Patricia Rice (23 page)

Tears rimmed Bea’s eyes, but Mac thought they might
be a woman’s tears over nothing, because she was smiling. Whisking the
boy into his arms and hugging him, Mac whispered reassuringly in his
nephew’s ear, “We’ll share, all right?”

Beaming, making him feel he’d done the right thing,
Bea hastened to rescue Bitsy from the arms of Mrs. Rector. The babe
burbled happily and slobbered over the delicate lace of the wedding
gown. Mac didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as they proceeded down the
aisle to stately organ music with two giggling children in their arms.

Hell of a way to start married life.
It was a damned good thing he was getting rid of the wretched monsters,
or he’d be lucky to ever see his marriage bed. He looked down at
Buddy’s defiant expression and over to his bride’s blissful one, and
surrendered his grumpy thoughts. Somehow he’d made them all happy—for
the moment.

***

“Didn’t those posters mention some Scots name?” Bea
overheard Clara Miller asking her sister. “And didn’t the vicar just
call Mr. Warwick by some outlandish heathen name?” The spinster threw a
look over her shoulder in Mac’s direction. “I’m certain it wasn’t
Warwick.”

Bea’s stomach did an uneasy dance, but she
approached the women calmly. Anger and protectiveness overcame her
natural timidity. “He’s an American, Miss Miller,” she said as she
helped herself to a tea cake. “His father is the descendant of a Scots
laird, but his family has owned property in Virginia for a hundred years
or more. And his mother is a relation to the Gloucestershire Warwicks, a
very respectable family, I’m told. Have you tried one of Mrs. Digby’s
yeast rolls? They absolutely melt in the mouth.”

She sauntered off, leaving the two spinster ladies
eagerly filling their plates. She should feel sorry for them. They were
in their late thirties and had never married. She’d thought she’d end up
like them with nothing better to do than gossip.

As she cast a glance to where Mac entertained a
circle of men, happiness exploded inside her. No matter what else could
be said about her husband, he was a fine figure of a man, and he cared
for his niece and nephew. When all was said and done, the ability to
love small children said a great deal about a man.

He looked up, caught her eye, and winked. She
blushed and hastily stepped into a curtained alcove, any worries over
gossip evaporating in the heat of her thoughts. She might be ready for
the night to come, but she wished she knew more of what to expect. Aunt
Constance had simply told her to follow her husband’s wishes, and she
would be fine.

“I hadn’t realized he had two children already,” she
heard Mrs. Smythe murmur to someone on the other side of the drapery.
“Why, our dear Miss Cavendish could be breeding before summer’s end. She
won’t have time for this cooperative Mrs. Rector proses on about.”

Bea blushed to her hair roots but couldn’t break
away at the sound of Mrs. White’s earthy chuckle. “Dear Miss Cavendish
is too much a lady to allow her husband those kinds of liberties,” the
brewer’s wife said with certainty. “Ladies do things differently. You
don’t see any of them at Landingham with big bellies swollen with child.
No, they have separate beds and most likely only share one at holiday
times or some such, or the country would be overrun with nobility.”

Mrs. Smythe snorted loudly. “Well, we’re half
overrun with the nobility’s bastards, so the gentlemen don’t think the
same as the ladies then. Of course, if their ladies don’t allow them in
their beds, I can see the reason for that. Men are no better than beasts
in the fields, as I see it, doing indecent things to a woman until they
get us with child, then roaming to the next female in heat. It’s a sin,
it is.”

Bea crumpled to the cushioned window seat, her face
aflame. Even though the women wandered off, she doubted she could
confront her guests anytime soon.
Beasts in the field?
She’d taken a broom to a pair of cats once that—

Children.
What men did to
women in bed produced children. She had never given the details much
consideration. Now that she’d experienced the unsettling feelings Mac’s
kisses had introduced, she rather thought they might be just the
beginning. She’d known that women who had children out of wedlock had
done indecent things, but she hadn’t thought about married women doing
them.

Just exactly what indecent things would her husband expect her to do? Did such acts always produce children?

And did she want children?

That was a sobering thought, one she hadn’t given
much consideration. Her thoughts wandered back to Mac’s tongue touching
hers, and she shivered at the implication.

Bea held a hand to her flat abdomen. How was it
possible? Aunt Constance really should have told her more. Did she dare
ask Mrs. Rector? But Mrs. Rector had no children and probably didn’t
know either.

She couldn’t believe the depth of her ignorance. It
wasn’t just her father who had protected her from the facts of life. The
whole village was guilty. People had children all the time, but she’d
seen them only after the babes were born. She’d always been discouraged
from visiting when people whispered a woman was “breeding.” It must be
awful to look upon.

She didn’t want to look worse than she already did,
and she wasn’t at all certain that she wanted children, especially if
they grew in her belly. She didn’t even want to begin to know how they
got there.

When Mac came to find her, she stared at him as if
he’d turned into a ram with horns and was about to leap upon her. If
that was what he thought he’d do to her—

“Bea?” he asked, a quizzical expression replacing
his earlier smile. “Are you all right? You look as if you’ve eaten
something that disagrees with you.”

Shame and shyness burned inside her, and she turned
away rather than take his hands. His big hands, with which he’d already
touched her breast once. Her cheeks flamed as she imagined what else he
might do with them. “Too much excitement,” she whispered.

“You’re not used to it,” he said sympathetically. “Did your father never entertain?”

“Once each year, in the fall.” Grateful for a
familiar subject, she grasped it eagerly. “He’d ask his hunting friends
over for dinner before the hunt. This is not the same at all.”

“Well, your aunt is having the time of her life. Perhaps she will go away and leave us alone after this.”

Alone.
Panic loomed large.
She clasped her fingers into fists. “Most likely. She likes the Season
in London. Perhaps she can help you find a nanny.” She was amazed she
could say anything so sensible with him looming over her.

“I think I’ll go suggest it to her and see how soon I can persuade her to leave.”

Bea nodded helplessly, and let Mac slip away without a word.

He wanted her. He was pleased with their marriage. But she wasn’t at all certain that she knew what
she
wanted.

She had better think quickly about whether or not
she wanted children, then. She had a strong feeling that Mac hadn’t
given children a thought one way or another. He just meant to have what
he wanted of her; then he’d sail away and leave her to the
consequences—just as a ram planted little lambs all over the field and
ignored them thereafter.

He didn’t know where his wife was.

Nervously, Mac paced up and down the floor of the
room he’d been assigned. No one expected him to sleep in the steward’s
cottage on his wedding night, but he hadn’t considered all the
ramifications of sleeping in the mansion either.

He pulled a face as he glanced down at the silky
robe with its tasseled belt that someone had left on his bed. He hadn’t
known what he was supposed to wear under it. He’d much rather doff
everything, as he usually did. But he was a married man now. He couldn’t
offend feminine sensibilities by walking around in the bare skin God
gave him.

He listened for some sound of the children overhead
in the nursery, but the wedding had worn them out. They’d been sound
asleep when he’d checked on them.

Grabbing the wine bottle he’d had waiting in
anticipation of Bea’s arrival, he eased into the darkened hallway,
checking for lurking servants. He groped his way down the hall, thinking
of how quiet Bea had been since the wedding. Did second thoughts have
her cowering in her room?

Why the devil hadn’t she told him where her room
was? The mahogany staircase split the mansion into two halves. Glancing
down the west wing, he saw no sign of light beneath any doors. Taking a
deep breath, he tiptoed back the way he’d come, past the door to his
room, and beyond to a statue of some dead Roman, in the direction of the
east wing. About midway down, a faint light from beneath a door
illuminated the floorboards and carpet of the hall.

Praying the aunt had a room in the farthest corner
of hell, Mac strode down the hall and knocked. If he startled the old
lady, so be it. She could give him directions.

He might have imagined Bea’s call, but he was too
wound up to care. He’d spent the day—hell, the last week—imagining Bea
in his bed. He wasn’t about to give up now that the moment was at hand.

A flame flickered in a bedside lamp as he opened the
door to find Bea sitting up against her pillows, reading a book, in a
good-sized bed with heavy wine-colored draperies. A quick glance
revealed a few solid pieces of furniture and none of the fragile
frivolity he feared he would break. A man his size needed a solid bed
under him—particularly for the activity he had in mind.

His gaze drifted back to the women in the bed.
Wearing some kind of high-necked gown stitched all over with ruffles and
lace and whatnot, Bea waited while he oriented himself. She wore her
hair in a long thick braid down her back. He wanted to undo that braid
and wrap his hands in all those lustrous tresses.

“I didn’t know where to find you,” he said gruffly.

Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and he wondered if she’d been crying. The thought made him feel more than ever a lout.

Setting down the wine, he could see she’d pulled the
lace-trimmed sheets up to her neck. He dearly wanted to see her naked
and sprawled wantonly across those sheets, but he supposed he couldn’t
expect everything at once. Beneath his tight trousers, his pole was
already so rigid he could mount a flag and fly it.

Easing down onto the bed, he leaned on one hand and
pressed a kiss to her brow. Without all her acres of skirts and
petticoats, she seemed much smaller and more vulnerable. She had such
soft skin, Mac’s hand trembled as he touched it. “I don’t think the
world has ever seen so lovely a bride as you,” he murmured. He’d
memorized that line, but it was from his heart. He’d never forget how
she looked as he’d placed his ring on her finger and claimed her in the
eyes of all.

“I’ve been told all brides are lovely,” she said flatly, not setting aside her book.

He tried to remove the volume from her fingers, but
she gripped it firmly. Growing worried, he studied her face. This wasn’t
the warm welcome he’d expected. “Is there anything else you’ve been
told that I should know about?”

Her lip quivered, but she drew herself up straight. “I don’t think we ought to have children.”

Warning bells clamored in his head, but Mac had
practice in remaining calm in the face of adversity. “I think that’s one
of those things God controls,” he said evenly.

“It is?”

He heard her surprise and wondered what in hell
she’d been told. “The curate and his wife have not been blessed with
children, have they?”

She wrinkled her forehead and pondered that before
working it out in her decidedly intricate brain. “That’s probably
because they don’t do anything indecent.”

Mac wanted to laugh out loud, but he didn’t dare. He
stood on a precipice right now, and one wrong move would tumble him
over. “I don’t think it’s considered indecent if we’re married.”

Her mouth straightened into a stubborn line he’d not noticed before.

“But if it can lead to babies, I don’t think we
ought to do it. You will go away shortly, and I can barely manage things
on my own as it is.” She watched him cautiously. “Kissing doesn’t lead
to babies, does it? Couldn’t we just kiss?”

His patience frayed as he sought a path through the
treacherous swamp of her ignorance. “Bea, I could tell you that kissing
is safe, but it would be a lie.” He saw her eyes widen in panic and
hastened to reassure her. “We’ve not gone too far, but we would.”

Daringly, he tugged at the sheet. Apparently unable
to decide whether to hold the book or grab the linen, she lost both. He
uncovered a nightgown huge enough to serve as a second sheet. She tried
to cover herself, but Mac stayed her hand, slipped beneath her defenses,
and boldly conquered a malleable, cotton-covered peak. She gasped when
he rolled the tip of her breast beneath his palm. As aroused as he was,
it was a foolish thing to do, but he had to make her understand how
their bodies reacted to each other.

Pink tinged her cheeks as she pushed back into the
pillows, but he wasn’t about to let go now that he finally had the right
to touch her. By all that was holy, she felt magnificent in his hands.
He wanted to see all of her, touch all of her—inside as well as out.

But she was his wife, and she was terrified. He had to teach her—so many things.

“Feel what happens when I do this?” he asked,
caressing her through the linen with amazing restraint for a man who was
about to explode. “Touching you like this affects me the same way it
does you. And if we kiss, I’ll want to do this and a great deal more.
That’s how God made us. That’s why the world is populated with children.
It’s not because they’re such a joy to have around,” he added dryly.

Bea thought she’d melt of embarrassment when Mac did
not immediately release her breast but used his fingers to create
rivers of desire that flowed far lower than he touched. No one but Mac
had ever touched her like that. It was
indecent.