by Julia Donner
The Grange came into view after a curve in the road, and the realization that she was well and truly married became an actuality she could no longer ignore. She’d been thinking about everything and anything to keep her mind off the difficulty to come, a life of deception. She’d made this particular bed with her cowardice, and now she’d have to find the resolve to lie in it.
After throwing the last of the coins, Max dropped the pouch on the floor and leaned in for another lingering kiss. He finished it with a peck on the tip of her nose. “That will have to hold me until later. Come along, my lady. It’s time to brave the horde.”
She had no appetite and contented herself to watch Max have no difficulty emptying two plates of food. Today, there was no sign of his taciturn frown. Dignity had gone the way of the rain and clouds. His face was wreathed in smiles for everyone, and once, he’d laughed out loud, startling the room and silencing the cacophony of chatter and cutlery clacking against china.
The breakfast was so well attended that the hall remained filled and active until late afternoon, prompting Max, sitting next to her, to whisper, “How long does one of these last? They’ve been here since before luncheon.”
“Perhaps too much ale has been served. They’re in high spirits.”
“I move that we clear the house of distractions. If we do so separately, it might move them along a bit quicker.” He leaned back in his chair to send Cameron a meaningful look. When her brother noticed, Max made a discreet gesture for him to lean closer.
“Cameron, would you give Agnes your arm and assist with getting everyone on their way? I’ll take Mother Bradford.”
The plan worked well. The guests rose to the suggestion but lingered for lengthy farewells. Mrs. Bradford eventually sat with a clutch of the neighbor ladies, while their husbands quietly chatted on the other side of the room. Seeing that the hall had emptied but for her mother’s friends, Agnes asked Cameron to take her to find Max. They found him in the vestibule speaking with the priest who officiated the ceremony.
“Indeed, Father Leland, I am the most fortunate of men. I’ve married the most perfect woman on the planet, beautiful, talented, and let us not omit, intelligent enough to take me on as husband.”
The priest politely laughed in agreement as Agnes stood frozen beside her brother, pilloried by the conviction that she was exactly the opposite. The smile on her mouth felt brittle but she kept it in place. Max, always acutely tuned to her presence, turned away from the minister and beamed a glorious smile. Uncomplicated love and contentment gleamed in his eyes. His utter confidence in her supposed sterling qualities magnified her smallness.
Perhaps she hadn’t been wrong to keep silent. And yet, how could she be so cruel as to destroy his ideal of her? She could never tell him how unworthy she was of his devotion. Which was worse, relieving the burden from her heart by the breaking of his, or carrying the guilt and preserving his dream? Branding herself coward, she accepted that at this point, she had no other choice but deception.
Chapter 22
Agnes had never seen the private rooms and bedchambers at the Grange. In childhood, she’d run tame with Cameron in much of the house. They often visited with the late Lord Loverton, who’d been fond of Cameron.
Muffled sounds came from the adjoining dressing room that connected the master’s bedchamber with hers. Not wanting a maid present when Max came through, she dismissed Smith. There was nothing to do but wait until he came to her.
Her bedchamber was small, simple and soon cozy from the fire. Smith had run a warming pan under the bedcovers before she left. Looking at the folded down bedclothes, she should have gotten herself snuggled into the warmth to calm her nerves but felt better strolling around the room while waiting.
She wrapped her hand around the poster at the foot of the bed and smiled. She’d fallen in love with this room the first time she stepped inside it. The mahogany four-poster bed was draped with cream silk figured with pastel orange flowers. The walls, painted a dusky peach, complemented the Chippendale furnishings. Twining, green vines had been painted to wreathe the upper walls. More vines and flowers danced across the ceiling in a riotous array of vibrant colors, an overhead garden.
She ran her fingertips over a table’s glossy surface and touched a delft figurine, a dairymaid holding a dish of milk. There were so many charming features about the Grange, small by estate standards with only seventy rooms, but they had been meticulously tended and lovingly furnished during the previous baron’s time. He had a particular devotion to Venetian glass. Exquisite chandeliers hung from the receiving rooms, their colored, floral designs glowed vibrant and luminous when lit, illuminating rooms with rosy radiance. She’d been a child the last time at the Grange, visiting during daylight hours. Only once had she seen the chandeliers lit on a gloomy day and became instantly fascinated with the magical warmth of the light.
A door clicked open. She turned to the sound, her heartbeat pulsing in her throat. She’d avoided thinking about what was to come. She’d permitted physical relations with Vincent due to feeling pressured to please him, frantic to preserve his affection. The first time had been quite painful, and the occasional times that followed, merely uncomfortable and mercifully brief. She consoled her fears thinking that this should be easier. There would be no guilt or shame involved, which invariably made her tense, especially when Vincent first entered her body. But Max was so different from Vincent in so many ways. Perhaps it would be more embarrassing than painful. He had such a strange effect on her, making her somehow nervous, but not in a distressing way. And that kiss in the lane after she accepted his proposal. The memory of its power hadn’t faded but continued to make her question if she’d imagined the fierce passion that erupted between them. But she’d seen underneath his stern shell from the beginning. Nothing about him frightened her, which was intriguing, since he disturbed others to the point of retreating.
The quilted, blue material of his night robe caught the light from a nearby candle with latent, deep blue luster. He leaned down to blow out the flame. Unable to move, she watched him go about the room, extinguishing candles until only a brace remained lit next to the bed.
He paused to study her. Firelight added orange warmth, a color that calmed until he crossed the room to stand in front of her. He was somehow larger, more intimidating than usual. Understanding glowed in his dark eyes. His tight-lipped smile looked vaguely grim. He held up a silk ribbon, a question in his eyes. She turned to present her back and absorbed the electric sensations tingling across her shoulders as he wove her hair into a single, thick plait. She had left the heavy waves undressed, wanting him to see what she thought of as her best feature. She’d never thought of herself as pretty, one of the reasons she’d been so easily seduced by a handsome man’s flattery.
He said nothing as he led her to the bedside, unlaced the front of her robe, slid it off and tossed it across the foot of the bed. Relief made her limp when she realized that he wasn’t going to ask her to remove the nightgown. Taking her hand, he held it in the warmth of his as she kicked off her slippers and got under the covers. She quickly closed her eyes when he undid his robe. Curiosity opened them. He wore nothing underneath. The sight of his nudity produced an unsettling anxiety, not fear, but more like a mixture of excitement and captivation. A glimpse confirmed what she’d expected. She could use him as a model for a Greek-themed statue.
When he settled next to her on his side, heat poured off him, saturating her skin, sinking deep into her chilled core. Leaning over to kiss her brow, he seemed even larger, more immense and overwhelming, all muscle and crisp hair. He smiled against her temple at her surprised gasp when his warm foot tucked under her cold toes.
Swamped by nerves and emotions she couldn’t express, she tried to speak. He hushed her and began to press soft kisses over her face. She got lost in the charm that each one was so infinitely gentle, every one like a tender benediction. The loveliness of what he was doing, the wonder of it distracted her from the un
fastening of her gown, which took a while. It had a long line of pearl buttons that went down to the ruffled hem. His light caresses felt like the brush of butterfly wings, amazing her. Every touch stirred her body, building a rising heat that soon forced aside sensual lethargy. His touch was like a balm, so that when his weight settled over her, she felt no fear. She put her hands on his bared back, savoring the curve, swell and tension of solid muscle. She visualized his physique, mentally sketched the glorious symmetry and allure of the male body at its peak.
Artistic ideas fled when she felt the pressure of his slow entry, careful, but relentless. No pain, but a strange, burning stretch, an unforeseen thrill of being possessed, taken, physically adored.
Inhaling an awed sob, she stared wide-eyed into the shadows under the canopy. This was nothing like what she’d known and expected. No abrupt painful entry followed by stabbing thrusts that thankfully ended after a few strokes. She now understood the difference between crude rutting and making love. Max, slow and cautious, was cherishing her with his body, respecting her and their marriage bed.
He whispered in a strange language, crooning into her ear words that sounded soothing yet exciting. Gliding movements, a delicious friction like nothing she imagined sent rippling sensations everywhere. Wonderment filled her eyes with sudden tears. A wild mixture of gratitude and building pleasure coiled low and deep. Her body began to move with his. She sank her fingers into the tough muscles that ridged his back. Escalating tension made her restless with a hunger she didn’t understand but that her body recognized. When she’d done this before, she’d had to force herself to relax and accept.
Ideas of false submissiveness evaporated, replaced by an aggressive hunger. The urge to meet his careful strokes and cautious tenderness had her lifting her knees, clenching her thighs around his waist. Frantic urgency took hold. She needed this like nothing she’d ever needed in her life. Before she realized what she was going to do, she sank her teeth into his bicep.
He stilled. A hard shudder rippled through the big body hovering over her. She immediately released her hold, startled by her behavior. He gave her no time to think or descend into embarrassment. His mouth came down on hers. A low, guttural sound invaded her mouth and sank into her soul. One hand grabbed the braid, anchoring her to the pillow. His other hand slid under her hips and lifted her into a lunging thrust that buried him deep against her womb, proving he hadn’t entered her all the way. He’d been gentling her and now took her in a different way. Shocked but not frightened, she absorbed his fervor, a ferocity that thrilled instead of making her want it over and done. There were no tender words now. Her carnal response had stripped him down to this passion-wrought creature.
His grip on her hair didn’t hurt. Tingles scattered across her scalp and down her neck. His hand cupped her bottom, directing, lifting her into plunging strokes. Her insides might be sore tomorrow, but she didn’t care. This was worth every ache and twinge. This proved that he didn’t feel sorry for her, hadn’t married her out of a sense of obligation or some such masculine nonsense. He wanted her and was proving it with every groaning lunge that released the violence of passion he’d held at bay.
She stifled an aching tension tightening inside. Too distracting. She wanted to clearly remember this, every intense moment. His movements were becoming erratic. His silence and utter focus warned her that completion was rushing at him. She could feel it building within his rigid muscles and wished she could see his enjoyment. He’d broken off the kiss to press his face into the pillow. His fingers slid into the cleft of her bottom to secure and imprison. He ended on a final, shuddering thrust, pausing taut and motionless for a release that came with a relieved moan into the pillow. She didn’t dare to breathe, to break the spell that felt blissfully intimate, exquisitely sacred.
She slipped her hands from his shoulders when he carefully withdrew and rolled onto his back, an arm flung across his brow. The deep rasps of his breaths filled the room. He lowered his arm to lie between them, not touching, strangely distant.
His voice sounded congested, grating, when he asked, “Did you give him permission to take you?”
Startled, her mind emptied. The chill of sudden shock followed by shame siphoned her body heat. Firelight’s rosy glow faded. The room no longer felt saturated with romantic warmth. The weight of hopelessness and hurt settled onto her heart. What she was reaping now was nothing less than what she deserved. She’d used every excuse, when she should have confessed, explained. At least she could be truthful now. When it was too late.
“Yes.”
She felt the fist he made, the tension along his arm lying so near and yet so far, the faint quiver that ran the length of his body. Then came the separation, the raising of the wall he used to keep others out. The spiritual cord that tied them in mind and soul disappeared as if it had never been. Now that it no longer existed, she could identify it from its loss. Trust.
He got up, collected the robe he’d flung to the foot of the bed, and left. She stared up at the shadows under the canopy. Scorching tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as the connecting door of their rooms clicked shut.
Chapter 23
In the dark, Max crossed his bedroom to the window. Drawing back the curtains, he sat on the windowsill and looked out on the night. He slid up the sash to let in moist air. The smells of green, growing things seeped inside, laced with the scent of something floral and unfamiliar. A night bird sang in a bush underneath the window. A sickle moon half-smiled amid stars. And his heart hurt.
He’d suspected an affair, of course, after witnessing Vernam’s spleen. Men, and sometimes women, often said cruel things when thwarted. Agnes had stained every mention of Vernam with scorn with a vehemence unusual to her character. It should have alerted him, but he’d been too busy falling in love.
There was always the possibility that she’d been forced. Rape wasn’t something easily discussed, within the family, before or after marriage. But she hadn’t been. She’d confessed that much minutes ago.
But what if Vernam had done that to her and she wanted to protect him and not her brother? He couldn’t think about either possibility. Had to stop from imagining her physically forced, even though he’d suspected as much after she acted so frightened the day Vernam and her brother invaded the studio. Her reaction had been extreme, and she’d hinted that her brother must be protected.
No, it was more likely that she didn’t shield Vernam but her brother. It made more sense that she feared Cameron would act on his anger. She didn’t want her family separated, and Cameron would gut any man who caused his family distress or harm. The man was easy-going on the surface but not one to trifle with after so many years of abuse. A simmering cauldron of suppressed outrage lurked under the surface. His retribution would end as Agnes had said—a body dead on the beach or in pieces in the sea, leaving her brother compelled to flee the country. The grace that soothed the beast within Cameron was his wife, Allison’s serenity and steady head. Cameron found peace in her company. Max wanted that quiet security, just as he envied the obvious bond Peregrine and Lizzie shared. Lord and Lady Asterly flaunted their smug happiness in the world’s face. They were an unusual pair. No, not a pair—a one. And for a few weeks, he’d experienced that with Agnes.
Was that the reason for gaping hole of hurt in his chest—the loss of that precious possibility of complete faith in a mate? It had nothing to do with virginity. As Agnes had said, at her age she was no longer innocent. Many women and most men weren’t at thirty. He didn’t care about what had gone before, if it had been consensual. Which took him back to her obvious loathing of Vernam. Did she loathe him or herself for what she’d done?
The windowpane chilled his temple when he rested his forehead against the mullioned glass. Of all the things—the many future errors or mistakes that he could have imagined that might come between him and Agnes in their marriage—he’d never considered betrayal. But that’s what it felt like. And unbearable loss. For a brief tim
e, they’d shared a bond like none other he’d ever known, a trust solid and secure. For him, it had been exactly as she described her immediate connection with Cameron’s wife. It had felt as if he’d always known Agnes. And now, he didn’t.
Chapter 24
A night without sleep eroded her final scrap of determination. She dreaded facing Max and fretted over possible ways to mend the rift between them. Avoiding the breakfast room, she took chocolate in her sitting room. When her maid came to fetch the cup and tray, Smith said, “His lordship asked me to inform you that he will be away for the day.”
A reprieve then, an awkward meeting postponed, but aching confusion came in the wake of relief. She wandered the house, and almost buckled under a fresh drenching of guilt, when she discovered that Max had emptied the conservatory adjacent to the library. Her supplies and easels had been arranged under the glare of bright sunlight, a studio far better than the one her brother had devised. She grieved the loss of their spiritual connection as greatly as how she’d caused him pain.
She stepped into a sunbeam, lifting her face to soak in its blessed glow, let it fill her with purpose, and found the fortitude to fight for Max. As Allison had said, he was a man of superior understanding. It might take a long time, perhaps years, but she would wait, do whatever possible to have him trust her again. Confidence in this idea wavered when he didn’t return until she went down for dinner.
Their first evening meal as husband and wife should have been an occasion for fond memory. The courses came and went. Max ate but not with his usual appetite. She made an attempt in order to not insult the cook. The food roiled, unhappy to have been introduced to a tension-knotted stomach. She refused to allow it to distract. She would have this out with him, if for no other reason than to beg his pardon. When the time came to rise and leave him to his after dinner port, she sat in her chair, not moving. She had no idea if he smoked and had never caught the scent of tobacco in his clothes.
