Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (15 page)

Marguerite smiled broadly. “It may shock you, but I assure you . . . there’s pleasure to be had for both of you, even if you never consummate the marriage.”

Cleo studied her sister, noting her wide, solemn eyes. She looked innocent enough. Clearing her throat, she nodded once. “Tell me. Tell me everything we can do. I’m listening.”

Chapter Twenty-one

T
he ceremony moved in a blur. There were words, vows exchanged as they stood before the tall, cadaverously thin Reverend Smythe. Despite his appearance, he managed a jovial air.

Everyone crammed inside the small church beamed good-natured smiles. Josie fairly bounced in her seat in the front pew. Cleo felt an inexplicable stab of guilt. They’d been waiting for this moment a long while, it seemed. The moment their eldest brother finally married. She swallowed thickly and glanced down at the little bouquet of flowers Josie had thrust into her hands. She wondered if the girl—if any of them—would be quite so delighted if they knew the restrictions she’d imposed on their marriage. That this marriage was, in fact, a farce.

Logan faced her, his well-carved features revealing nothing. He’d held himself stoic all through their vows. Lowering his head, his lips didn’t so much as soften as he sealed their vows with the obligatory kiss.

The church burst into applause. Cleo supposed none of them thought anything amiss with the brief kiss. She knew, however. Everything was wrong with it. She’d been a recipient of Logan’s kisses before. She knew just how long and savoring and delectable they could be.

Turning, he took her arm and led her from the church. A barouche waited, decorated with ribbons and flowers, and Cleo marveled that so much had been accomplished in a few hours.

She settled onto the stiff cushion as Logan took up the reins. With a flick of his wrist, they lurched forward. Villagers lined the road leading up to the castle, waving and cheering, tossing flowers. It was like something out of a fairy tale—and Cleo was caught in the midst of it.

Logan waved and called out greetings. Cleo’s cheeks warmed from so much attention. She hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected any of this. It was as though Logan ruled over a small kingdom here, so far from the drawing rooms of the
ton
. No wonder he seemed so indifferent to that world. It meant little to him. This was his world.

And he’d just made her a part of it.

Something in her chest tightened at the thought of that. Lifting her hand, she waved to the villagers, fighting back feelings of shyness. They welcomed her with unabashed enthusiasm. They wanted her here. Without even knowing anything about her, they’d embraced her. Because Logan had chosen her.

Amid all the well-wishers, one face stood out. Very likely because she was so beautiful, with her vivid red hair and curvy figure. But more than likely because she was scowling. The only unsmiling face in the crowd. The girl’s gaze fastened with stark intensity on Logan. Tears swam in her red-rimmed eyes, shining wetly.

She quickly forgot the woman as they arrived at the castle and were ushered into the great dining hall. Tables laden with food awaited them. One table sat upon a dais, well above the others. Logan guided her into a chair at the center of the table. Jack and her family soon arrived to join them, along with Logan’s siblings.

Toasts rang out as they ate and Cleo couldn’t help marveling how unlike this was from all the stuffy dinners she’d attended in Town.

And she was glad for that. Voices and laughter whirled around—all save her own. No one seemed aware that she was mostly silent, only answering questions, absorbing her new world—a world in which she was now married to Logan. This reality sank upon her slowly, like pebbles descending in water.

She nibbled on a bite of roasted pheasant, achingly aware of the man next to her. He radiated heat. Life and vitality.

“Are you not hungry?” he asked as Jack was regaling everyone with one of his anecdotes. She nodded just as everyone burst into laughter as he reached the high point of his story. “I’ve eaten my fill. Everything has been delicious.”

“Then perhaps we should retire. It’s been a long day.”

She gulped, wishing suddenly she’d drawn out her dinner, toying with her food and at least acting like she was eating. Now she had to walk up those winding stairs with him and climb into that big bed.

A bed big enough for an entire regiment. They wouldn’t even have to brush toes with each other. With that encouraging thought, she took a fortifying breath and rose to her feet. It wouldn’t be awkward. They had an understanding after all.

Logan wrapped his hands around her waist and swung her down from the dais. She stood beside him as he bid good night to everyone, nodding and smiling and praying she appeared happy as any bride ought to be—especially any bride marrying a man like Logan. Most girls only dreamed of such a match. Of course, she wasn’t most girls.

His brothers cheered perhaps the loudest and she blushed, guessing at their thoughts. They doubtlessly believed their brother was in store for a vigorous night of passion.

Only she knew better. And so did Logan.

Even so, her nerves were stretched unbearably taut as they walked side by side up the winding stairs. She skimmed her hand along the smooth stone balustrade, trying to ignore the sensation of his hand against the small of her back . . . and deliberately avoiding thinking of the night ahead. Her wedding night.

The sound of a crackling fire greeted them the moment they entered the chamber. A log hissed and crumbled with a sparking pop. Cleo watched this for a moment, holding herself still as the warmer air glided over her.

A dull orange glow suffused the room, reminding her of those sunsets back home, when she’d stand upon the seawall and watch the sun sink into the sea. Logan dropped down upon a velvet-cushioned bench and began tugging off his boots.

She lingered near the door, taking it all in—him, her husband, the bedchamber she was to share with him. It was too much to absorb. She crossed her arms and hugged herself, feeling suddenly small. Like an uncertain girl.

“Are you cold?” One boot hit the floor with a thud. She gave a small jump. Blinking, she looked up from the dark leather boot. She chastised herself for her jumpiness. He wasn’t going to pounce on her.

He glanced to the bed. She followed his gaze to the soft fur draped over the bottom half of the bed. “You’ll warm up quicker in bed.”

She nodded, not bothering to point out that she wasn’t cold. On the contrary. Heat swam beneath her skin, hummed through her like a charged current.

His next boot hit the floor. She watched as his hands went to his jacket, the long fingers deftly shedding it with strong, sure movements. Nothing hesitant or nervous. And why should he be? He’d probably done this hundreds, thousands, of times.

The notion that he undressed before countless females filled her with an unjustified sense of outrage.
He’s mine!
As quickly as the thought entered her head she banished it.

Of course there’d been others. And there was nothing to say there wouldn’t be more. What could she expect? It was only fair. She’d banned him from her bed. She couldn’t expect him to lead a life of celibacy. Just because that was what she’d chosen for herself, she could not demand it of him.

Her mind drifted to the stunning redhead from earlier. Had she shared his bed? Was she even right now weeping into her pillow?

Firelight danced off the sculpted flesh of his naked torso.

“Is this necessary?” she blurted.

He froze, looking up at her with an arched eyebrow. “What?”

She motioned in a small circle. “This . . . this chamber. You.” Deliciously, temptingly naked. “Me. Sharing a room together.”

Something in his expression tightened. The gray of his eyes seemed chillier, frozen ash. “We’re married now,” he reminded.

“Yes, but not in the truest sense.”

His gaze drilled into her, hard as iron. “And you want the world to know that? That you’re a wife eschewing her duty? Her responsibility to the marriage bed?”

The skin of her face grew prickly hot. The merry toasts and well wishes of earlier tonight echoed in her head. The faces of the happy villagers flashed through her mind. “No. I don’t wish for the nature of our marriage to be public. It’s our concern.”
Our secret
.

“Agreed.” He continued to undress. As if the matter were settled.

“Would you please explain?” she persisted, unable to let the matter drop. Self-preservation forced the words from her. “How would keeping our own rooms alert the world that our marriage is a—” She stopped herself just short of saying
a farce
. Their union wasn’t a farce. It meant something. Even without consummation, it was real. It mattered to her.

Moistening her lips, she finished, “Spouses often keep separate rooms.”

He sighed deeply, the sound weary. “Life is different here. This isn’t the
ton
. Where spouses practically lead separates lives. Both the Lord and Lady McKinney have always occupied this bedchamber. It’s tradition. And tradition weighs heavily here.”

“Can you not ever break with tradition?”

He stared at her stonily. “I did marry an Englishwoman. That’s sending a few ancestors tossing in their graves.”

“Well. What’s one more?” She attempted for lightness, but the look in his eyes told her he was quite finished with the discussion.

“Everyone knows I would share my wife’s bed. Unless there were something wrong with her . . . unless our marriage is a contentious union.” He stared at Cleo rather pointedly. “Is that what you prefer everyone conclude?”

She shook her head, shoulders sagging. She had to live here for . . . well, forever. Her siblings, too. She needed Logan’s people to see her as one of them so they’d welcome her siblings with open arms. In short, she needed to win them over and not come across as some shrew who barred her husband from their bed.

But isn’t that what you are?

She shook her head at the insidious little voice, and searched for the memories that had driven her for so long.

“No,” she answered through numb lips. “I don’t want them to think our marriage contentious.”

“Good.” His hands moved to his trousers. She commanded herself to look away, to move. She couldn’t just stand here watching him slack-jawed as he removed the last of his clothing. She already knew he preferred to sleep naked, and in the fire’s glow, she’d see every bare inch of him. That was more than she could bear.

She swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat and scanned the room, spotting a wooden screen etched with a hunting scene. Her nightgown already happened to be draped over it—the wisdom of her maid, Berthe, no doubt.

She could change behind that with relative privacy. With luck, Logan would be tucked out of sight beneath the covers by the time she emerged.

Strategy in mind, she strode across the room and positioned herself behind the screen. Within moments of straining her arms behind her back, she realized she could not undress herself unassisted. Blast it! She should have considered this sooner.

Face flaming, she bowed her head in misery for a long moment. Inhaling, she gathered her nerve and stepped out from behind the screen once again. He was in the bed. Just as she’d hoped. And feared. He’d have to rise to assist her and then she’d see every bare inch of him.

She cleared her throat unnecessarily. He was already looking directly at her from where he was propped against the pillows in the bed, the coverlet pooled around his waist, leaving that enticing bare chest of his exposed.

She couldn’t help notice that he had positioned himself squarely in the middle of the bed, with no thought, evidently, for granting her any space of her own where she wouldn’t brush against him.

“I can’t quite manage the buttons on my gown.”

“Come here,” he said and she didn’t think she imagined that his voice was rougher than usual, the burr deeper, more gravelly.

She stepped closer, briskly at first and then slower, her steps dragging as she neared the bed. He remained where he was. She stopped near the edge, her fingers bunching the skirts of her gown.

“Turn around,” he instructed.

She turned, fixing her gaze straight ahead. There was a slight rustling and her pulse kicked against her throat as she imagined him pushing back the covers . . . his naked body moving toward her.

She waited. Nothing happened. She glanced over her shoulder. He loomed behind her, his bare shoulders smooth and vast, the flesh rippling over tightly corded muscle. She quickly faced forward again. But it was too late. The image was permanently branded on her mind. Just as his clean, woodsy scent was fixed in her nostrils.

At the first touch of his fingers, she gasped. Even though she was waiting for it, expecting it, even though he was only actually touching the top button of her dress. Her bodice loosened as he undid more buttons. And then she felt him—his hand inside her dress, the backs of his fingers brushing her back, grazing her spine as he worked free the last of the tiny, satin-covered buttons.

Her dress sagged, only her arms holding it up, covering her breasts. She couldn’t command her legs to move. Could only feel his fingers on her back, the spark of heat where their skin connected. The air had ceased to flow in and out of her. He didn’t move either and she wondered if she stood there long enough would he move and take the choice away from her? That would make it blessedly simple.

Marguerite’s scandalous advice whispered through her head. She’d been shockingly candid, explaining how Cleo might pleasure both herself and Logan without engaging in actual . . . relations.

Even with the advice swimming through her, leaving nothing to the imagination, one question still remained. How did she go about initiating the advice Marguerite had given her?

“There. All done.”

Rustling behind her indicated his return to the bed. Clutching her gown to keep it from falling to her feet, she scurried behind the screen. Stepping free of her gown, she flung it over the screen, angered at her cowardice. Her undergarments soon followed. Slipping the nightgown over her head, she emerged again, her gaze immediately flying to the bed. He was still there, square in the middle, naturally.

Only he no longer sat upright with pillows propped behind him as though he were waiting for her. He was lying on his side. She squinted, unable to even make out his face. He appeared to be . . . sleeping.