Chapter Fourteen
They arrived at his friend’s house in the late afternoon.
It was quite a grand house, but not intimidatingly so, she thought.
Built of warm brick, it was originally Jacobean, Marcus explained, with additions made by various generations over the years.
The family had owned it for hundreds of years, and it was only one of their properties.
His friend was a keen yachtsman and only visited when he wanted to go sailing, which was less frequently since his marriage.
His wife disliked the sea. A bad sailor—which Tessa gathered was not about any lack of sailing skill, but a tendency to seasickness.
Tessa noted a subtle unvoiced hope that she wasn’t going to be a bad sailor, but it wasn’t something you could choose to be. They would both find out tomorrow.
There was a wedding night to get through first.
“I think you’ll enjoy the gardens,” Marcus said as they drove up the drive. “It has a yew hedge—like the one at Alverleigh, only it’s not a maze, it just encloses part of the garden. But there’s a wild garden as well, which I’m sure you’ll like. Not as wild as your wood at Ferndale, though.”
She bit her lip and tried not to think of Ferndale, knowing how her wild and lovely wood would by now be cleared and neat and bereft of all her precious wildlife. Where would they go? She couldn’t bear to think about it.
The front door opened just as their carriage pulled up: clearly they were expected.
An elderly butler directed two footmen to bring in their luggage and a groom took the carriage and horses around the back to be stabled.
The family must be quite well off, keeping so many servants for a house not often used, she thought.
The butler was obviously proud of the house—he’d worked there all his life, he explained, pointing out various features to be admired; the medieval hall, the various family portraits, the beautiful carving on the staircase, and so on.
Tessa barely took it in. She was tired—she’d slept badly the night before—and was starting to get nervous about the night to come.
Which was ridiculous, she told herself. After two husbands, she was hardly a virgin. She knew what was involved.
“Everything is prepared, m’lord,” the butler told Marcus. “Tea and refreshments are available immediately if you wish, and dinner a little later if you prefer. We keep country hours here.”
Marcus looked at Tessa. “I’d love a cup of tea,” she said. She was hungry, too; she hadn’t eaten much at the wedding breakfast.
“Very well then, “Marcus said. “Fifteen minutes in—?”
“In the drawing room,” the butler said. “I’ll send a maid up to tend to m’lady.”
Tessa had a bedroom to herself, she noted: Marcus’s room adjoined it, with a door connecting them. She tried not to think about the night to come. Her wedding night.
They were on the second floor. She peered eagerly out of her window, hoping she’d be able to see the sea from the house, but there was just a line of trees.
The ‘maid’ turned out to be a woman of at least sixty years, but she was a comfortable soul and Tessa felt instantly at ease, as the woman bustled about, bringing hot water for a wash and freshen up.
Tea was a pot of strong tea, warm coconut biscuits straight from the oven, crisp gingernuts, and a moist, delicious fruitcake topped with almonds. Tessa ate two slices.
Afterward she and Marcus went for a walk.
They explored the “wild” garden, but though it was pretty, it wasn’t the sort of wildness that Tessa loved and still missed.
They reached a rise at the edge of the property, but though she could see miles of rolling pastureland Tessa still couldn’t see the sea.
Twilight was falling, a clear lilac sky that darkened above them minute by minute.
#
DINNER WAS PLAIN COUNTRY food, simple, but well-cooked and very tasty; a hearty vegetable soup, roast beef, chicken pie, and plum tart with lashings of thick cream.
Afterwards they played billiards. Tessa had never played before but found it fun.
Being a beginner, she was not very good, and her game wasn’t helped when Marcus kept bending over her, his strong hands positioning her hands on the cue as he showed her how to line up a shot.
With his hands covering hers and his big body warm behind her, she found it impossible to concentrate.
He’d recently shaved—they’d both changed for dinner—and he smelled delicious, some sort of cologne water, sandalwood, with a hint of citrus and some spice that she didn’t recognize.
She had also washed and changed before dinner, but hadn’t had any perfume, so had to content herself with the soap provided, which was pleasant enough, faintly vanilla-ish and soapy, but not very glamorous.
After several games, in which Tessa managed to pot several balls, much to her delight, Marcus put the cues back in the rack, saying, “I think that’s enough for this evening. It’s late. Shall we retire for the night?”
Tessa swallowed. “Yes, of course.” It came out sounding a little scratchy.
He said gently, “We don’t need to consummate the wedding tonight. You must be tired. If you would prefer it, I’m happy to wait.”
She shook her head. “No, I made vows today before God and I will honor them. I am and always have been a dutiful wife.” One part of her was nervous, but another part of her wasn’t.
Though she’d never enjoyed being bedded, she knew what to expect and was determined to do her duty by him.
And putting off the moment would only make the anticipation worse.
There was a short silence, then his eyes darkened. “I don’t want a dutiful wife.”
“What?” She stared at him in shock, trying to work out what he meant. Did he mean he wanted her to be undutiful? No, no husband would want that, she was sure. So was it some strange game he was playing? Getting her to defy him and then . . . what? Some kind of punishment? She shivered.
“I want you to do what you want,” he said. “Not be bound by what you imagine I want. If I propose something that you don’t wish to do, tell me, and we will work something out, a compromise perhaps.”
She frowned. Was he still talking about the marriage bed? He must know that women didn’t enjoy being bedded: everyone said so.
He took her hand. “Don’t look so anxious,” he said gently. “I only meant that if you don’t wish to consummate the marriage tonight, I will respect that.”
She shook her head. “No, I’d rather get it—” She broke off. “I’d rather we consummate it tonight. We need to make the marriage legal.”
He lifted her hand and kissed it lightly. “Very well then. I’ll join you in half an hour.”
Marcus turned away, not wanting her to see his expression. He heard the click of the door as it shut behind her and released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He poured himself a brandy. So . . . He was under no illusion; she wasn’t looking forward to it at all. What had she said? ‘I’d rather get it—’
Over with, he supplied.
Most brides would be at least a little nervous on their wedding night, he supposed. No matter how experienced. He was guessing she’d found little pleasure in the marriage bed.
He drained his glass, picked up a cue and shot a few balls around the table. He’d hoped billiards might relax her, but it hadn’t. He’d felt the tension in her body every time he showed her how to hold the cue.
He sank another few balls. So she didn’t expect to enjoy their wedding night. It was up to him to change that.
He hoped he was up to the job.
He’d had several mistresses in the past—opera dancers and actresses for the most part—but mistresses had a tendency to flatter and praise, whether he deserved it or not. It was no doubt a condition of the position.
One mistress had been downright obsequious. She hadn’t lasted long. He couldn’t stand toadeaters.
And he sure as hell didn’t want that in a wife.
It was what he’d meant when he told Tessa he didn’t want a dutiful wife. He’d explained it badly, he saw, when the color had leached from her cheeks. All he meant was that he wanted honesty between them, that’s all.
God knew what she’d imagined he meant.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Another ten minutes. He loosened his neck-cloth.
His first night as a married man. He’d better not mess it up.
#
SOMEONE HAD LIT A FIRE, and her bedchamber was lovely and warm. Tessa opened her portmanteau, looking for her nightgown and wrapper. As they were only staying for one night, the maid had not unpacked for her. She preferred that. Bragge and one of the maids had packed her luggage for her.
She blinked. Sitting on top of everything else was a soft, tissue-wrapped parcel, with a small card saying, “With my very best wishes, Daisy Chance.”
Curious, she unwrapped it and found two garments, the like of which she’d never seen.
She lifted one out. Could this possibly be a nightgown?
In shades of cream, palest pink to a dark crimson, it was made of finest, sheerest silk, so soft and—she held it up to the firelight—practically transparent.
And bringing to mind the seven veils of Salome.
The second garment was some kind of wrapper in the same shades, but just as fine and soft and translucent.
Both garments were quite improper. Why on earth would Miss Chance send her such scandalous garments? Was this what sophisticated ladies of the ton wore to bed?
She thrust them back in the portmanteau, stuffing them under the rest of her clothing and searched for her own nightgown: she was no Salome.
Her own nightgown was long and white and warm, with a dainty line of lace at the neck and cuffs. Spreading it out on the bed, she looked at it and pursed her lips.
It was a perfectly ordinary white flannel nightgown but now, having seen Daisy Chance’s gift, it looked to her eyes rather . . . virginal.
And that reminded her of her previous husbands, who preferred her to look and play the innocent little girl at all times.