Their Treasured Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 4)

I glanced at the bed and swallowed. This was the moment I'd heard about in very euphemistic terms, but I did have a vague understanding. There was a class on comportment every year, but the final semester at school, the discussion was different. We didn't need to walk with books on our heads or practice sitting so that our ankles were crossed, our spines straight and hands folded in our laps. We'd had that drilled into us for years and years.

This class had been on how to comport myself in front of my future husband. I thought back on what I'd learned, on Mrs. Withers' words and what I had to do.

The bed was quite big, large enough for either man to be comfortable. The room was sparsely, but well furnished. The bed was a four-poster with a dark quilt upon it. In the corner was a trunk with two books upon it, and an unlit lantern. At the open window, white curtains billowed from the soft breeze. For October, it was a warm day, but inside, in this room, it was as if there was no air at all. Both men within made the space seem small, and the bed the focus.

I remembered the teachings and what my duty was; I had two men waiting on me. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the pin from my hat and removed it, placing it on the trunk. I walked over to the bed, crawled up onto it as ladylike as I could and positioned myself in the middle. Laying back, I settled my dress back down over my ankles.

I glanced up at the men who were watching me. They said nothing, did nothing and my anxiousness grew. I knew they'd do something with my womanhood, they'd put a part of themselves within me, so I slowly spread my feet apart, bent my knees and once again smoothed down my dress. Shutting my eyes, I took another deep breath and said, "I'm ready."

There was silence in the room. I couldn't even hear the men breathe. Did they not want me after all? Opening one eye, I peeked up at them. Both men were looking down at me with open mouths and eyebrows raised.

"Ready for what, sweetheart? A nap?" Dash asked.

I came up onto my elbows. "For...for sexual congress. I was told you would climb on top of me and rut and it would hurt but I was to—"

"Think of England?" Dash shook his head slowly, and then glanced at Connor.

"Well...yes."

Connor moved to sit at the foot of the bed while Dash crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"Who told you that?" Connor asked.

Oh dear. I'd done something wrong. Licking my lips, I answered, "Mrs. Dithers in our Comportment class."

"Do you think this woman, Mrs. Dithers, ever had...sexual congress before?"

My mouth fell open at the ridiculous question, but it gave me pause. Was Mrs. Dithers actually a Mrs.? I thought of the woman, well into her sixties, with her gray hair and sour expression. I doubted there was a more severe or dour woman who ever lived. "I can not imagine such a thing." If the headmistress found out I was married to two men...no, if she even got a glimpse of these two handsome men, she'd have a fit of apoplexy.

"Then we will be yer teachers. Forget whatever this woman told ye," Connor told me.

"All of it," Dash added. "We will correct every strange notion ye have, one at a time. Being married to two men doesna make ye a loose woman. Being married doesna mean ye have a duty to us with yer body. Tis nae a duty, lass, tis want. Need."

"First of all, you're nae going to think of bloody England. In fact, if you're thinking at all that means we're doing it wrong," Connor said. "Secondly, you're nae just going to lay there either."

Before I had a chance to question him, Dash scooped me up into his arms and carried me from the room, Connor holding the door open for us.

"Where are we going? You don't want to have marital relations?" The walls of the hallway passed in a blur.

"Lesson number one. It is nae marital relations or sexual congress or intercourse or whatever scientific term used to describe fumbling beneath the sheets."

"In the dark," Dash added, lowering me to my feet, turning me to face him, then sitting down in a comfortable chair beside a cold fireplace. His hand hooked about my waist so I stood between his parted knees. "It's fucking," he said, the word so stark and blunt as to make me blush. I looked away, to the cold fireplace that soon enough, would have a fire to cut the fall chill. I'd never heard the word before, but I knew it was unseemly and carnal. "Say it."

I shook my head and refused to look at him. "I can't."

I heard Connor come up behind me, felt the heat of him against my back, but he did not touch me. When his warm breath fanned my ear, I startled. "Can't or won't?"

I felt a pin loosen in my hair and I brought my hand up to it, but came upon Connor's hand. I pulled my hand away as if burned, but he did one pin, then another, then another, until my hair hung straight and long down my back.

"Won't." Both of them remained quiet and I tried not to squirm. I knew their eyes were upon me and I was the sole focus of both their attentions. This was worse than any time I was sent to the headmistresses’ office. Worse that when my father stared me down and told me I was to marry his friend—his very old friend. I'd graduated and left Mrs. Withers behind and my father and my former intended was an ocean away. Connor and Dash were not going anywhere, ever. "I am well past the age of boarding school, but refraining from inappropriate language has been well learned."

"Boarding school?" Connor asked, his voice foreboding. "I've heard stories of English boarding schools. Some in Scotland are nay better. When you say well learned, you mean beaten."

"Beaten?" My heart fluttered against my chest and I wondered if they could see it. "If you mean by rulers, then yes."

"What else?" Dash asked, and I saw a twitch in his jaw. "A switch?"

I stared intently at the fireplace rock.