Amy Lake (11 page)

Having a wife was different from having a mistress, he decided. Mistresses needed to be wooed and cosseted, plied with gifts and attention . . .  Well, not Lady Pamela, of course, but she was the exception. The earl had enjoyed the favors of several women before Pam, and each of them had tried to demand that he prove his devotion in ever new–and costly–ways.

But now–a wife. You could do as you pleased with a wife, could you not?  Everything, or nothing at all. The earl considered how he might wish to arrange their days at Wrensmoor, and how long he would stay before returning to London. Perhaps he would tire of his new wife quickly. He gazed out the window, thinking again of the various liaisons he had enjoyed over the years. Tiring of a woman?  It was something to be sought after, not delayed. For, if one did not tire of her, if one remained smitten . . .

He would not be like Frederick, thought Edward. He would not love his wife.

He should, therefore–and why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?–bed Claire as often as possible for the next few weeks. She would soon be breeding, and he could resume his life–with a new mistress–in town.  It was the perfect arrangement.

He glanced at Claire again. Although she had changed into a traveling gown after the wedding, she was still wearing his necklace. The gems flashed, shifting and catching the light with the rise and fall of her breathing. He became acutely aware of the luscious roundness of her breasts, encased in smooth silk. He wondered if she was uncomfortable, sleeping upright like that in a carriage.

Almost before he realized what he was doing, Edward had moved to sit beside his wife. Being taller than she, he now had an enticing view of her
décolletage
, and his fingertips traced the contours of her breasts above the taut fabric. Claire stirred, and Edward could smell the fragrance of roses in her hair. He inhaled deeply. He noticed that one of the pins holding her curls in place was loose, and he pulled it out. A ringlet of black satin hair tumbled almost to her waist. He pulled out a second pin, and a third.

“Hmm?”  A sleepy murmur came from his wife, and without thinking Edward bent down to kiss her softly. Claire’s arms crept around his neck, and she returned his kiss with fervor. Edward was lost. He knew that lovemaking in a moving carriage was a tricky business, but if Claire was willing, he was in no mood to resist. They were in an awkward position, however, so he eased her down onto the cushions and began to unfasten the buttons to his trousers.

His headache had completely disappeared.

“My lord!”

His wife, who mere moments ago had been kissing him eagerly, was blushing furiously and struggling to sit up. Belatedly Edward realized that only now was she truly awake.

“Let me up!”  She squirmed frantically underneath him, and the feel of her body moving against his did nothing to restore his self-control.

“We’re married now, if you recall,” he told her, whispering hoarsely into her ear. “You no longer need withhold yourself from me.”  The earl was very aroused, and he had no experience of being refused by a woman.

“Oh!” exclaimed Claire, and she pushed against his chest with both hands.

He fell, hard, onto the floor of the carriage, and was thankful for the soft carpet. If the little minx thought that he would stop now–!  The blood surged through his veins, and he reached up for his wife.  Down she came in a cascade of silk skirts and raven hair.

“Lord Tremayne!”

“My name is
Edward
,” groaned the earl, rolling over to pin her beneath him. He kissed her hungrily and his hands moved first over her breasts, then to the back of her gown. Claire was struggling against him, and he couldn’t manage the row of tiny pearl buttons with one hand. Edward thought to tear off the dress; he had done this before–on more than one occasion, in fact–but only when the lady in question was as eager as he to see her garment removed. He reached up to grasp the fabric of the gown’s bodice–

Claire shuddered in pain.

–and he rolled away from her, appalled at what he had done. Her shoulder–good heavens, how could he have forgotten it?  A small spot of blood now stained the lace of her right sleeve. Claire’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but he could see tears wetting her lashes.

“Claire, oh, my dear, I am sorry.”

She tried to sit up on the floor of the carriage. He reached to help her, but she waved him away.

“Let me see your shoulder,” he said.

Claire looked at him numbly but said nothing, and he took that for acquiescence.  Moving to sit beside her, he gently eased the fabric of her right sleeve away from the injured site. Claire remained silent, but he could feel her flinch, and he cursed himself under his breath. Most of the injury was well healed, but a small area had broken open again, and it oozed blood. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it gently against her skin.

Claire said something that the earl did not catch.

“Shh,” he answered, and kissed the top of her head.

“No, my lord,” she said in a stronger voice. “Let me speak. I will not withhold myself from you, even in a carriage. That was not my intention. But in the future you will give me some notice of your designs. Surely you knew you were wedding a maid and not a whore ready for dossing at the toss of a skirt.” 

Edward felt even further stricken. Never again, he vowed, would his wife suffer any hurt at his hands. He helped her back onto the carriage seat, and she leaned against the cushions with a sigh. Several minutes passed in silence, the carriage rolling smoothly through the Kentish countryside, and then Claire burst into tears. Edward gathered her into his arms, and she remained there for the next hour and a half, until they reached the Greyboars Inn, where they were to have supper.

* * * *

“Are we near to Wrensmoor?” asked Claire, warming herself in front of the inn’s massive fireplace. It was a cozy room, and the smells wafting from the kitchen boded well for their coming meal. The earl had brought her a glass of wine, and she sipped it slowly.

“It is a morning’s journey only,” replied her husband.

Claire knew he was watching her carefully. Perhaps he was waiting to see if she would swoon from his rough usage in the carriage. But he need not have worried. The Earl of Ketrick was still the handsomest and most virile man she had ever met, and it was the unexpectedness of his advances, not the advances themselves, that had led to her protest. If he had but given her a chance to awaken fully and collect her wits–well, she would have given him everything he asked for, and freely.

Perhaps she should tell him so, thought Claire–or, perhaps not. Where his wife was concerned, a man might prefer a shy maid to a wanton. Claire was not entirely naive concerning the . . . activities . . . between a husband and wife in the bedchamber, but she was unclear about certain aspects of the male point of view. No doubt the situation was different with a mistress, but would a husband expect his wife to enjoy lovemaking?  Or would he be horrified to find her . . . enthusiastic?  Claire had no idea.

It would probably be best, she decided, not to appear overly eager. The well-bred ladies of her acquaintance had often described marital relations as an unpleasant duty, and that might very well be what the earl would expect of her–simply that she would do her duty. Claire took another sip of wine and was surprised to find the glass empty. She was feeling warm and pleasantly relaxed, and she smiled up at the earl as he brought her more wine.

“Do you always stay the night at this inn?”

“If I am traveling alone, on Achilles, I can reach the estate by mid-afternoon. But we had a late start, and in company–”

Edward broke off, and Claire was left to wonder  what company he might mean. Was he used to staying at the Greyboars Inn with Pamela Sinclair?  Did the innkeeper and his wife wonder about the new lady at his side?  He had referred to her as his countess, but perhaps he had done the same with his mistresses. Claire took a deep breath, feeling herself start to tremble.

“I will have your supper brought up to the room,” said the earl, looking at her with concern.

“I am quite fine here, thank you.”

“Do not argue with your husband, my love,” said Lord Tremayne, and without further ado, he took her arm and led her upstairs.

* * * *

The supper was simple and delicious; a small roasted hen and side dishes of potatoes Anna and a cold soup. Edward had ordered another bottle of wine, and Claire was finding that her husband was a perfectly comfortable person with whom to converse.

“No, ’twas only Frederick and myself,” he was saying, in response to her last question. “Our mother died when we were children, and my father when I was fifteen and Frederick–”  Edward hesitated for a moment. “Frederick was nineteen when he became earl.”

So her husband had no one else in his immediate family. Claire knew what it was like to lose one’s parents at an early age, but at least she had Jody.

“My brother is looking forward to seeing Wrensmoor Park,” she told Edward. “He has great hopes for your stables there.”  Jody had informed her, with all the high-minded maturity of his fifteen years, that he would not come to the earl’s country estate until Claire was settled in for some weeks with her new husband. Her normally amiable brother was inflexible on this point, telling Claire he would come to Wrensmoor “when I feel up to the travel.”

“Jody is welcome to stay at Wrensmoor as often and as long as he wishes, but we should, perhaps, be discussing his education as well. Does he wish to attend Eton?”

My goodness. In the flurry of wedding preparations Claire had entirely forgotten the opportunities that might be opening for Jody.

“I will ask him, my lord,” said Claire, giving Edward a wide smile. She had noticed this evening that each time she smiled at her husband, something odd happened–some subtle shift in his posture, she thought, almost as if he flinched. She didn’t know why he should flinch, or why she should enjoy seeing it, but she did, and so she had been smiling at the earl more and more often.

“‘I will ask him, Edward,’” said Edward.

* * * *

By the end of supper Claire had consumed several glasses of wine. The earl suspected that the quantity was considerably more than she was accustomed to, and although he wasn’t convinced that his wife was flirting with him, she
was
smiling rather often. It was having a pronounced effect on his composure. His idea from the beginning had been to share the room–and the bed–with Claire. They were married, after all, even if the innkeeper’s wife seemed disinclined to believe it, and his bride was his to take whenever he wished. After his less-than-gentlemanly behavior in the carriage, however, Edward decided that their wedding night should be postponed until they reached Wrensmoor.

But now . . . now he wasn’t sure what to think. The room was, of course, the best at Greyboars Inn. Claire was smiling and talking to him in all good humor. The fire was blazing, the chamber was warm, the bed looked comfortable and–with any luck–not prone to squeaks.

She was his, and he could bed her whenever he wished.

“My lord . . . Edward. There seems to be a bit of a tangle. Could you assist me?”  Claire was sitting in front of the fire removing  pins from her hair. She indicated the hairbrush next to her, and Edward began to pull it through her hair.

“Ouch,” said Claire.

“Sorry,” said Edward.

“Here, give it back to me. Have you never brushed a woman’s hair before?”  His wife was laughing.

He watched as she combed out the end of each ringlet, and then advanced upwards through the mass of glossy black curls. When she reached the top and nearly the whole had been tamed, he took the hairbrush back. Hair crackled and shone in the firelight, and he brushed the length of it, over and over. He then ran his fingers through it, marveling at the silky feel.

“You’ll just tangle it all up again,” Claire protested.

“No I won’t,” said Edward, and he lifted a handful of the satiny stuff to his face, inhaling the fragrance of roses. He tugged on it, very gently.

“My lord?”

“Come here.”  The earl pulled her onto his lap. He kissed the nape of her neck and whispered into her ear, “I am giving you fair warning this time. I am going to help you out of this gown.”

“Hmm.”  Claire said nothing else, and Edward began, slowly, to unfasten each tiny button at the back of her dress. There appeared to be hundreds of them, and he fumbled often, distracted by the sight of the thin chemise and her smooth skin underneath. His left hand strayed from its task, and he cupped the swell of one breast. Claire was trembling, and his urgency and need grew. When, after what seemed like an hour, he had unbuttoned her to the waist, he eased the dress from her shoulders. Claire stood and let the gown fall to the floor, her curves beneath her chemise outlined by the firelight.  He reached for her–

Then he saw the blood on the strap of her undergarment. His breath caught hard in his chest. He had known it would be there, expected it, but even so it was a shock. He looked up at his wife, wondering if she was in any pain.

Claire was biting her lip and watching him, her silver-grey eyes those of an untouched miss, nervous yet trusting. Her hair fell around her shoulders, long and black and satiny. The chemise did nothing to obscure the lines of her body, thought Edward–the hand-span waist, her long, slender legs, her voluptuous breasts. He could hardly take his eyes from her.

Then, for a moment, the image of Melissa–tiny, red-haired Melissa–came to his mind. He saw her delicate face with its dusting of freckles, her slim, almost boyish figure–and Edward  saw, too, the sea of blood that had ended her life.

The earl lifted his wife into his arms and carried her to the bed. He lay down next to her and held her until her breathing was deep and regular and he was sure she was no longer awake. She had not spoken, and for a long time Edward did not sleep.

?Chapter Seven

“H’yah!” 

Claire heard the earl shouting, and the carriage slowed to a halt. Her husband–who had been riding ahead–now brought Achilles to the window of the coach, the stallion offering her a friendly nicker.  She craned her neck to see Edward’s face, and although it was partially obscured by the bright sunlight at his back, she could tell he was avoiding her gaze.