The Wagering Widow Read online

  Was she to do something at this moment? She was conscious of a desire to place her hands on that wide chest, to feel the muscles for herself, but she dared not appear too forward. He looked away at that moment, and she took the opportunity to glance at his trousers, bold enough to eagerly anticipate what a man really looked like.

  He glanced back at her, a half-smile on his face. He reached his hand to caress her cheek, and a surprising bolt of sensation shot to her female parts. Her face grew hot, and she was suddenly very impatient for this matter to progress.

  ‘Shall we…shall we lie on the bed?’ he asked, his voice low and raspy.

  She nodded, too fearful of appearing incorrect to ask why he did not ask her to remove her shift nor he remove his trousers.

  She climbed on to the bed, its linens cool through the thin muslin of her shift. He settled next to her and her heart raced again. He covered them both with the blanket and, after a pause in which she had no idea what to do, he removed the remainder of his clothing. Somewhat relieved she would not yet have to gaze upon a man’s anatomy, she took that as her cue to remove her stockings and her shift, for the first time in her life naked in bed.

  He stiffened for a moment when she tossed those undergarments to the floor. ‘I forgot to extinguish the candles,’ he said, hurriedly slipping out of bed.

  She trembled as she watched his bare form walk across the room. He looked quite like a Roman statue she’d glimpsed once at a wealthy London townhouse.

  The light from the fireplace did not prove bright enough to show more than a shadow of the front of him when he returned. He crawled back under the covers and faced her in the darkness, his handsome features only dimly visible.

  Would he be able to see how full of anxiety she was at this moment? She dared not appear too forward, as carnal as her sister had undoubtedly been, but it would certainly displease him if she shrank away.

  He took a deep breath and reached for her, pulling her towards him so that her bare skin touched his. She felt the parts of him she had not been able to discern press against her own intimate parts. He was softer than she would have imagined. His hands stroked her back, creating an unexpected thrill of pleasure matched only by the sensation of her breasts against his chest.

  His hands continued to explore her in what seemed to her a resolute way, but, then, she’d had no experience with which to compare. His body broke away from hers while his hands stroked her breasts. The sensations he created were almost frightening. Were these the emotions that had caused her sister’s downfall?

  ‘I have no wish to…to hurt you,’ he murmured haltingly.

  ‘I am certain you will not,’ she replied.

  She knew that the first time was painful, but that was all she knew. It was difficult to imagine pain when her whole body had never felt so suddenly alive.

  ‘I must try to ease it for you,’ he said with a strong tone of duty.

  His hand slid from her breast to her abdomen, her belly, to between her legs. She gasped, momentarily clamping her legs together. She quickly forced herself to relax.

  He fingered that secret place of hers. Was it wicked for him to do so? She certainly had been taught by nursemaids and governesses that she must not touch it unless absolutely necessary. The sensations created were almost unbearably intense. Not painful, really, but not at all comfortable.

  His fingers became slippery, and she worried for a moment that her courses had started. She could not bear that particular humiliation. It seemed not to deter him.

  Without warning his fingers entered her and she could not help gasping in surprise.

  ‘I must,’ he said.

  She had no idea such actions were possible. Surely it was not as wicked as it felt! Her husband was not a wicked man, was he? To her surprise, her hips seemed to convulse without her willing them. She tried to remain as still as possible for fear moving might offend him. Maidens were supposed to hesitate at this moment, were they not?

  His fingers created a strange, almost pleasureful pressure inside her. It made it quite difficult to think. Suddenly he pulled them out.

  ‘I will enter you,’ he said, sounding very solemn.

  He gently urged her on her back and rose above her, the entire length of his body above hers held up by the strength of his arms. Slowly his muscles eased and he lowered himself, his legs between hers.

  The part of him that had been so soft was now mysteriously hard and so much larger than it had been. Surely it was too large for her. He pushed against her and slowly, gently, the tip entered. It was difficult for her not to rise to meet his stroke.

  He lunged and pain shot through her. She could not help but cry out. He immediately ceased.

  ‘It is all right,’ she managed, not wishing him to think herself truly injured.

  The pain, in fact, could not compare with the other sensations, burning ones, insistent ones, ones that seemed to beg him to continue. It was a great relief when he did so, pushing in and out of her, faster and faster.

  He suddenly gave a deep guttural cry and tensed. As he collapsed on top of her, her body still pulsated with such an intensity she thought she might shatter. Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes.

  He eased himself off her, and she felt like her body had been strewn into broken shards. That part of her where he’d entered hurt, but the rest of her ached. She wanted to rage at him, but was unsure why. He had done what men were supposed to do, had he not? Was she supposed to feel the way she did, wanting him to repeat the act, but wanting more to never feel such carnality again?

  Her eyes had long adjusted to the dim light, and she gazed at his face, the arch of his dark brows, the way his lower lip was thicker than his upper. It was a handsome face, but the face of a stranger.

  His brows knit together, and his blue eyes looked piercingly at her. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

  One tear rolled down her cheek.

  Chapter Two

  Each rut and furrow in the long road back to Bath jarred Emily’s already aching heart. She managed to feign composure, although she imagined jagged pieces of her heart dropping like bread crumbs all the way back to Scotland.

  Her husband, with amiable formality, made polite conversation. Asking after her comfort. Desiring to assist her. Apologising for the tediousness of the journey. She thought she would go mad with it.

  Such a journey together in a snug carriage might have become a treasured interlude, a bridal trip as pleasant as a Parisian sojourn or a Venetian gondola ride. Instead, gloom permeated the atmosphere, and Keating’s solicitude did nothing to banish it.

  The carriage dipped in what must have been a very deep rut.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Keating asked. ‘I dare say the roads are in a fair way to impassable.’

  ‘I am not harmed in the least, sir,’ she replied. Not harmed by the road, perhaps. With her husband, it was more difficult to say.

  His words were all that was proper, but he seemed as distant as Buenos Aires or even the Sandwich Isles. Places reached in dreams. She might as well be alone. She had been alone the past two nights when her husband thoughtfully arranged separate rooms. ‘For your comfort,’ he’d said.

  Her comfort, indeed. It simply gave him an excuse to avoid repeating the act that consummated their marriage.

  Men were supposed to desire that act. She must have done something wrong, however, something so objectionable he could not bear to bed her again.

  Between the bumps in the road, she tried to devise some manner of discovering what she’d done to displease him. She could not think of the correct words to form the question and thus remained silent on the subject. It put her to the blush to even contemplate speaking to him about what they had done. And what if speaking of it would be considered too forward? What if performing the act with her had been distasteful to him? How could she bear it?

  Eventually the golden buildings of Bath came into view, shimmering in the sunlight of the crisp autumn day. They passed the King’s Circus, p
roceeding up Brock Street. Her insides twisted into knots as their carriage pulled up to a building on Thomas Street where Keating leased a set of rooms.

  ‘We have arrived,’ he said in a tone she thought nothing less than ominous.

  He spoke a few words to the coachman and picked up their travelling bags, carrying them into the building himself. They walked silently down a hallway where Keating set down their baggage and rapped on a door. An ancient man, thin as a stick and dressed in a nearly threadbare coat, stuck his head out.

  ‘My lord.’ The man spoke as if Keating had merely spent a morning at the Pump Room instead of several days’ absence. He gave a dignified bow and batted not an eyelash at Emily, half-obscured behind the Viscount.

  ‘Bleasby.’ Keating’s one-word greeting managed to convey genuine fondness, even amusement at the butler’s ability to remain composed. He stepped aside and brought Emily forward. ‘I have brought my…my wife, Bleasby. Lady Keating.’ Her husband presented her without actually having to look at her. ‘Bleasby is our trusted butler, my dear.’

  Bleasby maintained the hauteur of a high man in the servants’ quarters in light of what must have been a very big surprise. He barely flickered an eyelid.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Bleasby,’ Emily said.

  The old man executed an arthritic bow. ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Bleasby reached for the baggage, but Keating had already retrieved it. ‘No. No. Do not attempt moving these.’ He placed them inside the doorway. ‘I will attend to them directly. Is my mother in?’

  ‘In the parlour with the ladies,’ Bleasby answered.

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a cryptic nod. He turned to Emily. ‘My dear, I suspect it would be better for me to seek a private audience with my mother and aunts. I hope you do not mind.’

  What she did mind was being called ‘my dear,’ as if he could not trouble himself to recall her name.

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ she said.

  Would his mother despise her for agreeing to the impropriety of an elopement? Would she think Emily had put him up to the mischief? She could not recall ever seeing the now Dowager Lady Keating. The aunts had not looked formidable, however, at least from a distance.

  ‘I shall be but a moment.’ He took two long-legged strides before pressing his fingers to his temple and turning back. ‘Bleasby, convey Lady Keating to…to the library and see to some refreshment.’

  Bleasby limped, staggering a little with each step. Emily found herself wishing to give him her arm to lean upon, but the library was just around a corner. The small room had shelves, but no books to speak of and no fire in the grate. Managing to retain his dignity in spite of his infirmities, Bleasby limped out, closing the door behind him.

  Emily stood in the centre of the room. She’d not even removed her hat and gloves. She could barely form a coherent thought. Her throat tightened and tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision.

  No, she scolded herself. She would not become a watering pot like her sister Jessame, who wept over the slightest difficulty. Jessame had shed buckets at her wedding, a modest affair in St George’s Church at the end of her first Season. Jessame’s husband had been perfectly respectable, though a good dozen years her senior. If their father had ever thought to milk that gentleman’s fortune, he’d been sadly mistaken. Jessame’s Viscount had whisked her away from the family with creditable success. Emily had had barely more than a letter or two from her sister since.

  She dug into her reticule for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with its corner. If only she could be more like her other sister, Madeleine, who’d been daring enough to land on her feet after being banished from the household and passed off to everyone as dead. Madeleine had lived in sin with a man, borne a child out of wedlock, and still managed to marry well.

  But what did it gain Emily to think of Madeleine marrying Devlin Steele? She’d once had the fantasy he would marry her, but discovering her sister alive and sharing his house had put an end to that. In truth, her parents’ reprehensible behaviour had killed that illusion.

  They had let her believe Madeleine dead for three years, when, in fact, they’d simply given her to Lord Farley, a man twice her age and a scoundrel.

  How could Emily remain under her parents’ roof after learning that evil? How could she resist the escape Lord Keating offered when he pressed his suit?

  Her husband entered the room, looking a little grim. His interview must not have gone well.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  She followed him, but paused before they entered the parlour. ‘Shall I remove my coat and hat?’

  He had the grace to appear abashed. ‘By all means.’

  To her surprise, he assisted her. His hands only lightly brushed her shoulder when he helped her off with her spencer, but an echo of his touch lingered as he escorted her in to the parlour.

  The parlour was another small room, but rendered cheerful by a flickering fire and personal items placed about the room. A chair held a piece of mending in progress. A copy of La Belle Assemblée lay open on a table.

  Less cheerful, three ladies stood awaiting her entrance as if expecting a dragon to appear.

  Keating brought her to them, first to a regal-looking woman with dark hair shot through with silver and the same startling blue eyes as her son.

  ‘Mother, may I present to you my wife, the former Emily Duprey.’

  Emily found not a hint of friendliness in those eyes. ‘Ma’am,’ she said softly. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’

  Lady Keating did not speak, but accepted the hand Emily extended to her.

  Keating continued to the elderly ladies standing next to his mother. One, as if made of only bone and skin, leaned heavily on a cane. The other appeared sturdier, but was hump-shouldered and bent over.

  ‘Let me present my mother’s aunts,’ Keating said. ‘Lady Pipham and Miss Nuthall.’

  Miss Nuthall glared at her, but Lady Pipham regarded her with a shy smile.

  Emily extended her hand to each of them, shaking gently, a little in fear of breaking them. ‘I am honoured.’

  The arthritic butler at that moment entered, carrying a tea tray, the cups rattling like window panes in a storm. Emily held her breath as he made his precarious way, sure the pot, cups and small plate of ginger cakes would topple on to the floor. Keating took it from his hands and placed it upon the table. The butler bowed himself out of the room.

  ‘Shall we sit,’ said the Dowager Lady Keating. She dipped gracefully on to a satin-covered armchair. The elderly ladies found chairs for themselves, but sat with more effort.

  Lady Keating added with a note of sarcasm, ‘I suspect you need refreshment after your long journey.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ said Emily.

  To her relief, Keating sat next to her on a sofa. She did not know if his support was genuine, but she welcomed it. The news of their marriage had obviously not been met with happy wishes.

  Lady Keating poured. ‘You understand this news of your…elopement comes as a great shock to us. Guy was not reared to perpetrate such folly. Indeed, he gave us no idea of this plan.’

  ‘I am sorry it distresses you,’ Emily said. ‘It was not our intention to do so.’

  ‘It is not quite the thing, you know,’ added Miss Nuthall. ‘A Gretna Green wedding is not quite the thing. It is not done in our family.’

  Lady Pipham murmured, ‘There was cousin Letitia…’

  ‘Never mind her,’ said Miss Nuthall repressively.

  Keating rubbed his brow. Emily wished he would speak, because she did not know quite what to say. None of her exact attention to behaviour in polite society quite covered this situation. Lady Keating handed her the cup of tea and she sipped, relieved at having something else to do.

  ‘Our housekeeper is preparing a room,’ Lady Keating said. ‘The chamber adjoining Guy’s. It shall be ready directly.’

  Had Lord Keating—Guy—given instructions to put her in a separate room? It was the
way of married people in society, she knew. She was uncertain if she were pleased or disappointed that he’d not insisted she share his room.

  ‘I hope this will not inconvenience you,’ she said politely.

  ‘My daughter will have no room.’ Lady Keating folded her hands in her lap, but her fingers pressed into the skin.

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘I am sorry—’

  ‘No need,’ said Keating quickly. ‘Cecily is at school and has no need of a room here.’ He paused. ‘As you well know, Mother.’

  Emily had not even known Keating had a sister. She opened her mouth to remark again upon this, but stopped herself. It would not improve matters to admit she knew so little about her husband. She took another sip of tea.

  ‘Dear Cessy,’ murmured Lady Pipham.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Duprey—’ began Lady Keating.

  Her son interrupted her. ‘She is my wife, Mother.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled, but mirthlessly.

  ‘Perhaps you could call me Emily, if that would be more comfortable for you.’ Emily truly sympathised with Lady Keating. It must be difficult to give up one’s title and status without warning, and to a stranger as well.

  ‘Emily.’ The Dowager pronounced her name with asperity. ‘Do your parents know of this…this escapade of yours?’

  Emily felt her face flush. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘I am a little acquainted with your mother,’ said Lady Keating with disapproval. ‘And my husband spoke of your father on occasion.’

  Oh, dear. The discreditable Baron and Baroness Duprey were obviously not a desirable connection, but Emily was well aware of that fact. Her parents were a blight upon herself as well.

  Keating stood. ‘I will check on your room.’

  Half an hour later Guy settled his wife into the bedchamber prepared for her. He could barely speak, he was so ashamed of his mother’s shockingly poor manners. Even Aunt Dorrie had been disagreeable. He knew the news of his elopement would upset them, but he’d no idea they would behave so abominably. He marched back to the parlour.