Her gaze dropped to her lap. She suddenly became uncomfortable with him so close to her. She was too startlingly aware of his virility. “I regret to say I don't play games, my lord,” she answered ruefully.
He looked at her incredulously. “You don't play games?”
She silently lifted the snifter to her mouth, nodded, then took a drink of the brandy. It burned going down. She could not look her husband in the eye. She was embarrassed that she could not play games.
“I thought you had a brother! Did he not teach you anything?”
She bit her lip. “I always had my head in a book.”
“Then I shall have to remedy that, my dear,” he said. “When we get to Yarmouth, I shall force you to learn how to play any manner of games.”
“Even your infinite patience might be taxed over that task,” she said.
“Nonsense! You're an intelligent woman, Carlotta. I have every confidence you'll become adept—if you allow yourself to.”
“How reassuring it is to be married to a man who has such confidence in one.” She took another sip. Each sip rendered the brandy less offensive. Actually, she was beginning to like it—or the limbering effect it was having on her.
“You do not play whist, either, I suppose?”
She shook her head.
“Surely you play backgammon and cribbage? A child can master those games of luck.”
“Then a child has more skill than I possess,” she answered, looking up at him, a pout on her face.
To her surprise, he smiled, and his arm slipped around her shoulder. “You're fatigued,” he said in a low voice. “Did you not sleep well last night?”
She stifled a yawn. “How well you know me, dearest.”
With the back of his hand, he traced her cheekbone. “Then we'll go to bed now. I'll give Peggy a few minutes in which to help you prepare, and I'll understand if you prefer to wear a woolen shift. After all, this won't be a
real
wedding night.”
He moved closer, so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. “I said I'd never force you, Carlotta.”
“Then I'm relieved you remember your promise, my lord.” She scooted to the edge of the sopha, stood up and left the room without sparing a glance at him. Truth be told, it took all her concentration to make a graceful exit from the room. The brandy was rendering her body as pliable as sand.
When Carlotta found Peggy in Stevie's chamber, she was reciting a story to him.
“It's time I help yer mama get ready for bed, lad,” Peggy said. “I'll be back in a jiffy.”
Carlotta moved to Stevie's bed and sat on its edge, reaching out to stroke the golden hair from his forehead. “Good night, my lamb. I hope it's been a happy day for you.”
He answered with a smile. “Now I've got a father like the other lads. Do you think Uncle James will allow me to call him Papa?”
And replace Stephen
? she thought with a deep sadness. Then she remembered James telling her how difficult not having a father—like the other lads—had been.
James understands how Stevie feels
. “You'll have to ask him, love,” she said as she bent to kiss him.
When she got to her chamber, Peggy had lain out a fine silken shift. “It's rather cold tonight, Peggy. I believe I'll wear the purple I most frequently wear.”
“But madam! I mean, my lady! 'Tis yer wedding night! Ye can't wear that purple. It's no better than a horse blanket!”
“I assure you, his lordship won't mind.”
Peggy's eyes narrowed. “Oh, I sees. Very well, me lady.”
What she
saw
, Carlotta realized with a blush, was that the shift would soon be removed.
The maid put up the silk shift, then assisted her mistress into the purple. “Now let's brush out yer hair. His lordship is bound to want to run his fingers through it.”
Carlotta sat before the mirror, a smug look on her face, as Peggy removed her hairpins and began to brush out Carlotta's hair.
“I'm so happy ye've married Lord Rutledge. I just hope I can remember to call ye me lady.”
“You will, especially after we get to Yarmouth.”
Peggy ran the mother-of-pearl brush through Carlotta's hair, but her glance darted to the looking glass and her mistress's eyes reflected there. “When do we leave?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Carlotta said.
“So soon?”
Carlotta nodded.
Peggy cleared her throat. “Does . . . does Jeremy also go to Yarmouth?”
“I believe he will. Just today Lord Rutledge told Stevie he would now be a master to Jeremy.”
Peggy's eyes brightened.
Was Peggy attracted to the groom? The more she thought on it, the more Carlotta realized how similar the two were in age as well as background. And Peggy, with her blond hair and neat little figure, was a taking little thing, to be sure. Jeremy, who was ruggedly handsome in his own right, was bound to return her ardor.
As Peggy set down the brush, Carlotta turned to her. “I beg that you get my volume of
Kubla Kahn
from the library.”
“Ye are going to read on yer wedding night?”
Carlotta smiled. “I am, indeed.”
Peggy sighed, her hands fastened to her hips and a scolding look on her face. “Ye forget I cannot read. How will I know which book is that Chinese-sounding name?”
“It's a slim blue leather.”
* * *
Later, when her husband joined her, Carlotta spoke first. She sat in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, candles burning at tables on each side of the bed to add to the illumination from the firelight. “Since you have no dressing room,” she said, “I won't object if you chose to disrobe in this chamber before coming to bed. I shall close my eyes.”
“There's no need,” he said teasingly, “I'm not modest.”
“But I am,” she protested, squeezing her eyes shut.
A moment later, she felt the mattress sink as he climbed on it from the other side of the bed. She turned to gaze at him and was startled to find that he wore no clothing on the upper portion of his body. She did not even want to think what he might—or might not—be wearing under the blankets!
Startling, too, was the unsettling effect his unclad shoulders had on her. It was so terribly intimate. And he was so very handsome. In the glow of the firelight, his skin was golden, with dark hair trailing down his well formed chest.
As he smiled wickedly at her, she grew even more uncomfortable.
“I perceive you took my advice and dressed for battle,” he said.
His levity released hers, and she began to giggle. “I do admire a man with a sense of humor.”
He shot her a devilish look. “Enough to kiss me goodnight?”
“I'm no innocent, Lord Rutledge,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely. “I know what damage a sweet kiss can do to a man.”
“Then your definition of damage must be different than mine.”
Thank goodness, he still spoke with a measure of jest! She shrugged. “I shall give you a chaste kiss,” she said as if she were talking to a small child, “then I plan to read poetry to you.”
“It is hoped the excitement does not overset me,” he said dryly.
She giggled as she leaned into him and quickly brushed her lips across his, then pulled away.
“What? No embrace?” he asked. “And I even plied you with brandy.”
“You wicked man.” She reached for the book at her bedside table. “Peggy was most puzzled when I asked her to fetch my volume of
Kubla Kahn
.”
“Simple-minded chit. You'll have to turn her out.” A smile feathering his lips, he crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back into the upholstered headboard.
She wanted to reach out and touch him, but such an action could lead to far more intimacy, and she was not ready for the physical side of this marriage. Yet.
“We'll share everything, James,” she said softly. “I'll learn to play your games, and you'll grow to love my poems. Long-married people, I am told, blend into one being. That will happen to us—after I become your true wife.”
* * *
The flippancy drained from his body. Dare he hope his bride meant those words? A wife. A family. That's all he had ever wanted from life. Could Carlotta's cold-as-marble exterior be hiding a woman of warmth and understanding? Only time would tell. He had promised her the rest of his life in which to find out.
“Tell me again, what poem we share tonight, my love.” he said.
“As you are a man, I thought we'd begin
Kubla Kahn
.”
“So, you're to entertain me?”
Her face scrunched with thought. “I prefer to think I'm assuring the melding of our interests.”
He grabbed the book from her and tossed it toward the foot of the bed. Then he began to recite:
She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellow'd to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies
. . .
“I'm afraid that's the only stanza I know,” he said apologetically.
“I shall always remember you reciting Lord Byron on our first night as man and wife,” she said wistfully. “Thank you, James. It was beautiful.”
“I have another,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “We have more in common than I imagined. Please, go on.”
“
She was a phantom of delight when first she gleam'd upon my sight.
”
Carlotta joined in:
“A lovely apparition, set to be a moment's ornament.
”
Together, they continued:
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like Twilight's, too, her dusk hair; But all things else about her drawn from May-time and the cheerful dawn; a dancing shape, an image gay, to haunt, to startle, and waylay.
“I love Wordsworth,” Carlotta declared when they finished.
“Though I greatly admire
Kubla Kahn
, it's the ditties about haunting women that I seem to commit to memory,” he said, shrugging.
Her lashes dropped. He'd made her uncomfortable. Did she realize he loved those poems of haunting women because they seemed written for her? Had he laid bare his heart too much?
He reached for
Kubla Kahn
and handed it to her. “Here. Lull me to sleep with your voice.”
She began to read, but it was not he whom Coleridge's words lulled to sleep. Soon, Carlotta's voice trailed off, and her eyelids dropped. He quietly removed the book from her limp grasp, then got up to blow out her candle.
Before he returned to bed, he also blew out the candle on his side of the bed, then he slipped beneath the covers again. In the darkness, he listened to his wife's steady breathing, the breathing of a sleeping person. Though their wedding night had not ended in the manner he would have preferred, he was not displeased. Together, he and Carlotta were laying the foundation of a respectful marriage.
As he lay there in the darkness, drinking in her lavender scent and listening to the soft whimper of her breath, he cursed himself for insisting they share a bed. How could he have been such a bloody fool as to think he could lie beside Carlotta and not want to take her in his arms and love her with all the passion and hunger so long bottled within him?
He ached from his need. If only he could just touch her . . . He raised up and put his weight on one elbow. Then he began to gently stroke the soft mound of her hips. She did not stir, but he did. He quickly realized what another grave mistake he had made. He could go mad with debilitating want of her.
He got up and strode across the carpet to the little bed beside the wall and flung himself onto it, pulling the blankets to cover his breeches—and his exploding need – need for the woman who had become his wife.
Chapter 13
The sun was high in the sky when Carlotta woke with a dull headache the next morning.
It must be the brandy
, she thought, pressing a hand to her throbbing forehead. Then she heard the sound of a man lightly snoring and spun around to see if Lord Rutledge was still beside her, though the sound of his breathing seemed more distant.
Her glance darted to the nearby chaise where he sprawled, sleeping soundly. For the life of her, she could not understand how he slept at all—he appeared so completely uncomfortable. His feet and the lower part of his legs hung off the chaise, which was far too small for him. Thankfully, the breeches he had worn to dinner the night before covered his lower torso. Her glance skimmed his bare upper torso. He had apparently rolled over on the only skimpy blanket he had. Since the fire had now gone cold, she shivered just looking at him.
She tried to remember falling asleep, but she could not. It suddenly occurred to her she must have fallen asleep while she read to him, while she was as close to him as two horses in tandem.
He must have picked up the book and blown out the candles.
When, then, had he decided against sharing her bed? Not that she objected, of course.
She looked at the clock on her mantle. 'Twas well past the time when Peggy normally woke her with a tray of steaming tea and toast. Carlotta smiled impishly. Of course, Peggy would be reluctant to come barreling in on the newlyweds.
From her seated position on the bed, Carlotta could see herself in the looking glass. The heavy purple gown looked wretched. And to think, she had always prided herself on her striking appearance! The only thing striking about her this morning was how devilishly unbecoming she looked. At least she could endeavor to make her hair presentable before waking her husband.
She came down off the bed and quietly seated herself in front of her dressing table and began to brush out her tussled hair. When it was smooth and glossy, she attempted to arrange it attractively, but she was hopeless without Peggy. She merely pushed combs into the sides.
That will just have to do!
She dabbed lavender scent on her neck, then stood and turned to gaze at her sleeping husband.
As ghastly as she looked, she would now have to wake him. She was concerned over his discomfort.
She moved to the chaise, bent down, and gently nudged him. “James, dearest,” she whispered softly, “please move to the bed where you'll be more comfortable.”