Black Silk (14 page)
Shushing her stirring baby, Venetia met her gaze with a frankly surprised expression.
Of course she would be astonished. Maryanne had always lived to make peace. All her life, she had bit back every tear, every scream, every pout. But this was her wedding morning, and for once she could not think of pleasing everyone else.
“He couldn’t come and see you, Maryanne. It would have been a scandal.”
How angry Venetia’s calm and patronizing tone made her. “You don’t understand!”
Venetia settled on the chaise, babe in arms, glowing and happy and lovely. “Then tell me.”
Once she would have mumbled something meaningless. But not this morning. “I was Mother’s mistake. I knew it. She might have made her peace with Rodesson, but I’ve made my peace with neither. I can’t wipe away a lifetime of crying into my pillow with a few smiles and hugs. I won’t.”
Venetia stared at her. “Mis—”
“Of course I was a mistake,” she broke in. “Do you really think she wished for another child? But she couldn’t resist him and went to his bed. I was her folly. I was proof of her weakness to passion. Her foolishness. I heard her speak of it!”
“You didn’t blame Swansborough for seducing you,” Venetia reminded her.
“He didn’t seduce Maryanne Hamilton, he bedded a whore. Or so he thought.” It twisted inside to say that, sharp as a knife. Venetia began to protest, and Maryanne rushed on. “It’s quite different. And I’m not Mother. Even if my marriage turns out to be a nightmare, and my life is torture, I will not consider this child a folly. I will give it nothing but sunshine and smiles and love, for any mistake is my cross to bear, and mine alone.”
“It’s perhaps a little naive to think that babies are only sunshine and smiles….” Venetia gave a rueful smile.
Perhaps so, but Maryanne rushed on. “I can’t go to him. I won’t. I have to marry a man I don’t even know, but he doesn’t ask me to pretend I love him. Don’t ask me to go to Rodesson and pretend love and forgiveness.”
Her maid, Nan, knocked and then opened the door. Not just her maid—a bevy of them, all preparing to transform her into a bride fit for a peer.
She swallowed hard. Tears were too close to the surface.
Venetia nodded. “I will tell him and then come back to help. Mother and Grace wish to see you also.”
Her abigail was carrying her clean shift, and the question she must ask Venetia couldn’t be spoken now. She thought Venetia and Marcus had enjoyed lovemaking while Venetia was enceinte, but she needed to know for certain.
She couldn’t bear to wait six months to make love to Dash again.
Outside her door, Maryanne heard Venetia speaking in a low voice. The voice that answered she recognized as her mother’s, and she took a deep breath to prepare herself.
Grace rushed in first, her pretty face alight with happiness. “Your husband is so wonderfully handsome, Maryanne!”
“He is not my husband yet.”
Grace hugged her. “I am so happy for you. You are so deserving of a good marriage. You have always been the most good-natured of all of us. I know you will be very happy.”
She wished she could be as certain. Grace stepped back as their mother came into the room.
I was a mistake. Her folly.
Why was that all she could think of as her mother came toward her, smiling? Her mother’s silvery white hair was elegantly dressed and Maryanne realized she had never seen Olivia look lovelier.
“Congratulations, my dear.” Her mother hugged her.
Maryanne felt so awkward hugging her mother back.
Then Olivia straightened and turned to Grace. “Please go and help Venetia, dear. I wish to speak to Maryanne alone.”
Maryanne felt her tummy churn as Grace left.
Please, don’t let me be sick now.
“I hope you are very much in love with Lord Swansborough.” Olivia moved aside as the maids bustled about, organizing the petticoats, the corset, and the dress. “I always dreamed you would all find happiness in marriage.”
Maryanne guiltily touched her tummy. She had not yet told her mother about the baby.
“I am sure I will be happy,” she said. She needed something to nibble on. Desperately.
“Is there something wrong?”
Maryanne jumped at her mother’s question. Venetia had looked shocked and surprised when she’d claimed to be her mother’s folly. But it was true. Her mother had been expecting to marry Rodesson when she’d become pregnant with Venetia.
But then she’d learned he hadn’t been faithful. He was too wild. Olivia had known she would never marry Rodesson, that he would never be the husband she’d hoped for. But she had still gone to his bed again and again because she loved him so much. And then she had become pregnant with Maryanne.
So of course I am proof of her mistake—her mistake of loving the wrong man.
But mousy Maryanne would never speak of such things, she thought ruefully. She could not be honest and say,
I know that every time you looked at me you saw the hopelessness of your love. You saw your broken heart. I saw it in your eyes.
Instead, she went to her mother and hugged her once more. “Just wedding day nerves.”
Morning sunlight streamed in through the church’s modest windows. Not St. George’s for this simple gathering, but Dash was glad of that. Cool air settled in this one, though, and when he’d first entered, he’d seen his breath.
Logs had been heaped on the fires, warming this sacred place, while he stood at the altar, waiting for his bride.
With thoughts anything but pure.
He was an expert at torturing himself, and he was doing it now.
Visions of Maryanne straddling his hips tormented him as he looked out on the small gathering sitting in simple pews. His cock throbbed at the memory of the sultry way she’d lifted her skirts to bare her shapely legs. He could remember the hot, silken feel of her pussy on his fingertips. He could remember her taste, her primal smell.
He was rock hard, and he needed to shift to find a more comfortable position for his thickening rod. He’d been naked at orgies, made love before dozens of witnesses, but he felt damned embarrassed to be erect in front of his marriage’s witnesses in a church.
He had no family watching him. Anne had been furious—she’d wanted to come, but he’d refused to let her travel as far as London, especially in winter, and he’d sent a terse note to Moredon damning the man to hell if he relented and brought her. Anne insisted she would instead make the short trip to Swansley later, but at Dash’s wedding, only Sir William stood to represent him.
His bride’s mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. In joy or sorrow, Dash couldn’t be sure. Rodesson was not here. Maryanne, like Venetia, was entering high society—and the connection to a scandalous artist could never be revealed. A slender blond girl sat beside Olivia Hamilton. His new sister-in-law, Grace, whom he’d never met.
Where in blazes was his bride?
Fear curdled his gut. Was she ill? Seriously? While Anne was pregnant, she’d told him the early months were worrisome, for there was always a chance of losing the baby.
Carrying a babe was dangerous business. What could he do? Ensure Maryanne kept to her bed and never moved? He’d suggested that to Anne, but she’d firmly refused and told him that it was better for a woman to be up and about.
Where was his bride?
Mad thoughts plagued him. Had she run away? Had she fled to Gretna Green with someone else?
The doors at the rear opened, welcoming more sunlight and brisk air. And his bride. Head bowed, she was breathtaking in a shimmering white silk dress. A fragile white veil fluttered about her face.
He felt a jolt of guilt over his doubts, a spear of desire at the sight of her.
Her full breasts wobbled as she moved, but in her dress, she didn’t look pregnant. Slender and willowy, she looked lovely and pure and delicate. Not at all like the wanton woman who had been determined to climax with him in the hot-air balloon.
How could Trent’s shy sister-in-law be the same woman who had made love to him at Mrs. Master’s salon?
Her lips, pink and soft, parted with fragile uncertainty. He remembered that mouth. A wanton mouth that had tangled with his, had pressed to the swollen head of his cock, an erotic frame to the lovely tongue that had licked his shaft from tight, aching ballocks to throbbing tip.
In a house of God, about to say his vows, was he supposed to be thinking about sex?
Maryanne moved down the aisle, and the light seemed to brighten around her, as if she shone more brightly than the sun. Her brown eyes glowed. She ducked her head and blushed.
Thank the devil there were vows to follow—otherwise he’d be tongue-tied.
Her white dress flowed over her slim hips and slender legs. He watched her hips sway with each step, his throat dry. She looked so innocent.
Some lunatic was trying to make him look guilty of murder. Was he putting Maryanne at risk, bringing her into his life? What choice did he have? He was honor bound to marry her.
And if she was innocent, honor bound to protect her.
Shoving those thoughts away, he smiled at Maryanne. Her lips trembled as she returned the smile. He’d never anticipated having a wife; now his fantasies ran riot.
He would scoop her up as she reached the altar, draw up her skirt, and bury his cock deep inside her. Bury himself in her heat. Hear her lovely moans next to his ears.
He imagined her soft brown hair—scented like field flowers—tumbling down her back. Her skin would be satin beneath his touch, warmed with dewy sweat. He could cup her plump bottom, cradle full breasts, pump her along him until they both shattered, came—
Blast, he was in church. And the minister had just muttered something about taking her hand.
Eyes cast down upon the book held on his outstretched hand, their bald minister mumbled the beginning of the ceremony. Dash had insisted on a quick ceremony, a request the mumble-mouthed man of the cloth seemed to be adhering to. They reached the part where objections were called upon—at least Dash assumed they’d reached it. There was a long pause, the minister glanced up for a second and then sought refuge again in his page.
Dash caught Maryanne’s eye. She was fighting a giggle. She glowed—she carried his child, she was going to be his, and she sparkled like a diamond.
Silence stretched around him. Pews creaked, feet shuffled. A throat cleared. He tore his gaze from Maryanne’s, looked helplessly to Sir William, who mouthed
your vows
.
He was supposed to repeat the mumbling minister? Heaven help him.
He fumbled through, though he could barely speak to repeat “take thee, Maryanne Estella Hamilton.” Estella. Like a star. His name Lancelot had been his mother’s fancy. Was Estella her mother’s desire? Or a concession to Rodesson, the artist?
Soft, lovely, Maryanne’s voice carried through the church as she pledged herself to him.
I thee wed.
The ring was pressed into his hand. He slipped it onto her finger and lifted her hand to his mouth, touching a kiss to her soft skin and the cool ring.
They were married.
How they reached the carriage, he didn’t know. Her bouquet flew through the air, landing at her mother’s feet. Venetia cradled her son in her arms, and Marcus stood with a hand at his wife’s waist, which brought a pang to Dash’s heart.
He hadn’t been able to protect Anne from loss and sorrow and disappointment.
He had to do better for Maryanne.
Still, he leaned out of the carriage, waving as she did, and the carriage lurched as it started.
They hadn’t shared a word yet. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m whisking you away before breakfast.”
She jerked around, her arms wrapped around her chest, as though she was cold, despite her sable-trimmed pelisse and the heated bricks beneath the carriage floor. She blushed. “Oh, I’ve eaten so many biscuits this morning, it shouldn’t matter.”
He leaned back, hoping he looked more at ease than he felt. “I wanted to get out of London. Quickly. I had a basket brought to the carriage—food for us to share.”
“Th—thank you.” They were trotting up the London streets now, and Maryanne turned to stare out the window.
He stretched his arm along the back of the seat, his hand resting just beyond her graceful neck. She shifted forward, just a little, as though she wanted to ensure she didn’t touch his hand.
His heart lurched.
Where was his wit? His reputed charm and rakish wickedness? But guilt sat in his gut like a chunk of lead. If she was unhappy, he was the cause, and he didn’t know what to do. Sex was his customary method of escape.
But he couldn’t have sex with his bride.
“My sister…Anne told me women dream of their wedding. Hurried vows in a draughty church can’t have been your dream.”
“Women dream of love—” Maryanne broke off quickly.
He touched her chin, and she relented and turned her face to his. He lowered his lips until her eyes widened and her breathing quickened.
“Wait,” she gasped.
“It is customary to kiss,” he murmured, but his gut tightened. Would his wife reject him?
“I
would like to kiss.” Maryanne managed to smile at her husband. Her husband!
How she wished she could read his thoughts. They were married. Was he angry? He’d been so quiet. And why was he determined to whisk her away from London as fast as possible—because he was ashamed? What other reason could there be?
If he found out she needed almost five thousand pounds for debts, and that a courtesan could blackmail her, he would be beyond furious. Would he tie her up and dangle her upside down, but not with the intention of making love?
Her hands were clasped on her belly, still a small curve beneath her pretty pelisse and skirts. Maryanne took a deep breath—Venetia told her that deep breaths were a luxury she would soon lose. At least, no matter what happened between her and Dash, she had saved her baby the stigma of illegitimacy.
Dash kissed her.
His lips, warm and silky as honey on hot bread, teased hers, and his tongue urged hers to play. She gripped his arms. Blood seemed to rush from her head, leaving her dizzy. Heat surrounded her—from hot bricks beneath the carriage’s floor—and her body felt as if it could catch fire.
She wanted to make love. In all the wild ways she’d read about. In every scandalous way he would want.
But as she surged forward and thrust her tongue wantonly into his mouth, Dash eased back. “Would you care for buttered buns?”
“You wish me to spread butter on your bottom?” Would he want her to lick it off? Maryanne gulped at the thought of slathering butter on his tight buttocks and licking there, tasting fresh creamery butter and his delicious skin….
He raked back his dark hair—he’d tossed his hat to the seat across. “You do think I’m lewd, don’t you?” With a lithe stretch, he leaned to the seat opposite and brought out a basket from a compartment.
“N—no,” she stammered. But she couldn’t tear her gaze from his broad back. How she would love to lick him from head to toe.
“But how does an innocent maiden think up such erotic ideas?” With a flick of the hasp, he opened the lid, and she gasped. Dozens of small baskets sat within, along with a few bottles—mild ale and wine.
“I—I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry I stole you away from family and hot food.”
He had apologized once already. “I don’t mind,” she said again. “I hadn’t much appetite.” Which was the truth—her tummy was full of flutters and butterflies.
“You need to eat, love.” He began to pile grapes on a plate for her. Hothouse grapes, of course, and she took the plate and popped one in her mouth.
Shutting her eyes, she bit and savored the explosion of sweet and tart. “Heavenly.”
“And so is watching you eat, love.” His strained voice sent a shiver of desire down her spine.
She opened her eyes. He reached for her plate, piled bread and fragrant slices of ham on top. She hadn’t expected her husband to serve her, and his simple, thoughtful action left her startled.
He peeled off his gloves; black leather slid down to reveal lean, strong wrists and then his palms, which would be sensitive to touch, to a lick of her tongue, and finally his long, elegant fingers that knew just how to give her pleasure.
On the scavenger hunt, they’d teased and bantered with ease. Now they were married and she had no idea what to say.
His fingers caressed her neck, and all she could do was close her eyes and whimper as goose bumps washed over her skin.
Something slick and greasy touched her lips. She let her lashes rise and opened her lips to let him feed her a piece of bun. Oh, so chewy and fresh and delicious. She took the rest of the piece, her tongue and lips stroking his fingertips to do it.
She grasped his empty hand and led it down to her bosom, pressing his palm to her swollen breast. He easily opened her pelisse. His bare hands curved around the silk of her bodice.
He smiled. “Very full.”
That made her think of them being filled with milk. After her baby’s birth, Venetia’s breasts had grown huge and hard and painful. And putting her baby to the breast had only made Venetia scream. Mrs. Collins had returned to help Venetia learn to feed her baby. Maryanne had caught a glimpse, determined to learn, and it seemed a complicated business. Venetia, who always was in control, had panicked when she could not get it to work.
Maryanne chewed her bread, feeling panic herself. Shouldn’t feeding a baby be natural? Shouldn’t it happen with ease?
Dash fed her another piece of bread, and before she could thank him, he lifted her onto his lap. The carriage lurched, and she almost fell off, grinding his rigid cock against her bottom.
He held her tight, and she could barely swallow.
What a gloriously naughty position.
From books, she knew men penetrated women this way. Women rode men.
She wriggled against his cock. How she loved the feel of him poking into the hot cleft between her cheeks.
But his large hands stilled her hips. “Don’t tempt me too much, my sweet. I don’t want to do anything to risk the child.”
“But I want to make love,” she whispered. “I’ve heard that women are very lusty during this time, and I do believe it’s true.” And she wriggled her bottom again, giving an invitation.
“Maryanne…don’t. It’s torture.”
She twisted in his arms. His lips were firm and grim, lines of stress evident around his mouth.
“It won’t harm the baby. I’m certain it won’t.”
But she saw at once he was not going to give in. “Six months without climax?” she cried. “I can’t.”
He gave a rough laugh. The raw, purely masculine sound made her cunny ache. He clasped her breasts again, with both hands.
“I’m certain Venetia didn’t suffer months of celibacy.” She daringly slid her hands up over his. “And—” She broke off. Was she mad to ask?
His thumb stroked her nipples through dress, corset, and shift. “And?”
“I want to keep you for my own.” She knew Marcus had forsaken all others for Venetia, despite his rakish past. But Rodesson had broken her mother’s heart…. “I will do anything to keep you as mine alone.” She looked straight ahead as she spoke, too shy to meet his eyes. What if he thought her a fool? In the
ton
, most wives ignored their husband’s love affairs. Fidelity was neither offered…nor expected.
“I know how adventurous you are, dear wife.” Dash nipped her earlobe, the sharp, erotic tug of his teeth making her squeal in surprise.
How neatly he’d tried to avoid that. He rocked his hips beneath her, his cock a tease against her round bottom, but she couldn’t enjoy it. Not while thinking of him going back to orgies, to other women. “How many women have you bedded?”
“What?” He’d been reaching for more bread and dropped it on her lap.
“Why should I not know? I am your wife.”
He rescued the bun. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t know. You are my respectable, gently bred wife.”
He must be teasing her. “But other women know. Perfect strangers know. They gossip about it!”
“How many women do these perfect strangers say I’ve bedded?”
“The most generous estimate has been five thousand.”
“I haven’t bedded five thousand women.”
“Please don’t tell me it is closer to ten.”
“If it was, my sweet, may I tell you that you are the most exquisite lover of them all?”
At the tease, she felt her cheeks blaze.
“Did you hear any other gossip?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“You are such a puzzle, love. I believed Maryanne Hamilton was a quiet, demure young lady who always seemed to be holding a book. I am beginning to understand why Marcus speaks so highly of marriage. What man wouldn’t want to possess a lady who likes both literature and lusty fucking?”
His hands cupped her breasts, his lips played skilled havoc on her neck. She started guiltily at the word
literature
, but he did not seem to notice.
Why wouldn’t he answer her question? She was certain he was hiding his true feelings behind teasing.
“When did you make love for your very first time?”
Maryanne could not believe the words had slipped from her lips. But suddenly she was dying to know. In the stories she’d edited, those first times seemed very popular. Just being the first time made it unforgettable….
Her skirts lifted, and she knew he intended to distract her.
“It is a very important detail of your life, my lord—don’t you want to share it with me?”
“Playing Verity again?” He brushed his knuckles along her inner thighs. “Most married couples of the
ton
share a bed now and again. Very few share the secrets of their souls.”
“Would you want to share secrets with a wife you loved?”
His hand slid between her thighs into her silky drawers. His fingers touched her curls. He murmured, “Mmmm. Wet and sticky,” and she knew she would get no answer from him.
He found her clit and mercilessly wiggled it with his fingertip.
She almost launched up through the carriage roof. “W—what do you plan to do?”
“Tease your creamy little quim until we reach home. But no more, angel. Not until I’m certain it wouldn’t risk a miscarriage.”
His finger rubbed and stroked her engorged clit until stars exploded before her eyes. Home, he’d said. His home, now hers, and she could barely think.
She rocked against his fingers, grinding her clit against his hand. She was swirling like the snow now buffeting the window, but she was on fire, too. His eyes sparkled at her—the climax hit her. Her mouth went wide, her eyes shut, and pleasure washed through her every nerve.
Oh!
Falling back against him, cunny still pulsing, she knew she wanted more. “Mmmm,” Maryanne whispered. “I love having orgasms with you. And I love your hand playing between my legs.” Then she giggled in embarrassment, shattering the seductive moment.
She turned, her head bumping his strong jaw. “I want you inside. I want—I want you to come in me again.”
“God, Maryanne. No. Stop.” He slid her off his lap, depositing her on the seat.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “A letter home can confirm that it won’t hurt the baby—or we could ask a midwife.”
“All right, sweeting.” He cradled her against him. “We will.”
Maryanne closed her eyes, floating in pleasure…
The carriage jerked, and she blinked her eyes open to gray gloom. She lay against Dash’s broad chest, his powerful arms embracing her. A black sable throw was wrapped around her. She pushed it down, her chest dewy with perspiration. She must have fallen asleep once more.
They had stopped for lunch, and he had been effortlessly charming. Polite, yet distant, even as he ensured her every need was tended to. It had been unnerving, and she’d barely been able to eat a bite.
They had spent hours together in the carriage, and after he had insisted they could not make love, it had been as if they were in different worlds.
“Where are we?” she murmured. He’d put out the light, perhaps to let her sleep.
His intimate, tender smile set her heart racing. But how could he care for her? She’d forced him into marriage.
“Traveling along the Great North Road, love,” he said. “We will have to stop soon to warm up. We missed tea, so I imagine you’re hungry. I hope we’re still able to travel in the snow.”
Her belly rumbled, the sound so rude she put a hand to her mouth as her cheeks flamed. Nervously she realized they must be close to his estate. Thick, white snow splattered against the carriage windows. Such a heavy fall could only mean a storm brewing. It was so close to Christmas treacherous weather was expected. Maryanne shivered, grateful for warm bricks, the fur-lined cloak, and Dash’s arms, warm and strong around her.
Crack!
Even though the falling snow muffled sound, the pistol shot was an explosion that rang in her ears. Maryanne bolt up from Dash’s embrace. A shot?
A highwayman?
In a winter storm?
The carriage lurched suddenly to the right, and men shouted. Dash’s arms clamped around her as she fell forward, and he hauled her back against his hard chest. Her back slammed into him, her breath flew out, and she drove her fingers hard into his arms to hang on. His booted feet braced against the floor. The carriage swung wildly the opposite way, and then slid, as though across a frozen pond, and everything tipped.
Screams filled the carriage—she was screaming. He held her tight, his arm locked around her, bracing them with his legs and his free arm.
The carriage stopped with a soft
whump
. Tipped, but not precariously so.
Maryanne sucked in a breath. “Have we gone off the road?”
“Yes.” On that monosyllable, Dash set her onto the seat and leaned to the door. As he swung open the ornate door, snow rushed in on a fierce wind. Maryanne tightened the cloak around her as wet flakes stung her cheeks. She saw a groom hurrying forward, but then Dash’s large frame filled the door opening.
She heard him growl, “What happened?”
A young man’s voice answered. “Slid into the thick snow, milord. Some madman was racing his rig down the road, veered toward us, and fired a shot as he passed.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Naw, but Riggs is cursing a blue streak.”
“He did well to keep us from the ditch.”
Maryanne found she was still shaking, but Dash was able to calmly praise his servants. She was astonished and felt an odd burst of pride.
This remarkable man was hers
.
In name only, she reminded herself.
Dash eased back into the carriage, and she caught the last of the groom’s words. “It’ll take a bit of pushing, milord, but we’ll have the wheels out in no time. Are ye and her ladyship unhurt?”
Dash nodded and, with a harsh grunt, hauled the door shut, closing out the cold and the howling wind. But as he relit the lamp, Maryanne gasped.
His lips were drawn in a hard line, his eyes heavy lidded and bleak.
He looked…haunted.