He nodded wildly. She wondered whether his red face was a result of the choking, the bruising, his embarrassment at her request, or all three. Since there was nothing she could do about the second two, she just waited for him to stop choking before she continued.
“You will explain what will happen on my wedding night, won’t you? Because I’m dreadfully nervous.” She couldn’t help wishing Tris had finished what he’d started, because then she’d know. “I think I’ll stay up all night making coriander biscuits if you don’t tell me what will happen.”
“Can I have some of that Madeira first?” He gestured toward the open bottle.
“Certainly.” She handed it to him, looking around for a glass.
“Don’t bother,” he said and drank directly from the bottle.
She watched him take several gulps. “Madeira should be sipped,” she said as tactfully as she could.
He chugged another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, yes?” Avoiding her gaze, he took a deep breath. “You see, there are birds, and then there are bees, and—”
She laughed. “You don’t have to start there, you goose. Mama taught me all of that. Didn’t she explain it to you?”
“Father did. When I woke one night in a wet bed.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He raised the bottle again, but took a more normal sip this time.
“Were you twelve? I was twelve when I started bleeding, and—”
“Stop,” he ordered, holding up his free hand. He took a bigger swallow, then set the bottle on the table with a thunk. “Men don’t care to hear of those female things.”
“No?”
“No. You’d best keep that in mind for the future. And if Mother told you everything, what the devil do you need to hear from me?”
“I want to know what will happen on my wedding night.” She turned back to the table, placing more dollops of batter on the second pan. “Mama told me the basics, that the man plants his seed in the woman. And I know about the body parts it takes to accomplish that. But how? I’ve seen horses—”
“It’s not like horses,” Griffin interjected quickly. “You will do it face-to-face.”
“Oh.” That alone was somewhat of a relief. “We’ll be able to kiss, then.”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. I like kissing.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” He took another swallow.
“What will happen, Griffin? Tell me.”
He set down the bottle again. “He will probably leave you alone to change into a nightgown—”
“My nightgowns are rather plain.” She licked some batter off a finger. “I’ve packed one that Juliana lent me—hers are much prettier.”
“Why does Juliana have pretty nightgowns?”
She turned to him. “She likes them. She says they make her feel more womanly.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” he repeated, lifting the bottle for another sip.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Will you be quiet and let me explain? When you’re all ready and waiting in bed, he will come to you, probably wearing a dressing gown. To make things easier.”
“Easier?”
“Easier to get undressed. Do I have to spell out everything?”
“I think so. I’m really quite innocent though the world thinks me a fallen woman.” She handed him one of the pans and took the other herself. “I just want to know what will happen.”
“So I’ve gathered.” He followed her over to the brick oven and shoved his pan inside. “After he joins you in bed, he will probably kiss you and touch you—”
“I find touching to be very enjoyable.”
“Splendid. You would not believe how happy I am to hear that.” He didn’t sound happy at all. “After that, he will open his robe and lift your nightgown.”
“I think he will take them both off,” she disagreed. “When he was sleepwalking, after all—”
“He may take them off,” Griffin conceded wearily. “Will you stop interrupting? Let me finish.”
“All right.” She wiped her hands on her apron, then clasped them together in front of her. “I’m listening.”
“He will ask you to open your legs.” His face was turning all red again, and she didn’t think it was due to the heat from the oven. “He will climb on top of you with his legs between yours, and sort of lie on top of you—”
“Ah.” She could see it now. Almost. “But he’s much heavier than I am,” she said dubiously.
“Stop worrying. He’ll support himself on his elbows. The part of him that will, um…”
“Plant the seed?” she supplied helpfully.
“Yes. That part will be hard so he can slide it into you. Don’t ask how; it just happens. It’s all quite simple, really.” He looked relieved, like he was finished.
She took two thick mitts off hooks on the wall. “And then what?” she asked, shoving her hands into them.
“That’s it, for the most part.” When she stared at him, he raised the bottle for another long swallow. “He will, um, rub against you, more or less, and it will feel good—for you both—and he’ll release his seed and it will be over.”
“All right.” It really did sound quite straightforward, if a little strange. And somewhat boring. “Thank you.” She took the first pan out of the oven and set it on the big wooden table. The biscuits looked golden and smelled heavenly. “Would you like one?” she asked. “Just one, mind you, because they’re for Hawkridge’s—”
“It might hurt,” he blurted out. “But just a little. And only the first time. I…I thought you should know.”
Taking the second pan out, she froze. “Just a little? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “In Spain, I slept with—oh, never mind. I’m sure. I’m sorry I even told you, because it’s truly nothing to concern yourself with.” He held the bottle up to a candle. There was only a tiny bit left in it. Looking like he wished there were more, he drained it and set it down. “Do you believe me? Please say you believe me.”
“I believe you.” She did. He’d never lied to her before. Teased her and misled her, perhaps, but never lied.
“Are we finished? Can you sleep now?”
“I think so.” She put the second pan on the table and slid the mitts off. “Let’s have some biscuits first, though. Two each. You’ve earned them.”
And then she let him have three.
Chapter Thirty
*
TRISTAN COULD SCARCELY BELIEVE he was a married man.
The wedding had been a simple affair, held in the old family chapel, witnessed not only by Alexandra’s siblings and three female cousins, but the effigies of her ancestors dating back to the fourteenth century. When the minister asked if anyone present could show just cause why he and Alexandra should not be lawfully joined together, Tristan had half expected a five-hundred-year-old marble statue to pop up, sword and shield in hand, and take exception.
After all, it took a lot of nerve for a disgraced man to wed a lovely, proper Chase daughter.
He’d practically held his breath until the ceremony was over, until they’d shared a kiss that was decorous and chaste but set his blood on fire nonetheless. And then he still didn’t quite believe she was his wife. And he couldn’t decide whether their marriage was a dream come true, or—under the circumstances—a nightmare gone bad.
The wedding breakfast—which was actually a luncheon—had been a haze of delicious food mixed with feminine chatter and laughter. Alexandra, he’d been unable to help noticing, had spent a lot of time looking at him and very little time eating her meal. The latter wasn’t all that surprising. His own stomach felt a bit sour from worry paired with exhaustion.
And anticipation.
His gaze kept drifting to the low, square neckline of Alexandra’s simple wedding dress. She looked beautiful in the white lace, but he could barely wait to untie the pale blue satin sash and get her out of it.
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Tonight he’d make her his.
That truth didn’t quite hit him until they were in the barouche he’d borrowed from Griffin, making their way toward Hawkridge and hoping to arrive before dark.
It was a warm day with no threat of rain, so they’d left the top down to enjoy the setting sun. It was fortunate there were only two of them traveling, since Alexandra’s luggage took up all the remaining room. In fact, Tristan couldn’t even stretch his legs out. But with her seated beside him, snuggled against him, that seemed but a minor inconvenience.
She yawned, daintily covering her mouth with a gloved hand.
He took it to draw off the glove. “You’re sleepy,” he said, keeping his voice low so Griffin’s coachman couldn’t hear.
She swallowed nervously as he slipped the silk from her fingers. “I was up most of the night.” With her free hand, she motioned toward a covered basket perched carefully on top of her other belongings. “I made coriander biscuits for your staff.”
Removing her second glove, he stifled a smile. Such a gesture was all but unheard of, but so very Alexandra. “They’re certain to be surprised.”
“Pleasantly surprised, I hope.”
“I have no doubt.” He pressed a kiss to her bare palm. Carefully, because his bottom lip was still tender where Griffin had bashed him in the teeth. But he’d have endured any pain to hear the rough hitch of her breath.
Smiling into her palm, he kissed it again. “I wish I’d known you were baking. I would have kept you company.”
“Griffin did, instead,” she told him, obviously struggling to appear unaffected. “He was rather cheerful for a bloody and bruised man.”
He nodded, completely understanding. “In an odd way, it felt good to fight.”
“Odd is an apt description. How can hurting each other feel good?”
“I cannot explain it. You’d have to be a man to understand.” He kissed her palm once more, then flicked it gently with his tongue, smiling to himself when he felt her shiver.
Recovering her composure, she slanted him a curious glance. “He said he hit you first.”
His smile spread into a grin so wide it hurt. “But I got the better of him, didn’t I?”
“You look rather the worse for wear yourself.” She ran gentle fingers over his bruised jaw and across his sore lip, then blinked and snatched her hand away, apparently surprised to find herself touching him so boldly in public. “But the black eye Griffin woke up with this morning was more colorful.”
“He was suffering from the headache this morning, too, I do believe.”
“That was because he drank most of a bottle of Madeira.” Her smile was the fond smile of a sister. “Why did he hit you?”
“Because I told him to.”
She blinked up at him. “Whyever would you do that?”
“Another thing you’d have to be a man to understand.”
Shaking her head, she looked back toward the road. Her hair, which had been covered by a lace veil for the ceremony, was very simply dressed. Several strands had blown loose. Sweeping the baby hairs off her neck, he leaned closer to kiss her nape.
She shivered again, not hiding it this time. He laid a hand on her cheek to turn her face toward him and brushed his lips across hers.
“The coachman,” she whispered.
“He’s not watching.” But he wished they’d taken a closed carriage. This ride was beginning to seem like the longest of his life.
“He has only to turn his head.”
“We’re allowed to kiss. We’re married.”
She blushed and looked down. “Yes, we are,” she said, twisting the wide gold band on her finger. “I didn’t expect you’d have a ring on such short notice.”
“On the way back from London, I stopped at Hawkridge to pick it up.”
“It fits me perfectly.” She rubbed the plain surface, burnished from years of wear. “Is it old?”
“Very. A family heirloom,” he said, reaching to gently pull it off. “There are names and dates inside.” He handed it to her so she could see.
“So many!” She held it up to the setting sun, squinting at the tiny, engraved letters. “Henry and Elizabeth, 1579. James and Sarah, 1615. William and Anne, 1645. Randal and Lily, 1677.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “And more. So many generations.”
Such a long, noble line whose reputation he’d destroyed. And now, Alexandra’s and her family’s, too.
He wouldn’t think about that, he decided as his gaze drifted to her lips. Maybe tomorrow he would think about those things, but not now. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Before reality intruded, the least he could do was give her a lovely wedding night to remember.
The wedding night she deserved.
He would be kind and gentle, and he would do his best to put her at ease. Perhaps this marriage was ill fated, but they would both have tonight.
When she clenched the ring in her fist, he smiled. “I’ll have our names and year added the next time we’re in London. You don’t mind that it’s old?”
“Sweet heaven, no.” She slipped it back on her finger possessively. “I cannot imagine a more wonderful ring.”
Knowing how she valued tradition, he’d hoped she’d feel that way. But he hadn’t been sure. “I’m glad,” he told her, pleased.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you suppose all the other wearers were happy?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I think they were,” she said decisively. “And we will be, too,” she added through a yawn.
He wished he could be so confident.
He wasn’t at all sure that she’d adjust well to his isolated life. That she wouldn’t come to resent him. That she’d retain her calm assurance without society’s stamp of approval.
That he wouldn’t unknowingly do her harm.
That, in the long run, he wouldn’t lose her.
Her family would always be there for her, and she could eventually decide to run back into their comforting arms. There she could make a different life for herself, perhaps including a discreet affair or two. Husbands and wives who lived apart were all too common among the aristocracy.
Her head felt heavy against his sore shoulder. He reached up to stroke her hair, welcoming the dull ache, because it meant that she was his, at least for now. Because, frightened as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry they’d married. Not now—not with the sun sinking quickly and their wedding night just over the horizon.
“Tris?” she murmured sleepily.
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
His stomach clenched. His fingers tangled in her tresses and stilled. Not I think I’m in love with you, but I love you. Three simple words said with a quiet conviction he would never, ever have. Such deep emotion was beyond him.
She fell asleep waiting for the response he couldn’t give.
Chapter Thirty-One
*
“WE’RE ALMOST HOME,” Alexandra heard softly in her ear.
She startled awake, lifting her head to look around. The road they were on followed the Thames, and as they turned off it and started up a wide drive, Hawkridge Hall came into view. Although it wasn’t a castle like Cainewood, the symmetrical H-shaped building looked large and imposing, three stories of red brick.
The very sight of it brought the truth crashing down. She’d spent the past day in a haze of disbelief, but now her new home loomed before her. A new place. A new situation…one that had cost her family their reputation.
Tris squeezed her hand as they approached. “What do you think?”
Sweet heaven, she loved him. She swallowed hard, resolving to tuck the negative thoughts away—at least for tonight. It was her wedding night. How long had she dreamed of this night with Tris, never daring to hope it might actually happen?
Besides, she was going to prove he was innocent—so her sisters’ reputations would be saved.
“Very impressive,�
� she replied with a smile. She was not taking her happiness at the expense of her family. Not in the long run, anyway. She just needed a week or two to set everything to rights. “Is the house very old?”
“Seventeenth century, down to the furniture.” He smiled at her puzzled expression. “You’ll see when we get inside.”
As they skirted the stone figure of a river god in the center of the circular drive, the arched front door opened. Servants poured out onto the two sets of stone steps, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and welcome.
Alexandra watched as they arranged themselves carefully, men along the left and women on the right. “They knew we were coming?”
“I told them yesterday, when I stopped by to get your ring and my wedding clothes. I suspect they’ve been in a frenzy since then, getting the house all ready for a new mistress.”
She disengaged her hand to reach forward and grab her basket. “I hope they’ll like me.”
“They’ll love you.” He turned her face toward him and pressed a kiss to her lips, quick but heartfelt. “They won’t be able to help themselves.”
Seeing grins spread on several of the staff’s faces, she blushed wildly. And wished he’d said he wouldn’t be able to help loving her. She’d have to give him time. Though she was determined to knock down that wall around him, it was looking like she’d have to do it brick by brick.
Another project for the coming weeks.
Directly in front of the door and all those smiling faces, the carriage rolled to a halt. A footman rushed to help Alexandra down. “Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady.”
“Thank you,…?”
“John,” Tris provided as he climbed out behind her. “Uncle Harold called all the footmen John.”
“Well, that’s just plain silly.” Here, finally, she felt in her element. She knew how to handle a household staff. She reached into her basket. “Would you care for a coriander biscuit? And pray, what is your given name?”
Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set Page 83
