AgeofInnocence (2 page)

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon. It was kind of you to come
quickly.”

“Of course. Your Grace, I—”

“You must call me Lettie. Everyone does.” She smiled again,
this time catching and holding his gaze for a long moment that made him feel
very youthful and that she was somehow calculating how she might devour him.
Insanity appeared to be a bit like promiscuity.

“Lettie,” he said and was fortunately interrupted by the
appearance of two servants carrying silver trays.

While the duchess was busy instructing her help, Ferdie
leaned back and took a steadying breath.

She was a woman in every way that frightened him. He’d spent
enough of his life fantasizing, alone in the dark, making those fantasies real
using his hands and mind. What was he going to do with her?

“You were saying, Ferdie?”

“Ferd.” He didn’t want to be the young, inexperienced boy
with her. “You may call me Ferd.”

She handed him a cup of tea, their fingertips touching. She
was more sensual than he imagined, she was just more…

He planned to drink his cup quickly. He planned to propose
quickly and be on his way.

“Ferd, I know so little about you. Please, tell me about
your family.”

She had green eyes.

And she liked flowers.

“Well,” he said and didn’t stop talking for an hour. When he
realized the time, the clock
boinging
behind him telling him it was six
o’clock, he jumped to his feet.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace, but I must be
going.”

He stepped around her and headed toward the double doors.

“Ferd,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. “Haven’t you
forgotten something?”

He shoved one hand in his trousers, the other gripped the
doorknob. “Why, yes. I have. Will you marry me, Your Grace?”

* * * * *

Lettie thought she should be used to men and their
idiosyncrasies, but the Honorable Ferdinand Ford was a puzzle to say the least.
She might be different, bold even, but he was nearly as timid as a newborn
kitten.

Amongst her set, the older women, both married and
unmarried, all thought Ferdie Ford was one of the most dashing of men. All
concurred he was a prize none of them would catch. They had all speculated he
had discreet liaisons that kept him busy and uninterested in them. There were
those who whispered innuendo. She didn’t believe any of it but weren’t people
just as unkind about her?

He was tall and lithe. He had an angelic quality that
bespoke innocence yet Lettie could not help but think there was something a
little wicked behind his saintly and untainted reputation. He was a man—there
was all kinds of potential for wicked.

His hair, more waves than curls, was a dark honeyed blond
and a little long in the back. Brown eyes and dark brows added to his flawless
appearance.

“I would be happy to accept.”

She strolled toward him while he watched her every step,
wary, as if she were some menace to harm his being. In truth she felt much like
a predator—the experienced widow about to capture the mysterious innocent. Or
was it all a deception?

“Well, then. I suppose I should be going.”

“Ferd,” she said as she touched his arm and then twined her
fingers with his. “Don’t go yet.” After Harold died, she’d almost convinced
herself she did not wish to marry again. Heartache took so many forms and
losing a husband even if he wasn’t in his prime still took an emotional toll.
To lose two, well…

“I must.”

She faced him, staring up at him before she pushed to her
toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll see you again soon?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Ferdinand Ford left her home and she didn’t see him again
until their wedding day.

* * * * *

Lady Ford and Lettie’s mother, Althea Jamison, the Baroness
Park, organized the wedding preparations with skills that dazzled Lettie.
Perhaps it was that between the two women they had overseen six weddings. For
her mother’s part, Lettie imagined Mama would be grateful if Lettie would
ensure that this was her last wedding.

She would have preferred a small, private ceremony but since
this was Ferd’s first marriage, and because he was the last unmarried Ford, no
expense was to be spared.

Lettie would have been more joyful if her other marriages hadn’t
started with the same hopes of contentment and mutual happiness. Lady Ford’s
comments were easy to interpret—her son did not want to marry. Lettie told
herself his reluctance wasn’t about her. The voices that shouted dissent were
louder than those that whispered encouragement.

She could not help that she was not like other women.

However, since their betrothal, Ferd had sent her a generous
bouquet of flowers each Monday morning. Yesterday, it was a plethora of
long-stemmed roses, all greenhouse grown, that arrived in a large crystal vase.
She counted seven different colors, some in full bloom and others with the
perfect chrysalis of a bud. Her biggest decision that day had been whether to
keep them in the front room or to place them on her bed stand.

She took no joy in attending the usual balls, concerts and
soirées. No one said a word about Ferd’s obvious absence, which was
confirmation enough there was wild speculation behind her back. Was it a
measure of his true feelings regarding the wedding? Was he that displeased with
her as a choice or just a man who really didn’t want to be married?

“Now tell me about your wedding dress,” Lady Ford said while
they penned notes with stylized calligraphy, accenting the gold-leafed
invitations.

“I had it designed five years ago, for my wedding to Harold.
The bodice edgings are scalloped to here with blue—”

Lady Ford held up her hand, glanced at Baroness Park and
back at Lettie. “You are wearing your previous wedding dress? To my son’s
wedding?”

“The dress is stunning, Lady Ford. Made by Madame Dumas, the
Duchess of Pelham’s dressmaker,” her mother said. Pelham’s wife had a
reputation too—one of the many reasons Lettie admired her.

“A new one must be made, Your Grace. I think it is possible
the ‘something old’ sentiment would be carried too far if you wore a dress not
just previously worn, but worn for another of your weddings. No, it is
unacceptable.”

Lady Ford huffed a bit and then pursed her lips, determined
and unmoved now that she had made the declaration.

“Ferd wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.” Lettie wasn’t frugal by any
means, but there was something ridiculous about wearing a dress only once
because she had been too sentimental to refit the dress into something
practical.

“Ferdie is a man and he won’t notice, but I and every woman
in the
ton
will.”

A sigh escaped. Yet another reason to have arranged a
private wedding.

In truth, she could not wait for the wedding ceremony and
breakfast to be behind them. If only it were being held at her mother’s home
rather than here at Whitfield House.

There would be no opportunity to escape the throngs of well-wishers.
Many would stay past their welcome, only delaying the opportunity for the
newlyweds to become better acquainted.

Harold Whitfield had died nearly four year ago.

Lettie would be pleased to welcome Ferd to her bed. It had
been too long since she had been comforted and pleasured by a man’s touch. Too,
too long.

“A trip to Bond Street is in order,” her mother declared.

“Of course, I’ll make arrangements. I’d like Madame Dumas
again, if she is available.” Lettie wasn’t one to argue unless it was for
something she truly believed in. Preparations for a third wedding hardly seemed
battle-worthy, but she did want it to be memorable for her husband.

Aside from their talk of family, what did she really know
about him?

To that question she smiled as she addressed another
envelope.

She knew that his grip was strong, that he smelled as a man
should smell, that he had heated when she had pressed her lips to his cheek and
that she made him nervous.

What she knew was that she was very much looking forward to
bedding a husband who was younger than she. And much, much younger than her
previous two husbands.

If daydreaming weren’t such a private matter, she might have
embarrassed the two women in the room with her. She already knew Ferd would be
splendid without his jacket and waistcoat. And oh, how she longed to see him
without any clothes at all.

* * * * *

Breathlessness wasn’t an uncommon medical condition unless
one considered that Ferd was a young man in the peak of his physical prowess.
He could box several rounds without feeling the strain at his chest. The
roiling sickness he’d carried with him since the announcement of his engagement
was akin to some dread disease.

It was all well and good to take a wife, but Ferd was not
prepared to bed her. They had talked for nearly an hour the day he’d proposed
and damned if he could remember a word of their conversation afterward. In
addition to her eccentricity, was she also a Mesmer? He had stared into her
eyes and been lost to reason.

Well, he did remember she enjoyed card playing and he was
mildly pleased by that notion.

It was a short jaunt to the church. He probably should have
walked just to keep a clear head.

As the carriage rolled toward St George’s, he remembered
leaving the Duchess of Burnham’s home six weeks ago, climbing in the carriage
and clawing at his breeches to free his cock. He’d barely had time to grab his
linen before he’d spilled copious amounts of seed into the white kerchief.
Afterward, he had breathed heavily as if he’d run the length of Hyde Park.

How would he act when the experienced woman used her many
talents to arouse him?

How much worse was it going to be?

His first and only experience with a woman had been a tavern
wench he’d purchased when he was seventeen. Humiliation wasn’t a strong enough
word to describe the incident.

“My, aren’t you an eager fellow,” she had whispered in his
ear as she tore at his shirt. She was already naked and his cock was straining
against his trousers. His emotion had been pure. Anticipation of his first
bedding had him anxious and excited and randy enough to shag the ugliest wench
in the district.

He enjoyed a mouthful of her small breasts, his hands
squeezed and kneaded, but he wanted nothing more than to thrust into her slim
body. It was all he could think about as her hands slid down his chest and
pried open his trousers. He leaned back on the bed.

“What have we here?” She had gripped his cock in her hand
and with one touch, she had him groaning, his release spewing in warm jets over
his bare stomach. “A little quick out of the gate, aren’t we?” She laughed at
him. “We got more time, honey. Give it a rest.”

It was his first time. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected a
great performance but he was disappointed.

The second time he’d crudely shoved into her body and
spilled just as quickly. She offered him another chance before his purchased
hour was over. Again, his climax was outside her body. She was still laughing
when he’d buttoned his shirt.

When he’d handed over her earnings, she said, “You keep it,
honey. I didn’t earn a thing.” He’d thrown the money on the bed and never gone
back again.

Nor to any other woman.

No amount of pleasure was worth the humiliation he had
endured. His memories still caused red-faced embarrassment.

The years afterward had not improved his performance, not
that he had tried with a woman. He thought about sexual intercourse—had
obsessed about it at times. Women, with their looks and their daring dresses, regularly
excited him. But the result was the same. Intense need and quick release.
Always in private.

He had learned to keep his distance, to admire and not lust.
That was going to be hard to do with a wife underfoot, in intimate quarters,
with who knew what sort of wayward need pulsing through her experienced widow’s
blood.

The coachman slapped his hand on the roof of the carriage
once they were in front of the church. Ferd was early, but not early enough to
arrive before his mother. As he descended from the carriage, she came bustling
out of the church, followed by one of the house servants.

“Oh Ferdinand. My little boy getting married. I never
thought I would see this day.”

He didn’t either.

Mother embraced him and he bent obligingly to accept her
kiss. She touched his cravat, brushed at the sleeves of his jacket and tapped
his face. “You are going to be so happy together.”

“Why don’t we go inside before I catch a glimpse of my bride
and curse us for all eternity?”

Most of his adult life he had pretended sangfroid—today
would be no different. Only today, he would spend as little time as possible
watching his wife—a vow that was difficult to effect once he caught sight of
her strolling down the aisle with her brother.

The vows were spoken in surprising earnest. His voice had
been sure and strong. There was even a small part of him that hoped for all the
promised commitment, caring and companionship marriage could provide. He had
never imagined himself as a married person. Relief was a surprising emotion to
feel once his vows were concluded.

For her part, Lettie was poised. The blue of her dress made
her eyes all the greener. Her smile was brief. Her words sincere. She’d held
his gaze while she recited each phrase. And she hadn’t done anything to
indicate she was unstable, only, he thought, that she looked exuberantly happy.

He wondered if she worried about what the future held. He
had not given serious consideration to what a young wife would do after losing
not one, but two husbands. And what woman wanted to marry a mister and give up
the title of duchess?

Assurance that he would be around a long time might be
inappropriate. Instead, he held her hand firmly as they left the church.