“I'll collect you at five,” he said. To her astonishment, he bent to kiss her.
On the cheek.
Odious man!
* * *
At five, she awaited just behind her chamber door, quickly opened it upon his knock, and began to step into the corridor when she noticed the red velvet box in her husband's hand.
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to bring you this necklace from the de Vere jewels. Thought you might wish to wear it to dinner.”
Her face lifted into a smile. “That would be lovely!” She backed into the chamber, widening the door for him. “Allow me to look at it where the light is better.” When she stood beside her French dressing table, which was lighted by a pair of torchieres on either side, he handed her the box. Its crimson velvet had long ago faded to where it now resembled a rose blush.
She tried to remember the late Lady de Vere wearing jewels, but she was too young when that lady had died. She eased open the hinged top and was dazzled at the beauty of the multi-layered diamond necklace. Her breath hitched.
Her first thought was that she wished she had known the necklace was coming so she could have selected a gown that would display it as something that beautiful should be displayed, but she did not want to say anything that would make him think she was not honored to wear his family jewels. “Oh, my lord! It's magnificent!”
She was not exaggerating for his benefit. Despite all her father's riches, neither she nor her mother had ever possessed anything so beautiful. Her eyes—lamentably—misted. Why did everything this man did have such a profound effect upon her emotions? She looked up at him. “Will you fasten it upon me?”
“May I suggest you sit at the dressing table?”
She lowered herself to the gilt and velvet chair and sat there peering into the glass, as he settled the gems high on her chest and clasped them behind her neck. The scalloped rows of large diamonds descended to the center where the largest of the diamonds poised just above the separation of her breasts. One could not gaze upon the necklace without seeing her bosom.
She and her maid—whose carriage arrived at Upper Barrington just after the bride and groom—had taken great care with her appearance, her first dinner as Lady de Vere. The blue velvet gown was favored for two reasons, the first being that it matched her eyes, which were said to be her best feature.
The other reason for donning the gown was that its neckline was cut so low, it displayed her breasts to great advantage. Despite that she was small of stature, her breasts were not small. Surely, that was a good thing. Did men not admire women with full breasts?
Would de Vere even notice?
Her dress also favorably displayed a large expanse of milky shoulders, and the combination of smooth, pale skin, blue velvet, and glittering diamonds was the closest thing to perfection that had ever appeared in her looking glass. She could not have selected a gown better suited to display the de Vere diamonds.
“I am destitute of words to tell you how beautiful it is, how honored I am to wear it.”
He watched her reflection, his face serious. “I am destitute of words to tell you how lovely you are. You have never looked prettier.”
His words had her feeling like a diamond, sparkling from the inside out. “Oh, my lord, that is exceedingly kind of you. I am so touched that with all you've had to do these past two days, you thought of me.”
“What's this
my lord
about? You're not one of my servants.”
She swallowed. “No. I'm your wife. I've the de Vere jewels to prove it!” She stood, and he crooked his arm to escort her to dinner.
* * *
After dinner they came to the lofty library, a long room of soaring ceilings with dark, book-lined walls and real wood fires blazing in scattered inglenooks throughout the chamber. He quite thought it was his favorite room in all of England. “You must not be offended,” he teased, “when I tell you that this library was a very strong recommendation for marrying you.”
She smiled. “You always did love this room. That is something else we have in common. It's my favorite room, too. Should you like to select a book?” Her gaze climbed up to the catwalk that circled the upper storey of the library.
“Where shall I begin?”
“I could direct you. What would like to read? Cowper?”
He shook his head. “No. I'm in the mood for something serious. Someone like Burke.”
“Come right this way.”
He followed her past nearly a dozen bookcases filled with fine leather and gilt books. “Here.” She paused in front of a case filled mostly with Burke's writing. He also spotted volumes of nonfiction by Charles Lamb, Jeremy Bentham, Edward Gibbons, and Rousseau. “Papa has two shelves of Burke's discourses. I daresay every word ever written by the man can be found here.”
“Our fathers were not just his friends but also his admirers. We, too, have all his works at Hamptonworth, and I'm in the process of reading every one of them.”
She picked up one slim volume with a heavily scrolled cover titled
Burke's Speech on Conciliation with America
. “No matter which of his works I read, I continue to marvel at his exceptional eloquence, marvel that I actually spoke to the man once.”
“I know of no man who can write with more sense, and of course you're right about the eloquence.” He took the book. “I haven't read this one. I have now in my hands a few hours of reading pleasure.”
She selected another book from the same shelf. “We have found still another author upon whom we perfectly agree.” She linked her arm through his. “Come let us go read.”
They settled in a cozy alcove on a velvet settee in front of a fire. A tall window on their right was draped in emerald colored silk.
“I love to read here on a frigid winter day,” she told him, her voice soft. “This window is the only one which offers us a wonderful view of Capability Brown's lake.” As soon as she spoke, her cough commenced.
His brows lowered. “Are you all right?”
It was a moment before she could respond, a minute before her nasty cough subsided. Then she merely nodded.
Not five minutes later, she went into another coughing fit. He did not like the sound of it, but then he could never hear a female coughing and not be reminded of his mother's final weeks, when consumption stole away the last of her last breaths. With each successive cough from Belle, a melancholy agitation mounted within him.
This time when she stopped, he got up and rang for a servant.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You know very well what I'm doing.”
“Allow me to rephrase. Why are you summoning a servant?”
“Because I wish to procure a shawl to drape about you to ward off the chill. And I think you need a glass of warm milk.”
“Honestly, de Vere, I wish you would not treat me like I'm your child!”
“I don't think you should address me as de Vere now that we're married. It's what all the bloods call me.”
She peered up at him, and he was powerless not to gaze at her breasts dipping beneath the blue velvet, powerless not to consider how much he would enjoy peeling away that blue velvet. “How would you like me to refer to you?” she asked, her voice low.
“My name's William.”
“I'm well aware of that fact. It's the name I called you until you succeeded when I was eleven.”
He frowned. “I was not happy when you suddenly began to call me de Vere like everyone else.”
“You objected to being called by your title?”
He shrugged. “At first it seemed like I was stealing my father's name. It didn't seem to fit me. Far too stuffy for a lad still three years away from obtaining his majority. I thought it far too . . . cold and impersonal.”
Her eyes misted. “I wish I'd known. . . I would have continued to call you William. I remember how melancholy you appeared to me, how hard I prayed for you that year.”
He doubted anyone had ever prayed for him in his life. A single brow elevated. “You prayed for me?”
She nodded. “I worried so about you having no parent, about you having to grow up practically overnight. I cannot tell you how keenly my heart ached for you.”
“You were surely the only person in the kingdom who did not think me fortunate.”
“Then the others didn't know you as I like to think I did.”
A warmth spread throughout his body. There
was
an intimacy between him and this woman he had married, an intimacy that stretched back for many years now. How could he have failed to acknowledge it long before now?
The butler entered the chamber, and de Vere dispatched him for the shawl and milk.
“So you really thought I was cold and impersonal when I quit calling you William?”
Their eyes locked.
“Can you deny it? You've betrayed more emotion in the past eight and forty hours than you have in the past twelve years.”
She spoke solemnly. “I was schooled that to be a proper lady, I needed to be an elegant icicle.”
“Then, my lady, you were an apt pupil.” He fleetingly thought about reminding her that his sisters had continued to call him William after he succeeded, but he knew she did not want to be linked with his sisters—and not because she wasn't on terms of intimacy with each of them.
For the first time, he could honestly say he no longer thought of her quite like he thought of his sisters. Yet it wasn't the same as it had been with his inamoratas, either. He did have to acknowledge —if only to himself—he and Belle had progressed to an uncommon hinterland over the past four and twenty hours, but it was still bloody difficult to believe Belle was his wife. He still was not comfortable with the realization he was a married man, a man married to a woman with whom he was not in love.
Some ten minutes passed before the butler returned with a glass of warm milk and a bright red Kashmir shawl. As if she were a complete invalid, De Vere took the items, setting the milk down on a table beside her, then proceeding to drape the shawl about her bare shoulders. “Here, love. As pretty as your gown is, it offers little protection against the chill to your delicate body.”
And he needed to cover up that damn necklace that drew attention to her breasts like an arrow to its target.
“I do wish you would not think of me as so decidedly delicate.” A subsequent coughing spell belied her words.
Each harrowing cough reminded him of his poor mama.
* * *
Though it angered her that he would coddle her in the same way as would a brother—or, worse yet, a father—there was no way she could remain angry with a man who treated her with such deep concern.
As long as her coughing intruded on their silent reading, her bridegroom was incapable of concentrating on his book. She needed to engage him in conversation. She lay her book in her lap. “William?”
A slow, bone-melting smile eased across his handsome face as he looked up at her, a nearly black brow cocked.
“You must share with me your plans for Hamptonworth. I'm greatly looking forward to making our home there.”
“I had no idea you father was so attached to the place. Now, due to his generosity with the wedding settlement, needed improvements can be made.”
“For which I am as happy as Papa.”
A troubled look passed over his face. “I would never want you to think. . .”
“I know you would never marry for fortune. Don't ever believe I would think that.”
“Good. Because I'd give away Hamptonworth before I'd marry for money.”
“I do understand that.”
He leaned back and stared into the roaring wood fire. “It will cost a small fortune to make all the repairs that are necessary.”
“Do you plan to do anything new there?”
“If engaging a complete gardening staff which we haven't had for more than a decade is considered something new, then yes.”
“I'm so happy to hear that. I can only barely remember sitting in the rowboat on Hamptonworth's lake surrounded by all those lovely walks, all the beautiful flowers, the well-trimmed shrubberies and sculpted trees.”
He nodded. “I vividly remember that, too, but the place has become overgrown and unkempt in recent years. I haven't allowed visitors to witness its demise.”
She averted her gaze. “So I've heard. I'm so happy we're going to bring it back. It will be a wonderful place for our childr- - -” What was she saying? How forward she was being! What happened to her resolve to make him
want
to come to her bed? The last thing she wanted was for him to feel compelled to make love with her. She quickly shook her head. “Honestly, I don't want to rush things between us.”
“There will be time. I, too, have no desire to force what should occur naturally.”
Her cheeks stung. She was trying to determine if he had just repelled her or not.
Then she was once more overcome by a coughing fit.
He drew her hand within his own. Her chest expanded. “It's been a long, eventful day,” he said when she stopped coughing, “and now, my dear, you need nothing more than a good night's sleep.” He handed her the glass of milk. “Drink up.”
As they climbed the stairs to their bedchambers, she realized he was right. She
was
uncommonly tired. He was right, too, about her wellbeing. She wasn't really feeling quite the thing.
Her heart raced, but she wasn't sure if that was not owing to the fact she had never before held hands with a gentleman in such an intimate fashion. For those few fleeting moments, she thought she knew what it must feel like to be cherished by a man.
The corridor on the bedchamber floor was only dimly lit from a scattering of wall scones, and the candle had burnt out in one of those, the one beside her door. They both came to a stop there.
He stood so close, she could feel his heat, smell his musky scent. She lifted her face, and he lowered his head to kiss her.
This time it was
not
a peck on the check. His arms came fully around her, and she hugged him close as the kiss deepened, as their mouths opened to each other, intensifying the connection between.
When the magical kiss was over, he spoke in a husky voice. “I assure you that is
not
how I kiss my sisters.”