The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  As was proper.

  “My dear,” her husband said, taking her hand and setting it on his sleeve again—her bright new wedding ring shone up at them—“you look more beautiful today than I thought it possible for any woman to look. I wish you to know how proud I am of you.”

  Yes, she had learned her lessons well—with one or two rather nasty lapses. They would grow fewer and fewer as time went on, until they disappeared altogether.

  “I have tried,” she said. “I will continue to try so that you may continue to be proud of me, Your Grace.”

  His free hand covered hers. “Stephanie,” he said quietly, “my name is Alistair.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes for a moment, beguiled by the intimacy of the carriage interior and by the softness of his voice, imagining that she heard tenderness in it. “Alistair.”

  “There is nothing improper about a man and his wife sharing the intimacy of their given names,” he said.

  “No.” She opened her eyes again. “If it is not improper, it may be allowed, then.” She hoped he had not heard the bitterness she tried to keep out of her voice.

  Everything by the rules.

  Very well, then. Everything by the rules.

  HE HAD INTENDED to remain in London with his bride until the end of the Season. It was the proper thing to do, after all. As the Duchess of Bridgwater she would need to be presented at court to the queen. His mother would act as her sponsor. And she would need to establish her new position as his duchess and his hostess. They would need to entertain—dinners and soirées and one grand ball. Besides, she had a position of her own to establish. She was now undisputed and independent owner of Sindon Park and the fortune left her by her grandfather.

  The proper thing to do was stay. It was what he had planned. But London appeared to be suffocating her. It was suffocating him. Suddenly, he wanted to be away from it, away from the social obligations. He wanted to take her into the country. He wanted to be alone with her, perhaps rashly. She hated him. She had not once smiled at him, though it was their wedding day, and she had smiled at everyone else. Even when she had come to stand beside him at the church rail she had not smiled.

  Had he? He could not be sure he had. He had felt choked with a deep emotion he had been forced to keep under control. Half of the beau monde was looking at him—or at her. Probably at her. Everyone looked at a bride. Who was interested in a mere bridegroom? But he could not be sure anyway that he had smiled.

  When he rose from his place at the wedding breakfast to speak to his guests, he announced that he would be taking his duchess to Wightwick Hall in Gloucestershire on the morrow. He did not look at either his wife or his mother to observe their reactions. He thanked his guests for attending both the wedding and the breakfast and for making the day a special one.

  “I will send instructions without delay to your maid to leave your trunks as they are,” he said quietly to Stephanie after he had sat down again. “She will unpack only what you will need tonight and tomorrow.”

  Tonight she would become fully his wife, he thought, watching the slight flush of color that stained her cheeks.

  “Yes, Your Gr …” she said. “Yes. Thank you.”

  He wondered if he had been very foolish. The summer alone at Wightwick would be a long one if they began it this early. They could invite guests to join them there, of course, or they could take themselves off to Brighton for a few weeks. But for a while at least they would be virtually alone together. Was there any chance at all of making a viable marriage out of what they had begun? He doubted it. Their relationship seemed to have deteriorated steadily through the month of their betrothal. For the past four days—ever since the day of that wretched picnic—there had been nothing at all between them except cold formality.

  It was his fault, he knew. There had been his dream, his longing for a marriage that would bring love and warmth and companionship and happiness into his life. But there had never really been the possibility of anything but the dream. All his education had been designed to make him into a dignified, controlled figure of authority. There had been love—certainly a fondness between him and his parents, between him and his brother and sisters. But love had always been a cool thing in his life, and for most of his life it had taken second place to dignity and duty.

  He was capable of feeling love. He had always known that, and he knew it now with painful force. But he had never been taught a way of showing love—or of inspiring it.

  He had inspired gratitude and respect and obedience in Stephanie, under largely false pretenses. But there was nothing more. She hated him, though he guessed that she must feel guilty at her feelings and would spend the rest of her life fighting them. He did not doubt that he had married a dutiful duchess.

  He did not want duty. He wanted love.

  Perhaps, he thought, at Wightwick …

  But there was no further time for dreaming. There were guests to entertain for the rest of the afternoon and on even into the early evening. He scarcely saw his wife and had no chance to exchange even a single word with her. He glimpsed her talking with his relatives, his friends, her friends. She had acquired a great deal of the regal manner that had always characterized his mother, but to it she added her own brand of beauty and charm. He spoke with as many people as time permitted.

  It was, of course, the correct thing for his wife and him to remain apart as they entertained guests. It was the way things would have continued if he had not made the impulsive decision to leave for Wightwick in the morning. A rider had already been sent, he gathered, to gallop hell-for-leather to his country seat to warn the staff there of his imminent arrival. There would be panic there for a few days, he did not doubt.

  The thought brought a smile to his face.

  But finally he was alone with her. They dined alone together; both had changed from their wedding clothes into evening dress. They conversed as smoothly as any well-bred couple might. They continued the conversation in the drawing room both before and after she had played for him on the pianoforte and he had played for her. They drank tea together.

  And then he escorted her upstairs to the door of her dressing room, bowed over her hand, and told her he would do himself the honor of visiting her half an hour later.

  He went into his own dressing room and flung himself into the closest chair. He propped his arms on the rests and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He closed his eyes.

  And remembered her as she had been that night at the inn. Warm and beautiful and inviting and willing—or so it had appeared. He wondered what would have happened if she had been what she had seemed. She would have been his mistress for a month now. They would be comfortable together, contented together. Would he have tired of her yet? Would he have ever tired of her?

  Foolish, pointless thoughts, of course. She had not been as she had seemed. And he could no longer think of her in terms of sexual gratification alone. She was his wife, his life’s partner.

  He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was time to summon his valet. He must not keep her waiting beyond the appointed time. She was probably nervous.

  * * *

  SHE WAS NOT afraid. It would be foolish for a woman of six-and-twenty to fear a physical process that would probably become almost as familiar as breathing to her over the coming months and years. She reminded herself that she was fortunate it was to happen at all. For years she had not expected that it ever would. But she had always wanted it to happen. She had always wanted children of her own—quite passionately.

  He was a man she found physically attractive. He was a man she loved. She was not afraid.

  She just wished that he could have stayed simply as Mr. Munro. She had liked him. He had been so very kind. He would have been of her own world. She would not have had to change. She would not have had to consider her every word and action to be sure that everything that was proper was said and done. She would not have come almost to hate him because she lived constantly in fear of shamin
g and disappointing him.

  She did almost hate him. She also loved him.

  Tonight she would be the duchess he expected—calm, gracious, unimpassioned. She would not find it too difficult. She was not afraid, after all.

  She looked up with cool welcome when he tapped on her door and came inside. She stood still and relaxed as his eyes moved down over her loosened hair and her white silk and lace nightgown to her bare feet.

  “Come in, Alistair,” she said. “Let me pour you a glass of wine.” She had thought to have some sent up. She poured a glass for herself too and handed him his. She wanted him to see that her hand was steady, that she was no shrinking bride unworthy of her position.

  “So that we may toast our health?” he said. “And our happiness, Stephanie? To our health, then, and our happiness.” He raised his glass.

  She touched hers to it, and they drank. He held her eyes with his own as he did so. She wished he would smile at her. She longed to smile at him. But she would not risk appearing coquettish.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “we will be happy. Will we?”

  To hide her longing from him, she took his empty glass and set it down with her half-full one on the tray.

  “I shall try,” she said, “to make you happy, Alistair. Always. Tell me how.”

  He half smiled at her then. One side of his mouth lifted. It was an expression she had not seen on him before.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “You will too, will you not, Stephanie? We will make the best we can of it, then. And I will try to see to it that you never regret the events of this morning—and tonight. It will be my recipe for happiness. We will both try.”

  “Yes.” She wanted suddenly to reach out with one hand to cup his cheek. But it was not the sort of thing one did with the Duke of Bridgwater. Even if he was her husband.

  “Come, then.” He reached out a hand for hers, his eyes probing hers at the same time. “Come to bed, Stephanie.”

  “Yes,” she said. She moved too fast toward it and deliberately slowed her pace. She was perhaps a little nervous, after all. Since it was his mother who had instructed her, she had not liked to ask questions. Perhaps she would not have anyway. Should she raise her nightgown herself or wait for him to do it? Should she touch him with her hands or rest them on the bed? Should she say anything afterward or keep quiet? It was embarrassing at her age to know so little.

  She decided on total passivity. At least she could do no real wrong that way. Perhaps he would tell her what he wanted. She learned fast; she had proved that to him in the past month. Soon enough she would learn what was expected of her in their marriage bed. At least she knew what he did not want. She had not forgotten the lesson learned in Elizabeth’s conservatory.

  He blew out the candles after she had lain down. She was glad of that. She was a little embarrassed as well as nervous. Her body had been so very much her own private property all her life. Even the presence of a maid during the last month had embarrassed her. But a maid was at least her own gender.

  He lay down beside her, leaned over her, and kissed her. In the way he had kissed her twice before—she did not even want to remember that last kiss against the oak in Richmond Park. She should have been prepared for the same results. Her breasts tightened almost instantly, and she felt a rush of raw aching pain to her womb. She had disgusted him at Elizabeth’s ball by giving in to her passion. She reminded herself of the fact, deliberately verbalizing it more than once in her mind. Not again. It would not happen again. She pressed her palms against the mattress and fought her body’s needs.

  Should she part her lips? His tongue pressed through, and the decision was taken out of her hands. Should she open her mouth? Tell me what to do, she pleaded silently. She opened her mouth.

  She had never had a nightgown that buttoned down the front. Both her mother-in-law and her modiste had guided her to ones that did for her wedding clothes. In her naivete she had not realized why until her husband began to undo the buttons while he kissed her. The front opening was a long one.

  His hand came inside against her bare flesh. He brushed his palm and his fingers over her very lightly. He touched her breasts. They already felt swollen and sore. She bit her bottom lip hard when his thumb touched and pressed lightly upon her hardened nipple. The ache that had been in her womb and between her thighs had become an insistent throbbing.

  And then his hand was there too, and his fingers were probing—very gently. She could not have borne the pain of a firm touch. She shut her eyes very tightly and pressed her fingertips hard into the mattress. She wanted to squirm and cry out. She wanted to throw her arms about him and beg him to stop or to—But she did not know what. She held her breath. And through it all she felt embarrassment and humiliation. She could both feel and hear wetness.

  “Let your breath out,” he said quietly against her ear. “Relax. You will soon grow accustomed to it.”

  She felt so ashamed. That she had had to be told! Her breath shuddered out of her quite audibly. But he had moved over her and was lowering himself onto her body. It was almost a relief to feel his knees between her own. She did not resist as he pushed her legs wide. Her nightgown, she realized, was already up about her waist. She need not have worried about that either. There had been no awkward moment.

  Despite herself, she drew in her breath and held it again. His hands were beneath her. She could feel him position himself.

  And then he came into her. She had prepared herself for pain. But pain did not come immediately. She had not expected the incredible stretching sensation, the sense of being invaded, of having her body taken over by someone else. Then came the pain, the momentary panic. And the hard deep occupation of her secret depths.

  She let out her breath slowly. This was it, then. What she had yearned for for so long. The completion of her femininity. The uniting with man. The hope of being fruitful. The pain had gone and the panic and the strange, unexpected outrage at being violated. Wonder replaced them all. Wonder that such a thing could be. Wonder that she held him so much deeper inside than she had expected. Wonder that there was no sense of embarrassment or humiliation. She relaxed completely.

  It felt wonderful.

  She knew what was to come. Or had thought she knew. She lay still, allowing it to happen, holding herself open to his pleasure, taking to herself as much secret pleasure as she dared without losing herself in passion as she had in Elizabeth’s conservatory. She wanted to tighten inside muscles as she had during that embrace. She wanted to tighten about him and feel her pleasure. She lay relaxed and still as he pumped firmly and repeatedly into her. She could feel the heat of him—all over her, inside her. She could hear his labored breathing against her hair. She could smell his cologne and his heat and his sweat.

  She wanted to lift her legs and press her inner thighs hard against his lean hips. She wanted to tilt herself so that she could bring him deeper. She wanted to wrap her arms about the firm muscles of his chest and waist. She lay still, spread-eagled beneath him, giving herself in marriage.

  When his pace quickened and deepened and then he sighed and relaxed and she felt the heat of his seed inside her, she swallowed and fought tears. She lay very still. She had been told that she might find it unpleasant. She had been told that she might in time find it pleasant. She had not been told that it would be the most wonderful feeling in this world. And she had not been told that she would want to cry when it was over because she would want it to go on and on until … Oh, she did not know until when.

  She felt cold when he moved away to lie beside her. She felt his hand lower her nightgown and raise the bedcovers. She felt his hand take her own; his was very warm and damp. He was still breathing rather heavily.

  “Did I hurt you very badly, my dear?” he asked her.

  “No.” Her voice sounded high-pitched. She brought it back to normal. “Hardly at all, Alistair. I hope I pleased you.” She was pleased with the calm, matter-of-fact tone she had achieved.

  He did not an
swer for a few moments. “You pleased me,” he said at last. “I thank you. You will find it less painful tomorrow and perhaps a little less … overwhelming.”

  “I was not overwhelmed,” she said quickly, turning her head toward him. But she could not see him clearly in the darkness. “I tried. I … I liked it.” Perhaps she ought not to have said that. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. “I hope I can bear you an heir within the year, Alistair.”

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to her. His back seemed hunched. She guessed that his elbows were resting on his knees. She could see his fingers pushing through his hair. And then he was on his feet and bending over her. She felt the backs of his fingers light beneath her jaw.

  “I will leave you to your sleep,” he said. “You have had a busy day, and tomorrow we will be traveling all day. Thank you for today, Stephanie—for marrying me, for entertaining our guests, for … this. I shall try to be a good husband. Good night.”

  “Alistair—” she said as he moved away. But when he stopped and turned back to her, she could not think what to say. Please come back to bed? Please let me admit to you how wonderful it was for me? Please let me love you? “I will try too. All my life I will try.”

  “Good night, my dear,” he said.

  “Good night, Alistair.” Good night, my love.

  She could feel the soreness and the discomfort that the consummation of their marriage had left behind. She felt cold with his body heat removed. She could smell him on her pillow and on herself.

  At first the sound of a noisy sob startled her. Then she turned her face into the pillow and indulged in a good self-pitying weep.