The Bride of Larkspear (6 page)

In the dining room we have no privacy—my butler is present, as well as two footmen, all busy with the service of the first course, a clear consommé with julienned vegetables. My bride murmurs a thank-you as a bowl is set down before her. “Well, whom should I blame if not you?”

Her tone is light and appropriate. She, too, understands that we have an image to uphold, if not one of actual happiness, then at least of harmony.

“May I compliment you on your toilette, Lady Larkspear. You look ravishing.”

Her hair, done up simply, exposes her fine, delicate ears. Her throat is a column of pure elegance. The tiniest pools of shadows gather in the hollows of her clavicles. And it is only with some difficulty that I stop my eyes from traveling lower.

I do not know whether she notices the direction of my gaze. Her reply is a dry, “Thank you, my lord. And that is a well-cut dinner jacket you sport.”

“Please, my dear, you will cause my heart to pitter-patter,” I answer, as my heart pitter-patters. I swear, it is the most naive and useless heart known to man. Hers was not even a compliment, but a neutral statement made to sound like one so that the servants would not hear anything amiss.

All the same…

At my reply, she flicks a gaze toward the butler and his underlings. They stand still as statues, their faces bland. But the younger footman’s lips quiver, as if he is trying to hold back a smile.

“I remember the last time I saw you in this dress,” I went on. “The dinner at Lady Francis’s house. May of last year, wasn’t it?”

For a moment, surprise crowds her eyes. “You have a good memory.”

“I never forget anything when it comes to you, my dear.”

I regret the words even as I say them. How do I know my second sketch of the day hasn’t joined the first one in her grate, a similar heap of ashes? How do I protect myself if I go on like this?

She does not say anything. I am not sure whether that makes things better or worse.

“How is preparation for the magazine coming?” I ask.

The spoon she is raising to her lips pauses in midair. “You mean the magazine you normally refer to as my folly?”

“You should not believe all the stupid things I say.”

I’ve always thought the magazine, aimed at the increasing population of young working women, a brilliant idea. And who better than she, already a successful publisher of books, which include volumes on educational and employment opportunities for women, to tackle such a magazine?

“It must be a character defect in me,” she says coolly. “When people persist in saying stupid things, I believe wholeheartedly that it is indeed what they mean to say.”

Now it is I who glance toward the staff. They are listening raptly, even my butler, who I could have sworn had never before given a single thought to my private life.

“Last I heard, you have engaged an editor to commission articles.”

She sets down her spoon and subjects me to a long look, as if trying to decide whether I am worthy of any further knowledge concerning her professional endeavors. “Mrs. Donovan has, as of last week, gathered a sufficient number of articles for the launch of the magazine.”

“Excellent. What of advertisers?”

She gives me another long look. “We are still waiting to hear back from Pears and a dentifrice manufacturer. But even without them, we have a sufficient number to go forward.”

I ask more questions concerning the magazine’s subscriber base and her channels of distribution. Her expression remains skeptical, but she answers at length and in good faith.

Half of me is exhilarated beyond words; the other half would like to run me through with a sword. Why, in the name of God, have I never before spoken to her like this, with simple human respect and interest? It is not arduous. It is not even difficult.

“So when do you expect to launch the first issue?”

“I do not—not anymore, in any case,” she answers as the footmen replace our soup bowls with plates of lobster tails in herbed butter.

I frown. “Why not?”

She cuts into her lobster. “Do you mean to tell me you will have no objections to my continued role as a publisher?”

“That is indeed what I mean to tell you.”

This time her gaze is a long sweep of my person, as if—my heart leaps so high it crashes into the roof of my mouth—she might indeed be reconsidering her opinion of me. “Your word, Lord Larkspear?”

“You have my word, Lady Larkspear.”

“September, then,” she says. “September was—or is—our projected launch date. Tomorrow I will write Mrs. Donovan and my secretary to let them know everything will proceed according to the original plan.”

A glorious warmth permeates my chest, as if I have been entrusted with the map that leads to the Fountain of Youth. “I am sure you do not need it, but if I can be of any assistance, be sure to let me know.”

She pierces a piece of lobster with her fork, puts it in her mouth, and chews meditatively. When she finishes with that particular morsel, she says, “I will consider it.”

And that is as marvelous an answer as I can expect, under the circumstances.

F
OR THE REMAINDER OF DINNER
our conversation revolves around her family. It isn’t a sparkling exchange, not a single bon mot tossed about. In fact, by any other standards, it is a remarkably mundane discussion: her sister’s new place in the country, her sister-in-law’s gardens, her brother’s annual shooting party, coming up in a few weeks.

But for me, it is a startlingly novel experience, as what passes for mundane between
us
is my insulting her looks or her publishing endeavors while deploying a dirty leer, and her systematic verbal destruction of my manhood in response.

I desperately, desperately do not want dinner to end. But like all good things, end it eventually does. She rises and departs, and I am left behind with a gentleman’s customary glass of port and cigar, in neither of which I have the remotest interest.

I fiddle with both until a seemly amount of time has passed; then I vacate the dining room with the speed of Grisham dashing out the front door when he has been cooped up inside too long.

She is still being attended to by her maid when I let myself into her room. Our eyes meet in the vanity mirror. I am not sure what she sees in my face—too much hope, eagerness, or familiarity? Her hand tightens on the lapels of her lustrous blue silk dressing robe.

“You may retire,” she instructs her maid.

The maid curtsies and departs, closing the door soundlessly behind herself.

“You could have stayed for port and cigars,” I tell her. “I would not have been scandalized.”

She smiles. No, the corners of her lips move upward, but it is no more a smile than fool’s gold is treasure. I feel my face becoming rigid, the boyish enthusiasm that has made me almost hoppingly excited for this night draining away like blood from a gaping wound.

“Do you have that blindfold you promised me?” she asks, her voice as unruffled as the Dead Sea.

As she speaks, I notice my sketch of her photograph on the vanity. I almost burst with relief, until she rises, the sketch in hand, and tosses it the fire.

It is swallowed by the flame in no time at all.

She turns around, that cold not-quite-smile still about her lips. “My blindfold?” she reminds me.

“Of course,” I say stiffly. “If you will give me a moment.”

When I reach my dressing room, I brace my hand on the nearest chest of drawers and breathe hard, my heart churning with both anger and anguish.
This is why you should never let your guard down
, screams a voice in my head.
This is why!

She had no choice but to be nice to you at dinner, don’t you see? The servants were there.

You have been too nasty to her for too long. Her opinion of you is set in stone. It’s too late to change anything. No point trying anymore. Just fuck her as much as you want—that’s all you can salvage from this marriage.

And then, from the din in my head emerges a tiny, diffident voice.
Have you considered that perhaps she is even more frightened than you are? You have always been more fiendish to her whenever you’ve been more fearful that she would slip from your grasp. Think of how she must feel, especially if she feels a thawing in her heart. It would be terrifying for her, the thought of ever trusting you.

I don't know which voice to listen to, so I stuff a few sashes and two other items into my pockets and return to her room.

She is sitting before the vanity, brushing her glorious hair, her expression a strange, empty one. Without further ado, I approach her and tie the blindfold securely. Then I take the hairbrush from her hand and draw it through her hair, something I’ve always wanted to do.

But not like this, with enough turmoil in my head to make me cross-eyed.

“And you will be quiet this time, won’t you?” she asks, as if in afterthought.

I set down the brush with a thump. She recoils just perceptibly. I lift her hair aside and bite her nape, causing her to suck in a sharp breath.

I inhale deeply, trying to control myself.

She does not wear perfumes. Occasionally I think of her as scented like orange blossoms, because she has worn them in her hair on more than one occasion, usually when she serves as a bridesmaid. Tonight she does not smell of orange blossoms, but of the second bath she must have taken, its water fragranced again with lavender and peppermint leaves.

I pull her to her feet and lift her nightgown over her head. The expression on her face—I cannot tell whether it is fear or arousal.

Does it make any difference?

I lead her to the bed, place her on her stomach, and bind her wrists to separate slats in the headboard. For the first time, she tugs at the sashes, testing their strength—testing the strength of my will, in truth. Her taut, firm bottom flexes with her motions. My cock comes alive, even though my heart feels dead.

I kiss her from the soles of her feet to her slender calves. She squirms when I make love to the backs of her knees, emitting little whimpers. And squirms again when I nibble where her thighs join her buttocks. My kisses march upward, to the indentation of her waist, her slender back, her nape, where I first started, and I bite her again, knowing she is not finished with me, that she is only biding her time to unleash a new assault upon me.

She shivers.

Her face is turned to the side. I kiss her on her cool, unresisting mouth, then make my way back south. This time, when I reach her bottom, I place my hand underneath and lift her to her knees.

She hisses at being hoisted into such a carnal position. The sight of her perfectly round bottom canted high in the air, her lovely cunt nakedly displayed—I close my fists so I won’t grab her like an animal. But I cannot stop myself from touching her altogether: My fingers are already spreading open her folds, dipping into the first moist beads of her arousal.

“Darling,” she murmurs.

I freeze.

“Don’t stop, darling. I’ve missed you so,” she continues, her voice dulcet as honey. “And I’m so glad it’s you and not that despicable husband of mine.”

That despicable husband of hers, despite knowing what is coming, finds himself paralyzed, unable to either speak or move.

“Don’t be shy, darling. Do that trick you do that I love so much, that makes me scream like a banshee.”

My heart pounding, I get off the bed and force myself to count to ten. Then I remember that I have not come unprepared. That, in fact, I have come perfectly prepared.

I take out the glass dildo from my pocket. It is small, no longer and no thicker than my index finger.

I look back at her. As if sensing my gaze on her, she speaks again. “I let him fuck me—I have no choice. And he fucks me relentlessly. But when I am alone, I wash off all traces of him and think of you. I imagine
your
fingers spreading my cunt,
your
tongue licking me in my favorite place, and
your
cock penetrating me to rapturous depths.”

Dear God, she is good. I open the vial of oil I’ve brought along and lubricate the dildo, my hands trembling only slightly. Then I tip the vial over her bottom and let a small stream fall into the crack.

She lets out a small yelp of surprise. “Of course you would. You have always been endlessly inventive.”

I massage her rosebud.

“Yes, exactly.” Her words are now breathy moans, but she has never been one to give up. “I remember the last time you did this, I—”

I push the dildo halfway up her anus. Her body seizes. Her mouth opens wide. I push the dildo farther in, until only its base protrudes from between the cheeks of her buttocks.

Her breaths come in hitches and rasps. While she remains on her knees, her body trembling and adjusting to the invasion of the dildo, I undress, climb into bed behind her, and place the head of my cock against her cunt. She is drenched. I sink deep into her in one motion, groaning with the hot, sleek pleasure of her body.

She no longer censors herself. Those erstwhile tiny little escaped whimpers have turned into full-on moans and screams. And instead of mere quiescence, she is pushing her bottom back against me, compelling me to fuck her deeper, harder.