“You are here to shore up Maxwell. And catch him if he faints again before he dashes his brains on the stone floor.” She muttered something under her breath, and Ben was certain she cast aspersions on his own brains. He was nearly in agreement with her—he had lost his mind as well as his temper.
He
never
lost his temper. He’d made an effort all his life to be affable and equable. However, several days of close propinquity to the most irritating woman on earth was enough to try the patience of a saint, and Ben was no saint. He wondered if, now that he was here, he should light a candle and pray for deliverance from Evie.
Suddenly a man emerged from the vestry, rubbing his hands to warm them up.
“Ah,” he said, beaming. “The happy couple! I’ll be right with you.”
“No!” both Evie and Ben said at the same time, sounding horrified. Or at least
she
did, as if becoming his baroness was akin to being eaten alive by rats. As for himself, he’d prefer something larger, like wolves, who could devour her faster and put him out of his misery sooner.
“We are merely the witnesses.” Ben stepped forward and shook the priest’s hand. “Benton Gray, at your service.”
The man’s tufted white brows knit. “The Jane Street Jack—I mean, how honored I am to meet you, my lord. I am Mr. Constantine. And this charming young woman is?”
Good Lord. Everyone
did
read the damned paper, even the clergy. “A friend of the bride’s, Miss Ramsey. There’s been no sign of Lord Maxwell and Miss Sturgess?”
“Not as yet. But I’ve been busy in the back getting ready for the ceremony. If you will just take a seat, I’m sure they’ll be along at any moment. I’ll go get my prayer book.”
Ben held the pew door open and Evie sailed by, nose in the air. She pointedly sat as far away from him as she could without vaulting over into the next pew.
Thank heavens they didn’t have to wait long. Maxwell and a blushing Lizzie Sturgess entered in a swirl of snow. There was no wedding march as she tugged him up the aisle, and Ben was almost tempted to hum a few bars of Bach’s
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring
just for the hell of it. She stopped in front of Ben and Evie, beaming, Maxwell lurching by her side.
Her bridegroom did not radiate equal happiness. Maxwell’s face matched Lizzie’s serviceable gray cloak. She looked up at her betrothed expectantly, but he seemed to find the floor as interesting as Ben had.
“That’s all right, my lord, I’ll just remove my cloak myself, although it’s dreadfully cold in here, is it not? But what a delightful surprise! A romantic snowstorm!” Her gloved fingers fumbled with the hooks, and she laid the garment over the pew. The dress she had chosen for her wedding looked very governessy—she must have decided against wearing Lady Basingstoke’s castoffs to begin her new life. Ben noted her neat figure and cheerful demeanor, and hoped Maxwell might one day see her as she was—a little jewel who glittered with hopeful trust.
Evie brushed by him to hug the bride, and Ben felt obliged to shake Maxwell’s hand.
“Well, old chap, here we are.”
“Um.”
“It won’t be too bad. Miss Sturgess is a fine young woman. You’ve done well.”
Maxwell gave him a hunted look but nodded.
Ben took him aside and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “If you have any questions about the wedding night, don’t hesitate to ask.”
If possible, Maxwell turned grayer.
“But this is not the place to discuss the fine points of bedding your bride,” Ben continued, slapping the poor fellow on the back. “Come to my house after. We’ll open a few bottles of bubbly and celebrate with a wedding breakfast.” Severson and his cook might want to kill him, but Ben had every confidence that his staff could throw together an impromptu meal.
“A-a-all right,” Maxwell stuttered.
The ceremony was mercifully brief. Maxwell swayed just once, and it was his bride that caught him by the elbow. At her touch, he stilled and seemed to see her for the first time. Ben was relieved to see the viscount’s evident interest in his new viscountess. He crossed his fingers and even added a prayer that the day and the night ahead would bring both of them joy, if getting leg-shackled could ever do such a thing. He was in absolutely no hurry to find out personally.
E
vangeline had seen only the wide hall and the dining room of Ben’s house before—and, of course, Ben’s study the dreadful night she’d chucked away her good sense and lain beneath and on top of him. His double drawing room was very pretty, in shades of cream and apricot. His mother’s touch, no doubt. Ben looked rather ridiculous perched on a spindly striped chair as he and Lord Maxwell were in earnest conversation on the far side of the room, their two fair heads nearly touching. Ben was by far the better looking, his shoulders broader, his dimples deeper, his hazel eyes gleamier in the waning afternoon light.
Each man balanced a gilt-edged plate on his lap with the remains of the hastily prepared wedding feast. Several empty bottles of champagne had already been removed, and Severson continued to circle the room with a fresh one. Evangeline had quite lost count at the number of glasses she’d consumed, but if Lizzie’s flaming cheeks were any indication, they both had had enough.
“Are you nervous about tonight?” Evangeline whispered, even though the men were too far away to hear them.
Lizzie took a last sip and waved Severson away. “Terrified,” she whispered back. “Lord B-basingstoke’s touch was most unpleasant.”
Evangeline’s mouth dropped open. “You—he—I thought—”
Lizzie turned a more vivid shade of scarlet. “Oh! You misunderstand. He never managed to get me where he wanted me. But he took every opportunity to squeeze me somewhere when we met on the stairs. I had marks from his fingertips on my breast for
weeks
. And once”—the girl shuddered—“he kissed me. It was slobbery and disgusting.”
Evangeline laid a hand over Lizzie’s new ring, a plain gold band with a single small diamond at its center. “I’m sure Lord Maxwell will be gentler.” Although sometimes a good squeeze was not unwelcome, she thought ruefully, though slobbery kisses were definitely
de trop
.
“What should I do to please my husband?” Lizzie asked, her brown eyes wide.
“I’m hardly an expert.”
“No, of course not! But I assumed with you pretending to be a man all these months that you must know something of what gentlemen like. They gossip as much as any old tabby.”
They did indeed. She had heard a hair-curling tale or two crawling through the underbelly of society to get her front-page scoops.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that Lord Maxwell is not like most men. He is, as you must have noticed, extremely shy.”
Lizzie nodded. “Yes. He cannot seem to talk to me.”
“There needn’t be much talking tonight. He’ll get into his dressing gown and come into your room. Or his room. I’m not sure his bachelor apartments have a separate bedroom. They’re on the shabby side, you know. But his marriage to you releases his funds, so I expect that will all change.”
“He m-married me for
his
money,” Lizzie giggled, then hiccupped.
“Well, you’re not an heiress, but you’re just as good as far as he’s concerned. If you are gentle with
him,
not frightened of his body, I think you’ll do very well together. Above all, show no disgust—no matter the man, they’re all fragile when it comes to their manhood.” She closed her eyes, seeing Ben’s cock in her mind’s eye, definitely not a fragile thing at all. He had every reason to be smug size-wise. But of course everything about him was large—it was the Scot in him. Evangeline had never seen him in his ancestral kilt, but admitted she wanted to.
But better yet, she wanted to see him in nothing at all.
She slapped her glass down on a piecrust table. “Now then, I assume you know the mechanics of the procedure?”
“N-not really. In the foundling home we were told to never, ever lift our skirts to a man. That’s all.”
Evangeline gritted her teeth. Her own experience was haphazard and nothing to rely upon. She was not about to tell the new little viscountess what she had allowed herself to do to Ben so recently, when he had definitely been more than “pleased.” Trying to remember what her old nurse had told her thousands of years ago, when she was still a green girl and had not yet met Baron Benton Gray, she began, nearly tripping over her words as badly as Lord Maxwell.
“There is a secret, special place between your legs. Inside you. That is where the man’s member goes. You’ve seen a male penis, perhaps? On one of Basingstoke’s infant sons?”
Lizzie’s brows knit. “That little thing?”
“They grow larger as the man does, naturally. And on no account are you to ever call Lord Maxwell’s penis little. Is that understood?”
“Y-yes. So he puts his thing—his
big
thing—inside me. Then what?”
“Well,” Evangeline sighed, “you move together. It might be a little uncomfortable at first, but don’t just lie there like a dead fish. A man appreciates some participation. On the other hand, perhaps you
should
just lie there the first time to prove your innocence and see what Lord Maxwell does. He may be very quick.” Thank goodness she would never marry and have to prepare a daughter for her wedding night and endure a similar discussion in the years ahead. She felt she was making a complete and utter hash of it.
“How long does it usually take?”
If one was lucky, quite a long, delicious time, but Evangeline was not going to divulge all that right now.
“It varies with the man and the circumstance.” She glanced over to Maxwell, who was green about the gills. Whatever Ben was telling him seemed to have an alarming effect. “You should kiss him before submitting. Lots of kisses. And not just closed-mouth pecks. Open your mouth to his. That will relax both of you.”
“Really?” Lizzie looked skeptical.
“Truly. A proper kiss cannot be overrated.”
“Lord Basingstoke did not taste very good. He’d just eaten kippers, I believe. And I told you, it was so
wet
.”
“Some moisture is delightful. And I’m sure Lord Maxwell will brush his teeth before bedtime.”
Lizzie still did not look convinced, and truthfully, Evangeline was not convinced herself that Lord Maxwell would do the thing with the necessary skill. She hoped Ben’s tutorial was going a bit better than hers. It was a pity he didn’t have time to take the man to a brothel to give him some experience, no matter how tawdry.
It was out of her hands now. She had done the best she could, killing two needy birds with one stone. Evangeline kept a little journal in her desk drawer with her successes, and tomorrow when she went into the office she would add the union of Lord and Lady Maxwell to
The London List
’s list.
The snow continued unabated outside, but eventually Lord Maxwell decided to brave it and bring his bride home. One last glass was raised, and it would have been rude of Evangeline to forgo it even if her head
was
spinning just a little.
She found herself alone with Ben in the gilded room. A roaring fire at each end made her feel distinctly overheated. The shadows were lengthening despite Severson’s lighting the sconces and candelabrum before he disappeared, taking the tray of dishes and glasses with him. Evangeline needed to disappear, too—her father had been left alone long enough.
“If you would be so good as to have someone fetch me a cab, it’s time I was leaving as well.”
“I won’t hear of it,” Ben said, his golden eyebrows contracting. “I called for you. I shall bring you home as well.”
“That’s not at all necessary. You’ve done more than your duty today.”
Ben smiled. “If you only knew. Maxwell and I had the most awkward conversation. I’d almost like to be a fly on the wall tonight when he consummates his marriage.”
“I’m sure that wouldn’t be the first time you observed such activity,” Evangeline said sourly.
“Ah, but Evie, I’d so much rather participate than observe behind some knothole. Surely your research bears that out.”
That was true. Ben’s reputation may have been tarnished, but it did not seem pitted with perversion. Benton Gray was a healthy, rich young man who did not deny himself pleasure in any of its traditional forms, for why would he? To his credit, he’d never once claimed to be a saint.
“I spoke to Lizzie, too. I’m grateful to be spared such a discussion in the future.”
“What do you mean? Surely you’re not giving up your matchmaking.”
“It’s unlikely I’ll ever encounter anyone so innocent again. And I’ll never have to tell my daughter how to entertain her husband.”
“Planning on having sons only?”
“Planning on never having any children, my lord, as I will never marry. And in case you were concerned, I’m certain there is no possibility of a child after last week’s folly.”
Ben turned his face quickly to the fire, but she had seen a flare of emotion there before he could hide it. For some reason she continued her too-honest dialogue.
“I am a fallen woman, Ben. Old. My father is ill, and I have no money. Who would marry me, even if I wished it? And I don’t,” she added with conviction.
Ben snorted. “Have you forgotten the sum I settled on your papa?”
“All right, I concede I’m not precisely poor at the moment. But what man wants another’s leavings?”
“For God’s sake, you sound like a bloody moral crusader. There’s nothing wrong with you sleeping with me all those years ago. You were young and stupid and made a mistake.”
So did I,
she heard him mutter.
“You were not the only man, Ben. I’ve had other lovers.” Just the two, but she’d already said more than enough. Damn the champagne for her wayward tongue.
His face darkened and a muscle in his jaw leaped, but he did not speak for a very long minute. And when he did, his one word surprised her.
“Good.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’d hate to think of you all alone these past years. You are a warm-blooded woman, Evie. You deserve happiness.”
Happiness had not been the precise outcome of her two botched affairs, but the time for confession had passed. She needed to go—for many reasons. But she picked one that he would understand. “I must get home to my father, Ben.”
“Of course. Forgive me for being so thoughtless. He must be missing you.”
“Perhaps, if he remembers me today,” she said wistfully.
Ben left her on the sofa while he went to order the coach to come round. Evangeline stared at the fire just as Ben had, looking for a hidden sign in the flames that would tell her what she should do. She was stuck with Benton Gray until Tuesday at least, after which she might tear up every outstanding letter, overturn the desk drawers, and kick the press with one of Mr. Ramsey’s scuffed boots.
Being with Benton Gray was not safe. Not safe at all.
The carriage lanterns swayed as the horses made their slow, slippery way across town. Even with the hot bricks he’d ordered, the carriage was cold. Evie was buttoned up in her old cloak, her hat abandoned for the fur-lined hood. He had tucked several tartan blankets over her, but couldn’t miss the fact that she was shivering.
“This is absurd. Come here.”
He didn’t wait for her obedience, but tugged her across the carriage to his lap.
“Brute,” she said, but she snuggled up against him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling the plaid wool up under her chin.
“Better?”
He felt her nod against his shoulder. She smelled of roses and wine. Ben hoped he hadn’t overdone the liquid celebration for the bride and groom. It wouldn’t do to have Maxwell pass out in a drunken stupor before he had a chance to put Ben’s advice to use. He was feeling a little light-headed himself.
“It was a lovely day,” Evie murmured through a yawn.
“It’s not over yet.”
“It’s nearly dark.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He cupped her cheek and turned her face to him. “I think I’m going to kiss you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” But she made no move to slide off his lap.
“I can’t seem to help myself. You’re right here, and your lips are so close.” He slid a gloved finger across them. Her mouth was rosy, tempting. All of her made him want to ravish her in the carriage, snow be damned.
“Toss me back to the other seat, then,” she replied when his finger reluctantly finished tracing her plump bottom lip.
“And watch you tremble with cold? What kind of a gentleman would I be?”
“You are no gentleman at all.”
Her dark lashes flicked at his closeness, and he felt her warm breath against his face when she spoke. Ben shook his head. He had not quite gotten over last week’s insult to his honor. As if he’d be stupid enough to risk his health and hers by consorting with indiscriminate women to bring madness and eventual death upon them. The one sure thing about Jane Street and its inhabitants were that they were clean of body if not necessarily pure of soul.
“You have such low expectations for me, Evie. I’ve told you I’m a reformed character.”