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Authors: Mary Balogh
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them.
How wrong she had been. The opposite was true. The fact that they had had conjugal relations—though it was very hard to believe that it had happened with this elegant, almost morose man beside her—appeared to have meant nothing at all to him and merely made her annoyingly self-conscious. She kept remembering where and how he had touched her and tried not to stare at his hands—they were long-fingered, very masculine hands. She kept remembering that he had been deep inside her body, and moving vigorously there for what must have been several minutes. She kept remembering the amazingly intense pleasure his movements had given her.
It had happened with this immaculately tailored, stern-faced, very handsome stranger. It should have brought them closer together, even without the dimension of love. How could they continue strangers when they had shared bodies?
But she had a great deal to learn, it seemed. He had told her earlier that he had earned a reputation as a rake. That meant that last night's activity was very familiar to him. She was merely one of a long string of women—and without a doubt the least expert of them all. It was a strange thought. To her the experience had been earth-shattering. She was not yet sure whether she was glad to have experienced it or whether in light of the future it might have been better if she had never known.
But the carriage was fast approaching the house—the mansion—and the discomfort she had lived with all day increased tenfold. Even if she were coming here as a governess she would be quaking with apprehension. But she was not coming as a governess. She was coming as the wife of the heir—. The unexpected wife. She smoothed her hands over the folds of her brown cloak and was thankful that her gloves had not worn into holes—yet.
"Ah," her husband said from beside her, "my arrival has been noted." He chuckled softly—a rather chilling sound.
The great doors at the top of the marble steps had opened and two people—a man and a woman—had stepped outside. For one foolish moment Charity forgot that the duchess was deceased. Two such grand personages, both dressed elegantly in black, could only be the duke and duchess, she thought. But of course they were not. They were merely servants—the housekeeper and the butler at a guess.
"His grace observes every occasion of any significance with the utmost formality and correctness," the marquess said. "The return of the prodigal heir is an occasion of significance." His second chuckle sounded just as mirthless as the first.
There was no time for Charity to become even more nervous than she already felt. Liveried footmen had appeared on the terrace, and they opened the door of the carriage and set down the steps almost before it had rolled to a complete halt. And then she was standing on the cobbles, feeling dwarfed by the massive pillars that flanked the steps and overwhelmed by the occasion, watching her husband receive the homage of the black-clad servants with icy courtesy. They turned to precede him up the steps while he offered her his arm.
His face was hard and cold, his eyes opaque. His face was also devoid of all color. He wore so heavy a mask, Charity realized with a sudden flash of sympathy, that there was no penetrating it to the real man behind. Not even through the eyes, usually a mask's weak point. He was coming home to his father and his family after eight years. How different from the homecoming she imagined for herself in a few weeks' time.
He dropped her arm when they reached the wide doorway and stepped inside ahead of her. This was the point at which she was to become his shadow, she thought, but rather than being offended that he did not lead her forward, she was glad of the chance to be insignificant. Her first impression of the hall was of vastness—of marble and pillars and classical busts and a towering dome. It would have been an intimidating room under any circumstances. But these were clearly
How wrong she had been. The opposite was true. The fact that they had had conjugal relations—though it was very hard to believe that it had happened with this elegant, almost morose man beside her—appeared to have meant nothing at all to him and merely made her annoyingly self-conscious. She kept remembering where and how he had touched her and tried not to stare at his hands—they were long-fingered, very masculine hands. She kept remembering that he had been deep inside her body, and moving vigorously there for what must have been several minutes. She kept remembering the amazingly intense pleasure his movements had given her.
It had happened with this immaculately tailored, stern-faced, very handsome stranger. It should have brought them closer together, even without the dimension of love. How could they continue strangers when they had shared bodies?
But she had a great deal to learn, it seemed. He had told her earlier that he had earned a reputation as a rake. That meant that last night's activity was very familiar to him. She was merely one of a long string of women—and without a doubt the least expert of them all. It was a strange thought. To her the experience had been earth-shattering. She was not yet sure whether she was glad to have experienced it or whether in light of the future it might have been better if she had never known.
But the carriage was fast approaching the house—the mansion—and the discomfort she had lived with all day increased tenfold. Even if she were coming here as a governess she would be quaking with apprehension. But she was not coming as a governess. She was coming as the wife of the heir—. The unexpected wife. She smoothed her hands over the folds of her brown cloak and was thankful that her gloves had not worn into holes—yet.
"Ah," her husband said from beside her, "my arrival has been noted." He chuckled softly—a rather chilling sound.
The great doors at the top of the marble steps had opened and two people—a man and a woman—had stepped outside. For one foolish moment Charity forgot that the duchess was deceased. Two such grand personages, both dressed elegantly in black, could only be the duke and duchess, she thought. But of course they were not. They were merely servants—the housekeeper and the butler at a guess.
"His grace observes every occasion of any significance with the utmost formality and correctness," the marquess said. "The return of the prodigal heir is an occasion of significance." His second chuckle sounded just as mirthless as the first.
There was no time for Charity to become even more nervous than she already felt. Liveried footmen had appeared on the terrace, and they opened the door of the carriage and set down the steps almost before it had rolled to a complete halt. And then she was standing on the cobbles, feeling dwarfed by the massive pillars that flanked the steps and overwhelmed by the occasion, watching her husband receive the homage of the black-clad servants with icy courtesy. They turned to precede him up the steps while he offered her his arm.
His face was hard and cold, his eyes opaque. His face was also devoid of all color. He wore so heavy a mask, Charity realized with a sudden flash of sympathy, that there was no penetrating it to the real man behind. Not even through the eyes, usually a mask's weak point. He was coming home to his father and his family after eight years. How different from the homecoming she imagined for herself in a few weeks' time.
He dropped her arm when they reached the wide doorway and stepped inside ahead of her. This was the point at which she was to become his shadow, she thought, but rather than being offended that he did not lead her forward, she was glad of the chance to be insignificant. Her first impression of the hall was of vastness—of marble and pillars and classical busts and a towering dome. It would have been an intimidating room under any circumstances. But these were clearly
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