by Mary Balogh
There was something shameful, surely, about loving a man’s body but not the man inside it. It was what men must feel for whores. Was there nothing more in her feelings for her husband? She despised him—his marrying her for her money and pretending to different motives. She wished he would not keep calling her his love or his darling. She wished he would not keep telling her that he loved her.
And yet she did not really despise him, she thought. She had felt gratitude toward him earlier. And a certain tenderness. Inexperienced as she was, she knew that it could have been different. She knew that he had deliberately taken the time to give her pleasure. She knew that he had used patient skill on her. He need not have done so. She had not really expected that he would. She had expected to have to snatch pleasure in any way she could.
He had given it to her. As a sort of wedding gift perhaps. And a wonderful gift it had been, too. She had expected pleasure to come from the mere touch of his body. To have that beauty and that strength against herself, inside herself—it had seemed the pinnacle of all that was wonderful. She had not expected pleasure to act on her own body, making her ache and pulse and tense and yearn. She had not expected the wonderful flow of peace and sheer joy that had come at the end. Or almost at the end. There had been a little more for him. She had felt the warm gush of his seed after she was relaxed and almost swooning with happiness.
He had asked her if she had any regrets. She had none. God help her, she could live for this. She felt like a woman, warm and desirable and beautiful. A foolish notion. And of course it would not last. His expertise had been obvious even to an innocent like her. It was inconceivable that he would be satisfied with her for the rest of his life. She resolutely shut her mind to the possibility that he might even have found their coupling distasteful. Certainly she was going to have to share him with other women. Many other women. She must not let the thought hurt her. After all, she did not love him.
No, she had no regrets. If there could be occasional nights like this one to look forward to, then she would be content with her life more or less as it had always been. It was too late now to dream of love. It had always been too late. She was not the sort of woman to attract the love of any man, and the circumstances of her life were such that she could not hope to find even a satisfactory relationship.
This was satisfactory. It was all she needed.
“You cannot sleep, my love?” She was startled by the sound of his voice. She had not realized he was awake. “Would you be more comfortable if I returned to my own room? I fell asleep here, I’m afraid.”
“I have just woken up,” she said, “and I am very comfortable, thank you, Freddie.”
He turned onto his side, set an arm beneath her head, and kissed her mouth. She had not realized that kisses between a man and woman could be open-mouthed. She liked the feeling. It was—intimate.
“Are you sore?” he asked her.
She understood suddenly what he was asking. Yes, she was rather. She was sore. Very pleasantly so, and throbbing too now that he had spoken.
“No,” she said.
And then his hand was there, causing her to tense with shock for a moment. But he set his mouth to hers again, and explored her gently with his hand, his fingers stroking lightly, circling over particularly sensitive areas, parting, probing. He pushed one finger up inside her and then two. She could hear wetness—and the pounding of blood through her temples.
“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” he whispered against her mouth.
“Yes.” She had that feeling again of being about to swoon.
“No soreness?”
There was an aching soreness there where his fingers were. The ache was in her breasts too and in her throat. And in her lips.
“No.” She ran her hand up his arm, from the wrist to the shoulder. It was covered with fine hairs and rock-hard with muscle. “Freddie.”
She had not expected that he would do it to her again. She had not dreamed of it. It had seemed too momentous an act to be performed more than once in a night. But he came over her again and into her again. She was indeed sore. Very sore. He was hurting her enough to make her bite her lip. But the ache was more insistent than the soreness, and the throbbing pulsed through her body, all but deafening her. Release came almost instantly—it had almost come with just his hand. As before, he waited for her to finish shaking and to relax and then continued what he had been doing before—pushing himself deep, partially withdrawing, and plunging inward again. She lay still and enjoyed it despite the raw soreness. She had left him far behind this time. There were a couple of minutes to be simply enjoyed.
He was Freddie, she told herself as he worked and as she enjoyed. She had her arms about him, holding him warmly. He was the handsome, charming rogue she had spotted for what he was right from that first time at the Assembly Rooms when he had been presented to her. It was he making love to her in exchange for a twenty-thousand-pound dowry. She wondered if he regretted his decision, if he found the prospect of being married to her for life insupportable.
And yet, she thought, he had not been compelled to stay in her bed after the consummation. He had not been compelled to do this again.
She set her cheek against his shoulder as he sighed and stilled in her. Perhaps, she thought, they might come to like each other if they both wished for it. Enough anyway so that he would not feel utterly trapped by what debts had forced him into. And enough that she would not feel so wanton and guilty for lusting after his beauty and his health and strength.
He was lifting himself off her and moving to her side again, but keeping one arm about her this time. He kissed her, settled her comfortably against him, and drew the blankets up about her naked shoulders. He did not say anything this time, but was asleep almost instantly.
She was glad he had not said again that he loved her.
She was glad that he had still not returned to his own room.
She sighed with sleepy satisfaction.
Lord and Lady Bellamy arrived early the next morning, before breakfast, to see their son and new daughter-in-law on their way to Kent. They sat down to breakfast so that the newly married couple had no chance for private converse. His wife had good taste in clothes, Frederick thought. At least he could say that in her favor. Her pale blue carriage dress looked elegant and becoming.
His mother was looking curiously at both him and Clara all through breakfast. Trying to decide if the deed had been done, Frederick guessed. He looked at Clara himself. Was it in any way obvious? Was there a tinge of color in her cheeks, or was it merely the reflection of the flowers that adorned the table, left over from the day before? Was there a glow in her eyes, or did he merely imagine it? She was talking about Ebury Court, the estate her father had bought on his return from India, and about the house he had built there to replace the moldering Tudor mansion the previous owners had allowed to fall into ruin.
And was there anything in his face for his mother to see? Frederick wondered. It seemed hardly likely since he had been bedding women with some regularity for the past seven or eight years. And yet his mother contrived to take him apart after breakfast before they left while his father was still asking Clara questions about India.
“Freddie,” the baroness said, linking her arm through her son’s and squeezing it, “all is going to be well, as I have been telling Papa since you first broke the news to us. I do not care what the truth is about those foolish debts—and I do hope you have learned your lesson this time, dear. Nor do I care that dear Clara is not quite the beauty I would have expected you to choose and that she cannot walk. I have seen this morning that you are fond of each other, and that is all that matters when all is said and done. You are fond of her, aren’t you Freddie?”
He patted her hand. “I love her, Mama,” he said.
She sighed. “I am glad after all that you did not marry Julia,” she said. “I know the two of you have always been fond of each other, but I always thought you were more like sister and brother than a
nything else. You were not disappointed when she chose Daniel instead of you, dear?”
“If I was, Mama,” he said, “it was quickly forgotten. If I had married Jule, I would never have met and fallen in love with Clara, would I?”
“That is very true,” she said. “And Julia seems excessively happy with Daniel. And he with her, though one would not have expected it. He never seemed particularly to like her until she surprised us all by announcing their betrothal. Though really it was he who announced it, for dear Julia mumbled so that no one heard what she said.”
He was perhaps the only one who had not been taken by surprise with that announcement, Frederick thought. He had seen it coming and that was why he had done what he did. But he did not want to think of it.
His father was not so easily taken in as his mother. “Well, Freddie,” he said, extending a hand to his son while the baroness was taking a prolonged farewell of Clara, “it remains to be seen what you make of this marriage. Your wife’s handicap will make life difficult for you and your reason for marrying her will make it more so. But she is a woman of sense and breeding, son, and deserves better perhaps than what she is getting. Unless you surprise me. I hope you surprise me.”
Frederick put his hand in his father’s and looked him in the eye. “I love her, Papa,” he said. And he almost believed his own words. She had wanted him the night before—both times—and he had felt a certain tenderness for her as he had given himself to her. She was his wife. He would look after her. Even the suggestion that he might not annoyed him. “I will see to it that I do deserve her eventually. You will see.”
His father shook his hand warmly. “It is time you were on your way,” he said. “Your mother will cry over your wife until noon if you allow it.” Father and son exchanged a rare conspiratorial grin.
Frederick carried his wife out to the waiting carriage, and they were on their way, followed by a baggage carriage with her maid, her manservant, and his valet, Clara with tears in her eyes waving to the baroness, who had tears running down her cheeks.
“They are so kind,” Clara said, turning finally to smile at her husband. “I feel almost as if I have parents again, Freddie.”
“You do,” he said, taking her hand in his. “They both seem to be agreed that I have done very well for myself. Better than I deserve. Do you miss your own parents, my love?”
She nodded. “Especially yesterday,” she said. “And perhaps this morning. I wanted Papa to be there.”
“Tell me about him,” he said.
They did not lack for conversation all through the long journey to Kent. It was one thing that surprised Frederick. He had never conversed a great deal with women, since he had always had only one important use for them and that had had nothing to do with talk. Certainly he would not have expected to find himself able to converse with the very quiet, respectable, and surely dull Miss Clara Danford. Mrs. Clara Sullivan, he corrected himself mentally. But in fact she liked to talk about her father and about her life in India and in England afterward. And she enjoyed listening to the stories he told about his family—about the aunts and uncles and cousins who had always gathered during the summers at Primrose Park, home of his uncle, the Earl of Beaconswood. The late earl. Dan had inherited the title a few months before, of course.
Frederick would not have expected his wife to enjoy his humor. But she had done so the evening before and she did so now during their journey. She chuckled a great deal and laughed outright with him at some of his stories of boyhood mischief—usually involving him and Dan.
“I did not know you were of such a large family,” she said. “I thought it was just you and your mother and father and Lesley. It must be wonderful to be part of a large, close family.” Her tone was wistful.
“They are yours too now, my love,” he told her, raising her hand to his lips. “You will be a part of the next gathering.”
He wondered if Dan and Jule would perpetuate the custom of inviting everyone for the summers. Primrose Park actually belonged to Jule. Dan had given it to her for a wedding present, Frederick’s mother had told him. But even if they did, and even if everyone decided to continue going, he would not be able to join them there. If he never had to look either of those two in the eye again, it would be rather too soon. A pity really. He had cut himself off from his own past and from two of his dearest friends through an act of desperate stupidity.
”What is it?” Clara asked. She was gazing up into his eyes.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was just remembering that my uncle died only a few months ago. He was something of an eccentric, you know. He ordered in his will that we were all to put off our mourning immediately.”
“It is oppressive to wear black for a whole year,” she said. “I would have preferred to remember Papa in my own thoughts than to be forced to remember him in such a morbid way. I hate black. You were fortunate, Freddie.”
He surprised both himself and her, he guessed, by leaning across the seat and kissing her mouth. He really was fortunate. He could be riding now with a cold and sour stranger.
“I love you,” he said.
She smiled slightly and turned to look out of the window.
It was a pleasant journey, the tedium eased by the conversation that filled most of the time. Frederick lifted his wife in and out of the carriage on the few occasions when they stopped, scorning the assistance of her manservant. She was as light as a feather.
“Besides,” he murmured against her ear on the first occasion when he had turned the servant away, “it gives me an excuse to get close to you in public, Clara. Most men would not dare touch more than the fingertips or the elbow of a lady in such a place, even if she were his wife.”
She looked at him, her arm twined about his neck, and laughed. “How absurdly you talk sometimes, Freddie,” she said. “Are you never serious?”
“Sometimes,” he said, looking into her eyes with that intense gaze that he knew usually had a melting effect on women. “Especially when I am busy doing things that don’t require words.”
Comprehension dawned in her eyes and she actually blushed. “Set me down,” she said. “You have been standing before this chair for all of two minutes, Freddie. Put me down.”
He chuckled and held her for a few moments longer before setting her down on the chair and turning to the innkeeper to order their tea.
Chapter 6
She enjoyed watching his face as they approached Ebury Court. There were three miles of rolling tree-dotted lawns stretching either side of the winding driveway. She had always thought it must be happiness itself and freedom itself to ride a horse across those three miles, to feel strength and speed beneath her, to feel the wind against her face. She had never ridden.
And she enjoyed watching his reaction to the classical symmetry of the house with its pillared portico and marble steps. She was glad that her father had been a man of taste, that he had not used his great wealth for vulgar ostentation. It was a beautiful and stately house, though new.
“Somehow,” Frederick said, “I had a mental picture of a manor of modest size set in a few acres of grounds. This is magnificent, Clara.”
“I love it more than words can say,” she said. “To me it was everything that is England after all those years in India. I used to sit at my window and marvel at the green grass and trees. I always felt selfishly glad that Papa had had no sons and that it would all come to me. Though at a price, I must confess. I would have liked to grow up with brothers and sisters.”
He carried her up the marble steps and into the great hall, and there was a great rush to fetch her a wheeled chair—and some laughter too, since she wanted to be with him when he met her servants. And she wanted to be the one to show him the grand salon with its gilded frieze and coved ceiling painted with a scene from mythology. She wanted to show him the huge formal dining room and the reception rooms. She saw them so rarely herself. She spent most of her life on the floor above in the living rooms or in her own rooms above that a
gain. She wished she could walk at his side, her arm linked through his.
They were tired after their journey. They did not spend a long time downstairs, but she was warmed by the appreciation he showed for his new home. It meant so very much to her.
“We will go outside tomorrow if the weather holds,” he said when they were sitting in the drawing room drinking tea. “You can show me the park in more detail, my love.”
She laughed softly, but her voice was wistful when she spoke. “I can show you only what can be seen from the terrace, Freddie,” she said. “I cannot walk, if you will remember.”
“Then we will take an open carriage,” he said, “and see whatever can be seen from the paths.”
“There is no open carriage here,” she said. “Papa was always afraid that I would take a chill.”
He stared at her. “Even in the summer?” he said.
“It always seemed so cool here after India,” she said. “He was terrified that I would become ill again. Sometimes I would persuade him to allow Harriet to wheel my chair along the terrace, but only if it was warm and there was no suggestion of a breeze. And only if I wore a blanket over my knees and a shawl about my shoulders.”
He continued to stare for a few silent moments. “Life must have been unbearably tedious for you,” he said. “Did you never rebel?”
Only in hot tears shed privately. “I loved my father,” she said, “and respected his judgment. There are horses in the stables, Freddie. You can ride out tomorrow and see everything for yourself. And then you can come back and tell me if you will. I am an avid listener.”
“There are sidesaddles in the stables?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Harriet rides occasionally and sometimes there are lady visitors.”
“Then you will ride tomorrow too,” he said. “There must be a horse or two strong enough to bear the two of us. You weigh nothing at all. I shall lift you into a sidesaddle and ride up behind you. You are going to see this land that you love so dearly.”