Edith Layton (4 page)

She slammed her eyes shut.

He tried not to smile. It took a few more minutes of caresses that she hadn’t minded before his hand returned to where it had startled her. Then, after a brief moment’s tension, he felt her relax again. She caught her breath, but not in fear. He did calculations and permutations in his head. How long to linger, how far to go before he took a more active part, and how far he could go before he couldn’t stop even if she wanted him to.

She was so smooth and rounded, her heated skin smelled of peonies, and she moved in his arms without knowing she did. They slid against each other, restless, warm, damp. He was relieved, incredibly moved. After all her hesitancy she was pure fire, responsive, accepting everything he did with only soft murmurs of surprise
now and then. Too soon, he realized that there was only so much further he could go without stopping—so he didn’t. Every sign told him she was ready for him.

She didn’t know she was ready, much less that he was.

When his breathing changed and he rose up over her, she opened her eyes, and realized she was sprawled like a doxy beneath him, spread like the sheet beneath her. So when he came to her at last she’d tensed because of embarrassment and shame for her wanton behavior. And when he entered her, it stung, and when he pressed on, it hurt. She lay shocked and confused by the sudden change in sensations as he moved on and on, caught up in the dynamic rapture of a moment he couldn’t share, or know she didn’t share.

There was disappointment as well as anger in her gaze as she watched him, for both herself and her new husband. Because he was hurting her and because she’d followed his lead until she’d lost the rhythm of it and couldn’t follow anymore. She no longer knew if she could or should, and that pained her more than what was happening, because she was the sort of woman who had to know the right thing to do.

He finally finished with a few last deep surges and a groan of repletion. Then he lay still. He raised himself on his elbows as soon as his wits returned, and looked down at her. Her head was turned to
the side, her eyes were closed. He stifled another groan, this one having nothing to do with ecstasy. He fell beside her and gathered her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’s never easy the first time.”

“It had to be done,” she said.

He frowned. “It wasn’t a surgical necessity, though it probably felt like one. If it’s any comfort, it doesn’t hurt like that ever again.”

“Yes, of course, so I’ve been told.”

“Annabelle,” he said quietly, “I am sorry.”

“Yes,” she answered.

He stroked her hair, but it was like molesting her because she lay rigid and unbending in his arms. So he loosed his hold, and she finally moved. “Well,” she said briskly, sitting up, pulling the bedcovers up to her breasts, “I think I’d better clean up.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent as she slid from bed.

She bent to retrieve her night shift and held it against her body as she made her way to the dressing room and the washbasin and pitcher she’d seen there. She closed the door quietly behind her.

By the time she’d cleaned herself, put her shift back on, and returned to the bed, she could see he was motionless, breathing quietly, blessedly asleep. She didn’t know what she could have said anyway, and so she gratefully climbed back into bed and settled herself a careful distance from him.

Well, she thought. Done. After all her successes and all her defeats, her goal had been attained. Wedded, bedded, it was all over and done, even if it hadn’t been done as she might have wished.

There was no sense crying, no use for it either. If she couldn’t get any man she’d wanted, she’d settled for an amiable husband. That hadn’t changed. Miles wasn’t a bad man; he was neither cruel nor inconsiderate. He was just a man. She didn’t love him, and this thing they’d done didn’t bring her the comfort it brought him. But he was obviously pleased. If she felt let down and cheated, it wasn’t his fault or hers, it was just the way things were.

So. She took a deep, painful breath. There wasn’t as much freedom in marriage as she’d thought there’d be. This sexual thing was uncomfortable and embarrassing, and moreover, she was at his disposal now, for more of this or anything else he might demand. Still, she’d try to be a good wife to him because that was only fair, and whatever else she was, she tried to be fair. He’d really done her no harm she hadn’t allowed. She certainly could bear this now that she knew what it involved.

Her head ached, her throat felt heavy, she couldn’t swallow the lump lodged there. She refused to disgrace herself; she would not weep. She ought to have expected it, but such intimacy without real intimacy hurt her heart as much as her
body. It wasn’t his fault. She supposed he’d done the best he could. But she felt as though a cold wind was blowing through her soul. She ardently prayed that being amiable also meant he’d be fashionable, and so would be an absent husband to her.

She turned on her side, away from him, and finally slept.

Miles waited until he heard her breathing even before he opened his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to risk her knowing he was awake because he hadn’t known what to say to her. He’d done the best he could. It hadn’t been the way he’d wanted it for her, but at least she should have few complaints; he had, at least, tried.

He stared at the ceiling. He ought to be more than content. He had a beautiful wife, an obliging one who’d given him exquisite pleasure. He’d just had an amazing interlude with her that should have made him the envy of most men in London. With any luck, he could expect to have many more during their lives together.

Why then did he feel guilty, cheated, and empty?

He was moderately depressed and felt let down, far more than the “little death” experienced after release. He should be feeling exhausted and triumphant, instead of weary and uneasy. But he’d never made love to his wife before, and he supposed that even though he’d considered all sides
of such a marriage, he’d still had some adolescent dreams of romance stuck in his head and heart.

It had been folly to think a virtuous highly bred woman could enjoy bedwork the way professional or experienced females did. But she might come to enjoy it more. At least he had something beautiful to look at while he made love, and his children would be well favored and clever. There was that.

He reminded himself he was a practical man. He turned on his side, closed his eyes, and resolutely shut off his thoughts. It was time to sleep. This feeling, he told himself as he’d told Annabelle about the pain involved in losing her virginity, was doubtless a thing that would change in time as he grew accustomed to it.

But it was a while before he slept.

H
er head ached when she woke, and her limbs felt as heavy as her heart. Annabelle found herself alone in the bed and was so immensely grateful for it that she forgot her physical discomfort. She didn’t know what she could have said to her new husband if she’d woken and had to look into his eyes. If he’d been hearty, she’d have hated him. If he’d been apologetic, she’d have hated herself. Seeing him looking smug, the light of conquest in his eyes, would have infuriated her, but if he said nothing she supposed she would have been insulted. And if he’d made further advances to her…she shuddered.

She didn’t know how she’d have reacted even to a pleasant inquiry as to how she’d slept. She’d never slept in the same bed with another person,
and the novelty of that was something she’d have to get used to. Or would she? She sat up sharply and considered it. Would he expect her to? Could she say no? Or would that be considered poor-spirited? Was a wife supposed to share her bed as well as her body? She had no married friends but she knew her parents hadn’t shared so much as a joke in years.

This required some thinking. The astonishing thing, she realized, was how much she’d deluded herself in her rush to marry. Because she obviously hadn’t allowed herself to think of such things before. At least now she had some time to ponder such questions before she met her husband again, time in which she hoped she could form a good plan of behavior.

As for what had happened between them last night? She supposed the best thing to do would be to ignore it and hope he’d do the same. How else did couples deal with matters of such intimacy? At least, couples who’d married for convenience. Probably real lovers would have no problem. In fact, it must be exquisite joy to sleep next to your love and wake and see his face before you saw your own…She refused to think about that further.

Annabelle remembered her physical discomfort when she stepped out of bed. She had to pause, because she felt so dizzy. Then she discovered she had to move slowly because she was as
creaky as an old arthritic woman. She made her way slowly to the window and pulled back a curtain. She recoiled, the light hurt her eyes. Still, by squinting she could see that the morning couldn’t be that advanced, because there was no one on the street. Miles must have gotten up and gone early. In fact, she’d gotten up earlier than usual herself, because her maid wasn’t there to help her dress.

Just as well, Annabelle thought, letting the curtain fall back. She wanted to show him she was unaffected by what had happened last night, even if her body wasn’t. Her head throbbed, and she felt as if she were moving through slow syrup, and every joint ached. Turning her head made her vision swim, making her even dizzier. She knew why the muscles in her inner thighs felt sore, but the rest didn’t make sense until she realized she must have drunk more toasts than she’d known at her wedding dinner. She was probably suffering the aftereffects.

There was nothing she wanted more than to crawl right back into bed. But she also wanted to show her new husband she was ready for whatever else marriage would bring, so she forced herself to get on with it.

“Oh, my lady!” her maid cried when she cracked open the door and saw her mistress seated at a dressing table, brushing her hair. “I’m that sorry I didn’t come in earlier! I thought you’d
be sleeping after…I mean, Lord Pelham, he said as to how I should let you sleep.”

“Very kind of him,” Annabelle said. “But as you see, I’m up. I never sleep well in new places.”

She handed the hairbrush to her maid and sighed with relief. Her arms ached too, making the simple matter of arranging her hair a trial. But it was important that she look well this morning. She stared into the glass as her maid arranged her hair. It, at least, looked fine; her curls were shining and bouncy. She studied her face. Not as bad as it felt. A trifle pale, perhaps. But there was a light blush on her cheeks. Her eyes seemed particularly bright. All she had to do was put on a pretty gown and she’d do.

“Bring me the new rose-colored lace,” she instructed her maid. “I’m tired of being in blue.”

The footman led Annabelle to breakfast. Miles was already seated at the table, but he rose when she entered the morning room. She could see nothing objectionable in his expression, just a simple welcome. She was grateful for that.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

It would have been awkward if it weren’t such a commonplace question, something any host would ask of any guest. She’d been asked the same at dozens of country houses where she’d stayed.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “And you?”

“Tolerably well,” he said, as any gentleman would. “I’m surprised to see you up and about so early. I thought ladies of fashion slept until noon.”

“I didn’t know your plans for the day or when I should rise,” she said simply. “We never discussed them yesterday.”

“An oversight, to be sure. Won’t you have some breakfast? We can talk about plans while we eat.”

She looked at the array of chafing dishes on the sideboard. “Yes, thank you,” she said.

She moved along the sideboard, investigating the various dishes, and in the end chose shirred eggs, baked tomatoes, bacon, toast, and ham.

But after she sat and the footman brought her plate, she found the sight of the food took away her appetite. She didn’t want to eat anymore than she wanted to dance right now. Her face grew warm remembering how Miles had compared lovemaking to dancing. Her eyes widened, and she put down her fork. She’d heard that some women felt the effects of pregnancy immediately, but had thought it an old wives’ tale. But she was definitely feeling unwell. Could that one embarrassing, painful episode have caused her to start breeding already? She didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed.

“The food isn’t to your taste?” he asked.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it. My ap
petite and the hour don’t seem to agree. I usually do rise later, and I suspect my stomach knows that, even if I don’t. Just some coffee for now, please,” she told the footman.

Miles looked at her, noting how the rose-colored gown reflected the charming flush on her face and pointed up her sparkling eyes. Now he knew firsthand that fashion didn’t lie; she had a form to match the delicate loveliness of that face. He saw the way her breasts rose and fell with her breathing and remembered the way they’d looked in the candlelight. He’d never forget how they’d felt in his hands and against his lips.

He’d gotten himself a lovely bride, all right. He idly wondered how many years it would be before he could get her into bed in the daytime, if ever. About a century, he thought. They couldn’t even speak easily now. They’d been more informal with each other before they’d married—before last night, at least.

He couldn’t regret making love to her because he suspected conditions would have been the same, or worse, between them if he hadn’t. But he did regret how awkward it made things. He sighed. There went any idle, ridiculously wistful hopes he’d entertained about them spending several days together alone, lingering, learning each other. That kind of behavior was only for lovers. And he supposed he’d disappointed her last night. He’d certainly disappointed himself.

The thought of passing the rest of the day treating each other to more artificial smiles and clumsy conversation made him shudder.

“Well,” he said, laying aside his fork, “since you’re up and about now, what do you think of us getting an early start on our honeymoon instead of staying on here? My family’s already on the way back to Hollyfields. Yours certainly doesn’t expect to see you here in London. We really have little to do here now. So, why not just be off on our honeymoon? The weather’s so fair today, and who knows how long before it changes? The road awaits. Unless you had other plans?”

“My plans?” She hesitated, then smiled. There was such a world of sorrow in that smile that he was taken aback. He wished he could say something to cheer her, but wasn’t sure what had made her so unhappy. “I had no plans,” she said with that same wry smile. “None at all.”

It wasn’t difficult for them to leave at a moment’s notice. Her luggage hadn’t been unpacked and his valet had already prepared his for a journey, so it was a simple matter to load the bags into another carriage and be on their way. They took one coach for her maid, his valet, and the baggage, another for themselves. But Miles didn’t sit with his bride. It was a warm spring day, he loved to ride, and most of all, he didn’t want to spend the day in a closed carriage pretending to enjoy his
new wife’s company. He had the feeling she was just as pleased to be away from him.

Damn, damn, damn! Miles thought as he rode along beside her coach after they left the traffic of London behind. It was a rare day, there was a soft breeze. The sun was pale but warm, the scenery was spectacular; crimson poppies and bright yellow rape blossoms blew in the fields he rode past. He had a beautiful wife, he’d been married for just one day, the rest of their lives lay ahead…Damnation! he thought.

Because he didn’t look forward to talking with her any more than he did bedding her again. And now they had years of life to face together. It went beyond their disappointing wedding night. That might have been his fault, he admitted, but he knew any future sexual splendor could only come if a woman was in love either with the man or with the act itself. He hadn’t given her any good opinion of lovemaking, and theirs wasn’t a love match. But he’d thought they’d match so well in other things that love might come. At least, he corrected himself, that
like
might come.

He felt very sorry for himself.

But what other choice had he? He’d come home to face a sea of troubles, and like Hamlet, had decided to take arms against them. If things went on as they were, he could see his mother dwindling into a deeper melancholy, and maybe dwindling
away altogether. There were other ways to suicide than by gun or potion. He’d worried that she might discover that by continuing to lose interest in life, she could end it. She’d grown thin and listless, and there wasn’t a doctor who could help her. Then too, there was a real chance that his sister could run away with the next man who smiled at her, and his brother could keep getting into trouble at school.

His lectures, orders, dictates, and threats had done nothing. Reasonable speeches and polite requests had done no good either. He’d done the next best thing he could. He’d married a woman who would bring fresh air and life into his house. She’d open his home to society and let his family in too. He’d done the best he could, so too bad for him if it wasn’t better.

But it was spring, and riding in the countryside on such a glorious day made a man feel ashamed for being ungrateful. All he had to do to be happy was ruthlessly root out all foolish romantic dreams once and for all. He’d done it before, how else could he have married? He could do it again. What did he know of marriage, after all? Maybe something still could be made of his.

After his father died, his mother had married a man so unendurable that Miles had gone to sea as soon as he was old enough. No more running for him now. He was weary of it. This time he had to shoulder his burdens and get on with life.

Annabelle might never be a loving wife or comfortable bedmate. That had been a gamble. But the certainty he was betting his life on was that she’d see his mother safely established in society again; be an example to his sister and introduce her to decent men; and be someone for Bernard to aspire to, so that he might try to grow up and find a similar wife for himself.

Poor Bernard, he thought before he could stop himself.

So Miles put his heels to his horse and rode off down the road in front of the coach, to shake out his fidgets, to test his resolve. What he really yearned to do was to gallop off the road, ride far away, and never look back.

They stopped for luncheon at an inn by the side of the road.

“Well, it’s snug, at least,” Miles said in rallying tone as he surveyed the small private dining room. The inn was ancient but clean, its very decrepitude lending it a certain charm. The front windows were of thick, old, warped glass that made it hard to see out. But they let in enough light for him to see that his new wife didn’t look well.

She looked wan and distracted.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked, feeling like a fool, because it was clear that she wasn’t.

“In truth, I seem a bit off color.” She smiled at him, a ghost of her usual charming smile. “I
think it’s a reaction to everything that happened yesterday.”

His expression went blank.

“I mean,” she said, realizing just what he thought she’d meant, “the wedding, and the preparations for it. You have no idea of how many fittings I had to stand for to get my trousseau done in time. Nor how many arrangements my mother and I had to make, or rather, argue about. Just thinking about the negotiations we went through deciding which relatives and friends would be invited to what party tires me even now. After all, we had a wedding, a reception, a wedding breakfast, and a ball to follow. It was novel, it set a precedent and is sure to be copied in future—or so we’d hoped. But I’m not as young as I used to be, I suppose,” she added with a deprecating grin that almost lit her face.

“You’ll have all the time in the world to relax when we get to the lodge,” he said. “I mean that,” he added, surprising himself by what he had to say. “I think it would be best if we postponed getting on with the more intimate side of our marriage, at least for a while.”

Her head shot up and she stared at him, eyes wide.

Was that delight or shock? he wondered as he met her azure gaze. A man could indeed drown in the blue of those eyes, he thought in baffled frustration, as he continued, “It’s nothing you did, or I did. But that part of our marriage is a thing that
needs our getting to know each other better, I think. At least, if it’s to be done to better effect. And you’re tired, anyone can see that. Let’s go to the lodge and take our time before we go on to Hollyfields and the rest of our lives. We’ll take our time with other things as well. A honeymoon is supposed to be to get to know each other. We’ll do that…if you agree?”