Chapter 4
“Don’t you fret, my lady.” Her new maid, Ellen, finished fussing with the nightrail her mother had gifted her only yesterday. The soft, sheer, batiste fabric floated like a cloud over her head and settled down upon her shoulders. “You look lovely and his lordship will be a happy man.”
Marianne doubted that since she was not a happy woman.
The intimacies of a wedding night, her wedding night, rapidly approached. Both families had left. Her parents had gone home. She remained in this huge monstrosity of a mansion in Mayfair with servants she didn’t know, people she hardly knew, and a new husband she didn’t want to know, much less intimately.
Marianne sighed loudly and felt a gentle pat on her shoulder from Ellen. “It will be all right, my lady. Every bride is nervous on her wedding night. It’s as it should be. Try to be excited and just tell yourself tomorrow night will be easier. And the next night will be even easier. You’ll see. It will all work out all right.”
She questioned how Ellen, barely her own age and, as far as she knew, not married could know what a wedding night would be like, much less what tomorrow night or the next night would bring.
“Thank you, Ellen, you may go now. There’s really nothing else you can do for me.”
“Do you want me to comb your hair one more time? Rebraid it once again? I can stay a while longer if you need a little more time.” Ellen tried her very hardest to ease the stress of the evening but Marianne knew she could put off the inevitable for only so long. She might as well face it and get on with it.
She would survive it, wouldn’t she?
“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning. You get a good night’s rest, and thank you for your kind attentions.”
“Yes, my lady. Until the morrow, my lady. Good luck and sweet dreams.” Ellen quietly closed the door behind her as she went out through the dressing room.
Marianne climbed onto the large, oak bed decorated with a massive carved headboard and tester and two bulbous carved posts at the foot. She had no doubt its origins could be traced to the Elizabethan era. After plumping her pillows, she crawled between the freshly scented, silken sheets and settled in to wait for her husband.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Come in, my lord.” Marianne prayed her voice did not betray her nervousness. She tugged the covers up higher and peeked over their edges.
He did not make the grand, flamboyant entrance she expected. He entered calmly and with much reserve in attire more subdued than she had ever seen him wear, a deep blue silk banyan, no ruffles or frills. The scent of perfume did not accost her as he approached the bed. His hair was combed in a style not as curly as earlier in the day. It led her to believe his usual style not natural but one created by his valet.
“My lady, are you well?” His voice still too high but at least gentle and sincere.
“As well as can be expected, my lord.” This time even she heard the quiver in her response. It would probably be best if they got this over as quickly as possible so he could return to his room and she could try to get some much-needed sleep.
He stood next to the bed, the candlelight warm on his face, his skin pale but healthy looking, his dark brown hair tinted slightly red, and his clear, midnight blue eyes, his most striking feature, unfathomable.
He let his robe slide to the floor, revealing a simple white nightshirt.
Could he possibly be as nervous as she was?
Slowly he drew the covers back, then climbed in next to her. Leaning against the pillows, he raised his arm in invitation.
Knowing she could not run, she settled in against him, her head against his chest.
“Marianne.” Finally he used her Christian name, the first time since their meeting over a month ago. “I know not what to say to make this easier on the both of us. I will try my best to be gentle with you. But unlike the rakes of the ton, I do not claim to be a great lover nor do I have much experience. Please tell me if I am hurting you too much, though I understand some pain comes along with the first time regardless.”
“As you wish, my lord.” She fumbled with the linens, twisting them as she did her handkerchief when she was nervous or fretful.
“Andrew, please. Or, if you like, you may call me Drew. I have a few close friends who call me Drew and you may wish to include yourself among their number. If nothing else, I do hope we will develop some level of friendship and rapport between us.” His voice still gentle and sincere, he showed no signs of becoming a brute in the bedroom.
And not a dandy so much either.
“As you please, Andrew . . . Drew.” She still refrained from looking at him. What could she do or say to make this easier for him? Nothing that she knew of. Why hadn’t her mother given her more instructions than just relax, be cooperative, and make the best of it?
Drew turned toward her and took to nuzzling her neck, stroking his hand down the side of her hip. He snuggled down under the blankets, pulled her down with him. In moments, Marianne felt the length of his body along the length of hers as his freshly shaved cheeks rubbed against the skin of her face and neck.
She felt the hardness of his sex against her hip and failed to quell her gasp. The moment would soon be coming and nothing could stop it. This complete stranger would be in her most intimate places and had every right to be there because of the agreements between his father and her own, a few minutes in front of a vicar and a piece of paper that rendered her his possession.
“Try to relax, Marianne. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He pulled her farther down off the pillows, fully onto her back. She felt his hand fumble up beneath her nightgown. Felt a tingling as his fingertips grazed over her skin.
She sensed pressure as his hand tried to push her thighs apart. She didn’t want to. But she eased her legs apart and squeezed her eyes shut.
His fingers touched her nether regions. Please let it be over soon. Please don’t let it hurt too badly. Please help me make it through.
Then he lifted himself over her. She didn’t open her eyes, just squeezed them shut tighter and turned her head away. He really tried to be gentle but what else could he do? She was a hesitant, if not an unwilling, participant.
Then she felt him. His sex prodding and nudging, begging for entry. And she had to let him in. It was her duty, his right. She could not say no.
She gasped again as he entered her. He felt so large. She felt so small and tight. Surely she would not be expected to withstand this degradation often.
Deeper he pushed into her, his breathing thick and hard and fast. As he stroked her, all became quicker except the pain which became greater.
Please let it be over soon. Please make him stop. Please. Please. Please!
In one last great heave, he groaned as his body tensed so tight, he went rigid over her, then collapsed upon her, a dead weight.
She realized she had also been straining for breath. That the pain had eased somewhat at the end and that she had survived the encounter was little consolation. She hesitated as she listened to the deep breathing of her newly consummated spouse.
Had he fallen asleep?
She pushed and prodded until he lay sprawled on the bed next to her. Finally free of his weight, she rolled away into a tight ball, tugged her nightrail back down around her, and prayed for sleep.
How would she ever get over the embarrassment? The sheer indignity of this moment?
Sleep, a blessing, finally took her.
~ ~ ~
Drew woke with a headache and a cock that felt as if it had been scraped with sanded paper. Leaning up on his elbows, he took in the back of his no longer virginal bride. She had pulled her nightrail back down over her hips but it did not hide the small smears of brownish-red on her gown and the sheets between them.
He drew the covers up over her sleeping form.
He had done his duty but felt none too proud of the results. He failed to seduce her. Had come like a schoolboy in mere seconds after entering her. And she had dreaded every minute of the encounter, her eyes squeezed so tightly shut he thought she might have permanent wrinkling on her forehead despite her youth.
It had not been a pretty sight.
She looked quite lovely when he first entered the room. Fragile and delicate propped up in the big bed in the dainty white gown, her face so pale, her rich, dark blonde braid cascading over her shoulder. Surely she had not been aware of what the entire activity would entail.
More the fool he for making such a botched job of it.
He crawled out of the bed trying not to disturb her. Shoving his nightshirt back down over his hips, he gathered his robe from the floor, slipped it on, and headed for the door.
Back in his room he poured himself a brandy, then tossed it down. Feeling no relief, he poured another one and did the same. After four more shots of fire, he remained awake and remorseful.
Gathering whatever clothes he could find, he dressed himself haphazardly, knowing his valet would be appalled but not caring one iota.
Moments later, he took the stairs and stumbled out the front door. He had to find solace some place. Surely one of the hells would deaden the pain and his embarrassment.
He staggered down the street grasping at railings here and there for support. At the corner he unceremoniously tripped and landed face down in the gutter.
Evidently, the brandy was finally taking effect.
“What’s up there, m’lud? Need a hand? Here, let me help ya.”
“White’s. Take me to White’s. They’ll pay you there.” Drew heard the slurring of his own words. A hell would not be necessary after all. At the club they would find some quiet corner to put him until his inebriation wore off.
“Certainly, m’lud. White’s it’ll be. Just let me help ya into me cab. That’s it. Raise ya foot a little more. In ya go.” The driver gave him a shove into the cab, and he landed indelicately on the well-used squabs. Had he been pushed a little harder he probably would have tumbled out the other side.
Sitting up and rocking from too much brandy and the roughness of the road, he tried to straighten his attire to some modicum of respectability before he arrived at White’s.
The ride seemed endless. White’s never seemed so far from his home. And the emphatic pounding in his head that had escalated shortly after landing in the gutter did not help in the least. Nor did the fetid odors emanating from the squabs.
At last the cab stopped, the door swung open. What smelled like fish and detritus drifted into the small space. He couldn’t be at the river. White’s was not so near the river.
Drew heard gruff voices and gathered his wits to comprehend the discussion. Failing to catch the gist of the conversation, he tried to lever himself out the far side of the cab but nausea and dizziness forced him back onto the squabs. Not knowing what else to do and in no fit state to take on what sounded like three rough men outside, he closed his eyes to pretend he had passed out. He slitted his eyes open just enough to see what would happen next.
The cabriolet door belched open. “Here ya go, Cap’n. This one’s three sheets in the wind already. Promise me you’ll be gone afore first light or I’ll be in a bevy of trouble.”
“No problem, Josh. The ship leaves on the next tide out just before dawn.” Laughter broke out as a large ruffian climbed into the small space. Grabbed by his lapels, Drew was dragged from his seat, then pulled through the door into the arms of an even larger man who smelled like stale ale, old sweat, and salt air.
“Where you want ’im, Cap’n? Belowdecks?”
“Aye. Toss him in the empty hammock and we’ll wait until he wakes up. Then we’ll see what we can make of him.”
Thrown over the second man’s shoulder, Drew, blurry eyed, looked back at the two men standing on the docks as money exchanged hands and they turned away. He raised a hand, tried to raise his voice, but the drink overtook him.
As his mind faded into the abyss of intoxication, he felt certain he would come to rue this day if he even survived it.