by Amanda Scott
“Dinner is served, my lord.”
“Ah, good work, Mawson. Shall we, my dear?”
She let him take her arm, and they followed the butler into a formal, crimson-and-gilt drawing room, then through a spacious marbled anteroom, to a splendid, candlelit dining room. The long table was draped with white damask, and places had been set at either end with heavy silver, matching liners, and exquisitely cut crystal glassware. A centerpiece of ivy and evergreens occupied space between two splendid candelabra. Ravenwood frowned.
“I had forgotten how big this table is, Mawson. I’ve no wish to begin my marriage by shouting at my bride.”
“Of course not, my lord.” He gestured, and one of the stiffly starched footmen leaped forward. Seconds later, Cicely found herself seated at her husband’s right hand, sampling oyster patties, turkey, haricot of mutton, and roast chicken. The removes for this first course included vermicelli soup, sweetbreads a la Daub, and broccoli, among others. Truly, Lynsted’s servants had exerted themselves to please their master’s guests.
For once in her life Cicely felt nearly tongue-tied. She almost wished Ravenwood had left her at the foot of the table, where he might not have expected her to speak to him. Thus far their conversation had been limited to his suggestion that she try the sweetbreads and her comment that the turkey was uncommonly tender. But no matter how hard she tried to concentrate upon her food, her thoughts kept flying back to that wide, lace-covered bed upstairs. It had been possible, in the magnificent library, to force such thoughts to the back of her mind, to play the role of a guest being entertained or some such thing; but now, sitting so near to him, conscious of each bite he took, even more conscious of each bite she took herself, Cicely could seem to think of little else. Her thoughts dwelt stubbornly upon that bed and what would undoubtedly take place there later on. She trembled a little at the thought.
“Are you cold? Shall I tell them to build up the fire?”
She started, feeling suddenly very hot as though he had somehow intercepted her thoughts. “No! That is,” she amended, struggling for calm, “I—I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you, sir. Are these oyster patties not delicious?”
“Excellent,” he agreed, watching her more closely than was compatible with her comfort. She wondered if she might have got a piece of broccoli caught between her teeth. Chewing her food seemed to require an enormous effort suddenly, and she set down her knife and fork, swallowing carefully, her eyes directed at the centerpiece.
Her silver-crested china plate was immediately taken away to be replaced by a clean one. The platters of turkey and oyster patties were swept off to the kitchens to make way for the prawns and apple puffs of the second course. Absently Cicely accepted a few slices of duckling, some fresh asparagus, mushrooms, and a rib of lamb, before she realized she could never eat so much as all that and waved away the scalloped oysters and Pompadour cream.
Ravenwood made no attempt to press her into conversation but began instead to tell her something of the history of the house. She heard of its comparatively humble beginnings in the early sixteenth century and even managed to take in some of the subsequent developments of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, during which the Lynsted family had somehow come into its own, despite ructions between Stuarts and Cromwells, as well as various religious difficulties. But when he mentioned the refurbishing of the state apartments to house King Charles II, Cicely found her mind drifting to beds again.
She would see Ravenwood without his clothes on. Nibbling a prawn and nodding absently to make him think she was listening, she considered the fact. Somehow she had not considered it before. She had persuaded herself that they would keep a proper distance between them. Indeed, she had persuaded herself so completely that she had quite failed to consider whether she could successfully maintain that distance twenty-four hours a day. It had been foolish of her, she realized now, not to have thought of this before.
Of course their sleeping arrangements had no doubt been arranged by the servants or even by Lynsted. Regardless, they had been arranged before she had made her position clear to Ravenwood. Perhaps he could be convinced—
“You are not eating, my dear, nor do I flatter myself that you are attending to my prodigiously entertaining monologue. Perhaps you would like some fruit and cheese?”
“No, thank you, sir,” she answered quickly, her thoughts recalled to the present. “I fear I am no longer very hungry, although it was all most delicious.”
“Perhaps, then, you would care to retire,” he suggested gently.
“Retire?” Her eyes flew wide at that, but then she had another, more comforting thought. “Oh, you mean that I should leave you to your port now. Of course, if you wish it, sir.” She began to push back her chair, but he shook his head.
“That is not what I meant. I find I have little taste for port tonight.”
“Oh! But ’tis early yet, quite early, Ravenwood.”
“There is nothing to fear, Cilly.”
“Is there not?” Fighting sudden panic, she looked around the room, telling herself defensively that it was not panic at all but embarrassment because of the servants. But for the moment the room was empty. No one else had overheard the exchange. She looked back at Ravenwood to find that he was smiling, but for once there was no deviltry or mockery in the smile. She returned it weakly. “Does that mean, sir, that you do not intend … that is, that we—” She broke off, blushing and hating the telltale color, then began again, hoping she sounded a great deal more sure of herself than she felt. “Well, we have agreed to go our separate ways, have we not?” A glint of amusement leaped to his eye, and she bit her lower lip. She was behaving idiotically, she told herself angrily. Nonetheless, she held her breath, waiting for him to speak.
“I meant nothing of the sort,” he said at last calmly. “You are my wife now, Cicely, and the sooner we consummate this union, the better, I think. You have expressed a desire for a certain amount of freedom within the marriage, and I can see no reason as yet why you should not be granted that freedom. But I am your husband, and I do not propose to waive any of the rights of that position.”
“I—I see.” She swallowed with difficulty. He had spoken quietly and without a trace of anger, but she still felt as though she had been given a setdown. And why, she asked herself, watching him, did she feel as though it had been well deserved? Could it be that she didn’t want him to waive any of his rights?
He was certainly very handsome. The dark jacket set off the whiteness of his shirt and neckcloth, the texture of the silk-embroidered waistcoat. However, it was not his clothes that fascinated her so, but the hard-muscled body beneath them. Ravenwood smiled again, and she noted the fine, even white teeth, the tanned face and deep blue eyes, the way his eyebrows seemed to bristle. She remembered what it had felt like to have his arms around her, to be kissed by him. A tremor stirred deep within her. She wondered what it would be like to let him lead her on an exploration of those delightful mysteries of love that until now had been little more than the subject of halting and no doubt naive discussions with Brittany. A footman entered, breaking into this intriguing train of thought.
“Shall we go up, my dear?”
Taking herself firmly in hand, she nodded, and the footman sprang to hold her chair. Ravenwood offered his arm. By the time they were halfway up the spiral stair, though still nervous, she was tingling with anticipation of what the night would bring. When they reached the blue-and-white sitting room, Ravenwood looked down at her.
“You did well enough with ten minutes to prepare yourself for dinner. Do you think you can manage with fifteen now?” She nodded, her gaze meeting his quite easily. “Very well,” he continued in a tone that was nearly caressing now, “but don’t get to gossiping with that Meg of yours. I shall send her away if she is still there when I come to you.”
She watched, rather dazed, as he disappeared into his dressing room, then, recollecting his parting words, hurried into the bedchamber to find Me
g waiting for her. Hurrying, she stripped off her dress and washed her face and hands before donning the lacy nightdress Meg held ready for her. Then she sat at the candlelit dressing table and tried to relax while Meg brushed out her hair.
“Stir up the fire a bit, Meg,” she requested in a voice that sounded oddly unlike her own when the woman had laid the silver-backed brush upon the dressing table. “Then you may take yourself off to bed.”
“As you wish, ma’am.” Meg bent quickly to the task and put another log on the glowing coals in the grate. Just as she was getting to her feet again there came a light tap on the door and Ravenwood entered, wearing a dark red woolen dressing gown. Meg wiped her hands quickly on her apron, bobbed a curtsy, and smiled at him, then bade them both good night. Ravenwood held the door for her.
Once she had gone, he turned to face Cicely. “You look lovely,” he said quietly. “Your hair is like a silver cloud.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Gilbert.”
“Thank you, Gilbert,” she repeated obediently.
“Come here, Cilly.”
Her emotions seemed suddenly to churn within her. She felt shy and a little frightened, but there was also a sort of tension and a sense of excitement. Even before she moved into his waiting arms she could anticipate his touch and the delightful tingling sensation it would bring.
A candle burned by the bedside, and Meg had left the two on the dressing table, but otherwise there was only the fire’s glow to light the room. Ravenwood leaned over and snuffed the two tapers on the dressing table.
Cicely began to turn toward the bed then, but he stopped her. “Not yet, Cilly.” He put a hand under her chin, tilting her face up just as he had done in the bookroom at Malmesbury.
The kiss was all that she had remembered it to be, and what followed was a good deal more than even her vivid imagination had ever led her to expect. The very touch of his hands on her body seemed to stir passions that she had never dreamed lay within her. She responded easily to his every move, letting him guide her and teach her, then, encouraged by his tenderness, learning to follow her own instincts as well. By the time he led her gently to the bed their clothing lay in a heap upon the floor, and she was more than ready for the delights that lay ahead.
Ravenwood held back the quilt for her, then slipped in beside her, holding her close to him, smoothing the fine hair away from her face. Then, without speaking, he kissed her, at first lingeringly, then more possessively as his passions began to build again. His hands teased her, caressing her lightly, until by her own movements Cicely seemed to be begging him to possess her. When he moved over her at last, his caresses became gentle again, and she knew he feared to hurt her, but she urged him on, gasping at the brief, aching pain when he penetrated her at last, then feeling weak with near-blissful relief when it was over. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, reflecting the light from the nearby candle.
“It will be better next time, Princess,” he murmured. “It will not hurt you again.”
“It was not so bad this time, sir,” she said, smiling.
Later, as she lay with her head on her pillow, listening to his even breathing, punctuated by the crack of an occasional spark from the dying fire, Cicely thought there might possibly be an advantage or two to marriage aside from the freedom it would afford her in London. In fact, there had been a moment or two during the past hour when it had occurred to her that it might be possible for her to fall in love with her husband.
She stirred at the thought. It would never do, of course. He had said absolutely nothing about loving her, and therefore it would do her little good to be so foolish as to let her emotions carry her beyond the line of what was pleasing. Lovemaking was a requirement of marriage, the only means by which her father’s wish for an heir of his own blood might be attained. And as for Ravenwood, he was but exercising his connubial rights. For her to think in terms of love could only result in heartache. He had said and done nothing to belie the fact that he expected exactly the sort of marriage that she had been led to believe was commonplace within their circle. In fact, although she had insisted, it had nevertheless been an act of generosity on his part to agree that he would not play the heavy-handed husband while she enjoyed the same, or nearly the same, benefits of a marriage of convenience that he would enjoy himself.
He stirred beside her, and she wondered what he would do if she woke him up. Would he be angry, or would he want to make love again? Would she ever come to know him well? He had seemed different again today and tonight. He had seemed a good deal more approachable in some ways, more enigmatic in others. He did not seem to share his feelings. But, then, what could she expect, she asked herself, when their relationship was based upon a matter of convenience and nothing more?
8
CICELY FELT SHY WHEN she awoke the next morning, thinking to find Ravenwood still in her bed, but it was Meg Hardy who wished her good morning when she stirred. The master, she said, had been up for some time and wanted to be on the road as quickly as possible. Deciding she wanted nothing more for breakfast than a roll or two with her chocolate, Cicely was able to present herself, ready for travel, rather more rapidly than he might have expected. She read approval in his expression when he greeted her, but little more. If she had expected comment upon their activities of the previous night, she soon found she had mistaken her man. His greeting was polite, but he seemed rather sleepy and a bit preoccupied. At least there was nothing in his manner to make her feel self-conscious, but she was oddly disappointed when he did not behave in a more romantic manner.
It was a beautiful day for the drive to London. They left Lynsted Manor a little after ten o’clock and twenty minutes later had reached Linan and the Cambridge turnpike. Ravenwood made little effort to maintain a conversation in the coach beyond pointing out an occasional object of interest. Once they were past the turnpike, the pace was increased, and the noise from outside increased accordingly. Perhaps that was the reason he seemed disinclined to speak, Cicely thought. Besides, she scolded herself as she glanced at that handsome face opposite with its lazy, bored expression, what did she expect? She herself had set the ground rules, had she not? She could scarcely demand a modern relationship and then sulk when he did not behave like a hero from one of her favorite romances.
They stopped for a tidy nuncheon at the George in Bishop’s Storford, changed horses again at Epping, and by half past four Cicely was enjoying the sights, if not the smells, as the coach made its way through Hoxton into the streets of London by way of Shoreditch Highstreet. Then the coach passed along Old Street to Coswell and Aldersgate, past St. Bartholomew’s and the Smithfield Market, up Holborn Hill to Broad Street, St. Giles, and into Oxford Street. From there it was but fifteen minutes before they reached Mayfair and Ravenwood’s elegant house in Charles Street, just off Berkeley Square.
Cicely looked up at the tall house on the south side of the pleasant street and felt a small quiver of excitement at the thought that this was her new home. It was wider than most of the other homes along the street, with a brick front and wrought-iron trim. The window frames and the massive front door were dark wood, which was as highly polished as the heavy brass knocker and the matching lanterns at either side of the entrance. A liveried boy stood at the foot of the steps waiting to open the carriage door and help them to alight. Cicely’s excitement showed in her posture and contrasted markedly with his lordship’s leisurely descent from the carriage. He smiled at the linkboy.
“Well, Harry?”
“Very well, thank you, m’lord. Welcome home, sir.”
Ravenwood nodded and drew Cicely forward, his grip light at her elbow. “This is your new mistress, Harry, the Lady Cicely.” He smiled at her. “’Tis the easiest way,” he said. “Otherwise we shall have two ladies Ravenwood whenever Mama comes to visit.” Cicely nodded. She had no quarrel with that. As a duke’s daughter it was perfectly proper for her to retain her own title, and it would certainly make matters easier whenever she a
nd the dowager chanced to be in the same place at the same time.
Harry had bowed low, his color rising at such condescension from his master, and she smiled at him, increasing his confusion. His head bobbed with relief when the front door opened and two tall young footmen, followed by a stately, middle-aged butler, emerged from the house.
Ravenwood gave orders for his valise and Cicely’s jewel box to be taken upstairs, then turned to his butler. “This is the Lady Cicely, Wigan. I should like her to meet Mrs. Steele and the other servants as soon as it may be arranged. We passed up our baggage coach somewhere about a mile south of Harlow, but when they arrive, send her ladyship’s abigail up directly. We are dining out this evening.”
“We are? Oh! I beg your pardon, sir,” she added quickly as she glanced at Wigan and then back at her husband. “You neglected to mention that to me. I daresay it slipped your mind what with all our other conversation. With whom do we dine?”
“Lord and Lady Ribbesford,” he responded smoothly, ignoring the barb. “She has invited a select group of friends, which to her ladyship means nearly everyone of her acquaintance who chances to be in Town. It is to be dinner, with what she calls ‘little entertainments’ afterward. That usually means card tables and possibly some dancing. It will be a good opportunity for you to meet some of my friends and to announce the fact that we have arrived in Town. Have you met Carolyn Ribbesford?”
“Indeed, I have,” Cicely responded, following him up the steps and into the entry hall as she spoke. From the highly polished parquet floor to the crystal-decked chandelier and the exquisite friezework, it was a lovely room, a fine introduction to what appeared to be a beautiful house. “I’ve met her several times,” she added, peeping curiously through an open door into a small saloon. “I thought her a kind and generous woman.”
