How the Lady Was Won (Survivors)

by Galen, Shana

  How the Lady Was Won

  The Survivors: Book VII

  Shana Galen

  HOW THE LADY WAS WON

  Copyright © 2020 by Shana Galen

  Cover Design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  About Shana Galen

  If you enjoyed this book, pre-order Kisses and Scandal, available April 2020.

  One

  Also by Shana Galen

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Abby Saul for editing and formatting and to Kim Killion for the cover design. Thank you to Sarah Rosenbarker for proofreading. Any and all mistakes are the sole responsibility of the author. Special thanks to Gayle Cochrane for her help with graphics and promotion.

  One

  London, 1810

  He wasn’t supposed to be nervous. He was supposed to be confident and self-assured, to soothe his bride’s frayed nerves.

  But Colin had never done this before.

  He paced his bed chamber and glanced at the bracket clock. The hour grew late. If he waited much longer, Lady Daphne would think he didn’t want her.

  He did want her.

  He didn’t really know her, but he found her attractive enough. Still, just because she had stunning blue eyes and long, silvery blond hair didn’t mean he wanted to take all of his clothes off and go to bed with her. He didn’t so much mind the part where she took off her clothes...

  Except that seemed an awkward thing too.

  Was he expected to make some comment on her body? Was he supposed to be overcome by passion at the sight of her naked flesh? How was he to know what the right thing to say might be? When he lay beside her, was he supposed to whisper words of love? He didn’t love her. He knew almost nothing about her. And he was not a man given to strong emotions. He didn’t want to be overcome by passion or tortured by love. His schoolmates had always called him The Poet, but that was because he had dark, curly hair and a perpetually brooding expression. He wasn’t very good with words.

  And he was an absolute failure when it came to emotions.

  The clock chimed midnight, and Colin knew he could not wait any longer. Trying not to think too much about what he should or shouldn’t do, he opened his bed chamber door and crossed the corridor to tap on his wife’s door. The sound was muffled, but in the silent house, it seemed to echo like a pistol shot. Her family, all tucked away in their beds, had probably heard the quiet knock and known exactly what it meant. He wished he had thought to suggest they spend their first night together at a hotel. He wished he had his own residence, but it seemed an unnecessary expense when he was leaving in a fortnight to join his regiment in the army.

  Still he was nervous enough without having to do the deed under the Duke of Warcliffe’s roof. Colin would have to sit across from his father-in-law at breakfast in the morning. The duke would chat about the weather or some such thing, while both of them thought about how Colin had deflowered the duke’s youngest daughter the night before.

  “Come in!” Lady Daphne’s voice was not nearly as quiet as he might have hoped. But she was not a quiet woman. He supposed that when one was the youngest of nine children, one had to fight not to be ignored. Lady Daphne certainly made sure no one ignored her.

  Colin opened the door and poked his head in. “I hope I am not disturbing you.” She was seated in bed, the pillows behind her propping her up so that her blond hair streamed down her shoulders and over the white linen of her nightclothes. He’d never seen her without her hair piled high and embellished with curls and feathers and jeweled pins. She looked smaller with her hair loose and brushed into soft waves. Her face looked pale, her plump lips starkly red in contrast. A lamp burned on the table beside the bed, and she placed the book she’d been reading near it.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Her eyes, so blue under dark brows and lashes, met his gaze without hesitation.

  Of course, she had. He should not have made her wait.

  “I apologize.” He closed the door and stood awkwardly in front of it. Did he start undressing now or did he undress her first? Or perhaps he just lifted her skirts and did it that way. That would save both of them the embarrassment of removing clothing. She pushed the coverlet aside and slid out of bed. Colin couldn’t help but follow the flash of ankle he saw and then her bare feet as she padded across the carpet to a bottle of wine on the dresser. She had such small, white feet.

  “Do you want a glass of wine?” she asked, holding a bottle out to him.

  He nodded. He wanted this over, but if she wanted wine, he wouldn’t deny her. She poured two glasses and crossed to him. Her night rail was not flimsy, but it was not exactly meant to hide her body. A row of bows lined the front from neck to knee, and there was a gap of about two inches between each, giving him tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. Of course, her nightclothes would have bows. Everything she wore was covered in copious bows. But while those were mainly for show, these seemed functional. If he pulled at the corners of one, the nightrail would open.

  Colin drank half his wine.

  “I thought we might talk for a while,” she said, looking up at him uncertainly. She was nervous as well. He really should say something like, you have nothing to worry about or I won’t hurt you. But what if he did hurt her? He looked down at her. He wished she were a bit taller and not quite so delicate-looking. Her breasts pushed at the bow containing them, and his mouth went dry.

  “If you like,” he said, sipping more wine. His glass was almost empty.

  “We don’t know each other very well,” she said, stating the obvious. “But I’m certain our mothers would not have wanted us to marry if they hadn’t thought we would make a good match.”

  Colin didn’t necessarily agree with that statement. The Duchess of Warcliffe and Viscountess FitzRoy had been friends since girlhood. They always said they were as close as sisters. Colin suspected they wanted their youngest children to marry because it would formally connect the two families, although no one in the families—save the viscountess and the duchess—wanted to be connected. The Warcliffes were loud and proud and given to much entertaining. The FitzRoys were quiet, restrained, and given to much reading. Colin didn’t want to contradict his wife of barely sixteen hours, especially not right before he deflowered her, so he gave her a noncommittal nod.

  “What do you like to do?” she asked him.

  They’d had a handful of conversations, and this was a repeat of one of them, so Colin knew the answer. “I read and go to the theater. You?�
�

  “Oh, I like to go to balls...”

  And dance, he thought.

  “...and dance,” she said. “Do you ever go to balls?”

  “Rarely. Do you like horses?”

  She wrinkled her nose. Well, that was enough chatter for him. He gestured to the bed. “Perhaps we should get on with the, er, wedding night.”

  She looked at the bed and swallowed. “I had hoped we would come to know each other a bit better...before. You might tell me your deepest, darkest secret, and then I could tell you mine.”

  Colin narrowed his eyes at her. She was barely eighteen and had been under the watchful eye of her older brothers and parents since she’d first been placed in her crib. He rather doubted she had any deep, dark secrets. And if she did, what was he supposed to do or say if she told him about them? His own secrets were just that—nothing he wanted to tell her or anyone else for that matter.

  A few years before he had fancied himself in love with the older sister of one of his fellows at Eton. He’d written her a poem expressing his sentiments and slipped it to her clandestinely. She’d handed it back to him the next day, patted his cheek, and said he was a silly little boy.

  He would not be made a fool of again.

  “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I think we are both tired. Perhaps we can save the conversation until tomorrow.

  “Oh.” She set her glass down and smoothed her nightgown. “Very well. I’ve not done this before. What should I do?”

  Now might be the time to confess he had not done this either. They could figure it out together. They could laugh together at mistakes or sigh together with pleasure. But Colin was not good at confessions. He’d made them before and been properly ridiculed.

  “Lie on the bed,” he said.

  She walked to the bed as though going to her execution. While she climbed under the covers, he sat on the edge and removed his shoes then his coat and cravat. Finally, he pulled his shirt out of his trousers and turned to face her. She was watching him with those big, blue eyes, even her lips pale now. Colin decided this might be easier if he turned out the lamp.

  He lowered the flame until the light sputtered and died, and the two of them became but shadows in the dim light from the hearth. Then he climbed into bed beside her. He fumbled a bit, looking for the hem of her nightclothes. Colin might only have a vague idea of what to do, but his cock was ready. The mere suggestion of touching a woman was enough to excite that appendage.

  He found her hem and began to push the garment up.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me first?” she asked.

  He stilled. She was right. He was supposed to kiss her. He’d kissed women before—well, girls really. He’d been given the odd day off at Eton or Oxford and had gone into the village to have a pint with the other lads. There was usually a pretty girl about, and he’d kissed a few. Even in Oxford there were ladies willing to do more than kiss. He hadn’t sought them out because he’d agreed with his father when he’d sat Colin down and said, “Human beings are not commodities to buy and sell. No FitzRoy would ever condone that sort of thing, much less be part of it.” His father had been speaking of the slave trade, but Colin knew his father’s directive included fallen women as well.

  Daphne was trembling. It was a slight movement, which he imagined she tried to hide, but with his body so close to hers, he could feel her quaking. Perhaps kissing her would relax them both. “You’re right. I should kiss you.” His eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he found her face easily and cupped it. He balanced himself above her and dipped his mouth to hers. Her mouth tasted slightly of peppermint as he brushed his lips over hers. Her lips were soft and plump, the sort of lips made for kissing. He tasted them, suckled them, plundered them. Her arms came around his neck then and she sighed in pleasure. He teased her mouth open and dipped his tongue inside, tasting more peppermint on her tongue. She tensed again, but he coaxed and charmed until she opened to him and even slid her tongue against his.

  This was the part of the kiss where he usually had to stop. Sometimes he could manage to sneak a quick touch of a breast, and he moved his hand now, down her shoulder and over the swell of her flesh. She tensed again, and he tried to think of what he should say to relax her, but his palm brushed over her nipple, hard against the thin linen. He couldn’t really think with his hand on her like this. He cupped her breast gently, and it more than filled his hand.

  She was still trembling, so he kissed her again. But she didn’t respond as she had before. His cock strained against his trousers and he longed to free it, but she was so stiff now. “Should I stop?” he asked, breathless.

  “No. It’s nice. It’s just all so new, all these feelings.”

  No. Not feelings. He did not want her to start talking about feelings. He kissed her again, and she returned the kiss. Her body even arched slightly, pressing against his. That was all the encouragement he needed. He loosed the placket of his trousers, freeing his cock. Drawn to the heat of her body, he pushed her nightrail up and settled between her legs. She was so warm. He touched her curls and she jumped.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It will only hurt for a moment.” That’s what he’d heard anyway. He had no idea if it was true. She nodded, looking up at him with worry creasing her forehead.

  He entered her, his cock seeming to have a mind of its own. She was tight, and he had to push to enter. Stars danced before his eyes as pleasure began to build. He moved deeper inside her and heard her gasp of pain. He tried to stop, but the orgasm was on him. One more thrust. He tried to be gentle. He felt his seed spill into her, felt the barest hint of a climax, and then he was looking down at her and feeling completely unfulfilled.

  Her face was tensed, her eyes closed and her lips flat. He pulled out, and she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Is that it?” she asked.

  He knew she didn’t mean it as an insult. He’d given her no pleasure whatsoever. He’d barely had any himself. He would have enjoyed it more if he’d used his own hand. What had he done wrong?

  Colin tucked his cock back into his trousers then looked at the wetness on his hand.

  Blood.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

  “It wasn’t so bad.”

  Again, he knew she didn’t mean to insult him, but it was difficult not to feel some shame at how poorly he’d performed.

  “I’ll leave you to your, er, ablutions,” he said, rising from the bed.

  She pulled her nightrail down and sat. “You’re leaving?”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose on your privacy. Good night, Lady Daphne.”

  She stared at him. “Good night, Mr. FitzRoy.”

  He opened her door and crossed the corridor again. When he was back in his room, he slumped against the wall. The clock read twenty past twelve. The whole interlude had taken less than twenty minutes, and the act itself about thirty seconds. He’d hurt her with his clumsiness. He would never forget the way her face looked, scrunched with pain.

  Well, he had done his duty. He needn’t do it again. His mother, God rest her soul, might not be proud of him, but he’d done as she’d wanted. He’d be on the Continent fighting the French in a month. He’d probably be killed, and he imagined Daphne would be glad to marry again. This time she could marry a man who could give her what she needed—a man who knew how to do more than kiss, a man whose throat didn’t lock up every time anyone asked him something more personal than the state of the weather.

  If he died, it would be better for everyone.

  SEVEN YEARS LATER

  Lady Daphne was in trouble. Again. Trouble seemed to follow her like a hungry puppy, and she could not resist feeding it. Except this puppy had grown into a savage beast and wanted to bite off her arm.

  “I see your friend the Earl of Battersea is here,” Lady Pavenley said, her gaze directed across the crowded ballroom. Her tone was one of mild indifference, but Daphne knew she was gloating. She’d already seen the earl, and it
had taken all of her willpower not to turn and flee. He hadn’t seen her yet. She hoped. How many events had she left early in the past few weeks in order to avoid him? She’d stopped counting.

  “I do hope he asks someone besides Lady Daphne to dance,” Lady Isabella said. “I find the silver at his temples quite dashing.”

  Daphne found everything about the earl more disturbing than dashing. Of course, she’d thought him dashing at one time too. That had been her mistake. Now she just wished he would leave her alone.

  The three ladies stood in a circle at the end of the ballroom. Daphne imagined they looked like a trio of flowers. She wore her signature pink, Lady Pavenley wore violet, and Lady Isabella wore yellow. Daphne was under no illusion that either of her friends—if someone who would just as soon stick a knife in your back as pass you the salt could be called a friend—had any concern for her. Like the rest of the ton they were here to watch the show. And that show’s fifth and final act would only satisfy if someone was scandalized. No doubt Daphne’s companions hoped it would be Daphne.

  “I have no interest in dancing with him,” Daphne said, hoping she sounded airy and unconcerned. In reality, she was scanning the ballroom, looking for the nearest exit.

  “Well, not all of us are married to war heroes,” Lady Isabella observed. Her own husband was in his mid-forties with bushy eyebrows and hair that poked out of his ears. Like Daphne, she had married a man of lower rank. Lady Isabella was the daughter of a marquess and her husband was only the heir to a lowly baron.

  Lady Pavenley tittered. “Yes, Mr. FitzRoy is quite dashing. He dashes about here and dashes about there. He is forever dashing about.” Noting the absence of Daphne’s husband was a favorite pastime for Lady Pavenley, who was married to the Earl of Pavenley. He was a notorious drunk who rarely attended a ball without vomiting on the floor or pissing in a corner.

  Daphne observed, not for the first time, that the three of them should have been friends. Society liked to call them the Three Suns, ostensibly because the earth revolved around them, but also because they were all considered beauties who outshone other ladies. Daphne was the most conventionally beautiful, being blond and blue-eyed. But though her hair was pale, she had naturally rosy lips and dark brows and lashes. Added to that she had her grandmother’s aristocratic cheekbones, her mother’s lush figure, and her father’s strong straight nose. More than one man stopped and stared when she passed.