Barbara Metzger (31 page)

The parlor was even filled with flowers like a sickroom, which had the mother of the groom wheezing and sneezing. Cousin Nigel was near to losing his breakfast on losing his position as heir, now that Marden had taken a bride and would begin filling his nursery. The butler swayed from exhaustion after the hurried preparations, and the earl’s sister swayed toward the best man.

The cook, the housekeeper, and the maids crowded in the back of the parlor were all weeping as if a plague had struck the house. So was Mr. Wiggs.

Tears at a wedding were common, but from the officiator? Whoever heard of a minister growing maudlin at a marriage ceremony? He might have been conducting a funeral, for all the joy Wiggy showed.

His plum had landed in another’s lap. His opportunities were clutching the arm of an earl. His ship had docked at the wrong pier. And the dog had bitten his ankle when he tried to kick it out of the room.

“Dearly beloved”—sniff—“we are gathered here”—
snuffle
—“to join this pair”—
sob
—“in holy matrimony.”

At least the happy couple looked healthy. The groom was stalwart and superbly turned out; Miss Renslow was simply stunning. No wedding jitters for her, the witnesses decided. She appeared remarkably composed for such a young female—although not too young for the earl, of course—in good color, and altogether magnificent.

Of course she was composed. Her uncle had made her swallow a tot of rum. And of course her complexion had a rosy glow. Lady Dorothy had emptied her paint pots.

Miss Renslow was a vision in her rose satin gown with its lace overskirt and matching lace headdress, held with pink rosebuds. No one could tell that one of the thorns was digging into her scalp. No one could tell that her smile was frozen in place by fear, either, or that she stood perfectly erect to keep from falling over in a dead faint, or that she clutched the earl’s arm in a vise-like grip to keep her hands from shaking.

Her throat might be constricted and her mouth as dry as the Sahara, but she spoke her vows in a clear, loud voice, to be heard over the reverend’s weeping.

The consensus on the groom’s side was that Miss Renslow was just right for their earl, and lucky to have him.

The bride’s side, naturally, thought he was getting the better bargain.

The groom thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life as the woman at his side, her lips curved in a smile just for him. A perfect rosebud, she was, and his. This turquoise-eyed angel was going to be his wife. His. He almost staggered at the wonder of it all, but Carswell on his other side reached out a steadying hand. But Ian did not need his friend to keep him upright; he had Athena’s hand on his arm. Her grip was so confident, so secure, she could not be having any last-minute doubts. He finally set aside worries that she had been trapped, that she was regretting her decision. She wore a smile, and so he was relieved and pleased and proud. His. By his side. He thought he might never again feel whole without her there. His.

Lud, Ian was so stupefied at his joy in getting wed that he could barely remember the order of his own names, to repeat them after Wiggs.

He got them out, got the wedding band on Athena’s finger, said “I do” at all the appropriate places, he hoped. Then he got to kiss his bride. Her lips were cold, so he had to warm them. Hadn’t he just promised something about that? He must have, he’d promised everything else.

The gathered guests started to applaud and laugh. Athena pushed at his chest, otherwise he might have stayed that way forever, he thought, a contented man. Now her lips were warm and rosy. So were his, from her lip rouge.

After the ceremony, the champagne flowed freely enough to wash away all the tears. The bumps and bruises and battered hopes abated with each merry toast and hearty congratulation. Even the newly titled dowager countess stopped sniffling, once the captain led her away from the flower-filled drawing room.

Having rested, Troy was jubilantly swinging around on his crutches, trying to avoid having his cheeks pinched by all of the dowager’s friends who had nieces and granddaughters of suitable age for such a likely young man as Marden’s protégé. Rensdale had taken over the wheeled Bath chair, and was holding forth on his attack, how he had saved his money and his watch from the footpad. Or had he fought off two of the dastards?

Wiggs decided to give Lady Dorothy the pleasure of his company, as soon as he could pry her away from that fop, Carswell. The female was looking better these days, and was independently wealthy, which was better still.

The newly married pair passed around the room for kisses and embraces and introductions. Ian never left Athena’s side, and she never let go of his hand. She kept looking at the wedding band that had joined the pearl ring, thinking she would never take it off. He kept looking at the intricate fastenings on her gown, wondering how soon he could take it off.

Dinner was long and elaborate, the finest Ian’s kitchens could provide. The wine was excellent, and plentiful. The toasts continued, or were repeated. As the meal progressed, the jokes became louder, a bit warmer. Ian was glad he had insisted that Athena be seated at his side, not at the foot of the table where her new position would have placed her. Here he could shield her from some of the more suggestive comments by whispering his own suggestions in her ear. She stopped blushing and started looking interested by the end of the fish course. If Ian were any more interested, they would be skipping the rest of the meal.

He ordered the butler to stop refilling his mother’s wine glass when she started to recount her every ailment to the captain, and made a footman take away his sister’s when she seemed to be sitting more in Carswell’s lap than in her own chair. He told Hull to stop serving Troy, for the boy was far too young and too recently near death to suffer a morning after.

Thinking of that, Ian set Athena’s glass aside when she started to giggle at some of the ribald toasts. He wanted her relaxed, not tipsy, and not in a stupor. He did not want her to wake up in the morning with a headache, either, for he intended the wedding night to last well past tomorrow’s dinner. Even that might not be time enough.

They would not be going away on a honeymoon, not with her brothers still ailing and her uncle so recently returned, but Ian had all of Athena’s belongings moved to the countess’s bedchamber attached to his, in a private wing of the huge house. His mother had relinquished the apartment ages ago, claiming the rooms were haunted by several former residents. Well, the ghosts would have a voyeur’s picnic tonight, he swore.

Before then, he had to get through this interminable dinner. If he were a guest, he’d have left ages ago. His invitees seemed in no hurry, not even after the enormous wedding cake was trolleyed out.

Finally he noticed that Troy was half asleep in his chair, so mentioned to Athena that she should rise and lead the ladies out.

“Oh, dear, I forgot already. I was waiting for your mother to stand.”

His mother could hardly get out of her seat, having imbibed so freely. Finally the women were gone and Ian offered to help young Renslow up the stairs.

Troy reached behind him where his man, Geoffrey, was waiting with the crutches. “Oh, no, I can do it myself,” Troy said.

“I am delighted to see you up and about.” Now Ian did not have to agonize that he had made the boy bedridden for life. “But I cannot help but notice that you seem frightfully proficient at those things.” Ian glanced at the crutches.

“I ought to be, after all these years.”

“Years? But you ride. That is, you were riding when I, ah, met you.”

“Oh, my knees and thighs work fine. I need help mounting and dismounting, but then I can match anyone on horseback. Attie says I might go for a short ride soon, if you have a suitable mount in your stables.”

“If I do not, I shall get one.”

“I knew you were top drawer. Glad to have you for a brother.” The boy held his hand out, and Ian shook it, thinking that there was more to this head of a family than he had reckoned. Now he had a new brother, who was not crippled by him. He watched, bemused, as Troy swung himself down the hall and up the stairs.

Then it was time to say farewell to the guests, and Ian forgot all about Troy, his responsibilities, his sister in the rear gardens with a bigger rake than Ian ever was, his mother batting her eyelashes at Athena’s seafaring uncle, and Cousin Nigel inspecting the wedding gifts a shade too closely. All he could think about was his bride.

His Athena.

His.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A man teaches his wife about lovemaking.

—Anonymous

A woman teaches her husband about loving.

—Mrs. Anonymous

Mine,
his body shouted. If the world and Athena did not hear, they could see his star performer ready to start the “Hallelujah” chorus. He pulled his paisley dressing gown into more careful folds as he walked through the connecting door between his chamber and his Attie’s after she answered his knock. Most of the roses from the wedding had been brought here, so the room looked and smelled like a bower, with his wife the lucky gardener’s champion bloom.

He was the gardener. He had a wife. He was a married man, by George. Ian wondered how long before he was used to that cataclysm in his life. Maybe a year or two. Or a night or two, with a wife like Attie.

If Attie was beautiful in rose satin and lace, there was no word in mortal man’s vocabulary to describe her in the ivory film that called itself a robe. A spider web had more substance. Ian could not wait to see what was beneath the gauze, and then realized he did not have to wait at all. The candlelight on the side table limned Athena’s perfect figure, showing him the dark area between her thighs, the dark area at her breasts. Unfortunately, it also showed him the dark shadows under her eyes.

“Are you tired, Attie? Should I let you sleep? This has been such a rush, I know, and you have done wonders. You deserve a rest if you want it.” His body protested, but he was still a gentleman, not a rutting stallion. He kept his hand on the door, rather than reaching out to pull her into his embrace. He knew he would never let her go from there, not tonight.

Athena saw where his gaze wandered and quickly sat back at her dressing table. She picked up the brush her giggling maid had tossed there before leaving. She started to brush out her hair, then realized it was already smooth. Any more brushing and the ends would fly out like a corn-husk dolly’s. She straightened the dish of hairpins instead, to avoid looking at his bare legs and velvet-slippered feet. “How kind of you. I am a bit tired. That is, I am not too tired, if you want—”

“Oh, I want. Do you?”

“I, ah. Oh, dear, I have spilled the pins.”

He came fully into the room, bending at her feet to hand the fallen hairpins up to her. “Nervous?”

Nervous? Her fingers could barely hold the dish. “I—” She started to lie, then thought better of it, when he could see the falsehood in her trembling hands. “Yes, a little.”

“Good. Me, too.”

“You? What have you to be anxious over? You know how to do it, after all.”

“Ah. but I do not know how to please you yet. I find that means more to me than I thought possible.” He was still at her feet, his hands stroking her ankles, her calves, her bare skin.

“Oh, but I am sure you will figure it out. You are quite good at kissing, you know.”

“Am I?” He raised her leg, letting the silken gown fall back, and kissed a trail up to her knee.

“Oh, yes.” Her breaths were already coming faster, and all he had done was kiss her leg. Who would have thought that? “While I…”

“Hmm?” He was kissing a bit further up her thigh.

“I have no idea how to please a man.”

“You please me very well, my dear.” Now his hands stroked higher, and his kisses followed.

Athena leaped to her feet, almost toppling him over.

He stood and put the last of the hairpins on the table. “Do you wish me to wait? I will if I have to, but please don’t say I have to.”

She could see the need in his eyes—and in the protruding front of his robe. She licked her lips. “No, I do not want to put it off. Not when we would have to—”

“Do it another day? You’ve been speaking to my mother, haven’t you?”

She nodded, staring at the pointing paisley.

He tried, futilely, to spread the folds more concealingly. “Well, ignore everything she told you about the pain and discomfort and thinking happy thoughts until it is over. And ignore this.” He looked down. “It is only a sign of how much I want you and want to give you pleasure. I promise you will enjoy tonight. You trust me, don’t you?”

She licked her lips again. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s all that matters.”

Ian took her in his arms and began to kiss her as he had that time when her uncle had stopped them. Soon enough, Athena’s fears were put on a back shelf of her mind, still there but gathering dust, while the new sensations, the rising excitement, an unnamed wanting took their place. After that, she stopped thinking altogether, and simply felt. She felt his hands and his lips and his tongue against hers. She felt her robe slide to the floor, and her gown follow it. She felt hot and damp, and she felt his heart beating against hers. She felt as if her legs were made of macaroni, limp and only loosely connected to the rest of her.

He knew. He carried her to the bed and placed her between the turned-down sheets. “Shall I douse the candles?”

“Yes, please.” Although she did want to see him, all of him, and she did not want him to leave her long enough to blow out a single flame, she was not brave enough to say so. Besides, the coals in the fireplace still glowed enough that she could see his magnificent shape when he untied his robe and let it fall to the carpet beside the bed. Athena took a deep breath, trying to remember her new husband’s promise of pleasure, and not the dowager’s warning of pain.

Then he was beside her, face to face, skin to skin, for their entire lengths.

“Your feet are cold,” she complained.

“They will warm up.” He started to kiss her again, and the whole bed warmed up, it seemed. He kicked off the blankets. She tossed back the sheet. It wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t the coal embers that were causing the heat; it was their bodies rubbing together to make a fire like some primitive, primordial feat of magic.