Marrying His Cinderella Countess

Blake almost dropped his bride.

*

The impulse to kiss Blake had come out of nowhere, emerging from the dizzying sensation of being swung up into his arms mixed with embarrassment at the sight of his butler beaming at them. His ear had been right by her mouth and the temptation to bite the lobe had been irresistible.

Appalled, and mystified as to why she should even think of such a thing, Ellie had kissed it, nuzzling surprisingly soft skin, inhaling the seductive scent of warm male and peppery cologne, smiling at the tickle of his hair on her face.

Blake jolted to a halt and drew a deep, shuddering breath before setting her on her feet. ‘Wicked woman,’ he breathed as he bent to kiss her cheek, now at a normal level. ‘Welcome to your new home, Lady Hainford.’

There was applause, and she looked around to find that the hall was full of staff—footmen, maids, a male cook, a severe-looking dame who must be the housekeeper, a tweeny peeping out from behind the aprons of the kitchen maids… All these staff—and this was only the townhouse. Tomorrow they would set out for his Hampshire estate and their honeymoon.

Honey. Moon.

Ellie turned the words over in her mind, feeling as though she was prodding a coiled snake that might or might not be a viper. A honeymoon implied all kinds of unspoken things, including intimacy, togetherness, being the focus of each other’s full attention for days, perhaps weeks. She had no confidence at all that she could stand up to such close scrutiny without disappointing Blake, and she had no idea at all how she would feel about him at such close quarters either.

But first there was the wedding breakfast to survive, and then their wedding night—the skeleton in the cupboard waiting to leap out at her.

She found she was splitting the day up into small, hopefully manageable, pieces, trying to look no further forward than the next challenge. And that was to stand with Blake and greet all the guests who would be streaming through that door very soon.

Stand and ignore the nagging pain in her legs and back and hips. Smile and look confident despite the fact that she was certain to forget every person she was introduced to. Remember the exact depth of her curtsey to a marquess or a duke.

I can do that, she told herself. Verity had drilled her over and over again.

Polly came, led her away, removed her veil, twitched at her skirts, powdered her freckles into submission, then took her back downstairs to stand by Blake.

‘Here they come,’ he said as the first arrivals walked through the door, and then, just as she was thinking that it was going to be manageable, ‘Oh, good. I hoped some of them would make it.’

‘Who?’

‘The royal dukes,’ he said, and before she could turn and run went on, ‘Two of them anyway. Sussex and Clarence.’

Ellie took a deep breath as two bulky gentlemen, both recognisable from endless scurrilous caricatures and prints, seemed to fill the hall. They were talking amiably to Blake, shaking hands after he had bowed, and then they turned to her. She willed her aching joints into the deepest curtsey she could manage, and by some miracle rose again without stumbling.

After that the day passed like a dream.

*

Ellie was jolted out of the trance in which she moved, smiling and talking—apparently coherently—by hearing Jonathan say, ‘And that is the last of them—thank goodness.’

‘What did you do?’ Blake drawled. ‘Use a pitchfork?’

‘More or less. Stopped bringing up the champagne, which had the same effect. I will be off myself now. Turner is working his usual magic on the reception rooms, Polly is in her ladyship’s chamber, and Jacques informs me that a light collation is being set out in your bedchamber. Unless there is anything else I will be away to my rooms, where I intend removing these bloody shoes, destroying this neckcloth and getting dead drunk before falling into bed.’

He bowed to Ellie.

‘With apologies to your ladyship for my language.’

He was gone before either of them could thank him.

I can stop now, Ellie told herself. I have done it.

As far as she was aware she had made no ghastly errors, and everyone had been exceedingly civil to her. Even the royal dukes had made conversation, flirted with her rather too warmly, and been gracious to Blake on the superiority of the food.

All that was left of this part of the day was somehow to get upstairs. The special shoes were like instruments of torture now, racking her protesting joints and muscles as they were forced into positions they had not taken for years, and both sitting and standing were equally painful. All she wanted was to take them off—take everything off—and lie down.

But this was her wedding night. That was the next step.

No, do not think about steps. This time you cannot run away. This time you cannot even run.