Marrying His Cinderella Countess

‘Jonathan is a miracle-worker,’ she said. ‘I’ll… I will go up now, I think.’

‘Of course. I will come and collect you for some supper in a while, shall I?’

Supper.

She supposed that was not a euphemism—not after Jonathan had mentioned the light collation. No, the events that might require euphemisms would come afterwards.

She got out of the room, across the hall and to the foot of the stairs. Two footmen were stationed at attention and she smiled at them before she turned to tackle the steps.

One at a time.

‘My lady!’ Polly came at a run as Ellie finally made it through the bedchamber door and leaned back against it, quite incapable of another step.

‘It is these damnable shoes. Take them—burn them. I never want to see them again and I do not care if I have to limp up to Her Majesty to be presented, or whether Blake refuses to take me to Court. I am never going to wear them again.’

Polly was on her knees, easing them off, and reached up to steady Ellie as she gasped in pain.

‘Oh, now the pain is throwing everything out in the opposite direction. Help me to the bed, Polly. I will see what lying down does to ease it.’

Not a great deal, she discovered, when Polly had her stripped down to her chemise and into the sweeping velvet robe that she had been so delighted to find for her trousseau. Everything ached appallingly, and her joints felt as though someone was sticking sharp blades into them.

‘Shall I fetch the laudanum?’ Polly suggested.

‘Polly, this is my wedding night! I cannot drug myself into a stupor with laudanum—whatever would Lord Hainford think?’

But the thought was appallingly tempting. Just enough to make everything into a hazy dream…

‘Isabella takes it in The Lord of the Dark Fortress,’ Polly said. ‘I saw it at the theatre when T

homas from next door took me. She did it to escape the loathsome embraces of Count Horatio.’

‘I am not attempting to escape “loathsome embraces”,’ Ellie said, with a laugh that verged shakily close to tears.

The exact opposite. Only, can I make myself believe that when it is actually about to happen?

‘No, my lady. Should I brew some willow bark tea? That is good for headaches and the monthlies.’

‘Yes, we will try that. And then a hot bath.’

Ellie lay back on the heaped pillows, closed her eyes and made herself think about all the good things. Her gorgeous gown, how kind the Duke had been, taking her down the aisle. Blake standing at the altar rail, so serious, so handsome. Her dream man. Her fantasy. Hers. His expression when he’d raised her veil and looked at her—looked at her as though she was just for one moment beautiful.

And the wedding breakfast had gone without a hitch, and no one seemed to have been whispering about what an awful mésalliance Hainford had made.

Now all she had to do was summon up the resilience to make it through the rest of the evening and the night without Blake realising there was anything wrong.

The hot bath helped—especially as it was a new fixed tub that she could actually lie down in. The practical benefits of marrying a rich man had not really come home to her before, beyond being showered in jewels, which was a worry, and having the burden of concern over Carndale Farm and her tenants removed. But hot baths like this—that was very definitely a benefit.

She sipped the tea, grimacing at its bitterness despite the honey Polly had stirred in, and dozed a little in the steam until she finally called the maid to help her out before she became as wrinkled as a prune.

‘There.’ Polly stood back and admired her efforts. ‘Lady Verity’s woman said that was the right nightgown, with the green velvet robe over the top and the matching slippers.’

She’d wanted to get dressed again, so that they could eat the light supper as though it were a normal meal, not a prelude to…that.

Now that the hot water and the tea had taken the edge off the pain there was room for nerves to come fluttering back.

Blake had liked how she looked in her wonderful gown, shimmering with diamonds, corseted and shaped and presented like a magnificent bouquet of hothouse flowers. Now, stripped of all that finery, she was a bunch of roadside wildflowers at best.

Then there was a tap at the door and the time to worry had run out.