April Kihlstrom (9 page)

If so, then she would be defiantly wicked because she was not about to deny that she craved his touch, had done so from the first moment he stroked her cheek and tucked a curl behind her ear. Or that when he kissed her, longings she didn’t fully understand rose up and made her cling to him in a way that would have been a disgrace if they had not been betrothed and in the country where no one could see.

Where else would he touch her tonight? How would it feel? To what would it lead? Mama refused to tell her anything more than to give Lord Rothwood free rein and that she might find she liked it very much and that if she did not, it was nevertheless her duty to pretend that she had done so. But Beatrix didn’t want to have to pretend! She wanted to feel whatever it was her mother so clearly felt when she was with her father. She wanted that same flush to her cheeks and laughter in her eyes that she saw when her parents would emerge from one of their private chats in the bedroom on many an afternoon. She wanted to feel for Lord Rothwood and have him feel for her what she saw in her parents’ eyes when they looked at each other. Just so long as it did not blind her to his faults and put their children at risk! There were limits, after all, to what one should accept.

That thought brought Beatrix back to the present moment and Lord Rothwood, who was offering her a treat from his own plate. She allowed him to slip it into her mouth with his fingers and could not resist licking the tips of those fingers with her tongue. His eyes flared wide; she saw what was surely desire in them, and a smile crossed his face that must have matched her own. It would seem that he was as eager for their wedding night as she was. Surely that was a good sign?

There was a shyness about her as Beatrix said good-bye to her family and the local well-wishers who had joined them to celebrate the wedding. Excitement, too, as Rothwood handed her into the carriage and she was alone with him for the first time since they had taken their wedding vows. He did not sit beside her as she rather expected, but took instead the seat opposite, his back to the horses. It seemed he wanted to be able to see her face as they rode and that unsettled Beatrix because she did not understand why.

From everything she had overheard her brothers say, when they thought no girls were around, a man wanted more than anything else to hold a woman, to feel her against him, not to stare at her face or listen to her speak. But then her brothers were all younger than she was and perhaps they didn’t know quite as much as they thought they did. Rothwood seemed content to simply regard her with a lazy smile. Beatrix found herself smiling back.

“Where are we headed?” she asked.

“I thought to take you to my family estate,” he said.

“Oh.”

“I, er, thought you liked the countryside.”

“I do. It’s just . . . ”

“Just what?”

“Just that I’ve never been to London and I should like to see it at least once in my life.”

There. She’d said it. What would he think? Ought she have simply agreed to go to his country estate because that was what he wanted to do and a wife should do what her husband wanted? That was what Mama said. On the other hand, that was how Mama lived her life and look where it had gotten her. The family was always short of funds and always worrying about how to pay bills because Mama never told Papa what she thought of his gambling.

Of course there was a great difference between Papa gambling their money away and Rothwood wishing to go to his estate rather than London. Still, one ought to begin as one means to go on, oughtn’t one?

* * *

Rothwood was not quite certain what to make of Beatrix speaking as she was. To be sure, she was making no demands precisely and yet it was evident that if he did not take her to London, she would be greatly disappointed. Well, what was there to object to in that? It could be interesting showing her London and then they could retire to his estate where he could leave her. Having seen how dirty and noisy and smelly London was, she was far less likely to object. And if a few of the ladies snubbed her for their hasty marriage, all the better. It would make her far more likely to be content with life in the country, would it not?

It all sounded reasonable, so why he was so uneasy, Edmund could not have said. His new wife had not done anything unseemly and still his instincts warned him there was trouble ahead. He could not imagine what it might be, but that was how he felt nonetheless. Still, taking her to London really was a simple enough way to please her and if she was happy, their wedding night would be that much better. Wouldn’t it?

Aloud he said, “When we stop to change horses, I shall tell the coachman we are going to London instead of my estate.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The delight on her face was more than enough to make Edmund glad he had decided to change his plans. Indeed, when she smiled at him in such a way, he felt as though he could do anything. She made him want to be the perfect husband and make her happy. He even found himself thinking of old hopes and dreams, ones he had set aside so long ago. Why had his father never told him this was how it could be?

* * *

See? Beatrix told herself. Rothwood
was
kind. He
was
considerate. He
did
care how she felt. A warm glow seemed to run through her and she wished she were sitting beside him, not opposite him. Why had he not drawn her onto his lap? Why had he not kissed her here, in the carriage? He liked kissing, he’d proven that a number of times over the past few days.

Perhaps he thought she was shy? Perhaps he was worried about her delicate sensibilities? It was an absurd notion, but Mama said it was often so with gentlemen. Perhaps she ought to give him a hint that she welcomed his embrace?

Carefully Beatrix pulled off her gloves and undid the strings of her bonnet. She set them on the seat beside her, ignoring Rothwood’s look of alarm. When the carriage slowed just enough that she felt safe doing so, Beatrix exchanged her current seat for one next to him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking bewildered.

She smiled up at him. “Sitting with my husband.”

He hesitated, then smiled back. He even took her hand in his and put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close. He took a deep breath and kissed the top of her head. Not quite what she wanted, but still better than the distance that had been between them. She turned her face to look up at him.

For a moment she feared she had been too bold, but then, with a muffled oath, he swooped down and captured her lips with his own. Yes, this was her Rothwood, her Edmund. This was the man she had wanted to marry, not the rigid fellow he’d been just moments before.

Still, he broke off the kiss sooner than she would have liked and set her a little distance from him. His breathing was as rough, as ragged as her own.

“If you do not wish to learn what it means to be a bride, right here in this carriage, it would perhaps be best if you sat on the other seat as before,” he told her, clearly choosing his words with care.

Was that why he had been holding himself so aloof? Because he wished so much to hold and kiss and, well, do other things with her? Ah, that made all the difference in the world! Beatrix switched seats and put her gloves and bonnet back on. She did not realize she was grinning until she saw a reluctant grin cross Rothwood’s face. He chuckled.

“We shall make such a scandalous pair,” he said, “if we are not careful.”

Rothwood seemed in such a genial mood that Beatrix dared to ask some of the questions she had not asked during the short time they had been engaged. “What do you most love to do?”

His grin broadened. “I’ll be showing you tonight,” he said.

Beatrix felt herself blush and yet he smiled at her in such a tender way she could not mind his teasing. Still, she persisted. “I think we shall both find that fun,” she agreed, “but I should like to know what you do that makes you happy, what you do as play.”

He went still. It took him a moment before he replied, and when he did his voice was strained. “I have not had much time for play in my life of late,” he said. “When I turned fifteen, my father said that it was no longer seemly for me to play. I was raised to know my duty and to do it. Fun, my father always said, was for other people, those too foolish to know that life was a serious matter. Even at cards or out riding, he said, one must always be on one’s guard. To do anything else, he said, was to be a fool. I am not certain I know how to play or have fun any longer.”

Beatrix listened, appalled. So this had been his life? No wonder he was often so starched up. Yet he had known how to play when he was with her brothers. She spoke of that aloud, for it seemed the safest way to respond. “You laughed with my brothers when you caught that fish,” she pointed out with a tentative smile. “And you laughed when we raced through the field.”

Now he also smiled, clearly remembering with her. Again he teased. “Perhaps it is a good thing I shall have you to remind me.”

Ah, that was better. But now he had her more curious than ever about his family, so she took a breath and plunged in, hoping he would not regard her questions as impertinence. “Tell me about your family,” she said. “I know so little about them, save for your aunt, Lady Kenrick.”

He hesitated, but ultimately said, “Well as you say, you know Lady Kenrick. My mother was a . . . flighty creature, while my father was one of the most respected men in London. I have done my best to learn to be like him. I have no brothers or sisters. There is a cousin Harold, but I very rarely see him. I am hoping that now that you and I are wed, my aunt will turn her meddling attentions to him rather than us.”

“Are you close to your cousin?”

“Good heavens, no! But he does live in London and I’ve no doubt he will pay us a call as soon as he hears we are in town.”

There was a grim set to his jaw and Beatrix found herself daunted by the brief summary of the people who ought to have been most important in his life. He sat as though he wore a large sign warning her not to pursue the matter. Very well, she would ask about something that mattered deeply to
her
. “You mentioned cards,” she said. “Do you like to gamble?”

She had tried to sound careless, as though the answer did not signify so very much to her, but she had to steel herself for his answer.

His eyebrows rose slowly and then he grinned, his humor restored. “Are you proposing some sort of wager?” he teased.

“Of course not!”

Her shock was so evident that his brows snapped downward and he looked at her more closely. “Then why do you ask?”

It was a perfectly sensible question and one he answered before she could do so.

“Of course. Your father and his gambling debts. Yes, I enjoy a wager now and then, playing cards and so forth. I do not, however, gamble to excess nor lose large sums of money at the tables. You need not fear I shall land you in the river tick as your father has done with your family.”

Beatrix let out the breath she did not even know she was holding. Rothwood’s gaze grew sympathetic. “I shall take care of you. I am not a man to let his family go without, or myself to be consumed by any
destructive
passion. You may hear otherwise, but I assure you I am far more sensible than gossip would allow.”

Her father had assured her more than once that he, too, knew what he was about. And he had been lying. But somehow Beatrix found herself believing Rothwood. Perhaps it was because she wanted to, but more likely it was because, for all the gossip about him, she had not seen any evidence of dissolution in the man. He had shown consideration to her family, kept his appetites moderate and even, she suspected, left the table hungry more than once rather than see her siblings do so. This was, perhaps, a man who would do as he said and could be trusted.

If only he knew how to play and allowed himself to do so! That must be one of her tasks. She must help him fulfill at least some of the dreams he’d had as a boy and see that he could be his own man, not always following in his father’s footsteps. The question was: how to do so?

Before Beatrix could say another word, Rothwood began to tell her about the countryside they were riding through, sharing some of his memories from previous visits to this part of England. More than once he made her laugh and she felt herself falling even more in love with him.

Thus it was that they were in perfect accord as they entered the inn where they stopped for the night. Neither expected it would be the scene of their first fight.

Chapter 7

It all began well enough. The inn was warm and cozy and they were given the best bedchamber as well as a private parlor for their use. The food was excellent, the innkeeper’s wife having outdone herself when she discovered there were newlyweds staying under her roof that night. “For I’ll be bound they need to eat well to have energy for what’s to come tonight,” she told her husband sagely. “Take up a bottle of our best wine as well. His lordship won’t cavil at the cost, if he’s thinking of his bride. They’ll want to eat in the bedchamber tonight, won’t they?”

She was, as usual, quite correct. Lord Rothwood did want to eschew the private parlor for the bedroom to dine that night and made no demur at the cost of the wine or the meal or anything else. He was, as she had predicted, far too preoccupied with imagining the night ahead. Once out of her hat and gloves and outer traveling clothes, Beatrix was again the sweet bride whose hand he had held at the altar. She wore the same dress and he found himself vowing that the first order of business once they reached London would be to order her a new wardrobe from a fashionable modiste. No doubt his aunt could direct him to one. It wouldn’t do to use any of the ones his crowd used to dress their doxies. No, he needed someone respectable. If his aunt wasn’t back in London by the time they got there, he’d ask his friends who dressed their sisters and mothers. Either way, he’d see his wife in silk and satin, lace and beautiful colors. Every man in London would envy him by the time he was done. He would choose the dresses himself. Growing up in the country as she had, Beatrix wouldn’t have the faintest idea of where to begin with such things.

Of course he’d also have to get her a maid who knew what was what and a hairdresser to do something with her hair. Perhaps it could be cut a bit and curled before it was pinned atop her head?

He wondered if he ought to also arrange lessons for her in dance and sketching and other feminine pursuits that he had not seen her undertake even once while staying at her house. It was true he hadn’t been there very long. Besides, what did it matter? She was married to him, now, and the last thing he wanted was for her to develop such a taste for dancing that she demanded he take her to balls and such. Or, God forbid, Almack’s!

Edmund almost shuddered at the thought but caught himself just in time for he rather feared that if he had shuddered, she might have thought he was shuddering at her rather than the thought of being forced to endure even a single evening, ever again, at a place he abhorred. One of the many, many benefits, after all, of being married, was never having to step into the marriage mart that was Almack’s ever again.

Not that any of this was what Edmund
wanted
to be thinking about! But if he allowed his thoughts to go where they wished, he’d have frightened his bride before she had a chance to even become accustomed to his presence alone with her, much less with the idea of what was to come. He was not going to rush his fences. By the time he took her to bed, he wanted Beatrix to be eager for him, wanting things she didn’t yet understand she wanted. To that end, he needed to temper his own ardor and thinking of practical details was as good a way as any.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “sit and eat. It has been a long day and you look as if you could use a glass of wine.”

When she was seated, Edmund allowed his fingers to trail across the back of her neck and across one shoulder. She shivered but did not draw away. He took his own seat beside her, having set the two chairs scandalously close together. But he wanted her to become accustomed to that closeness and to his touch long before he began to undo her dress.

He took her hand in his and stroked the back of it gently with his thumb as he said, “There is no need to be nervous. I wish you to be at ease with me.”

* * *

Beatrix could not seem to keep from shivering. It was the most extraordinary feeling to have his fingers trail across the back of her neck and now to have Rothwood holding her hand like this. What was this warmth that seemed to pool in her most private places? What was this impulse to reach out and touch
him
?

Rothwood fed her a morsel of chicken and she offered him a piece of fruit. The way he licked the juice from her fingertips did strange things to her nether regions. When he turned his face and kissed the palm of her hand, she gave in to impulse and reached out to touch that face. She’d never felt a man’s face before when it was just at this stage of beginning to need to be shaved. Or if she had, it had been when she was a little child cradled in her father’s arms. This was very different than that would have been!

It was Rothwood’s turn to shiver and he did so at her touch. Emboldened, Beatrix offered him another bit of food, chicken this time, just as he had offered her. The juice ran onto the palm of her hand and he did not just kiss that palm, he traced a trail from fingertips to wrist with his tongue, lapping up the juice from the chicken.

When he let go of her hand, Rothwood smiled in the most knowing way. Feeling her face flame with embarrassment, Beatrix took a hasty sip of wine. It was warm on her tongue and she drank a little more. He lifted his glass in a silent toast to her and drank deeply. Relieved, she drank more of her own, grateful for the way the wine seemed to relax her and take away some of her unease.

Why had no one told her she would feel this way? Why had no one said how much fun the wedding dinner would be with her new husband?

Now he was holding her hand and stroking the back of it in a way that made her feel there was both too little and too great a distance between them!

As if he read her mind, Rothwood drew Beatrix from her chair to sit on his lap. What was that beneath her bottom? But she scarcely had time to wonder because he started kissing her and all she could focus on was how she felt. It was like no other kiss, not even the ones he had been stealing over the past few days and she had thought those scandalously intimate!

No, this was a kiss that nipped at her lips and tickled the corners of her mouth, teasing it open only to find he plundered her mouth with his tongue. At the same time, his hands began to roam, touching her in places she was quite sure that she ought to be mortified to have him touch. But she wasn’t. Instead her body ached for more. She clung to his shirt, thinking it was probably a good thing he had discarded his coat before they ate or otherwise she would have crushed it irreparably.

Somehow she found herself stroking the back of
his
neck and feeling a great satisfaction that she could make him shiver again just as she had. Then her fingers threaded through his hair as his threaded through hers. Food was entirely forgotten as he began to work at the fastenings of her dress to free her from constraint and to allow him access to her breasts. A moan escaped her lips and he paused. Then he rose, still holding her, and carried Beatrix the few short steps to the bed where he set her on her feet beside it.

So this was why he had wanted to eat in here instead of making use of the private parlor they had paid for. She could see they would not have wanted to have to go down the very public hallway to reach here in the state they both were now in!

But she was thinking too much. She didn’t want to think, she wanted to feel. She wanted to be aware of every delicious sensation as he finished undoing her gown and helped it slide from her body. She had wondered how she would manage her clothes since she had no maid and no sisters to help and here was the answer. Rothwood would help her and if need be, she would help him, though men’s clothes seemed far less complicated and he had needed no help while staying with her family.

Still, what he was doing with her clothes emboldened Beatrix so that she reached out and began to undo his shirt. He went still at her touch, then smiled and captured her mouth with his. So apparently he did like her helping him after all. It was heady to think she could please him so easily and that her touch made his breath come faster just as his did to her.

Her boldness only went so far, however. She could remove his shirt and even run her hands over his chest, especially once she saw how much he liked her doing so. The thought of undoing his pants, however, was more than she could manage, husband or not. As though he understood, Rothwood stepped back and undid them himself, sliding them slowly down and off his body as she watched.

That
was supposed to fit inside of her? Impossible! And yet he seemed to have no doubt it would.

“Trust me,” he said softly when he saw she had gone so still.

Was there a look of panic on her face? Because there was panic in her breast and she felt as if she could scarcely breathe.

“Trust me,” he said again, even more softly than before.

And she did. Odd as it seemed to her, she did trust him. She let him gently tug her to him, where he wrapped his arms around her as though he would never let go.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, nipping gently at her neck. “So ripe and ready for making love.”

Was that what they were doing? Making love? No wonder Mama and Papa disappeared into their bedroom so often! But Beatrix could not think, not with all the parts of her pressed so close to all the parts of him. Not with his hands stroking gently all over her body, touching her in those places she hadn’t known men and women could touch. Not when his skin was so warm and enticing that her hands seemed to move of their own accord, exploring him as he was exploring her.

She tried to think how she ought to behave but it was impossible. How could she when she was all raw emotion and intense sensation? When every moment he urged her to do what felt good to her, and everything did?

One moment they were standing, the next he had her down upon the bed, his body over hers. Dear God, was
this
what men and women were made for?

“Trust me,” he said again.

She did, oh she did! How could she not trust him when he made her feel this way? As their bodies joined, something she did not understand, something amazing built inside her and Beatrix reached for it, wanting whatever it might be. And then she was shattering suddenly in his arms. As he shattered in hers.

Slowly, so slowly, the sensations ebbed and they collapsed together, breath coming in gasps and slowing as their heartbeats did.

“That, my dear, was making love,” Edmund said with a grin. “It would seem you like it.”

“I-I think I do,” she managed to reply.

He withdrew from her and rolled onto his back, but then pulled her close against his chest. “I shall miss you when you are living in the country,” he said, a trifle sleepily.

A sense of cold ran through Beatrix. “Living in the country?” she asked slowly.

Rothwood looked down at her as she tilted up her face to see his. “Yes. Once you have seen London, I mean for us to move to one of my country estates. You shall stay there and bear our children.” He paused and grinned. “After tonight I am certain I shall find many excuses to visit you often.”

When she did not immediately answer, he added in what Beatrix was certain he thought to be a reassuring voice, “Your body is clearly made to bear children, and I have no doubt it will be pleasurable for both of us conceiving them.”

Beatrix struggled to know where to begin. Surely she had misunderstood him? Surely he did not mean what it seemed he meant? She decided to clarify matters. “You wish me to raise our children at your country estate? While you reside in London?”

“Don’t worry. As I said, I shall visit you often,” he assured her, looking quite infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“I see. What if I should wish to live in London with you?”

“No, you wouldn’t like that,” he said firmly. “Much too noisy and smelly and not as healthy for the children. You do want our children to be healthy, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then it’s all settled.”

It was, was it?

And then he had the temerity to add, “You know, you really shouldn’t worry about these things. I shall take care of you and make all the necessary decisions. You need merely look pretty and raise our children. I shall worry about all the rest.”

He thought he was being kind!

He thought he was being a proper husband!

He thought she would be pleased by what he said!

These truths so stunned Beatrix that for several moments she could only stare at him in what he obviously took to be adoration because he grinned and kissed her and then closed his eyes as though ready to go to sleep.

Somehow Beatrix managed to find her voice. “You are roasting me. You must be. No one . . . No one could possibly think I would approve of such a plan!”

He opened his eyes and stared at her. “But I am your husband,” he said, his voice laced with confusion. “It is my place to decide such things. You are my wife. You do not get to approve or disapprove.”

Beatrix gaped at him. He could not possibly be that arrogant, that naive. But it seemed he was. Fear drove her. All she could think of was all the men who had betrayed women they claimed to love, either through gambling like her father or becoming tyrants after the wedding, as with some of her friends.

She threw back the covers he had pulled over them and climbed out of bed before he could collect his wits enough to stop her. Grimly she began pulling on her clothes, angry that she had to settle for only partially fastening her dress because that was all she could manage—and she was dashed if she was going to ask him to help her!

Her hands shook and more than once she had to stop to wipe a tear away, always with her back carefully to Rothwood so that he would not see. He seemed to be watching her, still bemused because he did not speak until she had put on her shoes and was headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To ask the innkeeper if there is another bedchamber I may use.”

Suddenly he was no longer in bed merely watching her. Suddenly he was standing between her and the door, his chest heaving, but with anger and not passion now. “No. You. Are. Not,” he ground out the words one by one.

Beatrix felt a flutter of fear as he loomed over her. What would he do? Would he be like the butcher’s son, who liked to use his fists on girls? No, thank heavens his hands were open and hung loose at his sides. Having said what he had, his jaw was clamped shut, however, as he glared at her and waited for her reply.