Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (17 page)

Deb watched from the doorway, unnoticed, waiting for her husband to finish this letter before going forward. Yet he took his time and when he had come to the end of the second page his eyes wandered to the flames amongst the burning logs in the grate. One of their number suddenly popped, cracked, and fell amongst the ash, sending a snow of grey-white flakes up into the chimney. Onto this fallen burning log Julian tossed the remaining pages of an opened letter and watched it curl in on itself, the look on his face so intense that in the flickering light he appeared a stranger. It occurred to her then, as it had on numerous occasions over the previous couple of weeks, that she had learnt very little about her husband since the day she had stumbled upon him bleeding from a sword wound in the Avon forest.

The thought stayed with her as Julian turned away from the fireplace and ordered Frew to fetch a pot of coffee and some rolls to sustain him while he wrote a reply to this last letter, a letter that was to be sent at once by separate dispatch to his Grace in Paris. When the valet saw Deb and hesitated, causing his master to coldly inquire without looking up why he stood as a statue in the middle of the carpet, she announced herself. It brought Julian’s head round with a snap. Such was his scowl of preoccupation that Deb faltered in surprise to receive such a cold reception. Yet in the next moment he was out of his chair with a warm smile, pulling the banyan tighter about his shoulders and dismissing the valet with a sharp word that brought the servant to a sense of his social lapse.

Deb glanced at the cluttered surface of the writing desk with its scatter of parchments, silver Standish holding quills and ink, melted sealing wax and a heavy gold seal on a length of gold chain, all bathed in the glow from the guttering candles of a six stemmed candelabra.

“You’ve been awake for some time,” she commented with a shy smile and took the hand he held out to her.

“Letters that can’t wait,” he answered as he softly kissed the palm of her right hand. “I have one more to write… to Martin.”

“Who is staying with your parents?” she asked in a tone she hoped sounded disinterested.

“Yes.”

“You and he are close,” she stated, and moved to the fireplace to spread cold hands to its warmth. “Closer than what is usual for godparent and godchild. I’ve never met my godparents. They used to send a gift on my birthday, until I fled to Paris to be with Otto. I guess I fell from favor.”

Julian followed her, scooping up his gold seal and slipping it into a pocket of his banyan before placing himself between Deb and the writing desk. “Frew is brewing Turkish coffee—”

“Turkish coffee?”

“Yes. I acquired a taste for the filthy stuff when Martin and I lived in Constantinople.”

“Constantinople? How fascinating,” she said, wondering what had taken him to such an exotic city. The Grand Tour perhaps? “Did you and Martin live there for awhile?”

“We were there three years,” he answered, remaining fixed in front of the desk. “Long enough to enjoy the wondrous architecture of the Infidel, the unique smells and explore the burying fields that are surprisingly far larger than the city itself. You’re shivering, my dear. A hot chocolate would warm you.”

Deb shook her head, fingers playing with a long strand of autumn-colored hair, determined to pursue a line of thought he continually avoided. “Strange, you and M’sieur Ellicott lived in such a far away city. I dare say you shared many an interesting adventure, and yet in all my visits here he never once mentioned his godson.”

He smiled and shrugged self-consciously. “Martin is a very discreet and loyal creature. Accompanying a wayward youth on the Grand Tour was not his idea of restful retirement, yet he never complained. And I dare say the antics of his godson was not what Martin would’ve thought an appropriate topic for French conversation with a young lady.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You have a measure of my godfather’s upright character. You never once mentioned your penchant for playing a viola in the forest.”

“Ah! But I was at pains to ensure he didn’t know for fear he would ask me to play, which would’ve necessitated being impolite and refusing him,” she answered in a rallying tone. “I am competent and I enjoy playing for my own pleasure, but I have a morbid fear of public performance.”

Julian grinned. “That makes two of us. I told you once how I hate being the center of attention. I too dislike being on display. You would never know it to see me in society.” He took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Now that, my darling wife,” he whispered at her ear, “is to be kept between us and no other.”

“Do you go into society very often?” she persisted, snuggling into his warm embrace by the fireside.

“When required—”

“—by your family?” she asked too quickly and wished she had held her tongue for he let her go and moved to the sofa.

At that awkward moment Frew came through the servant door carrying a tray holding the coffee things. The valet placed this on the table and quietly departed.

Deb watched Julian arrange the coffee things, items that were richly patterned and lacquered and Oriental in design; a souvenir from his stay in Constantinople he told her. The pear-shaped coffee pot of fine porcelain patterned with gold rested on an elaborate silver stand that had at its base a candle warmer to keep the pot’s contents at drinking temperature. There were two fine porcelain dishes one of which Julian poured out into, a liquid so thick and black it was the consistency of treacle. He stirred a precise amount of sugar into the coffee with a long handled silver spoon and this he set aside on a lacquered spoon rest before picking up the dish and sipping the Turkish brew to test for the correct proportion of bitterness to sweetness.

“The wine of Islam,” he commented, savoring the taste. He held out the dish. “Would you like to try it?”

Deb did not immediately answer. She had been watching him intently, how his long fingers curled about the curved handle of the coffee pot, the way he sprinkled sugar into the little dish and stirred it gently before bringing it up to his lovely mouth to take the smallest of sips. Such fastidious movements were in marked contrast to his want of dress and the black curls that fell unbrushed about his shoulders. She found herself wondering for the hundredth time how she had come to be married to such a man; a man who reminded her of a boy she had once dreamed about. It was a foolish and absurd thought and she wished it would leave her alone, and yet it continued to haunt her.

When he repeated his offer she took the dish, feeling the heat in her face for being distracted by absurd thoughts. Gingerly, she sipped at the dark liquid and such was the bitterness on her tongue that she screwed up her mouth and quickly thrust the dish back at him. He laughed at her expression of disgust and drank up, chiding her under the chin for her bravery. She in turn playfully grabbed at his hand. Then suddenly they both felt awkward in each other’s company and fell silent.

Deb returned to the fireplace to warm her hands while over the rim of the porcelain dish Julian watched her. His green-eyed gaze traveled from her bare toes up to the swell of her luscious breasts under the silk dressing gown, and he knew that if he did not immediately return to the writing desk to complete his correspondence he would give in to the intense ache in his loins and make love to her there and then.

Since deciding to claim his wife he had presumed that the consummation of their marriage would bring him a sense of closure and release: The marriage in name only would finally be legally binding and, God willing, his wife would soon be pregnant and provide the Duke with a grandson; tangible evidence of the continuance of his line. As soon as she was pregnant he had intended to return to Paris, to his life there, and to the unfinished business of dealing with an overly ambitious Farmer-General who had plotted to entrap him into marriage with his very beautiful but scheming daughter.

What he had not counted on was returning to England to discover that the girl to whom he was married had blossomed into a beautiful desirable woman. There was no denying he was instantly attracted to her. He’d wanted her from the moment she’d straddled his lap in the forest. And so he had eagerly anticipated the consummation of his marriage. But their first night together as man and wife, when they rode to Heaven and back as one on three separate occasions, had turned out very differently from what he had imagined. Far from providing closure and release, he found himself intoxicated; the ache of wanting her growing more acute rather than abating. He felt as an alcoholic must who tastes wine for the first time and is instantly addicted.

She surprised and delighted him with her candid enjoyment of his arousal, and the way in which her warm fragrant body responded to his lovemaking without reserve. No woman had ever been so honest with him before. The efforts of the most skilled courtesan now seemed tawdry by comparison to his inexperienced wife’s honesty. In making love with Deb he discovered that honesty mattered a great deal, and that her physical honesty was the most potent aphrodisiac of all.

He forced himself to look away from her and returned to the writing desk. Putting aside the empty coffee dish, he needlessly shuffled through a few pages of correspondence. “This letter cannot wait,” he apologized. “It must reach its destination with all speed or two Parisian lawyers will be on our doorstep.”

Deb took a step toward him. “Parisian lawyers,
here
?”

“Not if my letter reaches them first,” he said, keeping his gaze on the page. “But I won’t be able to put them off indefinitely. I have unfinished business in Paris.”

Deb would have crossed to him but he looked up then, sensing her nearness, and steered her away from the desk. She frowned, wondering what he did not wish her to see; yet mention of Paris was uppermost in her mind. “Paris? You are going to Paris?”

“Yes. To clear up a tiresome legal matter that need not concern you.”

“To do with your duel in the forest?” When he nodded she said, “I will come with you.”

“No. I won’t have you subjected to such an absurd ordeal.”

She put a hand on his broad chest and stared up into his frowning countenance. “Ordeal? Will Paris be an ordeal for you, Julian?”

He smiled reassuringly but could not bring himself to reply with a lie. The warmth radiating from her, the pleasing scent in her hair, the touch of her hand on his stubbled cheek, all combined to melt what little resolve he had secured by going to the desk. He brushed aside the tumble of heavy, dark red curls that fell forward over her shoulder to caress the round fullness of her breast. “Paris is the last place I wish to go,” he murmured, delighting in the delicious sensation of his thumb lightly rubbing her nipple through the silk. “I want you to myself a little longer… Three days is not enough time…” He bent and kissed her gently. “Go back to bed. I’ll be there shortly. Today we set off on a proper bridal trip.”

Her arms went up about his neck as she sought another kiss. “Where are you taking me?”

He kissed her again, this time passionately, causing instant arousal; one hand cupping her breast, the other catching up the folds of the dressing gown to feel the roundness of her bare bottom beneath. “Where they won’t find us.”

“Will you be writing many letters whilst we are on our bridal trip?” she teased as she slid the banyan off his wide shoulders and down his muscular arms.

He kissed the base of her throat. “This letter is the last for a month, that I promise you.”

She smiled under her lashes, enjoying the feel of his swollen hardness straining against the silk of his breeches as he rubbed against her belly, knowing that the writing of this last letter would be put off until they had made love. “Are letters to be my solace while you’re in Paris without me?”

“Every night separated from you will be wretchedly cold and lonely.”

“I’m glad to hear it, for I’m not above protecting what is now mine alone. Must I remind my husband that I am a deadly shot?”

He chuckled as he carried her effortlessly through to the bedchamber and fell with her amongst the tumble of bedclothes. “You deserve a good thrashing for such uncharitable thoughts, madam wife!”

She stared up through the gray morning light, into his lovely emerald green eyes and wondered not for the first time if it was all a wonderful dream from which she would awaken at any moment to find Nurse smiling down at her, holding a little silver tray with a porcelain mug of sweetened hot chocolate upon it. But this wasn’t a dream. This man was her husband and he was muscle and bone and she was his wife and they now shared a bed. Those facts were indisputable.

“Make love to me, Julian,” she whispered, seeking his mouth, fingers at the buttons of his breeches.

He shuddered at her touch and groaned for release from the confines of tight silk, reveling in her teasing caress as she undid the silver buttons of his breeches with a deliberate slowness. His whole body tensed with pure pleasure as he stooped to kiss her breasts. That her need of him was no less strong than his desire for her, that she gave herself to him honestly and without reserve, her enjoyment equal to his own, aroused in him a passion beyond anything he had ever experienced.

“Sweet Jesus, Deb,” he uttered thickly as his kisses traveled from the round firmness of her breasts, over the flat plane of her belly and down to the pleasurable, ready wetness between her warm luscious thighs, “you’ve utterly ruined me.”

~   ~   ~

Frew had been polishing the same pairs of shoes for a fortnight. He had little else to occupy his time. Once a day he rode into Bath, to kick his heels at one of the taverns, to take a stroll to the Pump Room to see if there were any new faces in town, and then he visited the Barr Hotel in Trim Street to collect his master’s redirected mail. After a bite of lunch and another stroll he then returned to Martin Ellicott’s Queen Anne House. If he had collected any letters and cards of invitation these he placed with the rest accumulating in a pile on the sideboard in the book room. That was the extent of his day.

He had returned to Bath from the Lakes District with the news the Marquis of Alston and his bride were only a day’s ride behind him. That had been fourteen days ago. Frew had expected the old gentleman to question him about his seven-week stay at the Elizabethan manor house by the shores of Lake Windermere. Martin Ellicott did not once inquire about his godson’s honeymoon, thus denying Frew the opportunity to confide in him the goings on during his stay. One episode in particular still made him grin from ear to ear…