That evening they were married at the Royal Bavarian Chapel. Søren knew the Rector, and was able to talk him into performing a wedding Mass on very short notice. Eleanor borrowed Claire’s best white gown and white fur-trimmed cloak. Søren wore a dark gray suit with a matching waistcoat. Claire acted as Maid of Honor. Kingsley was Søren’s Best Man. Claire’s guardian, her Aunt Adeline, was the sole guest not including two nuns who watched from the wings.
Mr. Fitzsimmons and a civil official were also in attendance. Of course they were there. This wasn’t a marriage for love but to secure an inheritance.
The night was dark and cold. The chapel was lit only by a few white candles on tall iron candle holders. The altar was decorated with country greenery for Christmas.
There was no music when she walked down the aisle toward Søren and her footsteps echoed. She imagined Søren could even hear her heart beating in the silence.
“In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spiritus Sancti,” the priest intoned.
Together, Eleanor and Søren replied, “Amen.”
And so it began.
Did Lord Marcus Lennox Søren Stearns, Baron Stearns, promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and health?
He did.
Did Eleanor Louise Schreiber promise to obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him, in sickness and health?
She did.
A gold band was slipped onto her finger. A brief kiss was pressed upon her lips.
Then it was done and Eleanor—the daughter of impoverished German exiles from the failed revolutions of 1848—was now Lady Eleanor, Baroness Stearns.
They returned to the townhouse in Regent’s Park. Eleanor ate a late supper with Claire while the men ensconced themselves in the drawing room, drinking port and discussing the transfer of the old Baron’s properties.
“Nice to know we won’t be out on the streets,” Claire said after the servants cleared away the dishes. “I doubt I’d survive long. I’m fragile and easily susceptible to cold.”
“Like every member of the aristocracy, you’re spoiled and pampered and mostly useless,” Eleanor said.
“Are you happy?” Claire squeezed Eleanor’s hand.
Eleanor forced a smile. “Never happier.”
They left the dining room and Eleanor saw Søren and Kingsley in the hallway, saying their goodbyes to the solicitor, Mr. Fitzsimmons. The man bowed to her and said, “Goodnight, Lady Stearns. My heartiest congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Lady Stearns,” Claire said to herself. “That used to be my mother. Now it’s my sister.”
“Eleanor, I need a word with you,” Søren said.
Eleanor looked at Claire but there was no escape. She was married now.
“Goodnight,” Claire said and kissed her on the cheek. Eleanor went into the drawing room with Søren.
“Where’s Kingsley?” Eleanor asked. Søren stood by the fireplace, warming himself. She joined him.
“Sending a telegram to the staff at Edenfell. We’ll go there tomorrow, if that’s acceptable to you. The news of my sudden marriage will be all over town by morning. Claire will stay behind for a few days to put out the worst of the rumors. She’ll join us on New Year’s.”
“That’s acceptable, yes.”
“I know you always liked it there,” he said. Then, “Sleep well. We’ll leave early.”
She knew she was being dismissed and wouldn’t stand for it.
“You promised to give me everything, Søren.”
“Yes, but I didn’t promise to give you everything tonight.”
“I’ll go to bed,” she said. “But I’ll say to you now what I said to you three years ago. I love you, and I know you love me. If you come to my room tonight, I won’t turn you away.”
With that, she went upstairs and into her bedroom.
This fucking marriage had better work or Kingsley was going to dig the old Baron out of his grave just for the pleasure of kicking the corpse. He sat in Søren’s bedroom by the fire, drinking brandy when he heard footsteps in the hall, heavy and male. A moment later, a door opened to Søren’s bedchamber.
“There you are,” Søren said, shutting the door behind him.
“Here I am. Brandy?”
“Immediately,” Søren said.
Kingsley grinned and stood slowly, feigning a relaxed languor he did not feel. He poured a steep brandy and passed the snifter to Søren.
Søren drank and deeply while Kingsley watched, merely sipping his brandy. He sensed an interesting conversation was about to take place, but he knew better than to try to get Søren talking before he was ready or willing.
When the brandy snifter was empty, Søren set it on Kingsley’s fireplace mantel.
“I have a problem,” Søren said.
“Oh?” Kingsley smiled behind his own brandy. “Do you?”
“I want her.”
“I knew you were depraved, but you’ve gone too far this time. You want to bed your own wife? You disgust me.”
“You can’t be serious for one minute?” Søren demanded.
“Fine. I’ll be serious. If you want her, have her.”
Søren turned and rested his elbows on the mantel. Kingsley leaned back against it, next to Søren.
“I don’t beat women.”
“First time for everything,” Kingsley said.
“I’m having a moral crisis, and you’re making jokes again.”
“I confess I am enjoying this a little.” Kingsley took his brandy glass off the mantel. “Seeing you flagellating yourself like a medieval monk for the shameful sin of wanting to make love to your own wife. It’s entertaining. Better than the opera.”
“It’s not the sex that is the issue at hand,” Søren said. “How many times do I have to tell you—”
“Yes, I know. You don’t beat women. Although you really should. It’s great fun when they like it. Half the girls at Magda’s were twice the perverts I am.”
“She invited me to her bedroom again.”
“Has she?”
“What should I do?”
“Fuck her,” Kingsley said. “Obviously.” Seemed obvious to Kingsley.
Søren turned, glared at him.
“She’s a virgin.”
“What of it? So was I. Once. I think. I assume so at least. Must have been at some point.” Kingsley shook his head. “A dark time in my past. I must have blocked it from my memory.”
“Why aren’t you talking me out of this?” Søren asked. He stood up straight and crossed his arms across his chest, leaned back against the mantel.
“Do you think I’m that petty? That jealous?”
“Yes.”
Kingsley threw up his arm in surrender, turned his back on Søren and filled his snifter again. He turned around.
“You’re terrified.”
“I am,” Søren stared into the fire. “This was a mistake.”
Kingsley set his brandy aside and went to stand in front of Søren.
“Tonight in the chapel, when Eleanor walked down the aisle toward you, I have never seen you look at any woman the way you looked at her. And the only time I’ve ever seen you look at anything like that…” Kingsley smiled.
“When?”
“One night when we were about eighteen or nineteen,” he began, “we spent the night in the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris. The night, the moon was full. You remember? And it shone through the famous Rose windows and turned the cathedral colors I never dreamed existed. You said to me that night,‘How can you not believe in a loving God when you see that?’ You looked at her like you looked at the moonlight through those windows. You looked at her like you'd just found another reason to believe in God.”
Søren smiled, but he didn’t deny it. He met Kingsley’s eyes.
“I look at you that way, too.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, but only when you aren’t looking.”
Kingsley stepped even closer. Søren put his arm around Kingsley’s waist. They kissed, quickly but tenderly, and when the kiss ended, Kingsley pressed his forehead to Søren’s.
“You are not your father. He beat his wives though they begged him to stop. You wouldn’t even take me to bed me until I’d begged you on my hands and knees to do it. I think you enjoyed making me wait and beg for it as you did actually doing the deed.”
“Oh, but I made you regret begging for it, didn’t I?” Søren asked.
“I regret nothing I’ve ever let you do to me. Nothing. Rien.”
“And I’ve never once regretted my nature,” Søren said. “Not since I found you. Not until I fell in love with her. How do I tell her? How does a man tell his beautiful young bride, a woman he wants like a man wandering in the desert wants water…how does he tell her he’s impotent unless he beats her?”
“You could beat me, you know.”
“I plan to. Often.”
“No, I mean now,” Kingsley said, the idea coming to him at once. “Beat me now and go to her when you’re aroused.”
“And what then?” Søren demanded.
“Shall I show you pictures? I have my collection.”
“I’m fully-versed in the mechanics, you ass. I can’t simply throw open her door and toss her on the bed.”
“You could, actually. She wants you to. Come on, what’s stopping you other than stubbornness? She invited you to her bed. Beat me. Go to her.”
Søren just shook his head.
“Fine,” Kingsley said. “She kissed me today and it was incredible. If you won’t be a husband to her, I will.” Kingsley started for the door.
Søren grabbed him by the collar and thrust him against the wall. Though no force was necessary, Søren forced Kingsley’s mouth open and pushed his tongue inside it. Being with Søren required Kingsley to fight his instincts. He wanted to embrace Søren, tear at his clothes, kiss back twice as hard. But Søren wanted submission of the most abject kind. So Kingsley must stand there, back pressed against the mantel as Søren bit his lips and his neck. He had to stand there while Søren opened Kingsley’s shirt and pushed it off his shoulders and onto the floor.
Without a warning, Søren turned Kingsley toward the fireplace.
“Stay,” Søren said. Kingsley stood and waited, head down on the mantel while Søren retrieved whatever implement of torture he wanted that night. He didn’t have to wait long.
Søren struck Kingsley. The pain was swift and furious, and Kingsley had to bite into his own arm to silence a scream. He knew at once the source of the pain. A Scottish school tawse. The pain it caused was unique. Nothing else felt quite like it. Kingsley loved it and hated it in equal measure. Søren brought it down again. And again. Faster. Harder. Quicker. Crueler. Kingsley's back burned like Søren had dowsed it in linseed oil and thrown a match on it.
And then it was over. Søren turned Kingsley to face him. Kingsley stood there, panting like a dog, ready to fall to his knees and serve. He looked up at Søren and found his master’s eyes glowing like candlewicks. Kingsley dared to touch him and found Søren brutally hard. Even through his trousers, Kingsley felt Søren throbbing against his hand.
“There’s Goliath,” Kingsley said, grinning.
Søren kissed him again, as Kingsley stroked him. When the kiss broke, Kingsley forced himself to smile.
“Go and fuck your new bride,” he said to Søren. “Do it well and tell me all about it tomorrow.”
Søren held Kingsley’s neck in his large, strong hands.
“I love you,” Søren said.
Then he left and Kingsley was alone with his thoughts again. Same thought as before.
This better fucking work.