Beauty in Breeches(24)

The vision Julius saw walking towards him bathed in candlelight snatched his breath away and pride exploded throughout his entire body until he ached with it, for no bride had ever looked as lovely. He stretched out a strong, brown, well-manicured hand and offered it to her. She lifted her own and placed it in his much larger, much warmer one. Julius felt the trembling of her fingers and saw the anxiety in her large eyes. Immensely relieved that she hadn’t decided to pull out of marrying him, he gave her hand a little squeeze in an attempt to reassure her. He drew her the remainder of the way to the altar steps, where he would make her his for all eternity.

Time stood still as they were swept into the marriage ceremony. Beatrice felt as if she existed in a glass bubble as she spoke the words. She could see all that went on in a kind of mist and what she said was loud enough to be heard, but the words indistinct.

It seemed only a moment before Julius was sliding a gold band upon her finger and then it was over. Not about to forgo the custom of kissing his young bride, Julius placed his long fingers beneath the delicate bones of her jaw and tilted her face to his. His head lowered and his parted lips moved gently over hers. At last he slackened his grip and stepped back and, offering her his arm through which she slipped her hand, he led her back down the aisle.

As Julius handed her up into his shiny black coach emblazoned with the Maitland coat of arms, Beatrice thought she was being handed up into the midst of paradise, for only then did she realise fully that she had succeeded in what she had set out to do. Leaving the church for Julius’s town house in Piccadilly ahead of the rest, she was conscious of the man seated across from her, watching her intently. Her heart started to beat a wild tattoo and her lips curved in a small triumphant smile. She could have floated, she felt so light.

The future—a future that involved Larkhill—was as blue as the horizon. Having seen a different side to him as she got to know him a little better over the last few days, and unable to deny her growing attraction for him, she was surprised by how much she looked forward to her new life with Julius with more than a little excitement.

Only one cloud darkened her happiness—she was deeply concerned that she might not be able to live up to his expectations and would be a disappointment to him. For days now she had been apprehensive as her wedding day approached—in particular the wedding night—and she told herself that if other women could endure what their husbands did to them, then so could she. She also told herself that perhaps the marital act wouldn’t be as painful as she imagined, and, since she had been the instigator of this marriage, she would bear the pain.

But as the hour when she must submit to her husband drew ever nearer, her philosophical attitude deserted her and her dread was steadily mounting. True, she had coerced Julius into marrying her, but when she’d done so, she’d been half-delirious with winning the race. Now, however, she saw with cold clarity what the results of her coercing would be.

From beneath hooded lids, Julius watched her with brooding attentiveness. The sun shining in through the windows spread a halo around her and the diamond necklace he had given her as a wedding gift shone like droplets of dew against her flesh. At that moment he thought she was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen—and she belonged to him. This delectable, golden-haired girl was his wife, to preside at his table and bear his children. She would never bore him, this he knew.

‘How does it feel to be my wife—Lady Chadwick, the Marchioness of Maitland—Beatrice?’

As Beatrice met his gaze, her lips curved in a little smile. ‘If you must know, I don’t feel anything at the moment. It’s difficult to take it all in. I feel no different to what I did before the ceremony.’ She arched her brows in question. ‘Should I?’

‘I can think of plenty of females who would.’

‘I’m sure you can, but I am not one of them. Titles are meaningless to me.’

He nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. Titles don’t enter into your scheme of things, do they? Only a certain property.’

‘You knew that from the start. I made no secret of what I wanted.’

‘No, you didn’t. But now I think it’s about time you realised what it is that I want.’

To Beatrice’s absolute disbelief, he leaned forwards and stretched his hand to her. Completely unnerved, she jerked back, not knowing what he intended. Annoyed because she didn’t fall into his lap, he yanked her off her seat before she knew what he was about, his long fingers curled around her wrist in a painful vice. She muffled a cry as she landed in a sprawling, uncomfortable heap on the seat beside him.

‘What are you doing?’ she panted, unable to hide her displeasure as she squirmed against him, his glittering eyes and his mouth only inches from hers as he leaned over her, his arms holding her fast.

‘This,’ he said hoarsely and his mouth swooped down, seizing hers in a ruthless kiss. For several moments Beatrice was so confounded she made no attempt to stop him. His lips moved over hers, gently, smoothing, his mouth open a fraction. Within moments her tension began to melt in the heat of his kiss and her senses swam dizzily. In a kind of sensual haze, she was aware of his hand roaming possessively over the sensitive flesh above her bodice. Then she came to life, tearing her lips from his, struggling and pushing herself back from his arms.

‘Please, Julius, stop it. Don’t do this. I may be your wife, but that does not give you leave to manhandle me whenever you wish. I will not be forced.’

When Julius tried to reach for her again she flinched, slapping his arm hard and pushing him away with both hands, then returning to the opposite seat. For a second as he looked at his indignant, spluttering wife, he remained dazed. In what she thought was self-defence she had used the very movements of a tavern wench accustomed to dealing with drunks. He had never seen a lady defend herself in this way before. It struck him as both funny and exasperating. Did she really imagine that he was going to leave her alone? Did she really imagine he would force her?

Frowning with concern over the anxiety and tension he saw on her face, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees, he said, ‘I am not a monster, Beatrice. I will not force you to do anything you do not want to do. You have my word on that.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, her tension easing a little on hearing this.

As Julius looked at her, the sight of her stormy, brilliant green eyes, her white shoulders and that fragile neck and soft lips aroused in him a violent but unfamiliar desire, such as no woman had ever aroused in him. It was not just blind lust. There was about it a somewhat mysterious, almost sweet and gentle allure.

Something sprang into jubilant life within him and soared. Thank God, he thought, she was not going to be a submissive wife, docile and totally insensate and frozen inside, a woman who would endure his embraces with a sigh and accept that it was her wifely duty to submit to him with compliance. He sensed Beatrice was like a cat, a tigress, ready to fight like one, to match him in strength, to be his equal both in bed and out of it.

At this moment she was openly defying him, yet he was the offended one. In the beginning she had forced his hand, humiliated him as no man can bear to be humiliated without wishing the other into purgatory, so first he must show her that she was his wife, and then he would make her realise that their marriage would be conducted on equal terms, and that what they did together could be pleasing for them both.

And yet Julius would have been most surprised at his wife’s thoughts hidden behind her façade of defiance and indignation. Her emotions were all over the place following his kiss. It had left her so confused she could hardly think. Why did she feel like this? she thought wonderingly. A slow realisation of what was happening, born of the moment when he had dragged her into his arms, was moving through her, making its way to her slowly thawing heart, which had been frozen for so long.

She swallowed and turned her head so she didn’t have to look at the man opposite. He was so formidable, so stern, so oppressive and yet so…so what? Breathtakingly handsome? Strong, compelling and completely masculine? Yes, she thought, he was all those things. A man lean, muscular, with wide shoulders, narrow hips and trim waist, she could not help but admire the fine figure he made—near, if not, perfection. Heat suffused her cheeks and her heart was beating hard against her ribcage, as though it were trying to get out to escape the bewildering pain it felt.

Dear Lord, what was happening to her—and in such a short space of time? Why had fate turned her feelings, in the blink of an eye, from absolute indifference to this man who was her husband of mere minutes to something so painful she could not understand it? It was blurring her mind. She could feel herself shaking inside, for she was afraid of his passion, afraid of how much it would hurt in the future if she let herself weaken now.

‘Fight me if you must, Beatrice,’ he said softly, ‘but I promise you that we will share the more tender moments of our marriage. You say you dislike force. I, too, loathe it, but I could do nothing to get out of paying your forfeit. I did not choose you for a wife, you chose me,’ he reminded her, his words dripping with disdain. ‘But however it came about, I do not intend to take advantage of you. Now you’re angry because you will have to pay the piper, but you do not think what it has cost me to make you my wife.’