Where had the past month gone? In a confused whirl, it seemed to Melissa now, looking back and finding nothing to hold on to. Dress fittings, shopping, endless lists, decisions that seemed trivial one moment—a string quartet to play at the ceremony or a portable organ?—and important the next—exactly how should the settlements be worded?
There had been no time to write and no inclination either. Where ideas had once filled her thoughts, characters had spoken to her and plots had tangled themselves, was now simply a blank.
And most of all, she had missed Henry, who, apparently obeying some peculiar instinct for propriety and tradition that bridegrooms possessed, became distant and formal. More often than not he sent his father’s assistant secretary, Mr Nicholls, with messages.
Had she a particular colour in mind for her bedchamber at Lockleys Manor? Was she retaining Gertrude as her personal maid or was she going with Miss Staines, who had announced her intention of moving in with her friend, the widowed Mrs Lethbridge, whose professor husband had just died? In which case should Mr Nicholls send a selection for her to interview?
She had been conscious all the time of Henry thinking of her and what she might need, and she was grateful, of course she was. Only she wanted him. It was ridiculous to be brooding about that now when she was standing on the landing of the great staircase of the Duke’s house in Grosvenor Square, waiting to walk down and be married to the man. But what if he had changed? What if he was regretting agreeing to marry her?
‘Perfect,’ Jane said, making her jump as she pushed in a slipping hairpin. ‘You are looking lovely. All ready to go, Mr Taverner.’
Her father cleared his throat and offered his arm. Her four matrons of honour—as Verity had pointed out, they hardly qualified as maids any longer—took their places behind, and down in the hallway an alert footman made a sign to the string ensemble to change from the vaguely twiddly music they had been playing to something more purposeful.
For once, mercifully, her father was silent, as he had been ever since they had arrived that morning at the Duke’s residence. Her mother had coped much better with the magnificent decoration, the quantities of very superior servants and the ponderous hospitality of the Duke himself, although she at least had been able to occupy herself with supervising her daughter’s dressing.
Prue, who had declared herself in charge of hair, had listened meekly to a flow of instructions and then done exactly what she and Melissa had agreed, arranging her coiffure into a simple style to support the truly magnificent tiara the Duke had lent her.
Now Mama would be down with the rest of the guests, accompanied by Almeria, who had secreted a large number of handkerchiefs and two bottles of smelling salts about her person.
Thinking about that got her down the stairs and almost across the hallway towards the open double doors. Then she was inside the great salon and there was Henry.
‘What is it?’ her father muttered urgently. ‘You cannot have an attack of the vapours now, for goodness sake, Melissa!’
She started walking again towards the man who did not look at all like her Henry. This Henry had his hair in a ruthlessly fashionable crop and he was dressed in an immaculate suit of deepest midnight blue, his linen a startling white in contrast. That was not new, she had seen him often enough now dressed for formal balls, but then the formality had been offset by Henry’s air of relaxed energy, of being on the verge of movement, of laughter and of action.
This Henry stood stock-still, almost rigid, hands clasped behind his back, his face unsmiling as he watched her walk towards him.
Melissa almost turned and ran. She had been relying on Henry’s smile, the warmth in his eyes, to give her the courage to make this endless walk and now... And now he was as nervous as she was, she realised as she got closer. He was pale and she guessed that he was clasping his hands behind him to conceal any tremors.
Suddenly she felt better. She lifted back her veil, ignoring her father’s tut of disapproval and smiled—a small, secret, just-between-friends smile—and saw Henry’s shoulders relax, his eyes crinkle as he smiled back. It would be all right, this was her Henry after all, his father had not waved some ducal magic wand and turned him into a pattern book of aristocratic respectability.
After that it was easy to take his hand, to repeat the vows she had never thought she would say, promising to love, honour and obey the man beside her.
She had not even noticed the guests as she had entered, she had been so stricken with nerves. Now, on Henry’s arm, she turned and blinked at a sea of faces, most of them unknown or familiar only from balls and receptions.
They were probably thinking that she was a nonentity to be marrying the son of a duke. Not even very pretty, she imagined them whispering. She would show them, if only because she could not let Henry down. She put up her chin, smiled her most dazzling smile and, assuming her best deportment, paced slowly down the aisle between the rows of chairs, reminding herself who she was.
Lady Henry Cary. I rank immediately after Jane and Lucy and above viscountesses. My goodness, this is real, she thought as they reached the door and the Duke, her new father-in-law, came forward and kissed her cheek. Then she was surrounded by her friends and Henry was being slapped on the back by James Herbert, his best man, and Mama was weeping on Papa’s shoulder while Cousin Almeria cast her gaze upwards and visibly sighed.
I am married to Henry.
He was having to fight to stay at her side as they were swept towards the reception room where the tables had been laid out for the wedding breakfast, so she clung to his arm and found herself whisked sideways, though a door and into a small room. Henry locked the door. ‘I have not had the opportunity to say that you look lovely and I could not be more delighted that you are my wife.’
Not as delighted as you would be if you loved me, she thought with a pang, but he was already taking her in his arms and kissing her.
After a moment Melissa wriggled free. ‘My hair!’
‘Sorry,’ Henry apologised, not looking at all regretful.
‘We should go out,’ she said severely while her willpower lasted. ‘Oh, I am so glad we are escaping to Hertfordshire after the breakfast!’
Melissa was still sleeping, her head on his shoulder, as she had been ever since the carriage had left Watford. Henry checked that the rug was still tucked around her and went back to his own disturbing thoughts, the ones that had been circling ever since she had yawned, closed her eyes and given in to weariness, excitement and too much rich food and drink in the middle of the day.
He had made an effort to go and spend some time talking to his in-laws, aware that they had hardly exchanged any conversation since he had informed Mr Taverner that he and Melissa intended to marry. It was not as though he had been avoiding them, exactly, but they had been down to Dorset twice and when they returned had made no effort to socialise. Henry was aware that he had been relieved by that and that he should make an effort to build bridges, but the suspicion that they were keeping well clear so as not to provoke any upsets that might jeopardise this advantageous marriage annoyed him.
While they were all waiting for Melissa to change into her travelling outfit he had strolled across and given Mr Taverner his most diplomatic smile. ‘A happy day, sir.’
‘Indeed. I am delighted that the pair of you saw sense, although I imagine Melissa’s powers of persuasion were what won out in the end. Her concern for your career is laudable.’
‘What—?’
But his bride was coming down the staircase, surrounded by her friends, her mother weeping happily behind. The surge of guests carried Mr Taverner forward, away from Henry, who could hardly abandon Melissa at the foot of the stairs in order to drag her father aside to demand to know what he was talking about.
The unease was lost in the excitement and bustle of departure, in the pleasure of being alone with Melissa to talk about the day and in watching her pleasure at the passing scene, laughing at her sharp observations on the people and places they could see from the carriage.
But when she had fallen silent the unease returned. Melissa had admitted to being frightened by the prospect of the life in front of her if she lost the house and she was clearly feeling battered by her father’s bullying insistence that they wed. That was nothing new, but that last remark about his career—what was that supposed to mean?
He shifted his wife slightly as she stirred in her sleep. If Melissa had been worried about the effect the gossip might have on his work, then, surely, she would have mentioned it? He shook his head as though that would help dislodge the circling thoughts. There was one thing he was certain of: he could trust Melissa to be honest with him. Which meant that her irritating father was merely taking the opportunity to dig at him now he was certain that the knot was tied.
The man was not going to get under his skin or into his mind, Henry resolved as the carriage slowed and then turned sharply to the left. He saw a lodge cottage, gates set wide, and then they were passing through a patch of light woodland.
‘Melissa, wake up. We are about to arrive.’
She opened her eyes, blinked up at him in the gloom and smiled. Something inside him gave a strange lurch, as though he had experienced a shock.
‘What is it, Henry? Have I got a terrible crease down my cheek from sleeping squashed up against you? Or is my hair coming down?’
‘Neither. I was just...just enjoying looking at you.’
‘That is very gallant when I know I look a fright.’ She patted at her hair, then reached for her bonnet. ‘I am sorry I slept like that. You must have been bored, especially once it got dark.’
‘I had a lot to think about,’ Henry said, pushing back at the tendrils of disquiet that still seemed to curl around his mind like mist. For Melissa to have admitted that she was frightened, that her anxiety about the future overrode those strongly held views on marriage, that had taken courage and honesty and he should feel ashamed for puzzling over her motives. She had been his friend and his duty was to protect her, but now she was his wife as well and something more. Something he did not understand.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the house he vaguely recalled, its pleasantly undistinguished exterior illuminated by lights in many of the windows.
‘Either we are expected or the staff are having a marvellous party,’ Melissa said, just as the front door opened and black-clad figures began to spill out and down the steps. The staff had been watching for them.
‘That is Bailey, our butler, and Mrs Dawkins, the housekeeper. You recall I told you that she is a Belgian refugee and the widow of an English sergeant? Four footmen, four housemaids and there’s the kitchen staff bringing up the rear with what I assume is the boot boy.’
‘Goodness, I hope they have not prepared a vast supper, I am still recovering from the breakfast.’
‘I wrote and warned them that a cold supper upstairs would be all that was required,’ Henry said. The carriage door swung open and he jumped down before the groom had a chance to fix the step. ‘Now, my lady.’
Melissa was tall, but slender, and he caught her so much by surprise that when he reached in, lifted her out and then up into his arms, she could do no more than give a faint gasp.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ he said as he climbed the steps past the startled faces of their new staff. ‘We will meet you all in the morning, but for now, after a very long day, I believe that our supper awaits.’
‘Yes, my lord. All is as you directed,’ Bailey said. ‘My lady’s woman arrived some time ago and is upstairs.’
‘Thank you.’ Henry carried on walking over the threshold to the applause of the staff, and straight through the hall and up the stairs.
‘Henry! Put me down.’
‘Are you suggesting that I am too feeble to carry you, my lady?’ If truth be known, he was regretting setting such a brisk pace, but it was only one flight of stairs. He grinned at himself—it would be ironic if a ridiculously romantic gesture resulted in him straining a muscle on his wedding night.
‘Not at all, but I do not want you to put your back out,’ Melissa said primly, with her disconcerting habit of echoing his thoughts. There was a thread of laughter under the words.
He reached the landing and walked towards the only door that stood open. ‘Here we are. This should be the shared sitting room between our bedchambers.’
Gertrude, Melissa’s maid, came out of one of the connecting doors as he set his wife on her feet. Henry suppressed a groan.
‘Good evening, Gertrude. Are you comfortable in your new quarters?’ Melissa was already shedding bonnet, pelisse and gloves into the maid’s hands.
‘Very, thank you, my lady.’
‘I shall not require you further tonight,’ Melissa said.
‘Your nightgown is laid out, my lady and there is hot water—’
‘Thank you, Gertrude,’ Melissa said firmly. ‘That will be all.’ Her ears, he saw, were rather pink, although her voice was perfectly composed.
‘My lady.’ Gertrude bobbed a curtsy. ‘My lord.’ The door shut behind her with a solid click.
Melissa was not certain which of them moved first, but hardly had the door closed than she had her back to it, her arms were entwined about Henry’s neck and he was kissing her like a man who has found water in a desert.
She had thought herself weary after a long, emotional day, but now she had never felt so awake, so alive. Now she could show Henry that she loved him, even if she could not say the words.
There had been moments when she had allowed herself to imagine what this might be like. Embarrassing, tentative, slow, she had assumed. This was none of those things. Clothes were being pushed and tugged, buttons popped, something tore, but they were coming off. Henry’s coat had gone, she realised as her hands encountered the softness of linen shirt sleeves. There was a sudden draught on her shoulders as her bodice slipped from them, then on her legs as her skirts crumpled to the floor.
Henry’s neckcloth came away in her hands. He tossed aside his waistcoat and began to drag his shirt over his head. He emerged tousled, wild, urgent and they stilled, staring at each other until Henry took her hand and began to back towards one of the bedchamber doors. Candlelight flickered in his eyes and made the bare skin of his shoulders and chest gleam.
‘I had meant to take this slowly. Very slowly. Carefully.’
‘I would much rather that you did not.’ What was she wearing? Melissa could not drag her gaze from his, but she thought all that was left were her corset, her chemise and her stockings. Far too much.
They were through the door now. The candles were lit here, too, and the big bed loomed behind Henry, very old, very masculine, with its crimson hangings and carved oak posts, but he kept going until his back was to one of the posts.
‘Shall I snuff the candles?’
Melissa shook her head, suddenly too shy to say I want to look at you, even though it meant that Henry would also be looking at her at any moment. She pulled her hands free and turned, presenting him with the tightly knotted laces at her back, half expecting him to take a knife to them.
Everything slowed. She felt him working on the knot, his breath warm on her nape, the sudden relaxation as he freed it, then the hiss as the laces were pulled through the eyelets and the corset fell away over her hips. She breathed out, a long, luxurious exhalation, then caught her breath as his hands slid round and cupped her breasts through the filmy chemise, his thumbs fretting at her nipples.
‘So sweet,’ he murmured against her neck, ‘so eager to be free.’
Instinct made her arch her back, thrusting against his palms as the fire of his touch burned down through her belly, down to where the ache was building. ‘Henry.’ She twisted round and he released her, his fingers working at the fastening of his breeches. Then he was kicking them away and she had only a fleeting, fascinated glimpse of him as he lifted her again, carried her to the bed and laid her down.
‘I think you may have the right of it,’ he murmured as he knelt beside her, bent to kiss her. ‘Fast may be best. We can always slow down later.’
Nothing was making any sense and yet, deep down inside, it was all just as it should be. Her thighs parted and somehow that was perfect as his weight came over her. She curled up to meet the exciting hardness of him, then gasped as he touched her intimately, stroked and murmured encouragement as she gasped and yearned beneath him.
That hardness again, a discomfort that made her gasp and almost recoil, then sudden fullness, rightness and the end of any coherent thought as they became one, found a rhythm and fought together to ride the twisting, tightening sensation that was lifting them.
Henry’s hand slipped between them and, as his caress pushed the building pleasure inside her beyond the point of bearing, she cried out and heard his answering shout as she was falling, falling, into pure sensation.