by Emily Larkin
The Baronet’s Bride
Midnight Quill #3
Emily Larkin
Contents
A note to readers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Afterwards
Author’s Note
Claim your FREE book
Thank You
The Spinster’s Secret
The Earl’s Dilemma
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Emily Larkin
Dear Reader
Gareth and Cecy met in The Spinster’s Secret. The Baronet’s Bride continues immediately on the heels of that novel and concludes their story. I would recommend reading The Spinster’s Secret before reading The Baronet’s Bride.
Emily Larkin
A note to readers
The word bâtman occurs several times in The Baronet’s Bride. A bâtman was an enlisted soldier who performed his normal regimental duties, but also acted as an officer’s valet. For this, he received extra pay. It wasn’t uncommon for a bâtman to follow his officer into civilian life, as Gareth’s bâtman has done.
Chapter One
At sixteen, Cecy had married her childhood sweetheart, Frederick Dunn. Two weeks later, he’d been hit by a falling roof tile and she’d become a widow. Now, at twenty-five, she was a bride again.
It was the oddest feeling to be married again, a heady combination of emotions. Joy was predominant, a deliciously buoyant sensation that she’d felt from the moment Gareth had proposed, six days ago. Cecy had tried to conceal the joy from her employer. Lady Marchbank hadn’t liked joy or laughter or exuberance. Nor had she liked Cecy’s handing in her notice. “Deserting her,” in Lady Marchbank’s words. Cecy had hidden her happiness, creeping along the dark corridors of Creed Hall, enduring the scolds and the displeasure, counting down the days, hours, and minutes until Gareth returned with the special license, and in the moments when she’d been alone, when there’d been no one to see her—not Lady Marchbank or any of the servants—she’d allowed herself to walk with a bounce in her step, and it had felt as if she might actually become airborne.
Now, on her wedding night, seated at the dressing table in her bedchamber, she felt almost light enough to float out of her chair. I am married. Married to a man I love. The joy bubbled up again, and alongside it was sheer, utter relief, because she’d thought it would never happen—a love match—not given her age and her poverty and the fact that she’d been working at Creed Hall, surely the grimmest, gloomiest, most isolated house in England.
But it had happened. Gareth was real, just as this morning’s ceremony had been real, and the bedchamber was real, and the dressing table she sat at right now was real, and her new name was real. Cecily Locke. That’s who I am now.
Not Cecily Armitage, vicar’s daughter. Vicar’s orphan.
Not Cecily Dunn, apprentice apothecary’s wife, then apprentice apothecary’s widow, and then—for nine grueling years—nurse-companion to Lady Marchbank.
But Cecily Locke, baronet’s wife.
Cecily stared at herself in the mirror. This is actually me. Lady Cecily Locke.
Disbelief was the third emotion she’d experienced frequently today. A triumvirate of emotions: joy, relief, disbelief.
Cecy pinched herself, an actual pinch, not merely a mental one. Can this really be true? I’m married?
But yes, the pinch hurt, and yes, it was true. This was her life now: Gareth Locke’s wife.
Her marvelous, miraculous, unexpected life.
Cecy gazed around the bedchamber. She had slept in inns before, but never in a room this nice. A lady’s room this, not a lowly nurse-companion’s. The candles were beeswax, not tallow, and the bed was piled high with soft pillows and there were pretty knickknacks on the mantelpiece. Outside it was bitterly cold, the longest night of the year almost upon them, but the snug shutters and the chintz curtains and the blazing fire kept winter at bay.
Cecy was tempted to pinch herself again. This can’t be true.
The buoyant joy surged again, and on its heels, the relief. Relief that she had a husband she loved. Relief that—for the first time in her life—she had financial security. Money was important, and perhaps it was a shameful, shallow thing to admit, but it was true. Any orphan who’d lived with an impoverished great-aunt knew it. Any wife who’d been unable to pay for a beloved husband’s funeral knew it. And any widow who’d been forced to work for her living knew it.
Cecy thought about Frederick, buried in his pauper’s grave. And then she thought about Gareth, who was alive—if somewhat battered. Gareth, with his lean, tanned face and his kind eyes. Gareth, with his amputated arm. Gareth, who’d suffered enough these past months. Protectiveness surged fiercely in Cecy’s breast. She wanted to stand between Gareth and the world, to shield him from further hurt, to make him smile, make him laugh, to fill his life with happiness. And children. Lots of children.
Cecy glanced at the wide, soft bed again. Gareth had suggested they postpone consummating their marriage until the journey was over, but she’d refused. Physical congress was part of marriage, and if it was the part a wife liked the least, it was also the part a husband liked the most; she knew that from her brief marriage to Frederick, and she also knew that the act of copulation would be over quickly. A few minutes of discomfort, a little mess afterwards, and that would be it for the night. What wife who loved her husband would balk at that? Especially if it gave her husband pleasure—and if it could bring them the children they both craved.
Cecy closed her eyes and sent up a little prayer: Please, Lord, bless us with children. She glanced at the door that connected her bedchamber to Gareth’s, and then at the clock on the mantelpiece. Gareth had said he’d knock on her door at ten.
It was only half past nine. Perhaps when she wore the clothes of a baronet’s wife, not those of a nurse-companion, it would take her half an hour to undress, but tonight that task had been completed in a matter of minutes—stripping out of the gray dress and the threadbare petticoat, the half-stays and the chemise, and donning her nightgown.
Cecy gave the clock one last glance and turned her attention to the journal she was writing. Not a journal for herself, but for the daughters she hoped to have, so that if she died before they were wed they wouldn’t go into their marriages as ignorant as she’d been.
Do not fear the marriage bed, she wrote firmly. While it is natural to feel shy and nervous, strive not to be afraid. The first time is a little painful, but thereafter it should merely be uncomfortable. As for the act of copulation, it is over swiftly. Your husband will use his hand to position his organ between your legs, then he will push it inside you a few times until he releases his seed in your womb, whereupon he will withdraw. The intimacy of the act will likely embarrass you at first, but you will soon come to regard it as commonplace. It is a little messy, though, so you will need to wipe between your legs afterwards with a handkerchief. Do not be disgusted by this. It is entirely natural.
There, the sort of practical knowledge she wished she’d had on her wedding night with Frederick.
What else did she wish she’d known then? Advice her long-dead mother had been unable to give her.
Cecy tapped the quill against her lips and thought for a few minutes, and began to write again.
We are formed so that men enjoy copulation and women do not, so don’t be disappointed that you don’t experience the throes of pleasure that your husband does. A wife learns to enjoy physical congress for her husband’s sake. If he loves you and has a kind heart then he will not prolong the act.
Cecy reread those lines, and hesitated over “learns to enjoy.” Should she cross it out and write “accustoms herself to” instead? There was no physical enjoyment for women in the marriage bed and she didn’t want her daughters to have false expectations. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, and then wrote: While you won’t experience bodily pleasure in the marriage bed, you will experience emotional pleasure in knowing your husband enjoys copulation, and in knowing that a child may result from your union.
Cecy glanced at the clock. Still fifteen minutes to wait.
She looked at what she’d written. “It is natural to feel shy and nervous,” she read aloud. Advice for her daughters—but at this moment, advice for herself. Because she was a little nervous, and she was feeling shy, and that was natural.
“The intimacy of the act will likely embarrass you at first, but you will soon come to regard it as commonplace.” Cecy read that sentence out loud, too, and huffed a faint, wry laugh. Embarrassing? Yes, it would be embarrassing this first time, and probably more than a little awkward. But she and Gareth would get past that moment together.
Don’t be anxious about your wedding night, Cecy wrote in the journal, to her daughters and to herself. It is a necessary . . .
A necessary what? Hurdle? Obstacle? Challenge?
Cecy didn’t like any of those words, with their connotation of doing something unpleasant. She wanted a neutral word.
Don’t be anxious about your wedding night. It is a necessary event. Every husband and wife must have one.
Chapter Two
1815 had been a year of extremes for Gareth.
It was the year his uncle had died and he’d inherited not just the old man’s property, but his baronetcy, too.
It was the year he’d fought at Waterloo and lost one of his dearest friends in the battle—and lost his own left arm.
It was the year his fiancée, Miss Eugenia Swinthorp, had balked at marrying him, baronetcy or not.
And it was the year he’d met Cecily Dunn and fallen head over heels in love with her in the space of a few days.
1815 had quite literally been the worst year of his life, but now, halfway through December, Gareth had just had what felt like one of the best days of his life.
Because today was the day he’d married Cecily.
He allowed himself to remember the moment: the church in Gripton, the marriage license, Cecily holding his hand, the vicar’s dry, reedy voice as he pronounced them man and wife. They hadn’t kissed then, but they’d looked at each other and he’d seen shy delight in Cecily’s eyes and joy in her smile, and the sense of connection between them, of destiny and absolute rightness, had been so strong that he had literally felt it in his bones. Cecily and I are meant to be together.
Today had been perfect, and tomorrow promised to be equally perfect.
There was just the matter of the wedding night to get through, and it loomed large now, as his bâtman, Higgs, removed the neckcloth from around Gareth’s throat and folded it ready to be washed, ironed, and starched again.
Higgs had a habit of humming softly under his breath while he worked. Gareth had heard that hum so many times over the last few years that he rarely noticed it, but tonight he concentrated on that faint sound, because thinking about Higgs humming was a lot better than thinking about what would come next.
Higgs helped him out of his waistcoat, which meant that Gareth was one step closer to being ready for bed. One step closer to his wedding night.
Don’t think about it, Gareth told himself.
He focused on the humming while Higgs folded the waistcoat. Scarborough Fair. That was tonight’s song.
Higgs helped him strip off the shirt next. Gareth avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He tried to recapture the joy he’d felt all day, but it had drained away. In its place was an uneasy eddy of anxiety.
“Shall I check the bandage, sir?” Higgs asked.
“Please.”
Gareth’s left arm ended above the elbow. He kept the stump covered with a bandage, partly because that light, firm pressure seemed to help with the pain, but mostly because he didn’t want to look at what remained of his arm. Gareth examined the ceiling while Higgs checked the bandage; after six months he still couldn’t bring himself to watch while the bâtman touched that truncated limb.
Higgs didn’t hum. He never hummed when he dealt with Gareth’s arm. “All good, sir,” he said. “Doesn’t need changing.”
“Good.”
Higgs turned his attention to the portmanteau, humming again as he hunted for a nightshirt.
Gareth fumbled at the waistband of his breeches. Damn it, when had undoing a button become so difficult? He’d managed all right last night.
But last night hadn’t been his wedding night.
Don’t think about it. He concentrated on the humming while he shucked his breeches and peeled off his stockings—simple tasks that were so damned awkward to do one-handed.
Higgs shook out a folded nightshirt. “Here you are, sir.”
Gareth reached for the nightshirt—and caught sight of himself in the mirror, naked except for his linen drawers . . . and the bandage protecting the stump of his left arm. He flinched at the sight, flinched at the familiar kick of emotions, the grief and the disbelief—That’s really me?—and looked hastily away.
Higgs helped him put the nightshirt on. It was stupid how difficult it was to wrestle one’s way into a nightshirt when one only had one arm.
Gareth stood silently while Higgs pinned up the left sleeve. The bâtman had become deft at doing that in the months since Waterloo.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you, Higgs.”
“Good night, sir.”
“’Night, Higgs.”
The door closed behind the bâtman, and suddenly Gareth’s wedding night was a whole lot closer than it had been a minute ago.
He should be eager for what was coming next. He and Cecily alone together, kissing and touching, making love. But he wasn’t eager. In fact, if he had any choice in the matter he wouldn’t consummate his marriage tonight. Or tomorrow night, or next week, or perhaps not ever.
When had he become so afraid of sex?
That was easy to answer: six months ago, when the battlefield surgeon had amputated his arm. And it wasn’t so much the sex that he was afraid of, it was disappointing Cecily with his awkward one-handedness, or worse, disgusting her with his body.
He couldn’t let her see him naked. That went without saying. No nudity, ever.
Thank God she’d been married before. Thank God she wasn’t a virgin. She knew what to expect between them tonight. That would make it easier.
Easier perhaps, but it was inevitable that she’d compare him to her first husband. A man who’d been youthful and vigorous and who’d had two arms.
Gareth squeezed his eyes shut. He really didn’t want to open the door between their two bedchambers.
Don’t you want children, Gary? Can’t have children without sex.
Gareth opened his eyes and stared at himself in the mirror. He tried to recapture the joy he’d felt when Cecily had accepted his offer of marriage, the joy he’d felt when the vicar had pronounced them man and wife. He loved Cecily. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He wanted everything that being married to her entailed.
Except the sex.
All day he’d veered away from thinking about it. He’d thought about everything but sex—but now, here it was, confronting him.
Oh, God, I can’t do this.
But he had to. He’d made a commitment to Cecily. He’d promised, before God, to be her husband.
Gareth met his own gaze in the mirror and made his second vow for the day: that he would do nothing to make Cecily regret marrying him. He’d be the husband she deserved—strong, not weak—and if he wasn’t whole, he would pretend to be whole. He’d conceal his limitations from her, never let her see just how helpless he really was, that he had dif
ficulty doing up his buttons, that he struggled to shave himself, that even putting on his nightshirt was hard now. And he would never, ever do anything to inspire her pity.
The army had taught him to plan ahead, and he had. He and Cecily would have separate bedchambers, so she’d never see just how much Higgs had to help him. His cook had already learned to serve only meals that he could eat one-handed. His groom knew to lead his horse to the mounting block without asking and to hold the reins while he climbed into the saddle. In most aspects of his life, he’d learned to pass as competent.
Except in bed. The last hurdle. The worst hurdle.
Right now Cecily loved him—she’d told him so today, and the words had brought stinging tears to his eyes. His missing arm seemed not to bother her. More than that, she seemed to accept it, as if it was just another detail about him: that he had brown hair and hazel eyes and only one arm. Cecily didn’t avert her gaze from his empty sleeve as his former fiancée had done; she smiled at him as if he were a normal man. When he was with her he sometimes even forgot that he had only one arm, and in the times when he was aware of it, it didn’t seem to matter quite so much. But right now it was impossible to forget it, and it mattered. A lot.
Gareth looked at himself in the mirror. For the first twenty-nine years of his life he’d had two arms. Now, he only had one.
His fiancée, Miss Swinthorp, had made him feel as if he was an emasculated parody of a man. Worse than that, she’d made him feel ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his body. Ashamed that he’d thought, for even one second, that she would still want to marry him now that he had only one arm.
