He’d missed her today.
Marcus bought himself a pint and then took his time drinking it. He’d not expected the anticipation he now felt. He oughtn’t to have worried about Emily getting clingy and emotional. Although bookish, she’d always exhibited a level-headedness absent in most silly debutantes.
He looked forward to tonight with a gusto he could never have imagined.
She’d not shown the slightest signs of squeamishness. This thought alone sent blood racing to his cock.
He’d wanted to join her for supper…in her chamber. He’d wanted to rush ahead, see what crazy musings flew from her brain tonight. But she’d seemed overwhelmed. As though she needed a moment to herself. A moment to allow the momentousness of such an occasion as her marriage to seem real.
He contemplated the weddings many of his peers had been forced to endure and nearly laughed out loud. This was the way a man ought to do it, if he had to get leg shackled. No sentimental squalling. No lengthy ceremony.
No nervous waiting at the altar.
Surely, he didn’t regret the lack of pomp and circumstance, did he? Marcus rubbed the muscles that had suddenly tightened at the back of his neck.
No tearful bride beaming at him from the back of the church, holding a bunch of flowers. He pulled his shoulders forward, stretching out the kink that had suddenly developed along the top of his back.
No religious vows to love, honor, and obey. No music. No joining of hands. His heart grew traitorously heavy at the thought.
Realizing his glass was empty, he ordered another.
No wedding breakfast.
Damn his eyes! Surely, Emily wasn’t experiencing a similar regret?
Only, he didn’t regret it. Did he? Hell if he knew.
He didn’t intend living in one of those marriages, like Dev’s or Nottingham’s. He’d never seen a benefit to husbands and wives living in one another’s pockets.
Emily had assured him she wanted to have children and she’d expect independence otherwise. He dismissed the small ache that settled in his heart at the idea of abandoning a family. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t provide for them. And return often.
Anticipation for the physical nature of his duties this evening gnawed at him. He had a responsibility. God knew, she aroused him. Her combination of innocence and lack of inhibitions…
What was he doing, sitting in a taproom alone while his bride awaited him?
Marcus paid his tab and pushed himself away from the bar. A quick wash, perhaps a change of clothes. Memories from yesterday stirred him to make haste.
What other things had Emily read about that she’d consider trying?
Thirty minutes later, Marcus knocked on the door to his wife’s chamber. Silence.
He knocked again and then heard some shuffling. His pocket watch revealed that it was barely ten o’clock. Surely, she’d not fallen asleep already?
The lock sounded and then the knob turned. Sleepy brown bespectacled eyes peered through the small gap she’d allowed. “What are you doing here?” Her voice rasped in a loud whisper, as though it was the middle of the night and he was scandalously sneaking into her chamber.
Not the invitation he’d expected.
Marcus slipped his boot inside and pushed the door open wider. Something felt… off. Ignoring her feeble attempts to prevent him from entering, he stepped through and perused the room. Three candles illuminated her untouched dinner. Her clothing from today had been strewn onto a chair, and a book lay open on the ruffled bed.
Emily wore her night rail. Was it on… backward? A sock remained partly on one foot and her other one was bare. Although she’d removed the pins that held her hair in a chignon, she’d yet to braid her hair. It hung in luxurious silky waves down her back.
A croaking sound escaped from her mouth. She had the hiccups. Marcus’ eyes swept back over the table and this time, he noticed an empty wine bottle and a nearly half full glass of wine.
Had she drunk the contents of the entire bottle?
“Ickup.” Her chest jumped again. “Marcus.” She waved her hands around the room. “Don’t you have your own chamber?”
Good lord, Miss Emily Goodnight was as bosky as could be.
“Ickup.”
“I hadn’t thought I’d need it tonight.” He spoke mostly to himself. To suggest that he was stunned would be putting it mildly. He dropped onto the chair with her clothing and studied her. Perhaps she was only tipsy…
“That… That thing we did thiseevening.” Her words slurred together in a sweet sing-song voice he’d not heard from her before. “Theseremony…”
“Our wedding?” He lifted one brow to her questioningly. She did remember then that this was their wedding night.
“Yes.” She made a pouting face and leaned one hip against the bedframe. She grasped the post with both of her hands and hugged it, he supposed, for balance. Was it possible she realized how seductive such a pose was? “If thaswhat you wannacall it.”
Uh oh. Perhaps he’d not been alone in feeling the tiniest regret at the lack of… ceremony within their… ceremony. “Er.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose the fellow could have injected a tad more… tradition?” He wasn’t sure what to call it even.
Emily hugged the post and pressed her cheek against the wood. “Do you wish to marry?” she mimicked the blacksmith. “Poof! You’re married! Not ‘do you take this here gent’… Etcetera, etcetera… Ickup” She closed her eyes and for the next twenty seconds, Marcus wondered if she’d fallen asleep standing up.
The anticipation he’d felt earlier seeped away as he realized that even he couldn’t consummate their vows with her in such condition.
“I s’pose you’ve come to cossummate with me.”
Marcus couldn’t decide if he found her behavior absolutely adorable or deserving of a thrashing.
With closed eyes, she released the post and then crawled onto the bed. Twist, crawl, tug at gown… when she finally managed to make her way to the center, she dropped onto her stomach and with an exasperated sigh, proceeded to roll over. “Do as you please.” She crossed her feet at her ankles and threw one arm over her face. “Ickup.” Likely, she’d have fallen asleep if not for her hiccups.
“Emily.” Marcus scooted the chair closer to the bed. “Why?” His question was half groan, half exasperation. “Why tonight?”
She peeked out from under her arm and opened drowsy eyes. “All your rules about this marriage. I don’t mind them. And it’s only fair. Especially because of Prescott’s man and all that.”
What was she babbling about?
“But, Marcus.” She met his eyes with a glassy gaze. “Today you didn’t even treat me like a friend.” A tear slipped out of her eye and dripped onto the pillow. “I may not be good enough for all kinds of other people. Nor good enough to be a real wife to somebody, but… Marcus. I’d believed us to be friends. And today you treated me like I wasn’t even good enough to be your friend.”
Marcus didn’t know how to respond.
“I didn’t like it. Especially after…” She covered her face with her arm again and turned her head away from him. “It hurt.”
Oh, hell. Confusion balled up inside of him, scrambling most of his thoughts. Friend? He’d never considered the concept in reference to a wife. He stared at this woman who’d been so open with him. She’d done so trustingly.
Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “I’m sorry.” He whispered the inadequate words against her soft warm fingertips.
He’d known her for over a year, but had he ever truly known her? The secrets of her heart? Her dreams? Initially, he’d treated her like a younger sister, somewhat entertaining but in need of protection. And then she’d revealed more of herself to him. She’d admitted that her inquisitiveness was not that of a sexless spinster, but that of a woman with needs. And he’d taken enjoyment from that. But he’d kept her at arm’s length. He’d done his best to avoid anything… emotional.
And now she was his wife.
And he’d hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.
She nodded, her arm still covering her face. “I’m not quite feeling myself right now.” Her voice came out muffled.
“Your hiccups stopped.” Marcus kept hold of her hand. The area around his heart felt heavy, more than that, it ached. He decided to follow his instincts.
Sitting up, Marcus struggled to remove one boot, and then less so with the other.
They would not be making love tonight.
No, instead, he would make up for the stupidity he’d exhibited today.
“Drink this.” He handed her a glass of water. “Trust me.” He’d over imbibed enough in his lifetime to know that a little water before falling asleep could make all the difference in the morning.
Seeing her through new eyes, from a different perspective, Marcus watched her sit up, brush the hair out of her face, and take a hesitant sip. He reached forward and removed the ridiculously endearing pair of spectacles that sat crookedly on the bridge of her nose, and then placed them on the table. “Drink as much as you can.”
She paused and then downed a little more. When she looked to be finished, he took it from her hands and placed it beside her spectacles. At the same time, he used his other hand to loosen his cravat.
Emily’s eyes grew more alert at his casual gesture. “Not tonight, sweetheart. I’m not that much of a bastard.” He pulled down the counterpane and sheet. “Slide in.”
Too tired, too inebriated to argue, she curled up on her side as he drew the blanket back up. He then snuffed the candles and took a deep breath.
She’d said they were friends.
He climbed in behind her and tucked her up against him. He was going to cuddle her tonight—his friend, his wife.
Because she seemed to need it, and God help him, somehow, so did he.