Authors: Charis Michaels
“No, Piety it is fine,” he interrupted her, exhaling heavily and shaking his head. “The Limpetts are inconsequential to me, as they should be to everyone.” He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
The contact was so quick and purposeful—one minute they were talking, the next he was dragging her along—that Piety giggled. “But where are we going?”
“Excellent question.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What were your plans for after?”
Her laughter stopped. “You mean to sleep?”
He nodded once. “Yes. To sleep. You cannot tell me that this is the one detail you failed to elaborately construct.”
“Well,” she began, feeling unaccustomed shyness, “I thought of my own chambers, because there is an adjoining room with a second bed. For the maid. I thought—”
“Perfect,” he said, veering left at the terrace steps, clipping up. “I trust you have everything you need.”
Piety stumbled. “We’re not leaving now, are we? But we’ve not bid these people a proper goodnight. We haven’t even paid our respects to the marchioness.”
“Did you hear the hoots and hollers when we kissed, Piety? I’d say that slipping away into the night is no less than anyone expects. As for the marchioness, you may pay your respects in the morning. I want you safe behind a locked door.
Now
.”
Piety was puzzling over this statement when Falcondale stopped short. She would have collided with him if he hadn’t spun, reached out, and scooped her into his arms.
There was naught to do but gasp.
And hold tight.
He strode purposefully up the stairs, carrying her in his arms, down the landing and into her bed chamber. He locked the door behind them.
F
alcondale deposited Piety in the center of her bedroom. “Which door leads to the maid’s anteroom?”
Piety could only react. “There.” She pointed across the room.
He nodded and strode to the small door, disappearing into the anteroom beyond.
He would sleep there, Piety knew, anywhere but in the bed with her. She had not expected him to stake it out immediately, but so be it. She had taken care to prepare the room with fresh linens, doing the work herself so as to not elicit talk among the maids. It was small, but he needn’t be uncomfortable, merely separate.
You knew this,
she told herself, fighting back tears. She had promised herself that she would not react, no matter how well the ceremony had gone. And yet—
There was a second door in the little room, which led to the servants’ stairs. Now she heard it open and shut, and for a moment, she thought he’d let himself out and slipped away. It was only a matter of time. He’d made that very clear. But now the stairwell door clicked shut, the lock snapping into place. She heard footsteps.
“Are there any other ways in or out of your chambers besides these two doors and the windows?” he asked, returning to her.
Truly?
she thought, studying him.
Doors and locks?
This
is to be our diversion?
She shook her head. “It is a closed room. That is all. Are you . . . ?” She tried again, watching him yank back draperies to inspect the windows. “If you’re not displeased about the Limpetts, then what has you so unsettled? You’re prowling like a caged beast.”
“A caged beast would make quick work of the lock on these windows,” he said absently, studying the pane. “Are they painted shut?”
“Planning a speedy escape?”
“Would that I could,” he mumbled.
Likely, he hadn’t meant for her to hear. She stared at her hands. The shimmering stones in her new ring flashed, mocking her. She bit her lip and closed her eyes.
“I don’t mean to escape
you
, Piety,” he said. “It’s merely my desire for—” He stopped, and she looked up, raising her eyebrows. “Merely my desire.”
“Well, you’ve identified two locked doors and four windows,” she said. “It’s doubtful you’ll have to break through a wall to outrun your desire. I apologize that we have to pass this night in such close confines, but my mother would notice if we did not retire together. It would be odd to anyone, I’m afraid.”
“Of course,” he said, resignedly. A servant had left a tray of fruit, cheese, and bread. He came upon it and stopped, staring down at the food.
“Are you hungry?”
“There was no way around this, Piety,” he told her. “You needn’t feel responsible. You needn’t feel anything at all but relief. The ordeal is almost over.”
She nodded numbly.
The ordeal.
He went on, “And I don’t care what we do. To pass the time. What do you wish?”
She shrugged. Before the day began, before the crowded party and the emotional ceremony, before he’d carried her up the stairs and locked them in together, she had fantasized that they might indulge in a brief, celebratory embrace at the end of the night. Nothing overly passionate or committed, simply affectionate, a comfort. She envisioned them sitting side-by-side in the cushioned window seat, rehashing the party. She thought she might lay her head on his shoulder. They might laugh and revel in how they had outsmarted the Limpetts; how they had portrayed the crusty marchioness as a generous host.
Now the very thought seemed indulgent and wishful and naive. Any contact at all seemed entirely out of the question. God forbid she brush up against him in passing or bump feet beneath the table. His remoteness was as before, but there was a new nervousness, an anxiety. Was it so difficult to be alone with her? In his mind, had he already sailed away?
It was a deeper, lower rung of sadness, this. They would not even have this night. She tried to muster the energy and spirit to overcome, to cheerfully soldier on, but her reserve of stoic optimism was spent. She had given all she had to the wedding. He had gone along and not challenged the great fuss of it all. Beyond that? What more had he done than turn up?
It should have been enough.
“The groom is responsible for the wedding night, Falcondale,” she told him. “Surely you have more in mind than inventorying the locks and doors.” She bypassed the food and made for the drinks cart. She took up a diminutive crystal glass and decanter of sherry.
Behind her, he said, “We could play chess.”
Ah, yes, chess. The old standby. There was a board set up across the room. The marchioness had had it sent up when Piety arrived.
She took a sip. “Yes.”
The sherry went down bitter, burning her throat. It reminded her of the discomfort of her dress and veil; her pointy-toed shoes. There hadn’t been time for a proper wedding dress, but she’d sent to London for her favorite evening gown—a shimmery, pale-pink silk that fell simply and whispered when she walked. Marissa packed it with care and sent it by messenger to Berkshire. Piety had felt festive and pretty in it, but now it suffocated.
A seamstress from the village had been commissioned to construct the veil, another success, but now the weight and biting pins that held it in place felt excruciating.
She rolled her neck and tugged on the long, heavy headpiece. Speaking to the drink in her glass, she said, “If you don’t mind, I should like to change from my wedding frock.”
She glanced at the silk negligee that Tiny had artfully arranged on a chair in the corner of the room—another gift from the marchioness. Lady Frinfrock had not acknowledged it, but it had shown up earlier in the week in a dove-gray box, sumptuously wrapped. When Piety questioned the maids, they said her ladyship had it sent from London. The gown inside was a confection of silk, lace, and a sprinkle of tiny ivory beads. So soft, so finely made. A sugary color of pale green with rich, ivory trim.
Falcondale, too, glanced at the nightgown and then quickly away. Naturally, he would hate it, disavowing the entire notion of nightgowns and soft silk and loveliness. It had been cheeky and presumptive of Tiny to lay it out, but Piety had seen her do it and could not bear to stop her.
A trickle of perspiration ran down Piety’s back, and it occurred to her that perhaps she didn’t care how he felt—not about the nightgown or anything else. Perhaps this was her room, and her gown, and her own hot, itchy skin beneath layers of pink satin that she’d worn for nine hours.
Across the room, Falcondale hedged. “Do you think changing would be . . . ” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Do you think it’s prudent to change? I’m quite comfortable. At the moment.”
“I’m entirely
un
comfortable,” she said, “at the moment.”
The veil was the biggest offender; it absolutely had to go. She could undo the pins and pluck out the flowers herself, and she did so right away. Flowers molted to the floor as she drifted to her dressing table, pulling and plucking. She piled all of it next to the mirror and bent at the waist, flipping her hair forward to shake it free. More vegetation fell to the floor, pins, too. She swayed her head back and forth, running her fingers through her hair. The freedom and looseness felt heavenly.
It felt so good, in fact, Piety realized then that the gown must follow. Immediately. If she couldn’t indulge in the green negligee, she’d dig out a wool winter nightgown and heavy velvet robe. Either way, the pink satin could not be tolerated a moment more. She was just about to announce as much when she came back up and caught her husband’s stare.
He
watched her.
The suggestion of the robe caught in her throat.
Piety stared back, not blinking.
By some instinct, she shook her head again. Her hair bounced over her shoulders and fell beside her face. She gathered up one side, swept the curls high, let it fall.
Trevor’s face tightened. He clenched his jaw.
She heard herself whisper, “I want free of this dress, and I have no maid. You’ll have to unfasten me.”
He blinked. “Piety, I
know
that is not prudent.” His voice was hoarse.
She didn’t answer. She went to him, not taking her eyes from his tortured face. She pivoted slowly, presenting him with the seam of tiny buttons running the length of her back.
Silently, she lifted her hair.
She heard him let out a long, slow breath. She heard him suck in. She heard him shuffle. She heard him loosen his cravat.
She waited.
“Trevor?” she whispered, looking back. “Please? I am suffocating. Unfasten me.” The last word was a caress, barely audible.
“Piety.”
His voice was low and rumbly.
She leaned into him, suddenly emboldened. It had not been honest to say she didn’t care how they passed this night. She cared very much. This night was, quite literally, the only one they would have. She wanted to seize it, to devour it, to remember it in the lifetime that lay ahead. Until she saw his face, she had not been certain he wanted the same. But oh, the heat in his eyes. The hitch in his breath. He stared at her like a starving man.
“You are allowed to touch me, Trevor,” she said softly. “You will not turn to stone.”
He let out a strangled, bitter laugh. “Too late for that.” But she felt him take up both sides of her gown at the shoulders and unbutton the first hook.
“There is no way around our closeness tonight; in the same way, there is no way around our separation when you go. Why not revel in tonight?”
“If we act on this impulse, we will be forced to lie to the court to be free. You’ve already lied at the altar today, isn’t that enough?” She felt his hands shake as he unfastened another hook and another. The neckline of the gown began to sag. She let it fall.
“I did not lie today.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
His hands stilled against her back, and she heard him blow out a ragged breath.
“And I am not lying now. There’s no manipulation here. I have no intention of confining you in this marriage after tonight, regardless of what happens. If you do not wish to lie to the court, then can we not
almost
consummate the marriage? Can we not
nearly
consummate it, but not entirely?”
He made a strained, scoffing sound and returned to the hooks, working faster now. “What you suggest is playing with fire.”
“Ah, well, we’ve done that from the start, haven’t we?” The dress was nearly open, barely hanging on. She felt him reach the final button and stop. His hands remained at her waist.
She looked over her shoulder. “The corset, as well? If you please.”
He made a scoffing sound and backed away. He swore. She heard rustling, yanking. His coat went flying to the back of a nearby chair. His cravat followed.
He cleared his throat and returned to her, tugging the silk lacing of the corset. Quick, efficient movements. Urgent or detached? She couldn’t tell. But, oh, the tingling relief of looseness at her ribs. Sweet freedom from the pinch and bind of the stays. Finally, she could breathe. One more tug, and the corset fell away and caught on her sagging bodice.
“Bloody hell, the tightness of this thing,” Trevor said, reaching out to brush his hand against the fabric of her shift. She shivered, and he replaced his hand with two warm fingers, slowly tracing the notches of her spine, up and down, and up again.
Her shift was thin, the finest linen, soft and pliable. She could feel the rough pads of his finger through the cloth.
When he reached the top of her spine, he brushed her hair off of her shoulders. She felt his breath on her neck.
When his fingers went down again, he followed the scoop of her waist lower, lower to the swell of her bottom. She gasped, and she heard him chuckle, an arrogant, satisfied sound.
His fingers continued their exploration, fanning out. Kneading gently, he located the very spots where the corset had bitten into her skin. The flair of her waist. The tender skin beneath her arms, just a freckle from her breasts. Here, he rubbed. Small circles. Her body came alive, awakening for what felt like the very first time.
She sighed, and his touch became heavier. He lingered with each pass. Her skin seemed to pulse beneath his fingers, the sensation radiating. She sucked in breath and turned her head to the side, seeking his kiss. “Trevor,” she said softly, begging him for more.