by Merry Farmer
As quickly as he could, both to spare her as much pain as possible and to satisfy himself before he got carried away, he positioned himself and then entered her. She gasped and tensed, just as he expected she would, as he held himself carefully inside of her.
“Are you all right?” he panted, the urge to move in her almost overwhelming.
“I…I think,” she answered. “It feels so strange.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, praying she would say no.
“A little,” she answered, clinging to him. “It’s already going away.”
“Good. We won’t have to go through that bit ever again.” He moved his hips subtly, answering his body’s pleas for pleasure and release. “I need to move now so we can finish,” he said, picking up his pace.
“All right,” she said, breathless as she began to move with him.
He wanted so much more as he moved inside of her, setting a pace that would finish him off in a hurry, but for her sake, he felt as though he needed to get it over with as soon as possible. Fortunately for her, he felt like a man half his age, racing for climax at lightning speed. His mind conjured up images of how things could be between them when she was eager and hungry for him. But it was the reality of the excited sounds she began to make as his thrusts turned feverish that sent him over the edge. Pleasure burst through him, and he came with a force that left him feeling wrung out and unified with her.
He took only a moment to sag on top of her as all energy left him. She felt perfect wrapped around him the way she was, before he pulled out of her. His heart reveled in it along with his body, but for her sake, he rolled to the side as soon as he felt able.
“There,” he panted, arranging his nightshirt, and then the coverlet over top of them. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she answered, moving as though putting her nightgown in place, then turning to her side facing him.
He blinked as he studied her, wondering if he was imagining the warmth in her voice or the spark in her eyes. She hadn’t actually enjoyed their pitiful excuse for love-making, had she?
“I’m sorry about all of this,” he said, reaching out to brush the side of her face with the back of his hand. “I won’t let them make a laughing stock of us.”
She smiled sleepily, sending arrows of emotion through him. “Thank you.”
She closed her eyes, letting out a long, deep breath.
For the first time in years, the frustration that gripped every part of his body and soul loosened, and the voice in the back of his head whispered that perhaps he was the luckiest man in the world after all.
Chapter 8
“Dear Elaine.”
Lavinia glanced up from her parchment and sent a covert glance around the drawing room. Outside of the tall windows, the skies were stormy, and rain lashed at the panes. Bianca and Natalia were playing tag with little James Croydon at the other end of the room. Lady Stanhope and Marigold were arguing over a new story that they’d read in The Times that morning, Mariah and her husband still hadn’t come down to join the party, and the other guests, whom Lavinia hadn’t had the time to get to know, were either reading or working on embroidery. Everyone was engaged, but that didn’t stop Lavinia from feeling guilty for confiding her tumultuous thoughts to Elaine on paper instead of answering the curious, wheedling looks Lady Stanhope and Marigold had been giving her all morning. It had been obvious from the moment she and Armand walked into the breakfast room together that her friends were desperate to gossip about what had transpired the night before, but Lavinia would rather have died than spoken her thoughts aloud.
Which was why she thanked God for paper, ink, and Elaine.
“I don’t know where to start,” she continued writing in a small, stiff hand. “If my letter of two days ago reaches you before this one, which I trust it will have, then you know all about how I was literally entangled into marriage with Armand Pearson. What you will be shocked to hear is that the wedding took place yesterday, thanks to the blasted efficiency of Mr. Croydon’s man, Mr. Phillips, and my mother’s dogged determination.”
Thunder clapped outside, rattling the windows. Lavinia glanced out into the garden with an impatient huff, as though the weather, too, were trying to wedge its way into her private thoughts. She shifted in her seat, a twinge of soreness reminding her just how married she was.
“I have been up to my ears in advice these last few days,” she wrote on, “and I have had nothing but knowing looks and coy smiles this morning, after spending my first night in Dr. Pearson’s bed. It is as if the two of us have been unwittingly providing the entertainment for the house party, like monkeys dancing to an organ-grinder’s tune. And I am sick of it, I tell you.”
Her pen scratched across the paper, leaving an angry blob of ink as punctuation showing her frustration. She sighed in irritation and took up a small piece of flannel to clean the metal pen nib before dipping it in the ink and continuing.
“The worst of it is that I don’t have nearly as much to gossip about this morning as I thought I would. After your letters, after Mama’s attempts at education, and after Lady Stanhope’s insinuations, my experience of consummation was….”
She glanced up, staring out the window, at an utter loss for words. How could she possibly describe the event with Armand the night before? Uncomfortable? Brief? Disappointing? None of those words began to do justice to the maelstrom of emotions that had overcome her. They were completely inadequate to explain the intense closeness or the unexpected camaraderie she’d felt with Armand’s body inside of hers. The storm of entirely new sensations she’d felt was as demanding as the thunder raging outside Winterberry Park, but unlike the morning’s bluster, her experience with Armand had been all too short. He had finished just as she was getting started. She’d lain awake for hours, listening to the steady sound of his breathing and reliving every second of their intercourse. There had to be more to it than that. Otherwise, why did her friends go into such raptures of smiles, giggles, and blushes when whispering about their husbands? Perhaps she was just…wrong.
“…my experience of consummations was—” she reread her words, then finished with, “—interesting.”
Thunder boomed once more, close enough to cause Lavinia to flinch. Her pen slipped across the page, and once more, ink splattered the parchment. Frustrated, she jabbed the pen into its holder and snatched up the letter, crumpling it into a ball. Teeth clenched, she rose and marched to the fire, throwing the ball of paper into the flames with as much force as she could manage. She didn’t feel like writing anyhow. The trouble was, she didn’t feel like doing much of anything. There wasn’t much for a dancing monkey to do when the music wasn’t playing.
“Lavinia, there you are,” her mother said as she swept into the room.
Lavinia’s stomach pinched, and she crossed her arms and turned away, facing the fire. But, of course, there was no escape from her mother.
“What are you doing in here?” her mother accosted her. “Your husband is in the library.”
Lavinia’s face flared hot. “He is engaged in political conversation with the other men,” she said, frowning with uncharacteristic boldness. Her mother attempted to grab her sleeve, likely to push her toward the door and down the hall to the library, but Lavinia resisted her.
Her mother jerked off balance when she failed to capture Lavinia. She blinked in surprised as she turned back to face her, then pursed her lips. “A new bride’s place is with her husband. You need to go to him at once.”
“He is busy, Mama,” Lavinia insisted. “An important letter went missing, and it is of vital importance that the gentlemen locate it or, if they cannot, that they determine a way of conveying the information it contained to Mr. Gladstone as quickly as possible.”
Her mother made an undignified noise and brushed the argument away. “What’s important is that Lord Helm compose an announcement about your marriage to be sent to The Times for publication.” Her eyes lit up like the flames t
hat danced in the fireplace beside them. “He must host a ball to honor the occasion as soon as we are all back in London. More than one ball, at least. I must make a list of my friends to invite.” She rubbed her hands together in glee. “Won’t Mrs. Turpin be green with envy when she learns that my daughter is a viscountess. Although it would be wrong to gloat when her husband has landed himself in prison.” She paused, then giggled. “That won’t stop me, though.”
“Frankly, Mama, I am not in the least bit interested in hosting parties of any sort,” Lavinia said, her sour mood making her bolder than she ever would have dared to be.
She attempted to step around her mother and head to the door. Lady Stanhope and Marigold stood as she did, proving they’d been eavesdropping on the conversation. Knowing her friends, they’d probably been watching her out of the corner of their eyes all morning. When her mother attempted to follow her to the hall, they jumped into action, crossing the room to flank her as though they were her guards.
“And I suppose you plan to get involved in my daughter’s affairs again, do you?” Lavinia’s mother snapped at Lady Stanhope.
“Your daughter clearly wishes to be left to her own devices today,” Lady Stanhope said in a surprisingly steady voice. “I assume it is because she has delicate thoughts she needs to sort out on her own.” Lady Stanhope raised an eyebrow at Lavinia in question.
As aggravated as she was with her friends for meddling in her life to begin with, she was grateful that Lady Stanhope understood without her having to spell it out. She nodded slightly, then attempted to walk on.
“What utter nonsense,” her mother said, grabbing her wrist to stop her. “Delicate thoughts?” She made a scoffing sound. “I’ve always counseled her that the best way to cope with those thoughts is to close her eyes and think of the beautiful children she will have when it’s all done.”
“Mama, please,” Lavinia hissed, her face heating even more.
“If I were in her place, I would be picking out names and choosing the finest schools for the dear, future little ones to attend. The eldest son will, of course, be named after his father. He is to inherit the title, after all, and—”
Lavinia stormed off before her mother could say another ridiculous, smug, self-congratulatory word. That didn’t stop her mother from chasing after her, though, Lady Stanhope and Marigold scrambling to keep up.
“A Christmas ball would be a wonderful thing,” her mother said, sounding far too excited. “What is the name of Lord Helm’s London house again?”
“He doesn’t have one,” Lady Stanhope said.
Surprisingly, that made her mother stop. “Doesn’t have one? That is preposterous.”
“The townhome went to his first cousin, as consolation for not inheriting the title after the confusion of the line of succession,” Lady Stanhope said.
“Confusion? What confusion?” Lavinia blinked.
Lady Stanhope sent a wary look to Lavinia’s mother, as if she didn’t care to drag the story out in front of someone who might make it gossip.
“I’d forgotten about that ordeal,” Lavinia’s mother said. She turned to Lavinia. “Lord Helm’s father was a twin. Apparently, the records detailing which brother was born first were destroyed in a fire. Since there were three older brothers, the family assumed it wouldn’t matter who was born first. Except that it did end up mattering, because the three older brothers and their male issue all predeceased the twins. The Viscount Helm who died five years ago was the only child of the second son. When it came to it, the courts had to go on the word of the elderly midwife who delivered the babies, and she declared Lord Helm’s father was the firstborn of the twins, and, therefore, the rightful heir.”
“But there’s a chance the other twin’s son should have inherited the title instead?” Lavinia asked, a burst of hope for Armand—and his longing to continue practicing medicine—filling her.
Lady Stanhope shook her head. “The courts decided what they decided, and they never change their minds. Whatever the truth might be, Armand is the viscount, and that’s not going to change.”
“And his cousin was given a house in London as consolation?” Lavinia wondered who the cousin was and if the consolation had been enough for him.
“Lord Helm must purchase a new London house right away.” Her mother made a rapturous sound, breezing on before Lavinia could ask the identity of the other potential Viscount Helm. “Oh, it will be heavenly to choose and outfit a London home. It must be located on one of the grander squares, of course. Grosvenor Square is my favorite, of course. A guest suite overlooking the park would be divine.”
If Lavinia hadn’t already expected her mother had no intention of leaving her alone now that she was married, she would have frozen in horror. Instead, she picked up her skirts and quickened her pace in her flight down the hall. Of course, she never should have expected the organ grinder to give up the monkey just because it’d found a mate.
She only had a vague idea of where she was going as she turned a corner and started down the hall in Winterberry Park’s east wing. Whatever political conundrum the men were attempting to solve had to be less stressful than her mother’s constant pecking and her friends’ pointed concern. But when she finally reached the door to the library, she wasn’t prepared for what met her.
“…not as though I even wanted a wife in the first place,” Armand was shouting at his friends. “And if the lot of you hadn’t pushed me into it, I wouldn’t be saddled with one. How do you expect me to—”
He stopped, his mouth hanging open, as all eyes, including his, landed on Lavinia in the doorway.
Lavinia hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms and romantic kisses, but her nerves were stretched so taut that Armand’s words hit her like a lightning bolt. Her vision narrowed and her head swam as she felt the blood drain from her face. She whipped around, intending to bolt, but her mother, Lady Stanhope, and Marigold had caught up with her.
“I did not raise you to run from me when I am attempting to speak to you, young lady,” her mother scolded, forcing her to backpedal farther into the library.
“How dare you speak to Lavinia like that?” Lady Stanhope snapped.
All Lavinia wanted to do was flee the room and run until she imploded, even if she had to run through the storm to do it, but her mother continued to push her deeper into the library. Armand strode to meet her, but whether to shield her from her mother’s ire or to tell her how he truly felt about having been forced to marry her she had no idea.
“Interfering in a family matter, are we, Katya?” Malcolm jumped forward, meeting Lady Stanhope.
“Stay out of this, Malcolm. You don’t know what’s going on,” Lady Stanhope snapped.
“We were discussing important business here,” Mr. Croydon said, his temper clearly short.
“How dare you speak to me that way?” Lavinia’s mother glared at Mr. Croydon. “I have had just about enough out of everyone today. Lavinia may be married now, but she is still my daughter and should do as I say.”
“No one wants to be treated like a child,” Marigold began, jumping into the fray.
Lavinia was inches away from pressing her hands to the sides of her head and sinking into a ball on the floor when Armand’s arm closed gently around her, guiding her away from the crush of people in the center of the room and over to one window. Whether real or imagined, the noise of the row died down as the sound of the rain on the windowpanes grew louder.
“Forgive me for what you overheard,” Armand said in a voice as soft as the distant thunder. “It wasn’t what it sounded like.”
“I know you didn’t want to marry me,” Lavinia replied, keeping her head down, unable to summon the courage to look him in the eye.
“And you didn’t want to marry me,” he reminded her. His hand slipped under her chin and he nudged her to look up at him. “But here we are.”
Lavinia swallowed. “I’ll go back to sleeping in my room. And when you’re ready to leave, I can sta
y here, or I can visit Mariah and Lord Dunsford at Starcross Castle.”
His expression pinched with confusion. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But…you just said…you don’t want….” Her heart hurt too much to finish.
He let out a weary breath. “Malcolm was giving me a hard time for not devoting more of myself to our group’s political cause. Alex is beyond anxious about our letter being waylaid. And Rupert, bless him, keeps asking the sort of inane questions that a young man who wishes to impress older men he has always viewed as father figures ask. It all became a bit too much for me. I was blaming them for cornering me far more than I was complaining about you.”
“Are you sure?” Lavinia asked, cursing the tremble in her voice.
“Yes,” he said with a tired smile. “We’re the wronged parties here.”
He was attempting to reassure her, but she was all too aware that he was implying their marriage was wrong. And he was correct. It was wrong. But they were stuck with it.
“Lord Helm,” her mother started up once more, turning away from the argument that was still raging between Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm to march to Lavinia and Armand’s corner of the room. “What is this I hear about you not owning a townhome in London?”
Armand sent Lavinia a brief, wary look before stepping away from her—she hadn’t realized how close he was standing—and facing her mother. “I have a small flat in Kensington, but that is all.”
“Oh, that won’t do,” Lavinia’s mother said, clicking her tongue. “That won’t do at all. We must purchase a townhome as soon as possible. I don’t suppose it could be decorated in time for an autumn soiree, but—”
