by Jane Goodger
Lady Chesterfield cried throughout the short ceremony, much to Lilian’s despair (and irritation), while Georgette and Adam Dunford looked on solemnly. Marcus resembled a man heading to the gallows, and Lilian felt much the same. Like all young girls, she’d imagined a much different wedding from the one performed in a tiny, windowless chapel with a pair of swallows nesting in the rafters. Her sister’s wedding had been a sinfully lavish affair with five hundred guests, followed by a ball that had lasted well into the early morning hours. Lilian had been her maid of honor, but only at the insistence of their dear mother. Theresa, even then, had disliked the way Weston looked at her older sister. What Theresa had never quite understood was how much Lilian had come to loathe that look of lust on the duke’s face.
“My lady wife,” Marcus said, bowing formally when the ceremony had concluded and kissing her hand. He then held out one arm for her to take, and they walked from the chapel, followed by his family. There had been no time to have the rest of his family make the trip to Whitby, and Lilian was honestly relieved. As for her family, she wouldn’t have invited them even had her wedding been more conventional. Theresa, who had just buried her husband, would not have been expected to attend the wedding, so Lilian hadn’t bothered to invite her. She would write her a letter later with the news.
Marcus had said his vows without inflection and certainly without affection, and even though Lilian knew this was not a love match, her throat closed up briefly. She’d thought, given the way he had kissed her, that he perhaps had some feeling for her, but since that night they’d hardly spoken to one another, never mind kissed. Dinners had been stilted affairs with his mother always seemingly on the verge of tears and Adam and Georgette walking as if on eggshells. The only time she’d been tempted to speak up was when the subject of where they would live following the wedding came up.
“Merdunoir is my home now,” Marcus had said, brooking no argument.
His mother opened her mouth as if to argue, but wisely shut it when she saw her son’s hard gaze. No one had asked her opinion. Had they, she would have told them she wanted to live in London, at least part of the year. She had friends there, friends she dearly missed and had only seen on rare occasions since her sister’s wedding since Weston had refused to finance her trips. Then again, given all that had transpired surrounding Weston’s murder, perhaps it was for the best. She had no idea what sort of reception she would receive and had no wish to put her friends in an awkward position.
As they left the chapel, it began to rain, heavy sheets of windblown drops that stung her cheeks as they hurried from the chapel back to Merdunoir. By the time they reached the entryway, Lilian’s carefully coiffed hair was in ruins and her dress a wet mess. She looked down at her water-soaked slippers and couldn’t help but laugh.
“Will I never be able to keep a pair of shoes dry?” she asked, looking at the watery prints she’d left on the parquet floor. She looked up, hoping to share the moment with Granton, only to be disappointed. He was already walking toward the dining room, where breakfast was being prepared by a beaming Sadie. His housekeeper /cook was the only one in the household who was excited about the marriage. Apparently no one had shared with Sadie the fact that the wedding was not a happy event. Either that or she’d chosen to completely ignore the fact that no one else wanted to celebrate; she had prepared a lavish breakfast feast. Lilian was overwhelmed by the woman’s hard work, and deeply touched.
“This is wonderful, Sadie,” she told the older woman. The table sparkled with the house’s finest china, the cutlery had been shined, new candles stood in gleaming candelabras. And the food was exquisite: poached eggs, thick slabs of ham, devilled kidneys (not a favorite of Lilian’s, but she said nary a word), strawberry scones, and an assortment of cold meats. Sadie dipped a deep curtsy, then had the audacity to give her a wink, forcing Lilian to stifle a laugh. She was a viscountess now and no doubt should frown upon servants winking at her, but Lilian found she could not bring herself to be even remotely angry.
The group ate in near silence, with Lilian sitting across from Marcus, who ate his food with unusual gusto. Only the sound of cutlery against china could be heard, something that Lilian found highly amusing. She wondered what they all would do if she let out a loud belch simply to break the silence.
“Sadie has outdone herself,” she said to no one in particular. And because she’d said it to no one in particular, no one responded. It wasn’t until Lady Chesterfield began dabbing at her eyes again that Lilian lost her temper.
“Marcus.” He looked up from his plate as if surprised to find himself with company.
“Yes?”
“Would you please tell your mother that you have not been sentenced to death? I do believe she misunderstood the purpose of the ceremony we just participated in.”
Lucille gasped in outrage, but Lilian continued to stare stonily at her new husband. The corners of his mouth curved up infinitesimally, but Lilian wasn’t certain whether it was in anger or mirth. He calmly set down his fork and knife and turned toward his mother.
“I have not been sentenced to death, Mother,” he said dutifully, and Lilian had to fight the urge to go over and throttle him. He gave Lilian a quick look, and this time she saw the humor in his gaze. “Indeed, Mother, I have entered into this union quite freely and look forward to a long and happy marriage.”
One might have thought he had told his mother he was, indeed, heading to the gallows, for the woman burst into tears. Apparently, Lady Chesterfield had missed the lesson on keeping a stiff upper lip unless in private. Georgette, being the dutiful daughter-in-law, hurried to Lucille’s side and comforted her, but spared Lilian a small smile over the older woman’s head. Lilian, for her part, decided to ignore the blubbering woman and enjoy her breakfast, even though she could hardly taste it any longer.
In short order, Lady Chesterfield composed herself and apologized profusely—to her son—and then managed to eat quite a large amount of breakfast with surprising enthusiasm, given she had just been sobbing into her napkin. As they finished eating, the rain subsided, leaving behind the lovely musical sound of drops falling from the eaves.
“The rain is letting up,” Marcus said. “I thought perhaps you might be trapped here for another day, but it appears you will be able to return home after all.”
“What should I tell people about the child?” Lucille asked.
“I honestly don’t know. It seems every story I come up with taints her, which is the last thing I want to do. In the end, it doesn’t matter, for people will come to their own conclusions no matter what I say.”
“They’ll think she’s yours, of course,” Adam said. “It’s unfortunate there is a certain resemblance to the family, even though she has no Dunford blood. She looks remarkably like Rose did when she was young, don’t you think, Mother?”
“Not at all. She looks like Eleanor.”
“True, she does,” Adam said. “The eyes.” Adam looked over at his brother, as if questioning whether Mabel could be his child, after all, and Marcus shook his head.
“I was in the States,” he said. “I have no idea who her sire is, but you can be assured it is not I.”
“I suppose you could claim she was the orphan of a friend. Do you have any dead friends?” Adam asked, clearly finding humor in the situation. Marcus was not, however, amused.
“No. I will say she is my daughter and no one will question me.”
Lilian smiled, glad that Marcus was taking such a public stance on Mabel’s parentage. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be for him to accept as his own his wife’s child by another man. How humiliating it must be.
“Do you know who the father is?” Lucille asked.
“I have no idea, but I did write to Eleanor’s maid. If anyone knows, it would be her, as she accompanied Eleanor to Northumberland for the birth.”
“And what will you do with that information?” Adam asked.
“Likely nothing. When I wrote, it wa
s with the intention of uniting father and daughter, but that option no longer seems tenable.”
“He adores Mabel,” Lilian said, and was oddly gratified when Marcus scowled at her. “You do,” she insisted. “I don’t know why you cannot admit it.”
“She is my legal responsibility,” he said flatly, and Lilian nearly rolled her eyes. She had no idea why he could never admit to a tender side. She knew it was there, hidden beneath his scowls.
Following breakfast, Marcus’s family readied themselves for their departure, and when they were finally gone, Lilian breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Now you understand why I choose to live at Merdunoir,” Marcus said as he watched their carriage pull away from the house. He turned to her, his expression unreadable.
“It’s mostly your mother. She’s rather . . .”
“Emotional? Manipulative? You did well with her, standing up to her like that.” They stood side by side at the threshold of their home, not touching, staring out to the moors that surrounded the house. The heather was nearly in full bloom and quite lovely, but his mind was in too much chaos to fully appreciate the scenery.
God, he was married. And his wife, the wife he didn’t want and who very likely didn’t want him, was standing next to him looking hopeful. And frightened. Hell, if she only knew how frightened he was. He’d never thought he would have to deflower a virgin again. It had been damned unnerving the first time he’d done it, and it hadn’t gone well. Eleanor had lain there as if awaiting her execution, rigid, hands by her sides, head turned away. Her reaction had been wholly unexpected, for during their courtship she’d been lively and almost too flirtatious. Marcus remembered looking forward to their wedding night, only to find that the girl he’d married was nothing like the girl he’d courted. He’d felt almost as if he were raping her, and it hadn’t gotten much better as time passed. In the early years of their marriage, Marcus had believed Eleanor simply disliked intimacy, so it had been a double blow to realize she was lying with other men, enjoying their caresses, when she’d only barely tolerated his. It was damned unmanning, and he couldn’t help but think he was somehow lacking in his bedroom skills. Now he was faced with another virgin, another wife. Another failure.
Before marrying Eleanor, he hadn’t been particularly experienced in the bedroom. His chums at Oxford had purchased a whore for him and given him all kinds of tips, but by the time he’d found himself alone with the woman, he had been far into his cups and the experience wasn’t altogether memorable. His father did not abide carousing, nor drinking to excess, nor whoring at all. His friends thought him cold and overly straitlaced, and he never could admit to them that he was the carefully honed product of an over-strict father whom he feared. And so, when he’d gone to his marriage bed, his experience had been limited to one drunken night with a London whore. He’d known the mechanics of it, known where he’d wanted to touch Eleanor, but wasn’t certain he knew to do it at all correctly. Apparently, given that Eleanor had sought her pleasure elsewhere, he hadn’t been particularly talented.
Now he was faced with another virgin, another woman who might be left wanting. Who might turn to other men to find what he could not give. In truth, Marcus wasn’t at all certain he could face Lilian tonight. Part of him had almost hoped she wanted a marriage in name only, though God above knew he wanted her. Just standing next to her, breathing in her soft floral scent, made him ache for her. Pulling out his watch, he grimaced when he realized it was hours before bedtime, and he wondered how Lilian would react if he suggested consummating their marriage now simply to get the ordeal over with. He’d never made love to Eleanor during the daytime, and the thought of making love with the sun caressing Lilian’s face, the sweet curve of her breasts, was enough to make him light-headed.
He thought back on his courtship with Eleanor and realized he hadn’t done much more than kiss her cheek before their wedding. Although it was perfectly acceptable for engaged couples to enjoy at least some privacy, Eleanor’s mother would have none of it. She’d hovered by her daughter continuously, always fearing they would get “carried away.”
“Well. They are gone,” he said. Indeed, the carriage had disappeared over a hill some time ago.
“Yes.”
“I suppose we should go in.”
She looked behind her as if reaffirming that the house still stood. “Do you suppose we should just face this head-on? Get it over with?” She swallowed and his eyes drifted to her delicate throat.
“We could. I would like that, actually.” He smiled, unable to stop the sudden surge of joy he felt. It hit him hard and unexpectedly, and he frowned.
Lilian laughed. “Then why are you frowning? You are the most difficult man to understand, but I shall make it my mission to understand you.” She looked up at him, her eyes particularly beautiful in the sun, as if lit from within. “I am your wife. I cannot fathom it. Yesterday, I was just me, Lady Lilian Martin, and today I am Viscountess Granton and someday a countess.” She shook her head. “Are you very disappointed?”
He scratched his head abashedly. “I’m not certain what I feel. But I do know one thing, I would very, very much like to ‘get this over with.’ I’ve wanted to have you in my bed for quite some time, but since we weren’t married, it wasn’t quite the thing.”
“Truly?”
He nodded. “I never should have looked at you in your bath. It was all I could think of.”
“No!” she said, horrified. “Truly? All the time?”
“Most of the time.” He shrugged. “You’re quite pretty, you know. And there is all that hair.”
She lifted a hand to her hair, suddenly seeming self-conscious. “You’ll have to tell me what to do. In bed. I’ve never . . .”
“I know.”
She gave him a tentative smile. “Shall we, my lord husband?”
Marcus grinned; he simply couldn’t help himself, even though his stomach was a bundle of nerves. “Yes, we shall.” As they turned to go back into the house, he said, “Georgette spoke to you last night. About tonight? She mentioned something to me to that effect.”
“Yes. She did.”
“So you know what to expect?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“If you’d like, we could take things slowly. Get to know one another. Wait.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Thank God,” he breathed, and Lilian laughed.
Then, without preamble, without even the glimmer of a warning, he grabbed one of her arms and spun her around so that she was facing him, and then kissed her, a long, drugging kiss that left her weak-kneed. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”
Lilian tilted her head and looked at him, his handsome, stern face, his golden-brown eyes, the set of his mouth, and wondered if she would ever know what was going on in his head. Had anyone asked her, she would have said Marcus was unhappy with the marriage. But would an unhappy man kiss her until her toes curled?
They walked up the stairs side by side, as if they had nothing looming in front of them, as if it were an ordinary thing to walk into a bedroom together and make love. Halfway up, Marcus shouted, “Sadie, have someone watch Mabel, will you?”
“Yes, my lord,” the housekeeper called back, sounding quite happy.
Lilian stifled a giggle, then took a deep breath to calm her nerves, for she was nervous. In a few minutes, the man beside her would be putting his thing inside her and it would hurt. But Georgette had reassured her that the pain would be brief, would never happen again, and she could come to enjoy it. Based on how she felt when Marcus kissed her, she was optimistic about the future.
When they crossed the threshold to his room, Lilian said, “I daresay there are not too many brides who are intimately familiar with their husband’s bedroom.” She laughed, aware of how nervous she sounded. Next to her, Marcus had removed his coat and Lilian took a step away, toward the bed. Then, realizing the direction she was walking, she backed up, nearly into her new h
usband, who was bending over to remove his shoes. Her heart beat madly in her chest, and she suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. Should she be getting undressed, as well? Was she supposed to take off all her clothes? From what she understood of the act, it didn’t seem necessary to be completely naked.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her breath shallow, her stomach roiling with nerves.
Marcus snapped his head up, and for a moment, Lilian thought she saw pure anguish there before he masked it. He straightened, one shoe on, one shoe off and gave her a small helpless gesture. “I would like for you to remove your clothing.”
She swallowed. “All of it?”
“Yes.”
Lilian turned her back and squeezed her eyes shut. She was to be naked in front of him, completely exposed. Oh, God, I don’t think I can do it!
Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and he gently turned her around. Lilian stared at his chest, his naked chest—oh, Lord—and kept her hands fisted by her sides. He took one of her fisted hands and laid it against his chest so that she could feel his beating heart.
“I’m nervous, too, Lilian. More than you would suspect. I want this to be good between us. I want to give you nothing but pleasure. Please.”
She looked up at his entreaty and gave him a tentative smile before looking at her fist, still pressed against his warm, lightly furred, and gloriously muscled chest. She spread out her hand. He inhaled sharply, and for the first time in her life she realized a strange power. He liked that she was touching him, probably as much as she liked being touched. Moving her hand, she explored his chest, his shoulders, his neck, finally bringing her other hand up to join the first behind his neck. He stood still, unmoving, his muscles taut beneath her caress.
