The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (6 page)

Their coach rolled through the tall gates of the Keating estate
. Unlike the first time Calla had arrived at Derek’s home, the house, as well as the drive itself, was ablaze with twinkling light, welcoming guests to an intimate supper to celebrate their nuptials.

The effect was stunning, yet something about the forced opulence seemed cold and staged, as though the
house, carriage, and servants were all expensive props in some elaborate play, rather than one’s actual home. She cast an appraising eye at her new husband, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time she knew him better. He had elected not to wear the
kurta
his mother had sent from Calcutta, she noted. Instead he’d donned a suit of black wool serge, looking every inch the proper lord of the realm.

“
You mentioned that your wealth was not inherited with the barony,” she said.

“True.”

“How then did you amass your fortune?” She knew that he was in trade, but little else. “Did you begin your career working for the East India Company?”

He arched one dark brow, a look of dry amusement playing about his lips.
He studied her with an air of quiet expectation, as though waiting for her to recognize the folly of the question. When Calla only continued to study him blankly, he shook his head.

“No,
” he replied. “No, the honorable gentlemen of the Company did not deem me a suitable candidate for employment.”

Calla
frowned, recognizing the sarcasm lacing his tone but not understanding the reason for it. Then her cheeks flamed. Horrified embarrassment swept over her as she realized her gaffe. It was against Company policy to hire anyone of mixed heritage. In India, Eurasians—those who were half-English, half-native—were legally excluded from military service, land ownership, government pensions, and a host of other rights her own family had always taken for granted.

He leaned back in his seat and stretched out his long legs,
silently watching as she worked that out. “Any other questions?” he drawled.

Calla shook her head
in mortified silence as the coach rumbled to a stop. A footman attired in formal livery sprang forward and opened the coach door, bringing their conversation to a swift and merciful close.

Derek
exited the vehicle, then turned and offered Calla his hand. Once her feet were firmly on the ground, he released her hand. “Ropes,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I made my fortune importing ropes, jute, and sailing canvas from India. I built a small empire undercutting the market by dealing directly with the
Dalit
, something not even the English were willing to do.”

Calla drew in a sharp breath.
The
Dalit
were India’s untouchables, an entire swath of society that was deemed the lowest of the low.
Living in abject poverty, their untouchable status dictated where they could work, worship, eat, collect water, and appear in public places. They were prohibited from receiving an education, including learning to read and write. In some instances, they were required to hide themselves in the event members of an upper caste approached, so as not to pollute the purity of the air.

Dealing with the untouchables
was a social line neither Hindu nor English would dare to cross. No one would. Except, apparently, her husband.

“I see,” she managed.

His steely eyes searched her face, then his mouth tightened in a grim line.
Her shock must have shown, for he lifted his broad shoulders in a careless shrug. “If you wanted a better man,
jaanu
, you should have married one.”

Calla paused. Not a better man, but
perhaps a less complex one. Strangely enough, the thought did not please her. “But then I wouldn’t have you.”

“Indeed.” Another
pause, another look she couldn’t decipher, then, “Shall we, Lady Keating?”

Lady Keating.

There was no mistaking the
dry amusement in his voice, as well as the subtle hint of challenge. Another memory chose that moment to assert itself—the East India Company’s gala a few nights ago. Derek’s reception among his peers had been markedly chilly. Disdainful, if one wanted to put a fine point on it. Was that due to prejudice against his mixed heritage, disapproval at his dealings with the
Dalit
, or some deeper flaw in his character? There was no way of knowing, and nothing she could do about it now, in any case.

Feigning a courage she did not possess, Calla brought up her chin and gathered her skirts. She placed her hand in his. 

“Yes, Lord Keating,” she said. “We shall.”

Chapter Six

The
evening passed in a blur. Calla recalled being introduced to at least two dozen of her husband’s closest friends and colleagues, all of whom studied her with rapt curiosity, as though she were an exotic, foreign species that had been invented for their amusement. Somehow she made it through the ordeal, playing gracious hostess and blushing bride, smiling until her cheeks hurt. Finally, just when she thought the evening would never end, their last guest departed.

Her relief at having successfully endured her wedding
supper evaporated as Lord Keating escorted her upstairs. Instead of simply depositing her at the threshold of her room, he stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him.

Calla’s momentary confusion quickly evaporated.
Of course. The wedding ceremony, followed by the wedding supper…and ending with the wedding night.

Her gaze shot around the room
. The fire had been lit, the bed sheets turned down, a lush bouquet of deep red roses perfumed the air, and a bottle of wine chilled in a sterling silver bucket of ice chips. Her suite had been transformed into a setting for seduction.

Everything
was ready. Everything except
her
.

She watched as he
r husband’s long strides carried him across the room. He removed his black serge jacket and draped it across a chair, then loosened the intricate knot of his silk cravat and carelessly tossed it atop his jacket. He stretched, flexing the muscles of his shoulders, as a man coming home from a tiring day at work might do. Then he turned and looked at her.

“Would you care for champagne?”

She licked her suddenly parched lips and shook her head. “No.”

“Ah.” He shot a glance at the bed. “Anxious to begin, are you?”

“On second thought,” she blurted out,
“Wine would be lovely.”

A knowing grin flashed across his face.
“I thought so.” He poured two glasses and passed one to her.

She took the glass and gratefully sipped the bubbly wine.
“Your guests seemed to enjoy themselves this evening,” she said. “Particularly that fair-haired gentleman. Viscount…”

“
Brooksbank,” Derek supplied.

“He was quite taken with the food. He asked about each dish.”

“Yes. He takes particular glee in uncomfortable situations. Naturally, he played the evening out for all it was worth.”

Calla
studied him in confusion. “I don’t understand. I thought the food was delicious.”

“
India isn’t done. Not in London, and certainly not among the peerage.”

“But, I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn.”

“I see.”

Calla toyed with her glass, swallowing past a lump of abject dismay. Days ago, she had mentioned she would like to help plan their wedding menu, and Derek had given his consent. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that their guests wouldn’t enjoy the same foods she did: spicy chicken curry, a succulent prawn pepper fry, saffron rice pudding, vegetables cooked in yogurt, flour dumplings, then ending the meal with sweet
laddu
and fried
jalebi
for dessert.

No wonder Derek’s friends
had looked at her with such fascination, such tittering condescension and amusement. A wave of mortified embarrassment swept over her. She turned away, feigning a sudden fascination in the furnishings of her bedchamber. Despite its luxury, the room, like the estate itself, was completely barren of any semblance of warmth.

“Come here.”

Derek’s voice, soft but firm, startled her from her reverie. Calla hesitated, then obeyed his command, moving to stand before him. He reached for her glass—she was stunned to find she’d drained it completely—and set it aside.

Then he lifted her left hand and removed her wedding ring.

He stared at her finger for a long moment, gently rubbing his thumb over the spot where her ring had been. “I thought I had just imagined it,” he said.

It was customary for Hindu
women to apply elaborate tattoos to their hands and forearms on the occasion of their wedding. Calla had been tempted to do the same, but upon further consideration had decided upon something more intimate and discreet. Before the ceremony Mrs. Singh had applied an intricate design to her ring finger, a lacy vine that wrapped between her third knuckle and her palm, so that only she and Derek would see it. “It’s a henna dye,” she told him. “It will wear off in a few weeks.”

“
Pity.”

A note of
pleasant surprise warmed her. She felt her lips curve upward in a small, hesitant smile. “You like it?”

“Yes. I do.”

Calla searched her husband’s face, trying to read some deeper meaning in his words, but his features were dark, inscrutable. “Now what do we do?” she asked.

“Now
I slip this ring back on your finger,” he paused, doing exactly that, “and then I take off everything else.”

“
Now?”

His lips quirked.
“Nervous,
jaanu
?”

“Yes.”

He studied her in silence for a moment, as though caught off-guard by her blunt honesty. Then he propped one hip upon her writing desk, assuming a half-sitting position so that they were eye-level. In a tone that conveyed nothing but polite curiosity, he asked, “Why?”

“We’re virtually strangers. We hardly know one another.”

Derek gave an indifferent shrug. “That doesn’t signify. Performing sexual acts with a stranger can be deeply satisfying.” 

Calla swallowed
past the note of hysterical laughter that threatened to burst from her lips. His words were so nonsensical he might as well have been speaking another language. Her two elder sisters, both of whom were married, had informed her how the conjugal act was performed. In addition, she had some experience of her own. Her dear friend Philip, in a rush of wild abandon after an open-air concert during which they’d both imbibed too much wine, had kissed her passionately and been so bold as to touch her breasts through the fabric of her gown. It had been a sloppy moment that had embarrassed them both and ruined their friendship. She said as much to Derek.

The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips.
He shook his head. “I intend to do far more than simply kiss you, and I can assure you I won’t be embarrassed about it.”

Calla dragged her teeth against her lower lip. “I…I see.”

“Do you?”

She shook her head. “
No. But perhaps if we waited…”

“Waited?”

“Yes. If we just had more time to—”

Whatever she might have said next was lost as he tucked
his arm around the small of her back and pulled her tightly to him. He pressed his body against her own until she could feel every unyielding, muscled inch of his hard, male form.

Calla stiff
ened, bracing herself for the physical onslaught she was certain would follow. But there was no hint of force or domination in his embrace. In fact, just the opposite was true. He lowered his head, slanting his lips over hers. His touch was infinitely light, a mere whisper of a kiss that made her breath catch in her throat and brought her senses to life. A kiss so soft and unexpected, so rich with promise, it made her ache for more.

The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of her gown
, warming her as no fire ever had. The heady, masculine scent of his skin swirled around her. Derek was a rock-solid mass of tightly restrained power, a fact which only served to heighten her curiosity. Breathless anticipation surged through her veins like the swell of evening tide. She leaned into him, tacitly begging for more.

Applying th
e subtle pressure of his jaw, he gently coaxed her lips apart and slipped his tongue inside her mouth. She stiffened in surprise, then relaxed as a jolt of fiery, erotic pleasure sizzled through her. His tongue glided over hers, thrusting, plundering, exploring the silky recesses of her mouth. She tasted champagne on his tongue, and something else, something foreign and male that she instinctively recognized as uniquely Derek.

Her husband.
This mysterious man was hers to touch, to taste.

No sooner had that thought formed
when he shifted slightly. Without breaking their kiss, he slipped his thigh between her legs, gently pulling her body forward so that she was straddling his knee. She grasped his shoulders for support as he moved his thigh up and down between hers, softly rocking her against him as they kissed. The steady, rolling motion between her legs set off a chain of reactions within her. A shiver raced down her spine, followed by a churning heat that pooled low in her belly. Her breath hitched and a husky moan escaped her lips.

Derek pulled back at that, his smoky gaze searching her face. A hint of something that looked like surprise glittered in his dark, hungry
gaze. Calla returned his stare, unable to speak. Never in her life had she imagined anything like
this
.

Minutes earlier
she had wanted to run. Now she couldn’t imagine turning away. She felt intoxicated, dizzy with desire. Her lips felt swollen, her breathing ragged, her skin impossibly tender. Passion. She’d heard the word before, but never until that moment did it hold any meaning for her.

Raw, naked greed bubbled up in her.
Unable to stop herself, she reached for him. Her fingers curled into the soft white linen of his shirt, pulling him toward her. A low groan tore from his lips as his mouth captured hers. His hands moved over her body once again, but no longer with the light, gentle caress she had experience earlier. Instead he touched her with a fierce possessiveness, as though marking her body as his.

His touch was bold,
wildly intimate, primitive. He massaged her breasts, the swell of her hips, her waist. He ran his hands down her spine, cupping her buttocks to pull her ever closer to him, until she became conscious of the shocking length of his erection pressing against her thigh.

She’d barely accustomed herself to that sensation when he shifted abruptly, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a child and settling her across his lap. Dragging his lips away from hers, he pressed his mouth against the satiny skin exposed by the bodice of her
soft, rose-colored gown. He kissed the top of her breasts, her collar bone, and the nape of her neck, using his lips to explore the very places his hands had caressed only moments earlier.

Calla tossed back her head to allow him greater access, running h
er fingers through his dark, silky hair as he nuzzled the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. The unexpected contrast of the light stubble on his chin and the softness of his lips sent a tremor of delight racing down her spine.

“Oh.”
The word tumbled unbidden from her lips. Then, after a beat, “
My
.”

That was all she was capable of. Just the faintest breath, the smallest sigh of surrender.
A barely audible sign of recognition that the dark, enigmatic man she had married knew exactly how to touch her. That he pleased her in ways she hadn’t even thought possible. And that this was only the beginning.

He worked free the row of tiny buttons that ran down the back of her gown, loosening the bodice enough to
allow the garment to slip from her shoulders. It pooled about her waist, leaving her in nothing but her sheer cotton chemise. Moving with slow deliberation, Derek traced his palm lightly over her breasts through the soft cotton. Her nipples tightened to hard, stiff peaks, wildly sensitive, achingly tender from the friction of the chemise. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts into his palms, craving more of his touch even as the teasing sensation was driving her mad with need.

He
drew in a sharp breath at her response. Dark fire lit his gaze. Using his teeth, he tore free the silk ribbon that fastened her chemise. He cupped one breast, then lowered his head and drew the taut, rosy peak into his mouth. She jolted in stunned surprise. With his lips and tongue he teased and licked and suckled, first one nipple, then the other, giving them both the same wet, hot, loving attention. In the dim recesses of her mind it occurred to her that a proper lady would protest, pull back, but Calla couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Instead she
writhed beneath him, astonished at the feelings that ricocheted through her at his intimate touch. His embrace was entirely shocking, yet somehow so
right
. A mere prelude, she suspected, to what was yet to come. Giddy arousal collided with nervous anticipation as he tightened his grip on her body, as though intent on melding them into one. He slipped his hand beneath her skirts, running his palm up her leg until he reached the smooth expanse of thigh exposed between her stocking and her drawers. Letting out a low murmur of appreciation, he began to rhythmically stroke the velvety band of flesh.

A soft, breathless whimper tore from her throat. A whimper that turned to a cry of alarm when he shifted his palm to cup the
dark tangle of curls that covered her sex. Calla clamped her thighs together, instinctively resisting his touch. He couldn’t mean to touch her
there
, in her most forbidden of places.