Chapter Seventeen
There was astonishingly little to a wedding.
Julian was surprised. He’d never attended any actual wedding ceremonies. Oh, he’d been invited to dozens, but he preferred to save his appearance for the celebration afterward. Somehow, he’d imagined a sacrament with such eternal implications would be accordingly lengthy and dry.
But even with the curate speaking slowly and every so often handing his liturgy to Lily so that she might read and respond, it took less than a quarter-hour to bind Lily Chatwick and Julian Bellamy in the eyes of God and man, for the remainder of this life and—with some outrageous luck—beyond.
The ceremony took place in the morning room. After vows were exchanged, he produced a pair of simple gold bands. They were unadorned, but weighty in both substance and significance. He thought nothing in his life would thrill him more than sliding that ring on her slim, elegant finger—until a half-minute later, when she slid the matching band on his. The first was the triumph of claiming his bride. The second was the poignant, bone-deep relief of being claimed.
It had been so long since he’d belonged to anyone.
They all signed the register: Lily, Holling, Swift, the curate. Julian went last. He hesitated, wishing the name he prepared to sign was actually his own.
But it was too late for attacks of conscience now.
He scrawled the signature. There, it was done.
He looked to his bride—his wife; good Lord, she belonged to him now—and she gave him a wide, gracious smile. She’d seemed genuinely shocked by his proposal this morning. On close inspection of her appearance, however, he wondered if she hadn’t expected it all along and dressed expressly for the occasion.
She looked timeless in her beauty, as a bride should be. Fifty years from now someone could say the name “Lily,” and Julian knew his sieve of an octogenarian memory would still retain this image, from this day. No matter what changes time wrought on her aspect, he would always think of her thus. Looking not only lovely, but so very much herself. Straight-spined and resolute, but soft and feminine in that cherry-pink dress and pearls. Dark, gently curving tendrils of hair framed her milk-white cheeks and burnt-sugar eyes. So tempting and sweet.
Positively edible.
“Well,” she asked, clasping her hands behind her back and bobbing on her toes, “what now?”
What now? Oh, he would show her what now.
With his thanks and a generous donation for the parish, Julian dismissed the curate.
To Swift and Holling, he directed, “Give the staff a feast and good wine, then the remainder of the day off. Place a tray for us at the top of the staircase. After that, no one, and I mean no one, is to venture abovestairs unless we ring. No lady’s maid, no footman, no chambermaid, no boy carrying coal for the grate. Not today, not tomorrow. I don’t care if it’s been three days and you’ve given us up for dead, do you understand? We are not to be disturbed.”
“But sir, the—” Holling began.
He cut her off. “Not to be disturbed.”
The housekeeper curtsied. “As you please, Mr. Bellamy.”
Once the servants had cleared out, Julian crossed the room until he stood about an arm’s length from Lily. He didn’t trust himself any closer just yet. “I very much wish to kiss my bride.”
Her rosy lips curved in a smile. “Your bride very much wishes to be kissed.”
“But there’s a problem, you see. If I kiss you here, there’s a fair chance we’ll never make it upstairs.”
“Well.” Dark lashes fluttered as she surveyed the room with mock seriousness. “There is always the divan.”
“Some other time.” He moved toward her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Do take pity on poor Holling’s nerves, and try not to shriek.”
With that, he scooped her straight off her feet and into his arms. And she did shriek, but only a little. She clung to his neck with surprise—and perhaps a touch of playful desperation. The bite of her fingernails against his nape sent desire rippling down his spine. She weighed next to nothing, and rationally, he knew lifting her was no great feat of strength. But hefting her compact frame in his arms, fitting her tight against his chest … making a Julian-shaped bundle of Lily’s precious angles and curves … he felt protective. Powerful. And just a bit savage. His male pride swelled. Other parts of him swelled, too.
He carried her through the entrance hall and up the stairs. Visualizing the windows as he’d so often viewed them from the street, he set off down the corridor, counting doors until he arrived at her apartment.
“How do you know which one is mine?” she asked, as he shouldered open the door to her sitting room.
“Lucky guess.”
He covered the carpet in three paces, swept her into the bedchamber, and fell with her onto the bed. A heap of white pillows and downy quilts sucked them in like a snowdrift. Julian sputtered at a bit of lace in his mouth and rolled onto his side, facing her. What with all the white, and the hour of noon approaching, the room was wild with sunlight.
“Oh, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she said, batting away clouds of white bedding. “I had it done up this way when I was seventeen, and it’s never been redecorated.”
He huffed at a tiny feather floating between them, then gave her a wolfish grin. “Very virginal.”
All the better to ravish you on, my dear. This bed was like his most depraved adolescent fantasy come to life. Taking a well-bred lady on a cloud of white lace; pushing his crude, baseborn cock into her immaculate, tightly guarded virtue. And this was even better than the fantasy, because Lily belonged to him. She was his wife. Her immaculate, tight … God, he just knew she would be so tight … virtue was his. Not for the taking, but for the keeping. Forever.
It was the most heart-tugging, frightening, and flat-out arousing notion he’d ever contemplated. His trousers pulled snug over his groin.
“Then it’s still appropriate, I suppose. I mean … that is to say …” Her face went pink against the white linen. “You know there haven’t been others.”
Dear, sweet Lily. He smoothed the hair from her brow, forcing himself to rein in his lustful impulses for the moment. “Are you anxious?”
“No. Well, only a little. But it’s a pleasant sort of anxious.”
“You needn’t worry. This is going to be amazing. Spectacular.”
She laughed. “Perhaps I should fault the arrogance of that statement, but I’m rather comforted by it, truthfully.”
“It’s not arrogance, it’s a promise. This is going to be wonderful,” he insisted, “and I will tell you why. Because if at any time, you are feeling something less than indescribable bliss, you are going to tell me so, and I will stop at once. Do you understand? I would never hurt you.”
She nodded. “What a very husbandly thing to say.” With a little gasp, she bolted straight up in bed. As if she’d just now received an express notifying her of the fact, she grinned down at him and said, “I’m your wife, Julian. I’m Mrs. Bellamy.”
Her eyes sparkled with delight, sending bright shards of happiness to pierce his heart. She’d never looked so beautiful.
“No,” he said, struggling to sit up next to her, “you are still the daughter of a marquess. You are Mrs. Nothing. You are, and will always be, Lady Lily Bellamy.”
“Heavens.” Her hand went to her brow. “Another L sound in my name. That’s four now.”
“Too late. You can’t take it back.”
“Are you sure?” She toyed with his cravat. “You still haven’t kissed me, you know.”
He slowly leaned in, giving her ample time to retract that teasing smile to a soft, luscious pout. Their noses touched. She inhaled a quick breath. And just the instant before he pressed his lips to hers, she whispered, “I love you so.”
He covered the precious words with his mouth, needing to drink them in. Sipping at each of her lips in turn, then delving lightly with his tongue. She reached for him, curling her fingers in his hair, and as he deepened the kiss, she moaned in the back of her throat.
Desire swept him like a flame through dry bracken. It took everything he had to hold to that promise he’d just made, and not simply push her back against the counterpane and sink into her at once. But he was determined to make this every bit as good for her as it was doubtless going to be for him.
He left her mouth and began a thorough investigation of the spot beneath her ear. Nuzzling first, then tasting with lips and tongue. She was so delicious, he couldn’t resist a playful bite.
She gave a sharp cry.
He pulled away. “Have I hurt you?”
“No.” She looked puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
“You … you made a noise.”
“Oh, did I?” She smiled sheepishly. “I suppose because I liked it.”
Right. He needed her under him, now. His hands gathered fistfuls of billowing white lace.
“Now who’s anxious?” she asked, skimming a teasing touch along his jaw. “Last night in the hack, I’m positive I was making all manner of sounds. You weren’t so concerned then.”
“Last night was different.” Last night, he was different. Julian wasn’t sure how to explain it. In that carriage, he’d been a thief, taking what didn’t belong to him under cover of night. Today, he was a bridegroom, who’d just pledged to cherish and protect this woman all the days of his life. The difference was so profound, it was … well, it was night and day.
“Let’s settle on a signal,” she suggested. “A word. If I’m uncomfortable or in pain, I’ll say that word. With all other noises, you can assume the best. Do you agree?”
He nodded. “What word?”
She considered. “How about ‘spider’?”
“Spider?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Who wants to think of spiders in the throes of passion?”
“No one, of course. That’s why it’s ideal.”
He shook his head. “Something else, if you please, with fewer legs.”
“Very well.” Her eyes wandered past him, toward the connecting parlor. “What about ‘armchair’? Perfectly harmless, and only four legs.”
“That won’t do. What happens when you beg me—and no mistake, someday you will beg me—‘Julian, make love to me right here in the armchair’? The moment will be ruined.”
Her eyebrow arched to a reproachful angle. She knew she was being teased. But here was a tried-and-true test of temperament—when confronted with sharp wit, did a person retreat or parry? Julian could never be friends with people who fell into the former category.
And Lily’s response was the reason he adored her, beyond expression.
“Well, then,” she said, working loose his cravat. “If that’s the case, we rule out so many options. Armchair, sofa, carpet, bathtub, dressing table, dining table, wardrobe. No good, any of those.” She pulled the unknotted cravat free, and the slow glide of linen against his neck made his body pulse with need.
Her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Nor can we use coach, carriage, hackney, landau, or anything of that nature. Oh, and nature! We must rule out grass, meadow, hillock, haystack, grotto, lake … Really, Julian, there are very few words left.” Her hands slipped inside his open waistcoat, and she skimmed her palms over the thin lawn of his shirt. She was teasing him, with words and touch, and he couldn’t have loved it more.
“Turn around,” he said hoarsely, adding a hand motion for clarity’s sake.
She obeyed, and he applied his fingers to the column of fabric-covered buttons chasing down her slender back.
“What about ‘mirror’?” she said, smiling into the floor-length looking glass across the room.
“Minx.” He caught her gaze in the reflection. “Absolutely not.”
She laughed as he returned to the task of undoing her many, many tiny buttons. There might have been a hundred, and he wouldn’t have complained. With each closure he eased free, he kissed the patch of newly revealed skin. When he ran his tongue down the valley between her shoulder blades, she shivered and moaned.
“Bedpost?” she gasped, gripping the same as he drew the bodice down her shoulders, revealing her stays and tissue-thin chemise.
He let a swift yank on her laces serve as his curt refusal there. After undoing the tapes of her corset, he put his hands on her bared shoulders and turned her back to face him. Her loosened bodice gaped at the neckline, and he slid a hand inside to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her hardened nipple. He bent his lips to the creamy expanse of her décolletage.
She threw her head back, tilting her face to the ceiling as he kissed and nibbled her throat. “I am,” she breathed, “almost afraid to suggest ‘chandelier.’”
He chuckled against her skin.
“Plaster,” she blurted out, pushing on his shoulder.
He straightened. “What?”
“Plaster.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “‘Plaster’ is the perfect word. Not offensive, not suggestive.”
“Plaster,” he repeated. “Very well.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Lily, I adore you.”
Julian had to admit, he’d harbored worries in the dark recesses of his mind, about how to make this different. As in, the actual act. He felt the need to mark this time apart from every sexual experience he’d ever had before. He’d even searched his imagination for an as-yet-untried lovemaking position, much as he thought it prudent to begin with the basics.
But with her teasing, Lily had given him exactly what he needed. He could safely say he’d never discussed spiders and plaster in bed before, not with anyone.
And as he kissed her again, taking her mouth with possessive, unrestrained passion, he realized it wouldn’t even matter if he had. They’d filled this moment with so much genuine affection, there was no room for his sordid past to intrude.
This was different because this was Lily.
This was different because this was love.
And he needed to love her, now. Then again later. As many times as she’d permit. He tugged down her bodice and chemise to expose one breast, dipping his head to tongue the plump globe and taut, berry-red nipple. Drawing the nub into his mouth, he suckled with steady intent. Moan for me, Lily.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, Julian.”
“Oh, Juuuuuuulian,” Tartuffe squawked.
Startled, Julian jerked back his head. Unaware of the interruption, Lily picked the same moment to seek a kiss. They bumped noses, then recoiled from one another in pain. Deuce it all, now he’d truly hurt her.
“What is it?”
“Damned bird,” he grated out, pressing his fingers to his nose to check for blood, at the same time surveying her face for swelling. “Where is he?”
“In my sitting room,” she answered ruefully, flopping back onto the mattress and covering her face with both hands. “Perhaps he’s jealous.”
Julian scrambled from the bed and darted through the connecting door into Lily’s private parlor, gathering the birdcage with one hand and scooping up a stray lap blanket with the other. How he rued ever gifting her with the ridiculous creature. With determined haste, he shouldered open the door and marched the parrot down the corridor toward the staircase.
“There you are,” he said, setting the cage on the top step. “Holling will find you eventually.”
The bird chided, “Guilty, guilty.”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know. Stop reminding me.” He shook out the blanket and prepared to drape it over the cage.
“Oh, Juuulian,” the parrot shrieked. “Guilty, guilty! Mr. James Bell.”
His heart stalled. His hands froze in place, suspending the flannel drape in midair. “What the devil did you just say?”
Blue and green wings stretched. “Thank you, that will be all.”
“You miserable feathered …” Julian growled with frustration and tugged at his hair. It was that or pluck the parrot bare, plume by impertinent plume.
Mr. James Bell. Who’d taught the bird to say “Mr. James Bell”? Tartuffe must have been nearby when he came to escort Lily to the theater. Bloody hell.
What a fool he’d been just a minute ago, thinking there was no room for his past to intrude. He hadn’t even been married an hour, and already the perfect future he’d imagined for himself and Lily threatened to crumble around him, all thanks to a loose-beaked, decrepit bird. Panic closed in, clammy and oppressive, sending rivulets of cold perspiration down his back.
“Now you listen to me,” Julian said, crouching low and leveling a finger at the impudent creature. “You’re going to forget you ever heard that name. Otherwise for tomorrow’s dinner, I will specially request parrot fricassee.”
The bird cocked its head and regarded him with an accusing eye.
“I mean it. I will endanger you and your entire species.”
The parrot turned away in indignant silence.
Julian threw the blanket over the cage. “Wise bird.”
As he made his way back to Lily’s chambers, he tried to convince himself this was no cause for concern. So the parrot had learned the name “Mr. James Bell.” It signified nothing. Lily couldn’t even hear it. None of the servants would ascribe any meaning to it. The bird had been passed from gentleman to gentleman for years now. He might have picked up the name anywhere.
Julian paused with his hand on the bedchamber door latch, letting the cool brass calm his nerves. He would not allow the ravings of a deranged parrot to ruin his wedding day. This was what he’d been waiting for all his life.
This was love. This was Lily.
Resolving to banish all worries, he flung open the door. And halted mid-step.
Because this was Lily, naked.
Lily paused, one foot propped on the bed steps, arrested in the act of rolling her stocking over her knee.
Aside from that half-unrolled stocking, and its untouched counterpart on her other leg, she was bare to the skin. And Julian was standing in the doorway, utterly entranced.
Oh, drat.
“You …” she stammered. “Er, that was fast.”
He didn’t respond. Merely … tilted his head a fraction. His gaze roamed every part of her except her face. Fortunately, her bent leg and a fall of unbound hair served to conceal her most private places from his view. She didn’t dare move a muscle, for fear of exposing herself completely. Her hastily discarded gown, stays, and shift lay in an unhelpful heap on the floor.
“I meant to finish undressing before you returned,” she explained, “and wait for you in bed, under the covers. To surprise you.”
He remained silent, considering.
Lily blushed from head to toe. Now that she’d explained herself, she hoped he would do her the courtesy of ducking back into the corridor, counting ten, and allowing her to finish. But he showed no sign of moving at all.
“This is better,” he finally said, nodding in agreement with himself. “Much better.”
Still, he made no move.
“Are you just going to stand there staring at me?”
“Not for long.” He stayed her with an open palm. “Hold right there.” Then he leaned against the doorjamb and began to work at removing his boots.
Hold right there, indeed. Wherever would she go? She could act missish, she supposed. Blush, squeal, and grab for her chemise. Make an ungainly scramble up these low steps and dive under the bedclothes.
But as vulnerable as she was in her nakedness, she wasn’t afraid. She had power over him. The evidence was prominent indeed, where it pressed against his trouser fall. His obvious arousal told her he had needs. And the determined look in his eyes told her he had plans.
She wanted to learn what they were.
So she remained still, foot propped on the step and torso arched over her bent knee, watching him as he set his boots aside and shrugged out of his topcoat and waistcoat. Stripped down to shirt and trousers, he crossed to her in smooth, confident strides. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh as he advanced.
He stopped at her side. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
The stark hunger in his gaze revealed the truth of his statement. And that unsettled Lily. He’d wanted this for a long time. Perhaps imagined it in vivid, shocking detail. What if the actual experience didn’t live up to his expectations? She wanted so much to please him. To reward his patience.
“Do you trust me?” His touch grazed her cheek.
“Always.”
Cat-like, he slid around her body, coming to stand behind her. She felt the flutter of linen against her back, then caught sight of his discarded shirt as it joined her garments on the floor. A moment later, his trousers topped the pile. She closed her eyes on a smile, knowing better than to wait for smallclothes.
His hands smoothed over her shoulders and came to rest on her upper arms. He tugged, drawing her torso upright and pulling her back flush against his naked chest.
Ah, warmth. Delicious heat slid over her chilled skin and sank deeper, permeating muscle and bone. He ironed her back with the hard planes of his chest, while his hands stroked up and down her arms. He bent his head, and his breath warmed her ear. His hips nestled against her backside, and she felt the springy hair on his thigh tease against her smoother flesh. He held her surrounded, captive. The heat of his body relaxed and aroused her, all at once. She was melting in his arms, becoming languid and wet.
She started to pivot in his arms and face him, but he held her fast, forbidding her to turn.
He trailed one hand up her arm, then across, skimming his fingertips along her collarbone. Then his touch dipped, tracing the line of her sternum and continuing around to caress the underside of her breast. She felt his breath catch. Lily looked down, entranced by the way he balanced the soft, slight weight in his palm and circled her areola with his thumb. Her nipple puckered to a taut peak, seeking his touch.
He didn’t oblige, the teasing cad. Instead he drew his fingers back up her chest. She stretched her neck, reclining her head against his shoulder as he feathered light touches up her throat, surrendering to the lovely ripples of sensation.
Now she knew why he wouldn’t allow her to turn. If they faced each other, he would be the focus of her concentration. Was he saying something?, she would continually ask herself, scanning his expressions. Had she missed some important direction or cue? But standing like this, he freed her from incessant questioning and allowed her to simply respond.
His tongue flicked and swirled against her neck, raising the little hairs on her nape. He cupped her jaw, pressing his thumb to the corner of her lips. Her mouth fell open, and she panted as he traced the shape of her lips, then insinuated his thumb between them. He rubbed her tongue, and Lily knew a moment of uncertainty. Did he wish her to lick his thumb? To suckle it?
Obeying the urges of her own desire, she let her tongue flicker against the tip of his thumb. His growl of approval rumbled through her. But before she could continue, he withdrew his thumb from her mouth. In the next instant, he pressed that moistened pad against her erect nipple, shocking her with the brisk sensation.
Who could have suspected bliss to be so cold? With every frosty lick of his wet thumb over the sensitive bud, she envied the intimate lives of seals and Laplanders. The exquisite chill had her shivering with desire, and growing ever more aware of the hot ridge branding the small of her back.
His manhood ground against her, hard and insistent, as he plucked at both her nipples now, cupping and shaping the mounds of her breasts. He nuzzled and kissed her neck and ear. The air surrounding them grew rich with musk, and Lily dragged it in and out of her lungs in open-mouth gasps. She writhed her hips, hoping to lure those talented fingers lower. She needed his touch there, down between her legs.
When he brought his first and second fingers to her mouth, this time she opened for them readily, sucked them hungrily. Another surprise, how the simple act of suckling aroused her beyond measure. She pulled his fingers deeper into her mouth, tracing their full length with her tongue and thrilling to his palpable groan.
She fought his retreat, pursing her lips tight and whimpering around his fingers as they slid from her mouth. But all complaining ended when he applied the wet tips to her intimate flesh, parting her folds with one confident sweep and centering on the sensitive nub at their crest.
She cried out. Nearly faltered, but he held her fast with one arm cinched just below her breasts, binding her to him as he worked that needy, aching bit of flesh. Her posture, with one foot propped on the step, eased his exploration. Just a few skillful swipes of his fingertips, and he had her on the brink of ecstasy. Her thighs quivered as she approached release.
Suddenly, she felt him shift behind her. The hard, muscular thigh that had bracketed hers now moved between her legs, spreading her wide. And the erection that had pressed against her back now sprang up snug between her legs. His hardness worked back and forth against her aroused flesh, stroking in delicious counterpoint to the steady motion of his fingertips.
She was so close. Teetering on the edge of bliss.
“Julian,” she gasped. “I need …”
But he knew what she needed. He pressed the tip of his arousal against her opening, nudging just inside. Not so much as to hurt her. Just enough to give her that full, tight sense of completion she craved. Her inner muscles stretched around his girth, and his fingers made feverish circles over her pearl.
She came apart, wracked by blissful shudders and inarticulate cries. He thrust, allowing her body to draw him in, steadily sheathing himself in her climax. The invasion hurt, but the pain dimmed in comparison to the bright, overwhelming pleasure. In the same way the cold against her nipple had only made her more aware of his heat.
She was aware of all of him now. Every hot, hard, powerful inch. He was inside her. He was hers.
After a few motionless moments, his grip on her waist slackened. He withdrew from her body, then helped her up the bed steps and onto the mattress, rolling her onto her back. Pillows bunched beneath her head as he arranged her limbs to his satisfaction and knelt between her thighs. After all this, she still had her stockings on. He didn’t seem to care. If a man could drink a woman in with his eyes, then Julian was taking great, thirsty gulps of her bosom.
His body fascinated her, too. His small, flat nipples and smooth chest, the trail of dark hair that led down to his groin.
He balanced his weight on one arm and angled her hips with the other, preparing to enter her again. His every muscle and tendon tensed.
“Wait.”
He waited. Reluctantly. She looked up, into a gaze razor-sharp with yearning. His eyes let her know just how much sanity this delay would cost him. But he waited, because she’d asked.
His erect, ruddy manhood lay heavy on her stomach. At last, here was some facet of Julian she could fully know. When it came to this most elemental expression, a man could have no disguises, no complexities. This part of her husband was simple, honest, and currently very straightforward. She wanted to explore and understand him, from tip to root.
So, just as a lady should do with any new acquaintance, Lily began by offering her hand.
She brushed a fingertip against his swollen, dusky crown. The entire organ flinched. Startled, she pulled her hand away.
He retrieved it, curling her fingers around his thick, veined shaft and showing her how to slide down to the base, then up again. His breath heaved in his chest as she cautiously stroked, testing his girth and length with her fingers, swirling her thumb around the broad, plum-like head. Her hand came away wet with an iridescent shimmer and streaks of her virgin’s blood. So raw; so wildly arousing. She felt unhinged from this pristine, white-linen world.
“Go on.” She stretched her arms above her head, lifting her breasts and offering herself for the taking.
And he took.
Spreading her thighs with his own, he sank into her in a slow, powerful glide. He set a steady rhythm, working a bit deeper with each thrust. As he stroked into her again and again, he covered her body with hot, desperate kisses, interspersed with words. Lily wished she could catch them all. She recognized the double flicker of her name, a few phrases here and there. Comprehension came and went in little thrusts of carnality.
“You feel,” she glimpsed. A bit later, “Can’t help—” Then “beautiful” and “so wet” and “God” and “I love.”
“I love this,” she told him, running her hands over the straining muscles of his back and pulling him close. “I love you.”
His tempo increased, and she felt him growl against her neck. Then he shuddered, stroking into her deep—once, twice—and was still.
He lay spent and heavy atop her. And that was a good thing, because without his weight, Lily thought she just might float away. Such happiness.
I am a wife, she thought. I am Julian’s wife.
After a moment, he rose up on his elbows, smoothing the hair from her face and pressing tender, breathless kisses to her brow and cheeks. “Are you well?”
She nodded. “Very well indeed. And you?”
“Never better.” He touched the corner of her lips. “And I say that with all honesty, Lily. Never better.”
Joy lifted her heart.
He withdrew from her and rolled aside, wrapping his arm about her midsection to keep her close.
She turned on her side to face him. “Will you teach me to converse in signs, the way you spoke with Anna at the coffeehouse?”
He blinked at the abrupt change of topic.
“I mean,” she went on, “I only ever learned the finger alphabet and never practiced it much at that.” Although, after her night at the coffeehouse, she’d excavated the crumbling pamphlet from her bureau drawer, practicing the signs for each letter until she could recall them from memory.
He rose up on his elbow. “Of course I’ll teach you, if you wish. Bear in mind, it’s rather like a dialect. The signs I use are one part my mother’s local language, and one part learned at the coffeehouse. Finger-spelled English is more standard, if you ever mean to use it with anyone else.”
“Perhaps we could practice both.” She trailed a finger down the center of his chest. “We are married now. We have a lifetime ahead of us, and I hate the thought of missing a single word you say.” She pushed herself to a sitting position, folding her legs under her bottom and pulling the counterpane over her lap.
Carefully, and embarrassingly slowly, she signed letters with her hands.
I … L … O … V … E … Y … O … U
Smiling, he took her hands and kissed them each in turn. Then he sat up beside her and said, “There’s a way to signal the end of a word. Watch carefully.”
She stared intently at his hands, noting the subtle wrist motion and slant of gaze he used to separate each cluster of letters.
I. L-O-V-E. Y-O-U.
And then, T-O-O.
She blinked furiously, her eyes misting with tears.
His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face to his. “For God’s sake, Lily. Don’t cry. Is it such a terrible thing?”
“No. It’s wonderful.” She wiped her eyes with her wrist. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to weep. We love each other. We’re husband and wife. It’s the happiest day of my life, truly. It’s only … I wish it hadn’t taken us so long to figure it out.”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“What?” She sniffed. “What’s so amusing?”
“Lily. You have no idea.” He scratched the back of his neck, still grinning. “Answer me this. Do you know that you rub your left ear when you’re vexed?”
“I do? No, I don’t. Do I?” Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled her fingers away from that same ear he’d just named.
“Yes, you do.”
He began signing along with his speech. She couldn’t decode the rapid motions just yet, but she adored watching them, in much the same way she loved watching him play the pianoforte so masterfully.
“The night we met,” he said, “it was your twenty-fifth birthday. A pleasant Wednesday evening, warm for April. You wore a gown of violet silk with gold braid trim. White gloves. Your hair was lovely. It was twisted into a knot at the center, with a smaller coil and ribbons encircling the chignon. You used to wear that style often, but I haven’t seen you do so of late. Have you changed lady’s maids?”
She nodded numbly. “This past May.”
“I thought so.”
“But how did you …” Lily frowned, not understanding him. “Last week, you said you didn’t even remember the night we met.”
“Your menu was inspired by Indian fare,” he went on. “All these exotic curries and chutneys and spiced lamb. I remember marveling at the fact that you’d ordered a birthday meal of entirely unfamiliar dishes, when most would ask for old favorites. It told me you have an adventurous spirit.”
“Me? I don’t have an adventurous spirit.” Lily wasn’t an adventurer. She was a keeper of lists and ledgers. She only wished she possessed an adventurous spirit.
“Not adventurous?” He teased her with a look. “In the past week, you’ve danced in assembly rooms and crude taverns, attended the theater in outrageous disguise, flung yourself at me in carriages and dark alleys. If that’s not proof of an adventurous spirit, I don’t know what is. But back to that first night. You took us all on a culinary adventure to India. Our place cards had little elephants drawn on them. I still have mine, somewhere.”
“Leo didn’t care for it.” She chuckled, remembering the way her brother’s face had flushed beet-red after one bite of the spicy curry. “He declared an end to Hindu sympathies and asked the footman to bring cold roast beef.”
“He did. And though he’d just thrown over all your hard work, you smiled and said nothing. The conversation floated on to something else, and you rubbed your left ear. And then, for some reason, your eyes sought mine. In that moment, I knew three things. First, much as you loved your brother, you occasionally found Leo a bit trying and dull.”
She gasped. “No. Leo? I never—”
“Secondly,” he went on, undeterred, “I knew that a band of vicious outlaws could storm the dining room and hold you at knifepoint, and you would deny that fact to the gruesome end. Just as you’re doing now. But thirdly, and most remarkably, I knew you couldn’t hide it from me. Didn’t even wish to. I can’t explain exactly how or why, but I understood you, Lily. And I felt certain, somehow, that you would understand me.”
She knew exactly what he meant. Lily had recognized their connection too, even when she’d called it nothing more than friendship. She’d always felt safe baring her emotions to him.
“I was in love with you by the time the third course was served. I’ve been in love with you ever since.” His lips quirked in a little smile. “So you see, it did not take me so very long to figure it out. Perhaps an hour, all told.”
Truly? He’d known himself to be in love with her all this time? She hardly knew how to respond. A lump rose in her throat, and the taste was bitter. If he’d been in love with her, how could he have wasted so much time—so much of himself—on all those others?
W-H-Y, she signed with halting motions. “Why did you never say anything?”
He gave a defeated shrug. “I’m a bastard. Isn’t it obvious?”
If that was meant to be a joke, Lily wasn’t laughing.
“I don’t know,” he finally replied. “Why do you rub your left ear when you’re vexed? Out of pain at first, or perhaps fear. After a while, it just became habit.”
He went still for a moment. When he began again, his signs were expansive, animated. Deeply felt, she supposed.
“I’ve spent so much of my life wanting. As a boy, wanting food, wanting warmth, wanting shelter. Wanting my mother back, for even just one day. Then as a man, wanting wealth, wanting esteem, wanting revenge. By that night of your birthday party, I’d accomplished everything I’d set out to do by entering the ton. And as much as I’d taken for myself, I still wasn’t satisfied. Always, I wanted more. That insatiable hunger … I reveled in it. I pretended to enjoy what I could not control. Let it become my life, my identity.”
He paused a moment before continuing. “I saw you that night, and we had that moment of understanding over chutney and whatever else. And a little voice in my soul said, ‘This. If I had this—if I had her, I would want for nothing. She would be enough.’ And I think it scared me witless.” He gestured around them, at the rumpled bed linens and their naked limbs. “This was something I never dreamed could happen. Not with you.”
Lily could hardly fault him for that. She’d never encouraged him to dream of it, and she’d kept her own imagination tightly laced—always so careful to label their connection as friendship, affinity. Never attraction or love.
Perhaps she’d been scared witless, too.
A question danced on the tip of her tongue. She shouldn’t ask it. They’d been married all of an hour, after all, and it wasn’t fair to put him on the spot. But she couldn’t help herself. “So, now we’re here. Together. And am I enough?”
He stared intently into her eyes. “You’re everything.”
Oh, dear. Thrilling and romantic, those words, but also intimidating. Being a man’s everything was no small task. Especially when that man was Julian, with his fathoms-deep capacity for passion and devotion.
“Am I doing it right?” she asked, raising her hands and spelling, I. L-O-V-E. Y-O-U … Feeling the need to lighten the moment, at the last instant she added an R.
He chuckled and gave her a naughty look. “You love my what?”
Your heart, your mind, your complex, wounded soul.
She took her time with the letters, teasing him. Arching her back to thrust her breasts for attention and forming the signs just below her right nipple.
B … I … G.
H … O … T.
H … A … R … D.
S … T … R … O …
She could have gone on all day and all night, stringing adjectives together. But before she could start on the fifth, he had her tipped flat on her back, pressing his big, hot, hard, strong body to hers.
She didn’t fault him for interrupting.