Page 13 of To Marry and to Meddle
“You are welcome to remain,” he said, his grin widening, discarding her second glove and taking both of her hands in his own. “In fact, if you should like to offer any aid—”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said with great dignity, and Julian couldn’t help but laugh. She scowled. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”
“Getting those bloody gloves off? I fail to see how one could possibly do it accidentally, given the amount of labor involved.”
“Trying to embarrass me,” she clarified, her scowl deepening as he pulled her close once more.
“Somewhat,” he confessed, unrepentant. “It’s hard to resist the temptation, when you make it so easy.”
“I’msupposedto be embarrassed,” she pointed out, even as she turned her hands so that she could lace her fingers properly through his. She tilted her head back to look straight into his eyes with that direct gaze of hers. She didn’t employ it very often—she was very skilled at regarding gentlemen coyly from beneath her lashes, or keeping her eyes shyly downcast—but when she did, it was hard to look away. “I’ve spent my entire life being coddled and cosseted and protected, told to guard my virtue at all costs, that no one will want me otherwise. I had to work particularly hard at this, once Mr. Cartham appeared—merely associating with him was enough to damage my reputation, and I had to make sure my behavior was above rebuke.
“And now, when I’m only reacting as all of society has taught me to react, you’re teasing me.” Her tone was irritated rather than hurt, but that didn’t stop Julian from feeling like a bit of an ass all the same. She sniffed indignantly. “I’m starting to think that Mary Wollstonecraft knew what she was talking about.”
“What doyouknow of Mary Wollstonecraft?” he asked, astonished.
“Violet,” she replied primly, “is a voracious reader, and is very fond of sharing what she learns with her nearest friends. It was all most enlightening.”
“I should imagine it was,” he said. He shook his head. “I must confess, marriage to you is not what I expected.”
“And we’re only half a day in!” she said brightly. “Think what other surprises await us.”
“I’m not certain I dare to imagine,” he said, both to make her smile—at which he succeeded—and because, in fact, it was not entirely untrue. “Did you wish to take me up on my offer, then?” He lifted an eyebrow at her.
“Which offer was that?” she asked, her smile faltering uncertainly.
“To help you bathe,” he said slowly, using their interlaced fingers to tug her a bit closer. He leaned down so that he could murmur in her ear. “I feel quite certain it would involve all sorts of surprises.”
He could practically feel her cheeks heating. “Be that as it may,” she said, attempting to tug loose from his grasp—he promptly dropped her hands once he realized what she was doing—“I think I can manage nicely on my own, thank you.”
He sighed dramatically. “All I can tell you, wife, is that it is entirely your loss.” The wordwifefelt strange on his tongue, as if it was a foreign language he didn’t know how to speak—which was not, come to think of it, an entirely inaccurate way to describe his feelings about marriage in general.
Somehow, though, as he gazed down at his lovely, blushing bride, he thought he would be a rather quick study.
Four
The wordswedding nighthad always conjuredup a confusingly nonspecific litany of images in Emily’s mind. Her mother, of course, had always been quite close-lipped on the subject of the activities involved, merely offering dark reminders regarding the importance of doing one’s duty and not complaining, which did not make one terribly thrilled by the prospect of engaging in the marital act. Friendship with Violet and Diana had fortunately taught her far more—including the fact that she might expect to enjoy said act very much indeed.
But still, the prospect of doing it for the very first time, with a man whom, when it came right down to it, she still didn’t know terribly well, was undeniably daunting.
He had, after a last bit of teasing, left her alone to bathe, which she had done with some haste. Hollyhock and Humphreys, Julian’s valet, had yet to arrive with their luggage, so she had no choice but to put her chemise back on, having no other garments to wear, wrapping a blanket around herself for good measure. Shortly thereafter, there had been a tap at the door, and a couple of maids had appeared with trays bearing their dinner, which Emily and Julian had consumed before the empty grate, making idle conversation.
And then the maids had reappeared to clear it all away, bobbingcurtseys on the way out, and Emily and Julian were alone once more—and alone in a way that felt entirely different somehow, without the barrier and distraction of their meal and the table that had separated them.
Emily was very conscious, for some reason, of the fact that it was not yet dark—it was early September, and the days were still long; it would not be fully dark for a couple of hours yet, and it felt rather indecent, somehow, to stand here dressed for bed even as sunlight peeked around the edges of the curtains that shaded the windows.
Julian stood watching her, his expression unreadable, his face made even more handsome by the glow of evening sunlight, and she hugged her blanket more tightly to her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but there was a tap at the door, and Julian went to answer it, vanishing into the hall for a moment, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Calm down, she told herself. It was not that she’d expected to face her wedding night with complete sangfroid—she’d known she would be nervous. But she hadn’t been prepared for the way her body would feel attuned to every move Julian made in the small, quiet room. At one point during dinner, she’d become so distracted by watching him holding his wineglass, his index finger tracing up the stem to tap at the bowl of the glass, that she’d paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, causing him to quirk an inquisitive brow at her after a moment.
Now, with him temporarily absent from the room, she could take a moment to gather her thoughts. Settle herself.
Try not to act like a lovesick fool.
Which she wasn’t, of course—she was merely a newly married lady with a healthy appreciation for her husband’s aesthetic appeal.
Husband.
It seemed so strange a word to be able to use—to be able toclaim someone as her own. It was a word that, in the past few years, she’d come to worry she would never be able to use. She had felt herself suspended in a strange state of limbo, squired about on Mr. Cartham’s arm, her presence apparently more valuable to him than whatever amount of money her father owed him and could not pay. And yet, in all that time, there had never been any indication that a proposal was imminent. She had not wanted one from him, of course—had been grateful that whatever specific arrangement her father had come to with Mr. Cartham had not involved marriage, merely her company at this ball or that musicale.
