Forever in Your Embrace (50 page)

Tyrone lifted an arm and braced it against the framework of the arched doorway, well aware that he had become the topic of their discussion. From the way their flitting perusals swept over him, he could believe their dialogue had something to do with his physical attributes. On that subject Synnovea possessed firsthand knowledge, yet as he continued to stare, she refrained from giving further comment, deterring the princess from offering other suppositions. It hardly kept his bride from meeting his gaze with more candor than she had hitherto displayed, at least since their marriage vows had been spoken.

Tyrone’s entry into the chamber had brought back a memory of a similar event a thrice or so years ago, when he had glimpsed his first wife, Angelina, bedecked in her bridal finery. His mood had been different then, buoyant and cheerful, as was common among bridegrooms who anticipated the taking of virginal fruit. It could be like that again, he told himself, if only he’d relent…

Or it might be even better,
the thought intruded as he pondered the difference in his courtship of his two wives. In comparing his sudden attraction to Synnovea to his final capitulation to Angelina’s pleas, he was forced to admit that the difference was like night and day. Angelina had been the offspring of his parents’ neighbors, yet he had all but ignored her during her younger years. She had finally attracted his attention only a pair of years before their wedding. In truth, their marriage had come about mainly by the wearing down of his manly resistance by a sweet young thing.

Other courtships had waned for different reasons, some because of the brevity of time allowed by his profession, many because of his own dwindling interest or a realization that a deeper union with a particular woman wasn’t in his best interest. He could hardly commend his cool-headed logic this time. Indeed, considering his zeal to have Synnovea, it seemed incredibly farfetched to suppose that he could successfully ignore her presence in the same room, much less in the same bed.

He had asked Natasha, with all the discretion he had been capable of mustering, to provide him with separate quarters no matter how tiny or cramped. The woman had smiled graciously and given the excuse that she usually had so many guests, it seemed unlikely that she’d be able to grant his request without restricting her gregarious penchant for hospitality. That was precisely the time he decided he was cursed by his own manly lusts.

Glancing back over his shoulder at his cavorting and frolicking guests, Tyrone shushed their loud bantering until the murmuring comments of the women could be heard above the din. He ambled forward to the circle of ladies, his eyes gleaming brightly as he carefully regarded the radiance of his bride. While her attendants observed every glance, every movement the newly married couple made, Synnovea gave him a diffident smile as she watched him warily. A stiff bow to the ladies sent them scurrying and sniggering from the chambers, allowing Tyrone to step before his bride.

“Again, madam, for the benefit of my escort,” he whispered, justifying his close attention. Lifting her small chin, he indulged himself in her delicately refined beauty for a passage of a long moment before lowering parting lips to hers. He made no effort to convince himself that he kissed her merely for the sake of his companions; he knew better than to believe that lie.

Synnovea yielded herself completely to his inquiring kiss, daring to meet his tongue when it slipped inward to search the depths of her mouth. He was her husband, after all, and though no one knew of her longing, she now realized that she desired him more than she had ever thought possible. The taste of vodka pervaded her senses as he devoured her offering with leisured deliberation. When he drew back, he left her silently groaning in disappointment.

Slowly wending his way back to the anteroom, Tyrone cooled his blood and brain forthwith by thinking of Aleksei going freely about his business. If he had been able to obtain the tsar’s permission, he’d have chased that boyar down as he fully intended to do with Ladislaus. Nothing short of facing that toad in a deadly contest would satisfy him.

Tyrone drank a last toast with the men to the forthcoming night, as if highly anticipating the torment he would soon suffer. He wasn’t so much into his cups that he wasn’t aware of Nikolai covertly eyeing Synnovea through the doorway. After encountering so many suitors, Tyrone wasn’t in the mood to share even a glimpse of his bride’s unconfined beauty with another man, especially one who had followed so closely on his heels to plead his cause with His Majesty, as if the major had striven one-tenth as hard as he to gain the tsar’s attention just for the privilege of courting the lady.

Deliberately Tyrone reached back a hand and pushed the door closed behind him before lifting a challenging stare to the Russian major. By the coldness in his eyes, he let it be known that Synnovea was his, and he’d fight any worthy who had intentions of intruding. He stared until Nikolai, flushing a dark angry red, turned crisply on a heel and made his exit.

T
he guests finally took their leave of the bridal chambers, and the stout, wooden outer portal was closed, allowing the groom to secure the bolt against the possibility of any prankish deed befalling them. When a few of his fellow officers had lingered to advise him on the schooling of a virgin, Tyrone had nodded with museful care, and though he had appeared to listen to every word, his thoughts had wandered. His judgment was not so sluggish that he couldn’t discount most of his companions’ suggestions as irrelevant. If he held true to his resolve, then surely their counsel was for naught even if he were of a bent to use it, which was hardly the case. It wasn’t that he considered his skills with women significantly better than those of his cohorts; indeed, some were touted to be daring roues and masterful lovers of several or more women at any given month or year, whereas he, as pragmatic about his personal life as he was with his career, had limited himself to one serious liaison at a time. He simply preferred his own way of doing things, at least when it came to nurturing a woman’s pleasurable participation in the intimate rites of love. If Angelina’s dying confessions could be counted as trustworthy, then by her own vow she had fallen more in love with him after their marriage. It had only been during that long interval of time, when he had been away in service to his country, that she had grown lonely enough to be otherwise beguiled. Or so she had sworn to him on her deathbed, where she had, with her last breath, begged him to forgive her.

As for the temptress he had just married, Synnovea had proven herself excitingly responsive to his lovemaking, if indeed he could believe her fervor genuine rather than part of her ploy. His musings even now strayed, as if beguiled, to alluring recollections of her sliding naked across his bed in her eagerness to make room for him. Even after he had consumed enough vodka to dull the lacerated rawness of his back, he was still unable to cast that memory as well as other similarly haunting visions from his mind.

With careful diligence Tyrone approached the huge bed wherein his second wife awaited him. She had doffed the golden robe, and at present her womanly form was discreetly covered by a sheet which she had dragged up over her bosom. As he loosened his doublet, his smoldering gaze raked over the hills and valleys that formed a provocative terrain beneath the shroud.

“Tsar Mikhail was right,” he remarked with languor, and then cursed his tongue for having lost its subtle eloquence. Even with his faculties somewhat encumbered from the effects of the intoxicant, he couldn’t dismiss the turmoil he was about to suffer by withholding himself from her. “You’re very beautiful, madam, perhaps beyond the degree of any woman I’ve ever known.”

All signs of Synnovea’s feigned gaiety had fled shortly after their guests’ departure. Now she eyed her husband guardedly, wondering what to expect from him in his present mood and condition. If he intended to vent his wrath upon her and insult her for having tricked him, she would have no recourse but to accept it. It was the very least she deserved. “We’ve had no moment alone in which we could talk, Tyrone.”

“So you wish to talk.” Tyrone painstakingly executed a bow and then stumbled back a step before he caught himself and straightened. He grinned, somewhat amused at himself. “You must pardon my present plight, madam. I’ve progressed out of character tonight. You see, I’ve liberally partaken of the fruit of the vine…or rather, that deadly libation you Russians quaff so copiously. Wicked stuff, that vodka, but it eases my pain….” He laid a hand over his heart as if mutely declaring the area where serious injury had been inflicted. “What matter did you wish to discuss, wife of mine? My aversion to being used?” He rubbed his chest as if sorely chafed by the idea. “Aye, that has caused me severe wounding by your lovely hand. None other could have cut me so deftly to the quick. While I pledged you all I could offer, paltry though it be, you played me for a fool. Now this poor buffoon is caught, bound by chains of wedlock, and he spies such delectable confection upon his bed that his mind is befuddled by the lusts that goad him. Alas, there’s no escape for the poor fool.” Clasping a bedpost with one hand, Tyrone leered at her and twirled his free hand through the air, as if urging an audience to respond. “What think you of my folly, madam? And of yours, pray tell? In ridding yourself of one proposed husband, you’ve caught yourself quite another entirely. Are you satisfied with what your mischief has heaped?”

Holding the sheet clasped over her bosom, Synnovea lifted herself cautiously from the pillows and sat upright. “I wasn’t willing to marry Prince Vladimir….”

“You made that abundantly clear ere now, madam.” The accusation was launched in sharp retort as he doffed his velvet doublet and flung it onto a nearby chair. What vexed him more than anything was the fact that he couldn’t ignore the ravishing vision he was presented. A half-dozen slender tapers burned in the pair of candelabra sitting atop the tables nestled against each side of the bed. The tiny flames flickering behind his bride eagerly cast their radiance through the filmy tissue of her pale yellow nightgown, temptingly detailing her shoulders, arms, and enough of her bosom to whet his desire to peruse everything else the covering held from view.

If a man could feel harried by the beauty of his bride on their wedding night, then Tyrone was definitely subject to that particular plight. As he leisurely assessed the sights, it dawned on him that he wanted Synnovea even more now than he ever had, even before their aborted union. No woman had ever held his mind so completely ensnared as she did now. From the first moment of their meeting, his life had been disrupted by his fervor to have her. Now, having won her, he could believe that he was destined to be punished even more.

“What I’m asking, madam, is whether or not you’re pleased with what you’ve accomplished with your game.”

Synnovea’s cheeks warmed to a vivid hue as she struggled to find an answer that might serve to mollify his resentment.

“You cannot answer me?” Tyrone demanded sharply.

She started slightly at the animosity in his tone and nervously offered a softly spoken supplication. “Can you not see the truth of the matter yourself, Tyrone? Would not any maid prefer a younger husband above an ancient patriarch? But I never meant to entrap you, please believe me…”

“Nay!” His tone was derisive. “You only wanted to use me like some worthless plaything and cast me aside when you no longer had need of me! I was nothing more to you than a rutting coxcomb whom you could use for your own purposes. The price you were obviously willing to expend for my services was far too enticing for me to ignore. By sacrificing your virtue, you meant to gain your end no matter the cost to me!”

Turning from her in a manner of angry dismissal, Tyrone careened across the room and entered the dressing chamber, where he promptly found himself confronted by masses of shoes neatly arranged in little satin bags tucked into c
ranni
es, tapestry-covered hat boxes and lacquered jewel coffers set in order on shelves near a melange of small, ornate chests that held stockings, handkerchiefs, and other dainties. Much larger armoires and chests were filled nigh to overflowing with gowns, petticoats, and lace-trimmed chemises. Amazed by the abundance of clothes he saw around him, Tyrone bemusedly tested the rich cloth of several and then lifted a delicate chemise against the light to admire its transparency.

His own clothes and possessions had been unpacked and placed in neat order beside hers, but surprisingly more conveniently at hand. He was rather amazed by the consideration that he had been shown in this matter. True, Ali might have wanted to favor him with such an arrangement, but the tiny servant would never have taken the initiative to do so unless her mistress had first directed her.

Wincingly Tyrone stripped the shirt from his back and tossed it aside. Selecting the pitcher that felt the coldest to his hand of the two that were available, he splashed water into a basin and suffered through a chilly washing, hoping it would aid him in his endeavor to remain level-headed once he had slipped into bed beside his bewitchingly winsome wife. Past that point, he’d have to rely on his slightly inebriated state to lead him into deep slumber from whence he fervently hoped he’d be hard-pressed to wake until morning.

Tyrone donned a pair of chausses to conceal his nakedness, which seemed a crucial necessity for his return to the bedchamber. Even then, the tight-fitting hose could not be relied upon to hide what would no doubt arise once he saw her again. The side of the bed nearest the antechamber seemed designated as his own, since the sheet had been folded down invitingly and his bride was ensconced closer to the windows on the far side. As he negotiated his way there, he avoided meeting his bride’s cautious gaze by perusing the room, noting its wealth of space, rich appointments, and softly feminine elegance. It was apparent their hostess treasured the girl’s company, reserving for her use what had to be the best apartments in the mansion, the exception being the chambers in which Natasha resided. He hadn’t indulged in such luxuries since leaving England, and only then in much less splendor. The Tudor house, which his father had bequeathed him at the event of his marriage to Angelina, was large and comfortably furnished in the same style as its design, but it was much less ornate than this womanly nirvana in which he found himself.