The Wildest Rake

His height and physical strength struck her forcibly. She was suddenly hot. She thought thirstily of the wine which was passing among the seated guests whose age forbade them to join the dancing.

Her mother touched her arm, smiling. ‘It is time,’ she whispered, very flushed herself.

Cornelia felt the heat mount to her temples. She tugged free of Rendel and almost ran to the door, stumbling over her train. The guests, seeing her depart, began to talk and laugh. The dancing stopped. The perspiring musicians laid aside their instruments and mopped their brows.

The bridal maids giggled as they undressed her. For this night, she and Rendel would sleep in her parents’ room, in the great chamber itself. She stared at the unfamiliar bed and tried to pretend laughter to match theirs, but her lips felt stiff, her eyes wide with apprehension.

Her mother looked at her wistfully, pushing back the heavy fall of chestnut hair.

‘You will be happy, my love,’ she whispered, as though more in reassurance of herself than of Cornelia. ‘He is a good man.’

Cornelia nodded. ‘Yes,’ was all she said.

Mistress Brent bit her lip. ‘I truly believe we were mistaken in him at first. He has been a good son to us.’

‘Yes,’ Cornelia said again.

She would have said anything to quieten her mother. All she wanted was to be alone. She needed time. She felt like someone in the path of a swiftly advancing tide.

Soon she would be drowning, unable to stir a finger to save herself. Unless she could find some cliff of hope to climb, some small ledge of comfort to cling to above the stormy waters.

The men were coming up the stairs.

She could hear their drunken singing, loud, unsteady. One stumbled. They heard him clatter down the stairs again, thumping against the wall.

The others laughed and jeered at him.

‘Into the bed,’ her mother told her, frantic now at their approach. ‘Hurry!’ The curtains were hurriedly swished around her. She sat upright in the bed, her face white and rigid, listening, able to see a little through a tiny crack between the bed curtains.

The door banged open. The wedding serenade began, cheerful and dissolute, all the men excited by this traditional ritual, clapping Rendel on the back enviously. There was something in the bridal which made all women weep, all men ribald.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Rendel said. ‘You are keeping me from the borders of delight. I pray you leave us now.’

She heard their bawdy answer dimly, but sat without movement, plaiting her fingers, her heart thudding.

The noise withdrew, the door closed with a finality which made her start.

R

endel moved softly about the chamber, alone now.

She heard the rustle as he undressed, and barely dared to breathe, waiting for him.

He seemed to take an eternity.

The curtain suddenly parted. She looked round, mouth dry as a kiln. The candle flashed one image on her mind—his face, dark, glimmering, demanding, filled with a ruthless intensity that stopped her heart for a second.

The candle was held up.

Rendel stared at her, slowly, his eyes lapping like fire along her naked shoulders, arms, the smooth curve of her breasts above the sheet she was clutching to cover herself.

‘Madame,’ he said thickly, his voice slurred by wine, ‘are we alone?’

She stared in confusion, wondering if he was too drunk to know what he said.

He smiled at her expression. ‘Master Andrew,’ he intoned piously, dipping the candle like a priest performing an exorcism, ‘if your spirit wanders here, I conjure you to depart. ‘

Cornelia felt a blaze of reckless anger. Her fear and excitement vanished. ‘Hush, you drunken fool,’ she hissed. ‘Are you mad to speak so on your wedding night?’