Love With the Proper Husband (19 page)

Nothing more than a figment of her overwrought imagination.

The door was wood and brass-trimmed and just a door. There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Not from Marcus. Not from herself.

She squared her shoulders, grasped the door handle firmly, and pulled it open. Madame, but more Colette, had well prepared her for what was to come tonight. She was nervous, of course; that was to be expected. But she absolutely was not afraid. Indeed she was, well, if not eager exactly, at least intrigued. She stepped into the dressing room. The door to his room was ajar.

“Marcus?” She waited a moment, then slowly pushed his door open.

His room was bigger than hers although not substantially so. A lamp was lit on a table between two comfortable-looking chairs arranged before a fireplace, and cast a dim, comforting glow. There was an armoire on one wall and a clothespress on the opposite side of the room. The furniture was dark and heavy, and even in the faint light glowed with polishing. There was the vaguest scent of lemon oil in the air and something familiar she couldn’t quite place. All in all, it was a decidedly male room. At last her gaze drifted to the bed. To the place of her downfall. Her ruin. Nonsense. It was just a bed, as the door was just a door, and an exceedingly old bed at that. Probably more than a hundred years or so. There was nothing frightening about an old piece of furniture. Regardless of how many Pennington brides had been deflowered there. She pushed the thought firmly from her mind and strode to the bed. It was massive and solid in appearance, with four posters, too thick to encircle with her hands, rising upward to meet a carved wood frame. Heavy velvet hangings draped down from the canopy. The bed had a presence all its own and dominated the room as it now dominated her thoughts.

Still, the closer she came, the less overwhelming it seemed. She trailed her fingers lightly over the silken coverlet, noting an overstuffed feather bed lay beneath it. It wasn’t the least bit intimidating. In fact, the bed now looked rather comfortable. Welcoming, even. Possibly inviting. It was probably some sort of trick to get past her defenses. Still, if a woman was about to lose her virginity, comfort was certainly to be wished for.

She glanced toward the door. If Marcus was coming, surely he would be here by now. The oddest touch of indignation seized her. How could he do this to her?

She scrambled up onto the bed with some difficulty. It was an exceptionally high bed, and she was too impatient to look for bed steps, although Marcus was tall enough that he certainly wouldn’t need them. She flung herself forward and sank into the mattress face-first. Gwen rolled over, sat up, and spread her lace-trimmed nightrail around her. The gown was a gift from Colette and quite the nicest thing she had owned in years. Indeed, even the dress she’d worn today was borrowed. She would have to indulge in some serious purchases now that she had the funds. She surveyed the room and grinned. She could quite get used to this business of being a wealthy countess. And get used to this bed as well. She lay back and stared at the canopy above. This was the most comfortable bed she’d ever lain on. Possibly the most comfortable bed in the world. The mattress enveloped her in a soft, cushiony caress. Quite delightful.

How much more delightful would it be with Marcus by my side?

The thought was not as startling as the realization that she really wasn’t reluctant to share Marcus’s bed, this bed, and everything that entailed. In truth, thanks to her friends, and the nature of the man she was just beginning to know, she’d started to, well, look forward to it. At least a bit. Now all she needed was the gentleman in question.

She struggled to sit up but seemed to sink rather than rise, the feather bed an omnipotent beast threatening to pull her back into its depths like the sea sucking down a drowning man. She huffed with annoyance. Apparently this bed meant to keep its victims as long as possible. Getting out was as difficult as getting in. She managed to scoot to the edge of the mattress and dangled her slipper-shod feet over the side. As much as she knew the drop to the floor was probably no more than a foot, she was not eager to take the plunge.

“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Marcus’s voice sounded from the door. Gwen started at the sound and promptly slid off the side of the bed. She grabbed at the covers to stop her fall but succeeded in nothing more than pulling everything down with her. She landed with a soft thud. The silken coverlet drifted over her head.

“Are you all right?” Marcus’s voice drew closer.

“Quite.” She wasn’t the least bit all right. Her bottom stung a little. Worse, she was mortified. What must he think, finding her in his room? In his bed?

“Would you like some assistance?” His tone was casual, as if he were offering to do nothing more than help her from a carriage, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“No,” she said in her haughtiest manner. “It is most kind of you to offer, though.”

She didn’t want his help, and she had no desire to pull the cover off her head and face him. She’d rather sit there pretending nothing was wrong than see the amusement in his green eyes. Besides, he was probably thinking all sorts of dreadful things about her character and her lapses in judgment, and beyond that, he’d ask why she was in his room in the first place. An excellent question for which she had no particular answer.

She pulled her hand free of the fabric and waved at him. “Do not feel obligated to remain here on my account. Feel free to go about your business. You may leave if you wish.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He chuckled. “This is, after all, my room.”

A moment later she felt him settle onto the floor beside her. This was getting more absurd by the moment. She would have to do something.

There were only two choices. She could pull off the cover and make some sort of inept excuse as to why she was on his bed. Or she could pretend she was not sitting on the floor, under a coverlet, with only her arm visible.

“So,” she said brightly, deciding delusion was better than honesty. Now that her arm was exposed, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it except wave it casually. She must look like a complete lunatic. This whole thing was so annoyingly awkward. And humiliating. “How is Lord Berkley tonight?”

“Excellent. May I ask you a question?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I see.” He paused, and she could well envision the grin on his face. “Well, that does pose a bit of a dilemma, then, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t see why.”

“You’re right.” He laughed. “This is delightful. I never thought I’d be spending my wedding night sitting on the floor beside a heap of bedclothes and a disembodied arm. It will be an excellent story to tell our children one day.”

“You shall not tell a single soul about this, Marcus,” she snapped. “Or I shall—”

“You shall what?” He caught her hand and pressed his lips against it. A thrill of excitement shot up her arm.

She heaved a resigned sigh. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“That would not be nearly as much fun.” He paused, no doubt trying to hold back laughter. “Not like, say, watching you succumb to the effects of brandy.”

“I shall never drink brandy again.” She pulled off the cover and grimaced. “And I should be most grateful if you took it upon yourself to make certain I don’t.”

“Perhaps we should have included it in the wedding vows.”

She cast him a grudging smile. “That would have been most appreciated.”

He laughed, leaned close, and brushed his lips against hers. Then he got to his feet, grabbed her hands, and pulled her up to join him. The coverlet fell to the floor. Marcus’s gaze slipped over her in a slow, deliberate manner, as much a caress as if he’d touched her. Her gown covered her from neck to toe but she had not realized before quite how sheer the material was. And well appreciated, judging by the look in her husband’s eye. She shivered with anticipation.

“Are you cold?” His hands slipped from hers, and his fingers trailed lightly, absently over her forearms. His touch was warm through the light fabric.

“No. I am really rather warm.” She met his gaze and held her breath. Would he kiss her now?

There was no doubt in her mind that he wanted to. She could see it in his eyes and wondered what he saw in hers. And what she wanted him to see.

He stared down at her for a long moment, then swiftly twirled her around and drew her back against his chest.

“What are you doing?”

“Call it an experiment of a scientific nature.” He wrapped his arms around her. “The essence of scientific experimentation is repetition. I am repeating an experiment begun today. The continuation of the one we started this afternoon.”

“I had no idea you had an interest in science.”

“I have an interest in all sorts of things,” he said loftily. He rested his chin on the top of her head and tightened his embrace. It was quite, quite lovely.

“I’m trying to determine if indeed it is easier, at times, to talk to someone without facing them. Do you mind?”

“No,” she said cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Reggie thinks I’m in love.”

Her breath caught. “Oh?”

“I have never been in love although I have come exceedingly close on two occasions. Both times, the ladies involved developed interests elsewhere.”

“I see.” She drew a deep breath. If he could be honest, so could she. At least about this.

“Everyone I’ve ever cared for has left, through death or their own pursuits. Except Madames Freneau and de Chabot, of course.”

He was silent for a long moment. “You have not had an easy time of it.”

“I could have had a much easier time of it had I been, I don’t know, wiser, I suppose.” She relaxed against him. It was indeed remarkably easy to talk freely when one was not face-to-face. Especially with the comfort of a man’s arms around you. “I have a horrid tendency to believe I can solve my problems by running from them.”

“Can you?”

She shook her head. “No. If I have learned nothing else, I have learned that.”

“Am I a problem?” His voice was low, intense.

“I haven’t decided,” she said lightly.

He spun her around and pulled her into his arms. “And when will you make that decision, Miss Townsend?”

“I’m not sure.” She raised her chin and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Perhaps you can help me decide, Lord Pennington.”

He raised a brow. “And how will I do that?”

She reached upward and touched her lips to his. He didn’t move, and she pressed her lips harder against his. He didn’t so much as twitch. This was pleasant, but she knew full well there should be a great deal more happening beyond the simple touching of lips. Certainly there was a great deal more happening when he had kissed her. Of course, brandy had been involved then. Was she doing this wrong? She remembered something Colette had mentioned, and while it had sounded distasteful at the time, it seemed rather exciting now. She opened her mouth and flicked her tongue over his lips.

“What was that?” He grabbed her shoulders and thrust her away from him. She winced. “You didn’t like it.”

“Oh no, I liked it. I liked it quite lot,” he said quickly. “I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.

“I knew this was a mistake.” She pulled out of his grasp and moved out of reach. “Do you think I’

m a tart now?”

He smiled wryly. “I very much fear you aren’t.”

“Would you prefer I was a tart, then?”

“It would certainly make this easier,” he murmured.

“For both of us.” She wrapped her arms around herself and drew her brows together. “I have never done this before, you know, and you could be a little more understanding.”

His mouth dropped open and he stared. “I was being understanding. For God’s sakes, I was being bloody restrained. I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want to go too quickly or—”

“There’s no fear of that now, is there?” She cast her gaze toward the ceiling. “I’m not a child, Marcus, I do know what to expect.”

“Do you?” His brows drew together skeptically.

“I’ve been thoroughly instructed on precisely what will happen,” she said in a haughty manner.

“And how to respond.”

“Have you indeed.” His voice was choked as if he was struggling to keep back anger. Or laughter.

“And what”—he could barely get out the words—“do you expect? Precisely.”

She thought for a moment. “First, you are supposed to kiss me, quite a lot really, and not just on the mouth, until my knees are weak and I melt against you.”

“Until your knees are weak, you say?” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the bedpost. “I think I can manage that. Then what?”

“Well…” She paused to gather her courage and forced an unconcerned note to her voice. “Then you should sweep me into your arms and carry me to your bed.”

“Seems a bit premature to me.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Are you certain you haven’t left something out?”

“I don’t think—”

“I know.” He aimed his finger at her. “Your clothes. You’ve forgotten all about them. At some point we need to take them off, and mine as well.”

“I don’t think Madame de Chabot ever mentioned clothes. Perhaps she assumed we would already be disrobed?”

“Of course.” He smacked his forehead with his palm. “That’s the answer. I should have thought of that myself.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied him. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Never.” His voice was solemn, and she didn’t trust him for a moment. “Please, do go on. After I carry you to the bed?”

“Then there is more kissing and a great deal of…well…you know…whatever.” She glared and planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t know why I am telling you this. No doubt you know far more than I what happens next.”

“No doubt.” He studied her with ill-concealed amusement. “You have given this a great deal of thought, haven’t you?”

She sighed. “I have thought of little else.”

“As have I.” His voice was low and echoed deep inside her. “But”—he shook his head—“while the steps you have detailed are adequate, I’m not certain they’re entirely to my liking.”