Margaret Moore - A Marriage Of Rogues

He moved faster. She, too, began to move, rising to meet his thrusts. Gripping him harder, tighter. No longer kissing, their gasping breaths joined until, in a shattering moment, the tension broke, sending wave after throbbing wave through her body. At the same time, he groaned like a man about to expire, his body bucking.

He stopped and, panting, lay with his head in the crook of her neck while she slowly, slowly returned to a place where she could think. And speak. “Is that...all?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

He pulled away and moved to lie beside her. “It’s enough for tonight. And now that we’re so intimately acquainted, you should call me Dev.”

“And you should call me Thea.”

“Good night, Thea,” he replied, rolling onto his side, away from her.

“Good night, Dev,” she said, also turning onto her side.

But she couldn’t sleep. After a while, she got up and washed, then crept back to bed, trying not to disturb him as she lay wide-awake. He needed his rest, for he must surely be exhausted.

* * *

But Dev was not asleep then, or for a long time afterward. He was trying to decide what, if anything, he should do.

Although he’d agreed to marry Thea Markham out of guilt, remorse and his distaste for the marriage mart, she also intrigued him. Her passionate responses had thrilled him, too, perhaps because she was so serene and practical and resolute at other times. But when it appeared she may have feigned her desire, he’d begun to question all the reasons for his decision and been prepared to seek an annulment—until she’d looked at him with apparently sincere longing. Then, and despite whatever reservations he still harbored, he’d been unable to resist his lustful urges, just as his father always said.

What should he do now? Stay married and trust that her desire was as genuine as it seemed and that their marriage could succeed despite its unusual origin, or give up the hope that any union based on such a foundation could be happy and seek an annulment?

In the end, he decided only one thing: until he was sure of his course of action, he should not touch his wife again.

No matter how much he wanted to.

Chapter Four

Seated in the barouche the next morning, Thea kept her gaze on the passing countryside while they continued their journey back to Dundrake. The rugged beauty of the lakes and mountains, and the play of the light and shadow caused by the sun disappearing behind clouds, were a wonderful change from the squalid areas of London where she’d been living. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of a waterfall or wild river, the water rushing over rocks. Occasionally they would pass a farmstead, the yard alive with chickens and geese, and sometimes a dog or a child quietly watching the fancy coach pass. Or they passed through a small village dominated by a little stone church, a smithy and a few shops around a green where some farmers and their wives were buying and selling.

Yet Thea couldn’t completely enjoy the scenery. She was too distracted by the grimly silent presence of the man sitting opposite her.

After finally falling asleep last night, she had awakened to find that Develin was already up, washed and dressed in expensive, well-made traveling clothes. He bade her a good morning and said little else. Unsure what to do or say to her husband, she quickly washed and dressed. She was relieved that, in spite of the intimacy they’d shared, he’d kept his gaze averted. It was different being alone with him in the brighter light of morning than it had been in the candlelit room last night.

At breakfast, he’d been polite but still nearly silent.

Perhaps he was simply tired, exhausted from the events of the day before and especially the night that followed. After all, she was weary, too. She’d lain awake most of the night wondering if she’d pleased him as much as he had pleased her and trying not to contemplate the other women with whom he’d been intimate.

“We’re nearly at Dundrake Hall,” her companion abruptly announced, his tone matter-of-fact. “The next curve should see us at the gates.”

Thea’s heartbeat quickened. What would his servants think of her? And his friends? Although she was educated and knew how to behave in polite society, she was a stranger and no beauty. She fervently hoped she could hold her own with the ton, or at least not be an embarrassment to her husband.

Despite her self-assurances, her pulse increased again when the coach rounded the curve and she had her first glimpse of the imposing iron gates of Sir Develin Dundrake’s estate. They looked like they belonged to a prison.

Perhaps one of the horses would throw a shoe or an axle break and delay their arrival. All she needed was a little more time to prepare herself.

Unfortunately no disaster impeded their progress.

When they reached the gate, the door to what had to be the gatekeeper’s lodge opened. An old man, gray-haired and bent-backed, hurried toward the gates from the wattle-and-daub cottage.

“Ah, it’s Sir Develin back, eh?” he called out in a thin, reedy voice as he peered inside the barouche. “And not alone, neither. I wish you joy, Sir Develin.”

“How the devil—?” her husband began, echoing her own surprise before a frown darkened his features.

The cat was clearly out of the bag, the news arriving via a visiting relative, peddler or tradesman perhaps. However their marriage was discovered, curiosity and speculation were no doubt going to be the reaction that greeted her introduction as Lady Dundrake, and likely not just among the servants.

She had had worse receptions. She suspected Develin had not, though, as his subsequent actions proved.

He leaned out the window and rather forcefully asked, “Is there a difficulty, Simpkins?”

“No, sir, no!” the gatekeeper replied, his gaze now fastened on Thea, who wished she had a better bonnet.

“Then open the gates,” her husband snapped before he returned to his seat, where he frowned and crossed his arms.

Since she was Lady Dundrake, it was time to begin to act like it, she told herself, so she gave the gatekeeper her best smile as they drove by.

Her smile disappeared when she saw the house. The Georgian structure with its grim gray stone and several gleaming windows had seemed vast and imposing when she approached it from the garden. It seemed vaster and more impressive from the front, with a wide stone portico and stairs and ornamental plinths and cornices. Dundrake Hall must have cost a fortune and taken years to build.

“My father did have a few good qualities,” her husband noted as the coach rolled along the gravel drive. “He had excellent taste and knew how to get what he wanted from a builder.”

“The house was your father’s design?”

“Yes, all of it, inside and out.”

“Did not your mother...?” She fell silent when she saw the warning look that flashed across Develin’s face. Clearly his mother was a subject to be avoided, at least for now.

So she stayed silent as the coach reached the house, where the servants were lined up like a firing squad in maids’ uniforms of dark dresses and white aprons and caps, or fine green livery for the footmen.

She took a deep breath and managed to sound composed when she asked, “How many servants are there?”

“Twenty-five or thirty, depending on the season. Mrs. Wessex can tell you how many are currently employed. She and Jackson, the butler, have been with the family since before I was born,” her husband replied.

Mrs. Wessex must be the housekeeper, and it was no comfort to Thea to find out she had been at Dundrake Hall for so many years. Servants of such long standing might very well look askance at a wife who had apparently appeared out of nowhere. “I daresay they’re surprised that you’re returning with a bride.”