“Yes.”
“Then already I feel a surfeit of wifely honor. But I seem to remember another vow.”
“To love you,” she said. Her eyes dropped in maidenly modesty. He could no longer see her expression.
“Yes, only that,” he said lightly. “To love me is, I fear, a much greater task than any other wifely duty—I am a very unlovable fellow at times—and I’ll not blame you should you choose to forsake it. You may merely admire me instead, if it is more to your liking.”
“But I am a woman of honor, and I have made a vow,” she said.
He looked at her and tried to see which was the banter and which was her real feeling—if she had one. “Then you will love me?”
She shrugged. “Of course.”
He raised his glass to her. “Count me, then, the most fortunate man alive.”
But she merely smiled now, as if wearying of their wordplay.
He sipped his wine. Was she looking forward to this night or dreading it? Surely the latter rather than the former. Even at her age—older than many brides—she likely knew very little of the physical act between a man and a woman. Perhaps that fact accounted for some of the paleness in her face earlier. He must remind himself to go slowly tonight and not to do anything that might frighten or disgust her. Despite her lively repartee, she was by her own admission a reserved woman. Perhaps he ought to consider putting off the consummation for another day or so, in order that she grow more used to him. A depressing thought.
He shook his head and shoved all depressing thoughts aside, then took another slice of roast duck. After all, it was his wedding day.
“OH, IT WAS a beautiful wedding, my lady,” Suchlike said dreamily that night as she helped Melisande from her gown. “His lordship looked so handsome in his red embroidered coat, didn’t he? So tall and with those lovely wide shoulders. I don’t think he needs to use padding at all, do you?”
“Mmm,” Melisande murmured. Lord Vale’s shoulders were one of her favorite things about him, but her new husband’s physique didn’t seem quite the thing to discuss with her maid. She stepped out of her underskirts.
Suchlike draped the underskirts over a chair and began unlacing Melisande’s stays. “And when Lord Vale threw those coins to the crowd! What a kind gentleman he is. Did you know, ma’am, that he gave a guinea to every servant in this house, even the little bootblack boy?”
“Really?” Melisande bit back a fond smile at this evidence of Lord Vale’s sentimental nature. She wasn’t surprised at all. She rubbed a sore spot under her arm where the stays had chafed a bit. Then, clad in her chemise, she sat at a dainty burlwood vanity and began taking down her stockings.
“Mrs. Cook says that Lord Vale is a very pleasant gentleman to work for. Pays a regular wage and doesn’t shout at the maids as some gentlemen do.” Suchlike shook out the stays and laid them carefully in the big carved wardrobe in the corner.
The viscountess’s rooms in Renshaw House had been closed since Lord Vale’s father had died and his mother had moved to the London dowager residence. But Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, was obviously a very competent woman. The rooms had been thoroughly cleaned. The bedroom’s honey-colored woodwork was freshly waxed and shining dully, the dark blue and gold drapes had been aired and brushed, and even the carpets looked to have been taken out and beaten.
The bedroom was not overly large but was quite lovely. The walls were a soothing creamy white, the carpets dark blue with spots of gold and ruby patterning. The fireplace was a pretty little thing, tiled in cobalt blue and surrounded by a white woodwork mantel. There were two gilt-legged chairs in front of it with a low marble-topped table between them. On one wall was a door that led to the viscount’s rooms—she looked quickly away from it—on the opposite wall, a door that led to her dressing room, and beyond, a private little sitting room. Now and again, a faint scratching came from the dressing room, but she ignored it. Overall, the rooms were very comfortable and pleasant.
“So, you’ve met the other servants?” Melisande asked to distract herself from staring at Lord Vale’s connecting door like a lovesick ninny.
“Yes, my lady.” Suchlike came over and began taking down her hair. “The butler, Mr. Oaks, is very stern, but he seems fair. Mrs. Moore says she respects his judgment wholeheartedly. There are six downstairs maids and five upper, and I don’t know how many footmen.”
“I counted seven,” Melisande murmured. She’d been introduced to the household this afternoon, but it would take time to learn individual names and duties. “They were all kind to you, then?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Suchlike was silent a moment, taking out the myriad of pins that had held her hair up. “Although . . .”
Melisande watched the little maid in the vanity’s mirror. Suchlike’s delicate brows were drawn together. “Yes?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, ma’am,” she said, then immediately added, “Only that man, Mr. Pynch. There I was being quite polite as Mr. Oaks introduced everyone, and that man Mr. Pynch looked down his nose at me—and a very big nose it is, too, ma’am. I don’t think he should be so awfully proud of it. And he says, ‘Rather young for a lady’s maid, aren’t you?’ in this terribly stuffy voice. And what I want to know is, what business is it of his anyway?’”
Melisande blinked. She’d never seen Suchlike take offense at anyone or anything before. “Who is this Mr. Pynch?”
“He’s his lordship’s man,” Suchlike said. She picked up the brush and ran it through Melisande’s hair with vigorous strokes. “A big oaf of a man, no hair at all on top. Cook said he served with Lord Vale in the Colonies.”
“Then he’s been with Lord Vale for many years.”
Suchlike braided her hair with quick, sure movements. “Well, I think he’s gotten full of himself. A less likable, stuck-up, nasty man I’ve rarely met.”
Melisande smiled, but then the smile faded and she looked up at a sound, her breath quickening.
The door connecting her rooms to the viscount’s opened. Lord Vale stood in the doorway dressed in a scarlet banyan over breeches and a shirt. “Ah. I’ve arrived too early. Come back, shall I?”
“There’s no need, my lord.” Melisande struggled to keep her voice from quavering. She was having trouble not staring at him. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and that small bit of intimate skin was having a devastating effect on her. “That will be all, Suchlike.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy, suddenly tongue-tied in the presence of her new master. She trotted to the door and left.
Lord Vale looked after Suchlike. “I hope I haven’t frightened your little maid.”
“She’s just nervous in a new house.” Melisande watched him in the mirror as he roamed her room, an exotic male beast. She was his wife. She was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud at the thought.
He strolled to the little fireplace and peered at a china clock on the mantel. “I really didn’t mean to disturb your evening toilet. I’m terrible about time. I can return in another half hour or so, if you’d prefer.”
“No. I’m perfectly ready.” She took a breath, stood, and turned.
He looked at her, his gaze trailing down over her lace-trimmed chemise. It was voluminous but nearly sheer, and she felt her belly tighten at the touch of his eyes.
Then he blinked and looked away. “Perhaps you would like some wine?”
A small twinge of disappointment went through her, but she didn’t let it show. She inclined her head. “That would be nice.”
“Excellent.” He moved to a side table by the fireplace where a decanter stood and poured two glasses.
She came to the fireplace and was standing near him when he turned back around.
He held out a glass. “There you are.”
“Thank you.” She took the glass and sipped. Was he nervous? He was staring into the fire, so she sank into one of the gilt chairs and waved at the other. “Please. Won’t you sit, my lord?”
“Yes. Quite.” He sat and drained half his gl
ass, then leaned forward suddenly, the glass dangling from his fingers between his legs. “Look here, I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this properly all day, and I’ve yet to find a way, so I’ll just say it. We married rather rapidly, and I was away for most of our engagement, which was my own damned fault, and I’m sorry. But because of all that, we haven’t had a chance to become properly acquainted and I was thinking, ah . . .”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you’d rather wait.” He finally raised his eyes to hers and watched her with something very much like pity. “It’s your decision—I leave it completely up to you.”
It came to her, in a blinding, terrible flash of light, that perhaps he didn’t find her attractive enough to bed. Why should he, after all? She was tall and rather thin, her figure not particularly shapely. And her face had never been called pretty. He’d flirted with her, but then he flirted with every woman he met, high or low. It didn’t mean anything. She looked at him mutely. What was she to do? What could she do? They’d married just this morning; it wasn’t something that could be undone.
She didn’t want it undone.
He’d continued speaking during her awful realization. “. . . and we could wait a bit, a month or two, or however long you wished because—”
“No.”
He stopped. “I beg your pardon?”
If they waited, there was a chance the marriage would never be consummated. That was the last thing she wanted—the last thing he’d said he wanted. She couldn’t let that happen.
She set her glass on the table in front of the fire. “I don’t want to wait.”
“I . . . see.”
She stood and went to stand in front of him. He looked up at her, his eyes brilliantly blue.
He drained his wineglass, set it down, and stood as well, making her look up. “You’re certain?”
She merely raised her brows. She would not beg.
He nodded, his lips firming, and took her hand, leading her to the bed. She was trembling already, just at the touch of his hand, and now she didn’t bother trying to hide her reaction. He folded back the covers and indicated she should climb in. She lay down, still in her chemise, and watched as he took a small tin out of his banyan pocket and placed it on the bedside table. Then he took off his banyan and shoes.
The bed dipped beneath his weight when he climbed in beside her. He was warm and large, and she reached out to touch the sleeve of his shirt. Just that, because she thought her heart might beat itself to death if she touched any other part of him. He leaned over her and brushed his lips against hers; she closed her eyes in ecstasy. Oh, dear Lord, finally. She was now drinking sweet sherry after spending her entire life living in a dry, lonely desert. His mouth was soft but firm, the tart taste of wine on his lips. He laid his hand on her breast, large and warm through the thin cloth of the chemise, and she shuddered.
She opened her mouth in invitation, but he pulled his head back. He looked down, fumbling between their bodies.
“Vale,” she whispered.
“Shh.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “It’ll soon be over.” He reached for the tin on the table beside her bed and opened it. Inside was some type of unguent. He dipped a finger in, and his hand disappeared between them again.
She frowned. It being over soon wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped for. “I—”
But he’d hiked up her chemise, baring her to the waist, and she was distracted by the feel of his hands on her hips. Perhaps if she stopped thinking so much and simply felt . . .
“Let me,” he murmured.
He widened her legs and settled between them, and she realized that he’d opened the placket of his breeches. She could feel him, hot and hard, pressing against her thigh. All sound left her throat as she felt a spurt of excitement.
“This may seem rather odd, and it may hurt, but I won’t be long,” he muttered rapidly. “And it’ll only hurt the first time. You can close your eyes if you wish.”
What?
And he entered her.
Instead of closing her eyes, she widened them, staring up at him, wanting to experience every small part of this. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed as if he were in pain. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the width of his shoulders and how tensely he held them.
“Ahhh. That’s . . .” He jerked against her. “Just hold still a moment.”
He raised himself up on straight arms, and to her disappointment, knocked aside her arms. And then he thrust. Once, twice, a third time, heavy and hard. He grit his teeth and made a sort of choked coughing sound and slumped over her.
Soon indeed.
She shifted to wrap her arms about him again so that she might at least lie with him afterward, but he rolled to the side and off her. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to crush you.”
He turned his back and presumably put himself to rights. Melisande pulled her chemise slowly down over her thighs, fighting a feeling of chagrin. The bed bounced as he rolled off it. He yawned and bent to pick up his banyan and shoes, then leaned over her to buss her cheek.
“Not too bad, I hope?” His blue eyes were worried-looking. “Get some sleep and I’ll make sure the footmen bring up a hot bath in the morning. That’ll help.”
“I’m—”
“Be sure to drink some more wine if you have any pain.” He ran a hand through his hair and nearly dislodged his tie. “Good night, then.”
And he left the room.
Melisande stared for a moment at the closed door, completely dumbfounded. The scratching came from her dressing room door again. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the sound. She slid her hand up under her chemise. She was wet down there, slippery with his semen and her own fluids. She ran her fingers between her folds, concentrating, thinking how he’d felt inside of her, how very blue his eyes were. She brushed that bit of flesh at the top of her cleft. It was swollen, throbbing with frustrated need. She stroked, trying to relax, trying to remember . . .
The scratching came again.
She huffed and opened her eyes, staring at the silk canopy of her bed. It was blue and had a slight hole in the corner. “Damn.”
The scratching was accompanied by a whine this time.
“Oh, have a little patience!”
She climbed from the big bed, annoyed, and felt semen slide down her inner thigh. A pitcher of water was on the dresser, and she poured a little out into the washbowl. Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she washed herself. Then she walked to the dressing room door and opened it.
Mouse sneezed indignantly and came bustling out. He jumped to the bed and turned around three times before settling on a pillow, his back pointedly toward her. He hated being locked away in the dressing room.
Melisande climbed back in the bed, feeling just as grumpy as the terrier. She lay for a moment staring at the silk canopy, wondering where, exactly, she’d gone wrong in that hasty exercise. She sighed and decided she could figure it all out in the morning. She snuffed the bedside candle and closed her eyes. As she drifted to sleep, she had one last coherent thought.
Thank goodness she hadn’t been a virgin.
TONIGHT’S WORK HADN’T been his most sterling moment as a lover, Jasper reflected just a few minutes later. He sat in his own rooms, in a large chair before his fire. He hadn’t shown Melisande true pleasure. The whole thing had been much too quick and hurried for that, he knew. He’d been fearful that if he’d drawn it out too much, he might forget himself and use her harder than he meant. So the experience hadn’t been exciting for her. But on the other hand, he fancied he hadn’t hurt her overmuch either. And that, after all, had been his main intention: not to frighten his virgin bride on her first night in his bed.
Or rather hers. He glanced at his own bed, huge, dark, and rather overwhelming. Just as well that he’d gone to her rooms instead of trying to bring her into his. His bed would frighten the most intrepid woman on her initiation into the pleasures of the flesh. Not to mention that afterward, he wou
ld’ve had to find a way to eject her from his rooms. He downed the last swallow of brandy in his glass. That would’ve been an awkward moment.
All in all, the act had gone as well as could be expected. Time enough later to show her how pleasurable the joining of a man’s and a woman’s bodies could be. Assuming, of course, that she wanted to linger in the connubial bed in the first place. Plenty of aristocratic ladies weren’t very interested in making love with their husbands.
He frowned at the thought. He’d never before seen anything particularly wrong with fashionable marriages of that sort. The ones in which the interested parties produced an heir or two and then went their separate ways socially and sexually. It was the type of marriage that was almost usual in his tier of society. The type of marriage he himself had been expecting. Now, however, the thought of a marriage in which the man and wife were civil and nothing more seemed . . . cold. And rather unpleasant, actually.
Jasper shook his head. Perhaps matrimony was having a morbid effect on his brain. That might explain these odd thoughts. He stood and set the glass by the decanter on a side table. His rooms were more than twice as large as his new wife’s. But that fact only made the space hard to adequately light at night. Shadows loomed in the corners near the wardrobe and around the big bed.
He disrobed and washed himself in the chilly water already in his rooms. He could’ve sent down for fresh, warm water, but he didn’t like anyone entering his rooms after dark. Even Pynch’s presence made him restless. He blew out all but one candle. Picking that up, he took it into his dressing room. Here there was a small bed such as a valet might use. Pynch, however, had other rooms, and this bed was never used. Beside the bed, in the corner against the far wall, was a rather wretched pallet.
Jasper set the candle on the floor near the pallet and checked, as he did every night, that everything was here. There was a bundled pack with a change of clothes, water in a tin canteen, and some bread. Pynch refreshed the loaf and water every couple of days or so, even though Jasper had never discussed his pack with his valet. Beside the pack was a small knife and a steel and flint. He knelt and wrapped the one blanket about his naked shoulders before lying down on the thin pallet, his back to the wall. He stared for a moment at the flickering shadows the candle cast against the ceiling, and then he closed his eyes.