Chapter Sixteen
“Don’t forget, Devereaux, if you want the other ten thousand, you must consummate the marriage tonight.”
Whitcombe’s instruction, delivered through gritted teeth, might as well have been an executioner’s threat—as if, in addition to ten thousand, the reward for Charles fucking his new wife tonight was to keep his head.
My new wife.
He glanced at the young woman sitting opposite. She was a diminutive thing at the best of times—as most women were, compared to his bulky frame—but in the cramped space of the carriage she looked like a tiny, shrunken field mouse.
And as terrified.
Devil’s breeches, what was a beast such as him going to do with her?
It was fortunate that she’d already been ruined. At least she knew what to expect tonight, and she was hardly a brittle Society lady who’d faint at the sight of his cock.
To be honest, whether or not she carried another man’s child mattered not. It might even be preferable. His family bloodline had hardly produced men of honor or good character. Goodness was supposed to skip a generation, but for the Devereaux family it had never existed.
He lowered his gaze to her belly. No evidence of a child. She didn’t even cradle it as women were supposed to. Had she loved the father? Perhaps not, given the shimmer of hope in her eyes when she’d anticipated his kiss in the chapel.
Bloody hell, when she’d offered those sweet, soft lips of hers, a powerful lust had gripped his body, tightening his breeches and obliterating his reason. It was all he could do to stop himself from pulling her to him, parting her thighs and rutting her against the chapel wall.
Ha! That stiff matriarch smothered in black lace in the front pew, face like a smacked arse on a frosty morning, would have loved that.
He heard a sigh and glanced up to see Olivia looking at him, apprehension in her honey-colored eyes.
Are you well?
She glanced at his hands, then shook her head. “F-forgive me, I don’t understand…”
She broke off and cringed as he let out a sharp sigh. Curse bloody John for abandoning him!
Then he cursed himself. He had less to fear from her than she from him.
A spark of something unfamiliar threaded through his blood—the need to drive that look of fear from her eyes and to see it replaced by trust.
But a girl like her would never bring herself to trust a man such as I.
She drew her shawl around her shoulders. “I-I was wondering how far away your home is…how long it will take to get there today.”
Charles shook his head.
“W-will you not tell me?”
We’ll be staying at an inn tonight.
She stared at his hands, frowning, then shook her head. “I-I’m sorry.”
He let out a sigh and made a dismissive gesture, and she leaned forward and took his hand.
He caught his breath as a fizz of need tightened his skin and swelled his cock.
Devil be damned, if she continued to touch him like that, they wouldn’t have to wait until tonight to consummate the marriage.
He inhaled then started to withdraw, but she tightened her hold, curling her little fingers around his.
“No, please. I want to understand you,” she said. “I want to learn…” She gestured toward his hands. “But before I do, let me ask the right questions. May I?”
He nodded, and the corner of her mouth lifted a little.
Almost a smile.
How might she look if she smiled properly?
And how might she look with her face flushed with pleasure—not the fake pleasure of whores, but the genuine response of a woman well satisfied?
It was not something he’d seen, but he’d heard enough talk among gentlemen to know that it was the most glorious sight a man could behold—a woman screaming her climax at his hands, evidence of his skill and virility.
“Are we perhaps staying at an inn tonight?”
He nodded.
“And the journey. How long is it?”
He held up four fingers. Then, compelled by the urge to see her smile, he raised his hands, as if playing an imaginary violin.
She frowned and folded her arms, watching his hands, then a flicker of a smile touched her eyes for a heartbeat.
“Are we staying at the Fiddlers’ Arms, where we’ll arrive in four hours?”
Slowly, he nodded.
“I knew it!” she said. Then she checked herself, as if the burst of mirth was once more conquered by her melancholy. “A-and tomorrow?”
He held up three fingers.
“Another three hours then we’ll be at your home?”
He shook his head, then pointed to her and back at himself. Confusion clouded her gaze, then she parted her lips, and a faint bloom colored her cheeks.
“Three hours, yes,” she said, “but you want to tell me that it’s our home?”
He nodded, and she blinked, a sheen of moisture glistening in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, almost in a whisper, and turned to look out of the window. Unwilling to intrude on her distress, Charles looked out of the opposite window at the landscape passing by.
After a moment, he heard her soft voice, the tremor piercing his heart.
“My lord?”
My lord? Bloody hell, she wasn’t his housekeeper. She was his wife. Had that bastard brother of hers taught her to be subservient?
He turned toward her, and she lowered her gaze, but not before he caught another glimmer of fear. Devil’s breeches, he’d have to learn to conceal his anger, or at least tell his little bride that his anger was directed at others, not her.
At length she lifted her gaze, and he raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“I-I was wondering…”
He forced the frown from his expression and leaned toward her—but not so close as to crowd her.
“I was wondering whether you minded very much being married to me.” She spoke quickly, as if she feared the outcome of her question and wished to be done with it as quickly as possible. “Please don’t say what you think I wish to hear. I’d rather know the truth.”
He raised his hands. No.
“I-I don’t…”
He shook his head.
“Y-you don’t mind being married to me?” She repeated his hand gesture. “That means no, am I right?”
Yes.
She watched his hands as he made another gesture, then repeated it. “And that means yes?”
He nodded and was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
What for? Teaching her two simple hand gestures, or not minding being married to her?
Do you mind being married to me?
She frowned as he signed. Then he gestured toward her, then to himself.
“Are you asking me the same question?” she said.
He nodded, and his conscience stabbed his heart at the gratitude in her eyes. What a cruel world they lived in where a woman had to express gratitude for a husband who cared whether she minded being his wife.
“No,” she said, after a pause. “I do not mind being married to you.”
He nodded, and she resumed her attention on the view outside, her body moving with the rocking motion of the carriage.
Charles diverted his attention from her, like a predator focusing his gaze away from his prey to enable her to relax out of his glare, snatching only occasional glimpses.
At length, the fatigue she’d barely been able to conceal overcame her and she fell asleep, her chest rising and falling more steadily—at which point Charles allowed himself to observe her more fully.
Her gown did nothing to conceal her form, the swell of her breasts, the way her body dipped in at the waist before flaring at her hips—delectable, rounded hips.
Her face, flushed with distress, bore the soft roundness of youth, plump cheeks, a delicate nose, and long lashes that quivered as she slept, and finally…
Finally, his gaze settled on her mouth—the sweet, plump lips that she had offered to him.
How had he ever thought her unremarkable?
The duchess was right. Out of the two of them, it was Charles, not his wife, who’d secured the better bargain.
And consummating the marriage tonight would be the easiest and most pleasurable ten thousand he’d ever earned.