“A traveler is much like a man in his cups. Ordinarily, he would see a coaching inn more as a source of disease and infestation than rest and sustenance, but after days on England’s dreadful roads, the entire world outside one’s carriage resembles a palace.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the proprietor of a Wiltshire coaching inn upon being presented with her bill.
They arrived at the coaching inn outside Biggleswade shortly after dusk. It was an hour later than Harrison had anticipated, but the coachman had been forced to drive more slowly due to the unusually bumpy road. Several days of rain followed by more days of sun had done their work well, resulting in long stretches of road made perilous with craters and ruts. He should have accounted for it. Ordinarily, such details did not escape him, and it was disappointing to realize the upheaval of the wedding had diminished his usual thoroughness. However, he was pleased to see the other two traveling coaches carrying their servants and belongings had arrived safely ahead of them. At least one part of this day was going according to plan.
The carriage rocked as the coachman climbed down from his perch. From the road, the Pig and Plough appeared small, its original structure a Tudor-era, wattle-and-daub farmhouse. But from inside the central courtyard, one could see the more recently added, two-story brick structure extending from each side in a large, open square. Inside, he knew the food, while rustic, would be quite good, as would the ale. The lodgings would be clean and orderly. And the price would be reasonable, since it sat outside the village proper, back from the main road, surrounded by farmland.
Although it was a fine inn—one of his favorites along the route between London and Yorkshire—and he had stayed there many times, he doubted he had ever been so glad to arrive at the Pig and Plough. This had been a most trying journey.
A quiet rumbling sound from his wife’s side of the carriage preceded her muttered, “I would give every book I own for a meal of substance.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said dryly. “I do believe they accept pounds and pence.”
“Did you just make a jest, your grace?”
He did not appreciate the incredulity in her voice. Contrary to Colin’s frequent accusation, he did possess a sense of humor; he simply chose to exercise restraint. Not everything in life should be subject to one’s amusement. “The Pig and Plough serves an excellent hare stew.”
She stilled, uttering the faintest, feminine moan.
Oddly seductive, he longed to hear it again. For a moment, he wrestled with the prurient impulse. It was wrong to allow himself such indulgences. He really should not … “The broth is rich, redolent with salty flavor,” he continued, his voice acquiring a slight rasp. “And it soaks most pleasingly into bread heated and freshly risen from the oven.”
This time, her moan was unequivocal. It was followed by a catch in her breathing.
“At the finish,” he described in a low voice, enjoying the sound of her delicate panting, “sweet, ripe berries drenched with cream accompany a pudding of the utmost tenderness.”
“Stop,” she protested hoarsely. “Please. I am famished, your grace. I cannot bear another word.”
Neither could he. Fortunately, the coachman chose that moment to open the door, and they exited gratefully from the carriage onto the cobblestone courtyard.
Shaking her skirts, then rubbing absently at her lower back, Jane eyed the elaborate wooden sign over the door. It featured a fat, pink sow standing upright to drive a plow, playing the part of farmer rather than livestock. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Do you suppose they serve bacon?”
Ignoring the question, he ushered her inside and spoke briefly to the innkeeper, Mr. Moffat, who bowed and y’grace’d numerous times before showing them to the dining room. Eight tables crowded the interior, where a low fire in the oversized brick hearth sent flickering light dancing over its plastered walls, timbered ceilings, and worn plank floors. An elderly couple chatted over half-full bowls in one corner, but otherwise, the room was empty. Harrison and Jane sat at the second table flanking the fireplace.
Short and stout, the bald Mr. Moffat crossed thick arms over a barrel chest and assured them, “Plucked the hares from the meadah m’self this morn. Stew’s nevah been finer, I’d say.” The man’s rapid-fire country accent must have sounded garbled to Jane, because she blinked up at him blankly then dropped her gaze to the table.
“We’ll each have a bowl,” Harrison answered. “Some of your ale, as well. And puddings, if you have them.”
“Do I have them? They’ll be comin’ straight away, y’grace!”
Ten minutes later, Jane had spoken not a word, only nodding her thanks to the innkeeper then devouring half her bowl of stew along with a significant quantity of bread. To Harrison, her eye-closing, soft-sighing appreciation for her meal was disturbingly erotic.
He wondered if something was wrong with him. Frowning, he considered the possibility. Was it a fever? Certainly, he felt hot. Flushed. But no fever had ever caused him to grow and remain painfully aroused at the sight of a woman’s hands or the sound of her satisfying an empty stomach. Perhaps it was some sort of ague.
Two plates, each holding a currant pudding topped by a small dollop of cream, appeared on their table, delivered by the shockingly tall, thick-boned Mrs. Moffat. She planted large hands on larger hips and half-smiled. “Here you are, Duke. This yer new duchess?”
He raised a brow and sent her a wry glance. “Gracious as ever, I see.”
Mrs. Moffat snorted. She was not one to stand on ceremony. Or basic good manners. “Notice you didn’t answer.”
Jane, who had been sitting still and quiet since Mrs. Moffat approached, touched the rim of her spectacles, swallowed visibly, and nodded toward the woman without meeting her eye.
He frowned. Was she intimidated? By the innkeeper’s rough-hewn wife? The woman was rather towering, and quite forward for one of her class, but surely an earl’s daughter—
“Well, Duchess, it’s glad to meet you, I am.” She pointed a thumb at Harrison. “Duke here’s been comin’ round Pig and Plough for—what now?—nigh fifteen years, I’d say. Nevah thought he’d be bringing by the likes of you.”
The more the woman talked, the more Jane shrank into herself, her face growing blank, her eyes remaining downcast, her body motionless like a rabbit fearing Mr. Moffat’s stew pot.
“Mrs. Moffat,” he snapped. “The Duchess would prefer to dine in solitude, if you don’t mind. As would I.”
Again, another snort. She gave Jane a knowing look. “He’s a mite sharp about the rules, this one. Must be all that starch in his neckcloth. Not to worry, though, Duchess. Once you get him alone, that part comes off quick enough.” At the woman’s broad wink, blotchy color ascended Jane’s throat and face.
Watching his wife’s reaction, Harrison’s stomach began to burn as though he had swallowed a jug of vinegar. His voice grew softer. Deadlier. “I shall not ask again.”
Finally, it seemed the thick woman’s senses returned. She straightened, her arms dropping to her sides, her smile disappearing. She sniffed, nodded, and turned to depart.
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Moffat.” The quiet words came unexpectedly from Jane, bringing the woman’s head around. “The stew was sublime. And the p-puddings look heavenly after our long journey.”
Mrs. Moffat smiled warmly, revealing a missing tooth. “Ye’re most welcome, Duchess.”
As she ambled to the elderly couple’s table to clear their bowls, Jane plucked her pudding up and began savoring its delightfully buttery texture. “Mmmph,” she said, rolling her eyes in ecstasy. Her free hand flattened over the center of her chest, drawing his focus to the generous swell of her breasts. She swallowed and licked the crumbs from her lips. “This is divine. You must try it.”
Brows lowering, Harrison wondered at Jane’s reaction. Not to the pudding, which he knew to be delicious, but to Mrs. Moffat. He had known she was shy, but he’d assumed it was primarily with those of her own station, usually most pronounced at balls and other crowded gatherings. However, it appeared her nervousness around those she did not know extended to everyone, even servants and innkeepers’ wives. He must remember this in the future, for as her husband, it was his duty to see to her comfort.
To that end, after their meal, when Jane’s satisfied sigh was followed by a covered yawn, he suggested it was time to retire. “Our room shall not offer luxury, but it will be clean and reasonably comfortable.”
“Our room?” Jane’s eyes rounded, her voice rising to a squeak. “Singular?”
“We are married. Would it not seem peculiar if we required separate chambers while traveling?”
Lips tightening, she nodded. “I suppose you are right.” While her words agreed with his point, her shoulders tensed visibly.
Her tension did not improve as they made their way upstairs to the inn’s largest chamber. In fact, as he turned from closing the door, he saw her standing in the center of the room, wringing her hands. He stalked toward her until they were only a foot apart. “You are distressed. What is it?”
Glancing around the room, he could not determine the cause. Compared to most inns, Pig and Plough’s best room was moderately spacious. There was a small double bed with a yellow-and-blue checked coverlet against the wall, a screened-off area in one corner with a chamber pot and washbasin, and a large window framed by faded yellow curtains. Certainly nothing to generate this sort of alarm.
She refused to look at him. Instead, her eyes were fixated on the bed. “N-nothing. I am simply a bit nervous.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Shooting him an exasperated look from beneath her lashes, she resorted to sarcasm. “Oh, I cannot imagine, your grace. Perhaps it has something to do with this being my wedding night.”
“Wedding night …?” Suddenly, her reaction made a good deal more sense. “You thought I would demand my husbandly rights tonight? When you are clearly exhausted? At a humble Bedfordshire coaching inn?”
She sniffed and touched the corner of her spectacles. “Well, when you put it in those terms, perhaps I presumed incorrectly.”
“Yes, it is safe to say so.”
She nodded, her eyes glued to his cravat. “But we shall both be … sleeping. Together.” She glanced behind her, then back to his cravat. “In that bed.”
Why must she say it that way? Until this moment, perhaps unwisely, he had not much dwelt on their sleeping arrangements. Now, he could focus on nothing else.
“You are very tall,” she accused.
“And you are not,” he retorted.
“Additionally, I had previously misjudged the broadness of your shoulders. But they are quite so. Broad, I mean.”
He noted her breathing had grown faster, her eyes soft as she examined the aforementioned shoulders. “What of it?”
She blinked. “Hmm? Oh! Just that the bed is a trifle small. And you are—apologies, your grace—not.”
Glancing toward the bed, then back into her deep brown eyes, he attempted to stifle the many inappropriate responses that leapt into his head. All considered, the one he uttered was rather tame by comparison. “We shall fit perfectly.”
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She swallowed hard.
Before he did something foolish like taking hold of his virginal wife and showing her just how well they would fit, he clasped his fists behind his back, and informed her of his plans. Plans he would adhere to, damn it all, in spite of this vicious lust that assailed his self-control mercilessly. He would not be ruled by crude instincts. “You needn’t concern yourself that I shall seek to consummate our union while on our journey. I had anticipated waiting until we arrive at Blackmore Hall, where we may both find comfort and recover from the rigors of travel before such demands are made.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice, appearing unburdened yet deflated. A shadow moved through her eyes. “How considerate.”
He stepped back, putting some distance between them. “The servants are in the rooms down the hall. I shall ask your maid to attend you. Estelle, is it not?”
She nodded, the corners of her mouth turning down, her throat working on a swallow.
He suspected he had somehow upset her. But he did not ask. Instead, he turned on his heel, opened the door, and fled the room before he did something both of them would regret.
*~*~*
Jane was awakened by two things: A disgustingly cheerful, persistent song from a bird perched too close to the window. And something squeezing one of her bosoms with a fair amount of enthusiasm. Otherwise, she was quite comfortable, especially given her hard, lumpy pillow and heavy, overly warm blanket. Normally, she preferred a softer bed and a lighter covering, as she disliked having her sleep disturbed by too much heat. But, in this case, it was lovely being so tightly wrapped inside her cocoon, her legs weighed down, her waist secured, her backside snugged and prodded by the hard, lumpy folds of the heavy, hot blanket. And her bosom, squeezed and cradled and teased by …
Her eyes popped open. Oh, dear. It was not a blanket. Nor a pillow. Nor even her corset, which she had removed before climbing alone into bed. Alone, mind.
Quite when her husband had joined her, she could not say, having fallen asleep before he’d returned from wherever he had gone. Now, she was grateful for that small blessing, as their relative positions were faintly embarrassing.
They were tangled up like vine and tree. Near as she could deduce—for, she could not see anything but a gauzy outline without her spectacles—one of his arms was stretched beneath her head. The other curled around her waist and wound upward so that his large, lean hand could have its way with her breast. That part felt … quite pleasant, actually. His palm was warm and firm, sliding over her hardened, sensitized nipple as his long fingers gently squeezed, generating little springles of sensation that made her want to catch her breath and slide her legs along his. She wriggled her hips experimentally. The lump that had been pressing into her backside thrust forward and pressed harder.
What was that?
Could it be his appendage? Eyes wide, she considered the possibility. Yes, it was conceivable. She remembered Annabelle mentioning something about mornings and the appendage. But she had been trying very hard not to listen, and so did not recall details.
Immediately, she knew she must formulate an urgent letter to Annabelle. She was sorely lacking in key information. Dearest Annabelle, she would write. I awakened this morning to a most disturbing—
No, that wasn’t it.
—discomforting—
Hmm. Not quite right, either.
—extraordinary circumstance. I found myself positively engulfed by my new husband. We were both sleeping soundly, until a bird desirous of an early demise disturbed my slumber. While his grace slept on, I could not help noticing a certain pressure, a prodding of sorts, coming from the region below his waist.
Dear heaven, this was disastrous. Perhaps she should simply come to her point.
Perhaps I should simply state my point: You attempted to explain the male appendage before my wedding. Would you be so kind as to explain it again? This time, pray do not spare any detail. I suspect I shall require all the knowledge at my disposal.
Ever your grateful sister,
Jane
P.S., The sensation of being held and stroked by the Duke of Blackmore has necessitated the invention of a new word, as I fear the English language fails to provide a term sufficient to describe it. I have dubbed the feeling “springle”—half spark, half tingle. I am rather pleased with it, though I suspect he would not approve. He is sadly a stickler for tradition.
The tradition-stickler’s nose nuzzled her neck, and his thumb raked sinfully over her nipple through the linen of her gown. Her thighs squeezed together, trying to quench the warm, glowing ache that bloomed between them. He inhaled deeply against her skin, absorbing her scent. A low groan rumbled in his chest, echoing down her spine. She couldn’t stop the insistent stroking of his thumb, couldn’t stop her hips from grinding back to push harder against him, couldn’t stop the small, brief moan at the top of her next breath.
And that was what woke him.
His thumb stopped. Her hips froze. Neither of them breathed.
Then, she realized sleeping people should not stop breathing. So, deliberately, she closed her eyes, breathed slowly, and pretended to sleep.
Carefully, he removed his arm from beneath her head, his hand gently easing her onto a pillow. Next, he withdrew his legs, sliding them from between and over the top of hers. Then, his hips receded, taking his heat and his appendage with him. The very last part to disentangle itself was his hand, which lingered on her breast like it needed a long farewell. Perhaps it did.
Finally, it, too, slid away, the bed jostling as he left. She heard his footsteps recede along the squeaking wood floor toward the screened corner of the room. Next came intermittent splashing. Rustling of cloth. Clinking of a razor against the basin. The window opening. The bird flapping away. Water being tossed, then splashing as it was replenished from the pitcher. More footsteps, this time with boots, but careful falls reluctant to disturb her.
They paused.
Curious, she opened her eyes the smallest fraction and peered toward the door. She could not see much—a dark blur with golden hair in front of a brown door. He was standing there, motionless. Staring.
At her? No. It couldn’t be.
He must be examining his timepiece, of which he was inordinately fond.
Yes, that was much more likely. To think he had been watching her sleep was pure foolishness. Her. Plain Jane Huxley. Well, Jane Lacey now, she supposed. Then again, perhaps that was it precisely. He had married a plain woman, and if this very morning had been the moment he realized how permanent that was …
Suddenly, she was very glad for her poor eyesight.
Very glad, indeed.
*~*~*