What a Lady Needs for Christmas (26 page)

He’d puzzled her. In the cheval mirror, he could see auburn brows knit and mental gears turn—while he tried to undress her.

“You’re handsome, though,” she retorted—accused. “All the ladies were inspecting you today, admiring your kilt—
and
your
knees
.”

Her comment laid a trap of some sort, one neither a homely husband nor a handsome one could crawl out of with her regard for him intact.

He started on the bows of her corset cover. “I’m relieved to have their inspection over with, if you want the truth. Relieved the ceremony is behind us. This is a fetching dress.”

“I hadn’t time to add much lace,” she said, reminding him that clothing and fabric served in conversation with Joan much as the weather might for others. “Mama thought my dress plain.”

“She said it was daringly elegant. I heard her.” At least three times. While the marchioness had no doubt been sincere and well-meaning, each repetition had left Joan more nervous and uncertain. “The color is lovely on you.”

Dante had just unknotted the lacings of her stays—she apparently didn’t believe in lacing herself to oblivion—when Joan turned to face him.

“You truly like this color? As greens go, it’s on the pale side.”

She
was pale, and the strain of the day put shadows beneath her eyes. Perhaps she fussed her clothing because that was something a woman could control, even a wealthy, titled woman.

“Demure, not pale,” he said, thanking whatever merciful deity had inspired his vocabulary. “But, Joan?”

“Mr. Hartwell?”

“You need not be demure with your husband. You can be honest. If the notion of coupling with me horrifies you, then say so. It’s been only ten days since you boarded my train, and there’s still some time when uncertainty—”

The god of inspired vocabulary had dispensed a solitary favor and then fled the scene. Dante fell silent rather than do greater damage.

Lady Joan stood before him, her bodice gaping away from her underlinen, her hem sporting a few dashes of mud. Between uncertainty and fatigue, Dante endured a stirring of sentiment—longing, protectiveness, affection—despite their circumstances.

Despite everything.

“I want to have a wedding night with my wife, but more significantly, I want her to enjoy that wedding night. If that means we wait, then I will wait.”

If heaven were merciful, maybe he’d wait only until morning.

Joan was not inclined to offer him ready assurances. Hope sank, but didn’t go completely under, because the lady was still standing before him in dishabille, looking both puzzled and determined.

“I am not pretty, but you are handsome. We’ll muddle through, Mr. Hartwell, and without anybody handing out dirty looks in the morning.”

He’d amused her. Thank heavens, he’d amused her.

“Help me with this infernal neckcloth thing,” he said, lifting his chin. “Hector knotted it up as if he wanted to strangle me.”

Because Dante did not use a valet, and knew nothing of what was fashionable, while Hector had studied up on the matter of cravats and neckcloths and ties prior to the wedding.

“It’s a jabot,” she said, “old-fashioned and French, owing to the formality of the occasion. You might need it if we’re ever to present you at court.”

“Now you’ll give a poor Scottish lad nightmares on his wedding night.”

She draped the lacy French thing over his shoulder, as if it were a pet. “What next?” she asked, stroking the lace. “Is this where we climb under the covers and become man and wife?”

He wanted more than that for her and for himself too, but had no clue in which direction
more
might lie. “You didn’t enjoy your wedding day, did you?”

Another stroke of pale fingers over lace. “Today wasn’t awful. My family loves me, and that was…was a gift. Even my sisters.”

He unpinned a spray of lily of the valley from her hair. “You seemed happy enough at the church.”

“I had you beside me at the church.”

He passed her the little bouquet, a bit wilted but still fragrant. “I’ll be beside you in that bed, too, and in life. The two go together, and you’ll be beside me.”

Dante looked forward to that, in fact, but didn’t push his luck by telling her as much. Instead, he turned her by the shoulders and nudged her in the direction of the bedroom.

“I’ll call for you in a few minutes,” she said, apparently grasping his scheme. “When I’m under the covers.”

“I will not cross that threshold until you summon me.”

But they would emerge from their bedroom as man and wife—if he didn’t bungle this wedding night too.

***

How had Joan not realized what a good-looking fellow she’d married? In his wedding day finery, Dante Hartwell had been the handsomest man of the entire gathering—tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, and imbued with a sort of bodily confidence even Tiberius didn’t manage in a kilt.

Far handsomer than Edward Valmonte, who’d looked effete in his gray morning attire and white gloves.

Clothes did not make the man, Joan decided, hanging her wedding finery in the wardrobe, though they might do a great deal for a lady. Her dress needed more lace, another flounce at the hem, another dash of piping or embroidery, but she hadn’t had time to create that additional camouflage.

Now, her only camouflage would be darkness.

She peeled out of the rest of her clothes, tended to her ablutions, and donned the sheer nightgown she’d chosen from her trousseau. In darkness, the embroidery on the hems and seams would go unappreciated by her husband, but Joan would feel it against her skin.

In the next room, Mr. Hartwell stirred, possibly banking the fire or pouring himself a drink.

For warmth, Joan also put on the silk-and-velvet night robe that went with the nightgown, then brushed her teeth and took down her hair.

A bride was to leave her hair unbound.

A bride was also supposed to be chaste and at least infatuated with her groom, if not in love with him.

Joan braided her hair, climbed onto the bed, and called to her husband. “Mr. Hartwell, you may join me.”

He sauntered into the bedroom interminable moments later, waistcoat undone, the first few buttons of his shirt open, cuffs turned back. “You don’t dither about before bed. That’s a fine quality in a wife.”

Dithering would not have solved anything, would not have made the specter of Edward Valmonte and his presumption any easier to banish.

“Do you need help getting undressed?” Though clearly he had the process under way without her help.

He peered in the general direction of the bed. Joan had turned the lamps down, but the fire in the hearth still cast some light. “Stay where you’re warm, lass, and I’ll be along shortly.”

Joan’s feet were cold, and the rest of her wasn’t exactly cozy, either. The notion that Dante Hartwell would join his body to hers—and this time spend his seed inside her body—was neither repugnant nor enticing, but merely…odd.

Water splashed, then a toothbrush tapped against a basin. The mattress dipped long moments later.

“Are you nervous, lass?”

She’d dodged that same question previously. “Yes. You?”

“A wee bit. I’ve admitted as much.”

He settled about two feet away, which wouldn’t do much to warm Joan’s feet.

“You’ve done this before,” she pointed out.

“Not for quite a while.” He kindly did not remind Joan that she’d apparently done it before too, which was the very reason they were sharing a wedding night.

That lowering piece of self-castigation illuminated an insight for Joan: Edward Valmonte had stolen her good name, and he still threatened her future. Joan might placate Edward with more designs or with money, but under no circumstances could she allow Edward to taint the intimate aspects of her marriage.

But how to go on?

Sir, would you please impale me on your hedgehog?
“Have you decided what to give your children for Christmas?”

“Those two are easy. Charlene is happy with anything—storybooks, hair ribbons, dolls. Phillip is a mechanical sort—he can spend an hour with a spinning top—and he likes his books too.”

Joan’s parents wouldn’t have had such ready answers about their children. “What would you like?” She’d asked him this before, and his answer had been a lot of flattery and indirection.

“Margs will knit me a scarf. Hector will find me a good bottle of whiskey. The women at the mills send a basket of jams and such.”

He had employees, not only family. Did Edward Valmonte’s seamstresses and cutters send him a basket of jams for the holidays? Joan scooted a foot or so closer to her husband’s side of the bed.

“Do you find presents for the children yourself, or leave it to Margaret?”

Or would he pass that responsibility on to Joan? She hoped he would, and might even ask him to. Good heavens, what was
she
to give him for Christmas?

He shifted, such that when Joan stretched out her chilly foot, she encountered his calf. His bare, warm, hairy calf, because her husband slept without the benefit—or hindrance—of clothing.

“I find my own gifts for the children—a papa’s prerogative to put some sort of imprimatur on the holidays. Margaret and Hector deal with the employees’ Christmas baskets.”

He shifted up onto his side, facing Joan. “What shall I get you for Christmas, Mrs. Hartwell?”

“You’ve given me your very name. That’s gift enough.” Also his trust, his respect, his kisses…so many treasures, and all of them as undeserved as they were precious.

He rolled to his back again, suggesting she’d provided the wrong answer.

“I don’t want your gratitude, Joan. Loyalty, fidelity, and a good-faith effort to make something of this marriage will be a fine bargain on both of our parts. The marriage is as much opportunity for me as it is convenient for you.”

Joan did not want
a
fine
bargain
, but she did want the warmth her husband’s body gave off. She yielded to the craving and snuggled right up to his side. His arms came around her, as if they’d spent many nights visiting their way to shared sleep.

“I kept my nightgown on.”

“I know, lass. I’ll forgive you that modesty if you kiss me.”

She kissed him, and the contour of his lips told her he was smiling. “You should kiss me too, sir. My feet are cold.”

“You need your husband to warm them up?”

She needed her husband in so many ways. When Dante kissed her, when he held her and spoke of loyalty and fidelity, then nasty notes and misplaced sketches seemed far away and insignificant.

“Shall I take off my nightgown?” She didn’t want to, but Dante was naked, and the intimacies she’d tried hard not to dwell on were commencing.

“You feel safer with it on,” he said, shifting to blanket her with his body. “I’ll try not to tear it.”

Gracious. “I can stitch it back together if you do.”

He nuzzled her ear, sending a shivery feeling down Joan’s spine. “Kiss me some more, Mrs. Hartwell.”

He’d been calling her that since they’d shut out the rest of the world nearly an hour ago, but his voice had taken on a rasp, and her new name had become an endearment.

Also a dare.

She threaded one hand in his hair and used the other to cradle his jaw, the better to know exactly
where
to resume kissing him.

“You shaved again.” He’d also used his tooth powder, bless him. This detail reassured Joan, as a memory of Edward’s wine-soured breath tried to intrude.

Dante rubbed his cheek against Joan’s in answer. The movement rubbed his chest against Joan’s too.

“I love silk,” Joan said, kissing his smooth jaw. “I think I’ll love it even more by morning.” Because silk turned every touch—even a touch of chest to breasts—into a caress. Did all married women know that?

Did married
men
know that?

He resumed kissing her, and his tongue came calling, politely at first, then more boldly, until Joan caught on and paid a few calls of her own.

“Your nightgown, woman—”

He tried to lift her hem, but it was trapped under her hips. Joan raised her hips and encountered…
her
husband
.

“Careful,” he whispered, right near her ear. “Your kisses have inspired me.”

He was hard, ready, and naked, while Joan…worked her hem up, not quite to her waist. “I like kissing you too.”

In fact, she liked
him
. Liked that he could tell her he wanted no dirty looks between them in the morning—a modest, honest ambition she could share and fulfill. She wasn’t so keen on his hand covering her breast through the silk of her nightgown, for Edward had touched her thus—groped at her—and it had been purely unpleasant.

“Don’t go shy on me,” he whispered, scraping a fingernail over Joan’s nipple. “Tell me if you like that.”

“Do it again.” The sensation was…unnerving. Agitating but pleasurable, not the rough squeezing she’d been subjected to by the viscount. “I’m not sure. It’s different.” Inspiration struck, and Joan reached between their bodies. “Maybe it feels like when I do this?”

She brushed her thumb over the smooth head of his cock. He retaliated with a similar caress to her nipple. For a few minutes, under the covers, in the warmth and darkness, they experimented with a call and response of caresses, until Joan was panting beneath her husband, and battling an urge to…
squirm
.

“If you keep that up, Mrs. Hartwell, I’ll spend, and we’ll have to start all over.”

Was he complaining? “Is that bad?”

He laughed—or possibly groaned. “Spread your legs, love, and leave off teasing a newly married man.”

This made sense, that instead of his legs braced outside of hers, he should be between her legs, and yet, the position was unbearably
marital.

“We’re about to consummate our vows, aren’t we?”

“Aye, as long as you’re willing.”

Something blunt and warm nudged at Joan’s privy parts. The sensation was novel, and neither pleasurable nor painful.

“Hold still a wee bit while I get my bear—there.” A forward maneuver, and that blunt warmth began insinuating itself into Joan’s body. “You’re wet, God be thanked.”