Beth’s glance strayed downward. Rodney’s black robe was tented outward in an alarming fashion, the front overlap threatening to part at any moment. In her innocence she found it difficult to understand why her husband’s male member should have been excited by a quarrel. It was grotesque. She was quite certain her female passage had shriveled closed.
Terence! She could almost hear the pounding on the door. A burst of strength . . . splintering wood, a furious assault. Rodney would measure his length before the fire. Terence would haul him out of the room by his heels . . .
Beth gasped as Rodney’s hands dropped to her dressing gown. Her dreams fell away with the soft folds of linen as the robe slid down to the carpet. When she looked up, the Rodney she had known for the past six months had returned. His smile was benign, his eyes lit only by intense, and perfectly normal, interest in what lay beneath the last fine layer of fabric. His face was suffused with the beguiling, eager appeal of a young man approaching a shy bride. It was as if the previous few moments had never existed.
Her brain skittered through a variety of possibilities, striving for sensible coherent thought. Champagne, brandy, bridal nerves. Had she dreamed it? Had thoughts of Terence driven her to madness? This was Rodney, a young nobleman who lived his life con brio. A man who had treated her honorably, if occasionally naughtily, before their wedding. And would do so now.
She must have been hallucinating.
She would never drink champagne and brandy again.
Chapter Twelve
Standing before her now was the Rodney she had known in London. A man with a face the gods might have envied, lit by an enchanting smile, eyes warmed to the guileless slate blue of a lake in spring. Beth, swept by a rush of relief, proffered a tentative smile. His hands reached out, filling his fingers with her breasts. The tissue-thin nightgown slid over her nipples in slow sensuous circles. She gasped, almost as if he had never touched her before.
Then again, perhaps he hadn’t. Rodney—her Rodney—was the façade. And it was the stranger with a snarling red dragon on his black silk robe who was touching her.
Nothing was real. Not her marriage, not this room. Not the words tumbling from the mouth of the man who looked like Rodney, her husband. Any moment now, she would wake in her beautiful silk-hung bed in Cavendish Square.
Yet the man standing so close, a knowing smile playing over his handsome face, was solid flesh. The thumbs circling her nipples were real. The friction of the fine fabric was peaking her flesh, even as her womb echoed a response.
A Brockman was never confused, her inner voice insisted. A Brockman was hard-headed, pragmatic. A Brockman did not hallucinate. Never, in her worst flights of fancy, could she have imagined Rodney doing something so outrageous as questioning her virginity.
Time to grow up. Be a woman instead of a child. This man had to be Rodney she knew. The charming nobleman eager to love and cherish his young virgin bride.
No one had told her wedding nights were easy.
His hands were still moving, squeezing, tweaking . . . seducing. Driving her body into forgetfulness. His mouth hovered, descended. She couldn’t breathe, was unsure how she was managing to stand. His tongue teased. She slipped into the familiarity of it. He felt like Rodney, smelled like Rodney. She responded to his kiss, her tongue melding with his, delving deeper, more daringly than ever before. Time to wipe away the shadows, the specters hovering just out of sight.
Rodney’s hands dropped to her nether cheeks, squeezing, pummeling, as he had her breasts. This was new. Strange. And oddly exciting. Head awhirl, Beth swayed. Her knees threatened to buckle.
She thought she heard a chuckle, but surely not.
She’d never drink wine again!
Suddenly, she was muffled in a cloud of linen as the gown came up over her head . . . and stayed there, dimming her sight, trapping her arms.
She couldn’t breathe!
But the fabric was fine, and she found she could. Her panic, her lack of breath had more to do with the hand that wasn’t clutching a wad of cloth behind her head. The hand that was roaming down her body, feathering her waist, her stomach, the soft brush of hair that guarded her maidenhood. Instinctively, she tried to squirm away. The lightweight linen tightened against her face. The questing fingers plunged home.
It was, of course, his right. How many times had she looked forward to this moment? She simply had not expected it to be like . . . this. Her face muffled in her nightgown, arms pinioned by fabric as binding as it was soft and sensuous. Her mind panicking even as her body betrayed her.
If she stood very, very still, perhaps the cloth would go away . . .
A single finger moved on the hand which had been cupping her. Insinuating itself between her nether lips, it began a slow circle inside her. How odd. She no longer felt anything at all. It was as if she’d become a ghost with no corporeal body.
“Do you not like it, my dear?” Rodney purred.
“Of course,” Beth lied. “Though I think I should like it more if I could breathe.”
The swathing folds of linen flew up, were tossed aside as if the gown had been the offender, not the hands that held it. “My apologies, my dear. In my haste I simply forgot.”
Liar! Such a smooth liar. She’d been drawn to him because she recognized he had more depth than other London fribbles. But this was a depth she’d never thought to plumb. Confused and appalled, she forgot to be self-conscious about appearing before her husband stark naked.
Keeping one hand on her shoulder, he stepped back to examine her from head to foot. “Commendable, my dear, I’m pleased with you. Your body is as appealing as your face. And wet and ready for me. If you truly are a virgin, I daresay you don’t understand me. Let us simply say that no matter what you may think of me at this moment, your body looks forward to the marriage bed.” His satyr face was back. “Untie my belt,” he ordered.
She’d lost the connection between brain and body. Her hands wouldn’t move.
Rodney grabbed her wrists, placed her fingers over the knot in his black silk belt. “Untie it now!”
Beth fumbled, struggled; the knot came loose. The robe fell away from the jutting protrusion which had been threatening to escape ever since he came into the room. She gaped, unable to look away. He would kill her with that thing. He might as well be carrying a knife. She backed away.
His hand dug into her shoulder. “Oh, no, my dear. No running, remember? A consummation devoutly to be wished. Isn’t that the quote? We must make sure your papa can’t take back all that lovely money.” Flashing his infamously beguiling smile, Rodney added, “Remove my robe. Now, my Lady Monterne. See what your papa’s wealth has bought.”
For this she had sacrificed a life with Terence!
Terence didn’t want you. Wouldn’t have you.
He ran away.
She must face the very large problem standing in front of her on her own. Many women experienced problems on their wedding nights, Tildy had told her so. Though how on earth a spinster governess could know of such things . . .
She was a Brockman. Papa had signed a contract of marriage with this man. She was Rodney’s wife, for better or for worse. Brockmans honored their contracts.
With conscious effort Beth transformed herself from cringing virgin to regal queen. She could, and would, tame this beast. If not tonight . . . some other time would see her triumphant.
Endless years stretched out before her.
Ruthlessly stifling a sob, she moved forward. Her husband’s body radiated so much heat she could feel it a foot away. When she sidled to the left, attempting to avoid his hardened spear of flesh, his hands clamped on her shoulders, forcing her to walk directly into him. His . . . appendage jabbed her in the stomach. She hated him. She absolutely hated him.
But she would have to learn how to handle him. Now, at last, she began to sense the aura of violence lying in wait just beneath her handsome husband’s alluring surface. She would learn how to keep him happy. She had to.
Su
mmoning what she hoped was a winsome smile, Beth placed her hands on the lapels of black satin robe. Outwardly calm, she looked him in the eye and waited. His hands dropped from her shoulders, lowered to his sides. Smugly, he waited.
Beth slipped the black silk from his shoulders, allowing it to drift down his arms, over his fingers while she smiled up into those treacherous eyes. The silk slithered to the floor.
Oh . . . he was quite, quite beautiful. She allowed her gaze to roam. What a terrible waste. How could God make something so marvelously sculpted, then give it the soul of a satyr?
Perhaps it was the fault of the liquor. They’d been drinking all day, since an hour after the morning ceremony. And most of the magnum of champagne laced with brandy had gone down his throat, not hers. That must be it. If they could just get past this moment, she’d find a way to mend things. To make their lives what she had once envisioned. Well . . . perhaps not so glorious as her girlish dreams, but something not too far from the pragmatic compromises of other couples of the ton. The Rodney she had known couldn’t be all façade. He was there somewhere, she simply had to find him.
Surely a willing wife, an eager wife, was what he wanted. Needed. Surely that would be enough . . .
She twined her arms around his neck.. Lightly, she brushed her lips across his, ever conscious of the rock-hard spear which had bowed down and was now pointing directly toward her maidenhood. Legs trembling, Beth held on.
Her tactics worked. All too well. With a groan Rodney scooped her up, dropped her onto the bed. Perhaps she shouldn’t have encouraged him, she thought a moment later as a scream ripped from her. She’d known what occurred between husband and wife. She’d been warned. But surely he could have been more gentle. He could have rested within her, waited for her pain to stop jangling through her body. Instead, he was tearing at her, thrusting, driving, plunging in and out, every movement causing her to bite her lip, her tongue. She fought the pain, refusing to cry out.
When Rodney shouted, shuddered, and went limp, Beth could only pray it was over. Suffocating weight followed acute pain. She gritted her teeth and held on, afraid to ask him to move. At last, when she thought she couldn’t bear another moment, he groaned and rolled off her. And then, without so much as a snide word about ensuring his use of her dowry or the slightest acknowledgment that she had truly been a virgin—not even a show of concern for her painful initiation into married life—he padded across the floor, naked as the day he was born, leaving his robe behind. The dressing room door clicked shut. Her husband had left her.
Then, and only then, did Lady Monterne allow herself to weep. Great gulping sobs poured into her pillow.
Terence! Papa! Tildy! Jack!
Someone . . .
In the morning it was Beth holding her head while Rodney cheerfully gobbled up every item laid out on the sideboard in the dining room. She nibbled on a slice of unbuttered toast while trying to avoid looking at her husband as he lathered his toast with creamy butter and jam, downed large helpings of ham, eggs, kippers, and . . . blood pudding? Beth’s stomach heaved. She was only ten when she had declared that blood pudding would never, ever be served at the Brockman breakfast table. Tildy had been scandalized at her charge’s effrontery. Tobias and Terence had merely laughed and nodded their acceptance of her dictum.
She had not realized, until now, just how spoiled she had been. She might not have lowered herself to temper tantrums, cutting remarks, or looking down her nose at those with less money, but she had spent her life surrounded by people whose goal it was to make sure she had whatever her heart desired. People anxious to smooth away the slightest bump before it could possibly grow into a spot rough enough to disturb her tender sensibilities.
People willing to give her everything. Except Terence O’Rourke.
Beth jumped as Rodney thumped his mug onto the table. “Well, wife, may I have the horses put to?”
“I’m sure Ellie has everything packed,” Beth murmured, even as she wondered how she could endure the jouncing of the coach. She hurt everywhere. From her miserable head to her rebellious stomach to muscles in her legs and thighs she had not known she possessed. And inside, as well. If he wanted to do that again tonight, how could she stand it?
Would he? She had no idea. Frequency had not been covered by Terence or the gentle, if somewhat ribald, advice of her friends, Cat and Amabel.
What an innocent little fool she was! In some vague manner she had thought loss of her virginity would transform her into a woman of the world, knowledgeable in all aspects of male-female relations. Obviously, that was as ludicrous as the notion she would continue to live a life designed to cater to her every whim.
Rodney knew. Had her pegged for the silly twit she truly was. Oh, he was his charming self this morning, but there was something slightly different . . . a smug complacency tinged with a shadowy aura of menace. I have what I wanted. No one can take it away. Worse than that, Beth amended. She could hear his thoughts quite clearly: I’ve used the little Brockman to get what I want. Now I can use her any way I want.
That was her nighttime terror talking, Beth scolded herself. Her sick stomach, her aching body. She was Lady Monterne, wife of Rodney Rexford d’Arcy Trevelyan Renfrew. Her husband was affable and smiling—one could almost say triumphant. He was solicitous, asking if she was ready to travel, rather than ordering her into the coach. They were off on their wedding journey, making the long trek to Devon through the beauty of fall in the West Country. What more could a bride ask for on the day after her wedding? She would endure.
When she had first learned Rodney had a manor house on Dartmoor, Beth had thought it exciting. A grand adventure for a girl who had never journeyed farther than Brighton or Bath. Dartmoor was the stuff of legends, dotted with the remains of dwellings thousands of years old. And standing stones from the time before time itself. Or so Rodney had told her, adding a warning about bogs larger than her house in Cavendish square or just big enough to swallow a human whole, lost forever in the bowels of the earth. If that weren’t enough, there was fog thick enough to wipe every landmark from the face of the earth; to turn left to right, north to south, east to west. Enough to send unwary travelers off a high cliff or into a bog. Or were those merely tales Rodney invented so he could calm her shivers by holding her tight, whispering sweet nonsense in her ear?
Where had his words of reassurance been last night? The gentle teasing, the kindness he had shown her in London?
Yesterday she had envisioned herself venturing into the glorious unknown, the sparkling wonder of marriage. Today . . . she was filled with vague forebodings, amorphous shadows on a world tilted awry. In her pragmatic Brockman heart Beth knew men truly sensitive to their wives’ feelings were few and far between. Even Cat and Amabel had not had easy beginnings with the twins. But they had triumphed, and so would she. Just because Rodney had not treated her with the gentle respect a virgin bride might expect did not mean he was a villain. Undoubtedly, they were both feeling awkward this morning. He, however, was more accustomed to dealing with the aftereffects of too much wine and certainly more experienced with the morning after . . . ah–passion. But he had never been married before. Perhaps he, too, needed time to adjust.
By the time Beth climbed into the coach, her naturally buoyant spirit was beginning to return. Her wedding night was a disaster which would not be repeated, the result of bridal nerves and too much wine. Or so she assured herself. She snuggled into a corner of the coach, closed her eyes, and pretended to go to sleep. It was a long way to Devon. Surely, by the time they arrived, they would have gotten past the terrible newness of being married.
Very soon, the events of the previous day caught up with her. With one hand tucked up beneath her cheek, Beth fell fast asleep.
Rodney, settled into the opposite corner of the coach, contemplated his sleeping treasure with immense satisfaction. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. The Brockman wealth was his, and wrapped up in as fine a little package as a man could ask for
. Fortune smiled. It surely did.
A pity he had to treat her gently. But if he lived to be ninety, he’d not forget the night Terence O’Rourke had paid him a visit, shoulder to shoulder with that blond bastard Harding. It had been dawn, actually. They were waiting when he wended his way home after a night of overindulgence. He’d sobered on the instant.
It was death he saw in their faces. And not by pistols at dawn. Simple erasure of young Lord Monterne from this earth was the solemn promise if he harmed the precious heiress.
He believed them.
But he doubted either one of those hard-eyed, grim-lipped men knew what it was to lose control. To slip into that other world where the beast became master, where the devil came calling, hellfire at his back. Tempting. Seductive. Leading the way into evil until there was no satisfaction from a woman but in the pounding of fists against flesh, the tearing of sinew, the crunch of bone.
If he didn’t drink to excess . . .
If he could find a woman who liked it rough, who could give as good as she got . . . the kind of woman he could find in the city.
Not the little Brockman.
Rodney scowled at his diminutive wife, tucked up in the corner, fast asleep. Even though her munificent dowry was now his to do with as he pleased, he would have to be careful. None of it would do him any good if he were six feet underground.
Nor, truthfully, did he want to hurt her. She was an innocent. Embarrassing that she was a Cit, but she was not so badly brought up. She wouldn’t shame him. And he needed heirs for all that lovely money his wife would one day inherit.
So he would have to find someone to do for his needs. Someone for whom gold was all. Hell and damnation! Dunscombe was too small. The whole of Dartmoor was too small. He’d have to journey to Bovey Tracey . . . Ashburton . . . perhaps as far as Exeter.
Better yet, he could bring Lorna down from the city, set her up in a cottage . . .
And have everyone on Dartmoor aware of it within days! His wife within the week. Tobias Brockman and his evil duo within a fortnight.
O'Rourke's Heiress Page 15
