• • •
Winthrop was waiting at the inn when Damien returned home from the party. “A day later and I would have been forced to send Mr. Rowland,” he said to the valet. “There were no problems?”
“None.” Winthrop opened his greatcoat to reveal an interlining of concealed pockets that contained documents allowing him passage into high places; the middle row held an arsenal of pistols and knives.
“Good God,” Damien said. “I don’t know how the horse can carry all that extra weight.”
“Half of it is for Mr. Rowland.”
“As I recall, Michael has a considerable talent with a knife. I witnessed him throw his blade and hit a target before anyone blinked an eye.” He frowned. “What is that I see beneath that dueling pistol?”
“The marriage license.”
Damien frowned. “Placed between your personal armory? I hope that is not another prophetic sign.”
“Is your fiancée trained in weaponry, my lord?”
“I never thought to ask. I have felt no concealed weapons on her person the few times I’ve been close enough to notice.”
Winthrop glanced away. “An oversight that you will no doubt correct in due time.”
“Are you suggesting that I search my fiancée’s person?”
Winthrop lifted his pistol case to the table. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a detailed inventory.”
“The ceremony will be held the day after tomorrow, Winthrop. Lady Fletcher and the baron have invited the entire village to witness the happy event. I do not anticipate having to disarm my bride at the altar. That pleasure has to wait for the wedding night.”
Winthrop smiled as he examined his master’s pistol. “But you will be armed during the ceremony?”
“With the anarchists unconcerned over who they must kill for their cause, I would be irresponsible if I had no means of protecting my bride.”
Chapter 27
The dressmaker had managed to finish Emily’s blue tissue wedding dress by the morning before the wedding. It was a simple gown, the only adornment a row of silver silk rosettes with seed pearls on the skirt’s hem. She had never worn anything as fragile before. It draped her curves in a way that the earl would have to notice. Whatever happened in the future, she wanted on this one day to feel desirable. She wanted everyone in the village to watch her exchange vows with the earl and wonder how their awkward Emily had become a countess, when all signs had indicated that she would lead a lonely spinster’s life.
She shopped that afternoon in the village for a small trousseau, all the while aware that the villagers who had been lukewarm toward her for years now went out of their way to acknowledge her.
“Everyone is staring at us,” Iris said, at Emily’s side.
“No,” Emily said, smiling ruefully. “They’re staring at him.”
The earl had insisted he would accompany Emily on her most trivial errands. If she needed a new hairbrush, he stood by to offer his opinion.
By the end of the day she wanted to shake him. “I hope you don’t intend to shadow me like this for the rest of my life.”
“Like a thundercloud, sweetheart.”
Oh. She knew she ought to scold him when he teased her. She ought to feel more anxiety as their wedding day approached. She ought to feel anything but the inexplicable anticipation that built inside her whenever she heard his gently mocking voice.
• • •
Lucy and her stepmother, Diana, brought their own three maids and a hairdresser to help Emily prepare for the ceremony, which would be held at Fletcher Manor. Iris gave an audible sigh of relief when the army of women arrived. The windy day would turn Emily’s hair into a bird’s nest if it was not properly secured, and Lady Fletcher had a talent with cosmetics that might prevent Emily from walking to the altar like a ghost risen from her eternal repose.
“She’s as pale as a corpse,” Lucy said over and over, pinching one of Emily’s cheeks while Diana vigorously smoothed rouge across the other.
Her pallor was nothing to worry about, Emily thought. Wait until the wedding night, when the earl demands repayment for his protection. She would be blushing from head to toe as she kept her part of their arrangement.
Chapter 28
Damien stood at her side in Lord Fletcher’s chapel, the pews packed, onlookers crowding at the doors. People he’d never met smiled at him as if he were a favorite son. Some ladies wept, but Emily wasn’t at all teary-eyed. Stoic, she repeated her vows in a steady voice that he found somewhat startling. Who was he marrying? Didn’t she feel some uncertainty about the commitment they were embarking on?
She showed no signs of it. Perhaps she looked a little pale, but that blue gown accentuated a body that sent his pulses soaring. The scent of lilies twined in her hair wafted to him whenever she turned her head to give a wave at someone who called out a blessing.
Dear God. What was he going to do with her after the ceremony? Well, of course he knew what he would do tonight, and presumably for the next few weeks, but what would happen once they reached London and had to settle into a life together?
He would introduce her, as his wife, to the family who might not even recognize him. Would Emily be surprised to know that she was better acquainted with him than his own brothers were? She knew almost as much about him as did his valet. He was a solitary person and it was the way he had always lived his life. Now that must change.
He could just imagine how the conversation with his Boscastle relatives would go.
“How did the pair of you meet?”
“Well, I knew her brother.”
“But when did you fall in love with her?”
“We exchanged many letters.”
“That’s rather dull for the start of a Boscastle seduction.”
“I didn’t seduce her,” he would insist, although he doubted anyone would believe she had told his fortune and entangled their destinies.
This was only a role. She was playing her part, as he was his. He couldn’t forget that Michael and Winthrop were both standing at the back of the chapel, armed beneath their jackets in case Ardbury or his journalist had made the connection between a gypsy girl and the serene, bright-haired bride who was calmly taking her vows.
Husband and wife.
He kissed her on the mouth. To his approval, she swayed and closed her eyes. He wanted to crush her in his arms. A group of young people, her friends, apparently, laughed. One shouted, “We never thought we’d live to see this day.”
But her father did not smile. He stood back and watched in wistful silence. Perhaps he’d also thought the day would never come when his daughter would marry. Now she would be gone for good.
Damien had sworn before God that he would take care of her for the rest of his life. And yet he was taking her away from her family. From the village she had always known. From the cricket player whose love she had sought.
At the reception he drank champagne and played the attentive groom next to the bride, who laughed less and less as the day wore on. “This might be the last chance we have to celebrate together for some time,” he said, pressing his face against her scented hair.
The blossoms had fallen off one by one. While he and Emily broke into two lines in the ballroom, the last lily slid down her back and into his hand. He tucked it into his vest pocket. Perhaps one day she would press it in a Bible as a keepsake.
The band launched into a country dance. Damien suppressed a groan. He had too much on his mind to prance about like a puppet. Protecting Emily from curious eyes. Escaping from Hatherwood. Their first night together as man and wife. He did not give a damn about dancing. He’d behaved himself long enough. Once they reached the castle there might not be many opportunities to sleep with Emily, uninterrupted by duty. Even their wedding reception would be cut short if they were to reach the next village by evening. He didn’t want an exhausted bride in his wedding bed.
The ladies had assembled in one line. The gentlemen stood parallel in another. It r
eminded Damien of a firing squad, only now the weapons employed were come-hither smiles and graceful movements. Was Emily’s smile for him or someone in the crowd?
She swung around before he could decide. His gaze dropped from her face. Had her sleeve slipped off her shoulder? There was no need for him to panic; there was no identifying mark marring her shoulder any longer. That didn’t mean he wanted the world to admire her creamy skin. He grasped her hand so tightly that she gave a gasp.
“Mind the shoulder,” he said under his breath.
And the lady on his left, who had taken hold of his hand said, “The soldier? Is that a variation of the dance?”
Emily crossed before him, whispering, “It’s covered in lace.”
He stared at her as she moved down the line. How was it that she seemed more beautiful by the moment?
“Excuse me, my lord,” a vaguely familiar voice said a few inches below his shoulder. “May I claim the next dance with the countess?”
The countess? Damien felt a shock of realization. He had a countess now, a counterpart to share in all the intrigue and hopes he had kept hidden from the world. It struck him in that moment that he didn’t feel like sharing her with anyone yet, even though he wasn’t sure what he would do with a wife.
He saw Emily bite her lip to conceal a smile. He glanced around reluctantly to see Camden bowing at his back. Emily looked up at Damien, her eyes asking his permission. He felt a flare of . . . he didn’t know what it was. Something dark, unpleasant. Uncivilized.
He wanted to refuse. They couldn’t spare the time. They had to return to her house with her father. Damien had last-minute instructions for Michael. The excuses mounted in his mind, each one emptier than the last. He pressed his lips together. Let the little bugger skulk off. After all, it was Emily’s infatuation with the nodcock that had thrown Damien’s life off course.
“My lord?” Camden said uneasily as the band began another set.
Damien allowed his thoughts to wander. It was rather insulting to realize that he was this boy’s replacement, not that Emily had chosen Damien any more than he had chosen her. If he refused, Emily might conclude he was jealous when, of course, such an emotion was beneath Damien’s dignity. But did he want to set a precedent? He and his wife might never see this bat player again.
“One dance,” he said, and felt ridiculous, like King Arthur to Lancelot and Guinevere.
• • •
Emily’s heart wasn’t in dancing with Camden. She’d lost her place in line on purpose and contemplated dancing off the floor when Camden looked the other way. She was more concerned with Damien’s apparent lack of interest in who partnered her than she was in a consolation dance with Camden. After Camden had approached the newly wedded couple, Damien had retreated from her without another word of complaint.
Did that mean he was relieved to be gone from her? She’d known his mind was a hundred miles away from the wedding. From her.
But she craved his attention for the afternoon. She wanted him to laugh and toast their marriage and make her feel the illusion of love for a few hours.
But, then, he had desperate matters on his mind. And soon she and Damien would leave here, and she would rely on him for everything.
“Emily, did you hear what I said?” Camden asked, startling her when he took her hand.
She saw Camden now as if he were the stranger that Damien had once been. How odd that she had envisioned this very moment down to the last detail—dancing with him at her wedding reception—except that all the details had changed. He wasn’t her groom. She wasn’t a bride bubbling over with uncontainable happiness. And there had not been a dark nobleman standing beneath the wall tapestry waiting for her, with his arms crossed over his chest.
The courtship was over. Their marriage was about to begin. She would be in her husband’s bed before the moon rose over the village.
Chapter 29
Damien had no idea how he managed to act appropriately detached at the wedding reception. He had been anything but unmoved by the sight of his bride in another man’s arms.
By the time they reached the inn where they would spend their first night alone, his baser urges were escaping the polite veneer he had worn at the wedding. He wanted to have her, to show her that her place was with him.
He gathered her against him the instant they stood alone together in their chamber. The seed pearls on the hem of her bridal gown clicked lightly against his ankles as she shifted her weight. Damien’s hand moved up the small of her back, drawing at her laces. “For your sake,” he said, “I won’t behave like an uncouth schoolboy in our bed.”
She lifted her face to his. “No?”
She looked disappointed. The sweet weight of her body against his made his blood smolder. He was dying to undress her. “An uncouth man, yes,” he said, tilting his head as his hand continued untying and unwrapping her wedding gown. Slowly. Deliberately. He would undo her undergarments next. His demons protested against his restraint. He ordered them back to hell and heard their mocking laughter.
“Damien,” she whispered, her mouth so tempting, so close to his. “The innkeeper has set a dinner for us on the table.”
“I noticed.” Under the silver covers on the table waited the light meal of beetroot salad and roast pheasant that he had ordered. Damien, however, did not have an appetite for anything but his wife. He had been ravenous for her all day. “Are you hungry?” he asked her.
“Not at all.”
“Good,” he said, and then kissed her with a practiced languor that tested his will more than it did hers.
A game of passion well played did not always need a single winner, and they no longer needed to impress anyone.
“I know nothing about the art of love,” she whispered as if she’d read his mind.
Her gown and undergarments fell away from her body at Damien’s determined efforts to disrobe her. “Do what your instincts advise,” he said in amusement. He lowered his gaze. He had every intention of taking his own advice. Eventually. But . . . had she stolen the air from his lungs? “What is the first thing you would like to do?”
Her voice had a husky sweetness that stirred up his demons again. “Put on a robe and run away.”
“But you can’t run away. Neither of us can. And honestly, Emily, do you really want to?”
“Ask me in the morning.” She backed up a few steps toward the bed. “How long do I have to stand here in the nude?”
He studied the sculpture of her body, the soft breasts and rose-brown tips, the flare of her hips, and the shadow at the apex of her thighs. He had not guessed how perfect she would be beneath her bridal gown. He had not guessed how badly he could want a woman who had confessed that her instinct was to run from him.
“It doesn’t matter anymore how we came to this place. Today we were wed.”
“To appease the world.”
“It is a commitment, nevertheless,” he said, his eyes raking her again with unmistakable intent. “In a few minutes we will take another irrevocable step.”
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. He would be patient, even though his body demanded instant gratification, a rough taking to calm his blood.
He drew a breath, swore to himself he would not overwhelm her. She was vulnerable, yes, uncertain what he would do to her. But in a heartbeat his need had weakened him. Even worse, he felt a reluctant fondness for her that couldn’t be dismissed as the result of circumstance. Was it possible that their marriage was meant to be?
Aside for her one deception, and he really hadn’t been her intended victim, she had been honest with him. She had agreed to his demands with good sense.
He hoped she would be in a good mood in the morning. He glanced back to make sure he had locked the door.
During the time he turned around, she’d found the dressing robe that Winthrop had laid out across the bed, thoughtful fool that he was. Emily was lifting the black silk to her shoulders when Damien reached out and took it from her hands. She
retreated into the bed curtains. He followed until she had no recourse but to stand her ground or drop onto the mattress.
She stood.
There would be no pretense of modesty in his marriage.
“You have beautiful hair,” he said, taking another tentative step toward her. “Why don’t you pull it loose?”
She raised her hand, tugging at combs that fell to her feet. The gesture drew his eyes to her breasts, and his body reacted in a primal manner. Outwardly composed, he removed his dark coat and his neckcloth and placed them on an empty card table.
“There,” she said, shaking her head. “Is that what you wanted?”
In the next moment he was standing in front of her. She gasped, pulling her hair over her breasts.
He went down on one knee, sliding his hands up from the back of her thighs to her bottom. She bent to put her hand on his shoulder, an artless move. He stroked his fingers down the cleft of her rump. He pressed his cheek to her soft tuft of hair beneath her belly. He could have died with want for this woman.
“I have no idea what you are doing on the floor, Damien, but if you release me I will assuredly join you. I’m having a problem standing on my own. I would prefer the—”
“Bed.” He rose, grasping her by the wrists. “Or would you like me to kiss you until we are both incapable of making a conscious decision as to our destination?”
He ran his hand up her inner arm, curled it around her nape, waiting for her response. She had closed her eyes. Was she shaking because she was eager for her initiation? Aroused? Apprehensive? “One day,” he said, “you will be bold enough to ask for what you want.”
“I doubt I’ll ever be as bold as you.”
He smoothed his other hand down her neck to the peak of her breast, rolling the tip between his forefinger and thumb. “Does this please you? Is my touch too hard, too light? Tell me what excites you. I can be as good or bad in your bed as you like.”
She bit her lip, answering him with silence. He dipped his head to circle his tongue around one elongated nipple. She bowed at the waist, lost her balance. He steadied her with one arm, and with the other lowered her to the bed. Her hair fanned out across the coverlet. She looked like an offering—pure, corruptible—and, better yet, she looked willing to be his wife in every sense of the word.
The Countess Confessions Page 15
