by Jane Goodger
Her mother looked away. “I am sorry I put you through so much, that my close-mindedness forced you to act in a way that was against your principles. Perhaps you will understand better when you have children of your own. I only want what’s best for you. I suppose I wanted you to prove to the world that you were worthy of greatness. That you weren’t an afterthought.”
Later, Marjorie would think back on her mother’s odd choice of words. An afterthought. Was that how she’d felt? As if she should have been grateful for whatever crumbs someone threw her? She’d never thought of her mother as a young girl, in love, with hopes and dreams. She’d known, of course, that Dorothea had married quite late, but had simply assumed her mother was as particular as she was; it had just taken her longer to find the man she wanted.
Marjorie looked about her room, realizing with sadness and a bit of excitement at what lay ahead, and that this would be the last time she would sleep here. She touched her dressing table, drawing her finger over the polished surface, her eyes sweeping around the room. This was where she’d gone when her father had died, to cry into her pillow. It was where as a young girl she dreamed of marrying a duke—or perhaps a handsome prince from some foreign land. And it was where she’d made love with the love of her life for the very first time.
Her maid knocked on her door and she called for Alice to enter.
“I thought I’d lay out your things tonight,” she said, moving to her wardrobe where her wedding dress hung. It was by Worth, of course, and since they’d not had time to travel to Paris for a new gown, Marjorie would wear one she already owned, much to her mother’s deep disappointment. The gown was one of her favorites, with an outrageous bustle that made it nearly impossible to sit—perfect for walking down the aisle. It was cream with light rose lace, and a modest neckline perfectly suitable for a wedding.
Marjorie climbed into bed, drew her knees to her chin, and watched her maid work. “Are you excited to work in a new household, Alice?”
“Oh, yes, m’lady. It’s nice that I’ll know so many on the staff, so it won’t be too strange for me.” Alice surveyed her work. “If there isn’t anything else, good night, m’lady.”
“Thank you, Alice. Good night.”
Marjorie smiled at Alice as she left, glad at least something would be familiar in her new home. Charles had lured a big bit of Jeffrey’s staff away, apparently, and it would be nice to see so many familiar faces. “Good night, room,” she said, feeling silly and nostalgic.
The two mothers did not speak at the wedding or the breakfast that followed, something that Marjorie wasn’t certain she was glad or sad about. At the wedding itself, her mother did not even glance at Charles’s parents, a lovely pair Marjorie knew she would come to love. His sister had come, alone; her husband could not leave the side of his ailing mother. Marjorie was thrilled to have a sister, for Laura seemed like such a lively woman. “We’ve been waiting for Mother Brewster to die for more than ten years. I daresay she won’t meet her maker the one week I’m away.” Marjorie wasn’t sure whether to laugh, but when Laura did, she followed suit.
“I’m so glad you were able to come. Charles speaks of you often. I do hope you are able to visit us in London more often.”
Laura looked around the room and smiled. “I think I will,” she’d said, softly but with conviction.
Marjorie had understood from Charles that Laura wasn’t entirely happy with her situation, so perhaps a few trips to London would make his sister’s life more enjoyable.
The ceremony was brief and private, with only family and a few close friends in attendance. It wasn’t the grand wedding Dorothea had dreamed about for so many years, but it was perfect. Charles was stunning in his formal black, with his curling hair slicked back in thick waves. Marjorie could almost sense his need to muss it up, but he showed remarkable restraint. George was his best man, and Lilianne, much to Dorothea’s disappointment (Marjorie’s best friend, Lady Blackwood, was on the continent and unavailable) was her maid of honor. Their own marriage was in two weeks’ time and Lilianne, likely thinking of her own upcoming wedding day, cried nearly nonstop throughout the service.
Back at the house, Aunt Gertrude hugged her warmly and said, “My only regret is that I don’t have more nieces to get married off. It was such fun, my dear.”
“It was the best of adventures,” Marjorie said, giving her aunt a kiss. “And now an even better adventure awaits.”
Aunt Gertrude chuckled and shook her head. “I wish you could keep this feeling in a box and take it out whenever life gets difficult.”
“I think I shall, Aunt. That’s a splendid idea.”
“You may go, Prajit,” Charles said, a bit more harshly than he’d meant to. Prajit hovered just inside the door of his rooms, moving from one foot to the other, as if ready to bound into the room and fight off a tiger. The tiger, in this particular case, was his damnable leg. This day, of all days, it hurt like the very devil after giving him days and days of reprieve.
“A bit of morphine, sir, will take away the edge and allow you to perform your duties as husband,” Prajit said stubbornly.
“A bit of morphine will likely have the opposite effect, Prajit.” He’d spoken a bit louder than he’d meant to and glanced at the door that separated his suite of rooms from those of his new wife.
He wasn’t nervous. No, nervous was far too mild a word. After putting off Marjorie’s official deflowering, he felt added pressure to make this night perfect for her. And how on earth could he make things perfect when he was about to hurt her?
His father had thought his fears adorable. “Son, if every husband killed his wife the first night, humanity would have long since been extinct.”
Still, there was blood. And pain. And pleasure, for him at least. And God knew he’d spent enough sleepless nights imagining himself thrusting into her. Just the thought made him stir, made him forget the pain in his leg for a moment. Yes, that was just the thing.
“Prajit, I do appreciate your concern about my abilities to perform my husbandly duties,” he said, meaning the complete opposite. Prajit either chose to ignore his sarcasm or had not yet mastered the ability to detect it. “But you are dismissed. Until noon tomorrow.”
Prajit lifted his chin imperceptibly, then bowed and backed from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. But Charles could still sense his worry. He would be bloody glad when no one worried about him.
Charles tightened the belt around his robe and walked determinedly toward his wife’s door. He opened it without knocking, and in hindsight that might not have been the most intelligent decision, for his wife’s maid screeched as if he was a madman bent on murder.
“Oh, I am so sorry, sir,” Alice said, then laughed nervously.
Marjorie, looking lovely in a frothy nightdress and overwrap, laughed along with her maid. “We’ll get used to all this, Alice. You may go now.”
“Until noon,” Charles said, causing both ladies to start in surprise. “I gave Prajit a half day, so I think it’s only fair.”
Marjorie flushed from her neck to her cheeks. “Noon, then, Alice. Good night.”
“Good night, m’lady,” Alice said, dipping a quick curtsy and rushing toward the door.
“Here we are,” Marjorie said when the maid was gone
“Yes.” Charles looked around the room. “I see you’ve settled in nicely.” Polite. Awkward. God, why was this suddenly so difficult?
“Your leg has been bothering you today. Are you certain you’re—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “My dear wife, if a horde of wild beasts now ran into this room, they would not be able to stop me from making love to you.” He sounded angry, he knew, but the last thing he wanted was for his new wife to worry about him.
She laughed uncertainly.
“All right, then.” She lifted her chin as if agreeing to some business arrangement.
“Are you frightened?”
She looked startled for a moment. “No,” sh
e said. “Should I be?”
Charles shrugged. “I have no idea.” He wiped a hand through his hair, making his once-tamed locks spring about.
“Let’s find out together, shall we?”
He watched, desire growing with every movement, as Marjorie slipped off her silky robe and draped it over a nearby chair. What she wore underneath took his breath away. It was sheer, leaving very little to the imagination, her dusky nipples and the dark shadow at the apex of her legs clearly visible. He might have already seen her completely nude, but something about this flimsy bit of cloth was incredibly arousing. He grew hard instantly.
“My aunt,” she said, blushing again. “Can you imagine?”
“Your aunt wore this gown?” Charles asked.
Marjorie laughed. “No. She bought it for me.”
“I love your aunt.” As he looked at her, her nipples grew hard, making two obvious points though the fabric, and he groaned aloud. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to throw caution to the wind and ravish you rather more quickly than I’d planned.”
She bit her lips and he took two long steps, and putting one hand behind her head, drew her to him for a long, deep kiss that told her just how much he wanted her. His other hand went unerringly to one breast, his thumb grazing her hard nipple. When he pulled away long moments later, she could hardly catch her breath. Her cheeks were flushed, this time not from embarrassment, but from arousal.
“I can’t believe I can have you now, anytime I want.”
“Any time?”
“Yes,” he said fervently, kissing her cheek and moving down to her sweet neck. She arched against him and he pushed his arousal against her, unable to stop himself.
“Even at the dinner table?”
He drew back and laughed. “If you insist. Though the servants might be a bit mortified.”
She drew her arms around his neck; he loved it when she did that. It was such a possessive thing for her to do. “Take my gown off,” she whispered against his lips before thrusting her tongue inside his mouth.
He was lost then. Lost to the silky softness of her, the small sounds she made, the heat from between her legs, the hard nipples pressing against his chest. He swept his hands down her body, then up again, this time gathering the material and pulling, slowly, over her head. Inch by creamy inch, she was laid bare to his hot gaze, until he was drawing it over her head. She was gloriously naked. He wore nothing beneath his robe, and his erection thrust through the opening, gaining her attention.
“Please,” he said. “It is yours to touch whenever you like.”
“At the breakfast table?” she asked, the little minx.
“Any—” he drew in his breath sharply as she wrapped her hand around him “—where you’d like.”
He lifted her up and she straddled him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her bum nestled against his arousal, and he walked her to her bed. Ignoring a sharp jab of pain in his leg, he slowly lowered her down, following her until he lay beside her.
“You’re hur—”
“No. Nothing hurts,” he muttered, bringing his hand between her legs. She was always so hot and wet for him. It was enough to make a man think he could conquer the world. She held her breath when he touched her nub, then slowly, as if in extreme ecstasy, released it. He took one nipple in his mouth, suckling, loving the way she moved against his hand, the small sounds that escaped her beautiful mouth, as he worked to pleasure her.
“I want you,” she said. “I need you inside me. Please.”
He slowly, carefully, pressed his index finger inside her. She was so damned tight, and he closed his eyes against the thought of what it would feel like to press himself into her. He let out a groan as she lifted her hips in an almost desperate attempt to feel more.
“Please, Charles.” Her breathing was harsh as he continued to caress her, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. She moved her head back and forth, moved her hips faster, jerking little movements he’d already come to recognize as signs of her impending release. “Oh, please.” And then he felt her contract around his finger, and he nearly spent just watching her come.
Slowly, languidly, she came down, opening her eyes and smiling at him. “Why didn’t you do as I asked?”
He chuckled and kissed her. “I’m about to, my lady.” He positioned himself between her legs, and she suddenly seemed shy and vulnerable. He stroked each inner thigh, urging her legs farther apart. “I’ll try not to hurt you, my love.”
She nodded and braced herself, which only made him laugh again. “Please relax.” He stroked her and watched as her eyes drifted closed. Then he slowly pushed himself inside her, where she was hot and wet and so damned tight. He knew when he encountered her maidenhead and stopped, just for a breath, before thrusting all the way inside.
Oh, heaven.
She didn’t let out a single sound. He looked at her, trying to see if she’d been hurt, but she just smiled. “I love you,” he said, the words seeming incredibly inadequate for what he felt for his wife. He pulled out slightly, watching her intently for signs he was hurting her, then pushed back in. “Wrap your legs around my . . . yes, like that.” He pushed in, then out, every nerve in his body centered on that one spot. When she responded, when he felt her slim legs pull him toward her, when she let out a small sound of pleasure, he could hold back no longer. He thrust, hard and fast, unable to use any of the finesse he’d thought he would. He had no control, his body needed release, demanded it. And so he gave her everything he had, let it go. And when release finally came, he buried his head in the pillow beside hers and let out a long groan of pure satisfaction.
As he slowly came to himself, he first became aware of her soft breath against his cheek, of her hand caressing his nape. “I’m glad we waited,” she whispered.
He carefully pulled away, then drew her against him, feeling happier and more content than he had in his entire life. “As am I. Even though it nearly killed me.” He laughed again, ignoring the deep twinge of pain in his leg. He could ignore anything unpleasant as long as she was in his arms.
Epilogue
“Grandmama, throw!”
Dorothea picked up the ball and tossed it to her grandson, now two and running about chasing every ball she threw like a small puppy. He had a pint-sized cricket bat and even at so young an age, could swing it fiercely and connect with the ball more times than not.
She had two grandchildren now, and another on the way. George’s little girl was nearly two and Lilianne had announced just last week that they were expecting again and hoping for a boy.
Dorothea, finally, was coming into her own. She realized that the first two-thirds of her life had simply prepared her for the best part. For the first time in her life, Dorothea was happy. Purely content.
All those years of worry and fear and living a life she’d loathed had been worth this time, this moment, of watching her grandson, black curls bouncing, chase after that ball. It was the oddest thing, being a grandmother. One didn’t worry so much about how things would turn out. That was Marjorie’s job, and one she seemed to be doing quite well. Already, little Michael was an intelligent and polite lad, but full of the dickens and as charming as his father.
Dorothea liked Charles, perhaps even loved him. But she liked to keep the man on his toes. It wouldn’t do to allow him to completely relax with her. It was wonderful to see her children so happy.
Sometimes, Dorothea would look back and think of the girl she’d been—what a sad little thing. Yet how could she regret anything when it had all turned out so very well?
“Don’t wear out Grandmama, Michael,” Marjorie called.
Her grandson looked solemnly at her, his little blue eyes wide. “Are you worn out, Grandmama?”
She smiled. “Not yet.”
“Are you certain, Mother?” Marjorie asked.
“I’ll let you know.”
Marjorie sat next to her on the garden bench and leaned her head on her shoulder. “I’m worn out
and I haven’t even done anything today,” she said.
Michael tossed the ball onto Dorothea’s lap, then held out his hands to catch it. He didn’t more often than not, but he never seemed to get bored trying. A tenacious little thing. Dorothea tossed the ball and it slipped between his legs and bounced down the gravel path.
Suddenly, a large manly shape shot past them, growling fiercely. Michael screeched in delight as his father scooped him up and held him high above his head, a Viking capturing his prize. Dorothea’s heart stopped each time he did it, but Michael adored the flight.
Charles settled the boy in one arm. “He’ll be playing for the All-England Eleven before you know it.”
Dorothea sniffed. “I hope he aspires to more than that,” she said. “The North Eleven, for instance.”
Charles looked horrified, and Dorothea laughed.
“Mother, don’t torture poor Charles like that,” Marjorie said, rising up to give her son, then her husband a kiss on the cheek. “We have news.”
Dorothea knew already, or at least suspected.
“We’re having another baby,” Marjorie said.
“Two down and two to go,” Charles said, giving Marjorie a kiss that lingered a bit too long for Dorothea’s comfort.
Four grandchildren. Four. It ought to make her feel old. Instead, Dorothea experienced a lightness that made her feel like that young, hopeful girl she’d once been.
She wondered what she would say to that girl as she looked in the mirror at the hat shop. Would she warn her? Would she tell her that if only she could endure, she would finally be happy?
No, she wouldn’t. Because this feeling she had right now could not have been reached without all the pain and sorrow. She would be a different woman and chances were, she wouldn’t have this lightness and air in her heart just looking at her daughter with her little family.
Dorothea had never found love, but strangely enough, love had finally found her.
