The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(2)

There, the sort of practical knowledge she wished she’d had on her wedding night with Frederick.

What else did she wish she’d known then? Advice her long-dead mother had been unable to give her.

Cecy tapped the quill against her lips and thought for a few minutes, and began to write again.

We are formed so that men enjoy copulation and women do not, so don’t be disappointed that you don’t experience the throes of pleasure that your husband does. A wife learns to enjoy physical congress for her husband’s sake. If he loves you and has a kind heart then he will not prolong the act.

Cecy reread those lines, and hesitated over “learns to enjoy.” Should she cross it out and write “accustoms herself to” instead? There was no physical enjoyment for women in the marriage bed and she didn’t want her daughters to have false expectations. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, and then wrote: While you won’t experience bodily pleasure in the marriage bed, you will experience emotional pleasure in knowing your husband enjoys copulation, and in knowing that a child may result from your union.

Cecy glanced at the clock. Still fifteen minutes to wait.

She looked at what she’d written. “It is natural to feel shy and nervous,” she read aloud. Advice for her daughters—but at this moment, advice for herself. Because she was a little nervous, and she was feeling shy, and that was natural.

“The intimacy of the act will likely embarrass you at first, but you will soon come to regard it as commonplace.” Cecy read that sentence out loud, too, and huffed a faint, wry laugh. Embarrassing? Yes, it would be embarrassing this first time, and probably more than a little awkward. But she and Gareth would get past that moment together.

Don’t be anxious about your wedding night, Cecy wrote in the journal, to her daughters and to herself. It is a necessary . . .

A necessary what? Hurdle? Obstacle? Challenge?

Cecy didn’t like any of those words, with their connotation of doing something unpleasant. She wanted a neutral word.

Don’t be anxious about your wedding night. It is a necessary event. Every husband and wife must have one.





Chapter Two





1815 had been a year of extremes for Gareth.

It was the year his uncle had died and he’d inherited not just the old man’s property, but his baronetcy, too.

It was the year he’d fought at Waterloo and lost one of his dearest friends in the battle—and lost his own left arm.

It was the year his fiancée, Miss Eugenia Swinthorp, had balked at marrying him, baronetcy or not.

And it was the year he’d met Cecily Dunn and fallen head over heels in love with her in the space of a few days.

1815 had quite literally been the worst year of his life, but now, halfway through December, Gareth had just had what felt like one of the best days of his life.

Because today was the day he’d married Cecily.

He allowed himself to remember the moment: the church in Gripton, the marriage license, Cecily holding his hand, the vicar’s dry, reedy voice as he pronounced them man and wife. They hadn’t kissed then, but they’d looked at each other and he’d seen shy delight in Cecily’s eyes and joy in her smile, and the sense of connection between them, of destiny and absolute rightness, had been so strong that he had literally felt it in his bones. Cecily and I are meant to be together.

Today had been perfect, and tomorrow promised to be equally perfect.

There was just the matter of the wedding night to get through, and it loomed large now, as his batman, Higgs, removed the neckcloth from around Gareth’s throat and folded it ready to be washed, ironed, and starched again.

Higgs had a habit of humming softly under his breath while he worked. Gareth had heard that hum so many times over the last few years that he rarely noticed it, but tonight he concentrated on that faint sound, because thinking about Higgs humming was a lot better than thinking about what would come next.

Higgs helped him out of his waistcoat, which meant that Gareth was one step closer to being ready for bed. One step closer to his wedding night.

Don’t think about it, Gareth told himself.

He focused on the humming while Higgs folded the waistcoat. Scarborough Fair. That was tonight’s song.

Higgs helped him strip off the shirt next. Gareth avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He tried to recapture the joy he’d felt all day, but it had drained away. In its place was an uneasy eddy of anxiety.

“Shall I check the bandage, sir?” Higgs asked.

“Please.”

Gareth’s left arm ended above the elbow. He kept the stump covered with a bandage, partly because that light, firm pressure seemed to help with the pain, but mostly because he didn’t want to look at what remained of his arm. Gareth examined the ceiling while Higgs checked the bandage; after six months he still couldn’t bring himself to watch while the batman touched that truncated limb.

Higgs didn’t hum. He never hummed when he dealt with Gareth’s arm. “All good, sir,” he said. “Doesn’t need changing.”

“Good.”

Higgs turned his attention to the portmanteau, humming again as he hunted for a nightshirt.

Gareth fumbled at the waistband of his breeches. Damn it, when had undoing a button become so difficult? He’d managed all right last night.

But last night hadn’t been his wedding night.