Amy Lake (13 page)

 “Milady?”

The young girl she had spoken to earlier scratched at the half-open door and came into the room.

“Yes, Constance?” said Claire.

“The master said as how’s you’re to have a bath when you wants and Mrs. McLeevy says you needs t’eat so, um, your pardon, milady, I’m just wondering which you’ll be wantin’ first.” 

Mrs. McLeevy was here at Wrensmoor?  That was odd, thought Claire, but perhaps this was Lord Tremayne’s way of settling the ongoing fireworks in the London kitchen. Mrs. Huppins had proclaimed herself well able to take care of all the cooking required at Tremayne House, thank you very much, and two days ago the normally amiable Mrs. McLeevy had become so aggravated as to declare that she believed
her
cinnamon rolls to be superior to Mrs. Huppins’s sticky buns.

It was kind of the earl to keep the couple on, and Claire made a mental note to thank him.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders. Her traveling gown had been clean this morning, but it was now covered in road dust, and the thought of warm water and fresh clothing was remarkably appealing.  

“I think,” she told Constance, “that I would like a bath.”

* * * *

Bliss, thought Claire, as she sank chin-deep into the copper tub and watched her hair fan out on the water’s surface. The tub had been set up in front of the fireplace, and a screen now shielded her from draughts, not that this beautiful room seemed to have any. A fire blazed merrily away, and Claire inhaled the fragrance of scented soaps and lavender water.

She chuckled softly to herself. There had been a brief
contretemps
earlier, when Flora had arrived with the rest of the luggage and encountered young Constance assisting her mistress out of her traveling gown. Everything was set right now. Flora was to be Claire’s lady’s maid, and Constance–when her other duties permitted–was to be Flo’s “apprentice.”  Lord Tremayne had offered several days ago to let her hire a more qualified  woman, but Claire said no. She had some experience of lady’s maids and knew they could be as snooty and overbearing as the
grandes dames
they served. Claire judged that cheerful inexperience was far preferable.

She had not seen her husband since he escorted her up to the door of her rooms. Edward hadn’t even entered the bedchamber, telling her only to ring for whatever assistance she might require. Claire wondered where he was. 

* * * *

The earl stared at one of the tapestries on the far bedroom wall. Another just like it hung in his wife’s chamber, although he had not thought to mention that the pair covered the doors to a short  connecting passageway. Probably Constance had pointed this out to her by now. Surely Claire would anticipate that her rooms would be linked with his.

Had she locked the door on her end of the passage?  It was normally left unlocked, this being easier for the maids, and no one having used the countess’s rooms for years. Edward stared harder at the tapestry and told himself to just walk through the door. It was time to establish that his rights included his presence in Claire’s bedchamber at any time he wished. She could not lock him out!  How dare she even consider it?

He had planned their day carefully. His wife would rest for the remainder of the afternoon while he spent an hour or so with his steward and another hour inspecting the stables. They would have a private supper this evening in his rooms, and he would then present to her the schedule he had chosen for their weeks together at Wrensmoor. Claire was welcome to use the daylight hours as she chose, but she was to be in her bedroom and available to him during specified evenings, and at night. Oh, and early mornings, Edward added to himself. He must remember to mention the mornings.

Once he was satisfied that the principles and procedures of their married life were clear to his wife, he would bed her. This delay–he was convinced–was essential to starting their relationship on the proper footing. Forgetting his earlier notion of “unnatural restraint,” he now felt that it was fortunate that things had not progressed further at Greyboars Inn. Much more prudent to limit and define expectations from the very beginning.

These arrangements were the result of considerable thought on Edward’s part. He did not wish to hurt Claire, and if they began their married life willy-nilly, as others he had known had, the possibilities for misunderstanding would be many. On the other hand, if matters were spelled out directly, then Claire would know what she could presume from him, and–as importantly–what she should not presume. He would show her the consideration due the Countess of Ketrick at all times. His wife need not fear the public, painful scenes he had witnessed on countless occasions in the salons and ballrooms of the
ton
.  Her name would not appear in the betting book at White’s.

But she would stay here, at Wrensmoor, and he would not.

The earl wondered what his wife was doing. The walls of the castle were so thick that one could hear nothing between rooms. Perhaps she needed something that Constance could not provide, or was tired and faint from their journey. Wrensmoor was completely new to Claire, and she might hesitate to ask–

Edward was striding through the passageway between their suites before he was conscious of making the decision to do so. The door was unlocked and swung smoothly back on its hinges as he pushed the tapestry aside and entered his wife’s bedroom.

“Flora?”

He stopped short. Claire’s voice came from behind a screen standing in front of the fireplace. Edward could hear faint sounds of splashing, and from that, and the smell of lavender water, he knew his wife was taking a bath. The thought of her unclothed and in the copper bathing tub was having a definite effect on his . . . equilibrium.

“Flora?  Connie?  Could you bring me another towel?”

Edward located the requested item. He hesitated for a moment, thinking that he should probably warn Claire, and then stepped behind the screen.

“Oh.”  His wife, who was standing up in the bathtub, one towel wrapped around her hair, regarded him with evident calm. She hadn’t made even a squeak of surprise, although a gentle blush now crept up her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, my lord, I did not hear you enter.”  She took the proffered towel from him and quickly began to dry off. Small rivulets of water coursed down the swell of her breasts and onto the flat plane of her abdomen.

“This . . . this is quite a beautiful room,” Claire was saying, her voice betraying a trace of nervousness. “Warm and sunny. I should be very comfortable here, my lord.”

“
Edward
,” muttered the earl.

“Your pardon?”  She looked at him in confusion.

“We are married. I believe it is customary to call one’s husband by his Christian name.”  The earl, who couldn’t stop staring at Claire’s body, was having some difficulty enunciating his words. Her skin was glowing from the warmth of the bath water, and her curves were delicious beyond any expectation. There was a plan. He knew he had made a plan for the day. The steward–Achilles–the  principles and procedures of their marriage–

“I beg your pardon, you are quite correct. Especially in present circumstances!”  She gave a soft laugh and smiled at him, her blush deepening.

It was the smile that did it, Edward swore later. Not the curve of her hip, not the tendrils of silky hair clinging damply to her neck, not even the droplets of water trickling between her breasts. It was her smile. He was immediately and ravenously aroused and past any hope of self-control.  Edward pulled Claire from the tub. He carried her, naked and still dripping, to the bed and lowered her to the white lace coverlet.

“My lord–Edward!”

The earl grinned in satisfaction, seeing his wife’s composure finally start to crack in earnest. She scrambled under the sheets and stared up at him, wide-eyed. He stripped off his jacket, thinking–  There will be no more cool looks from
this
young chit.

The cravat followed his jacket to the floor and Edward sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. He looked around to see his wife holding the bedding up to her chin and watching him with nervous but frank fascination. Edward unbuttoned his shirt and tore it off; the bedding rose a little higher, but her eyes didn’t leave him. He stood to unbutton his trousers–

“Oh!”  Claire blushed a fiery red and buried her face in the sheets. The earl grabbed the covers and threw them aside, thinking that if he did not make love to his wife now, right now–

There was a scratching at the door.

“Milady?  Are you ready to dress?”  They heard Flora’s voice, faintly, from the doorway. The door creaked open.

“No!  Milady is
not
ready to dress!” roared the earl. “Leave us!” 

The door closed, followed by a burst of giggles and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Edward lowered himself onto the bed and took several deep breaths, wondering how he would ever manage the restraint needed for an untouched maid. The pressure building in his loins was nigh ungovernable, even now. If he touched her, kissed her, stroked her breasts–

Claire tentatively reached over to him and pulled the velvet ribbon holding back his hair.

Edward groaned and covered her body with his.

* * * *

Claire awoke from a dreamless sleep feeling rested and at ease. Something seemed odd, however . . .  Good heavens, there was a
man
in her bed. She sat up, heart pounding, and realized that she herself was completely unclothed.

It’s your husband, you goose, came a little voice, and Claire blushed as memory flooded back. Oh, yes. Her husband. Edward Tremayne was lying next to her, on his back with his eyes shut, apparently undisturbed by her abrupt movement. He must really be asleep, thought Claire. At the moment, that was probably for the best. She needed time to think about what had just happened between them.

She had felt some pain. Edward had been trying to warn her, Claire thought, although his words were rushed and hoarse. She had gotten the impression he was trying restrain himself, to proceed slowly, but in the end the effort was unsuccessful. He had been upon her like a force of nature, unstoppable and fierce. Even with the resulting soreness, however, Claire was undismayed. A small smile came to her lips. She could tell even now that the physical aspect of the marital relationship was one that–eventually–she would greatly relish.

Her husband shifted in his sleep, and the bedding slipped further. He was magnificent,  Claire thought, with a shiver. She admired the broad, smooth expanse of his chest, and the muscles of his arms looked like those of a day labourer, not those of a gentleman. She wondered what happened now. How often did one . . . engage in this sort of activity?  Would her husband wish to bed her every night?  Would he come to her bed, or she to his?  If he came to her bed, would he leave . . . afterwards?

Being a country girl, Claire had comprehended–in a general way–the mechanics of marital relations, but she realized now that they carried many complications. The whispering and hints of the ladies of the
ton
had not prepared her for the way she felt when she was in the arms of Lord Edward Tremayne, for the powerful force of physical intimacy. This could not exist separate from the rest of their lives together, she thought to herself. One could not this in a box and expect that nothing else would change.

But her husband must know this already, thought Claire. He has bedded many women, he would know how they were to proceed. She slipped back down under the bedding and, nestling against Edward, fell back to sleep.

* * * *

Not too much later, Edward awoke from a dream of Claire to find her nestling against him, soft and warm, her hair entangling her arms and his. She wiggled, and he groaned. His need for her was as urgent as before, and he cursed himself as a thoughtless cad, to even consider bedding her twice today. He hadn’t been gentle the first time, and she must be bruised and aching. If she would only lie still–

“My lord?” came a whisper, a sound that went right to the earl’s—  “Edward?”       

She twisted to face him and her breasts brushed his chest. He crushed her against him, and they kissed and caressed and kissed more until all rational thought left him and he drew his wife beneath him and made love to her once more.

Chapter Eight

“She’s gorgeous,” said Claire. She looked at the grey mare with admiration. The glossy coat, elegant conformation, and proud set of the head all bespoke an animal of noble–and expensive–ancestry. She held out a lump of sugar and chuckled at the soft feel of the mare’s lips nibbling it from her palm.

“Jody said you loved to ride but didn’t have the opportunity in London,” said Edward. “I thought it was time you had your own mount.”

“Thank you. Oh, thank you,” Claire replied. Touched by the earl’s thoughtfulness, she reached up to curl her arms around his neck and kiss him. He pulled her against him, and his hands cradled her bottom as his lips came down hard against hers. They remained entwined, swaying slightly, until the sound of Mr. McLeevy’s advancing footsteps brought their embrace to a halt. Claire noted with satisfaction that her husband’s breathing was ragged. She gave him a saucy look through lowered eyelids and was rewarded when he grabbed for her. She danced out of his reach.

“So impatient, my lord,” said Claire demurely. “Is tonight not soon enough for you?”

“Wretched minx.” 

“Eh, she’s a beauty a’right,” said Finn McLeevy, who was on his way to supervise repairs on the stable door. “For a horse. What ye be naming her?”       

Claire hadn’t thought about it yet. She pursed her lips and considered, running a hand along the mare’s silky mane.

“Vixen,” suggested the earl, with a gleam in his eye that Claire hoped Mr. McLeevy didn’t notice. The look was making her feel warm and very unsettled.

“Athene,” said Claire. “Achilles and Athene make a pair, don’t you think?”

“Aye,” said Mr. McLeevy, who was aware of Claire’s fascination for all things Greek. “Let’s just be hoping she’ll have half the wit of her namesake.”  He continued on his way and Claire smiled after him.  Finn McLeevy had many talents as a handyman and had proved his value already at Wrensmoor, but he was no lover of horses. “Daft, stupid animals,” he called them, “always eatin’ just what be makin’ ’em sick.”