Such preparations as she could make, she had. A bath. Her best chemise. Lotions. A bride ought to have trusted servants preparing her, a mother’s advice. Yet she had to smile when she remembered how much less preparation she’d had for her first, aborted, wedding night. An afternoon of lust with a mere lad, thwarted by family. And the result? Over a decade being shut away in Germany. Her mother would have been smart to marry her off. Instead, she’d had passion building in her for years. And now, her outlet was not only claiming to be in love with her, he was her own husband, under God.
She stared at her bracelet, imagined it a bouquet of wedding flowers. Had she even had flowers? She thought so, wildflowers Edward had picked himself. Once, she had made him a crown of flowers, braided together. Funny, now that she knew his story. Back then, there had been no thought that he was anything but a bastard. It didn’t make sense. His evidence had to be forgery. She remembered the piety of his mother. Lady Margot had walked around in a simple dress, a rosary in her hands, at all times. She seemed to think she had a lot of sins to repent. Or so Charlotte had heard the housekeeper at her cousin’s residence state, in jest to the cook.
If Lady Margot considered herself not to be wed, who would have forged documents to the contrary and sent them to Edward? Victoria’s evil uncle, the Duke of Cumberland? Charlotte let her embroidery drop to her lap as she rubbed her eyes. She had no idea how Lady Margot thought about anything. The gossip had only hit a nerve because she’d been kissing Edward behind the henhouse before she’d gone into the kitchen.
His kisses had been just as drugging then. She lost herself in a reverie of his mouth against hers, hard and soft all at the same time, as he’d kissed her that morning after she’d promised herself to him.
“Charlotte, dear? Is the room too warm for you?” Victoria’s voice broke through her erotic recall.
“Yes, ma’am. What an August we are having.”
The prime minister took her lead and began a charming discourse on summer weather in London. Charlotte listened in a daze, waiting for the moment when she would be free to return to her room, then escape into Edward’s arms.
Hours later, she had no trouble escaping the palace. She felt breathless, though, as she reached the first tree. The moon was high in the sky, not full for a few days yet, but bright enough to clearly mark shapes. Still, she did not see the hand reaching out to grab her from behind the tree.
“Edward!” she squeaked as she was pulled into his embrace. She rested her head against his hard chest, her cheek pressing against his buttons.
“No names,” he said. “What if we are being watched?”
“Silly man. Our names are what would save us if we were caught. You know there are those who would assassinate the queen.”
“Victoria needs better guards,” Edward said. “But tonight is not about her. Come, I have a carriage waiting.”
“A carriage?”
“Yes, we are to my cousin Murdo’s. You deserve a wedding night in a fine mansion, not my rented bachelor rooms.”
“He didn’t mind?”
“Of course not. He knows we are wed,” he reminded her. “He has left London but the townhouse is still staffed. I am welcome there.”
“Will we stay there after tonight?”
“If you wish. I won’t abandon my wife.” He took her arm above the elbow and led her through the garden.
She soon regretted her slippers, as her soft soles found rocks under the grass, but he knew exactly how to lead them to the street after so many assignations. Soon they were in a plain carriage, headed into a much nicer part of town than Jermyn Street.
“Was this the Duke of Linsee’s London home?” she asked, as they came to a stop outside the stone mansion.
“Yes, Murdo has everything that belonged to our grandfather, with no more idea of why he was the sole inheritor than I have.”
“Your grandfather must have thought the royal family would provide for you.”
“He knew better than that by the time he died. He has only been gone a few months.”
“It makes no sense,” she mused. Why would Linsee have wanted his grandsons to be poor?
“Much does not,” Edward told her. “But it doesn’t matter tonight.”
Chapter Fourteen
Edward unlocked the door and ushered Charlotte inside his cousin’s mansion. “There is a bedroom prepared for us. Third door on the left upstairs.” He took a three-pronged candelabra from a small table near the sweeping staircase in one hand, and Charlotte’s hand in the other.
They climbed the stairs, the air growing warmer as they moved upward, passing the first floor. The staircase became less ornate as they moved to the second floor.
Charlotte tried to smile as Edward counted the doors aloud. Was he as nervous as she was? Consummating their marriage now was a fool’s act, yet she knew he tired of pleasuring her when he could obtain so little satisfaction from the act. She couldn’t risk letting him go when he had opened a new world to her with his tutelage in the arts of love. She needed her husband. He had spoiled her for other men. She couldn’t obey her mother and look for another husband. The past months had shown her that there would be no husband for her at Victoria’s court for years, until her cousin had chosen a husband for herself.
By then Charlotte would be twenty-seven. No hope for a husband then. Her five hundred pounds a year salary for her position would be the greatest riches she’d ever have. But now, pledging herself to Edward in a final way, before his case was heard, she might obtain a throne. A desperate and probably hopeless gamble, to be sure, but a chance nonetheless. More important, she would have him.
Edward unlocked the third door and stepped in first, pulling her behind him. He set the candelabra on a dresser. It dimly illuminated the small room. Charlotte could see the space was dominated by a large, intricately carved four-poster bed.
“It’s two hundred years old,” Edward said. “It’s a tradition for the McChases to come to London and spend the night in this bed. Good luck for conceiving an heir.”
“We don’t want to do that,” Charlotte said.
“No, but it’s Murdo’s doing, you see. Besides, the luck of the bed must be broken. Linsee’s heir didn’t live long enough to marry.”
“True. We should be grateful for that.”
“Don’t you want children?”
She put her hand on his arm. “Of course I do. But not until our life is settled.”
“It takes nine months for a babe to grow. Trust me, my future will be settled long before you would show any evidence of a child.”
She nodded, then slid her hand up his arm to his chest. “I don’t want to think of anything tonight but you.”
“You are a woman who likes to give herself over to pleasure.”
“You taught me how, Edward. How did I get through life before this?”
He touched her cheek. “You were not awake yet.”
She unbuttoned his coat, then tugged it down his arms. She could feel the heat at his armpits. He was overdressed for the summer night. Inhaling the scent of his cologne, she unbuttoned his waistcoat next, while he untied his black cravat.
“You are eager to undress me,” he commented. “We could relax, have a glass of wine.”
“I know we are safe here, but I cannot help feeling like we must be quick.”
He found her arm through the billowing gigot sleeve of her light dress and squeezed gently. “We don’t need to be quick, for the first time. Perhaps you are nervous because of what happened eleven years ago.”
“Don’t you think Murdo was right to have us stopped? We were so young and foolish.”
“Maybe we were lucky enough to meet our true loves young.”
“If that is true, we have surely suffered for our discovery since.”
Edward released her arm and went to a cabinet. With the aid of the light of the nearly full moon coming through the open window, he unstopped a decanter and poured ruby red wine into two glasses. He took h
is glass and drank deeply, then pressed the other into her hand. “Here. I think you need this.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
He set down his glass after she took her first sip, then wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s time to stop thinking and just feel.”
She sipped as he untied her sash and began unbuttoning her dress. With each whisper of air on her bare skin, she felt as if her armor was dropping, her true self being exposed. By the time her glass was empty, he had his hands on her stays.
“Do you want more?”
“Not right now.” She took her first deep breath as he loosened her from her bonds. Her chemise was damp with perspiration and it felt glorious to have the fabric away from her skin.
“The fabric is so fine I can see the tips of your breasts,” he rasped, dropping her stays to the floor.
“It’s my best chemise. Are you going to take your shirt off?”
“I’m going to take everything off.”
The moonlight gilded his skin as he did so. She caught glimpses of golden back, taut flank, long, muscled legs. Forgetting to finish undressing until he stopped and gave her a pointed glance, she pulled her chemise over her head and climbed into the high, ancient bed.
“Don’t pull up the covers, sweetheart. I want to see all of you.”
“You’ve seen me before.”
“Not like this. Laid out on white sheets like a feast. All that beautiful gold red hair spread around you. I remember that day, your hair being down like this. It wasn’t so red then.”
“It’s darkened since.”
“Your chin was more pointed then,” he said, cupping her jaw in his hand. “You had the look of a sprite.”
“And you were a young thoroughbred.”
He chuckled. She saw his teeth flash.
“You’re smiling?” she said in shock.
“Must be the wine, and the woman.”
“Next you’ll break into song.”
He hummed a few bars of a militaristic melody, then lowered his face between her breasts. Her eyes widened as he rubbed his nose along her breastbone, then continued humming tunelessly as he plumped her flesh and began to kiss the contours.
Her skin heated. She moved her hands restlessly against the fine sheets as her nipples hardened, even though he hadn’t touched them yet. The urge to widen her legs, to allow him to move his strong body against hers, intensified.
“You can just, err, enter me if you like,” she whispered, running her fingers through his thick hair. “I agreed to this. You don’t need to torture yourself.”
He propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s a sweet torture, love. Dinna fash.”
She smiled. “The Scotsman returns.”
He grinned slyly. It was as if eleven years had been erased from his face, and his voice.
“Bonnie Edward,” she murmured, as the heat between her legs, already fierce, became damp with longing.
He ran his index finger between her breasts, then continued, dipping into her navel, before tangling in her curls. His finger found that nub of pleasure and circled it. Her hips bucked, but there was nothing to move against. His finger kept moving, until it found another place of yielding. She heard the faint, wet sucking sound as he moved his finger. Her eyes opened wide at the invasion as he pushed in farther.
She arched her back, her head pressing into the pillow. “Mein Gott.”
“Yes, that’s it, love.”
He stretched her further, invaded her with a second finger. “I want to prepare you. I don’t want there to be pain for you.”
“Why would there be pain?”
She heard rustling sounds on the sheets as he rearranged himself. Confused, she opened her eyes. He still had his fingers inside her, but he had scooted up, so that he was kneeling. She took in his body. The oh, so fashionable broad shoulders, the tapering chest, muscled hips, and a thatch of blackest hair below his navel. What a specimen of manhood, her husband.
And then, she saw it. Her mouth watered. Want and fear warred. He wanted to put that inside of her? Her mouth or her woman’s place? Even other places. She had heard rumors about forbidden ways to prevent a child.
“It’s too large.” She swallowed the extra saliva, attempted to cross her arms across her body, hide her vulnerable parts from him. Yet, he was still stroking deep inside her and it felt so good. Her eyes fluttered closed as his thumb brushed that pleasure spot again. His fingers moved faster inside her. She gasped, moaned, and nearly growled her pleasure.
“Move with me,” he said, in a tone of demand she could not resist.
Her hands fisted into the sheet as her hips obeyed, helping his rise and plunge into her.
“There’s a moment where you’ll feel nothing but good,” his voice promised darkly. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
She moved her head restlessly. Sweat beaded along her hairline. Her hands went to her scalp and she pulled the mass of hair away from her face, trying to escape the heat. But he did something with his fingers, pulsing inside the walls of her sex, and her hips canted involuntarily. Then she could do nothing but move against his hand, panting.
She threw her head back and gave herself to the vibrant heat, barely recognizing that he was repositioning himself over her, between her spread legs. His fingers left her and she cried out in protest. A hard, blunt pressure replaced those clever digits an instant later. He whispered in her ear, but she couldn’t understand. His thumb left her pearl as his body loomed over hers, pressing her back into the bed, the pillow.
That blunt object, his manhood, moved deeper inside her than his fingers had. In her inner recesses, her flesh fluttered, spasmodically gripping him. He moaned and stopped moving.
“Heaven,” he murmured, his cheek settling on the top of her head. “You are my heaven.”
He moved, slow but sure, and indeed, there was no pain, only fullness, a deep, drugging heat. His hips pressed above her sensitive flesh, and she felt the heat flare again, first sluggishly, then a roar of intense, glittering pleasure. Her hands went to his back, then slid down the sweat-soaked skin, surprisingly soft, to his muscled buttocks. She clutched him.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“Never,” he rumbled in her ear. “Rake me with your nails, bite me with your teeth, I won’t feel anything.”
He moved inside her again and she forgot to be curious. Did people do these things to each other?
She felt something soft press her hip.
“Lift,” he commanded.
She did so, and he pushed a pillow under her hips and began to thrust in earnest. Her head fell back. She panted, her mouth hanging open. In that moment she understood the urge to bite. Smiling, she nibbled along the muscle between his neck and shoulder, tasting his salty tang.
He shuddered, sending pulse points of light along her body. Bending, he licked between her breasts, then rose to his elbows and stared down at her, his hair flopping over his brow.
“How are you doing, my love?”
“I’m ready.”
His lips widened into a sly smile. He kissed her cheek. His hips moved with a new degree of intensity, of purpose. Her body tightened into a spiral of heat. She let her hips loosen, widen. The angle changed when she lifted her legs.
He muttered something in a tone of imprecation, then pulled out suddenly.
“What?” she asked, alarmed.
He held himself over her body, his hand on his manhood. She watched, fascinated, as a hot rush of seed spilled over her belly. His eyes were closed, every part of his being intent on his pleasure.
Eventually, his lids opened halfway. He looked sleepy and satisfied. But that sly smile came back. He wiped her belly with the edge of the sheet then slid on the bed until his head rested on her hip. His clever fingers moved back between her legs, spreading her newly awakened flesh apart.
She screamed when she felt his hot, wet mouth on her most private place. He circled her pearl, laved it, sucked it, until she s
hrieked, bucked, exploded against him.
“Mein Gott,” she whispered, when she came back to earth. “Mein Gott. So this is the marriage bed.”
“For us,” he said. He lay beside her silently, touching nothing but her fingers with his. They were both panting, too hot to move.
Eventually, he stood. His moves were sluggish, not his usual quick steps, but he returned with the decanter and glasses. She drank a full glass, knowing it would make her head spin, but she had no secrets left to hide, no mysteries to protect herself against. There was only heat and him and this night.
She couldn’t even care that if she was discovered to be missing, she’d lose her position in the royal court. After all these years, she had finally given herself to her husband, and the universe had righted itself.
~
Edward awoke at the sound of rattling in the corridor outside of the room. With the smell of sex and woman not dissipated due to the continuing summer’s heat, he knew exactly where he was and what he had been doing. He turned his head and saw his wife, her tangled hair still spread around her pillow. She slept on her back, her mouth closed, her face composed and perfect. Such a beautiful girl. He was sorry he hadn’t woken to this sight for the past eleven years. But life with him would not have suited a pampered princess. Instead, it was as if she had been encased in amber for all these years. The faint freckles he remembered across her nose had disappeared. No doubt she had ceased outdoor ramblings like those they had gone on that summer in Scotland. He remembered, back then, she had never worn a hat. She’d leave it behind the barn where they met, saying she liked the sun on her face.
He pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his waist, then went to open the door. On a table to the left of the door, he found a tray with cold meats and breads, and a jug of ale. He’d have preferred water, but it would do. For sure, he didn’t want hot tea or coffee.
The Princess Dilemma: A Victorian Royal Romance Page 20
