Page 69 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“We’re married.” Her sisters liked to mock her ignorance of physical passion, though of course she knew the mechanics from the farmyard. Their sly insinuations made her believe there was much more to it thanthat. There was the matter of legality, too. She wanted no questions about the validity of the marriage. But that wasn’t the main thing, Fenella thought, noting the yearning in Roger’s eyes. He was remembering their flurry of kisses in the grass. She had no doubt about that. Because she was as well. His touch had made her tremble. “We should stay together.”

“Are you certain?” He wanted to take her assent and sweep her off to the bedroom. That was obvious. His longing practically scorched her. But he was too chivalrous.

She couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “If you would rather stay in two rooms—”

“No! I was simply—” He stopped, visibly gathered his wits, smiled. “I wouldn’t rather. Not in the least.”

They went upstairs together. The bed took up most of the space in the inn chamber. They were left standing close together near the door.

All her life, a woman was told never to be alone with a man, Fenella thought, not to allow herself to be touched or compromised in any way. And then, between one day and the next, after a brief ceremony, all those strictures flew out the window for the sake ofoneman. She was directed to be freely intimate with him, with no practical experience of what to do. If the woman was lucky—and here Fenella considered herself very lucky indeed—she had some clue that she would welcome her husband’s caresses.

Roger bent his head, then went still, as if poised for a signal of her wishes. Fenella looked up to meet his lips. The kiss began tentatively, lengthened, melted into heat. They relaxed into it, drew back, then resumed. He slid his arms around her and pulled her closer. She felt the contours of him all along her body. His kisses, the touch of his hands, seemed to vibrate through her entire being.

When they parted the next time, they were breathing faster. Fenella’s clothes felt unbearably constricting. She untied her stock and tossed it aside, unbuttoned the bodice of her riding habit. Roger shed his coat and neckcloth in one swift motion. He looked strong and handsome in shirtsleeves. “Shall I pull off your boots?” he asked.

It was odd how one became more polite as a situation grew more awkward, Fenella thought. She sat on the bed and held out a foot. He removed one riding boot, then the other. “Thank you,” she said. She stood as he sat down to tug off his own footwear.

Fenella unfastened her long skirt and let it fall. Her petticoat followed, and she stood in her shift, not certain where to go from there. She had no nightgown, and she was not ready to stand naked in the inn bedroom.

Roger had slipped out of his buckskin breeches. His shirttails were almost as long as a nightshirt above his bare legs. He went to pull back the coverlet and sheet, then extended a hand as if he offered to help her into a carriage rather than a bed.

She took it and climbed in. He joined her. For a moment, Fenella hesitated. It was so new, to lie here with only two thin layers of cloth between her and a…husband. He was her husband. Between one day and the next. Then Roger bent and kissed her again, and the flame of sensation drove all thoughts right out of her head.

Their last garments were soon discarded. Through long, fiery kisses, Roger’s hands explored the contours of her body. Fenella enjoyed his touch. She urged him on with somewhat inexpert caresses of her own. Knees and elbows were negotiated. She opened to him and moved from maid to wife.

And yet part of her held back. She was happy to be married to him. She didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong in agreeing to their scrambling wedding. It wasn’t that. She didn’t regret her choices. She certainly didn’t wish herself back home. She didn’t understand what plagued her. She only knew that something kept her a little separate, detached, not wholly there. Was it because she’d made a bargain with her vows? Or because her wedding had been so different from anything she’d ever imagined? No new gown, no celebration, no family present, and she’d had scarcely an hour’s preparation to grow accustomed to the change in her circumstances. Among strangers.

All except Roger. She gazed at his sleeping face beside her, envying his easy slumber. She cared for him. She liked him. She enjoyed his touch. This feeling would pass off with time, she told herself, and closed her eyes in hope of sleep.

The following morning they sent off three more notes—a longer one to Chatton Castle, one rather vague epistle to be rushed ahead of them to Fenella’s grandmother, and another to Fenella’s maid, asking her to pack some of Fenella’s things and come with them to her grandmother’s estate. Knowing her brothers-in-law, Fenella enclosed a banknote in the latter to pay for the journey. And let Symmes and Gissing make what they liked of that, she thought as they rode north once more. They would certainly recognize her grandmother’s name. In any other set of persons, that might be a signal to keep quiet and await further news. Her brothers-in-law were unlikely to exhibit such discretion, however. They’d shown no signs of having any. But with her grandmother on their side—and Roger’s mother, too, she trusted—she and Roger would brush through this without scandal.

Not too fast, Fenella added silently. She wasalmostcertain that Grandmamma would accept her unconventional marriage and aid them, but it would be fatal to take anything for granted.

Fourteen

Knowing that word of Roger’s unexpected wedding would inevitably leak out, with Symmes and Gissing ranting and complaining over at Clough House, Macklin and Roger’s mother decided to share the news themselves. The couple’s last letter from Scotland had given them promising phrases to use, implying that Fenella’s grandmother was part of the whole marriage scheme. Trusting Fenella to gain the support of that formidable old woman, they agreed that it would be wise to tell certain sociable neighbors, so that their version of the story would be the one the gossips spread.

“Oh, I’m glad they paid no attention to those dreadful letters,” replied Mrs. McIlwaine when the dowager marchioness conveyed the tale over tea the following day.

Arthur glanced at their hostess. Seeing uncertainty in her gaze, he decided to pretend ignorance. “Letters?” Things one had heard nothing about often seemed less important.

“No one told you?”

Mrs. McIlwaine’s expression was familiar. She was one of those who reveled in knowing more than anyone else, Arthur thought. Not necessarily malicious, but overeager. He made a noncommittal gesture.

“I expect Chatton didn’t want to upset you.” Mrs. McIlwaine directed her comment at Roger’s mother.

“And what would have done that?” asked Helena calmly, following his lead.

“Several of us received the horridest anonymous letters,” the other lady replied. “Repeating that silly rumor blaming Miss Fairclough—Lady Chatton, I should say now—for her, er, predecessor’s ride out in the storm.”

Arthur kept his expression bland. If neighbors were talking of this insult so openly, something really must be done.

“Several of you,” said Helena evenly.

The visitor mentioned names. “And Mrs. Cheeve had one yesterday. She was excessively shocked.”

The vicar’s wife would have been, Arthur thought. Or would have wanted to appear so. Both, probably.

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