Bluestocking Bride (16 page)

"Were you shocked, Richard? You shouldn't be, you know. If you knew me better, you would know that I cannot abide interference from anyone in my affairs."

His tone was light.
"Anyone, Catherine?
A husband, I think, might claim that privilege as his right?"

She was looking at him intently now. "Do you think so?" Her voice was cool and noncommittal.
Rutherston
, somewhat nettled, was about to pursue the conversation further, but thought better of it. He now began to point out features of the building in the fading light, and Catherine was soon lost in admiration of what her husband intended would be their future home.

By the time that Catherine had bathed and dressed for dinner under the critical eye of Becky who had now been attached to
Rutherston's
permanent staff, it was too late to see the interior of the house to the best advantage, and Catherine, although disappointed, was ready to admit that it made better sense to wait till morning. A late supper was brought to them on trays before a crackling fire in the library, and
Rutherston
summarily dismissed the servants, telling them that he would ring if their services should be required.

He had prepared all with the greatest forethought, attempting to make their time together for the remainder of the evening as natural as possible. Catherine's attention was engaged, as he had known it would be, by the extent of his library, but he would not entertain her examining any of the books and manuscripts until they had eaten and the remains of their meal were removed.

Catherine surveyed her surroundings with unmitigated approval. The room was large and long, with five windows against one wall, and the glow from the fireplace and the flickering candles in their sockets
high on the walls cast
a warmth
that gave a feeling of intimacy, despite the vastness of the interior. Against the walls were green upholstered chairs and sofas, informally grouped around leather-topped tables, and in one corner, beside a window, was a desk, which she supposed was
Rutherston's
. High above, running along three sides of the room, was a narrow gallery lined with books to the ceiling. This was the library of a collector as much as a
reader,
and she foresaw the many hours of pleasure she should have with a husband who shared her interest.

Rutherston
filled Catherine's glass for the second time, and when she had drunk most of it he finally consented to show her some small part of his collection, and they spent the next hour or so pulling volumes from their shelves and talking easily of random subjects that were suggested by the titles and authors of the books. He was amused to see the stack of volumes that Catherine was rapidly setting aside for her future enjoyment while they were in residence at
Fotherville
House. He curbed his tongue with the greatest of difficulty. Reading was not the occupation he had in mind for their mutual enjoyment now that he had the love of his life living under his roof.

It was when Catherine made an admiring comment about the interior of the room that
Rutherston
became most animated and drew her attention to the intricate plaster ceiling, which he said was the pride of
Fotherville
House.

"Catherine, come. I want to show you another delightful interior," and although she protested that she would prefer to see it by the light of day, he dragged her to her feet and propelled her through the hall and up the broad, cantilevered marble staircase to the door of a room that she recognized as her own bedchamber, and when she turned to him with a puzzled frown and would have opened her mouth to speak, he gently pressed his fingers against her lips.

"Hush, Catherine, no more words. Your maid is waiting for you." And saying no more, he turned her around and pushed her through the open door.

Becky took infinite pains that night to prepare her mistress for her bridal, and she chattered aimlessly as Catherine allowed herself to be arrayed in an oyster gown of shimmering satin with matching wrap. It clung sensuously to the curves of her body—a circumstance that gave great satisfaction to the maid but filled the mistress with foreboding. Catherine was dismayed that her proper mama should have selected such improper attire for her nuptials and wondered what had overcome that formidable lady's delicate scruples.

When all was accomplished, Becky asked permission to leave.

"Oh, Becky, don't go," Catherine blurted out, then blushed for her gaucherie. "Of course, you must."

Becky, who thought that
she
had been in the employ of the Harland family long enough to take a few liberties, patted Catherine's hand, saying, "There is nothing to fear but fear itself, my lady. I am sure his lordship knows how nervous you are." She was right.
Rutherston
did know.

As he entered, he paused on the threshold and took in the room at a glance. Catherine had positioned herself as far from the door as possible, her hand gripping the back of a chair. He sighed inaudibly and brought the decanter and glasses that he carried in his arms to a table before the smoldering fire, and setting them down, proceeded to fill them, pretending not to notice Catherine's frozen pose. He held out a glass.

"Will you not join your husband, my lady, in drinking to our future happiness?" She could scarcely refuse, and since he made no move toward her, she was compelled to cross the distance between them, self-conscious to a degree of the rustling of her revealing robes.

"Drink it, Catherine, it will do you good." He drained his glass and watched as she raised the drink to her lips, but when she would have laid it aside unfinished, he bade her continue until she had drunk it all,
then
taking the empty glass from her fingers, he set it down. He said her name softly, coaxingly, and brought her hand to his lips.

"There is nothing to fear, Catherine." His mouth was warm on the pulse of her wrist. He encircled her waist, pulling her close, and she could feel the hard muscles of his arm on her back. She heard the appeal in his voice as he murmured against her hair, "Catherine, I have been patient, have I not?" His mouth barely touched her lips, and the persuasiveness of his soft entreaties lessened her resistance and she felt some of the
tension go
out of her as her body responded to the gentling of his tone. He kissed her then, so tenderly, demanding nothing from her that she would not freely give.

His voice became deeper, hoarser, coaxing her into surrender. "Let me touch you, Catherine. I won't take you against your will." Her senses were lulled by his languorous pleading, and a numbing lethargy took possession of her limbs. Her wrapper slid to the floor as she felt his fingers undo the buttons of her gown. "Let me touch you, Catherine," he murmured in her ear, and she stood, unresisting, as he pulled the gown from her shoulders to bare her breasts. His voice was a low murmur of repressed desire. "Let me love you, Catherine." He watched her through half-closed lids as he brought his hands down to caress her breasts, and Catherine felt her body melt with the heat of him, and a low moan escaped her lips.

"Give yourself to me, Catherine; let me love you." She twined her arms around his neck, and he bent to kiss her breasts, and he moved his hands down to stroke her thighs, her belly, and her legs. She sagged against him then, whispering his name. He tugged her free of the impeding gown and caught her in his arms, carrying her to the bed.

"Easy, darling, easy."
He pushed her back against the pillows and lay beside her, propped on one arm, trailing his hand down the length of her naked body. His dressing gown fell open, and she put out a hand to caress the powerful muscles of his matted chest. He bent to cup her breast in his hands, watching her face with languid eyes, and when he heard her gasp of pleasure, he leaned down to touch her nipples with his mouth. Catherine writhed and
moaned,
her senses on fire and she pressed herself eagerly against him, deep sobs sending shudders through the length of her body.

"Wait love, trust me." His hand moved down her body, parting her legs, stroking her to a feverish pitch until she was in an agony of desire. He came down on her then, thrusting deep inside her with such force that Catherine cried out sharply in pain. He was instantly gentle, soothing her with soft words of love, kissing the tears from her eyes until her body began to respond with pleasure again.

"Move to meet me, Catherine. Love me!" He kissed her lips, his tongue probing her mouth with new urgency, and she felt her body, of its own volition, rise to meet him with increasing intensity as he willed her to match his passion. She sobbed aloud and clung to him as her body convulsed, and she abandoned herself to the pleasure of their mutual desire.

He was quiet then, cradling her gently in his arms. She touched his face in wonderment, cherishing the warmth of their intimacy, until she settled into the crook of his arm to sleep.

It was a wakeful night, for
Rutherston
reached for her again and again, rousing her from sleep with soft kisses on her breasts, murmuring her name and awakening a response in her till she gave herself up to his lovemaking once more, until the dawn came.

It was late in the afternoon of the next day before
Rutherston
had the opportunity of showing Catherine the house. They had slept till noon, exhausted from their night of lovemaking, and were taking a leisurely repast of breakfast at two in the afternoon, a circumstance that Catherine was certain would shock the servants, but which
Rutherston
assured her they would heartily approve.

He was delighted at the change in Catherine that one night of love had contrived. She came to him readily whenever he touched her, and nothing he said, however indelicate, had the least effect on her happy exuberance.

"Catherine," he said at last, pouring
himself
another cup of coffee, "you must explain to me what it was that put you so much on edge yesterday. Surely it was more than mere bridal nerves? I swear I was afraid to come within three feet of you. Did you notice, my love, that I did not even kiss you till I came to your room?" He caught the look of mischief on her face.

"No, did you notice that I was nervous?" she asked with exaggerated innocence, laughing at the expression of mock disgust that crossed his face. "If you must know, Richard, you and my mother between you managed to give me a case of fidgets such as I have never experienced before nor ever wish to again."

"How so, Catherine?"

She buttered her second slice of toast and held her cup out to him, which he filled from a silver coffee pot sitting at his elbow.

"You must know that every bride has her mother or some female relative come to her the night before her wedding to . . .
er
. . . advise her about the married state."

"Go on, Catherine.
How did your mother contrive to put such terror into you?"

"Oh," she continued gaily, "she mostly talked a great deal of nonsense, but then she likened you to a stallion and me to a filly. That didn't faze me overmuch, for I'm country bred. But Richard, the morning of our wedding, my father's stud-groom put our newest filly into the pasture with John Colby's stallion. Oh, Richard," she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, "it was awful, for the filly wanted nothing to do with him, and he would have her whether she wanted him or no! If you had heard the braying and screaming that went on in our pasture! But he cornered her—and—well you can imagine the rest. So there I was, in my wedding finery, setting off for the church to meet my groom, and . . . will you forgive me, my
dear, . . .
I kept thinking of you as that eager stallion and me as the reluctant filly." Her shoulders shook with a fresh spasm of laughter.
Rutherston
grimaced at her in mock horror.

"Go on, Catherine, what next?"

"Well, my darling husband," she looked at him keenly, hesitating before she went on, "when I saw you in church looking so handsome and solemn, I was almost reassured, until . . ."

"Until?
Pray continue."

"Until, my sweet, you gave me that look I think I read pretty well."

"Yes?" he asked softly, and reached out to grasp her wrist. "How did you read it?"

"It was the kind of look Colby's stallion would have cast at our filly, if he could! It said to me, my dear husband, that I had fallen into your power and I would not escape you now, try as I may. Was I wrong?"

"Not fallen into my
power,
Catherine, surely not power.
That you had come under my
protection.
That was what I felt."

"If you say so, my lord.
But then, in the carriage, you talked of a husband's rights, did you not?"

"Catherine!" His exasperation was real now. "You are willfully misunderstanding me. I only meant that a husband and wife have no affairs, no secrets that the other is not entitled to share."

"Ah, is that what you meant?"