Tallie's Knight (14 page)

Long dark lashes
fanned her cheeks, which were flushed from the heat of the fire. Or maybe not,
he thought wryly, as he bent down and removed the pewter mug which dangled
precariously from one hand.

He put a hand on her
shoulder.

“Thalia,” he said,
then, “Thalia,” more loudly. She didn’t stir. He decided to let her sleep until
dinner arrived.

He poured himself a mug
of mulled wine and drained it quickly, shuddering pleasurably as the warm spicy
liquid flowed down his throat. He poured himself another, then set it down
pensively, his eyes on the sleeping girl. She looked exhausted. Magnus watched
the gentle rise and fall of her chest and regretted the rough haste of the
journey. He should not have inflicted such a long trip on his gently bred
bride, especially on her wedding day. Not that little Thalia Robins… no —Thalia
St. Clair she was now— was particularly gently bred.

He shook his head,
recalling the way the little hoyden had hung out the window of the coach, pert
little nose in the air, her hair whipping around her face, her eyes huge and
dark in the pallor of her face. Her skin had been damp with rain, globing
softly in the moonlight as she had shrieked some nonsense, shout how much she
was enjoying the journey. Monstrously exciting, indeed! His lips twitched. She’d
looked frightened half out of her wits.

Magnus sipped the
mulled wine and watched his bride sleep. He noticed the faint sprinkling of
freckles over the bridge of her tip-tilted nose.

Freckles were
generally held to be a flaw, but hers were oddly appealing. It was almost
impossible to believe that he’d married this little scrap of humanity. He didn’t
feel married. And he had so little in common with her. His wife. His new
Countess. His impulsive choice of her was most unlike him.

He would have to
train her, he supposed, train her until she resembled the wives. He frowned,
considering the way he’d become acquainted with most of those wives. No, he
didn’t want her to be a typical society wife at all. He’d be damned if he’d let
her cuckold him. This Lady d’Arenville would not stray from her marital bed; he’d
make sure of that!

He took another sip
of wine and pulled a face. It was almost cold. He leant over towards the
fireplace and pushed the blackened poker into the coals.

Thalia, he pondered,
watching the flames flicker and dance. Peculiar name. It didn’t suit her at
all. He wouldn’t saddle a child of his with a name like that… a child of his.
With any luck she could conceive this very night. The poker soon began to glow
red-hot, and he pulled it out, shook the ash from it, then plunged it into the jug
of spiced wine. It sizzled briefly, and aromatic steam filled the air. He
tossed the poker back onto the hearth, poured the heated mixture back into his
mug and drank deeply.

The innkeeper,
Farrow, entered with a tray of steaming dishes. Magnus silently indicated his
sleeping wife. Farrow and several creeping minions set out cutlery, glasses and
dishes with muted clatters and clinks. Farrow issuing instructions in a hoarse
whisper that could probably be heard in the next room. The new Lady d’Arenville
slept on, serenely oblivious.

When the innkeeper
had left, Magnus touched her shoulder.

“Thalia, our dinner
has arrived.”

She didn’t move. He
shook her gently and she stirred, but did not awaken. He stood for a moment, oddly
unsure of himself. She probably was hungry —there had been no proper wedding
breakfast after all— she had eaten nothing for hours. But women seemed to eat
almost nothing anyway, and she did seem to be very tired. Perhaps it would be
better to let her sleep through dinner and then wake her when it was time to go
up to bed.

Yes, that was the
better plan. He would wake her then, for he had every intention of consummating
his marriage tonight. The sooner he got her with child the sooner she would
forget about this Grand Tour nonsense.

Magnus twirled a
glass of port in his hand, admiring the flickering flames of the fire through
its ruby glow and berating himself for his uncharacteristic state of
indecision. After a hearty dinner and several glasses of good claret he was now
perfectly ready to undertake his duties as a bridegroom. But she was still asleep.
Frowning, he set his glass down and walked towards his wife. He shook her
shoulder again. She did not move, did not so much as flicker an eyelid. He bent
over, slid his hands under her and lifted. She stirred, muttered, and snuggled
her cheek against his chest. Her arms and legs dangled bonelessly. Curse the
girl —she slept like the dead.

Grunting slightly, he
managed to open the door. He carried her up the narrow steps, taking care not
to bump her against the walls —although why he should bother he did not know.
Very likely a stampede of elephants would not wake her. He had bespoken only
one private bedchamber —it was a small inn, after all. The bedclothes were
turned back, and with a sigh of relief he laid her on the bed and regarded her with
a jaundiced eye.

His bride was dead to
the world. Magnus glared at her, aggrieved. He had not particularly looked
forward to his wedding night —he’d never taken a virgin before, had restricted
his carnal dealings to experienced women of the world, and the thought of
causing pain instead of giving pleasure had caused him to view the coming night
with a certain amount of trepidation. But now, having steeled himself to do the
deed, his bride was proving most uncooperative.

Furthermore, having
departed on his honeymoon in a state of pique, he had failed to provide her
with a maidservant. He probably ought to call for the landlord’s wife to
undress her. And so he would —damn it— if he wanted all and sundry to know how
he’d passed his wedding night. No, he had the choice —leave her to sleep in her
clothes and emerge as an even more bedraggled bride in the morning, or prepare
her for bed himself.

Swearing under his
breath, Magnus undid the buttons of her shabby pelisse. He slipped it off and
hung it on a hook. He had to grope for the fastenings of her dress, and called
down a silent curse on dressmakers when he finally discovered them under her
arms.

He slipped the dress
off her shoulders and tugged it down over her hips, then hung it on the same
hook.

Feeling cross and impatient,
Magnus turned back to his bride and froze, staring. She lay on his bed, soft
and sweet and vulnerable. Her hair was tumbled in an unruly mass, spread out
against the white sheets, glinting gold and brown and cinnamon, like strands of
honey.

Her skin glowed
golden-rose in the flickering candlelight.

Magnus’s mouth dried
as he gazed at her sleeping form. This was his wife, he told himself. But he
felt like a thief in the night, standing over her, gazing like this, with her
all innocent and unknowing.

But he could not stop
himself staring at the rosy arms flung out high on the pillows, at her long,
smooth legs, gently parted and disappearing beneath her petticoat, her breasts
rising creamy and rounded from the neck of her chemise. He reached for the tapes
which fastened her petticoat and noticed wryly that his hands were shaking.

He wrestled for a
moment with the knots, then, losing patience, took out his knife. He cut the
remaining tapes and, holding his breath, gently eased the petticoat from her
body.

Bloody hell, he
thought, staring at her legs, at her thighs hidden beneath the uneven hem of
her chemise. His heart was pounding. The chemise was a simple affair,
sleeveless, with an adjustable drawstring neckline. It strained across her
chest and hips, as if made for a smaller person. Idly his fingers reached out
and pulled lightly at one of the ends of the small bow which fastened the
drawstring. The bow fell apart and the neckline loosened under his gaze.

By all that was
decent he ought to leave her to sleep in her chemise at least. She was a
virgin, modest and maidenly. A gentleman should show proper respect for his
wife, only raising the hem of her nightgown during their conjugal meetings. It
was what he’d expected, planned to do, after all. And she was asleep. Only a
cad would bare her naked to his eyes like this on her wedding night. Without
her knowledge or consent. Yes, in all decency he should allow her to sleep in
her chemise, not stand here staring at his wife as if she were a two-penny peepshow.
She stirred, rolling her face to one side, and flung an arm over her head. Her
movement sent the drawstring neckline gaping even wider.

Magnus held his
breath. Was she about to waken? Candlelight danced over the creamy expanse of
skin.

Without further thought
Magnus cut through the tapes fastening her chemise and with heated breath
tugged the garment down. Her breasts spilled out, creamy and lush, and under
his fascinated stare two rosy nipples lifted and hardened in the cold night
air. He tugged it further, over her hips and down her legs. Dry-mouthed and
aching with desire, he examined the rest of her, her slender waist, her
appealingly curved little belly, the flaring hips and the gold-brown triangle
of curls at the apex of her rounded, satiny thighs.

Bloody hell, thought
Magnus again, dazedly. She was beautiful. Under all those appalling garments
she wore, she was beautiful. Soft, lovely and utterly desirable. And she was
his wife.

And, the devil
confound it, she was absolutely sound asleep, and there was no way in the world
that he could avail himself of her beautiful body. He groaned, feeling the
painful intensity of his arousal, knowing he would have to wait.

He bent over her,
inhaling the scent of her body, and closed his eyes for a moment, savouring it.
She smelled unique, in his experience.

Most women he knew
drowned themselves in strong perfumes. Not his bride. She smelled of soap and
nothing else —just herself. Of innocence. She was his lawful wife, wedded to
him in the eyes of God and society, he told himself.

Magnus took a deep
breath.

“Thalia,” he said
urgently, in a loud voice. She did not stir. He cupped her shoulders in moist
palms and shook her. The creamy breasts bounced and quivered. Magnus moaned as
he watched. But she did not awaken. Instead, she wriggled a little —causing his
tongue to cleave to the roof of his mouth— then turned on her side, cuddling
into the pillows, curling up her legs and presenting him with a view of a delectable
peachy backside. His arousal was rock-hard, and aching like the very devil.

It was no good, he
thought frustratedly, Thalia Robinson could sleep through an earthquake. He
lifted the bedclothes over her and watched sourly as she snuggled into their
warmth. Thalia —God how he disliked that name. It hadn’t suited the ill-clad
little urchin he’d married and it certainly didn’t suit the siren he’d
discovered under the dreadful clothes. Perhaps he’d call her by her second name
—what was it? Lucy? Louise? He grimaced. No, that didn’t suit her either.

Forcing himself to
turn away from the temptation in his bed, Magnus bent to pick up the
undergarments he’d dropped. He started to hang them on the hook behind the
door, then paused, truly noticing them for the first time. Holding them in a
clenched fist, he moved closer to the branch of candles burning near the
bedside. A surge of anger rippled through him.

The stockings were
darned in several places. Both chemise and petticoat contained numerous patches
and inserts of different material.

Though spotlessly
clean, and soft with many washings, they were made of coarse linen, old and
well-worn. Not a scrap of lace or a frill enlivened either garment. And these
were the delicate ladies unmentionables that Lord d’Arenville’s bride had worn
on her wedding day! Could Laetitia not even have seen to that? He bunched the offending
garments in his fist and hurled them at the far wall.

He stormed towards
the door, then paused. He glanced back at the underclothes in the corner. He’d
rendered them unusable, cutting through the tapes like that. What would she
think when she awoke?

Cursing under his
breath, he scooped them off the floor and stuffed them into his pocket.

He left the room,
slamming the door behind him, and stomped downstairs, his high boots echoing on
the wooden steps. Rousing the innkeeper, he called for a bottle of the best
brandy and retired to the private parlour to brood on his inexplicable marriage
and the debacle of his wedding night.

“Oh, I am utterly
ravenous this morning,” exclaimed Tallie, reaching for a slice of fresh crusty
bread and buttering it lavishly. She took a mouthful of coffee and closed her
eyes, savouring it, then bit into the bread with evident relish.

Magnus watched her
sourly. His head ached from the brandy. The fire in the small parlour had
smoked, and the landlord’s excuses about the unreliability of chimneys when the
wind blew from the northwest had not impressed him a bit.

“Can I not tempt you
to a slice of this excellent bread and butter, my lord?” said Tallie. She
glanced at the tankard by his elbow doubtfully.

“I cannot think it
healthful for you to break your fast with nothing but ale.”

Magnus snorted and
raised the tankard to his lips.

Tallie glanced
guiltily at the empty platter on her left.

“I am sure Mrs.
Farrow would be delighted to cook more bacon and eggs —I did not mean to
consume it all— it was just that I found myself so extremely hungry when I
awoke.”

Magnus closed his
eyes for a moment, unable to endure even the thought of greasy eggs and bacon.

Tallie reached for
the pot of honey. She dipped in a spoon and wound it deftly, then drizzled
honey all over her bread and butter. The sight recalled to Magnus the look of
her hair on the pillow, gleaming in the candlelight. He glowered silently.