She could hardly wait!
With a guilty laugh, she went upstairs to see how the others were doing in the schoolroom quarters. She thought Jeremy at seventeen might object to sharing a room with Richard, but he didn’t complain. “I hope to be off to Cambridge soon,” he said.
Clearly he wasn’t suffering from any regrets.
Richard and Rachel had been sleeping in the same room at home, but it was past time to separate them. Meg was glad to find that neither minded. They both considered it a sign of growing up to get to share a room with their older brother or sister. Laura pulled a bit of a face about it, for she was used to sharing with Meg, but with her usual sunny nature, she didn’t object.
Since they were all happily finding places for their possessions, Meg slipped into the peaceful nursery for a moment to say a brief prayer of thanks. The sheelagh seemed pagan, but supposedly such stones could still be found in church walls, so she chose to see it as Godly. Therefore, her blessings came from God.
She gave thanks that her brothers and sisters were happy, and that they were going to be taken care of. She gave thanks that Laura would never be in danger from Sir Arthur or other such men. She gave thanks also for her husband being what he was. He was naughty, but also kind and generous. Most of the time.
Yes, truly, she was blessed, and if it weren’t for the sheelagh, she could be a very happy woman.
The sheelagh, however, sat in her contentment like a slug in a rose. It wasn’t just that she’d lost control of it and must get it back, but the fact that there was always a sting to its gifts. Pagan or blessed, it never brought untarnished benefits.
So, what could go wrong . . . ?
“Oh, stop it,” she said out loud. Perhaps the problems in the past came of poorly worded wishes. She had been very careful. Perhaps she’d outwitted it and received exactly what she’d wanted. More, in fact, than she’d ever dreamed of.
She looked around the long-unused nursery, waiting through so many years for a baby’s cry. She wandered over to trace the carving on the elaborate wooden cradle hung with cream brocade. Would her child lie here one day?
Hers and his.
That was part of marriage, too, and a part she longed for.
Another reason to welcome him to her bed.
As soon as she had the sheelagh back.
Astley’s was a huge success, especially as the special New Year’s show involved magic tricks with lights, water, flames, and even small explosions.
The twins clearly thought they’d gone to heaven, and over supper at Camille’s, they argued about who would be the most able to stand on a galloping horse’s back in order to rescue someone being carried off by a giant eagle.
“When we go to Haverhall,” the earl said, “you’ll have plenty of horses to try it on. But only under proper supervision.”
“Real horses?” they exclaimed as one, for despite their debate, neither had ever ridden.
“Ponies, perhaps at first. But my stables are quite famous and my horses deserve respect. No heavy hands. No reckless riders. And no attempted tricks without my permission or that of my head groom.”
They made absolutely no complaint about his firm orders. “Yes, sir,” they breathed, looking as if the glories were beginning to be too much for them.
Meg felt tears prick at her eyes, and fear stab at her heart. The tears were from happiness at how well everything was going. The fear was in case the sheelagh’s price was equal to the good provided.
She didn’t really know that was how it worked.
True, she had trapped the earl, and she would never feel quite right about that. Perhaps that alone was the price. It was almost like stealing—stealing a person. The only way to amend for that, however, was to make sure her family was no trouble to him, and to be the best wife she could.
Including in the bed.
She wished now she could let him get on with it tonight, but first, absolutely, she must get back the sheelagh. Heaven only knew what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands!
She was silent as the carriage rolled home. For the short journey, they’d all crammed into one, with Mr. Chancellor going about his own business, so there was no danger of her husband’s games. She just let the chat wash over her. Truth to tell, she was rather tired. It had been a long, tense day and she’d not slept well the night before.
But she couldn’t afford to sleep at all, or she’d surely not wake early enough.
“Minerva?”
She started at the earl’s voice, and found that the coach had halted, and the others were gone.
“We’re home,” he said. “You look exhausted.”
Stung by her recent thoughts, she straightened and said, “Not at all!”
His brows rose, but he smiled, and said, “How delightful.” As he handed her down, she knew it had been a tactical error.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“In a little while, my dear,” he said, leading her past waiting servants and straight upstairs. Not to her rooms. To his?
“The younger ones . . .” she said.
“Are being taken care of and put to bed. I think the twins are asleep on their feet.” He led her into a room. A kind of boudoir. A private area for a gentleman, with comfortable chairs and books.
And a huge, ornate cage containing a gray bird.
The bird might have been snoozing, but it perked up. “Hello, my lovely!” it said, shockingly in the earl’s voice. Then it added, “Aaaargh! Woman. Eve. Delilah!”
Meg stared at the bird, but the earl went over and fed it some tidbit, murmuring soothing, loving things. The bird almost seemed to be murmuring back!
The earl turned back to her. “I thought we’d better get the introductions over. I’m afraid Knox was trained by his previous owner to give out warnings on women and marriage.”
“I’m glad he’s caged.”
“He’s not attacked a woman yet, so there’s hope.”
Meg feared her words hadn’t pleased him. She had to cope with a jealous, woman-hating bird? “He lives in this room?” she asked hopefully.
“He’s free most of the day, particularly when I’m home,”—and indeed, he was opening the cage—“but he mostly stays in my rooms. He’s from the tropics and sensitive to cold. I keep the whole house warm, but please be careful.”
“Of course.” Meg couldn’t imagine wandering carelessly through her husband’s rooms.
The bird hopped to the door, then onto his shoulder, eyeing Meg. Then the earl walked toward her.
“Knox, this is Minerva. Say hello.”
“Eve. Delilah.” With that, the bird deliberately turned its back.
Meg had to laugh. “I’ve been cut by a bird!”
“Indeed. There should be some fruit in that box on the table. Let’s see if we can bribe him.”
“I’m not sure it’s necessary—”
“It’s necessary. He’s used to my company.”
Feeling somewhat put out by his priorities, Meg went and found the box. It contained hothouse grapes! She took one and walked round behind her husband to face the bird, but it promptly turned.
The earl took the bird in his hands. “Pretty lady,” he said, directing its attention to Meg. “Pretty lady. Show him the fruit.”
Meg held it out and it was immediately snatched.
“I didn’t say give it to him. Show him another.”
Beginning to be fascinated, Meg held a grape out of reach.
“Pretty lady,” the earl said again, stroking the bird patiently. “Pretty lady.”
“Pretty lady,” the bird eventually said, though it didn’t sound sincere.
Without being told, Meg offered the grape. The bird took it, but as soon as the earl let it go, it hopped onto his shoulder and turned its back again.
“He’ll come around,” he said with a laugh, “especially if you keep feeding him his favorite treats.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I just avoided his company?”
&nb
sp; “Not if you want mine. He’d pine to only see me on occasion.” He strolled over, bird on shoulder, and opened an adjoining door.
Meg tensed, but he walked through his bedroom to open the door to another room, which proved to be hers. “Ah, Susie gets to do the honors,” he said to the curtsying maid. “How appropriate.” He touched Meg’s cheek and said, “I’ll be back soon, my dear.”
Meg stared at the door that closed behind him. “His cousin Daphne is right. He is outrageous.”
Susie giggled. “But a charming devil with it, ain’t he, milady?”
Meg started. She’d forgotten she’d wasn’t alone. She was shaken by his promised return, but also by the fact that her chief rivals for his attention seemed to be a dog and a bird.
And she was disturbed, she must admit, by his deft handling of them. She feared that he planned to handle, train, and even hunt her with the same expertise. She had expected many challenges from this marriage, but none like this.
Susie came to take Meg’s cloak, and Meg let her, but she had no idea how to behave with a personal maid. Especially Susie, who knew too much about her business.
“Come along, milady,” Susie said kindly, guiding her toward the dressing room. “I’ve hot water for washing, and your nightgown warm and ready.”
Meg realized again that all these rooms were delightfully warm. Mainly, apparently, for the parrot’s sake.
The maid’s nimble fingers removed Meg’s bonnet and spencer, and began to undo the buttons down the front of her gown.
Meg decided that if she was a countess, she’d be an eccentric one. She stepped away. “I can manage by myself, Susie.”
“I’m sure,” the maid said, “but why bother?” She went on with her work, peeling off the dress and untying the stay laces as if Meg was a child.
Wrapped in so many other concerns, Meg lacked the will to resist. Anyway, presumably the maid knew the routine for preparing a woman for the earl’s bed. She hadn’t missed the fact that the woman-hating parrot was not kept in the earl’s bedroom.
She doubted, however, that any of the earl’s loose women had worn such a demure and weary-looking nightgown as hers, spread out waiting on a rack by the fire. In her solitary bed at the Ramillys’ there’d never seemed any need to buy new, but now the heavy white cotton had become a rather threadbare yellow, and the neat repair of a tear seemed horribly obvious.
When Susie would have taken off her shift, Meg rebelled. She kept it on as she washed herself, then dismissed the maid with the dirty water. Susie, however, insisted on staying long enough to unpin her hair and brush it out.
“There, milady,” she said. “Now, you just relax and enjoy yourself. Half the women in London’ll envy you this night!”
With that, the maid bustled out, leaving Meg speechless. Was marriage always like this? She supposed everyone knew what the bridal couple were going to do, but to just refer to it so casually . . . !
And, she thought, covering hot cheeks, she was going to have to send him away.
She studied her appearance in the mirror. Perhaps loose hair was more becoming than her usual bedtime plait. Perhaps she should stay in her shift. It was newer than her nightgown, and trimmed on all edges with embroidery in white and pale green—
Goodness! She wanted to deter him, didn’t she, not encourage him! Ears pricked for any sound of his approach, she tore off the shift and scrambled into her shabby nightgown, making sure it was buttoned up to the high neck and down to the snug wrists. Then she plaited her hair.
Now what?
She longed to hide under the sheets, but would that look inviting?
Her robe. Where was it?
Fearing his arrival at any moment, she scrabbled through drawers, mostly empty, then found the robe laid on a shelf in the armoire. Made of thick wool for winter warmth, and in a practical shade of brown, it would surely wither any lascivious thoughts on sight. Meg tightened the belt with the comfortable feeling of putting on armor. At that moment, the door clicked open and she turned to face her challenge.
He, too, wore a robe—a long robe of gold and brown brocade that made her think of a tiger. It buttoned, neck to knee and he was, if anything, more modestly dressed than in his tight breeches, but Meg had never seen anything more alarming.
Chapter 8
He looked her over, expression unreadable, then strolled to sit on her bed, leaning against one of the heavy posts. “You wished to talk?”
Despite a racing heart, Meg’s main emotion was irritation. “You do this deliberately!”
“What?” he asked with the innocence of a hardened liar.
“Put people off balance.”
“Why not? I suspect you aren’t going to provide any other entertainment tonight.” He stretched his legs and the lower part of his robe fell back, revealing muscular naked calves.
For the first time, Meg wondered if he was completely naked beneath the silk.
Good gracious. He was!
Because her knees had suddenly turned weak, she sat on the dresser bench behind her, fighting to look perfectly at ease with a handsome, mostly naked man in her bedroom. “A wife, my lord, is not for entertainment.”
“No? I am perfectly willing to entertain you.”
“My lord—”
“Saxonhurst.”
“Saxonhurst. And,” she demanded, “why the devil couldn’t you have had a shorter name? Like Rule, or Dane, or Strand?” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, appalled to hear such language escaping her lips.
Rather than showing shock, he laughed. “My deepest apologies, my dear. That’s probably why everyone calls me Sax.” With one of his special, twinkling smiles, he added, “Try it.”
Like a puppet, she said, “Sax.” But then she was up and pacing. “It is not kind to tease and torment me! You expect too much. You demand too much.”
“Minerva, I’m not—”
“This morning we were total strangers,” she swept on. “You can’t expect me to . . .”
“To what?” He looked completely innocent and puzzled, the wretch. He knew exactly what she meant.
“To permit you liberties,” she stated, tugging the belt of her robe even more securely around herself.
“Liberties,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Strange word, isn’t it? Freedoms. Freedom with one another’s person. Marriage does require that you give me the freedom of your body, Minerva. And it works both ways. You now have the freedom of mine.”
As he spoke, he straightened, spreading his hands as if offering a feast.
Himself. Tawny and gold, powerful and mysterious, and so devastatingly sure of his own charms.
Oh, if only she could just surrender to his gentle wiles. Though still nervous, and still irritated by his glowing ease and confidence, Meg knew Susie had been right. Most women would envy her the freedom of this man, and she was going to have to send him away.
Clenching her fists, she demanded, “Then why don’t I have the freedom to tell you to remove your body from this room?”
“That isn’t quite the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” She was looking at his beautiful lips and thinking about his beautiful kisses. . . .
With a snap she realized she’d been sucked into playing his games again, and as always, he was winning. Just talking about intimacy was sweeping her in that direction.
She looked him straight in the eye. “Very well, Saxonhurst. What exactly do you want? Why are you here?”
She’d never known a smile could turn so sparklingly wicked. “My dear, I don’t think you’re ready for me to describe my many and various plans for your enticing body.”
Meg stared at him and then, to her own dismay, she burst into tears.
She was swept into his arms, and she fought him. Then she was on the bed, writhing in his hold until she realized they were both sitting, backs against the headboard. Until she heard what he was saying.
“I’m damned sorry, my dear. Do stop crying.” He rocked her, and for once, th
e glossy Earl of Saxonhurst sounded distinctly unnerved.
Terror was instantly replaced by embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually . . .” She sniffed, and tried to wipe away tears with her fingers. “Oh dear.”
“Neither of us usually does.” He brushed one tear off her cheek with his thumb. “We’re making a sad botch of marriage, aren’t we? I fear I’ve lost my touch with innocents.”
“No!” Meg longed to explain. If it hadn’t been for the sheelagh, she would have happily let him tease her into his arms, into liberties and discoveries. She sniffed again, sure she now looked a mess. “No one can botch marriage inside twenty-four hours, my lord.”
He rolled off the bed and brought a towel to wipe her face. “I think the Prince of Wales managed it. But at least I haven’t come to you drunk and collapsed in the fireplace.”
She glanced at the red coals. “Thank heavens. You’d be a cinder.”
“Probably the whole idea behind summer weddings.” He dabbed one last time at her face. “Better?”
She nodded, but it wasn’t entirely true. She was on her bed, in her nightclothes, with a man, similarly attired, very close. He was kneeling on one leg, and she saw naked flesh. A muscular thigh. She suddenly wanted to touch it. To see if she was right about how it would feel—hot, hard, slightly roughened by the dark gold hair. . . .
She hastily looked up at his face. “I am tired, Saxonhurst,” she said, hearing the breathiness of her voice.
“Understandable.” But he took her hand and tugged her off the bed. Oh no, what now? Meg wasn’t sure how long her resistance could last. If he kissed her . . .
He simply pulled down the covers, then gestured. “My lady, your bed awaits.”
Hesitantly, Meg slipped out of her concealing robe and under the sheets, pulling them well up. “Thank you.”
“I am eternally at your service, my dear.” But then he began to unbutton his robe.
“What are you doing!” It was almost a shriek.
His fingers paused. “Coming to bed.”
“No! I mean, my lord—Saxonhurst—Sax—I need to sleep.”
“Then we’ll sleep together.”
“But you have your own bed.” Was it possible? Did aristocratic married couples with their own suites of rooms sleep together?
Jo Beverley Page 12
