Chapter Eleven
As the wedding breakfast drew to a close, James struggled to temper the onslaught of apprehension. Soon he would be left alone with his bride to consummate the marriage. In the Lyon’s Den, and within an hour of the ceremony. As per the terms of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s contract.
He ought to have taken offense at such a stipulation.
Did the company believe him so unfaithful to his vows that he’d flee at the first opportunity, leaving the marriage unconsummated, giving him the freedom to discard his bride?
But perhaps they were to be forgiven. After all, the women seeking husbands at the Lyon’s Den suffered from some fatal flaw that kept them from the polite company of London Society.
Perhaps some of the previous grooms had regretted their choice and bolted.
But James could see no flaws in his bride. She was perfection itself, her eyes glowing like liquid silver, and her hair as dark as a midnight sky.
And she showed such coyness, withdrawing from his gentle kiss, her expressive eyes wide with apprehension. She would need reassurance when he bedded her—like an untamed filly, wary of taking her first steps.
Despite the rumors about the women who paid for Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s services, there was no doubt that Miss Flowers, now Viscountess Bedford, was an innocent.
The familiar black-clad figure approached James and his bride, together with the tall, gray-haired woman who’d given the bride away.
“The bridal chamber awaits you, Viscount and Viscountess Bedford.”
James’s bride stiffened and she glanced at him. He smiled in reassurance, his heart lifting as she curled her fingers around his. Perhaps, one day, she might grow to trust him. After all, they had the rest of their lives.
The gray-haired woman embraced the bride.
“Be happy, darling.”
“I-I will, Isidore.”
The woman glanced at James then lowered her voice to whisper in the bride’s ear.
“All will be well tonight, sweetheart. You’ve nothing to fear from him.”
James turned away, ashamed to have overheard, but his heart lifted as he caught his bride’s whispered reply.
“I know.”
A youth approached, wearing knee-length breeches trimmed in fur, and clapped his hands.
“And now!” he cried. “’Tis time for our honored bride and groom to bid their farewells and embark on their journey.”
“To where?” a voice replied. “The bedchamber? To heaven and back?”
Laughter rippled through the room. The bride drew in a sharp breath and James squeezed her hand.
“That’s enough, Coriolanus, you slut!” the youth said.
“They’re embarking on the journey into matrimony, to the bright future that you can only hope to have.
Lord Bedford, Lady Bedford, please forgive that reprobate.
He’s taken a little too much champagne, and as we all know, after one glass, he’s anybody’s—but after two, he’s everybody’s! ”
“How many glasses has he had?” a voice called.
“Ten,” the youth said, “which means nobody will have him now.” He winked at the bride and her lips curved into a smile.
Then the youth raised his hand and the company grew silent. He kissed the bride’s hand and they exchanged a glance, before he opened the door and ushered the bride and groom out.
The youth led them along the hallway, and James’s heart shuddered as he glanced at each door they passed. Was the marriage to be consummated in a whore’s boudoir? Dear God—surely he’d not be forced to bed his bride in the chamber where Dahlia had taken his virginity?
But the young man led them to chamber in a different part of the building.
He stopped at an oak-paneled door with a trinket hanging from the handle in the shape of a heart.
Then he opened a door to reveal a room devoid of the decadent dark reds and purples that James had been expecting.
Instead, it was furnished in light, virginal hues.
The walls were formed of white paneling, the curtains pale yellow, and the bed, which dominated the chamber, was fashioned from wood painted white with gold edging, the bedspread the same shade of yellow as the curtains.
A fire glowed in the fireplace that dominated one wall, and on a table beside the fireplace was a vase of roses—pure white blooms that gave off a faint, sweet floral scent. The only item that seemed out of place was a trunk in the corner, fashioned from dark wood.
It was a room made for angels.
“Our hostess has said that this chamber is ours until the morning,” James said.
His bride crossed the floor, already pulling off her gloves.
“And they’ll send someone in to serve breakfast before we leave,” he added.
“Leave?” she said, her eyes widening.
“For Bedford Hall,” he said. “My country seat. I’m afraid I don’t keep a London house.”
“I-I know,” she whispered, her voice tight.
“Do you mind?”
She shook her head. “I’ve always wanted to live in the country.”
“You don’t expect me to purchase a townhouse now I have a wife?”
She flinched, then finished removing her gloves and folded them over the back of a chair.
“Forgive me, I meant no offense,” he said. “Your fortune…”
“Is now yours, Lord Bedford,” she said. “To do with as you wish. I have no expectations over how you intend to spend it. I understand what happens when a marriage takes place.”
She colored and glanced at the bed.
A surge of need swelled his groin. Perhaps it was for the best that she was an innocent, for she wouldn’t know what to expect. And, never having known a man, she wouldn’t be in a position to compare him with others and find him wanting.
He had to admit, he took delight in the prospect of a wife who would only ever lie with him—who would be truly his and nobody else’s.
It made her respectable enough to satisfy his need to honor his title—and, more importantly, she was respectable enough to stand up to the scrutiny of his friends and peers.
Though he’d married her for her dowry and nothing else, he had to admit to a sense of relief that she came to the marriage bed a maiden.
Being the antithesis of…of her, his bride would cure the last vestiges of his infatuation with a woman he was best off forgetting.
Dahlia…
Forcing the image of a red silk mask from his mind, he turned to his bride.
“Would you like me to ring for your maid?”
“I-I have no maid.”
“Some tea, then?”
She closed her eyes and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “N-no. Thank you, sir.”
Taking her hand, he drew her close.
“Might you do one thing for me, seeing as you pledged to obey me?”
He caught the flare of fear in her eyes before she nodded.
“Of course.”
“Would you call me James? And, perhaps, permit me to call you Cordelia?”
She blinked, and her eyes glistened with moisture. Then she nodded.
“As you wish.”
He tilted his head to one side and paused.
“James,” she added.
“That’s better.” He smiled, then, unable to resist the tug of need, lowered his mouth to hers.
Again, she stiffened, but as he pressed his lips softly onto hers, she began to relax.
“Shall we retire?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she replied. “Please.”
He unbuttoned his jacket and peeled it off, draping it over a chair, then stripped to the waist.
She began to unlace her gown.
“Would you like some privacy while you undress?” he said, gesturing to a screen in the corner fashioned from pale-yellow silk in a white frame.
“No, thank you, sir.”
So formal an address!
He continued to disrobe, then turned to see her standing in a thin chemise, the hem quivering as she trembled.
His manhood was already beginning to harden with the prospect of claiming her, and she lowered her gaze to his groin.
But rather than the fear he’d expected, he only saw sorrow in her eyes. A tear splashed onto her cheek.
“Be not afraid,” he said. “I promise I’ll be gentle. I have no wish to hurt you and will do my best not to.”
She bit her lip. Another tear rolled over her cheek and he lifted his hand to wipe it away. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her on the cheek, flicking his tongue out to taste the salt of her tears.
Sweet heaven, how she trembled! Did he elicit such fear in her at the prospect of the marriage bed?
“I have no intention to force you if you’d rather not…”
His voice trailed away. What the devil was a man supposed to say to a terrified bride?
“I want to,” she whispered. “I—” Her voice caught, almost in a sob, and he traced the outline of her face with his fingertip, then placed his hand on her cheek, caressing her skin with his thumb.
How sweet she was! How innocent.
His beautiful bride.
She let out a whimper.
“Hush, my Cordelia,” he said, relishing her name on his lips. “You need not fear tonight. I only want to please you—as I want to spend the rest of my life pleasing you. Tonight is when we begin to get to know each other—to become friends and companions. Love will come, very soon. I know it.”
He kissed her again.
“I can grow to love you,” he said. “Do you think you might find it possible to begin to love me?”
If anything, his request increased her distress. She lowered her gaze and yet another tear spilled onto her cheek. Did she pine for another?
He tempered the little pulse of jealousy. “Cordelia. Look at me.”
She met his gaze, her eyes glistening with moisture.
“I’ll not be angry if you tell me the truth,” he said, “but I would have you speak honestly. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded.
“Do you love another?”
“Dear God, no!” she cried. “I—” She broke off, as if fearful of her outburst. “Forgive me.”
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firm.
At length, she nodded.
“Yes, James,” she whispered.
He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“Yes, I-I might find it possible to love you.”
“Then let us begin tonight.”
Once more he saw fear in her eyes. Then she nodded and he led her to the bed.
She lay back, resting her head on the pillows, and he caressed her glossy black locks. Her eyes shone, like pale silver stars.
She was an angel.
And she was all his.