Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Annalise woke to wind splattering rain against her window. Beyond the glass, the world was a blurry, watery gray with people scurrying about with umbrellas. Annalise gripped her taut belly and remembered: Today, she was getting married. Exmore wanted to remove her from her uncle’s house as soon as possible. To this end, he would obtain a special license that morning, and the wedding would take place in the afternoon.
The idea of a marriage of friends was comforting. She could give up on finding love again—the passionate love she had had for Patrick and the potential happiness or pain it might cause—and just accept a situation that was good enough but not ideal. Since her parents’ deaths, the world seemed much bigger and harder, and she, much smaller and fragile. But now, in the rainy, cold morning, she realized she had made a mistake. Everything was wrong. She knew Patrick was never coming back to her. He didn’t love her. Yet, today would be the final end to her doomed courtship with Patrick. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hanging on the thinnest thread of hope for Patrick. But now, all hope, no matter how dim, was extinguished. He was gone to her forever.
“No,” she whispered. “No.” It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Her aunt swept into the room, her cheeks and eyes bright with excitement. Phoebe and Mrs. Bailey were in her wake. “Oh, my darling, you must get ready for your wedding!” her aunt said in a singsong voice. “I’ve told everyone. And a letter from your future husband has arrived and these lovely orchids for you to carry. Mrs. Bailey, put these in a vase.”
Annalise took the letter, opened it, and read.
All will be well. Come to the chapel at four, my lovely bride.
Her stomach turned. She felt she might vomit.
The only suitable wedding gown she possessed was a simple, unadorned white gown from her first Season. In her fantasies of marrying Patrick, she had envisioned having a lovely dress made that was embroidered with bluebells that matched her mother’s wedding veil. Annalise didn’t even know where that old veil was now. When she showed her aunt her choice of bridal attire, the woman pressed her palm to her forehead, aghast. “That old rag of a thing!”
Annalise uncharacteristically lost her humor with her aunt. “Oh, who cares what I marry in?” she said and then burst into tears.
Her aunt shooed Mrs. Bailey and Phoebe away. Then she sandwiched Annalise’s face in her hands. “Come now, I know you are worried,” she said with maternal knowing. “But Exmore will be gentle with his wife. It’s an awkward act that a wife must tolerate. But think, my love. You shall have an infant of your own.”
Annalise stared. Her aunt misunderstood entirely. How could she say, I was supposed to marry someone else? She knew her aunt wouldn’t understand. She lived in a very small, flat, defined world, where she never looked over the edges or questioned herself because what she would discover would be too painful.
“Now, now, see yourself in the mirror,” her aunt continued. “Aren’t you radiant? Exmore will have a very pretty wife. You should always strive to make him happy, my dear. Your happiness will be in his happiness.”
Annalise peered at her reflection. She didn’t see any radiance, only dark fear dilating her eyes. This marriage would be a sham. Friends shouldn’t marry.
The rain continued throughout the day. On the way to the church, Annalise clutched the flowers and watched the swollen, filthy gutters flow like rapids along the roadside. She kept telling herself that she was getting married today, yet it didn’t seem like it was really happening. Wasn’t her wedding day supposed to be more than this? Shouldn’t bells toll and horses be adorned with white ribbon? Shouldn’t she feel happy?
Her uncle’s manservant held the umbrella over her as Annalise lifted the edges of her gown and dashed to the vestry. Inside, the church was gloomy, gray stone with heavy wooden beams. The chapel was empty except for Exmore conferring with the vicar by the altar. This is wrong, she thought. This is not the man I’m supposed to marry. She should turn around now.
“Ah, there she is,” Vicar said.
She didn’t wait for her uncle to lead her down the aisle, but walked quietly on, gripping her orchids to her chest. She needed Exmore to gaze at her with those tender, reassuring eyes to calm her fears. He needed to be her hero again, saving her from her fears. But when he turned, the lines of his face were ashen, as if he hadn’t slept. His gaze was hollow and tired.
Oh God, he knows this is a huge mistake too. He acted out of honor and now he’s trapped.
The next minutes were a blur in her mind. The words of the ceremony streamed through her head. “Wilt thou… thy wedded husband… forsaking all others… I will…”
Exmore held her hand, his eyes averted as he uttered the fateful, un-retractable words, “And thereto I plight thee my troth.”
It was her turn to pledge her life. She gripped Exmore’s hand. The vicar waited. The audience of her uncle and his family grew silent. She had imagined this scene a thousand times or more. She had planned her wedding to Patrick in minute detail. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Lovely light should shine through the stained glass like God blessing the union. Her betrothed should gaze at her with a loving glow in his eyes. Her father should be beside her as her mother looked on.
Be strong, Annalise. Stop this madness.
“Miss Van Der Keer, your vows,” the vicar prompted.
Exmore lifted his gaze to hers, imploring.
Her voice cracked. “I—I t-take thee…” She didn’t know how she formed the remaining words. She couldn’t feel the air rising through her throat or her lips moving. The vow came out halting and brittle. “I give thee my troth.”
The vicar joined their hands together. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Blackness filled Annalise’s vision. The flowers tumbled from her fingers, and white petals scattered on the cold stone floor by the hem of her gown. Exmore caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. He kept her nestled in his embrace as the vicar hurried through the rest of the service.
“All will be well,” Exmore whispered. “All will be well.”
But Annalise knew it wouldn’t be so as she gazed at the gold band encircling her finger. It felt heavy and unnatural. What had she done?
* * *
The next hours were akin to watching a horse race by the fence line—the streaks of motion, the thundering of sound. She held Exmore’s arm like it was a raft keeping her afloat. She was beginning to awaken to the extensive duties that accompanied her vows as the staff of Exmore’s London home streamed into the rain to form a line to meet her. She mustered her courage, holding the tears at bay, and tried to be as courteous as possible. She remembered very little of his home from her one visit years ago, and she had been too distraught then to take in its enormity and ornateness. A huge portrait of Cassandra waited above the double staircases entwining up a series of balconies. Annalise was arrested by the image of the woman who had destroyed Exmore’s heart. She had forgotten how beautiful Cassandra had been. She seemed to peer down at Annalise as if to say, You don’t belong here.
Exmore must have sensed her distress, for he beckoned to a manservant and pointed to the painting. The manservant nodded.
“We must have your portrait painted and hung in its place,” he told Annalise.
“No!” she cried without thinking. She was horrified at the idea of London Society entering his home and seeing her likeness towering above them. The thought reminded her that as marchioness, she would have to host balls, dinners, and musical evenings. Dear Lord! All she really wanted was to draw wildflowers. Not this!
Wasn’t marrying a marquess supposed to be some kind of dream? Well, it was. A nightmare.
Again, Exmore whispered, “All will be well,” in her ear, but his worried tone hardly soothed her.
She was finally shown to her chamber after an intimidating tour of her new home. And she learned there were four other grander estates that Exmore also called his residences. She was so overwhelmed she could hardly keep her thoughts straight. She remembered thinking how snobbish those old matrons had sounded at balls when they spoke of marrying near one’s station. Now their advice made perfect sense: Annalise hadn’t been brought up to be a marchioness. Now she even had her own lady’s maid—a willowy, lovely lady named Marie. Annalise missed homey, unfashionable Mrs. Bailey. She desperately needed someone from her old life at this moment.
Marie curtsied. “My lady,” she said, her French accent showing.
Don’t call me my lady. Don’t supplicate to me.
“I put your things away,” Marie said.
“Oh.” Annalise didn’t remember having her belongings packed and sent over. Of course, it must have happened. How distracted she had been.
Marie pointed to the various features in the chamber, including the neighboring sitting and dressing rooms. Then she gestured to an interior door. “And that leads to your husband’s chambers.”
Annalise stared at the door. Several days ago, they had spoken at a masquerade, and she hadn’t known his name. Now, they would intimately know each other. There was so much she didn’t know about him. The little important details that made up a person. She just had his broad strokes. It was all too quick.
“I am so happy you are here.” Marie arranged bottles on a vanity. “It’s been gloomy since Lady Exmore died… Oh, but you are Lady Exmore now.”
No, I’m not, Annalise wanted to say. I’m Annalise Van Der Keer. Instead, she only smiled and wrapped her arms about herself.
Marie helped Annalise out of her wedding gown. “Do you have a special nightgown for tonight?” she asked with a knowing smile. She seemed happier about Annalise’s wedding night than Annalise.
“No, just… just the ones I usually wear.”
Marie gave her a mysterious smile, making Annalise feel stupid for not thinking of a pretty nightgown for her husband.
After Annalise had donned her plain nightclothes, Marie brushed out her hair until it spilled in shiny waves around her shoulders. “Here, then.” She dabbed floral perfume on Annalise’s neck and then left with the wedding gown folded over her arm.
Annalise was alone. The rain pinged on the windows. It hadn’t let up all day.
What did she do now?
She eyed the door. Did she visit his chamber? Did he visit hers? Who knocked first?
She felt like a five-year-old who wanted to go back home to her mother and father.
She walked to where her leather portfolios rested on a large desk. She opened the top one, which contained her letters to Patrick, and drew out the last one she had written. She turned the stationery over and hastily wrote:
Dear Patrick, I’ve made a horrible mistake. What have I done? What have I done? It was supposed to be you. I was supposed to marry you…
She heard a gentle tap and glanced down at the letter. Oh God, she had written to Patrick on her wedding night? What was wrong with her? She felt oddly like she was already breaking the vows she had made only hours before. She didn’t have time to burn the letter, so she shoved it back into the portfolio.
“Yes,” she said.
The door slowly opened, and Exmore entered hesitantly, wearing a silk dressing gown of jewel blue and crimson. She had never seen him without a starched shirt, tailored coat, and cravat. In the firelight, his skin appeared bronze. His tousled hair shone as it fell onto his forehead and almost down to his shoulders. She could make out the planes of his chest peeking out from the V opening of his robe and the curves of his muscled calves beneath the hem. He cradled a wrapped package in his arms.
Despite his casual attire, he bowed stiffly.
“Are you well?” He nervously eyed her.
Why try to pretend? She wasn’t any good at acting. “I’m overwhelmed, scared, not sure I can be a marchioness, and I’m wondering if I made a mistake, but you… you look very handsome.” She gestured to him. “Well, you’re always handsome. But you are especially handsome tonight.”
Her words had the opposite effect than she’d thought they would. Surely, stating that she felt she had made a mistake would trouble him, but his shoulders relaxed with a long exhalation.
“I’m feeling overwhelmed myself. I saw how you struggled today, and I should have been—I should have been a better husband to you.”
“I understand,” she interjected. “I can imagine this was an emotional day for you.”
“I admit I thought I may have been too hasty, but now that I have you away from everyone and all to myself…” He studied her face. Her skin heated under his perusal. “Oh, you are beautiful.”
She became conscious of her dull nightgown, her hair flowing loose. She hadn’t been dishabille with anyone outside her family. But he was her family now. “I don’t have pretty nightclothes,” she stammered. “I didn’t expect to be married in a matter of hours after the proposal.”
“I was gazing into your eyes when I called you beautiful. I hadn’t even noticed your gown.” Then he made a dramatic show of looking at it. “Good God, it’s hideous!”
“It’s not hideous!” she cried, laughing. “It’s white, boring, and functionary, and not at all romantic.”
“It’s wonderful to hear you laugh again.” That tender smile she had missed all day finally returned. Its warmth soaked into her bones. She would have thought that being in a bedchamber alone for the first time with her husband would have elicited a case of nerves. Instead, this was the closest she had come to relaxing all day.
“I brought you a gift.” He held up the package. It was the shape of a book. “I think you can guess what it is.”
Their hands met as she took the package. Even the brief touch comforted her. But she instinctively drew away, as would be polite, and then remembered that he was her husband now. She could touch him without Society’s censure. So she snuggled against him, letting his heat and scent soothe her.
“Ahh, Annalise,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her.
She carefully folded back the paper to reveal a book of botanical illustrations. “It’s lovely,” she whispered, carefully flipping through the pages. “Just lovely.”
“Did you take notice of the author?”
She turned the book to the cover. “Mrs. Herbert Brockley,” she marveled. “A woman botanist.”
“I thought you might be inspired. Perhaps you should consider publishing a book of your illustrations and thoughts.”
She looked at him comically. “I’m not the scientist. My father was. I merely draw flowers and animals as it pleases me.” She rubbed the book’s title that was embossed in the leather and strolled to the lamp by her bed for better light. She sat on the edge of the mattress and opened the book again. “My father always talked about creating a book, but he never did. I still have all his notes. I brought them with me.”
He sat beside her. “You should make a book of your work and his in his memory.”
“Do you really think I could?”
“Without a doubt.”
There was no mockery in his expression, as was always present in her uncle’s face, only honest sincerity. He truly thought she was talented. Without thinking, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for your faith in me.”
He studied her, turning her self-conscious.
He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear and then let his fingers drift down her long locks and alongside her breast. She shivered, not with dread or nervousness, but with expectation.
“I only want you to be comfortable when we are together,” he said quietly. “Our courtship was too brief. I can wait as long as you need.”
Her face heated as she realized he meant their marital intimacy. This was the part where they consummated their marriage, when all their spoken vows translated to their bodies. In her mind flashed an image of their bodies intertwined. Oddly, it didn’t cause her any nervousness. Only want.
“Can I kiss you?” she asked. “Or must I wait?”
He smiled and answered with his lips. The kiss started as sweet as yesterday’s did, but a tension gripped her body. She couldn’t get close enough to him. After a terrifying day, she needed his magic. But he drew away, and cold air met her skin.
“You are so lovely.” His voice was hoarse and thick.
“Don’t leave me alone tonight,” she implored. “Can you stay here, even if we don’t…” She had spent all her nights alone, feeling the darkness seeming to press upon her and worries accumulating in her mind.
“I will stay any night you wish.”
“I wish for all of them. You said I didn’t have to be alone again.”
He kissed her, his body turning hard, making her aware of the muscles of his arms and chest, the slight roughness of his shaved chin, and the tinge of sweat that mingled with his cologne. Her breasts began to ache, wanting more of what he was giving her. Still, she could feel him hesitate, meting out his love. She needed to give him a sign that he shouldn’t worry about her. She let her hand slide up his chest. When her fingers reached the opening of his robe, his warm, naked skin sent a wild jolt coursing through her body, as did the realization that he wore nothing underneath. She paused, feeling very much in deep waters.
“It’s all right,” he whispered encouragingly in her ear. The heat of his breath tingled her lobe. “You can touch me. It gives me pleasure. Don’t be nervous.”
She tentatively let her fingers drift inside his robe, discovering the contours of his chest and belly. She enjoyed the hums of pleasure he gave as she caressed him. Yet, when she reached the patch of curls beneath his stomach, her knuckles accidentally brushed against his swollen sex. It jutted, stone-like and thick. She was arrested, unsure what to do. She could hear his uneven breath rushing by her ear.
“Annalise,” he murmured.
He took her hand, keeping his fingers safely over hers as he guided her along his sex. As she explored, his lips sought hers, opening her mouth. His tongue swirled against hers as he taught her how to touch him. His pleasure flowed through her as if they were immersed in the same current. When he opened his eyes, a burning glow in their depths appeared almost predatory, yet his touch was gentle as his lips trailed down her neck and onto her shoulder. His fingers stroked her just under the line of her nightgown, telling her that he wanted more if she would allow him.
Her nipples hardened, and a wet throb burned between her legs. She reached for the tie string of her gown. He drew back, keeping his gaze fixed on her face as she undid the knot. She drew down the sleeves until her breasts were bared before him. She felt no shyness as he took her in. She wanted to share herself with him. She wanted to be known.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered. He kissed her lips as he swept his arm beneath her, resting her upon the mattress. Then his mouth glided lower and lower as he drew away her gown, revealing her entire body to him.
“You’re beautiful, so beautiful,” he said and let his warm tongue lap the tip of her nipple.
She released a strangled cry. Every small scrap she had picked up along the way about the intimate relations between a husband and wife was very wrong. She always imagined in her daydreams that the bride would be more passive, finding less delight in the act than the husband. Yet, as his tongue fondled her breast, she felt as though she were breaking apart with want. She writhed, pushing against him, driving herself deeper into his mouth. The pleasure was most intense between her legs, where her sex throbbed, wet and swollen.
He appeared to know how she ached for him. He let his hand drift slowly lower and lower, until his fingers rested outside her sex. There, he lingered. Did he know he was torturing her? Why wasn’t he touching her, or doing something to relieve the desire that burned so strong that it hurt? She bit down on her lips, and her thighs started undulating against the mattress. She couldn’t control them. Her mind might not know how to make love, but her body clearly did. It had carried around the unspoken secret all these years.
His warm breath tickled her breast. “Wife, you are killing me,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and his finger finally slid lower, coming to light on the mound between her legs. A powerful sensation radiated from where he touched, sending waves across her body. And he kept moving his finger, not letting the pleasure dissipate, but allowing it to build as she whimpered. She had never known such exquisite joy could exist. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, and whispered his name, letting her tongue relish its sounds. Her body began to quake from pleasure. All other thoughts ceased except that he had to be in her body. He had to satisfy that maddening want deep inside her. The course was irreversible now.
She reached out to him, crying, “I must know you.”
“We can wait.” His voice was ragged.
Wait? That’s all she had done for years. Wait for death, wait in silence, wait alone with unrequited love. “No, no, I can’t! Please! Let me give something to you. Let me give you pleasure too.”
He bowed his head, taking a deep breath as though steeling himself. Then he came to rest atop her, his robe open, shielding their bodies. She felt safe beneath him, sheltered by him as the cold rain splattered the windows. He kissed her softly, assuring her that she was lovely and brilliant as his sex pressed against her. A spasm of pain ran through her, and she released a high, humming cry as his body entered her body.
“Dear God,” he cried.
She became still. She held on to his arms, feeling his body tremble. The pain receded, leaving her to marvel at the sensation of him, his power, his energy, his being inside her. She hadn’t expected his presence to feel profound. Almost sacred. She touched his cheek. He turned his face to kiss her palm. Her gold wedding band gleamed in the light. The wedding vows she had uttered with fear and trepidation in the empty, cold chapel now found peace in her heart. She was a wife now. His true wife. She wouldn’t be alone again.
Tears burned in her eyes.
Her dear husband misunderstood and panicked. “We can stop!”
“No, please, don’t. I—I didn’t know it would be so lovely. I didn’t know.”
The fear on his face melted away, replaced by a tender smile. His lips brushed her forehead. “And may it always be for us—lovely.”
He began to move, back and forth, gently. Her body met his, complementing his motion. The intense desire returned, drawing her under its powerful current until her quaking cry mingled with his, and he withdrew, spilling wet heat onto her belly.
Later, as her spent body rested against his, she felt as though she were floating on warm golden light, even as the rain poured outside. He held her tight to his chest, and she lulled in the reassuring rhythm of his breath and thrum of his heart. She had never felt so safe and fully herself. Did he feel the same? She smiled as she remembered the pleasure on his features as he loved her. She sat up on her elbows and studied his face, taking in all its facets. She had a lifetime now to learn every little thing about him.
He stroked her damp hair, drawing a strand from her face and locking it behind her ear. A boyish smile lazed on his lips.
“I guess we waited a half an hour or so,” she observed. “Is that what you meant when you said we could wait?”
“No.” He tapped her nose. “I was trying to be the good, patient husband, and you spoiled all my best intentions. But in truth, I wanted to make love to you the moment I walked into this chamber and saw you with your lovely hair long and shining. I could see the outlines of your breasts in the gown that you said was boring. I found the sight quite tantalizing.”
“I shall wear it for you whenever you like,” she said. “And I found your robe quite fetching. In fact, all of you is quite fetching. I can unabashedly say that now since we are married.”
His eyes turned earnest. “Are you happy you said yes?” he whispered.
She found she couldn’t answer. The tears threatened again. She could only nod and kiss his lips.