Christine Merrill - Regency Surrender - Wicked Deception

When he returned from his search, he was barely winded by the trip down the hall and holding a battered copy of Gulliver’s Travels . She could barely remember the story, but she was sure she had read it some time in childhood. But it was plain that she had not understood the finer points of the narrative. The passages, though very funny, were too bawdy to be read aloud in a drawing room. She did not know whether to laugh or blush, doing both by turns. What must he think of her?

Then she remembered that she was supposed to be his wife and should not be shocked by his choice of subject. Perhaps he meant to relax her and put her in the mood for what was likely to follow, once they had retired to his room. It was strange. If he meant to flirt with her, he needn’t have bothered. He had but to command and she would do whatever he wished.

Or he could give her another kiss. The memory of the kiss in the hallway of his brother’s home was far more shocking than anything he was reading and left her so flustered that she confused her twists with her crosses on a whole row of bobbins and had to undo them and start again.

What was she to make of him? It would be a lie to say she did not like his company. She had not expected to enjoy this time alone, or to be so entertained by a thing that obviously gave him pleasure. It made her think longingly of the library. There were enough books in it for a lifetime of evenings just like this one.

She had enjoyed listening to him this morning as well. His stories of home and family had been so interesting that she had almost forgotten the reason she had wished to hear them. Her father’s fate, and the location of the gems, had seemed unimportant compared to the history of a place that would never be a true home to her.

She suspected it was its master who fascinated her, not the house itself. She liked to look at him, with his pale skin, black hair and fine features. Even as he’d lain in the sickbed, she’d had more than a nurse’s interest in the naked body concealed beneath the sheet. Though it was wasting from prolonged illness, she could imagine the vitality that had been there. As he read to her tonight, she could see the vigour she had assumed was there. His enthusiasm for the book filled the room. His voice was expressive, his whole body animated, so she could imagine the scenes playing out before her. She had been right to bring him home. What a waste it would have been for someone so alive to die violently, alone and unloved.

She let herself relax into the sound of his voice and the flicker of the candle behind the screen at her side, her fingers working methodically on the trim in her lap. When he shut the book with a snap, she was surprised to hear the clock strike eleven. She looked up at him and he returned her gaze with a surprised smile.

‘I did not think it had got so late,’ she said.

‘Nor had I.’ He yawned and stood, setting the book aside. ‘I think, perhaps, it is time for us to retire. Let me escort you to your room. When you are ready for bed...’ he paused, as though he was as nervous as she. ‘Come into my room by the connecting door. You need not bother to knock. I will be waiting for you.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed.

Chapter Nine

She did as he suggested, letting the maid that had come with her from Penny’s household dress her in her nightgown and comb and braid her hair. With each stroke of the brush she reminded herself that it was foolish to be so nervous. She was not some fainting virgin, unaware of what was about to occur. Her time with Montague had prepared her for any request Lord Felkirk might make.

William, she reminded herself. His family called him Will. So must she think of him, for she was his wife. If the stories she had told him were true, they had been intimate for some time. They would be so again. It was only natural.

She fought down the depression that the thought caused. It was bad enough to be the plaything of Montague. But to open herself to a stranger in the hope of gain? It was a dangerous precedent.

The best she could hope for was that this would be the last man to use her so. But it was a shame that it had to be this particular man. He was kind. He was funny. And he was most certainly handsome. At one time, it had been her dream to find such a man. More accurately, she had wanted to be found by him. If only he could have come five years ago, before it was too late...

She dismissed the maid and took one more glance in the mirror, watching her own eyes go blank as she put such foolish thoughts aside. Then she went to the door that connected their rooms and turned the knob.

He was already in bed, smiling at her as she closed the door behind her. He had propped himself up on the pillows, bare arms folded behind his head. The covers pooled in his lap, exposing his equally bare chest. She suspected he was naked beneath them. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run.

Foolishness. She had seen a naked man before. She had seen this man naked. She’d been bathing him for weeks. There were no surprises here.

He unfolded his arms and held one out to her in welcome, patting the mattress at his side with the other. ‘Come,’ he said.

Without thinking, she went to him, as obedient as a trained dog. Her own lack of resistance disgusted her. Had Montague schooled the last of the spirit from her? She buried the thought deep, so that it did not show on her face. It would not do to go frowning to her husband’s bed.

As she drew near, he threw back the blankets so that she might climb in beside him. She glanced down at the bare flank it revealed and then back up into his face, then sat down on the mattress, swung her legs up beside his and let him settle the covers over them.

His arm wrapped around her, holding her easily to his side. ‘Is this as strange to you as it is to me?’

Stranger than he could possibly imagine. She sought a comfortable place to rest her own arms, settling them gently against his chest. ‘It has been some time,’ she said, trying to sound sympathetic.

‘You, at least, remember who I am,’ he pointed out.

‘Will it really matter so much, once the lights are out?’ she asked.

She had said something wrong. He leaned away from her, clearly shocked. Of course it should matter. If the man one loved could not remember, it should hurt. If he had cared enough to marry her, he should at least pretend that she was not just another warm body in his bed.

He cleared his throat. ‘If it were simply a matter of desire, perhaps it would not matter. We share something more, do we not?’ This last came with a leading, hopeful tone, as though he was still longing to remember what it was that had brought them to marry.

She had no answer, other than ‘yes.’ Then she snuggled closer to him and eased a leg over his, hoping that the discussion might be over for the night.

He did not move away. But neither did he tumble her on to her back so that they could begin. Instead, his other hand reached out to her. It hovered over her breasts for a moment. Then he ran a finger along the neckline of her rather chaste nightrail. ‘Did you make this for yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the lace here. What is it called?’

She shrugged, for it was no great achievement. ‘A simple picot edging.’

‘Do you make it with the pins and the cushion?’

She shook her head, surprised that he would be asking about her work now, of all times. ‘I use a shuttle. It is called tatting. Very easy. I can make enough for the whole gown in an evening.’

He looked down at her body again, seemingly more interested in the simple dress than the body beneath it. ‘Is this indicative of your other nightwear?’

‘I have several identical to this,’ she admitted.