The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (4 page)

“However,”
she continued, “I suppose you should know all of it.” She worried her bottom lip for a moment, and then, as though she were about to leap into an icy stream, plunged on, “I will do my wifely duty, but you will not ignite a fire within me. I am not that kind of woman. My nature is simply not of that bent.”

If she hadn’t looked so
earnest, Derek might have laughed at her prim little speech. Instead, he simply arched one dark brow and looked at her. “Most men would take that as a challenge.”

“
I can assure you, it was not meant to be.”

“Oh?”

“Certainly not.”

He let her words hang between them for one long, awful minute. Then he slowly moved toward her.

Panic flashed through her eyes.
She backed away until she bumped against a table, leaving herself no further room to retreat. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”

His
lips slanted over hers, swallowing her protest. He locked one arm around the small of her waist and drew her to him, preventing her escape. In the brief time they’d spoken, Derek had seen too much heat in Miss Staunton to believe her assertions of frigidity. He required only some small reassurance of sexual compatibility to prove his instincts correct.

He brushed his
mouth against hers, subtly increasing the pressure of his kiss until he gently forced her lips apart. Then he swept his tongue into her mouth. Her spine stiffened as her body went rigid in his arms. But her maidenly demonstration of dismay was so brief as to be nonexistent. She gave a soft gasp that conveyed her shock…followed less than a second later by an almost inaudible, throaty purr. A purr that was full of wonder and curiosity. She softened her jaw to accept his kiss and melted against him, eliminating the tiny gap that had separated their bodies.

It was enough to prove him correct—she’d do well in his bed. Having satisfied that point, he could have ended the kiss and drawn back. But damned if he was going to. Not yet. Not when she drew her delicate hands up to rest on his shoulders, her bracelets jangling softly in h
is ears and her pert breasts pressed seductively against his chest. Not when he could taste the hint of cinnamon tea on her lips. Not when the scent of her skin, a provocative blend of jasmine and spice, swirled around him like an intoxicant.

A simple kiss wasn’t enough.
Not nearly enough.

But
without warning, she broke their embrace and turned her head away. Derek dropped his arms and stepped back, watching in rapt fascination as her fingers moved to her mouth. She lightly brushed them across her lower lip as though expecting to find an imprint of his kiss still lingering there.

Abruptly recovering herse
lf, she brought up her chin. The women Derek knew had long ago learned the feminine art of schooling their emotions. It was a skill Miss Staunton had yet to acquire. Therefore he had the pleasure of watching as righteous indignation filled her face and sparks of accusation shot from her eyes. Her lovely lips parted.

“That is
not
the way a man kisses a lady.”

Perhaps not. “But i
t’s the only way a man should kiss his wife.”

Chapter
Four

Calla felt her heart give an odd little
lurch, then it begin beating at triple its normal tempo.
Wife.
She tried to marshal an appropriate response, but her mind began spinning in dizzying circles. She was simply too close to the man to think properly. The parlor, which had seemed so large when she first stepped inside, shrank to the size of a china cupboard. Either that, or Lord Keating—enormous, hulking man that he was—was using up all the air.

She
took a shaky breath, stepped back a pace, and collected her thoughts. “Do you mean…”

“You’ll do.”

You’ll do.

Not exactly the most promising words upon which to build a marriage.
Then again, what had she expected? The old adage about being careful what you wish for flitted through her mind, but she chased it away with a flicker of irritation. She’d traveled halfway around the world to reach this agreement. It was all working out exactly as she’d hoped. She should be delighted. She
was
delighted.

She swallowed hard and arranged her lips into something she desperately hoped resembled a smile. “Mrs. Singh will be delighted.”

His mouth quirked. But his smile, if it had been there at all, vanished into an expression of grave solemnity. He gave a somber nod. “Excellent. I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Singh.”

A
knock sounded on the door, saving her from the duty of finding an appropriate response. At Derek’s call to enter, a footman stepped inside. “Pardon, sahib. Your coach is ready.”

“Very good.” Turning
to her, he said, “Shall we?”

Calla
’s brows knit together. “But, where are we going?”

“Home.”

“Yours?”

A brief pause, then,
“Ours, apparently.”

Oh.
She gave what she hoped was a sophisticated nod. She tried to move, but her feet seemed to have rooted themselves to the floor. When she spoke, her voice sounded small and breathless. “Of course. Yes. Ours.”

He
hesitated, eyeing her curiously. Folding his arms across his chest, he studied her with a look of undisguised amusement. “Having second thoughts already, are we,
jaanu
?”

Jaanu
. Sweetheart. The word fell from his lips like a silky caress. It hung in the air between them, half teasing endearment, half outright challenge.

If his purpose was to bait her into finding her spine, it worked. She brought up her chin and coolly met his gaze. “I merely meant to ascertain our destination so I could make arrangements for my trunks.”

“Of course.”
His expression excessively polite, he gave a grave nod. “I’ll see to it.” He spoke in rapid-fire Hindi to the footman, conveying the necessary instructions to retrieve her belongings, as well as those of Mrs. Singh. Then he quirked one dark brow at Calla. “Anything else?”

“No. That’s quite satisfactory, thank you.”

“Very good.”

He
guided her through the doorway. It was the lightest of touches—a courtesy, really. Just the soft pressure of his palm against the small of her back to gently propel her forward. Yet even that slight contact had the power to set her knees shaking.

Absurd.
She brushed off her unprecedented reaction to the strain of their meeting, the lateness of the hour, and her general fatigue following her long journey. She was three and twenty. Not a young girl given to fits of giddiness over something as inconsequential as a touch. Or even a kiss. Even she, as overshadowed as she’d been by the beauty of her sisters, had been kissed before.

But not like that, she reminded herself.
Not with such mastery, such practiced ease. The speed at which she’d yielded, no,
melted
, into his embrace was more than a little unnerving.

She cut a quick glance at
Lord Keating as they moved through the crowded foyer, taking solace in the fact that she was not the only one affected by his presence. The man was a baron. Surely there were many in attendance who outranked him socially. Yet none were shown the deference he received. He strode through the assemblage like a large, predatory beast out for an evening stroll through a warren of rabbits. The fawning crowds wordlessly parted before him to ease his way through.

He retrieved their cloaks
and ushered her and Mrs. Singh outside. Feeling flushed and uneasy, Calla welcomed the blast of frosty air that greeted her. Despite the lateness of the hour, a long queue of phantoms, cabriolets, carriages, and coaches continued to arrive and offload passengers. She tilted her chin to survey the bustling street. As she did, icy droplets pelted her skin and stung her cheeks. She blinked in surprise, drawing back to allow Derek to assist Mrs. Singh into the coach before her.

“Is this snow?”
she asked, holding up her palm. “I’ve never seen it before.”

He
frowned and drew up his collar, hunching deeper into his coat. “Sleet,” he corrected, his curt reply indicating he wasn’t enjoying the turn of the weather nearly as much as she was.

He handed her into the
coach, then stepped in behind her and swung the door shut. Calla settled herself beside Mrs. Singh, wholly unprepared for the intimate prospect of sharing a bench with her future groom. The driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. The team of matching chestnut geldings pulled into traffic.

With little
else to occupy her thoughts, she cast a discreet glance at the stranger sitting across from her.

Derek Arindam Jeffords. Lord Keating.
Her future husband.

His presence seemed all-engulfing, far too large for the modest confines of the coach in which they traveled.
He’d tucked his legs to one side after they’d boarded the vehicle, but that didn’t prevent their knees from brushing with each rut in the road and sway of the coach. The scent of his damp, masculine skin drifted around her, setting her nerves even further on edge. No matter how she tried to divert her thoughts, he was all she was aware of.

She clenched her hands in her lap, reminding herself that h
er goal would soon be realized. Once they were married, the looming threat of debt and servitude—both for herself, and for her mother and sisters—would be avoided. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that she would spend the rest of her days as Lord Keating’s wife sent a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous apprehension.

C
onscious of the heavy silence that resonated between them, she decided a little polite banter might be just the thing to ease her nerves. After all, they’d known each other as children. Their mothers had enjoyed the bonds of friendship for decades. Surely the gulf that separated them was not so broad it could not be breeched with minimal effort. Gathering her courage, she ventured, "You mentioned you remembered my family’s visits?”

“Vividly.”

She narrowed her eyes at his unflattering tone, but continued with dogged brightness, “I don’t suppose you remember me.” It was only natural that her light had been dimmed by the radiant glow of her more attractive sisters.

But Lord
Keating surprised her by saying, “Actually, you are the only one I do remember.”

“
Oh?”

“
The last time you and your female tribe descended upon my home, I have the distinct memory of you charging a hornet’s nest with a torch, battling a cobra with a stick, and befriending a male tiger cub.”

Surprise and pleasure flitted through Calla.
Well. So he
did
remember her. Certainly that was a step in the right direction. Still, something in his tone suggested explanations were in order. “I smoked the hornets out because their nest was near the river where the children bathed and they were being stung. The cobra had curled up in the washerwoman’s basket—I was merely defending her. As to the tiger cub, its mother had been shot by hunters. It would have starved to death without my help.”

“
I see.”

A soft, pleased smile curved her lips
as she regarded him across the swaying coach. “I take it you admire courage.”

“
Certainly.” He lifted his ankle and crossed it over his knee. “However, I have little tolerance for reckless stupidity.” His tone made it abundantly clear on which side of the ledger he thought her actions fell.

So much for attempting to bridge the distance between them.
Calla opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, swallowing the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. Shrewish retaliation was hardly the right note on which to begin a marriage, even if she had been provoked. She turned her attention to the passing streetscape.

Within minutes
the coach slowed before a large tract of land that was markedly different from the homes surrounding it. There was no elegant facade, no neatly manicured lawn, no smoothly paved drive. No sign of welcome anywhere. Instead, all that could be seen was a tall iron gate spanning an imposing brick wall which encircled the property. Thick, thorny vines had woven their way around the iron bars, obliterating any view of what was contained within.

Call
a went cold at the sight. Her mother and sisters had fretted over money for as long as she could remember. Yet their small home had not been without a certain warmth and charm. The same could not be said of Lord Keating’s estate. The coach skirted past shadowy gardens, barren trees, and silent fountains, then drew to a shuddering stop before a dark, imposing estate. Calla’s breath caught in her throat and her heart thundered at twice its normal tempo.

Like the man himself, the first thing she noticed about Lord Keating’s home was its size. The overwhelming scale of the mansion dwarfed every neighbor. It was classic in style, built of pale gray marble that looked unbearably slick and cold. Even so, it was tastefully done, with tall Corinthian columns, arched windows, and broad, semicircular steps leading to an ornate oak door. Calla studied the sprawling estate, wondering whether it had been designed to impress or intimidate. Likely both, she concluded. A slew of m
isgivings swamped her. This step—entering what was to be her home for the remainder of her days—seemed far more final than any she had taken to date, including embarking on the voyage from India.

Their driver
leapt from his perch and pulled open the coach door. Derek stepped out, then turned and assisted Calla and Mrs. Singh. Together they dashed through the driving sleet toward the front door, which Derek himself threw open. They rushed inside and stood huddled together in a grand, cavernous foyer, surrounded by shadows and silence.

Calla heard
Derek mutter a curse, then he reached for a lamp and turned up the wick.

“Bellowes!”
he thundered. Turning to her, he said, “My apologies. I am not in the habit of requiring my servants to await my arrival at night.”

The obvious implication being, of course, neither he nor his staff was prepared for the intrusion of guests.
Before she could respond, an elderly man attired in a dressing robe, cap, and slippers came toward them. The candle lantern he carried gave him an almost spectral glow. Despite the fact that he’d obviously just been roused from his bed, he moved with regal dignity, displaying not the smallest hint of surprise at the late-night summons, or the presence of two strange women dripping all over his sleek marble floor.

“Good evening, Lord
Keating,” he intoned. “How may I be of service?”

“Miss Staunton and Mrs. Singh will be staying. You may awaken the staff
and have them see to it that our guests are made comfortable.” He gave a vague wave in their direction. “Hot baths, fresh linens, tea, supper…whatever they require.”

“
Very good, my lord.” 

Bellowes turned to comply with the order, but Calla stopped him.
“Wait,” she said. She looked at Derek. “I’m sure we don’t need to wake the entire household.” That would hardly endear her to the servants in her new home. “I’m certain we can manage on our own, if you’ll just point us in the right direction.”

Derek
considered her request, then shrugged. Looking at Bellowes, he said, “Very well. The west wing, I would think. You may show Mrs. Singh to the Gold Room. I’ll take Miss Staunton to the Blue Room.”

Bellowes, who had been
utterly imperturbable until that moment, allowed shock to crack his previously stoic mask. His gaze shot to Calla, taking in her sodden traveling costume and worn valise, then swung back to Derek. “The
Blue Room
, my lord?”

Derek
arched one dark brow and looked at his butler. “Problem, Bellowes?”

Bellowes recovered himself immediately. “Of course not,
my lord. Very good, my lord.”

“I’m relieved beyond words to have received your approval.”