Chapter Fifteen #3
She looked through the chest of drawers for her nightgown. She’d bought several on her shopping expeditions, but none of them were there. She went through the drawers twice. No, whoever had packed her things had forgotten nightgowns.
She would have to sleep in her chemise, she decided.
Her eye fell on the silk nightgown Tibby had given her.
It was scandalously thin, but the bed was soft and warm and, after all, one should use a gift in the spirit in which it was given.
She slipped out of her chemise and into the nightgown.
It slithered softly down her body, like a cool flow of water.
It felt lovely. She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass.
Heavens. She looked virtually naked. She could see the smudge of darkness at the apex of her thighs.
She stared again. It looked like her breasts were slightly different sizes.
Surely not. She squinted and yes, they were, not by much, but definitely there was a difference.
She looked down at them. How had she never known that? Or had it just happened recently?
She’d never really looked at herself naked in a mirror.
In the palace the only looking glasses in her apartments were in the dressing room, and there she’d always had at least one maid with her, dressing her and undressing her.
And although she could have stared at her reflection if she’d wanted, it was an embarrassing thing to do when someone was watching.
Now she was alone and free to look, and look she did, turning herself all around, twisting her head to see herself from behind.
She was a bit fat, she decided, especially her backside.
It didn’t look so big in dresses, though.
Maybe it was the nightgown. Experimentally she lifted the nightgown and looked at the reflection of her naked buttocks.
Definitely fat, she thought. Certainly not “beautiful” as he’d said.
She sighed. Gallant compliment number eighty-seven.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door and she leapt in fright, dropping the nightgown back guiltily and covered herself with her arms.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Gabriel, of course,” said a familiar, deep voice.
Of course. There was no one else in the house. “What do you want?” she called.
To her horror, the door opened. She snatched up her dress from the chair and used it to cover herself decently. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Coming to bed,” he said. He’d removed his coat and waistcoat and his neck cloth lay untied around his neck. The top of his shirt was open.
“What? Here?”
“Yes, here.” He walked across to the large wardrobe on the other side of the room and opened a door, saying, “My clothes are here, haven’t you noticed?”
She hadn’t. “But my clothes are here,” she told him.
“That’s probably why there are two wardrobes and two chests of drawers,” he suggested. He sat down on a low chair and proceeded to remove his shoes and stockings.
“You mean both of us are to sleep here?”
“Exactly.” He stood up and then didn’t move.
“No,” she told him, wondering what he was doing. He was staring not quite at her, but at something over her shoulder.
He smiled. “Simply beautiful,” he murmured.
She glanced over her shoulder but all she could see was the fire and the looking glass. Then she realized. The looking glass! He could see her back view in the looking glass. In the transparent nightgown.
“Stop that!”
“I can’t,” he said simply.
She started to turn and then realized that either way she was exposed, so she edged her way to the bed and with some difficulty slipped between the covers. Pulling them up to her chin she ordered him to leave.
“Can’t,” he said. “We need to make this marriage legal.”
“It is legal. You said Nash arranged the license.”
“Yes, all that part is legal and aboveboard, but now we have to consummate it.”
“Consummate? But you said—”
“Yes?” His eyebrow rose quizzically.
“You said it was a paper marriage. A strategy. A—a chess maneuver.”
He raised both eyebrows. “You want to play chess? Now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know.” The faintly teasing look faded.
“It is what I said it would be, but the count is going to try everything, I’m certain, and this is one loophole he will be sure to check.
If I slept in another room, and you were asked to swear later if you’d lain with me on your wedding night, would you be able to lie convincingly? ”
She bit her lip, knowing he was right. She wasn’t a convincing liar at all. “So we must consummate this marriage?” she whispered.
He sighed. “Not if you don’t want to. If we sleep together then you can tell any judge or government official who is impertinent enough to inquire that, yes, we did sleep together. They will make the assumption.”
Callie thought it over. She could do that. But they would have to share a bed. She swallowed.
The only person who’d ever shared her bed was her son and that was only since they’d fled Zindaria. Rupert had never stayed with her after his monthly marital visits. He preferred to sleep in his own apartments.
She surveyed the bed. It was big, more than big enough for two people.
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “But only to ensure the legality of this marriage. And only if you promise me you will not pounce on me.”
He gave her a shocked look. “Pounce? I never pounce. I have far more sophistication than that.” He pulled his shirt off, then started to undo the buttons at his waist.
“What are you doing?” She felt as tense as a violin string.
“Getting undressed. I’m not sleeping in my trousers.”
“Are you wearing drawers?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“Then leave them on,” she ordered. She lay down and squeezed her eyes tight shut.
She could get through this. It was a few hours, no more.
It was just sleeping, nothing else. And it would make Nicky safe.
All she had to do was keep herself safe from her husband.
And the only way to do that was to keep him at a distance.
She could hear him removing his trousers. She sneaked a peek and saw him padding around the room in nothing but a pair of light cotton drawers, blowing out candles and turning out lamps.
He bent and put some more coal on the fire. Firelight turned his hard-muscled body to bronze and gold and ebony. He was lean and hard and beautiful.
All she had to do was keep him at a distance.
The bed creaked as he slipped into bed beside her.
The fire hissed softly. Flames caused shadows to dance on the ceiling. Callie lay on her back, stiff as a board, her arms crossed over her chest, wishing she was wearing the thick pink flannel nightgown Mrs. Barrow had lent her that first night.
“It was a very nice wedding, wasn’t it?” he said conversationally.
“Yes. Good night,” she said tightly. She didn’t want to talk to him, not like this, sharing a bed with the fire dancing. It was too intimate.
“You looked a bit upset at the number of people in attendance at the service.”
“Yes, I was. But Nash explained afterward. I don’t know why nobody told me before. But now is not the time to discuss things. I would like to sleep, please. Good night.”
“Yes, good night. And sweet dreams, Mrs. Renfrew.”
Callie’s eyes flew open. Mrs. Renfrew. Nobody had called her that before. At the wedding breakfast everyone had addressed her as Princess. Mrs. Renfrew. She liked the sound of it. It was ordinary. Normal. Nice.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Sleep. She almost snorted aloud. It was like lying down in a tiger’s cage for a nap.
After a moment he said, “I thought Miss Tibthorpe looked unexpectedly pretty in that blue dress, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, she did.” Callie was pleased with the comment.
She’d talked Tibby into accepting that color and it really suited her.
She lay there thinking about Tibby. “You know, before I saw her again—before I returned to England I mean—I thought she was quite old. But when we met after nine years, I realize she must have been the same age then, when she was teaching me, that I am now. I thought she was old, or at least middle-aged, and yet, she must only be about five-and-thirty now.” She broke off, realizing she was chatting when she was supposed to be keeping him at a distance, physically and metaphorically.
“I am going to sleep now,” she announced in a definite voice.
She lay there listening to him breathe, listening to the low sounds of the fire, to the distant rumble of some vehicle rattling over cobblestones, to a dog barking.
He wriggled to get more comfortable and she felt something brush against her.
“Mind your hands!” she snapped.
“Why?” His voice was pure, mellow, wine-dark provocation.
“I don’t want them wandering.” She could see his head on the pillow, turned toward her, watching her. His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a smile that would have melted her bones had she not been so determined to resist. “My hands may wander…but they never get lost.”
She swallowed.
“I always know exactly where they are…”
She squeezed her eyes shut and wished that ears could shut at will, too.
“And they always find their way home in the end,” he finished in a velvet tone.
She shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said.
“No, I’m n—what are you doing?” It came out more as a squeak than an indignant protest.
“Warming you.” He’d turned on his side and flipped her on hers facing away from him.
She tried to struggle but his arms simply wrapped around her and she found herself clamped to him, all down the length of her body, her back against his chest, her limbs tucked between his and her bottom pressed against she wasn’t even going to think what.
“I’m not cold.”
“You were shivering, and no wonder, in that altogether delightful garment you’re not quite wearing. Did you wear it for me?”