The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (10 page)

“
You are in a unique position of power. You could use your influence to benefit those around you.”

“It’s not my battle to fight.”

“Of course it is.” When that didn’t seem to impress him, she pushed on, “You do business with the
Dalit
. The untouchables. You admitted it freely.”

“
Yes. So?”

“So it seems you only fight injustice when it serves your interest.”

She braced herself for an angry rebuttal. Instead, he merely gave an indifferent shrug.

“
Consider it one of my many faults.” A sardonic smirk played about his lips. “Not all of us want to play the part of avenging angel, battling cobras and hornets, rescuing tigers…”

If there was a suitable reply she could make to that, Calla couldn’t determine what it was.
Yet a vague sense of dissatisfaction washed over her. She thought of his enormous estate and the iron bars that surrounded it. A veritable fortress. Meant to keep London out, or himself locked away from anything he didn’t want to see?

The serving boy edged between them
. With his tongue caught between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration, he placed a glass of rich amber liquid in front of Derek without spilling a drop. He broke into a beaming smile at his accomplishment. Derek tossed the boy a coin and reached for the glass. He took a deep sip. Assuming a posture of lordly ease, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his index finger in idle circles over the rim of his glass.

“
The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I do. Men can only be subjugated for so long before they rise up in protest. It’ll happen here, and it’ll happen in India.”

Calla’s breath caught.
The
lascars
’ plight was temporarily driven from her thoughts. Had he really just said what she thought he said? Was he suggesting a native uprising?
Good Lord
. There’d been talk of it, of course, and minor skirmishes along the border towns and in the outer provinces. But surely those were just rumblings of discontent. Nothing to suggest that England would one day lose control of India.

The jewel in the British crown. Her
thoughts turned to the politicians who ruled the far continent, the East India Company men and their ilk. She considered their staid complacency and sense of entitlement. Their ever-present greed and corruption. Was Derek right? Would there be a native uprising? And if there was, what would that mean for her mother and sisters?

“Look at you,” Derek said
, interrupting her swirling thoughts. “You refused to be subjugated.”

“Me?”

“You fought back. You wouldn’t meekly accept a life of poverty and deprivation because of your father’s indiscretion, nor would you allow that fate to befall your sisters. Your friend Ram may not be a man just yet, but if he’s got half the balls you do, he’ll be just fine.”

She
blinked. A heated blush traveled up her throat and scorched her cheeks. That was, simultaneously, the worst and the best compliment she’d ever received.

“Did you save many souls today,
memsahib
?”

Calla started at the intrusion. She’d been so intent on their conversation
, so caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the proprietor approach their table. He gathered up their plates, then employed a small brush to whisk the tablecloth clean.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are a missionary, no?” His hand swept over her austere, navy blue cloak and gown. It had been her best traveling ensemble, and seemed appropriate attire for their task. Now, however, she simply felt dowdy and plain.

Grinning broadly at the man’s mistake, Derek let him know that Lady Keating,
neé Calla Lily Staunton, had come to Shadwell in search of her good friend, Ram Daas. Uttering effusive congratulations on their marriage and promises to help look for Ram, the man took his leave.

Her pride stung, s
he glared at Derek. “Why didn’t you tell me my attire was so offensive?”

“It suited our purposes today,” he replied
coolly. His gaze traveled over her form. “In any event, it’s far less offensive now that I know what’s beneath it.”

Her
pulse leapt and her heart gave a small flutter at his offhand comment, but she was determined not to succumb so easily to his charm. It was a losing battle and she knew it. Never had she met a man who affected her so deeply.

The serving boy
returned and lit a small fire in the grate. Then he moved from table to table, clipping the wicks on lamps before lighting them. A soft, intimate glow filled the room. Their meal was finished, yet neither Calla nor Derek was anxious to leave. In the lull that followed, a satisfied contentedness stretched between them. She shrugged off her unflattering cloak to reveal a crisp blouse of pale blue linen edged in lace.

His mouth tightened into a grim line
as he took in the creamy skin of her throat and modest décolletage. “You shouldn’t have come here today,” he said. “Something could have happened.”

“
Something
did
happen. We let it be known that we’re looking for Ram, we ate marvelous food, and I was treated to a glimpse of my husband’s radical political views. All in all, a successful afternoon.”

He looked unconvinced.

“Tell me, then,” she said brightly, determined to steer their conversation back to safer ground, “Exactly what
does
a gently bred young woman do in London?”

“Shop,
I suppose,” he replied. He waved his hand through the air in a vague, indifferent gesture. “Do whatever other women do. Attend teas, luncheons, musicales, poetry recitations, gardening exhibitions, join a knitting club…that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction in that reply?”

Calla hesitated, considering her words.
She did not want to appear a petulant young wife, or an impatient houseguest demanding to be entertained, but
really
. He couldn’t possibly expect her to spend the remainder of her days engaged in such vapid, empty-headed pursuits. What cruel irony. To have committed the boldest act of her life—traveling a continent away to marry a virtual stranger—only to be snared by the trap of wifely expectations.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I
’m thinking,” she ventured cautiously, “that if intelligent, able-bodied men were ordered to spend the remainder of their days engaged in endless rounds of luncheons, shopping, musicales, knitting clubs and the like, you would see rioting in the streets.”

His lips crooked in a small, bemused smile
. “I suspect you’re right.”

“Yet it’s perfectly acceptable to foist those
mindless pursuits on intelligent, able-bodied women?”

He shrugged.
“Some wives are content to assist with the management of the household. Oversee the servants and all that.”

“Really?” Calla arched one
slender, dark brow. “Supervise the polishing of the silver and the pressing of the linen? How very stirring.” She sighed. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind even that, if my presence were necessary. But your household staff doesn’t need my interference. They’re a ruthlessly efficient bunch.”

“
I understand there’s a circus in town. Perhaps I could arrange an elephant stampede through Kensington Gardens. That might liven up your afternoon.”             

“Oh,
for at least a full fifteen minutes,” she agreed with a soft smile.

A boisterous group entered the room, bringing with them the cold and the noise, along with an unwelcome reminder of the world that existed beyond the two of them.

Calla toyed with her gloves. Derek had given her rare insight into his own views, radical as they might be. It seemed imperative now, for the sake of their married life, that he understand her as well. She looked up, her gaze locking on his.

“
Women make choices, too. What they’ll accept, what they won’t. Perhaps it’s just hubris on my part, but I can’t bear the thought of living some quiet, inconsequential life—just watching the world pass me by, meekly attending luncheons and poetry recitals, only because that’s what someone else thinks I should do.”

A thoughtful frown curved
his lips. “It won’t be easy for you then, not in London.”

“I suspect
London isn’t always easy for you, either,” she replied. “Dancing monkeys and all that.”

Derek went still.
He studied her over the rim of his glass, which was arrested in mid-air. Calla would have given everything she owned—which admittedly wasn’t very much—to know what he was thinking. Silence, thick and heavy, reverberated between them. He set down his drink.

“You have a bold tongue.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

“But if you wish to allude to that unfortunate event, do recollect it correctly.”

“Oh?”

“The monkey wasn’t dancing,
jaanu
. It was marching.”

A
startled laugh escaped her lips. Their eyes met and Calla felt a rich current of understanding course between. Emboldened by his humor, she softly confessed, “I don’t want life to be easy. I want it to be full. I may live contrary to Society’s rules, but I’d rather dare to say what I think and reach for I want, even if it does occasionally land me in the East End.”

“Or in a stranger’s bed.”

Her breath caught. Strange, that. Amazing how attraction could be such a powerful force. How his words could affect her as strongly as a physical caress. How a sideways quirk of his mouth could cause her heart to flutter, and a warm glint in his eyes could cause a rush of heat to pool between her thighs.

“Yes,” she breathed.
“Or in a stranger’s bed.”

Derek’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, looking out the window toward the street.
When he spoke his voice was low and husky, laden with sexual promise.

“Then you’re in luck
, Lady Keating. My driver’s just arrived. We’re going home.”

Chapter
Ten

All she had to do, she reminded herself, was not fall in love with her husband. Protect her heart and save her pride. A ridiculously simple task. She, Calla Lily Staunton, was nothing like her sisters. She did not spend endless hours preening in front of a mirror in hopes of drawing some silly compliment from a man. She did not bury her intellect beneath stacks of fashion magazines and society pages. Her entire body did not tingle if a man accidentally brushed her arm while assisting her into a carriage. Her heart did not ricochet wildly in her chest if an attractive man happened to glance her way.

That simply wasn’t who she was.

But then, she allowed, she had never met anyone like Derek Arindam Jeffords. How was a woman supposed to maintain any semblance of dignity in the presence of a man like that?

Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, s
he slipped more deeply into the tall copper tub, letting the hot, scented water pool about her limbs. Behind her, she heard the door to her suite open, followed by the soft pad of footsteps.

“
Just a few more minutes, Ruthie,” she called to the young girl who served as her chamber maid. “This feels wonderful.”

“Don’t rush on my account.”

Derek. Standing at the threshold of her chamber while she was entirely naked, with nothing but the thinnest film of soap bubbles to cover herself. Lord above.
And Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva too
, she thought, adding a trinity of Hindu deities for good measure.

“May I enter?”

Calla froze. Her stomach did a queer little somersault and her mind raced. Would she allow her husband—with whom she had already performed the most intimate of acts—to see her while she bathed? He had already seen every inch of her naked form, of course. He had kissed, licked, and petted every inch of that naked form.

But that
was entirely different. They had disrobed while in the throes of heated passion. Now the flames of desire had yet to be stoked. Her body was entirely exposed while Derek was, presumably, dressed. Still. They were married. Likely this was simply what sophisticated married people did. With that in mind, she summoned every ounce of courage she possessed and managed to squeak a single word. “Yes.”

He entered the room and
strode past the tub without sparing her a glance, carrying with him a bottle of wine, two long-stemmed crystal glasses, and a small white box. He set the items atop her dressing table and stood with his back to her, absorbed in his task. She heard the popping of a cork, followed by the soft gurgle of liquid as he poured the wine.

He had bathed as well, she noted.
Her gaze moved with hungry fascination over his body. wore a deep burgundy dressing robe loosely belted at his waist. On another man the robe might have looked ridiculous, perhaps even effeminate. On Derek, it was stunningly regal. It clung to his broad shoulders, skimmed his slim hips, and boldly outlined the muscular contours of his tight male ass. Calla took in the shadowy form of his powerful thighs and dropped her gaze lower. It had never occurred to her that a man’s legs could be beautiful, that calves could be so taut and well-formed. How enlightening.

He turned, holding aloft two glasses of
white wine. His robe parted slightly, allowing her a glimpse of the bare mahogany skin of his chest. His hair was as dark and slick as a seal’s, curling slightly at his collar. It clung to his scalp in a sleek black curve, with the exception of one stubborn, rogue wave which brushed beguilingly against his temple.

She watched in breathless anticipation as he crossed the room and passed her a glass of wine
. Their fingers brushed. Calla’s pulse rocketed. She managed a small, fluttery smile and nodded her thanks.

Derek’s gaze traveled
with unabashed appreciation over her body. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to squirm with embarrassment or blush with pride at the enjoyment she read there. “Lovely,” he said in a tone of complete nonchalance, as though being in a room with a woman at her bath was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps to him, it was.

“Have you sufficiently recovered from our journey to Shadwell?” he asked.

“Nearly.”

“Oh?”

“My feet are still rather sore,” she admitted. Giving in to a rare impulse of vanity, she’d worn her best boots, a neglected black leather pair with saucy little heels and shiny pearl-tone buttons that wrapped around her ankles. The choice of footwear had shown poor judgment on her part. As she wore the boots so infrequently, the leather had been stiff and unforgiving, cramping her toes and chafing her heels.

Derek frowned.
Setting aside his wine, he reached for a stool and placed it at the foot of her bath. He seated himself, folded a plush towel over the rim of the tub, then rolled up his sleeve and reached for her ankle.

Calla started at the
unexpected intrusion of his hand in her bath.

“Easy,
jaanu
. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He lightly grasped her
left ankle and withdrew it from the bathwater, propping it upon the towel folded at the tub’s edge. He proceeded to administer a gentle massage, pressing his thumbs into her aching arch and swirling his strong fingers over the ball of her foot. Working with unhurried, methodical care, he rubbed her heel and instep, then kneaded and caressed each individual toe.

Calla’s wineglass nearly slipped from her fingers.

Heaven. Utter bliss in his touch
.

He brought his hands upward, moving through the silky water to
flex her ankle and rub the kinks and knots from the muscles of her calf. While he worked, rose-scented water lapped over her breasts and slipped between her thighs. Calla closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and let out a low breath that was part release, part pleasure.

“You like this,” he said.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice soft and husky.

“Good.”

Derek eased her left foot back into the water and lifted her right ankle, beginning his tender ministrations all over again. His touch worked a small miracle on her body, loosening her limbs until she felt as though her bones had dissolved completely, leaving her limp and languid, almost drowsy with contentedness.

When he finished, he offered her his hand and assisted her to her feet
. His gaze darkened as he watched tiny rivulets of water stream down her body. She felt a maidenly desire to cover herself, but resisted the impulse. He passed her a towel, wordlessly watching as she dried her body and raked her fingers through the damp tangle of her hair. He helped her step from the tub, then lifted her ivory silk dressing gown from a nearby divan and held it open for her to slip on.

“Hungry,
jaanu
?”

Hungry? No, she wasn’t hungry at all.
Her appetite had shifted in an entirely different direction.

But Derek wasn’t to be deterred.
Taking her hand, he settled her before the hearth, where a fire crackled and blazed. No furniture, she noted. Just a plush, deep crimson rug and a scattered assortment of oversized pillows.
So Indian
, Calla thought approvingly. As she sank before the hearth, she decided she’d finally found her favorite place in all of her new home.

Derek retrieved the white box he’d brought to her suite and
brought it with him as he sat down beside her. “We left the
Shah Jalal
before we could enjoy dessert,” he said. He slid off the lid. Nestled within the box was a rich assortment of exotic sweets, each wrapped in a vibrant bit of brilliantly colored tissue and liberally sprinkled with sugar, so that the whole effect sparkled like a box of jewels.

Calla, her senses blurred by the wine, her limbs loosened by the massage, and her body warmed by the fire, could only sigh.
“How lovely.”

“
Exquisite.”

He nodded in agreement, but his gaze was fixed entirely on her, rather than
the box of sweets. He lifted a bit of
laddu
and brought it to her mouth. She let him coax her lips apart and nibbled it directly from his fingers. Sweet flakes of coconut, sugar syrup, and cardamom melted on her tongue. She licked her lips, closed her eyes, and let out a throaty purr of satisfaction.

She was going to kill him
, Derek thought. His lovely, innocent bride was as responsive to his touch as the most skilled seductress. If he didn’t know her better, he would have thought her the most sophisticated tease in all of London. He recollected the enticing glimpses he’d had between her legs as he’d massaged her feet, the way she’d arched her back and moaned in pleasure. The way the glistening droplets of water had streamed down every luscious swell and feminine curve of her body when she’d stood naked before him…

Nothing but sheer erotic
torture.

He thought he’d experienced desire before. Now he knew better. That had been a sham, a fiction, nothing but a poor imitation of what he
currently felt. Even as Calla lay stretched out before the hearth, she had no idea what the fire’s glow did for her skin. How it heated her cheeks and added a warm blush to her natural creamy softness. How the ivory silk of her dressing gown clung to her body like the tissues that clung to the boxed sweets, just waiting for him to unwrap and devour.

Sliding his arm beneath her, he lifted her and settled her onto his lap. Even that small act brought him pleasure.
He liked every move she made, from her gasp of surprise as he lifted her, to the press of her soft ass against his swollen cock as she settled in his lap. He liked the way she locked her arms around his neck and nuzzled her cheek against his chest. He liked the tangle of her damp, thick hair brushing his arm. His bold new wife ignited a need he hadn’t even known existed within him.

Until that moment, physical
intimacy had been nothing more than an intensely satisfying pastime, in return for which his partner had been rewarded with pleasure of her own, along with whatever baubles, trinkets, or gowns might strike her fancy. On other occasions, his paramours had taken their pleasure in the lure of the exotic, succumbing to the wicked thrill of bedding the Black Baron, a man who lurked just outside the boundary of respectable society.

But this was different.
This was Calla. His wife. Resolve coursed through him. Tonight he would bloody well not be rushed. He was determined to treat them both to a slow, thorough seduction.

Their bodies met and molded, her soft curves yielding to the greater firmness of his lean muscles.
He lowered his head, lightly pressing his lips against hers. He waited until she had accepted the feel of his mouth, then delved deeper, using the subtle pressure of his jaw to coax her lips apart. He swept his tongue inside her mouth, savoring the sugared sweetness of her lips and the faint flavor of cardamom on her tongue.

Calla shifted slightly, rolling her hips in time to the rhythm of their embrace.
Without the benefit of his breeches, Derek felt his cock, already aching with unanswered need, leap to life, straining against the plush fabric of his robe.

Their kiss, initially a steady, orderly thing, grew sloppy and urgent. Calla’s hands mimicked the pattern of his own, moving with an almost frantic urgency over his back
and shoulders, tugging their way through his hair, driven by the same raw hunger, the same relentless need that fired his blood. Their bodies locked and molded together, as though leaving a mere fraction of an inch between them simply could not be borne.

A
sense of burning dissatisfaction built within Derek. The taste of Calla’s lips and tongue were no longer enough to gratify him. He wanted more. He needed the touch of her skin against his own. He needed her body, her heat, her scent. And he needed it
now
. He reached for her dressing gown, seized by a carnal yearning he couldn’t contain. Temporarily foiled by the gown’s knotted belt, he battled an adolescent urge to simply rip the garment off her back. To his surprise and pleasure, Calla once again mimicked his touch, tugging at his clothing. Together they moved with wanton urgency, pulling at sleeves and dragging garments over shoulders, fumbling with eagerness and fueled by desire.

At last they succeeded in ridding themselves of their scant clothing. For the second time that evening, Derek’s
gaze feasted on Calla’s naked flesh, drinking in every stunning detail of her form. When he had first laid eyes on Calla Lily Staunton in the drawing room of the East India House, he had considered her tall and plain. Now the words elegant, delicate, and luminous came to mind.

Her skin, so ivory and pure, seemed to shimmer
in the flickering firelight. She was neither a large woman nor exceptionally waiflike. To his delight, she fell perfectly in between. Her breasts were not large, but round and pretty, twin globes of soft ivory flesh peaked by mouth-watering, deep rose nipples. Her waist was so tiny he could span it with his hands. Her hips were slim, her legs long and shapely. Calla was graced with soft, feminine curves that would have befitted a Roman goddess—Diana, perhaps, or some other lithe, supple huntress.