Contracted as His Countess

by Louise Allen

  ‘I... It... Do it again.’

  ‘So that was yes, then.’ The simple evening gown she had put on under her domino was cut low, and his fingers were exploring the edge now, then sliding round to the side. ‘How does this...? Ah, like that.’ There was the sudden release of pressure around her ribcage as the bodice sagged. Somehow, she realised, Jack had found the fastening of her short stays as well as the bodice.

  ‘Jack!’ Instead of stiff fabric and slightly scratchy lace her breasts were cupped in warm hands and his tongue was teasing her nipple. ‘Jack.’

  It was... It was wonderfully indecent, terrifyingly good and she wanted it to stop and to go on for ever as she felt his hand slide over her garter, onto the warm flesh of her inner thigh and then, gently insistent, higher.

  He was kissing her again and one hand was on her breast and the other one there and surely it should hurt? Surely she should be fainting with shame? But all she could do was writhe in his arms, arching into that knowing touch, seeking something because this could not go on or she would...

  Fall into pieces, Madelyn thought hazily as she came to herself.

  She was sprawled across Jack’s thighs, her legs apart, her skirts hitched up, her breasts exposed to the cool night air, and she had probably died and gone to heaven.

  ‘Jack,’ she murmured, then felt the carriage turn and slow.

  He flicked back one corner of the window blind and swore under his breath. ‘Damn. We’re back in St James’s Square already. Charlie must have told the driver to come straight here.’

  ‘We are not going to your rooms?’ There was more to lovemaking than that, she knew—there were all the things she had been expecting, in fact.

  ‘I think not. Here, let me help you.’ He had her stays in place and fastened and her bodice straight, apparently by touch, then brushed down her skirts as the carriage drew to a halt. She felt it sway: someone was getting down from the box.

  Jack moved to sit opposite her as the carriage door opened.

  ‘I’ll go and knock, shall I?’ said the voice of the man who had been with Jack at the masquerade. ‘Oh, no need, they were watching, the door’s opening.’

  In the light from the torchères by the door, Madelyn tugged her domino around herself, pulled up the hood over her tumbled hair and risked a glance at Jack. He looked very pale in the flickering light and his breathing seemed rather heavy, but from his expression, she thought, no one would have guessed that he had just reduced one virgin to a state of quivering ecstasy in a jolting carriage.

  Would he be even better in a bed? she wondered, blushing at her own thoughts, then even more at the recollection of just what had happened, of how she had reacted.

  ‘Will you drop me off, Ransome? Or are you going in?’ the other man was saying. He was still masked.

  Madelyn fumbled for her own, then gave up when she could not find it. Anyway, walking into the house masked was as good as announcing to the staff that she had been at a masquerade and word would get back to Louisa as fast as they could whisper it.

  ‘No, I will not be stopping, I will just see the lady to the door, then of course we can detour past Ryder Street.’ Jack sounded as casual as if he had been out for a drive in the park.

  ‘Enough for one night, I think,’ he murmured as he helped Madelyn descend on shaky legs to the pavement, then gave her his arm up the steps to where her butler was holding the door. ‘Evening, Partridge.’

  ‘Good evening, my lord...ma’am.’

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Aylmer,’ Jack said. He took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘Thank you for a memorable evening.’

  ‘You will call tomorrow?’ She tried to make it sound casual, as though he had just escorted her home from a respectable party.

  ‘Yes, of course. We have so much to plan. So much left undone. Sleep well.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sleep well! Jack grimaced as he walked carefully back down the steps to the waiting carriage and climbed in. I’ve given myself a sleepless night, but by God, it was worth it.

  He sat down opposite Charlie and saw his friend had let the blinds up. As the coach rumbled off, light from the streets flickered in and out of the interior of the carriage, illuminating Charlie’s blandly neutral expression. The other man was doubtless quite well aware of what had just happened—in fact he was probably imagining something rather more than what had actually taken place. There was nothing to be done about that now and Charlie was no gossip. Besides, Jack was marrying the lady.

  But she had been no lady when she had come apart in his arms, he thought, somehow managing to control his smile of triumphant discovery. Madelyn had been sheer, abandoned woman and any doubts he might have had about that aspect of the marriage were well and truly laid to rest. In fact—

  ‘Your face,’ his friend said with a grin.

  ‘What about it?’ Jack put up one hand and rubbed at his mouth. Madelyn had not been wearing lip stain or powder... ‘Ouch.’

  ‘You are going to have a fine bruise on your chin tomorrow and probably a fat lip into the bargain. If I’m not mistaken, it is swelling nicely now.’

  That’s the kissing, Jack thought. ‘The other fellows will look worse,’ he said, not troubling to sound modest about it.

  ‘Fellows? I only saw you hit one.’

  ‘There was some buck who’d had a few too many as well as the man dancing with Madelyn.’

  ‘You can’t go around hitting every man who dances with your fiancée, Jack. She’d gone to a masquerade, presumably intending to dance, someone asks her—’

  ‘She knew him before.’

  ‘I imagine Miss Aylmer knew many gentlemen before she met you and that it was all perfectly respectable.’ Charlie seemed to hesitate, then took the plunge. ‘Forgive me, but I was under the impression that your contract with Miss Aylmer was in the nature of a mutually convenient and beneficial one, not the result of a love match.’

  Jack grunted.

  ‘So why are you exhibiting all the symptoms of rampant jealousy?’

  ‘Natural possessiveness.’ Jack thought he managed that reasonably well. If he didn’t understand it himself, he was certainly not going to have Charlie speculating. ‘And concern for her reputation. Madelyn should not have been there and she knows it. I was quite reasonably annoyed.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ Charlie said with the suspicion of a laugh in his voice. Before Jack could suggest that he get out and walk he added, ‘This will do. Set me down here, will you?’

  Jack rapped on the coach roof, more than glad to be alone to come to terms with what had just happened. ‘Goodnight.’

  The door banged closed on Charlie’s cheerful farewell and the carriage creaked into motion again.

  It wasn’t that he had not known that he wanted Madelyn, even if he had not been able to define exactly what it was that he found attractive about her. At first he had assumed it was the exotic setting of the castle, that magical garden, her strange, composed grace in that sweeping gown. An enchantment, he had told himself. But now he found himself wanting her even when she was gawky and ill at ease in a modern gown, warily negotiating the strange new world she found herself in.

  He wanted her even when she put herself and her reputation at risk and ended up in the arms of some old flame into the bargain. What had this Richard meant when he had said that she was his first? Not her lover, not in the full sense of the word: he could recognise innocence when he encountered it. And not her official betrothed, if her father had refused to countenance the match.

  So, first love. It was all in the past, a doomed boy-and-girl romance. And he had reacted so strongly out of fear for her. All perfectly normal, in fact, and not the worrying symptom of anything dangerous like...an infatuation.

  Jack shook himself like a man waking up from a bad dream. Feeling any deep emotion for one’s
wife when she had none for you would be a pitiable state of affairs. He was nothing to Madelyn other than a convenience. She had picked him off a list, had him investigated as though he was a business she intended investing in, then cold-bloodedly summoned him to make a thoroughly unmaidenly proposal.

  True, she seemed to desire him. Or perhaps she was simply a sensual young woman who was not actually repelled by him. He should be grateful she was not expecting more from him, because he was not at all confident he knew how marriage should work. The only happy one he had ever observed had been his grandparents’ and that just in its last years when whatever trials and storms it had gone through were softened by time and familiarity and years of mutual support.

  * * *

  Madelyn had floated upstairs, hampered by her trailing domino and the sensation that her knees were made of sponge. That carriage ride had been a revelation. Embarrassing in retrospect, of course—how would she be able to face Jack again after that? But wonderful all the same. Of course she was right to be marrying him. Richard and she had outgrown each other, grown apart. She would not think about him any more.

  * * *

  In the event she need not have worried about embarrassment. When she next saw him Jack seemed briskly practical about arrangements for the wedding, politely involving her in his plans for spending time at Dersington Mote afterwards. On days when he did not call he sent his new secretary, a painfully earnest young man named Douglas Lyminge, who was the younger son of a younger son of a connection of the Duke of Worthing and therefore forced to earn his own living in some socially unexceptional manner.

  Madelyn liked him for all his awkwardness and earnest frowns. For his part he seemed so determined to prove his worth that she rather thought he would carry her down the aisle if that was what was necessary to bring the wedding to a successful conclusion, she thought, three days before the date set. Mr Lyminge had just left after delivering the final terrifying list of acceptances, and Partridge came in with his silver salver.

  ‘The morning post, Miss Aylmer.’

  Some invitations, an upholsterer’s account and a painstakingly written note from the maid who had been left in change of Mist at Beaupierre Castle.

  Madelyn read it with a smile and picked up the remaining letter. The handwriting was faintly familiar, but she could not place it. She broke the seal and read the single sheet.

  It began abruptly.

  Madelyn, my dear,

  You do not have to marry Dersington, a total stranger, just because your father wished it. He has gone and it is your life now to live as you please.

  I will not try to influence you more, but should you ever need me you have only to let me know and I will do everything I can to help.

  Your old friend,

  Richard Turner

  Madelyn dropped it as though it had become hot in her hand. What was he saying? That he loved her still—or that he truly was her friend and that was all? The address was in the Adelphi buildings, which she understood were respectable apartments close to the river. Richard was clearly staying in London for a while at least.

  She sat and stared at the sheet of paper. She had agreed to marry Jack and it would be dishonourable to turn to Richard for anything, whether it was friendship or advice or even something more. She would acknowledge the letter, but tell him she could never see him again.

  She sat at her desk and penned a quick note. She thanked him for his concern, hoped that he had not suffered lasting hurt defending her, assured him that she was marrying of her own free will and wished him every happiness for the future.

  I think it best if we do not meet again.

  She signed it Your affectionate friend and sealed it well, then rang for a footman. ‘See this goes with the next post, please.’

  There, that was done and it was the right thing, she was sure. As the door opened and Louisa came in Madelyn took Richard’s note, folded it small and tucked it into her stationery folder. ‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling. The past is the past and has gone.

  * * *

  She had not allowed herself to think of Richard and everything continued smoothly. But now, on the day of the wedding, all Mr Lyminge’s hard work was about to come to disaster because of one major omission—and the fact that the bride’s attendant was in a state of near hysteria. Madelyn stood in the lobby leading off the west door of St George’s Church while Louisa Fairfield wrung her hands and declared that they would be a laughing stock, that Madelyn would never gain vouchers for Almack’s let alone be received at Court and that Lord Dersington would faint dead away at the altar rail.

  ‘Never mind that, Louisa,’ Madelyn said, wanting to shake her. ‘Who is going to give me away? We never thought of that, any of us.’

  Lady Fairfield merely moaned and sank onto a convenient bench.

  ‘I could give myself, I suppose, but I have no wish to cause comment,’ she said. Louisa whimpered faintly. ‘Any further comment,’ Madelyn amended. ‘Mr Lyminge, you must do it.’

  The secretary, who had escorted the bride from St James’s Square to ensure there were no last-minute problems, recoiled visibly. ‘I could not possibly. I am no relation, I am merely an employee.’

  ‘In that case, either go and find a member of the congregation or some passer-by off the street,’ Madelyn said, desperate now. ‘Frankly, no one is going to notice, are they? They’ll all be staring at me.’

  ‘Very well.’ Mr Lyminge, presumably determined to prove himself worthy of the very generous salary his new employer was paying him, or perhaps resigned to instant dismissal, offered his right arm. ‘Let us go, Miss Aylmer.’

  Madelyn took a deep breath. ‘Yes, come along, Louisa. The door, thank you.’ A bemused verger flung open the double doors, Louisa blew her nose and fell in behind and the three of them began the slow walk up the aisle.

  * * *

  Jack faced forward, gaze fixed on the brass candlesticks on the altar, on the carved wooden panelling behind. He was not going to turn and look anxiously down the aisle as though worried that his bride might not appear. Nervous bridegrooms were stock figures of fun and he was on his dignity. The church was packed: delicious curiosity and the scent of scandal had brought acceptances from duchesses to deacons. Beside him Charlie muttered under his breath as he checked, once again, that he had the ring safe.

  Then the organist stopped the vague twiddling music he had been playing and launched into something purposeful that Jack did not recognise.

  ‘And we’re off,’ Charlie said. ‘And coming down the home straight—’

  Jack kicked him unobtrusively on the ankle.

  Then behind them the murmuring began, gathering in volume, loud enough to be clearly audible above the organ. Charlie glanced over his shoulder, froze and said something that earned him a furious glare from the Vicar.

  Jack turned, stared, found he could not think of the words.

  Madelyn was walking up the aisle on the arm of his secretary, who looked as though he was about to be thrown to the lions in the arena. That was enough to cause a stir, but he hardly registered it when he looked at his bride. Madelyn was wearing a gown of heavy leaf-green silk, deeply gathered under her bust and falling to sweep the ground with a hem of some white fur. It was cut in a swooping vee to display her shoulders and décolletage and the deep, dark, primitive glow of the ancient necklace that lay against the curves of white skin. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, straight, unconfined except for the garland of leaves and white flowers that sat like a crown on her head. In her hands, framed by the medieval bell sleeves, she held white lilies and the soft green of ferns.

  She might have stepped straight from a tapestry on a castle’s walls. There should be a slender greyhound by her side or a lion or, Jack thought wildly, a unicorn.

  Madelyn looked magnificent, beautiful, powerful. Magically strange. Jack’s body tightened. He felt his pulse kic
k up, even as he absorbed what a disaster this was. Her gown was scandalous, wildly eccentric and she was defiantly throwing society’s expectations back in its face. She was her father’s daughter, defying Jack’s wishes—his instructions, damn it.

  Those in the congregation who were not staring at Madelyn were looking at him. He forced his expression into neutrality—a smile was beyond him—inclined his head in greeting, then turned back to face the Vicar.

  The rustle of silk dragging over tile, the click of Lyminge’s boot heels, Charlie fidgeting from foot to foot... Then out of the corner of his eye he saw a sweep of green, the sheen of golden hair and caught the scent of lilies over the ecclesiastical odour of damp and dust and prayer books.

  ‘Dearly beloved...’ The Vicar’s voice trailed off in the face of the whispering from the wedding guests. ‘Dearly beloved,’ he repeated with some emphasis.

  Finally, the congregation fell silent. Jack wondered fleetingly whether the bridegroom turning on his heel and marching off down the aisle would actually make anything worse. He could always keep going. As far as Bristol, perhaps. Catch a ship, end up in America...

  Yes, it would make things worse. Much worse. And he had given his word to marry Madelyn. He might be Jack Lackland, but he was still a gentleman. For better or worse. Worse. For richer or poorer. Richer. With my body... Yes, that at least. And she looks...wonderful.

  * * *

  Somehow, they reached the end of the service without disaster, which was a miracle considering that he felt utterly distracted and goodness knew what Madelyn was thinking. Revenge? Was that what this was? he wondered as they turned and she took his arm to walk back down the aisle.

  I insisted that she conform and this is her reaction—to make me a laughing stock?

  They reached the steps outside the church and stopped, looking down on the crowd in St George’s Street. There was the usual scrum of passers-by, idlers, the curious. There were faces he recognised who were runners for the newspapers and who would be scribbling descriptions for the Society columns and, as he had predicted, there were two artists, rapidly sketching. The new Countess of Dersington’s wedding gown would feature in Ackermann’s Repository next month and, in all probability, in La Belle Assemblée and The Lady’s Monthly Museum, as well. Every last, outrageous, medieval detail of it.