Chapter 12
MADELEINE
“How does it feel to be the Marchioness of Wheaton?” Lydia asked me as she pulled the pins from my hair, preparing me for my wedding night.
“Exhausting,” I answered honestly.
The last two days had been a whirlwind. This morning, Lord and Lady Beckett, along with Mr. Warwick, had been witnesses in the parish church as the marquess and I married. Afterward, we had returned to Wheaton for an extravagant wedding breakfast I had scarcely been able to consume.
“I expect it was a rather long day for you,” Lydia commented, unwinding a plait with gentle, efficient motions. “First your wedding, then the wedding breakfast, and of course, seeing Lord and Lady Beckett off this afternoon.”
The viscount and his wife had taken their leave, having had plans to visit friends several hours north.
I had enjoyed their company thoroughly, and I was especially grateful for the new friendship I had forged with Lady Beckett.
I would miss them, but they had been insistent upon the need to allow Lord Wheaton and me to have some time to grow accustomed to married life.
As Constance had said when she embraced me, “We shall leave the two of you to enjoy your wedded bliss.”
I hadn’t been sure what she meant, though I had flushed as red as an apple, I was sure of it. I still wasn’t entirely certain, although I had a suspicion.
“It has been a great deal of change in a short time,” I agreed, meeting Lydia’s gaze in the looking glass. “I do so wish you would have joined us at the wedding breakfast, if not the church, however.”
“Your situation has changed greatly, and whilst mine has as well, I am still a humble lady’s maid,” Lydia said, plucking the last of the pins free and allowing my hair to fall in heavy waves down my back. “I must remember my position here at Wheaton and not reach above myself.”
“It isn’t reaching when you are invited to do so,” I pointed out. “You are my oldest, dearest friend, Lydia.”
“And you are mine, but you are also my employer now. We aren’t chambermaids sleeping in a dreary attic garret any longer.” Lydia had taken up a comb and was working it through the ends of my hair.
“I am your friend above all else,” I countered sternly. “Perhaps if you would allow me to speak with Lord Wheaton on your behalf, we could arrange for you to find a husband of your own. I could find a different lady’s maid to assist me.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Lydia laid down the comb, frowning at me. “His lordship has already been far too generous, taking me into his household and giving me this situation after I stole away from Cliffwood.”
She was not wrong; the marquess had exhibited a munificence that I was certain no lord would show a mere maid. But he had done so because of my affection for Lydia and because he was an honorable man who genuinely cared in a way that few others did.
Still, though I was more than familiar with the fierce boundaries of our world, I couldn’t help but to find it unjust that my dear friend should be my lady’s maid while I became a marchioness.
During our many nights in the garret room, Lydia and I had shared our hopes and wishes for our futures.
I knew she wished for a husband and family of her own just as I had, and I also understood how impossible it would be for her to achieve if she remained my lady’s maid.
I sighed. “I don’t like it, Lydia. Why should I be a marchioness whilst you remain a servant?”
“Because you have always been a lady,” Lydia told me gently.
“You’re the daughter of a baron. I was born to this life.
You weren’t. You mustn’t think that I am unhappy with my lot.
I am more than contented to be your lady’s maid.
Wheaton is a wonderful place, and everyone here is happy and treated well, the opposite of Cliffwood. ”
She finished with my hair and began tidying up the hairpins and combs. “Now, no more fretting about me on your own wedding day.”
Her words were just the reminder I needed of what this day truly meant. I was a wife now. But in name only. Perhaps that would change soon.
I was already dressed for bed, wearing a fine night rail that Constance had gifted me, along with the beautiful gown I had worn for the wedding earlier that morning. My stomach quickened as I thought of what was to come.
Would Wheaton visit me after Lydia left me for the evening? Did I want him to?
The answer to the latter question was—to my shame—a resounding yes. I was more attracted to the marquess than ever.
I bit my lip as I watched my friend finishing her duties. “Do you think his lordship will regret marrying me, Lydia?”
“Not for a moment,” my friend hastened to reassure me. “Now, if there isn’t anything else you need, I ought to leave you to your time with his lordship.”
I swallowed hard. “There’s nothing else. Thank you, my dear friend.”
Lydia bustled about and then took her leave from the chamber I had been moved to, which adjoined the marquess’s.
The marchioness’s room, as Mrs. Dougall had informed me this afternoon, telling me that his lordship had given me leave to decorate it as I liked.
The room was already fine, and I was so overwhelmed as I first entered it that I hadn’t been capable of thinking of one thing I would alter.
I paced the thick Axminster now, aware of every sound, from the crackle of the low fire banked in the hearth to the light lashing of rain on the windowpanes beyond. I didn’t have long to wait. A firm knock on the shared door between our chambers told me that the marquess had arrived.
“Come,” I called, relieved when my voice emerged with far more confidence than I felt.
The door opened, and there on the threshold, clad in a dark, billowing banyan, was the man I had married that morning.
My husband.
ALEXANDER
I regarded Madeleine—my wife—from the doorway.
She was a vision, her night rail a gossamer wisp of silk surrounding her, fine embroidery decorating the soft fabric.
Her glorious hair was unbound, hanging in ribbons of dark waves down her back.
I felt my body stir and my cock thicken at the mere sight of her.
I wanted to take, to claim. To make her mine.
But it was the way her small glove-covered hand fisted the fabric of the chair she stood beside, the distress she tried to conceal, that brought me under control. I smiled at her as I approached. “Are you well, Madeleine?”
“Of course, my lord.”
I shook my head in mild rebuke. “I am Alexander to you.”
She colored prettily, the rose color blooming under her skin emphasizing her delicate features.
I dropped my gaze to her hands, wondering once again about the gloves.
I had never seen them off—even at dinner.
She had offered an excuse about painful joints and requiring them on at all times, but I already knew her well enough to know she was lying.
I wanted to know the truth, but I also knew she had to trust me in order to get her to be honest. I could demand her to remove them, but I feared pushing her away.
I wanted her to know she was safe to tell me anything, and I needed to be patient in order for that trust to build.
“Alexander,” she repeated.
“I like how that sounds when you say it,” I murmured.
Her smile was that of the sun on a summer’s day. Bright and warm. It brought forth unfamiliar feelings. The urge to be close. To touch her. Protect her from anything unpleasant and frightful. I had never known such intense emotions. The need to protect, to cherish.
To love, perhaps?
The past days spent with Beckett and his viscountess had shown more of her sweet personality.
I found myself drawn to her over and again.
Wanting to be close. To hear her laughter.
Watch her discover something new and revel in the knowledge I had given that to her.
I found her in the library on more than one occasion, peering at the shelves, a small pile of books set to one side, or curled into the large chair in the corner, reading, lost to a world I could not enter.
I enjoyed watching her, often doing so quietly as not to disturb.
Her expressions fascinated me. Happiness, confusion, sadness, excitement, all showed plainly on her countenance as she read the words in front of her, her lips silently forming the sentences and scenes the books painted for her.
My chest warmed at the thought I could bring her joy.
The same joy she had unknowingly given to me by simply observing her.
She shifted on her feet, bringing me back to the present. “Sit, my wife,” I urged her, the words sounding pleasant on my tongue. “You must be tired from today.”
She did as I asked, a small frown on her face. “As you must be too, my—ah, husband.”
I beamed at her, liking how it sounded to be called her husband.
“Perhaps a sherry?” I questioned. “I prefer a brandy, but that might be too much for you.”
“I have never had either,” she confessed.
I headed to my chamber, then returned to her and handed her a small glass. “Sip it slowly,” I instructed. “It is sweet, and I think you will like it.”
She sipped it, and I watched as a pleased smile pulled at her lips. “It is delicious.”
I swirled my brandy glass in my hand, warming it, then taking an appreciative mouthful, the decadent liquor flowing down my throat. Madeleine observed me, looking curious. I offered her the glass. “Try it, but only a small taste. It is very strong.”
She accepted the glass and sniffed it, then tilted it back, barely wetting her lips. I discerned a small grimace on her face as she handed me back the glass. “I believe I will keep the sherry,” she informed me with a small cough.
I chuckled at her politeness. “Excellent choice.”
As we sat in silence, I shifted, trying to get comfortable.
The chair was smaller than those in my chambers and more delicate in form.
The fire in Madeleine’s room was banked low, the servants no doubt thinking she would be joining me in my chambers, where the logs burned bright and warm. Madeleine studied me with concern.
“Are you unsettled, my lord?”
I nodded and stood. “The furniture here is made for someone much smaller than I. I would like to sit in my chamber if you would be agreeable.”
I saw the tremor that went through her body, the flare of fear that flickered in her eyes before she lowered them. “Of course. Whatever you desire.”
In an instant, I sank to my knees in front of her, setting aside our glasses and taking her hands in mine. “Look at me, Madeleine.”
She hesitated, another tremor shaking her body, then looked up, meeting my gaze.
“Do not fear me, my wife. I know you are innocent and worried of what comes next in our marriage. But this evening is not what you are frightened it will be.”
“My lord?” she whispered.
I drew a finger down her cheek, the softness of her skin pleasing. “I wish for you to be comfortable with me. For us to know each other more before we begin our, ah, relations.”
“I do not understand. It is my duty—”
I stopped her with a shake of my head. “I do not wish for you to lay with me as a duty. I want for you to desire it as well. I want you to come to me of your own free will, not because you feel it is a duty you must perform.”
Her eyes glimmered in the low firelight. “Will I not have failed you, then?”
“No,” I responded with a firm shake of my head.
“It is what I wish for. I only planned on celebrating our union by spending time with you this evening. Conversing. Reading to you a little. It is my greatest joy to watch you smile, to hear your laughter. To perhaps hold your hand or stroke your cheek. For now, that is enough.”
“And when it is not?” she asked, her question bold despite the worry lingering in her gaze.
“I pray you will want more as much as I do. But I will not force you, my wife. You are safe.”
Her shoulders relaxed, the anxiety leaching from her eyes.
“Will you come with me and sit in my chamber? Allow me to read to you and let us enjoy the warmth of our shared company?”
“Yes.”
I stood and offered my hand, and she allowed me to tug her from her chair. She followed me to my chamber, and I indicated the chair by the fire as I prepared fresh glasses. “Sit.”
“But where will you sit?”
“I can sit on the footstool.”
“No, you must sit in your chair. It is only proper. I am much smaller, and the footstool will be fine for me,” she stated and sat down, tucking her night rail around her.
I sat with a frown, then stood, crossed the room, pulled the coverlet from the bed, and sat down again. I patted my lap. “Sit with me, my wife.”
Her eyes widened.
“This chair is large enough for two. The covering will keep you warm. I would enjoy having you close.”
She hesitated, and I held out my hand again, waiting for her to take it. She did, and I pulled her to my lap, wrapping the coverlet around her. She was stiff and uncertain, but I picked up the book I had selected. It was one I had seen her peruse more than once, so I knew it was a favorite of hers.
“Shall I read?”
“Please,” she murmured.
I handed her the sherry, took a sip of brandy, and opened the book.
I began to read, and after a few moments, I felt her relax, her body molding to mine as I kept my voice low and soothing.
When her glass of sherry was empty, I slipped it from her hand, placing it on the table.
I gently cupped her head, tucking it to my shoulder and pressing a lingering kiss to her thick hair.
“You smell so delightful,” I murmured. “Lilacs.”
“I make the scent myself,” she replied, her voice low and sweet. “The lilac trees were abundant around Cliffwood. They grew wild everywhere, and no one cared if I picked them. It was something my mother taught me.”
“I like it.”
“I like this,” she murmured.
She nestled into me, as if seeking my warmth.
I adjusted my body, leaning back slightly so I could take more of her slight weight.
I liked how she felt on my lap. Small and delicate.
Needful of care. Seeking my touch. Unable to resist, I ran my hand over her tresses as I continued to read.
She sighed in contentment, and I glanced down, seeing her eyes shut and a smile playing on her lips.
She was fully relaxed, and I knew she would be asleep within moments.
Resting in my arms as she ought to this night. Surrounded by me. Safe and peaceful.
That was the way I planned on her staying for the rest of our lives.