Chapter Twelve
Anastasia nodded. She did not know what to say to this man who was now her husband.
She was relieved that she would not have to socialize for too long, for her head felt rather muddled.
And yet, she was somewhat fearful of the moment when everyone left—of what would be expected of her, of whether she would know how to assimilate into this new life of hers.
“Anastasia,” he said, and the sound of her Christian name on his lips sent a jolt of awareness through her body, and her eyes snapped up to meet his.
“I know this marriage has not come about in the way either of us might have expected. But I want you to know that I mean to make you happy—or do my best, at least.”
She tried to smile, because the words he was saying were kind, even if they could not allay all her fears. “I will do my best to be a good wife to you,” she promised. “I do not know exactly what it means to be a wife, let alone a viscountess, but I mean to try.”
He smiled back at her, and she was sure it was a much more confident smile than she had offered. Then he took her hands in his.
“We can learn together. Neither of us has been married before; neither of us knows exactly what we are going into.”
And yet, Anastasia thought, he certainly knew a lot more than she did. Perhaps he had not been married, but from the rumors that constantly swirled around him, he had known a good many women in the way one would know a wife.
She pushed that thought from her mind, for it only made her more nervous, and tried to look to her future with confidence.
“We will face it together then, Lord Walsham,” she said, very aware that he was still holding her hands.
The corners of his mouth turned up even wider, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “I think perhaps you should call me Laurence now.”
She nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry, I—”
“Nothing to apologize for. It’s rather strange how everything can change, isn’t it?
Yesterday I was Lord Walsham; today I’m Laurence.
Yesterday you were Miss Carrington, and today…
well, you’re Lady Walsham. Anastasia…” He smiled, as though the thought pleased him, and then carried on.
“Besides, I still find myself thinking only of my father when I hear ‘Lord Walsham.’”
Anastasia squeezed his hands. She certainly understood the pain of such a loss.
And she had not thought before how it must be compounded for a man with a title—for he stepped into his father’s shoes, taking even his name.
If one had no relationship with one’s father, she supposed it was merely a promotion to the higher ranks.
But Lord Walsham—Laurence—had clearly loved his father.
“Of course. You must miss him…”
Laurence’s jaw tightened. “Yes, every day.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I can’t quite say it gets easier, for I still think of my father nearly every day.
Especially today…” She glanced out of the small carriage window to give herself a moment to compose herself, for the conversation had turned her misty-eyed.
“But it does get easier to manage. The grief doesn’t lessen, but you learn how to live with it. ”
*
He had not spoken openly with anyone about his father’s death, or how deeply the grief had taken hold.
But Anastasia seemed to understand, to empathize, in a way he had not quite expected.
And so it was easy to open up to her. He wished she had not felt the same pain that he had, and yet it brought them together, allowed them a moment of similarity in this very strange situation.
The coach ground to a halt, and the footman opened the door, allowing sunlight to stream in.
Laurence hopped out, leaving the heavy conversation in the carriage, and offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you into your new home, Lady Walsham.”
He felt a rather boyish excitement at entering his home with this pretty redhead on his arm, ebullient with the notion that he could give her a happier life than she would have otherwise known; excited to show her everything he had, everything he was more than willing to share with her.
There was something rather wonderful about no longer being alone.
He had not realized how alone he’d felt until he suddenly wasn’t.
The women who had warmed his bed for most of his adult years had provided some company, some pleasure—but they were not women that he had ever planned to share his life with, to share his home with, or have children with.
This was a new chapter, and he rather thought his father had set him on a path that was right for him.
He had never stayed with one woman more than a couple of months, finding his wish for change, the feeling of being stuck, always got too much around that time.
But surely, with a wife, it would be different?
Surely he would not feel like she was trying to trap him, when the marriage had been his suggestion.
Perhaps it was still a trap, but it was a trap of his own making.
And as she stepped into the parlor, looking even more petite in her nervousness, he hoped he would make her a good husband, and not give in to the temptations that had ruled his life thus far.
*
A shiver ran through her body which had nothing to do with the chill in the air. The maid—Anastasia couldn’t even remember her name—had helped her dress for bed without much conversation, and now she was alone. Waiting.
She knew from her earlier tour of the house that the viscount’s room—Laurence’s room—was on the other side of the oak door.
And now that her maid had left her alone, dressed in a nightgown that was the only familiar thing in this room, several seasons old, one purchased when Papa had been alive and everything had been different, surely he would soon join her.
And she hadn’t a clue what to expect.
She did not think she had ever felt as frightened as she did that night, waiting for Laurence, waiting for her wedding night, waiting for this unknown marital act that could produce children.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly and Anastasia tried to focus on the sound, tried to breathe in time with it, tried to slow her pulse and her racing thoughts.
But it was no use.
The soft knock on the interconnecting door made her jump, and it took a moment for her nerves to calm enough to allow her to call, “Come in.”
She took a deep breath before turning to face him.
His hair was damp, presumably from a recent bath, and he wore a dark blue dressing gown which stopped just below his knees.
Her eyes roamed down the defined muscles of his calves and she gulped.
It was more than she had ever seen of a man, outside of her brother when they were both children, and yet she was sure that before the night was out, she would see much more.
“Is the room to your liking?” he asked in his deep, steady voice.
She nodded, unsure whether she could speak without her voice shaking.
“And your belongings arrived in time?”
Again she nodded. She knew she must look like a fool but she could not help herself.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “I’ve some wine in my room.”
Her mouth was exceptionally dry, and so she nodded again.
She saw him smile, and then he slipped back through the door, before returning with a decanter full of a dark red liquid and two glasses.
“You’re nervous,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but she found herself compelled to answer it all the same.
“Yes.”
He poured them both a glass of wine and placed hers on the dressing table, before perching on the edge of the bed with his.
“Nothing needs to happen tonight, if you don’t wish it.”
*
She looked so terrified he didn’t even feel he could reach out and take her hand, as he had in the carriage.
Somehow he thought that might make her even more uncomfortable.
He had entered this room in anticipation of a potentially awkward wedding night, but he had not thought she would look quite so terrified.
In truth, he had never lain with an innocent before. The lovers he had taken had always been widows; women who knew exactly what they wanted, and what to expect.
He had never once had a partner who was not as enthusiastic as he was.
Her blue eyes met his, and he could tell she wanted to say something, although the words did not seem to be coming.
“The marriage will need to be, ah, consummated,” he said, surprised at how difficult it was to broach the topic with someone who seemed to have so little knowledge about what to expect. “And do our best to produce an heir. But that does not need to be tonight…”
“Do I not appeal to you?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly strong.
His eyes widened in shock. “What on earth makes you think that?”
“I may be naive, Lord—Laurence. But I know that attraction plays a part in…in…”
“The marital act,” Laurence provided, when she did not seem to be able to find the words—although he had never described it in such detached terms before.
“Yes. And that it is expected to occur on the wedding night. And that men…men desire this act more than women.”
Laurence quirked his eyebrow. That had not always been his experience, but he supposed it was how many married couples viewed things.
“I have heard of your reputation,” she said, her voice dropping low as though she was afraid someone might hear about his scandalous past. “So I can only surmise that you find me unattractive.”
Laurence shook his head. “You are entirely wrong, Anastasia. I don’t want you to feel pressured into something you are not prepared for…but I certainly find you attractive. And I would like to show you that women can desire this act just as much as men can.”