Chapter 11
In the night I wake up, and he’s gone.
The instant my eyes open in the darkness, I know he isn’t there, but I feel across the sheets for him anyway. The place where he lay is empty and cool to the touch. He has been absent for a while.
I sit up, shivering from cold, prey to a creeping horror. It’s so dark in the room that I can’t see a thing.
“Beresford,” I whisper, and then I try his first name. “Theron.”
No reply.
Throwing back the blankets, I hop out of bed, and then I lay the covers back in place so my spot will remain somewhat warm. I don’t know where my robe is. I don’t remember where any lamps or candles are in this room. The fire is out.
Hands outstretched to keep myself from running into things, I make my way to the bathroom door. It’s open, and a bit of moonlight shines through the frosted glass of the narrow window. Beresford isn’t there.
I return to the dark bedroom, locate the door, and open it. The hallway feels even colder, and it’s drafty, like the house is breathing. There’s no light to be seen.
“Beresford,” I repeat.
If only there were servants here, someone I could ring for, another person who could help me look for him, whose presence might help me feel less terrified.
“Where are you?” I call, louder.
I make my way along the hallway to the lofted area of the second floor, where there’s a row of windowed doors leading to the exterior balcony. When I push back the curtains from one of the doors, watery moonlight flows in, allowing me to see my surroundings a little better.
Grasping the railing of the inner balcony, I peer over it and scan the front hall below. “Beresford?”
There’s no reply, but it’s a huge house. He could be anywhere, unable to hear me. He isn’t used to sharing a bed with someone; maybe he couldn’t sleep. Maybe he decided to wander the halls or use one of the guest rooms. I should return to our room and try to rest.
A door closes somewhere below, and I startle, my pulse spiking. A few seconds later, Beresford crosses the entry hall, heading for the stairs. He’s wearing a long robe that flows behind him as he walks, and his arms are laden with firewood.
My first impulse is to run back to our room, slip into bed, and pretend I never left, but he’s climbing the stairs too quickly for that, so I move toward him like a ghost in the moonlight.
When he reaches the top of the stairs, he spots me standing there in my pale nightdress. His eyes widen slightly, but he gives no other sign of being surprised.
“You were gone,” I whisper.
“We needed more firewood, and I didn’t want to take it from one of the other rooms,” he says.
That’s all it was? Could his side of the bed have cooled so quickly? Or was he roaming through the house or the grounds for some other reason?
Is it really my business what he does in the night? I’m new here, practically a stranger to his routine and habits. It will take a while for us to acclimate to each other. I must not begin our married life with prying questions or accusations.
So I simply say, “I missed you.”
He smiles. “You look cold. You should get back in bed while I take care of this.”
Back in our room, I pull the covers up to my chin while he gets the fire going again.
Once he has it burning to his satisfaction, he climbs under the covers with me and pulls my shivering form against his body.
Slowly, the fire’s heat penetrates the chill of the air, even as his warmth seeps into my skin.
I cling to him, torn by a nameless dread, by the fear that I will lose him, or that I’ve already lost him and I don’t know it.
Maybe I never really had him at all.
I want to ask for reassurance, but I’m not sure how to form the right question.
Are you going to leave me? Will you ever hurt me? Is this real? Will it last?
Why are you lying? Where did you go?
In the agony of my thoughts I begin kissing him, first his chest and his throat, over and over, then his bearded jaw, then his mouth. There’s a hint of salt and copper on his tongue, a taste of blood. Perhaps he bit his cheek or tongue while sleeping.
Perhaps not.
His hand slides around me, splayed along my waist in a tender hold, but as I continue to kiss him, his fingers move to my hip, then my ass. He shifts closer, his erection prodding against my lower belly.
Under the sheets, I rake up my nightgown and put my fingers into myself, coaxing out more wetness. Then I reach for his undershorts and pull them down in the front, low enough for his cock to emerge. I hook my leg over his hip and notch the head of his cock against my entrance.
Beresford penetrates me, groaning softly, and I sigh in response at the now-familiar sensations of his thickness surging into me, stretching and filling me in that comfortable way. He fucks me with a cozy laziness, firm and slow.
This is the closeness I need, the reassurance I want. When we fucked in the dining room it was wild and hectic, but this is quietly intimate. It’s the physical manifestation of the vows we made to each other.
“Deeper,” I whisper. “Hold me.”
He pulls me closer still, rocking his hips as we lie face to face.
In this position it takes longer for him to come, and I find myself sinking into a delicious state of drowsy arousal.
Beresford presses his mouth to my forehead while he’s coming inside me, and I spread both hands over his chest so I can feel his heart beating wildly with the ecstasy.
When he pulls out, he turns me carefully onto my back and submerges himself beneath the covers.
His hands part my legs, and his bearded lips and jaw nestle into my wetness.
With slow, tender licks and cherishing nibbles of my clit, he gives me the softest, sweetest orgasm, one that flows in slow, sleepy thrills through my entire body.
We curl up together again, this time with my back against his chest. Warm and reassured, I let myself drift asleep.
The next day we take our time getting up.
Beresford leaves the bed first and brings up a tray with a breakfast of eggs, coffee, and slices of pan-fried sausage.
We talk and eat, then go into the game room to set up a new campaign for the game we played last night.
This time we choose the extended version, which will take many hours to complete.
We plan to keep it going for a few days.
In the late morning I wash and dress, since I don’t want to meet the household servants in my nightgown. Beresford comes to the doorway of my closet while I’m selecting my clothes. Frowning, he surveys me as I stand there in my corset and panties.
“You look as if you disapprove of something,” I comment.
“Those.” He points to the lacy panties. “Take them off.”
“You want to do this now? The servants will be here soon.”
“I’m not going to fuck you. But for the first week of our marriage, I would rather you keep yourself free for the taking. I want to know that beneath your fine dresses, you are bare for me. Would that please you as well?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Beresford’s lips curve, the barest hint of a smile. “You’re wet now, just thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” And he walks away, leaving me so hot and distracted that I can barely focus on selecting an outfit for the day.
At noon, I meet Mrs. Nanterre, a red-cheeked, middle-aged woman with a strong frame, bold features, and a loud, brisk manner of speaking. She serves as both the cook and the supervisor for the house staff. Her welcome seems genuine and I like her at once.
The rest of the servants and stable hands seem pleasant as well, though it will take me a while to match all the names with the correct faces.
A couple of them mention to me how pleased they are to have a place at Valenkirk and how generous Beresford is to them, which is gratifying.
Knowing that the servants are well compensated makes me feel less guilty about letting them do all the tasks I’m used to doing for myself, like laundry, cooking, and cleaning.
While the house staff do their work, Beresford takes me out to the conservatory.
Apparently he handles the care of the plants himself, laboring there for at least a few hours each day to ensure that every plant has what it needs to thrive.
I bring along a book, but watching him work proves to be so interesting that I barely open it.
When he notices my interest, he begins introducing me to each type of plant, describing its origins and its needs with a quiet thoroughness that I find utterly charming.
Who would have thought that a man gardening would make me so wildly aroused?
By the end of the afternoon, I’m so needy for him I can hardly stand it.
I follow him into the workroom of the greenhouse, where most of the tools are stored.
There’s a large sink and a big table where he can bring plants that need special attention.
The surface of the table is mostly clear, apart from a tray that contains a few tiny sprouts in little boxes.
“Do you think the servants are still cleaning?” I ask him, running my fingertips along the edge of the table.
“Most likely. It’s a big house, and there is much to do. They usually stay until dinner is served. No need to dress for the meal, though—I prefer to keep it informal unless we have guests.”
“Could they leave early today? Give us a little privacy?” I suggest.
Beresford looks up from the shears he’s wiping down with a cloth. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, and his eyes glint. “You feel the need for privacy, wife?”
I bite my lip and give him a naughty little smile.
He sets down the shears, and I notice with a thrill that his large hands are seamed with dirt from working with his plants all afternoon. I can’t explain the fascination I have with those big, veined hands and thick fingers.
Beresford stalks around the table and comes to stand behind me. I start to turn toward him, but he takes hold of my hips with those filthy hands, keeping my front against the table. “Bend over.”