Bride (36 page)

“How do your herbs grow, husband?”

Struan wasn't sure he'd heard Justine correctly. “I beg your pardon, my dear?”

“Your herbs? I trust they flourish.”

“That would be a question for the gardeners, I should think.” Really, females could be damned puzzling. “I hadn't realized you had an interest in such things.”

“I am interested in anything and everything that concerns you, Struan.” For the first time her eyes met his. “How late it is. You must have had a great deal of business to attend to today.”

He knew the discomfort of guilt. His neglect of his new bride was all but unforgivable. “You know I have been beset,” he told her. “I thought it appropriate to spend some hours considering how we should proceed.”

“How very sensible of you. I shall look forward to hearing how you have decided to arrange my life.”

“And I shall tell you,” he said cheerfully. “I met an old friend. A man of the cloth. He is most wise and has made me take a more optimistic view of things. We have made a pledge to spend considerable time in exploring these matters.”

“Does that mean you will abandon your study of cuckoo spit?”

Struan could think of no response.

Justine laughed, and her serious face was transformed. Dimples appeared beside her lovely mouth and her brown eyes sparkled with humor. “Give no more thought to my foolishness. I am a trifle giddy today. No doubt my changed state is responsible.”

“No doubt.” What a fetching creature she was. How delightful she looked in a satin pelisse robe of mint green—how fresh and appealing.

“I am anxious for Ella and Max's return. We have much to accomplish. And I am not certain Caleb Murray should use threats of death to discourage Max from seeking freedom. He did so this morning, you know.”

So Justine had not been oblivious to the morning's intrusions. “I'm certain Caleb simply sought to make the boy more easily controlled.” He must warn Caleb to say not a word to anyone but himself in future.

Justine's brow puckered. “Perhaps you are right. Even more important, I am determined that Ella should be ready for her Season by next year. She is a beautiful creature, Struan, and I would prefer that she not be too long available.”

More of his lightheartedness slipped. “I'm not certain I understand.”

“Men.” With an eloquent sigh, Justine rose and walked around to lean on the front of her desk. “Will you sit while I explain?”

“I should rather stand close to you,” he said, never intending to say such a thing.

Still smiling, she continued to regard him. The robe opened from a high collar to a point where the shadow between her breasts was visible. The gown she wore beneath was of layers of sprigged green muslin. Struan found himself more interested in the suggestion of her skin that showed through the muslin than in its decoration.

He swallowed and raised his eyes to hers. She no longer smiled. “You were going to explain why we should be in a hurry to marry off Ella. She is, after all, but sixteen.”

“Sixteen. Seventeen when she comes out. And the most exotic young female I have ever seen. Exotic and irresistible. I assure you that Mr. Devlin North finds her so.”

Struan frowned. “He has met her once—or perhaps twice.”

“Today I was told by one of the maids that Mr. North has become a frequent visitor at the castle in recent days. Does he come to see you?”

“Of course not.”

“Arran, then?”

“Not that I've heard.”

“No, because it is not for you and Arran that he brings expensive gifts.”

“North does that?”

“He does indeed. All for Ella. I understand there is a puppy obtained in China. And a fan of white jade. Also a gold chain and bell for her ankle. The bell is rung by a suspended diamond. What do you say to all that?”

“Outrageous. The bounder's old enough to be her father!”

Justine smoothed the pelisse over her waist. “Hardly her father, but certainly a more than mature husband. Mrs. Bastible was heard to remark that the two would make a most handsome pair.”

“Husband!” Struan exploded. “Damn Blanche Bastible's eyes. I'll order North to stay off this property, dammit! The gifts shall be returned. I'll—”

“You'll make certain that I have an opportunity to speak with Ella at length and to guide her in dealing with such matters. And very soon we shall start shopping for her gowns and so on. Naturally we shall all go to London in the spring.”

Struan found himself little mollified. “I should probably call the lecher out.”

Justine laughed. She tipped back her head, displaying the length of her white throat, and laughed heartily.

“I'm glad you find my discomfort humorous,” Struan told her, more than a little chagrined.

Once more she was serious. “Your discomfort is the last thing that would ever amuse me. I desire your comfort and your company. I desire to be your helpmate … and your mate in all other things.”

He grew still.

“Should you care to hear what I've written about our wedding night?”

Struan swallowed with difficulty. “If my opinion would be of use to you.”

She reached back for her book. “Of great use. You can inform me of any inaccuracies.” With a frown in his direction, she added, “I do believe my book will be the talk of Society. There will be those of narrow-minded persuasion who will seek to stop its publication. But I know that—with your help—those bigots can be silenced. Or, at least, disregarded.”

Apprehension moistened Struan's palms. He brought a chair close to the desk and sat down with a most pleasing view of his wife's serious face—and her enticing body.

This course he'd chosen would not be easy. To be close and not to touch could only become more challenging.

“The Wedding Night,” Justine began. “I am continuing with my plan to divide the volume into titled sections, you see. Later I intend to add information gleaned from Ella's experiences in London as a companion volume. This work will become a veritable treasure to women.”

“Hmm.” Her waist was so narrow. The fastenings on the pelisse robe allowed the garment to flow away, revealing the curves of her breasts above a narrow band of satin—and the suggestion of softly rounded hips.

“Do you dislike my gown?”

His eyes rose at once, “I think your gown delightful. I was merely preparing to concentrate on your writings, my dear.”

“The Wedding Night,” she repeated. “The wedding day is inevitably a time of strain and anticipation. Strain because one is observed by others and one's behavior assessed for its suitability to the occasion. Anticipation because the bride knows she is about to become different in a most exciting, but also a potentially frightening way. She is about to be revealed to her husband in a totally intimate manner, just as her husband is about to show himself as he really is.”

Struan cleared his throat.

“I thought that a tasteful explanation,” Justine said. “Do you not agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Here I digress a little to events leading up to the husband and wife being alone together. So, the wedding breakfast. The wedding breakfast is a trying meal. Guests expect fanciful treats and good humor. New husbands think only of what is to come once they are alone with their brides. And brides—without the benefit of this book—are likely to suffer pangs of abject fear.”

Struan squirmed.

“Do you consider that a fair interpretation?”

“Hmm. Quite possibly.”

“Good. My advice to brides is that they are charming to their guests, that they deal graciously with speeches and gifts, but that they find a means to hasten departure to the chamber where they are about to become wholly women—through an extraordinary and marvelous encounter.” She glanced up at Struan. “Still acceptable?”

“Absolutely.” To this point he'd barely considered her book as more than an amusing diversion. But her “amusing diversion” began to make him dashed uncomfortable, and he feared she had every intention of trying to publish the thing. He'd never live it down … But then, he'd have to make certain the volume didn't see the light of day.

Justine watched him so carefully, he felt forced to look away. “There are myths to be dealt with,” she continued. “Such as the matter of a husband preferring his wife's absolute submission.”

He pressed a fist to his chin.

“It is important for the bride to let her groom know that she desires him as much as he desires her.” She paused before saying, “This is the part where I must be very cautious not to become too meek in my approach to the topic. I have written: Once closeted together with the man to whom one has given one's allegiance, obedience, honor—and body—the time for celebration has arrived.”

Struan found himself silently praying that each sentence be the last.

“During courtship, the female—despite the convention of pretending innocence of such things—despite this, she is perfectly aware that her courtier gazes upon her body with anticipation.”

“A little strong, don't you think?” Struan said before he could stop himself.

“Is it true?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded.

“Quite so. Apiece of flimmery-flammery foolishness about hearts and roses will do my readers absolutely no good. Listen. Our gowns are designed to encourage the interest of males. I do not suggest that such gentlemen do not consider our minds important, only that they may not be particularly interested in our minds until their interest has been engaged by rather shallower virtues—virtues of fleshly appearance.”

“Oh, my God,” Struan said under his breath.

“Hah!”

He observed a wholly satisfied glitter in Justine's dark eyes and frowned.

“Your discomfort means I am unveiling masculine secrets, Struan. Be strong, dear one. I intend to make certain your assistance with this book receives the public recognition it deserves.”

What had he done to deserve such added horrors?

“The female breast is of particular interest to—”

“Justine!”

“Of particular interest to the male—and do not shrink from this truth. Try not to react too strongly to any not-very-cleverly disguised and wholly longing assessment of this part of your body. Also, of course, do not behave in a brazen manner by excessive display. It has been my observation that male interest is raised to a higher pitch by the exercise of his imagination, than by his being presented with so much bare womanly flesh that nothing at all remains for that imagination.”

Struan slipped lower in the chair.

“Am I wrong?”

He tipped his face up to the ceiling.

“Am I wrong, Struan? Or do men dwell excessively on thoughts of what lies beneath a female's gown? That which they cannot entirely see?”

“I would not have called it
excessive
dwelling.”

“Hah!”

“I find I do not especially like your ‘hahs,’ my sweet.”

“Concentrate. On the wedding night, your husband will see your breasts. This—”

“This is impossible,” Struan said, straightening. “You cannot seriously consider looking for publication of such writings?”

“I can and I will. How can I be denied a forum for the truth?” She set the notebook aside and removed her pelisse robe. “I find the evening warm.”

“Not as warm as I find it, I'll wager,” Struan muttered.

Justine retrieved the book and continued, “You, dear readers, will find unspeakable pleasure in your husbands’ ministrations upon your breasts. Some actions will render you speechless. For instance, when he touches their tips with his tongue and draws them into his mouth.”

“Justine.” His breeches began to be far from comfortable. “I beg of you to reconsider this.”

“Your breasts will feel as if they are swelling—a wholly delightful sensation. Sharp tightenings will form inside you and you will wish for this wonder to continue. Cast aside the foolish tales that suggest a husband will not wish his wife to disrobe at such a time. A husband longs for his wife's naked skin to be pressed to his own.”

Struan leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, as much to conceal the burgeoning evidence of his arousal as for any other reason.

“Revel in these wonders, sisters. They are but the beginning.”

“Preserve me.”

“Oh, I shall. I have no intention of not enjoying these things I write of again and again—with you.”

He lifted his face.

Justine smiled. She pulled a stool near his feet and sat. “One of the most amazing revelations,” she read, “is the discovery that one's husband's body is as enticing to you as yours is to him. But do not forget that he is as bound by foolish stories and conventions as we have been.”

Her knees were between his calves. She arranged her skirts, rested the book more comfortably, and rubbed the fingers of one hand steadily back and forth at the side of his thigh. “You will possibly be surprised to discover hair on your husband's chest.”

If he didn't know better, he'd think this intoxicating witch of a woman sought to seduce him. But such an event wasn't possible.

“I find that hair stimulating. Particularly when I feel it against my bared breasts—”

“Stop!”

Her head jerked up. “What? What is it?”

Struan gritted his teeth. “A lady cannot write such things as these.”

“Why?”

Her eyes flashed, and before he could grasp what she intended, she set the book aside and undid a row of small satin frogs between her breasts. Her bodice opened. He flinched at the leap of his manhood and made fists on the chair while she stood over him and worked deftly to reveal his chest.

Kneeling between his legs, she wrapped her arms around his waist and dragged her nipples slowly back and forth on his flesh.

Struan gulped a breath. His chest was not the only part of him exposed to a tantalizing massage.

He heard her small moan and reached for her shoulders.

Justine promptly sat back on the stool. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly—a sight guaranteed to demolish any man. “My point is made, I believe,” she said. “I can write these things because they are true.”

Did she intend to sit before him half dressed?

“Let us continue.”

And he had his answer. With her lovely breasts open to his view, she proceeded with her reading. “There are places we have never been allowed to mention, much less explore.”