Marigold's Marriages (12 page)

“Do I?” She wondered if he could have put his hand on his heart in that moment, and sworn that the word “codfish” had not passed his mind!

Humor glinted in his eyes. “Let us be clear here, my lady. My, er, activities have never been in a marriage bed,
you
are the one who has experience in that respect.”

“Then you, sir, will be the one who benefits, will you not?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That is a very forward thing to say, Lady Avenbury.”

“How do you know I’m not a very forward woman? Maybe I am completely abandoned.”

“Are you?”

“That is for you to discover.”

“Is it indeed. Very well, Marigold, come here and let me begin this investigation.” His voice was very soft as he held out a hand.

She went to him as if in a dream, linking her arms around his neck and then stretching up to kiss him. He put his hands to her waist as her lips moved seductively over his, but as the tip of her tongue teased his, he slid his arms fully around her.

The kiss brought her to life. Her pulse quickened, and her body began to ache for the consummation that enticed so exquisitely through his warmth. She pressed closer, and was conscious of his arousal. She moved against the firm, hard masculine contour, and exulted in the sensations she had craved so long. It was like awakening after a long, long slumber.

At last he drew his head back to look into her big green eyes. “Champagne certainly releases your inhibitions, Marigold,” he breathed, gently untying the ribbons of her nightgown and slipping it from her shoulders so that it fell to the floor at her feet.

“But I am a forward woman, sir,” she whispered. Not a codfish, never a codfish....

He gazed at her in the candlelight. “You are a very surprising woman, my lady,” he replied, then suddenly lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the silken coverlet, and then took off his dressing gown. He wore nothing beneath it, and she thought his lean, muscular body was perfect. There were dark hairs on his chest, leading down to the forest at his groin, from where his maleness sprang readily. Oh, how readily.

Excitement flamed through her, and she reached up to him. He sank down into her arms, body to body, mouth to mouth. Kiss followed kiss, and their caresses grew more passionate and intimate. She wanted him to enter her fully, but he tantalized her, sliding his virility to the threshold, but no further. Then, just as she thought the excitement was unendurable, at last he pushed into her.

Magnificent sensations scintillated over her entire being, bewitching waves of pleasure that lit her soul like the fireworks she’d watched earlier. She clung to him, arching with the intensity of her release. His strokes were long and leisurely, extending her pleasure through his own climax, and then more.

Afterward her body was warm and trembling as he drew her close to him. She felt sated and drained at the same time, and it was wonderful. She had missed this pleasure, lain awake at night longing for it, and suddenly it was hers again. Tears sprang unexpectedly to her eyes.

He leaned up in concern. “What is it?” he said, gently pushing a damp curl of her hair back from her forehead.

She hardly dared look at him, for fear her foolish love would shine too bright. “I’ve been so lonely,” she whispered.

For a moment she thought she saw pain in his eyes, but then he pulled her into his arms again, and rested his cheek against her hair. She could no longer see his eyes, but thought his body shook, as if he were fighting back tears of his own. But she could not be sure.

The next morning she awoke to find herself alone in the bed. Rowan had only just left her, for the sheets were still warm where he had lain. She stretched luxuriously. How wonderful she felt, so relaxed and content. It was as if the years had peeled back, and she was sixteen again, and so in love with—and loved by—Merlin.

No, it was far, far better than that. She closed her eyes and remembered the night that had just passed. How many times had Rowan kissed her? How many times had he stroked and caressed her? Oh, too many to possibly count, but every moment had been exquisite. They still hardly knew each other, and yet had indulged in such passionate lovemaking that she blushed to think of some of the intimacies they had shared, intimacies she wished to share with him over and over again. And today they were to leave for Avenbury Park, where they would be alone together for as long as they wished....

The clock chimed eight, and her eyes opened again. Suddenly she no longer wanted to lie there, so she got up to put on her apricot muslin robe, then she went out onto the balcony. The scent of honeysuckle was as sweet and refreshing as the night before, and the fountains played in the sunlight. The mistletoe shone golden among the green cherry leaves, horses stirred in the mews lane at the foot of the garden, and an occasional voice carried as the grooms went about their business. She flung her tangled hair back, and took a huge breath, but then the birds fell curiously silent.

Expecting to see a cat, Marigold looked down into the garden again, but instead saw a stealthy human movement by the wicket gate that gave access from the stables to the garden. Alauda’s maid, Lucy, hurried to the cherry tree, then stretched up to push a piece of paper into a crevice in the trunk. The robin hopped along a branch, his head cocked as he watched the paper being carefully tucked out of sight. Lucy, a plain girl with straight brown hair and freckles, glanced nervously toward the house, but not up at the balcony, then gathered her fawn linen skirts to hurry back to the gate. After a moment the birds began to sing again.

Marigold was filled with dismay the moment she recognized the maid, for until that moment she had managed to put Alauda from her mind. Now reality swept back with a vengeance. Rowan may have spent last night with his wife, but his mistress was still there. Suddenly Rowan himself emerged into the garden directly below her. He carried his top hat and gloves, and was dressed in a pine green riding coat and cream breeches. As he ran a hand through his hair and walked quickly down between the rosebeds, his watching wife knew he would stop first at the cherry tree.

Tears stung her eyes as he did just that, reaching up unhesitatingly to take the note from its hiding place. He was just reading it when suddenly a groom came through the wicket gate and almost walked into him. Rowan shoved the note hastily into his pocket as the groom begged his pardon, then hurried on toward the house.

Rowan proceeded out of the garden to the stables, and a moment later Marigold heard him ride away along the mews lane. But the note, which he thought he had put securely in his pocket, had fallen onto the path, and lay there in the shade of the cherry tree.

Marigold had to know what it said. For modesty’s sake she donned her nightgown beneath her robe, then hastened from the room. She was careful that no one saw her slipping down through the house, then out past the kitchens, where the servants were about their breakfast. She hardly noticed the fragrance of the garden as she hastened down the path toward the speck of white by the cherry tree.

Swiftly she retrieved it, then pretended to examine some of the newly forming fruit on the cherry tree. She glanced back toward the house, but there was no one around, so she moved beneath the shady branches, from where the fountains would also obscure the view from the house, then she smoothed the paper out to read what was written there.

“R. Please do not leave for the country today as planned, for I must see you tonight.
Je t’adore avec tout mon coeur. A.”

More tears stung Marigold’s eyes. Would he respond to this entreaty? Yes, of course he would.... Suddenly a gust of wind got up from nowhere. She shivered as from a perfectly still morning, a strong draft of almost chill air stirred over Mayfair. Her gaze was drawn up through the branches toward the golden bough of mistletoe as it swayed seductively. Then there was a fluttering sound, and the robin came to perch close by. The wind died away again as swiftly as it had arisen, and he gave a little warble, and puffed out his red breast.

“What shall I do now, Robin?” she asked him. He chirruped, then suddenly flew down to the hand that held the note. He was so light she hardly felt him as he began to peck angrily but ineffectually at the paper, as if it offended him too.

She smiled sadly. “I think you know how I feel, don’t you?” she murmured. He looked intently at her, as if urging her to something, and gradually an idea began to come to her. She had parted Rowan from Alauda last night at Vauxhall Gardens, and she’d keep them apart again now! And since Alauda thought it was clever to resort to forgery, her lover’s new wife would take a leaf from the same unethical book! The robin flew off with a defiant burst of song, and Marigold gathered her skirts to hurry back to the house, again being careful that no one saw her.

She went to Rowan’s study, and searched for paper that resembled as closely as possible that which Alauda had used. Then she smoothed out the original note, and sat down to fabricate one of her own, copying Alauda’s writing. It took several attempts, but at last she achieved a satisfactory result. “R. Do not alter your plans after all, for F. has announced we are to attend Holland House tonight. Remember always that I love you. A.”

Marigold studied it for a long moment. Was it convincing? Yes, the more she read it, the more she felt it would perform the necessary task. If Rowan received this, he would still leave for the country, and Alauda would wait in vain tonight. And serve the doxy right!

Smiling a little wickedly, Marigold returned to the garden to put the original note back where it had fallen, so that Rowan wouldn’t know it had been found. Then she made her way back to the house with her forgery, but when she reached the kitchens this time, she made her presence known. The servants were still seated comfortably around the table, enjoying an overlong breakfast in their master’s absence, and they started guiltily as she appeared in the doorway. The butler hurried to her. “My lady?”

“I was just about to walk in the garden, when someone’s footman arrived that way with this note for his lordship. Will you see he gets it the moment he returns from his ride?”

“Er, yes, my lady.” The butler glanced down at the note. He clearly suspected from whom it may have come, for his face went distinctly red and uncomfortable.

She feigned a little puzzlement. “Isn’t it a little unusual for footmen to deliver notes to the rear entrance?”

“It, er, does happen occasionally, my lady,” he replied awkwardly.

“I see.” She turned to go, but then hesitated. “I’ve changed my mind about walking in the garden, and wish a hot bath to be prepared.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

With a serene nod of her head, she walked away.

* * *

Marigold sank into the rose-scented water. Her hair was twisted up loosely on top of her head, and she leaned back against the soft pink cloth which was draped all around the shaped bath. She was being attended by her new maid, Sally, a dainty, dark-haired girl, half French, and very clever indeed with hair. To Sally, the new Lady Avenbury appeared the picture of relaxed contentment, but Marigold’s heart was pounding nervously. She knew Rowan had returned from his ride, but she had yet to see him. Had he received her forged note? Had it deceived him? Maybe he’d realized whose hand had really penned it... !

His tread was at the door. He knocked. “Marigold?”

At her nod, Sally hurried to answer. She bobbed a quick curtsy to him. “Please come in, my lord,” she said, then went out, closing the door behind her.

Hardly daring to meet his gaze, Marigold sank a little lower in the water. Suddenly her apprehension moved on two levels, for apart from her sleight of hand with the notes, she was self-conscious about last night. As he crossed the room toward her, she couldn’t tell anything from his face.

His hair was windswept from his ride, and he loosened his neckcloth as he halted by the bath. “Good morning, Lady Avenbury.” His tone conveyed nothing.

“Good morning, Lord Avenbury,” she replied, wishing she could read his face more than she could, but in spite of their night together, he remained closed to her.

“I trust I find you well?”

How stilted and formal the words sounded. Were they the prelude to an angry confrontation? Her heart quickened uneasily, but somehow she managed to reply lightly. “As I hope I find you?”

To her relief he smiled. “Then may I presume you are ready to face our journey to Wiltshire?”

Triumph coursed invisibly through her. “You may indeed, sir.”

“I felt the urge to ride in Hyde Park. I hope you didn’t mind me leaving you asleep like that?”

“Why should I mind?”

“Because it may not have seemed appropriate for you to awaken alone.”

She lowered her eyes. “I do not expect you to behave like an adoring husband, sir, for I realize this is a marriage of convenience.”

“So it is.”

“I still intend to defeat the curse by being your wife this time next year,” she said determinedly.

“You expect in vain, as you will realize when you arrive at Avenbury Park. There are portraits of every Lord Avenbury, and each one is a young man because none of them survived long enough to be painted in middle age.” He anticipated her next question. “I swear to tell you everything as soon as we get to Avenbury.” Then he turned to go, but hesitated at the door. “Breakfast will soon be served. I would like it if you joined me.”

The change of subject was so deliberate, that for a second she couldn’t reply. But then she found her tongue. “I would like that too.”

“Good.”

She couldn’t let him leave without saying more about the night they’d shared. It was foolish to feel so embarrassed about it. He was her husband now, and she was no shrinking virgin. “Rowan, about last night...”

“What about it?” he asked, returning to her.

She looked up into his eyes, and then quickly away again in dismay as her brief surge of courage faded. “I was a little abandoned. You must forgive me, I—I fear champagne goes to my head,” she said feebly.