Her eyes burned, for an image of Papa came to mind. She reached for a pencil and a notebook and began to sketch a parrot. “I wish Father had lived longer. My papa was an eccentric who too often spent too much on gifts. He was a collector, too, of snuff boxes, ladies’ fans, and a copious amount of feathers, as well as taking on assorted wounded wild animals.” She smiled at the memory. “He was a jolly man, seeing humor in much, particularly the human condition. He brightened our world with laughter and warmth.”
“I see.” Patrick was not terribly jolly, and he wondered if Charlotte wished she’d wed a more high-spirited man.
How very serious her new husband looked. On impulse, Charlotte kissed him, his lips warm and fervent, as if he would gobble her up. Oh, she liked his kisses.
“You are not jolly, Patrick. But rather, witty, which I appreciate far more.” Charlotte grinned. And he was a delicious kisser.
Later that day, Patrick rolled into the family dining room, where a cold collation graced the sideboard. He had hoped Lottie would be here, but she was not. Only Rhys sat at the table near sideways, leg crossed, reading The Morning Post.
“Good day, brother,” Patrick said as he wheeled to the lower sideboard Woodbine’s crafters had constructed for him. A surprise. The estate’s housekeeper said it was the least they could do for a boy she’d known since he was in skeleton suits.
Plate made, he rolled to the table while mulling over his recent conversation with Charlotte.
“How fare you this afternoon, brother?” Rhys laid down his paper.
He did not miss the humor in Rhys’ words. “Charlotte surprised me today.”
“Wives do that, surprise us. How?”
He told Rhys about Charlotte’s question regarding his chair. “At first, I was displeased, which sadly, I conveyed to my wife.”
“Your typical reaction to anything regarding your infirmity,” Rhys said. “I hope you did not—”
“No, I did not. When I understood she was truly interested in the mechanics and creation of the thing, I explained the process to her. It still surprises me, her question.”
“Why?” Rhys said. “Charlotte is your wife. Wife or no, I have observed her interested in all you do.”
“You think so?”
“I do. It is rather obvious she holds you in affection.”
He took a bite of beef, then downed it with a sip of wine, buying time. Charlotte liked him, that he understood, and she seemed to welcome his kisses. But affection? “Does she?”
“I thought your accident affected your legs, not your brain.”
Patrick’s self-deprecating smile was followed by a chuckle. “No, but I would say we both agree I can be rather thickheaded, particularly when it comes to Lottie.”
“Fear not, younger brother, for that affliction besets me as well. Rose tells me as much.”
They laughed, then Patrick sobered. “I hold Lady Charlotte in great esteem as well.”
“Do you?” Rhys said in a dry voice. “I never would have guessed.”
Charlotte was performing her nightly ablutions in preparation for bed. Her hand was on stroke eighty-nine when she paused. Bed. With Patrick.
A knock at the door. “Hello?”
Mama. “Come in!”
Her hands shook so hard she ceased brushing and laid her silver-backed hairbrush on the dressing table.
“I gave you that,” Mama said coming to stand beside her. She ran a finger over the silver back. “Papa chose the style, you know.”
“I did not.”
She plucked at the low-cut neck of her nightrail, a garment gifted to her by Rose for her wedding night. The silk was soft and warm and clung to her curves like a lover.
Oh, my. A lover.
Mama pressed her hands to Charlotte’s shoulders and squeezed. “All will be well. Trust your mama. Love you, my darling girl.” She bussed Charlotte’s cheek and left.
Would all be well?
Given Patrick’s legs, Charlotte anticipated his unease. Their intimacy would not be easy for him, for his limbs must be terribly thin. She must not react poorly, did not wish to hurt her new husband’s feelings, for she admired him and found him…desirable? She did, indeed, yet how that desire translated to sexual congress muddled her brain.
Another knock.
Charlotte massaged her temples. “Enter!”
“Lottie!” Rose said.
Charlotte swiveled on the seat. “Rose?”
Rose entered the bedroom, hopped onto the bed, and patted the place beside her. “I thought to have a chat.”
Panic clutched Charlotte’s heart. “A chat?”
Her sister-in-law’s face glowed with a smile. “I thought…well, I wondered how much Lady Bea has told you about this evening’s events.”
What to say? “I know, um, Patrick will come to me and we will…”
“Yes?” Rose leaned forward.
“Um…” Charlotte leapt, nearly twisting her ankle, to straighten her things on her dressing table.
“Lottie. My dear sister.”
She did not look up. “Yes?”
“Come sit beside me,” Rose said, entering the sitting room and taking the divan.
Charlotte whooshed a sigh and seated herself beside Rose.
“Do you trust me?” Rose said.
“You know I do.”
“Then trust me when I say tonight’s events will go more smoothly if you hear what I have to say.” Rose again took Charlotte’s hand in hers. “He will touch you.”
Charlotte nodded and straightened. “As I understand it, he and I will look at each other naked, and that will possibly produce a pregnancy.”
The rapid blinks of Rose’s eyes testified to her sister’s shock.
“You see?” Charlotte said in a chipper tone. “I know just what is required of me. Though Mama said to think of other things—like painting or archery—while it is happening. Are we done?”
Squeezing her eyes tight, Rose sighed. “I am afraid, dear sister, that what you have described will produce nothing other than a chill.”
Charlotte’s mouth made an “oh.”
“Let us talk about horses!” Rose said, eyes bright. “Now, you have seen horses mating, yes?”
She peered at Rose from the corner of her eye. “Perhaps. I am not sure I actually have.”
“All right, then,” Rose said, her tone serious. “First thing, the mare is teased.”
“Teased?” Charlotte’s voice was high, closer to a squeal.
“You will be teased, too, when Patrick touches you and—”
“Where? Exactly where will he touch me, Rose?”
“Your face, your breasts, your…” She pointed.
“There?” Oh, my!
“If he is as skilled as Rhys, and I suspect he is, you will like it.”
“I do not see how that is possible. Mama said not to touch down there and…”
“Have you never?”
Charlotte chewed her lip. “Perhaps we should continue this later.”
“Soon, dear sister, there will be no later.”
“No later!”
Rose enfolded Charlotte in a fierce hug. “You will be pleasured, Lottie.”
“No. No, I will not.”
“I suspect you shall, Lottie.” Rose continued. “Once the mare is teased.”
“There is more?” Oh, this sounded very involved, not to mention worrisome.
“The stallion then mounts the mare from behind and—”
“Patrick will mount me from the rear?” Charlotte said, or rather, screamed the words.
“No, dear sister. I doubt that.” Rose giggled. “Though the position is quite pleasurable, too! I am making a muck of this. Try to calm yourself.”
“I do not see how, since this whole…performance sounds like something out of a bad theatrical!”
“But once you are teased, you—”
“Do stop with the horse analogies, dear Rose, for my imaginings are too awful.”
Rose grinned. “I cannot help myself!” Rose shook her head. “Our stable master, a dear man, explained the act of making love in horse terms. I find it easier to clarify the process that way, you see?”
“Since childhood, Patrick approaches all he adopts with forethought, deliberation, and care. I am certain he will do the same with your lovemaking. Do you enjoy touching him?”
“I…yes.” Charlotte loved caressing his face, his cheek, and she relished his kisses and his hot breath on her neck. Why, even his smile could make her prickle in that delicious way. But this talk of them doffing their clothes and being naked and touching untouched parts…She wished to take up her paints and never stop.
“Making love, Lottie,” Rose said. “It is the most natural thing. Once you are, um, desirous, he will face you. Then, he will insert his penis into your private place.”
Charlotte froze. “That cannot be,” she said, her voice a whisper.
“There will be a pinch, and yes, it hurts only the first time. The pain passes near instantly, and Patrick’s movements will begin to feel lovely.”
Movements?
After Rose completed her tutorial, Charlotte returned to brushing her hair. She took a deep breath.
Mama had congress. Rose, too, who said it was pleasurable. All married women must have experienced marital relations. And survived. She would, as well.
Earlier that evening, the women of Woodbine had prepared her bower—rose petals on the bed, flowers adorning the room, a full pitcher of chilled water, and other niceties.
After tonight, she would be changed.
That change would hurt, as Rose said, though she had assured Charlotte the pain was brief.
In the days since Patrick’s renewed proposal and the arrangements for their wedding, Charlotte had painted in a frenzy. She had succeeded, for the new seascape, Patrick’s wedding gift, was in her own style. If he wished, she would replicate his original purchase, but she thought he might like a painting of her own work.
Her eyes drifted to the wrapped package resting against the wing chair. She hoped it pleased him.
Frazzled nerves squeezed her heart—a combination of fear, excitement, and worry that she would be inept. Earlier, Rose had said nothing about what she was supposed to do while Patrick was “teasing” her. What if Patrick found her unappealing?
Along with her discussion, Rose had sneaked in a tumbler of scotch from Rhys’ study and Charlotte lifted the glass and sipped. Though it seared, soon a welcome heat suffused her just as Rose had assured.
Patrick cared for her. He had said as much.
Now, minutes before his arrival, Charlotte did not see how a man atop her, thrusting his member inside her, could be anything but discomforting. She downed the rest of the glass as the creak of wheels sounded in the hall.
Patrick neared their rooms, and wasn’t that an oddity—their rooms. He hadn’t shared a room since he’d been at the Royal Naval Academy. He desired Charlotte, desired her rather voraciously, if truth be told, but it had been eons since he had been intimate with a woman. Never since his accident.
A cat crossing a puddle of water was less nervous than he.
Charlotte shivered. She could hear Patrick outside the door. Her hands shook as she smoothed her nightrail, and she dashed to her full-length mirror.
A knock.
“One moment!”
She smoothed a wrinkle, then held the gown wide so it flowed properly. She laid a lock of hair over her shoulder, shiny from brushing. Her nightrail was such a pretty, diaphanous thing, trimmed with exquisite Belgian lace. She twirled.
And froze.
Oh, no. It could not be.
A red splotch marred the back of her nightrail.
The Scarlet Lady had arrived. Now. Of all times!
How had she not read the signs? Felt the ache that accompanied her courses? Been prepared?
Foolish woman! She had ignored the signs because her thoughts had obsessed over her engagement and marriage.
“One minute, Patrick!” she called out again. Charlotte washed, and then retrieved her belt from the dresser, wrapping it about her hips and looping the muslin over the front and back to make a sort of loincloth. Within, she placed the stitched pad she used for such occasions, washed her hands again, and donned another nightrail, this one not nearly as pretty and made from a thick lawn.
Heaven help her, how would she ever tell Patrick?
Patrick wheeled into the room to find Charlotte seated at her dressing table, her gown a cloud about her, her raven hair a cascade down her back as she brushed the long strands.
Breath failed him at the sight of her. Charlotte was blindingly beautiful.
His nightshirt felt too small across his chest…and too large, the thing tangling in his legs. He had slept naked since he had left skeleton suits behind, and he wished to divest himself of the rig. A mad urge wished Lottie to see him, all of him, including his withered legs.
However, the idea of revealing them to Charlotte was more harrowing than facing an enemy ship of the line.
Did she pity him? Perhaps look at him with disgust?
“Patrick, if you’re tired…”
He reached out and ran a hand down her hair. So soft. Had she any idea how he longed to be inside her? “I am not tired.”
She smiled, a warm open one that rose to those midnight-blue eyes of hers, yet he caught a hint of fear before she returned to brushing her hair.
Lottie confounded him. She had never troubled over his infirmity, never made an issue of it, though she would speak plainly about his accident in the most mundane of words. He liked that. Charlotte appeared to accept him as he was, even if broken, and he could not but wonder if those feelings would remain after she viewed the scars and wreckage that were his limbs. She seemed willing enough for sex. He wished he could say the same.
Patrick caught the moment she again glimpsed him in the mirror. She lowered her hairbrush and swiveled to face him.
“You look like you are in pain, Patrick,” she said, rising from her seat.
His self-deprecating grin was genuine. “All of this is new to me, my dear.”
“Is that so?” She clearly remembered the gossip, and her words flew without her volition. “From the on-dits, you are quite adept with the ladies.”
“Before,” was all he said, for he tried never to think about the before times when he could walk and run, vault onto a horse, or climb a mast with ease.
The bed covers had been drawn back, and Charlotte plumped the pillows. Over her shoulder, she said, “Did you not say all was in working order?”
His smile was conciliatory. “Of that, I can assure you.”
Devil it, how sensible she seemed. All a ruse, he suspected, for her hands shook smoothing a pillowcase.
He wheeled to the bed and took her hand. “Relax, my pragmatic wife, and does not the word “wife” sound strange?”
“It does. Shall I help you onto the bed, husband?”
Bollocks. The bed was a challenge, for Lottie’s was a great deal higher than his own. Mounting this Everest would be awkward as hell, but manage he would. “Thank you, but no.”
“As I anticipated.” Charlotte clasped her hands in front of her so her knuckles shined white. “For I expected you to say as much.”
“Canny woman. You are coming to know me too well.”
“I am glad.” She peered down with the sweetest smile.
In days past, she would have had to look up at him, as he had been a tall man. Once.
“Let us wait a moment,” she said. “I have a gift for you.” Charlotte hurried to retrieve the package and handed it to him with a shy smile. “To celebrate our marriage.”
He lifted his own gift from his lap and held it in the palm of his hand, a far smaller package, but one he thought she would enjoy.
“Shall we open them together?” Her eyes sparkled as she took the velvet box.
They dove in, and once again, his breath was stolen. Lottie had painted him a seascape, one much like the one he’d hung in his cabin, and yet different. The rendering struck him as more vivid, more…alive. He smelled the brine, felt the roll of the waves, heard the snap of the sails.
“Oh, Patrick,” Charlotte said, interrupting his thoughts. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the ring in its simple setting.
“I purchased this diamond in India and recently had it set for you. When I presented your engagement ring, you noted your love of emeralds, but said diamonds intrigued you.”
“They do.” She held up the ring so the gem sparkled in the lamplight. “For they hold all the colors of the spectrum.”
“Shall I slide it onto your finger?”
“Please do.”
Charlotte slipped off her wedding ring and held out her trembling hand, and he slid the diamond onto her finger. He replaced her wedding band, leaned forward, and took her lips with his.
Patrick made the kiss different. More. Not only did Patrick put his feelings into it, but also his promise to care for her all of his days, to watch over her, to be her friend and refuge. When he released her, she stared at him, tears pooling her eyes.
“Too much?” he said.
Her lips compressed, but a smile peeked out and she shook her head. “No, it was more. Much more.”
He ran a hand down her shoulder. Gods, how he wanted her. Thank Christ the numerous folds of his nightshirt hid his erection. “You are quite lovely, you know.”
“I do not know, but I am glad you see me as such. I…I must speak to you of something.”
Her words boded poorly, and though he ached to touch her further, to move inside her as one, to express his feelings for her in the most primal way, he hesitated. “Indeed?”
“The Scarlet Lady has put in an appearance.”
“Scarlet Lady?” Patrick had not a clue what she was about.
Charlotte paled. “A term I invented. Claire calls hers the Red Dragon, given her quiet flare for the dramatic.”
“Lottie, what the hell are—”
“My courses.” She fiddled with her ring. “They arrived in a rather untimely manner.”
His hands trembled and he squeezed the arms of his chair. A ruse to avoid their wedding night? Or truth? He searched her face, but found no answer.
“I see,” was all he said.
“I am sorry! I had no idea. I usually do, you see, but I was so overset by, well, the wedding and this evening, that I—”
“You need not continue, Lottie.” He took her hands and kissed both, then spun his back wheels toward the door.
“Stay,” Charlotte said. “Please. Sleep beside me?”
Patrick paused to peer over his shoulder. “I awaken in the night, Lottie. Nightmares. You do not wish to sleep with someone so troubled.”
She appeared beside him and kneeled. “I care not about your nighttime ramblings, Patrick. I have ramblings of my own. Do stay.”
“In truth?”
She reached out a tentative hand to cup his face. “Please.”
He turned his head to kiss her palm. “Then it shall be so.”
Patrick faced the bed, a four-step climb, with trepidation. His upper body strength was impressive, but he was unsure if he could make this ascent without aid. Christ! The thing looked tall as St. Paul’s.
He must try, for he would not tolerate his new wife assisting him on his climb into the thing.
Patrick reached up with his arms, bracing them on the mattress, and lifted, straining mightily, holding himself aloft, perpendicular to the mattress, arms straight.
Lottie moved toward him, but he shook his head, and she backed off.
His arms shook, but it would take but one more push to see him atop the bed.
With a massive heave, his torso flopped onto the mattress, and he paused, breathing like a bellows. Christ, he loathed his paralysis with such fervor he saw red.
Charlotte had not moved again but had taken up a book and was reading by candlelight. Canny woman.
Patrick pulled forward further and further toward the headboard until his legs followed. Thank all that was holy he’d made it. He took several more calming breaths, then rolled face up to stare at the ceiling. Lottie put aside her book and rested her head in the nook of his shoulder, slipping one leg across his unfeeling ones. She sighed.
“You are warm and cozy, Patrick.”
He wrapped his arms around her, her curves giving him a stunning cock-stand, a hand running across her glorious hair. She sighed. He did the same and was soon in a dreamless slumber.