Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘Hell and damnation.’ Elliott sat up. ‘No, I’m sorry. I did not mean to shout at you, let alone swear. Arabella, I thought you were responding to me.’

She felt her face flame. ‘Yes. I was. I was determined. It is just…’ How could she explain her cowardice? It was her duty to lie with her husband. And she wanted to. She could not allow the fear and the pain to prevent her. Every other wife managed it. Perhaps they allowed themselves to be swept up in that turmoil of feeling before it happened. If only that was all there was to it, that heat and desire and longing.

But she owed Elliott an explanation and then, no doubt, he would do as his brother had done and ignore the cries she tried to stifle and take her.

‘Arabella?’ He reached out and touched her face, his big hand gentle as the fingertips caressed her cheek. ‘Tell me.’

It was so difficult. His tender gesture made it worse, somehow. She did not deserve that he touch her like that, reach out for her when she was rejecting him. ‘I can’t explain,’ she blurted out. ‘I cannot…’

The soft light faded from his eyes. ‘You must try, Arabella.’

‘I am trying so hard,’ she protested. ‘You don’t understand. Let me—’

‘I understand perfectly well that you are not ready to be my wife, despite what you say,’ he said harshly, getting off the bed and scooping up his robe. ‘When you are, then perhaps we will have a marriage. Until then, Lady Hadleigh, I will not trouble you.’

The door to his dressing room clicked shut with controlled care. He was angry, she realised. Very, very angry. She had made him think she was ready and she had not had the courage or the self-control to convince him when it came to it or the words to explain what had happened before.

It hurt, apparently, when a man was very aroused and then denied satisfaction, so she had gathered from Polly the vicarage laundry maid’s cheerfully robust chatter. So there was physical discomfort for Elliott to add to the realisation that he had married a woman who could not even be relied upon to do her marital duty.

I cannot bear this, Bella thought. She sat up and looked at the closed door. Sooner or later we must talk. After all, he knows now how useless I am in bed. I must get it over now.

‘Damn and blast and bloody hell!’ Elliott belted his robe, stalked across his bedchamber and splashed brandy into a glass. Arabella had been ready for him, her body had shown that. She had finally responded to his lovemaking with a sensuality that had surprised and delighted him—and then she had become stiff as a board and started weeping. He added a few more choice epitaphs and swallowed a mouthful of fine French spirit as though it were cheap ale.

She was trying so hard. Her words jabbed into his brain like hot pins. He had almost forced himself on her. And he had been angry with her. Called her Lady Hadleigh in that cold, hard voice. Damn. He had made a mull of this and it was not going to be easy to make it better, restore her confidence in him. Why couldn’t he have married a trusting little virgin who would be easy to tutor, or a widow who knew what she was doing? Because this is your duty, his conscience told him. He had not chosen this wife, but she was the one he had and he must make the best of it.

Elliott went back to the door and leaned against it, listening for the sound of sobs. But it was too well made for sound to carry. And what if she was in there, weeping her heart out? She would not welcome attempts at comfort from him, of all people.

Against his shoulder the panels moved. Startled, he looked down and saw the handle turn. He stepped back as the door swung open. ‘Please, Elliott,’ Arabella said, standing shivering in her flimsy scrap of a négligé. ‘Please do it.’

‘Do it?’ He must be gaping like an idiot. Elliott took her hand and drew her into the room, closed the door and snatched up a blanket that was draped over the back of a chair. ‘Here, you are cold.’ He tried to wrap it around her shoulders, but she wriggled free, walked to his bed, threw off the négligé then climbed on to the wide expanse of green satin and lay down.

‘Elliott, I am determined. I must accustom myself and learn. Please—’ She gave a gasp as her head met the pillow and she looked up at the mirrored underside of the canopy. ‘That is indecent!’

‘I didn’t put it there,’ Elliott said, goaded. ‘Arabella, I am not going to do it with you on the verge of tears and lying on the bed like a virgin sacrifice in some pagan temple.’

‘It is my duty,’ she said. ‘And—’

‘Well, you certainly know how to reduce a man to the state where he couldn’t if he wanted to,’ he interjected bitterly, aware of his aching erection subsiding in discouragement.

‘Please, Elliott, let me say this,’ Arabella said with a desperate earnestness that cut through his own preoccupations and silenced him. ‘I know I am a coward. It will hurt, I expect that, but it was a little better last time. And the more I think about it, the worse it is going to be. So, really, I would much rather you just did it again now. I will get accustomed, honestly I will.’

‘Hurt?’ He stared at her, then picked up the blanket and laid it over her cold white body. The brandy was still on the nightstand. He took another swallow, handed her the glass and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘Drink. Arabella, were you so stiff because you expected it to be very painful? Is that why you were crying? Did I hurt you on our wedding night?’

‘Yes, but it was not your fault.’ She sat up, dragging the blanket to cover her breasts. ‘I am such a coward. I knew it would hurt. It was just that the first time…I hadn’t expected it to be so bad, you see. And so much blood was frightening.’

Dear God. Elliott closed his eyes. You selfish, randy, thoughtless swine, Rafe. A notch on your bedpost, that is all this girl was to you. A virgin and you brutalised her for sport as though she was a hardened whore, left her torn and pregnant. Had he damaged her permanently?

‘Have you healed?’ he asked gently when he managed to open his eyes with some confidence that the blazing anger would not show in them.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I did. I am fine now, truly, Elliott.’ The wide hazel eyes fixed on him, determined, and, through the fear, trusting. ‘It really was not so bad the other night.’

If Rafe had come back to life and walked through the door at that moment, Elliott realised, he would have punched him on the jaw. ‘Not tonight,’ he said, making up his mind. ‘You are cold and upset. I am…tired. But I promise you that next time it will not hurt. Not at all. And you will enjoy it.’

‘Enjoy it?’ She looked so bemused by the concept that he almost laughed.

‘You have my word.’

‘But you do not understand.’ She bit her lip, then took a deep breath. ‘You see, even before he…before I was expecting it to hurt, I was n