Chapter Six
The wedding was small. Very small. Only the vicar was present, with Squire Blevins and his thoroughly scandalized wife there to act as witnesses. Abbi wore the same simple gown she had worn for dinner at the Whitby's. Mrs. Wolcot had insisted on weaving flowers into the tight coronet of braids that she wore. It was her only concession to her role as a bride. And her nerves, he thought ruefully. She'd been jumpy as a cat all morning, and it had only become worse after their return home.
Home, he thought somewhat bewildered. When had he come to think of the crumbling heap of Blagdon Hall as home? Perhaps it wasn't the hall, he conceded. Perhaps it was the woman who resided within it. That in mind, he watched her beneath half-lowered lashes as she moved the food around on her plate and managed to not take a single bite of it.
The servants, the pair of crotchety old miscreants that were more hindrance than help for the most part, had made themselves scarce. There was no wedding celebration as there was no one to invite, or at least not within a distance that would make their attendance a possibility. Mrs. Wolcot had at least produced a fine meal for them before scurrying off to whatever corner she typically occupied, leaving them alone in the small dining room.
The silence stretched between them, only the sound of their cutlery moving on china broke the deadened air of the room. The tension between them was palpable. Michael elected to simply wait out his new bride and see what thoughts were burning in her particularly hard skull.
Finally, after what seemed an interminable silence, Abbi spoke. She sat her fork down, and it clattered against the plate. The noise was nearly deafening in the too-quiet room.
She inhaled deeply and then on a shuddering breath; the words escaped her in a rush. “I’ve given it a significant amount of thought, my lord, and I’ve decided that we should wait to consummate our union.”
Michael didn't respond immediately. He took in her posture, stiffened spine, clenched jaw, the white-knuckled grip she had on the fork that appeared to be bending under the strain. Fear was pushing her, and Abigail knew only one response. To push back. Electing to neither agree nor disagree, his voice was companionable as he queried, “Wait for what, Abigail?”
That she hadn't thought that far ahead was obvious by the slightly stunned expression on her face. She gaped at him for a moment, blinking owlishly before stammering. “Well, it’s simply—it’s simply that we are not well acquainted with one another, my lord. To avoid any awkwardness or offended modesty, I feel that we should wait.”
He nodded sagely, and then said, “I have no modesty for you to offend, and if it is your own modesty that concerns you, I will not insist upon leaving the candles burning.”
Abbi turned away from him, staring at the unappetizing food on her plate with consternation. She hadn't anticipated his response correctly. That was glaringly apparent. The conversation was not proceeding as she had hoped, not at all. “That is most considerate of you, my lord, but does not address the fact that we still do not know one another—“
“And if I let you have your way, we never will,” he said bluntly.
There was an edge to his voice that she had never heard before. Steel lurked beneath the easy charm and sardonic humor.
Huffing out a breath in irritation, she glared at him. “I am not referring to biblical knowledge., my lord!”
He shrugged; his ridiculously handsome face torn between amusement and annoyance. “Neither am I, at least, not entirely. And I thought we had addressed the fact that you are to use my given name?”
Hoping that conceding to that intimacy would perhaps spare her the others that loomed so terrifyingly in her mind, she replied, “Very well, Michael. I am asking you to give me time to become more accustomed to the idea of things, of our marriage—.’
“Enough,” he said, and though it wasn’t a shout, it carried a wealth of command.
Convulsively, she swallowed. Had she pushed him too far? Was this the point where the gentleman disappeared, and the monster like Rupert showed himself? “Very well, my lord, if you insist.”
Michael sighed, the weary sound traveling through the near silent dining room.. His eyes bored into her as he contemplated the situation. When he did speak, his tone was measured and even, despite his clear irritation.
“I will offer you a bargain, Abigail. I will not make love to you, will not consummate our marriage until you desire for me to do so…But with that, you must come to my bed. You will give me one-quarter of an hour each night to attempt to sway you.”
Abbi felt the ferocity of the blush stealing over her face. Her cheeks bloomed with heat that he could speak so casually of the intimacies of the marriage bed. Of course, there was another issue. His skill as a lover was infamous. He'd left her all but senseless in the kitchen, and he hadn't even been trying.
“One-quarter of an hour is too much,” she said, thinking of the soul-searing kiss he’d given her the day before. “Five minutes,” she countered.
His lips quirked upward as if he were enjoying their negotiations immensely, or worse, as if he were amused by her attempts to delay the inevitable. “Ten.”
“Seven?” she shot back, refusing to back down.
He smiled, wickedly. “Ten or nothing and we’ll consummate our marriage here in the drawing room in the bright light of day.”
“Ten,” she agreed readily, horrified that he would actually carry through on the threat.
He rose from the table, stalking towards her with intent. It was plainly evident in the predatory grace with which he moved. He paused next to her chair, leaning forward and bracing his hands, one on the table and one of the back of her chair, his strong arms bracketing her. “Then we have a bargain,” he said, “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”
“Any kisses or other gestures of physical intimacy prior to retirement will be deducted from your ten minutes,” she replied primly. It was a smarter strategy to allow his kisses in the relative safety of the dining room than within the dangerous confines of a bedchamber.
A smile coasted across his firm lips, before being replaced by a look that could only be described as hungry. He leaned in, his mouth hovering over his. His voice was soft, the merest whisper, but it shivered over her skin, dark and wicked. “I can afford the loss…It won’t take ten minutes to convince you to stay.”
As her lips parted on a protest, he swooped in. His lips covered her, plying, teasing. They molded to hers, infusing her with heat and something else she couldn't quite name. It was if her body simply melted; her limbs became heavy and languid, but deep within her, tension coiled. Then he was sliding his tongue over her lips, into her mouth until it tangled sensually with her own.
It should have shocked her, should have offended her maidenly sensibilities. She knew that. It didn't. Instead, it inflamed her. Left her yearning for more. She wanted to feel the hardness of his body pressed against hers, the weight of his hands on her flesh. Yet, only his lips touched hers. Even as she burned for him, she knew that he was in complete control of his desires, that what set her ablaze and left her reeling was commonplace to him.
He broke the kiss, his lips drawing slowly from hers as he met her gaze. There was triumph there, lurking in the depths of his dancing eyes.
He'd kissed her senseless, but she wouldn't concede the field so easily. Though it cost her, and it was only bravado in the face of his arrogance, she replied, “You only have eight and a half minutes now.”
He smiled, “We’ll set a clock beside the bed. You might lose count otherwise.”
~*~*~
As evening fell, his bride was nowhere to be seen. It was a strategic retreat for her; he knew. He'd overplayed his hand that morning. Her reluctance had piqued his pride, and that had prodded him to behave like an ass. Of course, given the sweetness of that kiss, the thrill of seeing her eyes clouded with desire in the wake of it, his regrets were, if not absent, at least limited.
After a lonely dinner, Michael decided that he had allowed her to hide for long enough. He left the dining room and made his way up the narrow stairs. The Gray Lady was notably absent, a fact that left him unaccountably relieved. He’d only seen her the one time, but he’d felt the weight of her presence. It was just as well; he thought. One lady of the manor was quite enough to deal with.
He knocked on Abbi’s door, the sound muffled by the heaviness of the ancient wood. Still, he had little doubt she'd heard him. “I am retiring, dear wife…I will expect you in my chamber in ten minutes.”
In her room, Abbi had been fighting her nerves all evening. It wasn't even fear of the unknown. In terms of the act itself, she wasn't entirely ignorant. No, it wasn't that. It was him. The power that he wielded so easily over her body, the way he made her blood race and her heart pound. Any man who could elicit such a visceral response with so little effort was a threat.
With that in mind, Abbi had elected not to dress for bed. She felt that meeting him as fully armored as possible was to her advantage. Waiting a full nine minutes before opening the door, she made the seemingly endless trek down the narrow hall to the master chamber. She didn’t have to knock for he had left the door open.
He was sitting up in bed, propped against the pillows with his hands folded behind his head. The covers fell to his waist, revealing his muscled chest, lightly covered with crisp dark hair. The hair narrowed to a thin line that bisected the firm ridges of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the bed linens.
Blushing furiously, Abbi averted her gaze while trying valiantly not to think of what he might or might not be wearing beneath those bedclothes. Still, there was no denying his masculine beauty. With his chiseled features and perfectly sculpted form, he reminded her of the statues she’d seen in the books she wasn’t supposed to look at.
Of course, he was physically without flaw, she thought somewhat bitterly. What had she expected? That he would suddenly develop a hunchback that would render him undesirable? Stifling an irritated sigh, she moved forward into the room. It was time to meet her fate.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, wife,” he replied. His tone was low and intimate, his deep voice rumbling in the silence of the room. Each word was like a caress, and his knowing glance was a weight on her.
She stepped deeper into the room, her hands shaking as she closed the door behind her. She could only hope that he wouldn’t notice. As it was, she could feel his gaze traveling over her, no doubt taking note of the fact that she was still fully clothed.
“Won't you join me?” The question was asked innocently enough, or as innocently as a man like her husband could manage.
Turning back toward the bed on a deep breath, she was once again taken aback by his naked torso. A thought crept into her mind, a very disturbing one. “What are you wearing?”
“Nothing… If you prefer, I can come to you,” he said and began lifting the covers.
“No!” she said hastily and moved toward the bed. “But do not think for one minute that I will be climbing beneath the bedclothes with you.”
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “I’ll just have to do my very best to sway you.”
Uncertain of how to proceed and feeling incredibly awkward about the entire ordeal, Abbi sat down on the bed, and then reclined against the pillows. She kept her hands folded neatly overly her ribs so that not even her elbow touched him. Her lips were pinched into a thin, grim line, and her jaw was set with stubborn determination.
Michael turned onto his side, the bedclothes dipping dangerously low over his lean hips. He trailed the tips of his fingers over the backs of her clenched hands and her forearms. “I’ve married an angry corpse,” he said
She turned her head, glancing at the clock, and then back at him. Her lips were compressed into a thin line as she said grimly, “You have eight minutes, my lord.”
Michael chuckled. She looked as if she was going to the gallows. He was still smiling when he kissed the stubborn curve her jaw and when he dipped his head to lick the delicate shell of her ear. By the time he closed his teeth gently on her earlobe, the smile had faded and was replaced with determination.
He wasn’t so arrogant that he didn’t acknowledge the very real chance he might not succeed in seducing his new bride. Never had he encountered a woman with such remarkable pride and fortitude. For that matter, he'd never met a woman so resistant to the idea of being seduced by him. It dawned on Michael that he was perhaps a bit spoiled to the fairer sex succumbing easily to his charms. Could he actually seduce a woman who wasn't already eager for seduction? It was a lowering thought.
It wasn't all pride and reluctance; he rationalized. Fear was certainly playing a part in her resistance. No fear was greater than the fear of the unknown. Knowledge of the intimacies of married life were notoriously shielded from young women, sometimes much to their detriment. Coupled with the fact that the men in her life had, to date, been grossly irresponsible or lecherous oafs, she had little enough reason to trust his intentions. With those doubts plaguing him, taunting him with the knowledge that he might not succeed, he set himself to the task of introducing her to desire.
He made a careful study of her, noting the pinkness of her cheeks, the slight hitching of her breath. Yes, she was reluctant, but she was far from unaffected. With determination, Michael employed all of his considerable skill in the task of seducing his wife.
Each touch, each caress was intended to awaken her passions. His mouth on her neck, the scrape of his teeth, the rough glide of a whiskered cheek over delicate skin—all were alien sensations to her. Every surprised gasp that softened into a sigh, every tensing of her muscles that gave way to languorous relaxation spurred him on. It wasn’t until he felt her shiver that he claimed her mouth. His tongue stole boldly inside, tangling with hers, sliding sensually between her lips, mimicking the act that he hoped would follow.
He could feel some of the tension draining from her, but her hands remained clasped together. Gently he pried them apart and placed her arms around his neck, bringing them closer together. Her palms flattened on his shoulders, her breasts crushed against his chest. The reduced distance between them allowed him to deepen the kiss further.
He threaded his fingers into her hair, loosening pins and pulling the ropes of braids free as he angled her head to take her mouth more fully. She moaned, and he knew it to be a sound of pleasure.
Inspiration struck him as he imagined that the weight of her hair had to bring some discomfort. With his hands buried in the silken strands, he began to gently massage her scalp and the back of her neck. Any remaining tension in her body fled. She became boneless and pliant in his arms. Her guard was down, and he seized the opportunity to increase the level of intimacy. He closed his hand over her breast, kneading gently, lifting the generous globe and teasing the nipple until it pebbled beneath his questing fingers. He treated the other breast to the same tantalizing touch, before tugging the bodice down and baring her to his gaze.
At the rush of cool air on her naked breasts, Abbi started. She didn’t even know how they had gotten to that point. She only knew that she felt languid, her body warming from the inside out. The tension that had settled in her neck and shoulders had migrated to a place deep inside her. Her body was coiled tightly, waiting for something. Menace. He was truly a menace; she thought. Those words were becoming a near constant refrain for her.
She wasn’t entirely ignorant of the process. Having grown up in the countryside, it was impossible not to understand the mating process. Living with Lavinia, even for the short time that she had, had provided quite the education, as well. She knew the words, even if she didn’t know precisely how it all worked.
Nervous, because he had managed to rattle her so already, she glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He’d left her mindless and half naked in only two minutes, which meant he had six more to go.
Michael turned her face away from the clock, kissed her again, before dipping his head to take one tightly furled nipple into his mouth. A soft whimper escaped her. The sensation was too intense. The damp heat of his mouth ignited a fire in her. She could feel the tell-tale moisture at the juncture of her thighs, the ratcheting of the tension inside her. Her mind fogged again, falling prey to his sensual onslaught. She was under siege and losing ground rapidly.
Abbi felt the overwhelming urge to move her hips, to press herself against the hardness of his thigh, but she didn’t. She forced herself to remain still, to be as passive a participant as possible. It was the only way she would walk out of that room tonight without giving up more of her pride than she was willing to, and other things, she thought grimly. Another glance at the clock and she nearly wept. Four minutes in and an eternity to go.
Abbi steeled herself against her own traitorous urges. It wasn't simply the heat and the coiling need. Even innocent as she was, she could acknowledge the true nature of her feelings. It was also the curiosity. A little voice whispered in her mind, beguiling her. If ever a man could show her the nature of desire, it was Michael.
She was not as passive in the experience as she wanted to be. He touched her, and her body strained toward him. Blood rushed in her veins, flowing hotter and thicker beneath every sweep of his hand. He made her burn and no matter how much she resisted, they both knew it.
Clenching her fists at her sides, Abbi ignored the yearning, the ache building inside her. She forced herself to lie there, accepting his attentions, but never returning them, never assuaging her curiosity about the silken texture of his skin, the firmness of muscle or the heat that emanated from him.
Michael felt the slight withdrawal. He knew, at some point, her infernal brain had begun to work again telling her the million and one reasons that existed for her to deny him. He reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it until he could see her stocking clad legs. Her legs were long and shapely, her rounded thighs tapering to firm calves and narrow ankles. He reached down and removed her shoes, before drawing her knees up. He lifted her right leg gently, drawing it up until he could clasp her foot in his hand. With the pad of his thumb, he stroked firmly from the arch of her foot up to her toes and back. He massaged her foot with firm but gentle pressure, all the while he played at the bounty of her breasts with his lips and tongue.
Her breathing became progressively more labored. Whether she relented or not, he knew that she craved him, even if her reason bid her to deny him. A small, doubting part of him thought that might have to be enough to sustain him. He moved his hand from her foot to her ankle, still using soft, gentle strokes.
Gradually, he worked his way up her calf and then her thigh. His own breathing had become ragged by then. His erection had progressed to the point of agony. He was so hard that he ached. The lush, silken heat of her body called to him. He longed to sink into her, to ease them both, in the same way that he longed for breath. It was simply necessary. As his hand brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, she placed her hand over his, halting his progress.
“Your eight minutes have run out,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly, and there was a breathlessness to it that only added to his misery.
“You’re really going to stop now?” he asked, incredulously. While he’d acknowledged the possibility that it might happen, he couldn’t quite fathom the reality of it. Of course, the truth of how little blood was actually flowing to his addled brain was undeniable. Thinking was not a priority at the moment. He knew that she wanted him that she had enjoyed every touch.
“Yes, I really am,” she said, and extricated herself from his arms. That her knees trembled slightly as she rose did not offer any appeasement.
“Good night, my lord,” she said, moving towards the door without sparing him a backward glance.
In his bed, his body aching and needy; Michael stared at the door in utter dismay. The possibility of it had existed for him, but the reality was unfathomable. She had truly walked away. It should have hurt his pride or at the very least nicked his ego. He was still too dumbfounded to process it fully.
Angry, frustrated, and randier than an adolescent boy, he glared at the clock on the bedside table before hurling it across the room. Though it smashed against the hearth, the destruction did nothing to ease his misery. There was only one thing to do. Like any untried youth, he faced the less than satisfying prospect of seeing to his own sexual satisfaction.
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his body on fire and his mind numb. A line from the Merchant of Venice entered his mind then, ‘Lovers ever run before the clock’. It was shockingly apropos considering that his wedding night had turned into a farce.