse.”
She was right. Women struggled with lots of men. Men who hit them, men who drank, men who insulted them. Perhaps marrying a good friend was tolerable. She wouldn’t have worried about the prospects of childbirth. Clearly she’d had time to develop her other passions.
“You deserve everything,” Arthur said, and took her hands in his. He hesitated. “Would you prefer to wait? We don’t need to do anything. We can just sleep.”
“Oh.” Her eyes seemed to stop glimmering. “Yes. That’s fine.”
He was an idiot.
She’d just confided in him that her late husband had not consummated their marriage, and now he was here, suggesting to do the same.
“Because I would really rather not wait,” he said.
“Oh?” Her skin seemed to flush, and he grasped her fingers more tightly.
“I want you,” he said hoarsely. Speaking was not a pastime he’d struggled with in the past, but his throat seemed to close in around Madeline, at the prospect of undressing her, of pulling her back into his arms, conscious this time that no clothes served as barriers from her delightful skin.
Her lips parted, and he was vaguely aware of their dusky rose color before he caught them with his own. Heat surged through him, and he clasped her more tightly about him, as if there were a possibility that the coolness of her skin might lessen his passion.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 13
