Candice Hern (20 page)

It was over.

She was finally a wife.

P
ru was oddly reluctant for it to be over. She could not explain it, but she felt as though there was something more. But apparently not, because Nicholas rolled off her and onto his back.

“Too much to drink,” he muttered. “Sorry, Pru. Was it too terrible for you?”

She shook her head. Oh, no. Not terrible at all.

“Oh, bloody hell.” His head fell to one side, and he was almost instantly asleep, snoring softly.

How could he sleep after all that?

Pru lay there slightly bemused, and smiled. She was his wife in truth now. A real wife. She was rather proud of herself. She had overcome all her maidenly fears and allowed him to see her naked, to kiss her and touch her in ways she had never imagined. And she had survived every embar
rassing moment. She had not died. Instead, she felt more alive than ever.

Surely he would not have done all those things to her if he had not found her desirable. His passion had been undeniable. He’d called her “sweetheart” and said she was perfect. She would cherish those words forever. If he truly desired her, and she had to believe he did, then she had hopes that someday he would grow to love her as well.

For now, it was enough to have finally reached this point in their marriage. Pru was feeling prouder and braver than ever before in her life. She was ready and eager to enter into this new phase of their relationship. She could hardly wait for the next time, though she really would prefer to have the candles snuffed. She wasn’t that brave yet.

It had all been rather amazing, and not at all what she’d expected. She supposed one could not really know what to expect when one had never done it before. But the physical sensations had been quite extraordinary. Stunning, in fact. She was a bit embarrassed at her own physical reactions, and how she’d been unable to control them.

Her body still tingled all over, more so in certain parts, and she could not shake the feeling that she had missed something, that there should have been more. Perhaps, in her ignorance, she had not done something she should have done to make the act complete.

Could that be why he groaned at the end, as though in pain? Or why he cursed when he rolled
off her? Was he disappointed that she hadn’t known what to do?

She would do better next time, she was sure. At least she would know what was going to happen and she would not be as nervous. There would not be so much pain again, either. A maidenhood could only be broken once, thank heaven, though she had to admit the pain had receded rather quickly and what happened afterward had been quite pleasant. More than pleasant. Much more.

There was still a bit of soreness, and that feeling of having been stretched. And something else.

She needed to use the chamber pot. Desperately. She wriggled slightly and had to clench her inner muscles when the need to relieve herself threatened to overtake her.

Dear God, what should she do?

The candle was still burning, and she allowed her eyes to take in the room. She’d been so nervous, she had never even looked around her to see what it was like. It was similar to her own, though somehow more masculine. There was a screen in the corner, and she knew there would be a chamber pot behind it, or in the cabinet beside the bed.

But she could never in a million years have used it. What if he woke later and needed to use it himself? Besides, she could not possibly use it while Nicholas was in the same room. Even if he was asleep. She turned on the pillow to look at him.

His head was tilted away from hers, and one
hand was curled up beneath his chin. But for the snoring, he looked quite boyish.

Her eyes darted again to the screen. She really had to go. Badly. But what if he woke up and heard what she was doing? She would die. She would really and truly die of humiliation.

There was only one solution. She had to return to her own room.

She inched to the edge of the bed, keeping her eyes on Nicholas the whole time. He did not stir. She slowly and quietly sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and very carefully rose to her feet, trying her best not to disturb him.

She stood for a moment, closed her eyes, and simply basked in the wonder of it all—the changes in her body, the change in the way she felt about her body, the way he’d made her feel. “Perfect,” he’d said. She hunched her shoulders and twisted her head a bit, sniffing the skin at her shoulder and all down her arm, at last bringing both hands to her face and breathing deeply. She wanted to inhale the essence of him that still clung to her body, to intensify the sensual memory of the touch and taste and smell of him.

She turned to make certain he had not woken, and gasped at what she saw. There was a very messy streak of red on the white sheets. Was it
her
blood? She looked down and saw similar streaks along the insides of her thighs. It
was
her blood, and oh, my God, she had ruined his sheets. She wanted to groan but was afraid of waking him.
What would he think of her? What would the servants think when they laundered the sheets?

How perfectly mortifying.

The only way she could think of to redeem the situation at all was to go to her room, clean herself up, then return to his bed and lie on top of the stains so he would not see them. She would put on her prettiest lace nightgown—the same one she’d worn in wretched solitude on her wedding night—and sleep beside him. If she could sleep.

Surely Nicholas would not blame her for ruining his sheets. He’d known she was a virgin. But she was a real wife now, and proud of it. To be sure, she had a lot more to learn, and she would do so, if he was willing to teach her. But at least, and at last, she had done this amazing thing, and would never be a pathetic spinster ever again.

In the meantime, she was desperate for the chamber pot. She gathered up her clothes from the floor, clutched them to her naked body, and hurried from the room.

She woke when sunlight from a gap in the curtains fell across her face. Her eyes flew open when a memory of last night burst vividly upon her mind. But something was wrong.

She was in her own bed in her own room.

Damn and blast.

Pru sat up, and as she came more fully awake she remembered what had happened. She had returned to her room, thanking heaven and all the
saints that she had not run smack into Bartholomew in the corridor. After taking care of the most urgent business, she had cleaned herself and donned her best lace nightgown. But she had been a little sore, and she remembered sitting down on the bed for a moment. And then she had lain back and curled on her side, thinking she would lie still for a few moments, to compose herself and her tumultuous thoughts before returning to Nicholas.

She ought to have known she would fall asleep.

Stupid, stupid girl. Now he would wake to find her gone and with embarrassingly ruined sheets to remind him of what had happened. How would she ever be able to face him at breakfast? Especially if Bartholomew was there.

Heavens, why did it all have to be so mortifying? She was quite certain other wives did not behave so foolishly. Pru promised herself that she would work hard to overcome her embarrassment over the details of physical intimacy. It was to be a part of her life now, as a true wife to Nicholas, and she looked forward to it. But she must not face every night with such maidenly self-consciousness. Better to remember that he had called her “perfect” and go to him with unashamed desire.

If only he would snuff the candle next time.

She dressed and went downstairs for breakfast, which was routinely set out in the dining room, now that the Crimson Ladies had a work space in the new offices. Neither Nicholas nor Bartholomew
was there. Her father-in-law was generally an early riser, but they had all been out late. In fact, she was fairly certain he had not yet returned home when she had dashed naked through the corridor last night.

Both men were no doubt sleeping late. She was almost glad not to have to face Nicholas just yet. But at the same time, she was anxious to have him take her in his arms again, to kiss her again, to make love to her again. Perhaps in the end, her desires would overcome her idiotic bashfulness and embarrassment.

She could not afford to wait for Nicholas to come downstairs, though, because she really had to get to the
Cabinet
offices. The new issue should have been distributed overnight, and she needed to make sure nothing had gone amiss. And the new engravings were due to arrive this morning, which meant the Crimson Ladies would be scheduled to work today. It was going to be a busy day.

She finished her breakfast and went into the hallway. She’d left her bonnet on the hall table, and watched in the mirror above as she put it on, adjusted it, and tied the ribbons beneath her chin. She took a moment to study her face. Did she look any different this morning? Would all the world be able to see that her life had changed drastically in one day, that she was no longer a maiden, that she was a wife in every sense of the word?

She looked just the same as always. But when a secret smile crept across her face, she could swear there was a new sparkle in her eyes.

Nick stared down at the rumpled sheets and the rather alarming red stain.

Good Lord, what had he done?

He’d slept like the dead—thanks to the drink—and had not thought it odd when he woke to find himself alone in his own bed. Until his muddled brain reminded him of what had happened. And now the results of last night’s business stared him in the face.

He’d hurt her—ripped her to shreds, by the look of it—and she had fled.

Damnation.

He’d been angry about losing so much money, and had drunk too much wine and champagne and anything else that had come within his reach. And the drink had driven him to an irrational jealousy. More than all that, Pru had simply been irresistible. She had looked so beautiful, so captivating, he had not been able to keep his hands off her. And once he’d taken the first step, he hadn’t been able to stop. He ought to have been able to resist the urge. He ought to have been able to keep his promise, to himself and to Pru. But the drink had pushed him over the edge. Instead of keeping to his plan to take things slowly, he had taken a great deal more. It had been an act of possession, marking her as his own. And he was profoundly ashamed for it.

He had caused her pain and frightened her away. He had tried to be gentle, but his desire for
her—uninhibited by the drink—had taken away his control. He had botched it quite thoroughly.

He vaguely recalled asking her afterward if he’d hurt her badly. She had not responded, and that had been answer enough. He had hurt her. He stared down at the evidence of it.

A glimmer of gold caught his eye. One of Pru’s combs lay on the floor beside the bed. He remembered removing them from her hair. When he’d watched all that glorious, wild hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back and into his hands, he’d been a lost man.

Nick stooped to pick it up. There was nothing else of hers left behind. Except for the blood, of course. She had apparently collected her things and fled for her life.

He had moved too fast, wanting her for himself and not caring about her needs. But she had said yes when he asked if he could make her his own. He had pressured her, though, seduced her, and no doubt she knew he would not have easily accepted a rejection. And so Nick had taken what he wanted, and she silently had allowed him to do so.

Had he taken her against her will? Nick did not think so, even though she had been shaking like a leaf. She admitted to being nervous. Not with words. He could not recall that she had spoken a single word throughout. But she had not fought him, had not denied him, had in fact allowed him to arouse her. And she had responded.

Good Lord, she had looked so lovely, standing
there with her apricot curls floating about her and her perfect little body displayed to him for the first time. He had been reminded of all those scoundrels ogling her at the ball. But none of them would ever see her like this, he thought, and he had wanted to claim her as his own.

Had he been too rough? Is that why there was so much blood? He had been especially conscious of her virginity, though, and thought he had been as gentle as possible. He was fairly certain the drink hadn’t clouded his mind on that point. He’d been very much aware of her, had tried to make her ready, and thought he had done so. Her pain, though, had been obvious. Perhaps it was because she was so small. In any case, he felt a great deal of shame and remorse for hurting her so badly.

Later on, when her body seemed to have recovered from the initial pain of entry and adjusted itself to his invasion, Pru had seemed to become aroused again. She moved with him, exciting him until he could bear it no more. He felt a bit guilty for not taking more time and allowing her to reach climax. But she had suffered such pain, it had seemed unlikely she would be able to attain full release this time. But next time…

Next time? Already he was thinking how he’d like to repeat the performance again tonight and every night thereafter. But he had been selfish enough already. He must think of Pru for once. He had not, after all, waited until she was ready. He had taken her too soon. He would give her time to
heal, physically and emotionally, before imposing upon her again.

This time, Nick really would wait for her to be ready.

He washed and dressed quickly, hoping to catch Pru downstairs at breakfast, but found she had already left for the
Cabinet
offices. And so he poured himself a cup of coffee, picked up the morning newspaper, and sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast.

Sometime later, he heard the front door open. Nick rose from his chair and stepped into the hall, hoping Pru had come back for something. He really wanted to speak with her.

But it was Nick’s father who stood in the hallway, removing his hat and gloves. He was still in evening dress.

“Hullo, Nick.”

“Father? You are just now coming home? You have been out all night?”

Bartholomew’s brows rose in question. “What? Are you going to scold me for coming home so late? Honestly, Nick, you are like an old woman sometimes. When did you become so conventional?”