“I’m just glad you married Luke!” Khristos shot his newly acquired brother-in-law a grin. “Fancy that. My sister married to the richest bloke in town.”
“Khristos!” Cassandra exclaimed.
“Well, he is. Ain’t nobody in town richer.”
Luke winked at Father Tully, whose round face was creased in a grin, his kindly blue eyes twinkling. As he shook hands with Luke, the old priest said, “Treat her well, Luke. She’s a rare gem.”
Luke was well aware of the treasure he had, and he could scarcely wait to get her home to the privacy of his bedchamber to consummate their marriage. A slight snag, that. How Cassandra might react had him slightly worried. When he made love to her, she was bound to be surprised, after all, believing as she did that they’d already engaged in sexual intimacy to its fullest extent.
Luke brushed the concern aside, assuring himself that he would barrel across that bridge when he came to it. Besides, by the time he actually did take her virginity, she’d be so mindless with passion, she’d scarcely notice.
His mind filled with visions of lovemaking, Luke signed the marriage documents and made his way from the church rather blindly, genuflecting on the wrong knee when Cassandra tugged on his sleeve, then dipping the fingertips of the wrong hand into the holy water before crossing himself. A Catholic, he wasn’t. But to please her, he would happily go through the motions. Might as well get into practice. To marry her, he’d had to sign papers to the effect that he’d raise their children in the church and see to it that they received Catholic religious education. A small price to pay, Luke assured himself.
During the walk home, Luke kept one arm around his wife’s slender shoulders, his senses attuned to her every movement as he took in the loveliness of the evening. Darkness was about to fall, and the crisp chill of winter hung in the air, making their breath crystalize into little clouds that dissipated around their warm faces. Chimney smoke trailed from the houses along the streets, the smell of burning wood mixing with the pungent scent of autumn leaves left in decomposing piles in the gutters. It was, Luke thought, a beautiful night. A night he wanted never to forget. His wedding night.
The insane urge to jump up and click his heels came over him. He wanted to run and shout his good fortune to the world. Instead, he tightened his arm around Cassandra’s shoulders and fixed his gaze on her lovely profile. Whenever he looked at her, something inside him went all soft and warm. She wasn’t precisely beautiful, at least not as the word was usually defined. Her nose, a miniature of her Greek papa’s, was the most prominent feature of her face, jutting from between her brows. If not for the impressive thrust of her ample bosom, it would have preceded her everywhere she went. But to Luke, that nose was perfect. He wanted to kiss it, nibble its tip, feel its softness rubbing against his. And, God, that mouth. In profile, the bow of her top lip curved sweetly upward at the cleft, inviting a man’s kiss.
He wanted to take her home and unwrap her as he might a gaily decorated Christmas package, to gaze at her to his heart’s content, to examine every little detail of her face and body. Before this evening ended, he promised himself, he would memorize every inch of her, know the taste of her, the texture of her. She was his, absolutely, without limitation. He could linger over her tonight like a man over a succulent feast. Anticipation had his blood surging and his groin turning hot and hard.
Once at the house, Luke found himself swept away on a tide of celebratory jubilation amongst his staff. Cook had baked a cake and made ice cream, which she served in the kitchen to her master and new mistress, the other servants, Khristos, and the dog, with no pretense, formality, or folderol. There were toasts, good wishes, and much laughter all around before Luke finally felt he could whisk his wife upstairs without raising any eyebrows. But when he turned to claim his bride, he discovered that Mrs. Whitmire had beaten him to the draw and spirited the girl away for a woman-to-woman chat in the storage room.
When the two finally emerged, Mrs. Whitmire looked solemn and Cassandra, a little pale. Luke attributed her pallor to weariness. His bride had had a long, exciting day, with scarcely a moment to herself since she’d risen from bed early that morning. All the more reason for him to call an end to the festivities and take her upstairs as swiftly as possible. Leaving strict orders with Mrs. Whitmire that Khristos and Lycodomes were not to join him and Cassandra in his bedchamber that night—under any circumstances—Luke grasped his wife’s elbow and ushered her from the kitchen.
When they were finally closeted alone together in Luke’s bedchamber, Cassandra turned suddenly shy, asking if he would mind allowing her a few moments of privacy in her room to prepare for bed. Since she asked so sweetly, Luke had little choice but to grant her wish, but he felt a niggling alarm as he watched her leave. Had that been fear he’d seen in her eyes when she looked up at him?
Given the sweet passion with which she’d responded to him two nights ago, Luke shoved the thought away, scoffing. Why would she suddenly feel frightened? More than likely, she was only a bit shy.
Glancing around his bedchamber, he decided a sudden case of shyness on her part was understandable. His suite had been prepared for seduction, per his orders, with candles lighted in strategic spots to cast a romantic glow over his room. A low fire burned in the grate, its cheerful crackling a perfect touch on a chilly evening. Wine awaited them on the small table near the hearth. Cassandra would have had to be blind and slightly dumb not to realize what he planned for the evening. Given the intimacy they’d already shared, maybe she was just feeling a little embarrassed at the prospect of doing those things with him again.
Pacing the floor, Luke rubbed his hands together, whether to ward off the evening nippiness or with anticipation, he wasn’t sure. Then, growing impatient, he jerked at his tie and unfastened the three top buttons of his shirt. Back and forth he paced, one ear cocked toward the adjoining door between his bedchamber and Cassandra’s, alert to the slightest noise that might herald her entrance. What the hell could be taking her so long? He checked his watch and saw that she’d been out of his sight only ten minutes. Not all that long, he assured himself.
Returning the timepiece to his pocket, he peeled off his vest and tossed it in the general direction of his dresser, where it hit and slid off to land in a puddle of gray, the watch going kerthunk as it struck the hardwood floor.
Christ. Luke stopped pacing and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to calm down, he lectured himself. Take it slow. Think about something else. Otherwise, he’d leap on the poor girl the moment she entered his bedroom. He didn’t want to turn her from the intimacies of marriage with a crass display of unbridled passion, grabbing and groping and generally making an ass of himself.
“Luke?”
At the sound of her voice he nearly parted company with his skin. She stood in the open doorway, a vision in white. Like a goddamned fool, Luke just stared at her. Gone was the dingy flannel nightgown she’d borrowed from one of the maids, and she wasn’t wearing one of the seductive gowns he’d purchased for her, either. This sleeveless creation was…Luke swallowed, hard. A flowing cloud of virginal white, it floated over the voluptuous curves of her body like moonspun magic, the low-cut bodice made of the same peekaboo eyelet lace as the overskirt, which lay in gathers over sheerest lawn to fall in graceful folds around her slender feet.
Her hair, brushed to a sheen, lay in a rippling dark curtain around her shoulders, one long tendril forming a loose curl over her breast. The bodice displayed enough ivory cleavage to drive a man mad, yet was still modest enough to befit an angel. Except, of course, for the fact that the eyelet was transparent enough for the outline of her nipples to show through.
“D-Do you like it?” she asked, pressing a trembling hand to her midriff.
Did he like it? Luke couldn’t feel his feet. He’d seen females in every stage of undress imaginable, had had them parade before him nude, striking suggestive poses and performing lewd acts to whet his desire. Yet Luke could not recall ever h
aving felt so thunderstruck.
“I…um…asked Miss Dryden to help me choose it,” she whispered. “I…it…if you don’t like it, I’ll go change.”
Luke nearly tripped over his own feet walking toward her. “Don’t you dare,” he said with a choked laugh. He took both her hands in his and swirled her farther into the room, keeping her at arm’s length so he could examine her from head to toe. At perusal’s end, he hadn’t changed his mind. She was still the most gorgeous thing he’d ever clapped eyes on.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said huskily. “You are…indescribably beautiful.”
She wrested a hand free to splay it over her bare chest. A hand that was shaking in a way he didn’t like at all.
“In truth, I feel a little…naked. This…nightgown hasn’t much of a front, but Miss Dryden insisted it was just the thing. I…um…didn’t have any money of my own, so I put it on your account. I hope that’s all right?”
Luke nodded. Words were suddenly beyond him. Gazing into her luminous blue eyes, he realized she was frightened, that he hadn’t imagined it earlier.
“Luke?”
The way she whispered his name jerked him back to his senses, and he realized he was making her horribly self-conscious, staring at her as he was. Hands shaking like an adolescent boy’s, he stepped closer and cupped her face between his hands.
“I’m sorry, sweet. It’s just that you’re so lovely, I can’t stop looking.”
“I’m not…that is, you don’t have to…sweet-talk me.” She took a breath and focused wide eyes directly on his chin. “I know I’m short and stout, and I have a big nose.”
Luke raised an eyebrow. “You’re middling tall and generously rounded. And your nose is adorable.”
She crossed her eyes to look along the bridge of the feature in question. “I have freckles.”
“Adorable freckles, and you have to look close even to see them.”
Her lips trembled in a brave attempt at a smile, but her small hands were clasped together so tightly her knuckles poked whitely against the skin. He wanted to kick himself for failing to take control and put her at ease.
“Honey, are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” he asked, acutely conscious of how badly she’d begun to shake.
“I…um…yes…no…not exactly. It’s just—” She gnawed on her lower lip for a moment, her gaze clinging to his. “Mrs. Whitmire gave me a motherly talk in the storage room, that’s all. To prepare me for tonight. And from what she said, I gathered that…um…well, that maybe we didn’t—” She broke off, looking hesitant. “Oh, Luke, please don’t get angry with me for saying this, but I fear we may not have done things exactly right the other night.”
Luke was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this. “What did she say?”
Her cheeks turned a bright pink. “I’d rather not go into detail.” Her mouth quivered at the corners. “I’m just…well, a bit worried.”
Luke could have cheerfully strangled Mrs. Whitmire. God save the world from well-meaning biddies. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t listen to Mrs. Whitmire, especially not when she’s advising you about this sort of thing.”
Before she could guess what he meant to do, Luke caught her around the waist and, with three long strides, pressed her back against the wall. She gave a squeak of startlement, making fists on his shirt. “What are you—Luke?”
He bracketed her shoulders with braced arms, his booted feet spread, one on either side of hers. His face hovering only inches above hers, he said, “Forget everything that frigid old woman told you. Marital intimacy isn’t a chore, Cassie, and it’s perfectly natural, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, for you to be worried about.”
The dubious expression in her blue eyes made Luke smile.
“Cassandra, do you trust me?”
“Yes, with all my heart.”
Which was far more than he deserved. His smile broadened. “Then believe me when I say this isn’t going to be some trial to endure. All right? Didn’t it feel nice the other night?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. It will feel even nicer tonight. As nice as I can possibly make it for you. No bearing up. No wifely duty. Just sweet pleasure. I promise.”
Luke’s heart caught at the expression that came into her eyes as she raised her slender arms to encircle his neck. Love. She didn’t need to say the word. The emotion poured from her, the warmth of it surrounding him.
“If you promise, then I believe you,” she whispered. “You’ve never lied to me. If you say it will be wonderful, then I know it will be.”
Luke had lied to this girl more times than he could count. He didn’t deserve her trust. Yet he was going to take it, just as he’d taken everything else she had to give.
NINETEEN
Pressed against the wall and imprisoned there by Luke’s muscular arms and firmly planted feet, Cassandra could sense his desire for her in the bunched hardness of his body, could hear it in the altered cadence of his breathing and the thunderous pounding of his heart. His dark face above hers had drawn taut, his features cast into harsh shadow by the flickering candle and firelight, his eyes agleam with an urgency she didn’t understand.
Though she’d vowed to trust him, to believe in him and his promise not to hurt her, Cassandra couldn’t seem to push Mrs. Whitmire’s dire warnings out of her head. Nor could she forget the shiver of doom that had shrouded the housekeeper’s voice as she’d pronounced the fateful words “conjugal rights” as though they were worse than any disease.
When Luke suddenly moved away from her to lock both doors, she threw a dread-filled glance at the bed. The key rasped in its lock, the sound making her leap. She clamped a hand to her waist in a vain attempt to stop the lurching of her stomach. Nothing to be afraid of, nothing to be afraid of. The words skittered through her mind, but no matter how many times she thought them, they didn’t calm her jangled nerves.
“You know, Luke, maybe we should have a little wine and…um…talk for a while,” she suggested with shrill eagerness. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
In the flickering shadows, he looked tall and suddenly sinister as he turned from locking the door. His tawny hair gleamed like a lion’s mane, his whiskey-colored eyes alert to her every expression and slightest movement. “Sweetheart, are you still frightened?”
Cassandra gulped and closed her eyes. No matter how bady it hurts, you musn’t struggle or cry out, Mrs. Whitmire had warned direly. Just bear up, lass. If he’s the sort of man to have a care, it’ll be over with quickly enough. And if he’s not—well, even then, nothing lasts forever. If the bleeding doesn’t stop soon after, cold cloths can help stanch the flow. If that doesn’t work, the tearing may be uncommonly bad and you might have to send for a physician.
“Cassandra?”
She fastened a startled gaze on his when he curled a finger under her chin. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You nearly made my heart stop.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Cassie, for God’s sake, what did that old biddy say to you? You look scared half to death.”
“I’d just like some wine, that’s all. Bridal jitters, I guess.”
“Bridal jitters?”
She nodded. “That’s what Mrs. Whitmire said I’d feel at this…moment.”
He firmed his grasp on her chin, lifting her face slightly. “I see. And what else, besides bridal jitters, did she enlighten you about?”
Cassandra averted her gaze. Suddenly, the air in the room seemed terribly thin, as if the candles were burning away all the oxygen. “Luke, will you promise me one thing?”
“Anything within reason,” he said, his voice thick with what sounded like suppressed laughter.
“If…um…it should prove necessary, you won’t hesitate to go get Doctor Mosley, will you?”
He leaned around to see her face, his gaze giving hers no quarter. “Mosley? Why the hell would we need him?”
“If cold towels don’t stop the bleeding.”
“Jesus Chr
ist.” His hand on her chin tightened until the grip of his fingers was almost bruising. He forced her head around. “Cassandra, look at me.”
She did as he instructed, wishing with every breath she drew that she didn’t have to. After a long moment, he gentled his hold on her chin, but his gaze remained relentless. In a measured voice, he said, “Mrs. Whitmire should be horsewhipped. Why she took it upon herself to have a ‘motherly chat’ with you, I haven’t a clue. But the world could do without her brand of mothering. You aren’t going to bleed enough to need cold towels, let alone a doctor. Virginal bleeding is a smear, at most—such a minute amount that we may need a magnifying glass to find it on the sheets afterward.”
“Truly?”
He sighed and leaned down to press his forehead against hers. “Truly.”
Gathering her courage, Cassandra blurted out the rest. “She said it was going to feel as if you were tearing me apart inside.”
He moved his hands to her shoulders. His fingers curled warmly over her bare upper arms, their grip gentle, yet hinting at leashed strength. “Let’s make a bargain, all right?”
Cassandra figured beggars couldn’t be choosers. “All right.”
“If it begins to feel as if I’m tearing you apart, all you need do is tell me, and I swear I’ll stop.”
“Y-You will?” Mrs. Whitmire had cautioned her against asking him to stop. Indeed, she’d said it was “absolutely unacceptable,” and that Luke would grow angry if she made such a request, which would result in the ordeal being far worse for her in the end. “Do you promise not to get mad at me?”
He bent slightly to kiss the bridge of her nose. “Remind me to let Mrs. Whitmire go first thing in the morning,” he whispered huskily. “The old witch. I can’t believe she’s done this to you.”
“Oh, you can’t let her go! She was just trying to…well, prepare me. What with my mother being dead, and all. I g-guess she thought I needed to know what to expect.”