The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  He moved closer, staring down at her faint white form, the anger still hot in his blood. “You spoke of a bargain you had made.”

  “Sit down, will you,” she snapped at him. “You’re looming.”

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, dredging up the image of his drunken, enraged father. He would not lose control of himself. He would not lose control of the situation. He sat down.

  The dog had stopped growling, and now came and leaned against his legs. He let her sniff his hand, then scratched her head, the silky fur under his fingertips helping calm him. When he had mastery of his tone, he spoke again. “You admitted to waiting for someone. Who was it?”

  He heard her sigh of exasperation. “It doesn’t matter. They won’t come if you’re here.”

  “They?”

  “Yes, ‘they.’ And ‘they’ are mostly female. Does that make you feel better?”

  “It might if I thought I could believe you. I would have thought we could make it through at least one day without doubts of fidelity atop everything else.”

  “You really are insufferable, you know that?”

  “Were you waiting for a lover?”

  “No! I was waiting for women, a group of young women . . . friends, who promised to tell me things about the . . . ah . . . wedding night.”

  He was quiet a minute, stroking the dog’s head, rubbing the silky ears. Her voice did not have the ring of truth to it. He could press the matter, but it would serve no purpose. Tomorrow they would leave for Brookhaven, and whoever she had planned to meet would be out of reach. He needed this marriage. The tenants on his estates needed it. This once, and this once only, he had to ignore her misbehavior. “I will endeavor to take your word on that,” he said, his voice neutral. “I did not want this marriage to start as badly as our first meeting, although it seems to have done so. We have an entire life to live in each other’s company, and I would that we could do so pleasantly.”

  “It hasn’t been all that bad a day,” she said.

  “An encouraging sentiment.” His voice was lifeless, and then, to his surprise, she nudged him lightly with her shoulder.

  “I’ve never known anyone who thought a wedding day easy on the nerves,” she said. Was she trying to cheer him? “I thought somehow I’d escape that part of it, that I’d just have fun today, but I guess I fell victim to bridal insanity. Surely you can’t always be so awful yourself?”

  He tried to let that one pass. “I did not know it was you I spoke with outside the window the other night,” he said instead. “Did you recognize me in the dark?”

  “If I had, do you think I would have kicked you?”

  That was no answer at all. “You were going someplace then.” He let the statement hang, the question clear. Had she been meeting someone, as she appeared to be doing tonight?

  “I’d been cooped up inside all day. I know you keep catching me out alone in the gardens at night, but there’s really nothing to it. It’s been ages since I’ve had any sort of romantic relationship.”

  “Girlhood flirtations, were they?”

  “Mmm. Can I ask you a question?”

  “You are my wife now.”

  “Did you really just marry me for my money?”

  His hand grew still on the dog’s head. “Finances were my first consideration. It is my hope, however, that we can build a civil relationship.”

  “That sounds . . . civilized.” Her voice suggested she found something lacking in the idea.

  “Was there someone else you had hoped to marry?”

  “The horse is dead, my lord. Stop beating it. Couldn’t you have gotten a job, if you needed money?”

  His irritation flared again. “As what, a cobbler? A baker? A footman in another peer’s house?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you were so touchy about it.” She didn’t sound sorry.

  Silence reigned for several long moments. “Why have you started speaking with that odd accent?”

  “Dr. Simms said it’s left over from the influenza, when it settled in my throat; it should go away in time. It’s nothing to worry about.” He sensed her careless shrug.

  “I did not know you had been ill. I was told your absence was due to the exhaustion of the preparations.” Her behavior suddenly made more sense to him. He recalled sneaking out at night himself as a boy, when his fever had gone but the doctor had given orders that he was to stay in bed. Eleanor showed every sign of being willful enough to disobey both doctor and father, if a walk in the garden was what she wanted.

  “My father no doubt didn’t want you to know. He was quite determined to see us married, whatever the circumstances. But I’m feeling much better, except for this throat thing.”

  He had never heard of anyone picking up an accent after an illness, but he admittedly knew little about medicine. “In deference to your recent infirmity, perhaps it would be best if we returned to the house.” And thence to their chamber, to seal this bargain permanently.

  Elle could think of no plausible excuse for remaining out in the pavilion, much as she wanted to. She couldn’t tell him that she was waiting for anorexic fairies to return her to her own time, so she stood and squished the wig firmly onto her head. She took his profferred arm, her other hand still holding Tatiana’s leash.

  At least he was acting semihuman for the moment. His anger had not been exactly pleasant to experience, but at least it told her he knew she was alive.

  “Can I call you Henry, now that we’re married?”

  “You would be comfortable with that?”

  “Of course. And I’d prefer if you called me Elle.”

  “Then in privacy, that is what I shall do. And while we are discussing names, what do you call that beautiful Samoyed that has not left your side?”

  Elle’s face broke into a wide smile. “She is beautiful, isn’t she? Her name’s Tatiana.”

  “Do you breed her?”

  “Heavens no. I decided against that when she was a puppy.”

  “Perhaps if we found a suitable mate you would change your mind.”

  “She’s not a puppy machine,” she said, a little defensively, knowing it was impossible. Tatiana had been spayed.

  They had crossed the gardens and reached the bottom of the terrace steps, lit by lanterns and the light spilling from the glass doors. Henry stopped and looked at her, a frown creasing his brow. “What did you do to your wig?”

  Elle’s hands flew up to touch the woolly mess. “What? Did I put it on wrong?” She felt powdered ringlets cascading over her left ear, while the right ear was bare. Two sausage rolls of curls sat atop her forehead.

  He drew her back into the shadows, away from the lanterns, then twisted the wig into its proper position. “You had it on sideways.”

  “Oh.” How embarrassing. Now that they were in the light where she could see him, she was reminded of his dark good looks and felt herself retreating. She suddenly wondered if she had a bit of food stuck between her front teeth.

  They reentered the house, and Henry made their good-nights while Elle watched nervously by his side, waiting for someone to direct her. Mrs. Moore soon appeared, leading her out of the ballroom and up to a bedroom that she had not seen before. Marianne was waiting for her there, having directed the preparation of the room, and ready now to prepare her mistress for her first night of nuptial bliss.

  Elle groaned silently. How was she going to get out of this?

  Chapter Seven

  With Marianne’s help Elle undressed, washed the remainders of the makeup off her face and the sweat from her body, and put on a fine silk chemise embroidered white on white with vines and flowers at the hems. It was so thin that the shadows of her nipples and pubic hair showed through, and it was with some relief that she donned a short maroon-and-gold wrapper over it, held closed in the front by satin ribbons.

  She sat in front of the vanity while Marianne brushed out her hair, and Mrs. Moore, who had been fidgeting throughout, finally found her voice.

&nb
sp; “Eleanor, dear, there are some things I need to discuss with you concerning the duties of a married woman.”

  Elle raised her eyebrows, turning to look upon the distressed woman. “Duties?”

  “I know that I have done my best to teach you the proper running of a household, but there are some lessons that a mother saves until this moment. I know you must feel a great deal of concern about what will happen when your husband comes to you tonight.”

  “I’ve been worrying about it all day,” she said. But not for the reason you think. She pursed her lips to keep them from twitching. She had never thought to get the traditional maternal lecture on what to expect in bed.

  “Yes, well, Lord Allsbrook is a healthy man from all accounts, and still in his prime for all that he is 30 years of age. You must trust him to lead you through this, and you must never deny him. Whatever he decides to do in the privacy of the bedroom you must agree to—however much it embarrasses you.”

  Elle couldn’t resist widening her eyes at Mrs. Moore. “He’s not going to want to see me naked, is he?”

  Mrs. Moore’s mouth turned down in distress, and her eyes strayed to the wall, the floor, anywhere but her daughter’s face. “When you started your monthly, dear, I explained that it was part of being a woman, that it meant that your womb could receive the seed of a man. Well, to plant that seed, a man needs to be inside you.”

  Elle felt her eyebrows crawl up her forehead. Mrs. Moore made sex sound like gardening. “It sounds rather dirty.”

  “Oh, dear, I see that I have worried you. Eleanor, dear,” she said, coming over and holding both of Elle’s hands, finally looking her in the eye, “I know that you want children, and this is how you will get them. The experience need not be unpleasant. Men have great physical needs, but they lessen with time and familiarity. Eventually he will leave you to the peace of raising your family and running your house.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you, dear? I am so glad.” Mrs. Moore sighed her relief, and dropped her hands. “He will be here soon. Do remember all I have said.”

  After the door had shut behind her Elle turned back to the mirror, mulling over the married life Mrs. Moore had described. Marianne pulled the brush through her hair a few more strokes, then set it down. She picked up a sleeping cap and placed it on Elle’s head, then stepped back from the vanity.

  “You look lovely, milady. His lordship should be pleased.”

  “I doubt that.” He wouldn’t be at all pleased when she refused him his marital rights. Studying her own reflection, though, she almost felt attractive. Her eyes were large and dark in her face, and the robe flattered her coloring, complementing even the faint freckles that covered her cheeks and forearms. In the soft light of the candles her hair hanging below the edges of the silly cap looked rich, its red and gold tones underlaid with deep hints of mahogany.

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  Elle looked about the room, at the bed with the covers turned down, the small table with the wine and fruit, and the fireplace where a low fire burned. There was nothing to keep Marianne here, delaying the inevitable encounter with a husband expecting to deflower his bride. Tatiana stretched and groaned on the floor beside the bed, drawing their attention.

  “Shall I take the dog, milady?”

  “Leave her.” There was still a chance the fairies would come for her, and she wanted Tatiana with her if they did.

  “Very well.” Marianne left the room, the door closing with a soft snick behind her.

  Elle removed the sleeping cap, then stood and walked over to where Tatiana lay, kneeling down to untie the sash that still trailed from her neck. “You’re an awfully good dog, you know that?” she said, mostly for her own comfort, and scratched Tatiana’s belly. “Do you think you could protect me from his royal husbandness?”

  A short rap came on a different door than the one Marianne had used, and then it opened. Henry stood there. The wig was gone, revealing luscious black hair cut short, almost modern in length. She had thought him attractive before, but now her heart almost stopped in her chest. He was wearing a midnight blue robe, tied casually at the waist with a tassled cord, and apparently nothing else, if the dark hairs visible in the vee of the robe were any indication.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked stupidly.

  He gestured vaguely towards the door. “It is the dressing room—it connects to another bedroom. But you know that.”

  “Uh, yeah.” That hadn’t been what she meant.

  He sauntered over to the little table and poured two glasses of wine, while Elle watched him warily. He picked them up and brought them over to where she still knelt by Tatiana, and held one out to her. She took it but did not drink. He seemed ten feet tall from her vantage point, and she dropped her eyes to his bare feet and calves. They looked strong, sprinkled with glossy black hair. Even his toes were well formed. She felt a feather-light touch upon her hair and glanced up.

  “Elle,” he said.

  She scooted back abruptly, startling both Henry and Tatiana. She stared up at him, then slowly got to her feet, her mind spinning in desperate circles. Her hands were shaking, and she almost spilled the wine before setting it on the mantle over the fire. Handsome as he was, she would not sleep with a stranger, and she most definitely would not risk getting pregnant by one.

  “I’m not ready for this,” she croaked out.

  He took a step forward, then stopped when she jerked back, farther away. He had never been with a virgin before, but he knew instinctively that he would have to soothe her like he would soothe a skittish horse. “You are frightened, I know,” he said calmly. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “We will go slowly. I will not rush you.” He reached out and touched her cheek, cupping it in his palm. Her skin was soft and warm and yielding, and he felt a stirring in his loins. This was the first time he had seen her without makeup or wig, and she was far lovelier than he had thought. The false hair and powdered face had obscured the warmth of her coloring, whereas now she glowed like the sunset.

  For a moment she closed her eyes, her cheek pressing into his hand, then she suddenly snapped her head away and scampered behind a chair, holding the chair’s back as if it were a barrier that could protect her from him.

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  “How can you make that choice, when you don’t know what is being offered?” He held out one hand, beckoning.

  “Get back.”

  He let his hand drop, then shrugged as if it did not matter. He walked over to the bed, put his glass of wine on the bedside table, then stretched out full length on top of the covers, stacking up the pillows behind his head so he could watch her. “I am not going to force you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, then slowly walked to the foot of the bed and looked down at him, a small frown between her brows. He smoothed his face into a bland mask, hiding a smile. Sometimes the best persuasion was none at all.

  He watched her wet her lips nervously, her fingers playing with a fold of satin. “I feel I owe you an explanation,” she said finally, and bit her lip. She fidgetted for another few moments before continuing. “I know that you’re my husband now, and that this is part of being married, but I can’t think of this, of making love, as a duty to be performed on demand. I don’t want to lie there thinking that you don’t know anything about who I am, and have no caring for me whatsoever.”

  “It has been my experience that sleeping together can do much to create a bond between a man and a woman. Are not the touch and the kiss the most basic expressions of affection?”

  “In our case they would mean nothing, as there is no affection to express.”

  “When we bring pleasure to each other, sentiment will grow.”

  “I think you’re talking about lust, not affection.”

  “I am not an animal. I know the difference.” One thing was for certain: His little bride had no difficulty expr
essing her opinion. He was beginning to enjoy this sparring match, especially knowing that in the end she would give in. “I also know that while you may be convinced that this is how you feel, most of your reluctance is based on the normal fear that most young women have about their wedding night. You are scared because this is new; that is all. You can trust me, Elle. I am your husband now and will guide you.”

  “You, Henry Trevelyan, are an ignorant toad!”

  “Am I?” He sat up, then leaned forward until he was only a few feet from her. “Do you think I do not know how to touch a woman? That I do not know how to bring her pleasure?” He locked his eyes with hers, watching her pupils grow large, her lips parting.

  She began to step away, and he reached forward and dragged her bodily onto the mattress, and had her flat on her back before she could muster more than a short shriek of protest.

  He lodged one thigh between her legs, pressing against her through the thin layers of silk. He lay half over her, her right arm pinned beneath him. With her free hand she pushed at his shoulder, and he easily took hold of her hand, kissing the back of it before pinning it above her head.

  “You said you wouldn’t force me,” she squeaked.

  He could feel her heart beating against his chest. “And I shall keep my word.” He bent to trace a feathery trail of kisses up the side of her neck to the base of her ear, where he paused briefly—not touching her—his face close enough so that she could feel the heat of his skin, the warmth of his breath.

  She was holding her own breath, and only released it when he touched her again. He used his tongue this time, lightly painting circles on that tender skin. She squirmed, her movement pressing her against his thigh.

  His left hand held hers above her head, and his right slipped through the opening of her robe along the side of her ribcage. His palm moved up to just below her breast, the pad of his thumb softly brushing the underside in slow strokes. Her back arched, inviting him to do more. He bent his head to capture her lips.