A Husband for Hire (The Heirs & Spares Series Book 1) Page 7

  He staggered up the stairs to his room and fully clothed, right down to his muddy boots, fell face-first onto his bed. Sleep claimed him immediately.

  Chapter Six

  “I

  believe I’m going to be sick.” Eleanor stared straight ahead and tried not to react to the sway of the carriage. After a rainy morning spent in the clutches of Florence and her maids, she’d set off to the church as the afternoon exploded into a celebration of brilliant sunshine and freshening air. A dreary day of London’s sulfurous fog and pelting ice would have better suited her mood. Had she swapped her luxurious carriage for a three-sided tumbril, the setting would have completely appropriate.

  Lady Florence smiled at her reassuringly. “You’re never sick, and I cannot ever remember you in better looks. You’re simply ethereal. Besides, it’s normal for a bride to have some nervous jitters.” She gazed at Eleanor with a sly pursing of the lips. “Particularly if the groom is such as Lord Miles Everleigh.” She chuckled softly and stared out the window at the passing traffic with a dreamy expression. “Would that I’d had such a stallion to look forward to on my wedding night …” Florence breathed a long sigh.

  Eleanor shuddered. “I can’t do it,” she whispered.

  Her friend rolled her eyes. “Balderdash. Your tragic airs have no place here, dearest. I’m becoming quite cross with you. Now cease and desist.”

  Eleanor slumped into the corner of the coach. “Fine,” she snapped. “But I don’t know what to do other than spread my legs and allow him to have his way with me. I’m not a passive sort of female, Florence.”

  Florence snorted. “Eleanor, you don’t have to do anything, at least not the first time. Your husband will guide you. Simply accommodate yourself to—”

  “What do you mean, the first time!” Eleanor straightened in her seat and eyed Florence with alarm. “You never mentioned multiple times.”

  Florence closed her eyes and braced her fingertips on her forehead, her expression one of strained patience.

  “Florence, you don’t understand.” Eleanor gazed at her hands clutched in her lap. “In truth, I’d feel better if Lord Miles weren't such a nonpareil. I’m convinced I cannot but fail to measure up to even the lowest of his expectations. I heartily wish I didn’t like him so much for it will make his distaste for me when he … ah, when he… ” she swallowed heavily, “… consummates our union all the more humiliating.”

  Florence regarded her steadily. “Has he ever said or done anything to indicate he holds you in distaste either bodily or in conduct of person?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did he not willingly and without coercion enter into this marital agreement?

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did you or did you not tell me that you and he have practically lived in each other’s pockets these last two weeks; that you conversed and laughed together on a range of subjects; that he has introduced you to his closest friends and danced you into blissful exhaustion?

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Wasn’t it he who broached the subject of consummation to protect your interests?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m disgusted with you, Eleanor. I never took you for such a craven ninny. Lord Miles Everleigh’s every action for the last fortnight indicates he holds you in genuine regard. Now, stop being so doltish and calm your fears.”

  Eleanor glared at her friend who glared right back. Tense silence held sway for a long moment until the absurd situation in which she found herself in struck Eleanor as humorous. The corner of her mouth twisted and Florence snorted and swallowed a laugh.

  “A craven ninny? Really?” She regarded her friend blandly. “That’s what you think of me?”

  Florence tipped up her chin and fought down a smile. “A doltish, craven ninny.”

  Eleanor arched an eyebrow.

  “All right.” Flo sniffed. “I’ll be generous. A beautiful, gloriously gowned, doltish, craven ninny, who will have every man at All Hallows congratulating Lord Miles on his vast good fortune.”

  The wedding passed in a blur. Eleanor could remember nothing of it. She must have made the appropriate responses at the appropriate times, but she moved in a fugue state until awakening with a start at the statement by the clergyman, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride, my lord.”

  Miles smiled down at her and in a graceful gesture in keeping with the elegance of the man, tipped her chin up and pressed his mouth gently on hers before straightening and moving them down the aisle to sign the register at the back of the chapel. He hadn’t lingered in the kiss, and while she had nothing to compare it to, she wouldn’t describe it as chaste. Never in her entire thirty-odd years had three seconds moved her so profoundly. She’d expected to feel awkward at being kissed. Instead, Miles had made the intimacy seem the most natural thing in the world. Despite Florence’s repeated assurances, she’d expected to feel some distaste at such personal contact but instead found herself swamped with confusion at her strong desire for him to kiss her again.

  Per their agreement, they left immediately post-ceremony for her townhouse to partake of a light dinner and… and… her mind rebelled at thinking further. As soon as he’d entered the carriage after her, Miles settled on the opposite bench. His sheer male presence seemed to occupy the entirety of the coach, but perhaps she was just hyper-aware of him. He removed his top hat and placing it on the seat beside him, leaned his head back with a muffled groan and closed his eyes. Freed of the need to be circumspect, Eleanor studied her new husband’s masculine face and elegant form with what she could only term as avarice.

  “Do I pass muster, Lady Miles Everleigh?” His low silky voice teased her.

  She didn’t know how she’d betrayed herself. “You must be aware your features send every normal female’s heart aflutter.”

  His head lolled from side to side with the sway of the carriage. He’d still not opened his eyes. He gave all the appearance of a man fagged to death—was he truly exhausted, or did he so regret the upcoming consummation that he couldn’t bear to look at her? The “craven ninny” in her sounded a call to arms.

  He gave a low chuckle and opened languid eyes to regard her briefly before closing them again. His body remained relaxed against the velvet squabs. “I would never describe you as a normal female,” he murmured.

  “No.” Eleanor shielded her tender feelings behind a curt response. “I believe you share that opinion with the majority of the ton.”

  His eyes remained closed, but his lips curled in a slow smile. “If asked, I would describe you as an uncommonly handsome woman of impeccable comportment, great sensibility, and unusual intellect.”

  “Oh.”

  At that one, uncomfortable syllable, he opened his eyes again and captured her in a steady gray gaze alive with amusement before, once again, his lids descended, and his loose body swayed to the motion of the carriage. An incipient smile lingered at the corners of his mouth.

  They accomplished the remainder of the ride to her townhome in silence. His sincerely uttered compliments had reduced her tenuous composure to shambles, though it seemed he didn’t share her turmoil of spirit. To her intense irritation, Miles appeared to sleep.

  “The footmen have removed three of your untouched plates in the last hour, Eleanor. Would you like to dispense with the dessert course entirely and retire to your chambers?”

  The picture of self-possessed relaxation, Miles sprawled in his chair at the intimate table her staff had set for them in her library and regarded her steadily through sleepy eyes. He drew idle circles on the white Damascus tablecloth with an indolent index finger and occasionally sipped from his second, or was it the third, glass of champagne. While he’d eaten with a hearty appetite, he’d been surprisingly abstemious, refusing the red and white wines offered with the meat and fish courses and only sipping at his champagne.

  But then he would be composed, wouldn’t he? He’d probably been the chief orchestrator of scenes
like this with great regularity whereas she was afflicted with a nervous desire to have this night over with and no interest whatsoever in food or drink. Well… timidity had never featured strongly in her character, no matter Florence’s accusations. She placed her napkin on the table. She removed her gloves from where they lay in her lap and arranged them beside the napkin.

  Miles straightened immediately and stood to assist her from her chair. “I take it that’s a yes.” He turned her to face him and held her hands in a light clasp.

  She nodded and dropped her attention to their joined hands. His were wonderfully warm. The unfamiliar contact of flesh on flesh provoked…feelings…in her.

  “Eleanor…”

  “Mmm?”

  “Look at me, please.”

  She raised her face to his and met his gaze boldly. “What?”

  “Ah, there you are. I worried some imposter had stolen the place of the self-assured woman I’ve come to greatly admire.” He smiled, and she couldn’t help but answer with a roll of her eyes and the trace of a return smile. “I understand you are nervous, but I assure you, there is every chance you will enjoy what we do tonight.”

  She twisted her face into a wry grimace. “But will you?” His throaty chuckle was unexpected and did astounding things to her insides.

  “Without a doubt. Men are the easiest of creatures to please.”

  She examined him closely, but he stood before her with an easy honesty that she couldn’t bring herself to question, just as there was no questioning the intensity of her attraction to him. He was too handsome, too vital, too male. Miles could add one more besotted female to what she was certain was a lengthy list. A strong sense of possessiveness swept through her when she considered he was her husband. For the rest of his life, Miles Wrotham Everleigh was legally bound to her, and at least for tonight, he would be her husband in truth. That had to count for something. She straightened. “I should like it very much if you would kiss me again.”

  His eyes lost some of their sleepy look and his expression sobered. He dropped her hands and brought one of his to wrap the nape of her neck with his thumb under her chin, while the other hand slipped around her waist and drew her toward him. He lowered his lips to hers and brushed her mouth lightly, interspersed with gentle nibbles, coaxing and seducing her into yearning for more. When he pulled back slightly only to re-engage by wickedly tracing the seam of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, she gasped. With a low murmur of approval, he deepened his kiss into her open mouth with a firm pressure of warm lips and an invading tongue. By all the saints above! She fisted her hands in the superfine of his lapels and pulled, insisting he intensify the unprecedented sensations that swept her from head to toe, sensations she was feeling for the first time in her life, sensations that demanded a further exploration.

  He seemed to understand her silent command and responded with a firm mastery that unraveled her. Parts of her body to which she had never given thought heretofore were behaving in unfamiliar and intriguing ways. A flush of languid warmth built in her, leaving her relaxed and energized—all at the same time. Eleanor closed her eyes and lost herself so thoroughly in Miles’ spell that it took her a moment to comprehend what had happened when he straightened and with hands on her hips, held her away from him.

  “Go upstairs, Eleanor. I’ll give you some time to prepare, and then I’ll join you.” His voice sounded hoarse.

  Dropping her arms off his shoulders, she opened her eyes and blinked to bring him into focus. “My chamber is the second door on the right at the top of the stairs.” She stepped back; his arms dropped away. With a brief curtsey, she maintained a dignified pace until clearing the door of the library, whereupon she abandoned all dignity. Hiking up her skirts, she pelted up the stairs and into her bedroom where she immediately crossed to the bell pull and gave it a vigorous yank. An eternity elapsed, though her clock read only five minutes, as she paced and then sat and then rose—only to pace again before a knock on the door sent her flying to answer.

  “Finally! Sally, help me out of this gown and have Edith prepare a hot bath for me. I’ll have the lavender bath salts, please. Two generous spoonfuls. Lay out my new negligee, and I’ll need help taking down my hair. Oh, and have someone retrieve my gloves from the library. I seem to have left them behind.” She strained behind her to reach the tiny buttons fastening her sheer overdress.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Oh! Be careful, my lady, you’ll tear it in your hurry, and it’s such a gorgeous gown. I’m sure you’ll wish to wear it again.”

  Eleanor stood and quivered in impatience as her maid summoned the chambermaid, repeated her instructions and then began to methodically remove Eleanor’s wedding attire. Finally, her attendant wrapped her in a voluminous oriental robe, and Eleanor slipped into her bathing chamber.

  “Sally, I don’t need your assistance with my bath, but please stay and help me with my hair.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Sinking into the warm, fragrant water, Eleanor finally allowed herself a shiver of pure excitement. Yes, she was nervous. She found it impossible to believe that Miles could desire her—no one ever had before—but down the home stretch, curious anticipation had overtaken fear of physical embarrassment by a nose and looked to be the winner of this race. Finally, she would be initiated into the mysteries that most of her sex had known for years, and if the rest of what Miles would show her matched the kisses he’d bestowed on her in the library? Oh, my. She bit her lower lip and sank up to her shoulders in the scented water with a most un-Eleanor-like giggle.

  From the warm response of his bride to his kisses, their wedding night was going to be a memorable experience. Eleanor had swanned out of the library in a composed and dignified manner, but he had very good hearing, and it told him she galloped up the stairs. He chuckled to himself, pleased beyond all reason at her eagerness. He couldn’t think of anything he’d dislike more than initiating such intimacies with someone who lay frozen and merely endured. He enjoyed physical pleasures as often as the next man—perhaps more so should the testimony of his paramours be truth and not flattery, but even at his most inexperienced, he’d striven to give as much delight as he took. Fortunately, the lovely older women who’d taken him under their wings had been supremely good instructors, and he had every confidence in his ability to satisfy Eleanor if she would be a willing participant.

  Beyond the simple courtesies owed any woman on her wedding night, he felt something for Eleanor, something beyond admiration, something deeper than simple liking—a strong affection, perhaps. He didn’t know. None of his previous “hostesses” had evoked the feelings he possessed for his new wife. Whatever the emotion was, it had grown steadily since he’d first met her, and the idea that he’d see her rarely after tonight brought a sense of gloom unusual to him. Bah…more than likely temporary mopishness brought on by exhaustion.

  The clock read 8:00. The water pipes had been banging for several minutes so she’d obviously decided on a bath. He’d allow her until 9:30 and then go up. Hopefully, that would be enough time. He doubted he could keep his eyes open much past that. He picked up the Madeira bottle sitting on a small table, crossed the library to a likely looking velvet sofa, poured himself a short glass and sat. Placed facing the fireplace, the seating was just as comfortable as it looked. He stared into the flames, sipping pensively, and fed his lustful thoughts about exactly what he’d like to do to Lady Eleanor Everleigh. Replete from an excellent dinner, enveloped in the embrace of down cushions and warmed by a glowing fire, sleep crept toward him with insidious stealth and ambushed him unawares. Not even the glass rolling from his fingers and dousing his trouser leg with Madeira was sufficient to wake him.

  “There you go, my lady.” Sally drew a hairbrush through Eleanor’s waist-length hair and pronounced, “A woman’s glory, to be sure, Ma’am. I’ve put all your jeweled hairpins in the cloisonné dish. Edith has turned down your bed and swept it with a warming pan. A decanter of port and cold collation is set out on the s
mall table in your sitting room should you or Lord Miles wish a late-night nosh. Is there anything else you need before you retire?” Sally’s reflection smiled at her in the mirror.

  “No, thank you very much. You and Edith are dismissed for the evening.”

  Sally dipped in a curtsey and in the mirror, Eleanor watched them leave, the two young women’s heads together whispering and giggling. For the last two weeks, she’d have had to be blind and deaf to miss the excitement and pleased approval all her staff exuded at the announcement of her marriage to Lord Miles. Eleanor studied herself in the mirror. With her abundant hair loose and free-flowing she looked a decade younger. She felt a decade younger. A sense of girlish excitement suffused her, and for once in her life, she allowed it—with a cautionary reminder that it was only for tonight.

  Eleanor lifted her sheer nightdress and slipped between the pristine white sheets. Florence had assured her that this sort of transparent nothingness would drive any man wild with desire. Was it possible she could engender such passion in that magnificent man? With a sense of restrained hopefulness and much fiddling with the sheets, her hair, her negligee, she arranged herself in what she hoped was a seductive position and waited for her groom to appear.

  After thirty minutes of staring at the door, she flipped back the covers, slipped her feet into her slippers and tiptoed to the door. Opening it a crack, she listened intently. Quiet shrouded the house. She frowned and pursed her lips. Patience. Don’t rush your fences, girl. It’s only been…she glanced at the mantle clock…two hours since dinner. He’s being a gentleman and allowing you time. Somewhat mollified, Eleanor moved to her floor to ceiling windows and pulled back a drape to look out onto her small garden. The stars were barely visible in the hazy London sky, but the moon was bright enough that she could chart its course. The pale yellow orb hung just above the treetops. With a huff, she picked up the book she’d been reading on the history of the Byerley Turk, one of the foundation race sires in England, and settled back into her bed to read.