Her movement broke his last vestige of control. He moaned deep in his throat. “I’m sorry, love,” he gasped, and drove his full length into her. Chauncey felt him stiffen, watched his eyes close over a violent emotion that she didn’t comprehend. Her own growing interest was long gone. She felt a burst of wetness inside her. It was from him, not her.
She waited, her body tense, her mind frozen until he quieted. He eased himself on top of her, seemingly exhausted. She frowned over his shoulder. She thought vaguely that the soft lamplight made the ends of his hair lighten from brownish blond to gold.
He is my husband, she told herself. I had no choice. I have done my duty.
Delaney, his wits returned, slowly raised himself on his elbows and looked down at his wife’s face. “Will you forgive me?”
“For hurting me? It doesn’t hurt anymore, just stings a bit.”
He looked rueful. “That and leaving you.”
“Leaving me where?” she asked, puzzled.
He shook his head, bemused. “Once you reach the destination, you will know, I promise you.”
“You are no longer as you were,” Chauncey said, frowning slightly at the changing feel of him inside her.
“No, I suppose not.” He gently drew back, easing out of her. He saw her wince slightly.
“Better?”
She nodded, flushing suddenly at their intimacy. How often would he enter her body? she wondered wordlessly. Was it a thing that men wanted to do once a month? Once a year? Her eyes stared at him when he said blandly, “Good. We’ll sleep a bit before we try again.”
“Again! But surely you can’t mean to—”
“It is a tradition for couples on their wedding night to make love at least six times.”
“You can’t mean it!” Her appalled look made him release his held-in laughter.
“Oh, Chauncey, you are such an innocent delight!” He kissed her again, tenderly, without passion. “You’re a bit sore, right? It was that wretched maidenhead of yours. Now the bloody thing is gone, thank God.”
“No, I think you should rather give yourself that congratulation.” She looked at him closely, then frowned. “I feel sticky and . . . wet.”
“Chauncey,” he said fervently, lightly caressing her cheek, “I am so glad you married me.” He wondered if he should offer to help her clean herself, but he pictured her mortification at such a suggestion and held his peace.
“I really had little choice in the matter,” she whispered, her bitterness and confusion from what had just happened to her buried snug in her mind, and let him draw her against his side. She laid her cheek against his chest and fell into a deep sleep, his hair tickling her nose.
15
“Chauncey. Come on, love, wake up, it’s time for breakfast.”
She moaned, yanking the soft pillow over her head to block out the insistent voice. The dream drew her back, and she was once again dangling upside down from an apple-tree branch behind Jameson Hall, laughing delightedly at the faces Jem, the stableboy, was making at her. Hannah was scolding her, coming into the orchard at an ungraceful gallop. “Yer drawers, miss!” she was screeching.
“Sweetheart,” the voice came again. She felt a hand on her shoulder, lightly squeezing.
“No, please,” she muttered, but the dream was gone now. She felt the pillow pulled from her grip and sun shone onto her face. Chauncey opened her eyes and gasped. “Delaney, what are you doing in here? And you’re not really dressed properly. Surely . . .” Her voice broke off suddenly, and she felt a scarlet flush rise from her throat to the roots of her hair. Good God! He was her husband!
“Oh,” she said, molding the covers around her like a shroud over a mummy. She was completely naked under the sheet and two blankets.
“Good morning, wife,” Delaney said softly, wishing now that he hadn’t left the bed and had awakened her and loved her while she was still partially asleep. Now her barriers were back up. She had looked at first bewildered, then shocked, and now utterly embarrassed.
“G-good morning, Del,” she said. She couldn’t, wouldn’t meet his eyes, imagining the knowing gleam, the complacent smugness.
He took pity on her and handed her one of her own depressingly modest dressing gowns. “There’s a nip in the air, sweetheart. Here, put this on.”
Chauncey grasped the bed gown but didn’t move. Delaney sighed and turned his back to her. He was arranging their breakfast on the small table when he heard the bed creak as she rose.
He made his face expressionless and slowly turned to look at his bride. If it weren’t for her wildly tousled hair, framing her face and tumbling down her back in abandon, she would look like a modest little schoolgirl in that wretched dressing gown. My sophisticated woman of the world, he thought wryly, encased in a fortress of high-necked muslin.