The Marquess of Cake (25 page)

“You are usually dressed much more comfortably than that. You must be chafing.”

“You must not remark on that,” she said sharply.

He sighed. “Must we have an aristocratic marriage, Alys? Cannot we be at ease with one another?”

“It would be preferable.” She plucked at the skirt again. “Very well. I loathe this dress. I hate this wadded petticoat, my skin is being rubbed raw by the chemise under my horridly tight corset and I feel as if I cannot breathe. But I must be respectable and this is how respectable women in mourning look, or so the dressmaker told my mother. She had my measurements from making my court dress last year, but I seemed to have gained weight since then, though I cannot imagine why, with all the fretting I’ve done these past weeks.”

He felt his shoulders relax with each word of her outpouring. “I always gain during the holidays,” he told her. “It’s all the sweets.”

“You do eat quite a lot of sweets,” Alys observed. “Whenever your hands shake I see you reach for them.”

On one hand, he was pleased by her close regard. On the other, he was afraid his bride had far too searching a gaze. “Perhaps you are increasing,” he suggested delicately.

She flushed again. “I had no idea you would be so frank about these things.”

He smiled, pleased her attention had left him. “Shall I play maid now? You can spend the next few days clad only in your dressing gown, if it pleases you.”

“What will I do in a dressing gown?”

“Read novels, dance, make love?”

“Dance?”

“It will be easier to dance with me if you can breathe.” He held out his hand. When she took it he pulled her to her feet.

“Wait.” He sat her back down. “Where is your buttonhook?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t pack for myself.”

“I’ll go hunt for it. You relax.” Swiftly, he left the room to paw through her baggage, wishing they hadn’t been in mourning so that he might have seen something more exciting than unrelieved black.

Not even a red petticoat or a pair of fancifully worked stockings decorated her trunk, but he did find her buttonhook.

He reentered the sitting room and knelt at her feet so he could work off her damp boot. She sighed with pleasure as her black stocking-clad toes were released.

“New shoes?” he asked.

She flexed her feet. “Yes. The latest style, I believe. My mother had great fun at my expense. Usually I insist on choosing my own clothes.”

“I think you are quite fetching in that cakie uniform.”

“I could wear it around the house,” she offered. “It is the appropriate color.”

“I doubt your sisters packed it.” He discarded her second boot and tucked the buttonhook under a cushion to be retrieved later. Then, he took one of her small feet into his own and lightly stroked her sole.

She shrieked and pulled away from him.

“What?”

“I do apologize,” she wheezed. “That tickled.”

Feeling mischievous, he took her foot in hand again. Through trial and error, he discovered a firmer grip made her toes unstiffen.

“Are you enjoying this?” Alys asked, yawning.

The fire gave a loud pop as one of the logs cracked. He turned. “I had better put another log on.”

“Perhaps you should light the fire in the bedchamber instead,” she suggested.

He swiveled his head back around. “Tired?”

She stood, wincing as the cold floor soaked through her stockings.

“It is late.”

“I do not wish to overtax you,” he said, mindful of her possible pregnancy.

“Pish posh,” she snorted. “If I am a mistress more than a wife, I demand my mistress rights first, before sleep.”

“Mistress rights?”

She all but marched the three steps separating them, and reaching to his chest, smartly divested him of his topcoat. “Pray light the fire, my lord, and let us be off to bed.”

He detached his watch chain from his waistcoat and set that on the mantelpiece. “Perhaps you ought to remove my clothing as well.”

Her fingers shook slightly as she unbuttoned the close-fitting garment. “And your shirt?”

“I don’t think I wish to risk a singeing,” he said. “But once I’ve laid the fire.”

A few minutes later, he had a small fire going in the bedroom. He tested the sheets and was pleased to see a warming pan had been placed at the foot of the bed. When he stepped out of the room he saw Alys had snuffed most of the candles.

“Come.” He held out his hand. “There is a rug in front of the bedchamber fireplace. Your feet will be warmer there.”

When she stared at him uncertainly, holding a candlestick, he bowed to her and held out his hand. “My lady?”

“I’m to be a mistress tonight,” she whispered.

“My red Venus,” he replied, the phrase coming to him with the inspiration of her tumbled hair. “Let me see those lovely curves of yours.”

She stepped forward and, after handing him the candlestick, set to work on his clothing. Before he’d have thought it possible, he was standing in front of her, in the doorway of the bedchamber, in nothing but his drawers, his erection poking a tent into the woolen fabric.

Her cheeks blazed with color, but she lifted her head into an elegant pose. “My lord, I believe you are ready for me.”

He set the candlestick down with such rapidity that the candle swayed on the base and nearly fell. With a curse, he righted it and pulled her to the rug in front of the fire. While she laughed softly he worked on the buttons of her dress. She hadn’t exaggerated the tight fit and he had trouble pulling off her sleeves. The corset cover was easy enough but then he had to figure out her corset hooks and laces.

When his father died he’d left too little money for a mistress, and once Michael had the money he hadn’t the time for one. Now he regretted how long it had been since he’d disrobed a woman. He had a feeling fashions were not so form-fitting in that distant past.

The shadowy recess between Alys’s full breasts deepened as she took her first full breath of the evening. He kicked aside the rest of her petticoats.

“Ah, the chemise.”

“Don’t make fun of me. If I’d known I was to be a mistress I’d have found some decadent underthings, rather than these matronly pieces,” she said.

 He smiled at the thought of her in frills and lace under the severe dresses she must wear. As it was, the tartan combinations might have been off-putting to one less aroused. “My tartan Venus?” he suggested.

With a rude word, she tugged and pulled until the offending combinations were on the rug. “I ought to throw them in the fire and stay naked until you can send for proper mistress attire.”

“You desire me to send a maid to London? To some scandalous shop known only to the demimonde?”

She turned to him, hands on hips, then seemed to realize she hadn’t any clothes on. With a gasp, she put her hands to her breasts. The motion only served to plump the delectable mounds. He groaned.

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“What you do to me, sweet Alys.” He took one of her hands away from those orange-flower-water-scented breasts and put it to the front of his drawers. Her fingers formed a loose fist automatically and he stroked himself through it.

“Does this feel as good to you as it did to me, when you touched me before?” she asked, repeating the movement.

He felt dots of sweat break on the small of his back, though whether from the fire or her loving attention he couldn’t say. “Yes, my Venus. It feels so good.”

“I’m glad. I liked the way you touched me.”

With action rather than thought, he picked her up, straddling her legs around his waist, and walked her toward the bed. She fell back but he scarcely noticed because he was feathering his fingers through the orange silk between her legs, searching for the hooded pearl hidden there. When he touched her she gasped. The sensual exclamation made him want to kiss her so he did, hot and open-mouthed as he stroked between her legs. When she moaned again he slipped his mouth to her neck, then moved down her breastbone between her magnificent breasts. She bucked against his hand so he tested and found her already damp and heated. Touching him must really have excited her. With his free hand, he unfastened and pushed down his drawers. His erection pressed into her leg. He slipped between her thighs. She moaned in approval and said his name. This was no virginal wife but his lusty mistress. He pulled her legs to his hips and found her channel with his erection, thrusting inside.

Her back arched and she cried out, then tightened her legs at his

hips, locking her feet together behind him. His hands moved to her breasts and he stroked her there, her cries rising when he found her nipples.

“This is so naughty,” she moaned.

“So good,” he said, following his hands with his lips, kissing her breasts with abandon.

She moved her hips against his. The tentative motion sent a surge of white-hot lust through him. He grabbed for her hips and helped her pulse against him. They rocked and rocked until he thought his heart might explode. Just when he thought he might die of the pleasure, she stiffened and arched, crying out. Her hot sheath throbbed around him and he lost all control, pouring himself into her as he sagged forward. Never had his life seemed so gloriously complete.

When he regained a sense of himself he realized her arms were cradling his head. He looked up at her and saw a sleepy smile tinged with wonder.

More gentlemanly this time, he lifted her into his arms and tenderly placed her on the sheet, her head properly centered on a pillow.

When he had the covers tucked around her naked body, she said sleepily, “Your hand is shaking, Michael. Perhaps you’d better find that hamper.”

“Yes, my dear. I’ll find it and be back in a moment.”

By the time he’d returned with a hastily prepared napkin full of bread and cheese, she was fast asleep. He wouldn’t dare wake her, so he found a dressing gown and sat in an armchair by the fire to eat his repast.

Considering how his wedding night had gone, he had a curious realization. As sensual as the delights had been, lust had only been a small part of it. Yes, he lusted after his new wife, but his feelings were equally tender. He wanted her happiness. He wanted her as she was, not what she or her mother thought she should be. He loved Alys, though he hadn’t understood that before.

It did not escape Alys’s keen managerial eye that her new husband’s hands often shook. If he hadn’t eaten in a while, even his thoughts seemed to drift. Needless to say, their honeymoon meals were not exactly regular as they ignored the clock and did what they liked. When Michael pawed at the buns in the morning, or sliced off a hunk of cake in the evenings, it wasn’t more than an hour before his hands were shaking again. The afternoon meal, which never had a sweet, seemed to regulate his body better. A few days in, she dared to specifically request that nothing sweet be served with their evening meal either.

He grumbled when he wanted something to eat after a postprandial bout of lovemaking, but nibbled some cheese and an apple instead of the usual cake. An hour later, as his head nodded over an American novel, she noted with satisfaction that his hands were still.

How ironic that a Redcake husband was ill served by sugar.

The next day, maids from the big house descended to pack them up for the carriage ride to the train station. They had shared four nights of wedded bliss.

As they jostled against the walls while the carriage rolled up the track to the main road, Michael promised, “We’ll have a proper honeymoon trip in the spring. Go to Italy, perhaps. Or to winegrowing country in France. Would you like that?”

Alys thought she’d likely be increasing by then, whether or not she was now, and the trip would not happen for some years, but she smiled politely and agreed. “Of course, Michael. You can combine research with pleasure, always an excellent notion. I wonder if your mother will be in residence when we arrive at the Farm?”

“No, she’s in London. I had a telegram from Beth yesterday.”

Alys remembered the footman delivering it but had assumed it was related to business. “How is she doing?”

“She said Mother had contacted a cousin of ours in the War Office to try to get more details about Judah but none were forthcoming.”

“I see.”

“She’d promised to let me know if she learned anything. We are still awaiting the official army form.”

“Of course. Very kind of her. So vexing.”

“The telegram said our cousin was no longer speaking to Mother.”

Alys put her gloved hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle commentary. At least she was free of the termagant for now. “I have much to do when we arrive.”

“Will you take over the running of the house?”

“With your permission, of course.”

“I would expect nothing less. I look forward to some of your splendid desserts. You shall have to train a pastry chef. There are several likely lads in the village. The vicar and his wife run an excellent school but there isn’t much for work around here, except what I can provide.”

“Could I train a woman?”

He smiled at her. “Perhaps one of each? Of course a girl would marry eventually and leave us. A male pastry chef will create continuity.”

“I believe I provide the continuity, Michael.”

He waved a hand. “I won’t interfere in the running of the house. It is merely a suggestion.”

Alys simply wished he wasn’t correct. She was ready to accept her career was over, but girls did need to learn a trade. What if they married a drunkard, or their husband died? They had to support their families somehow.

For now though, her concerns were smaller. Michael needed to eat less sugar. An in-house pastry chef, or two, for just their small family, could spell disaster. He wasn’t the man to accept a fruit and cheese course for dessert every night without argument.

“Your groom’s cake was divine, my dear,” Michael said dreamily.

“I’ve been thinking of it all week. Do you think you could reconstruct it for our one-week anniversary on Monday?”

She sighed. “I’ll have to send to London for the special Belgian chocolate I used. Perhaps for our two-week anniversary?” He might have forgotten by then.

Michael nodded. “Perhaps a sponge then, with a delicate cream. I do look forward to berries in season.”