The Bride's Secret

by Cheryl Bolen

  Such lack of friends could be explained by the lengthy illness from which she had only recently recuperated. Felicity, her friend of long standing, was away with her nabob husband. But surely Carlotta had other friends. She was, after all, of good birth. Her position as the widow of Captain Ennis—the son of an earl—alone should have elevated her social standing.

  That she had no female friends here, he could almost understand. What woman would wish to be seen with and compared to the lovely violet-eyed widow? Other women, quite naturally, would be jealous of her.

  By why no gentlemen callers? Were all the men in Bath blind?

  Regardless of the reason for her exclusion from society, James counted himself well blessed to have arrived in Bath at a time when she was only re-entering society after her long convalescence.

  “You don't have to talk me into it, my love,” he said. “If I had my way I'd whisk you away today, but a great many plans will have to be made.”

  “Such as?”

  He loved it when she looked at him cockily like that. “We will have to pack, and I shall have to send to Yarmouth for my coach and four, and I must have the countess's chambers redone for you. And interviewing a nurse will be more easily conducted here in Bath.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not a good excuse among your reasons, dearest. Pray, how far is it to Yarmouth?”

  “A full day's ride.”

  “Then I shall be packed and ready to leave day after tomorrow. I suggest you send for the coach immediately. We can select a nurse from Yarmouth just as well as we can from Bath, and permit me to see to the decor of the countess's chambers after we arrive. All I will require at the present are fresh linens and a room free of dust.”

  A smile worked its way out from the corner of his mouth. “You've got the makings of a countess.”

  “Because I'm tyrannical?” she asked, looking up at him with laughing eyes.

  He chuckled. “An apt description.”

  “What a paradox you must find me. First I tell you what a fine wife I'll make, then I proceed to dictate to you as if you were the servant and I the master.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Forgive me, dearest.”

  He could forgive her anything, yet he refused to be her servant. “You, my dear, obviously have strong reasons for wishing to put distance between Bath and yourself.”

  A flinch of some strong emotion—was it fear?—flashed across her face, then she gathered her composure. “Don't get too confident in your ability to understand me, James. I do want to put distance between Bath and me, but that doesn't necessarily mean there's a reason for my dissatisfaction with the city. It's merely time I move on to a new—and better—chapter of my life.”

  For the next few hours, they each had duties to perform. James moved to the library, where he drafted letters. The first was to his secretary, instructing him to send the chaise at once and to see that her ladyship's chambers were made ready. The next letter was to his solicitor to inform him of his marriage and his intentions of making provisions in his will for his wife and step-son.

  When James expressed his interest in returning to his hotel for some items, his wife protested.

  “I'll not have us separated on our wedding day! Wherever thou goest, I goest too, dearest.”

  He found her behavior decidedly odd. Though he would like to think she had grown utterly attached to his company, he knew his wife better than that. She had a strong reason for not wishing him out of her sight.

  Just this morning she had surprised him when she had insisted the wedding take place that very day, when he had thought to marry on the morrow. It was as if she feared losing him if they were separated. But he knew it was not his presence that provoked such strong feelings.

  If not that, then what? He prided himself on his ability to read the woman who had become his wife, but he was at a complete loss to explain this new, uncharacteristic behavior.

  Instead of going to his hotel, he sent a note to his valet, instructing him to bring some items to Monmouth Place. He and his bride walked to the bank, where he withdrew funds to make settlements on Carlotta's servants who would not be traveling with them to Yarmouth Hall.

  As they returned to Monmouth Place, the sun began to sink behind the westward hills. “I'm glad I told Cook to have dinner laid when we returned,” Carlotta said. “A pity she'll not be able to go to Yarmouth Hall with us. I feel wretched dismissing her and the others so swiftly after engaging them.”

  James patted her hand. “I'll endeavor to compensate them with generous settlements.”

  * * *

  At dinner, they sat beside one another under the glow of candlelight. Though they had easily fallen into conversation during the past weeks, now that they were married, words stuck in her throat. All her thoughts centered on the one topic she was loathe discuss: allowing him to take his pleasure from her body.

  When it was not possible to put off the end of the dinner any further, Carlotta placed her hand over her husband's. Her voice quivered when she spoke. “I'm not ready—yet—to be a true wife to you, but I don't want to be separated from you either, dearest.” She feared he would leave when the time came for her to go to bed, and what if he should come into contact tonight with other men—say, at a public house or a gaming establishment or any of those establishments men frequented? And what if his mention of her brought far more information than she ever wished him to learn? “Please stay here tonight. I can sleep on the chaise in my room, and you can take my bed.”

  His face fell. And her heart tumbled. Not yet. She would give herself to him. But not yet. She had not even become accustomed to the idea of being married to him. Indeed, she still reeled from his proposal, still could not believe good fortune had smiled upon her at last.

  She watched him, waiting for his reply. Had she offended him?

  Finally he answered her. “You'll sleep with me. After all, it's our wedding night.”

  Chapter 12

  After dinner, the newlyweds retired to the drawing room, and Carlotta was only too happy to drink the brandy James offered her. Was it not said that spirits could help still the vapors? Carlotta was most definitely suffering from a severe case of wedding night vapors.

  The man she had grown so comfortable with these past several weeks had now taken on a new, threatening persona. Hadn't he said he would not force her? Yet now he insisted on sharing her bed. She knew enough of men and their needs to understand that James Moore, the Earl of Rutledge, was hardly likely to roll over and go to sleep with a living, breathing, not-unattractive woman lying next to him. Add to that some measure of affection which he no doubt held for her, and preserving their chaste relationship could prove to be exceedingly difficult.

  “Shall we play chess, my love?” he asked as he came to sit next to her on the sopha.

  Her gaze dropped to her lap. She suddenly became uncomfortable with him so close to her. She was too startlingly aware of his virility. “I regret to say I don't play games, my lord,” she answered ruefully.

  He looked at her incredulously. “You don't play games?”

  She silently lifted the snifter to her mouth, nodded, then took a drink of the brandy. It burned going down. She could not look her husband in the eye. She was embarrassed that she could not play games.

  “I thought you had a brother! Did he not teach you anything?”

  She bit her lip. “I always had my head in a book.”

  “Then I shall have to remedy that, my dear,” he said. “When we get to Yarmouth, I shall force you to learn how to play any manner of games.”

  “Even your infinite patience might be taxed over that task,” she said.

  “Nonsense! You're an intelligent woman, Carlotta. I have every confidence you'll become adept—if you allow yourself to.”

  “How reassuring it is to be married to a man who has such confidence in one.” She took another sip. Each sip rendered the brandy less offensive. Actually, she was beginning to like it—or the limbering effect it was having o
n her.

  “You do not play whist, either, I suppose?”

  She shook her head.

  “Surely you play backgammon and cribbage? A child can master those games of luck.”

  “Then a child has more skill than I possess,” she answered, looking up at him, a pout on her face.

  To her surprise, he smiled, and his arm slipped around her shoulder. “You're fatigued,” he said in a low voice. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

  She stifled a yawn. “How well you know me, dearest.”

  With the back of his hand, he traced her cheekbone. “Then we'll go to bed now. I'll give Peggy a few minutes in which to help you prepare, and I'll understand if you prefer to wear a woolen shift. After all, this won't be a real wedding night.”

  He moved closer, so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. “I said I'd never force you, Carlotta.”

  “Then I'm relieved you remember your promise, my lord.” She scooted to the edge of the sopha, stood up and left the room without sparing a glance at him. Truth be told, it took all her concentration to make a graceful exit from the room. The brandy was rendering her body as pliable as sand.

  When Carlotta found Peggy in Stevie's chamber, she was reciting a story to him.

  “It's time I help yer mama get ready for bed, lad,” Peggy said. “I'll be back in a jiffy.”

  Carlotta moved to Stevie's bed and sat on its edge, reaching out to stroke the golden hair from his forehead. “Good night, my lamb. I hope it's been a happy day for you.”

  He answered with a smile. “Now I've got a father like the other lads. Do you think Uncle James will allow me to call him Papa?”

  And replace Stephen? she thought with a deep sadness. Then she remembered James telling her how difficult not having a father—like the other lads—had been. James understands how Stevie feels. “You'll have to ask him, love,” she said as she bent to kiss him.

  When she got to her chamber, Peggy had lain out a fine silken shift. “It's rather cold tonight, Peggy. I believe I'll wear the purple I most frequently wear.”

  “But madam! I mean, my lady! 'Tis yer wedding night! Ye can't wear that purple. It's no better than a horse blanket!”

  “I assure you, his lordship won't mind.”

  Peggy's eyes narrowed. “Oh, I sees. Very well, me lady.”

  What she saw, Carlotta realized with a blush, was that the shift would soon be removed.

  The maid put up the silk shift, then assisted her mistress into the purple. “Now let's brush out yer hair. His lordship is bound to want to run his fingers through it.”

  Carlotta sat before the mirror, a smug look on her face, as Peggy removed her hairpins and began to brush out Carlotta's hair.

  “I'm so happy ye've married Lord Rutledge. I just hope I can remember to call ye me lady.”

  “You will, especially after we get to Yarmouth.”

  Peggy ran the mother-of-pearl brush through Carlotta's hair, but her glance darted to the looking glass and her mistress's eyes reflected there. “When do we leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Carlotta said.

  “So soon?”

  Carlotta nodded.

  Peggy cleared her throat. “Does . . . does Jeremy also go to Yarmouth?”

  “I believe he will. Just today Lord Rutledge told Stevie he would now be a master to Jeremy.”

  Peggy's eyes brightened.

  Was Peggy attracted to the groom? The more she thought on it, the more Carlotta realized how similar the two were in age as well as background. And Peggy, with her blond hair and neat little figure, was a taking little thing, to be sure. Jeremy, who was ruggedly handsome in his own right, was bound to return her ardor.

  As Peggy set down the brush, Carlotta turned to her. “I beg that you get my volume of Kubla Kahn from the library.”

  “Ye are going to read on yer wedding night?”

  Carlotta smiled. “I am, indeed.”

  Peggy sighed, her hands fastened to her hips and a scolding look on her face. “Ye forget I cannot read. How will I know which book is that Chinese-sounding name?”

  “It's a slim blue leather.”

  * * *

  Later, when her husband joined her, Carlotta spoke first. She sat in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, candles burning at tables on each side of the bed to add to the illumination from the firelight. “Since you have no dressing room,” she said, “I won't object if you chose to disrobe in this chamber before coming to bed. I shall close my eyes.”

  “There's no need,” he said teasingly, “I'm not modest.”

  “But I am,” she protested, squeezing her eyes shut.

  A moment later, she felt the mattress sink as he climbed on it from the other side of the bed. She turned to gaze at him and was startled to find that he wore no clothing on the upper portion of his body. She did not even want to think what he might—or might not—be wearing under the blankets!

  Startling, too, was the unsettling effect his unclad shoulders had on her. It was so terribly intimate. And he was so very handsome. In the glow of the firelight, his skin was golden, with dark hair trailing down his well formed chest.

  As he smiled wickedly at her, she grew even more uncomfortable.

  “I perceive you took my advice and dressed for battle,” he said.

  His levity released hers, and she began to giggle. “I do admire a man with a sense of humor.”

  He shot her a devilish look. “Enough to kiss me goodnight?”

  “I'm no innocent, Lord Rutledge,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely. “I know what damage a sweet kiss can do to a man.”

  “Then your definition of damage must be different than mine.”

  Thank goodness, he still spoke with a measure of jest! She shrugged. “I shall give you a chaste kiss,” she said as if she were talking to a small child, “then I plan to read poetry to you.”

  “It is hoped the excitement does not overset me,” he said dryly.

  She giggled as she leaned into him and quickly brushed her lips across his, then pulled away.

  “What? No embrace?” he asked. “And I even plied you with brandy.”

  “You wicked man.” She reached for the book at her bedside table. “Peggy was most puzzled when I asked her to fetch my volume of Kubla Kahn.”

  “Simple-minded chit. You'll have to turn her out.” A smile feathering his lips, he crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back into the upholstered headboard.

  She wanted to reach out and touch him, but such an action could lead to far more intimacy, and she was not ready for the physical side of this marriage. Yet.

  “We'll share everything, James,” she said softly. “I'll learn to play your games, and you'll grow to love my poems. Long-married people, I am told, blend into one being. That will happen to us—after I become your true wife.”

  * * *

  The flippancy drained from his body. Dare he hope his bride meant those words? A wife. A family. That's all he had ever wanted from life. Could Carlotta's cold-as-marble exterior be hiding a woman of warmth and understanding? Only time would tell. He had promised her the rest of his life in which to find out.

  “Tell me again, what poem we share tonight, my love.” he said.

  “As you are a man, I thought we'd begin Kubla Kahn.”

  “So, you're to entertain me?”

  Her face scrunched with thought. “I prefer to think I'm assuring the melding of our interests.”

  He grabbed the book from her and tossed it toward the foot of the bed. Then he began to recite: She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellow'd to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies . . .

  “I'm afraid that's the only stanza I know,” he said apologetically.

  “I shall always remember you reciting Lord Byron on our first night as man and wife,” she said wistfully. “Thank you, James. It was beautiful.”


  “I have another,” he said.

  Her brows lifted. “We have more in common than I imagined. Please, go on.”

  “She was a phantom of delight when first she gleam'd upon my sight.”

  Carlotta joined in: “A lovely apparition, set to be a moment's ornament.”

  Together, they continued: Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like Twilight's, too, her dusk hair; But all things else about her drawn from May-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and waylay.

  “I love Wordsworth,” Carlotta declared when they finished.

  “Though I greatly admire Kubla Kahn, it's the ditties about haunting women that I seem to commit to memory,” he said, shrugging.

  Her lashes dropped. He'd made her uncomfortable. Did she realize he loved those poems of haunting women because they seemed written for her? Had he laid bare his heart too much?

  He reached for Kubla Kahn and handed it to her. “Here. Lull me to sleep with your voice.”

  She began to read, but it was not he whom Coleridge's words lulled to sleep. Soon, Carlotta's voice trailed off, and her eyelids dropped. He quietly removed the book from her limp grasp, then got up to blow out her candle.

  Before he returned to bed, he also blew out the candle on his side of the bed, then he slipped beneath the covers again. In the darkness, he listened to his wife's steady breathing, the breathing of a sleeping person. Though their wedding night had not ended in the manner he would have preferred, he was not displeased. Together, he and Carlotta were laying the foundation of a respectful marriage.

  As he lay there in the darkness, drinking in her lavender scent and listening to the soft whimper of her breath, he cursed himself for insisting they share a bed. How could he have been such a bloody fool as to think he could lie beside Carlotta and not want to take her in his arms and love her with all the passion and hunger so long bottled within him?

  He ached from his need. If only he could just touch her . . . He raised up and put his weight on one elbow. Then he began to gently stroke the soft mound of her hips. She did not stir, but he did. He quickly realized what another grave mistake he had made. He could go mad with debilitating want of her.