Chapter Seventeen
Adrian arrived at Grayson Boscastle’s Park Lane mansion at nine o’clock the following morning and formally asked for Emma’s hand in marriage.
Grayson graciously accepted the offer with an appropriate display of surprise and pleasure, as did his wife Jane. In truth, Jane’s astonished exclamations of delight almost convinced Adrian that he had dreamed the events of the previous evening. All was well that ended in holy wedlock, apparently.
“I say this calls for a celebration supper,” Gray son announced, rubbing his hands together with a self-satisfaction that hinted he might have plotted this romance himself. “Could we manage it, Jane?”
She smiled at him. “It should pose no incon venience at all, dear husband. The staff is now accustomed to throwing lavish affairs at the last moment.”
“Nothing lavish,” Adrian said quickly, thinking of Emma’s preference for the subtle. “I do believe that for all concerned we should marry as quietly as possible.”
And so it was that Jane excused herself to leave the two men to discuss widow’s settlements and jointures while she hastened about the happy duty of planning a family wedding.
Which meant, of course, that she and the bride would require a new wardrobe and footwear to match and that the Italian shoemaker would need an army of elves to assist him.
Jane decided that she would simply have to treat herself to a dozen new shoes to celebrate her sister-in-law’s engagement.
Another Boscastle fallen victim to the family heritage of passion. It was Jane’s role, as she perceived it, to ensure that the path of matrimony followed as smooth a course as possible. One conveniently forgot whatever mischief preceded the wedding march.
As the daughter of an earl, as well as wife to a marquess, she understood intuitively that the addition of a duke and duchess to the family line was a connection to be ardently embraced, if not exploited.
Jane’s son Rowan, her husband’s heir, would grow up with a duke’s son as his cousin and playmate.
It was the proper order of life in the English aristocracy.
In another decade, indeed within a year, few in the haut ton would remark upon or even remember that any impropriety had preceded the union of Emma and Adrian.
No one outside the family dared to mention the scandal of Jane’s own marriage.
For the time being at least, all was well in the world of the Boscastles.
That same evening the Marquess of Sedgecroft hosted a supper party to announce the engagement of his sister, the Viscountess Lyons, to Adrian Ruxley, Viscount Wolverton, heir to the Duke of Scarfield.
Only a few select members of Society, outside the Boscastle family, received an invitation to this affair.
The Earl of Odham brought his beloved Hermia, both of them expressing disbelief at the announcement.
Two members of Parliament and their wives attended.
Still, all in all, it was a private affair.
The wedding two days later, in the private chapel of Grayson’s Park Lane home, proved to be another exclusive event. Emma felt so calm before the ceremony that Julia asked her in private whether she required a vinaigrette to prevent a faint.
“If I lived my entire life in this family without fainting,” Emma replied, “I doubt I shall do so today.”
Yet when she saw Adrian in the chapel, she came as close to a swoon as she imagined possible.
He was dressed in a formal deep-blue frock coat and black broadcloth pantaloons.
At his side hung a ceremonial sword which she prayed to all the saints in heaven, he would not be tempted to use until after they had exchanged vows.
Indeed, he looked so grand that Emma, in an unadorned dress of silver tissue, felt herself pale in comparison.
It was her second marriage, however. She could not in good conscience wear virginal orange blossoms in her wreath. A semi-veil would suffice to hide her blissful smile from the small assembly of guests. This wolf was hers to tame.
Grayson gave her away, and afterward the wedding party enjoyed a breakfast of coddled eggs, prawns, and lamb cutlets followed by apple pudding, raspberry jelly, and lemon cream. As expected, there was a three-tiered wedding cake with heavy white icing.
Adrian toasted his bride with a glass of champagne and the three comfits he had stolen off their cake. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand in his. “But it appears I shall never change.”
She smiled up at him, her heart in her eyes. “I should never forgive myself if you did.”
It rained on their short drive to the London hotel where Adrian had resided off and on for the last year.
His choice of impersonal lodgings had stemmed less from convenience than his reluctance to put down roots again in England.
Belatedly he wished he had a proper home in which to be alone with his bride.
It was his wedding night.
He tried not to think of Emma’s late husband. It seemed so petty and unfair to confess jealousy of a man who in death could not defend himself. But Adrian was a practical man, one who had learned to survive.
And he required Emma to survive. If that was a weakness, he did not deny it. She was the warmth of a candle in winter darkness. He did not need anyone, or anything else, but her.
He shrugged out of his jacket while she went behind the screen to wash. He then opened the wardrobe door and peered inside. He went to the window to check the street below for carriages.
Emma stuck her head around the screen, her face amused. “If you are going to confess on our wedding night that you are a spy—”
“I’m looking for your brothers.”
“They aren’t there, are they?” she asked in horror.
He laughed. “No.”
“Thank heavens. Do you mind helping me with this last hook?” She emerged from the screen, her sun gold hair unbound, one hand at her back.
“Please,” he said. “Let me help.” His heart beat fiercely as they met in the center of the room. Then he pretended to struggle with the hook when his every impulse told him to tear the damn thing from its flimsy mooring.
“Be careful.” She angled her head to smile up at him. “The dress is delicate and—”
He placed both hands on her shoulders and ripped the silver tissue gown from her with a decisive tug. Her underapparel followed, the sound of rending silk punctuated by her indignant protests.
“That was my wedding gown, Adrian!”
“It’s not as if you’re going to wear it again,” he murmured, the excuse weak even to his own ears.
“What about our children?” she protested. “What if I had wished to pass that dress down to our future generations? Did you ever think that we might have a daughter one day?”
He smoothed his hands over her bare shoulders. “I have thought of nothing else.” He bent his head to hers. “And if we have a daughter, I hope she will be everything like you.”
“Adrian,” she whispered, bowing her head as his hands drifted down her sides to stroke her back. “I have always wanted children.”
He gave her a smile of understanding—far more understanding than she had anticipated. For before she realized what he was about, he’d lifted her into his arms and carried her to their bed.
“Give me dainty daughters who look just like their mother,” he said. “Give me sons. Give me you, Emma.”
She watched him strip off his clothing, unable to control the moisture seeping from her sex. When at last he leaned over her, she did not attempt to hide her approval of his nudity.
Disconcerted, she realized that not only was she staring at his impressive appendage, but that he understood exactly what had captured her interest. If her late husband had caught her peeping at his privates, he would have pulled off his neckcloth and promptly shielded his manly mysteries.
But Adrian, shameless adventurer and uninhibited devil that he was, merely stretched his muscular arms in languid satisfaction and arched his back, thereby thrusting himself out another few inches for her approval.
“My God, but those trousers were tight,” he murmured, one half-closed eye affixed on her face.
She moistened the corners of her mouth with her tongue. “I can understand why.
“Would you—” Her belly fluttered in pleasant confusion. “Would you like a neckcloth?” she asked innocently.
With a deep rumble of laughter, he pulled her against his hard, warm body. “To tie around my tadge?” he teased, leaning in for a slow, promising kiss. “Is there a protocol for such a thing?”
Her heart missed a beat. “I do not believe so.”
“That is a relief because”—he rubbed his turgid penis across her belly—“when it comes to certain issues of impoliteness—”
She turned her face into the pillow to smother a whimper, but any attempt to hide her rising excitement from her husband was futile.
Her womb tightened in pleasure as he scattered kisses across her breasts.
Heaven forgive her, but she was possessed to behave like a voluptuary of Venus.
“If I am to tutor you in the ways of a gentleman,” she said with a heartfelt sigh, “then we shall have to start with an observation of your worst conduct.”
He grinned at the challenge. “Which, in my humble opinion, is when I am at my best.”
She struggled up onto one elbow, her breasts swollen from his ardent kisses. “Show me, so that we may begin to instruct you.”
He lifted his head to kiss her, swirling his tongue against hers. He ate delicately at her mouth until she was raking her fingers down the ridges of his back to his lean buttocks. “Your touch inflames me, Emma.”
“Then may I please—”
She did not finish, but it was evident he more than understood. His face darkened; he reared back to fulfill her need, his huge organ overflowing her small hand. A drop of pearlescent fluid bedewed her fingertips. An instinct she could not resist bade her to caress the thick head of his shaft.