Louise Allen Historical Collection Page 33

  ‘I am indeed.’ Elliott turned, bringing Bella with him, and walked towards the dining room. ‘Bella?’ he enquired, low-voiced.

  ‘I thought…as he is your cousin, family, that it was unexceptional. He asked me to call him Daniel. Was I wrong?’ Had she erred already, committed some breach of etiquette?

  ‘Why does he not call you Arabella?’ The guests were behind them, but not crowding too close. There were a few steps still to the table.

  ‘Bella is my pet name. Rafe…I mean, everyone uses it. My family…’ she started to explain.

  ‘I see. One you do not expect me to use.’ Elliott brought her to the foot of the table where a footman was holding her chair. ‘Your place, Arabella, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Somehow she kept the smile on her lips as Elliott went to the head of the board and their guests found their places. She must never have told him that to everyone who mattered to her she was simply Bella. And now he was hurt that she had given his brother and his cousin the right to use her pet name, but not him, her husband.

  Part of her, the part that was still smarting from his sarcasm in the carriage, was glad. But that was petty; she must make this marriage work as well as possible.

  John Baynton took the seat on her right hand, the rector on her left. Elliott was flanked by Lady Abbotsbury and Anne Baynton. In the middle of the table Daniel was already teasing Dorothy about something while Mrs Fanshawe shook her head indulgently at him.

  Bella swallowed. She had never been to a formal dinner party before. She knew that as a guest she should make conversation to her right for the first course, then to her left. But now she was the hostess with a duty to promote conversation generally.

  ‘Are you both from this part of the world?’ she asked. ‘It is very beautiful. So many fruit trees,’ she added a little wildly, recalling yesterday’s drive.

  ‘Yes, I was born not six miles away,’ John Baynton began when the sound of a knife blade against crystal had them all looking towards Elliott.

  He was on his feet, a champagne flute in his hand as the footmen finished filling the glasses down the length of the table. ‘Great-Aunt, Cousins, friends. I give you Arabella, Viscountess Hadleigh.’

  The men rose and everyone lifted their glasses. ‘Arabella!’

  She sat, blushing and charmed, while the diners settled themselves again. Elliott was watching her, his eyes steady on her face. And then he lifted his glass again. She saw his lips move. Arabella. And then they curved into a smile that reached his eyes and made her feel hot, flustered, special, and she felt, all at once, that she could manage a dinner party for the king himself.

  It was half past nine. Elliott shook hands with the departing guests and decided that timing such a departure was a delicate matter—if guests rushed off too early then it pointed up the fact that this was the wedding night. If they lingered too long the unfortunate bridegroom would be champing at the bit.

  He glanced across at Arabella, who was smiling at Anne Baynton. She had done well, he decided. With experience would come confidence, but she had natural grace and a real interest in her guests that could not be counterfeited.

  But now she was tired. Her skin was pale under the slight flush that heat and excitement had brought to her cheeks and she was resting one hand on a chair back for extra support. For a while he had forgotten her condition, forgotten that this was a match neither of them had wanted.

  ‘Goodnight, John.’ He gripped Baynton’s hand. ‘Thank you for standing with me today.’

  ‘My pleasure. She is charming, your Arabella.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ he agreed thoughtfully. His friend shot him a look of surprise at his measured tone. ‘I had no idea how easily she would take to company,’ he added to excuse his unlover-like lack of ardour.

  Then, at last they were alone. ‘That went very well, I thought.’ Strange to have to make conversation on one’s wedding night, if he had thought of such a thing before then he had imagined his bride falling into his arms the moment the guests had gone and… He was being as romantic as a girl, Elliott thought, smiling at himself.

  Arabella sat down on the nearest couch, but she kept her back straight, her head up. ‘I am glad you think so. I like the Bayntons very much. Mrs Baynton is increasing, you were correct. That is such a relief.’

  Elliott wondered if he should sleep alone tonight and let her rest. But there was a point to be made, and one night apart might well slip into two and then three and there would always be an excuse not to take that step and make her his in body as well as in law.

  ‘Elliott,’ Arabella said, her hesitant tone pulling him out of his thoughts. ‘I am sorry I did not think to ask you to call me Bella.’

  ‘I prefer Arabella.’ It was a pretty, gracious name that reflected her inner dignity.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, getting to her feet. ‘I can quite see it is more suitable for a viscountess.’

  It was not what he had meant, but he did not labour the point; she did not appear to be in the mood. ‘Would you like to go up? I will linger over my brandy for half an hour before I join you.’

  She looked at him, her hazel eyes widening. ‘Yes, of course, but I do not know where my room is yet.’

  Next to mine. Anticipation ran through him and he saw her recognition of it reflected in those big eyes. The tip of her tongue emerged, touched the curve of her upper lip. It was nerves, but it was also an innocent provocation that had his groin tightening in almost painful response.

  ‘No, of course, you have not seen around upstairs yet.’ He opened the door. ‘Henlow, please show her ladyship to the viscountess’s suite and ring for her maid.’

  Arabella’s lips parted in surprise. She was going to be even more surprised when she saw the suite in question, Elliott thought as he closed the door behind her and went to the sideboard to pour a glass of cognac. He had scoured the rooms himself, removing such souvenirs of Rafe’s female guests as stockings, garters, a collection of illustrated books that he had pitched on to the fire after a quick glance, several lengths of silken cord and a set of black satin bedclothes. Even so, there was no hiding the fact that the rooms had been decorated with a very different woman in mind than a decorous wife and viscountess.

  There had not been time to do anything about the mirror set into the underside of his own bed canopy. It would definitely be better to go to her bedchamber, although the thought of that sweetly curved body reflected in the glass as she lay on the dark green silk coverlet was powerfully arousing. But that was for the future.

  Elliott knew it would be no hardship to make love to his new wife once he had her confidence. In the garden she had responded with an innocent ardour that had seemed to surprise her as much as it had him.

  The clock struck the hour. The brandy glass in his hand was still full. Elliott set it down, stood up and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back was harder than Rafe’s, less charming. But he was not going to put on a false face for Arabella—this was not a one-night affaire, this was for life. From today they had to learn to live with each other.

  He went out to the hall. ‘Thank you, Henlow, that will be all for tonight.’

  Should she get into the bed? Arabella regarded it warily, wondering what Elliott would expect. It was large and tented in pale pink silk from a corona fixed to the ceiling. Not a colour she would have chosen herself. Nor would she have lavished all these frills around the room, nor had quite so many mirrors. The paintings and ornaments appeared to be very… sensuous and made her uncomfortable without quite knowing why. The sitting room next door was soft. That was the only word for a room with so much fabric and so many cushions. No bookshelves, no writing table, no sewing basket in sight. And as for the dressing room, it was positively sybaritic.

  There was the marble tub big enough for two with a cistern that could be filled with hot water that showered down at the pull of a chain. There were gilded swan-necked taps. There were heaps of soft pink towels and a c
haise longue and more mirrors and endless wardrobes and drawers where her new clothes looked lonely in all the space.

  Instinct told her that the entire suite had been created with pleasure in mind. Rafe had used this for his lovers, not a wife, and it made her uncomfortable to think of what had happened in these rooms, where every step was muffled in sensual luxury.

  She came back to the bed, distracting herself by observing how its shell-pink drapes contrasted unpleasantly with the green of her négligé. Elliott had said she might change what she pleased; well, she would start with this suite.

  On the other hand he might like it as much as Rafe had done. What had he said about the lingerie she had thanked him for—that it was as much for his pleasure as hers? Just how much like his brother was he? Probably all men were alike when it came to the sexual act. And if that was the case then he would feel all those things that Rafe had told her he felt. Only Elliott would not be so cruel as to berate her with her clumsiness and ignorance, her plainness and lack of sophistication. He would be too well mannered to refer to the fact that she was pregnant. He would just think all those things.

  She sighed, leaning her forehead against one of the elegant bedposts that reached almost to the ceiling. There was so much to worry about, so much to learn.

  ‘Arabella?’ She turned and found Elliott standing just inside a jib door that she had not noticed before, its fabric covering matching the wall it was set into. It must open on to his own rooms. He was wearing a long blue robe, the shirt under it open at the neck to give a glimpse of dark hair. A jolt of desire lanced through her and she grabbed the bedpost behind her with both hands, shocked by the intensity and unexpectedness of the reaction.

  ‘Are the rooms to your liking?’ He came right in, closing the door behind him with a click that made her jump.

  ‘Yes, delightful.’ His eyebrows rose and a hint of that wicked smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘They are very luxurious. Very…pink,’ she said, not adding that she imagined this was what a bordello looked like.

  ‘Certainly pink,’ he agreed. ‘It is not your colour. Change what you wish.’

  It seemed so wasteful to change a suite of rooms simply because pale pink made her look washed-out—as of course he had just noticed. But, Bella reminded herself, this is the setting for his lordship’s pleasure, intended to display the woman who lived in this padded casket of luxury. She must look her best here. Perhaps she could make the sitting room more comfortable, more of a retreat of her own.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her hands tightened on the bedpost as he came closer, his soft morocco slippers soundless on the deep pile of the carpet. It was all silent, like a dream, except for her heart thudding so hard that she thought he must hear it and the rush of blood that buzzed in her ears.

  Elliott stopped, close enough for her to see that he had shaved, close enough to pick up a subtle woody tang of cologne. ‘You look like a maiden tied to a stake waiting to be rescued from the dragon,’ he remarked. ‘An amusing game, perhaps, but not, I think, for tonight.’ His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with anticipation, and she shivered, caught between fear and something else she did not quite understand. Elliott raised an eyebrow. ‘And perhaps I am the dragon?’

  ‘No. No, not at all.’ She released her grip on the post and then did not know what to do with her hands. Elliott solved her dilemma by catching them in his and drawing her close. She thought he was going to kiss her lips, but his mouth found the angle of neck and shoulder instead, nuzzling under the soft frills of veiling gauze, his breath hot and his tongue hotter, until her whole body seemed to glow, just from that one contact.

  Elliott. She thought she had spoken, but no sound escaped her parted lips except a whimper that became a sob. He released her hands and her arms went around his neck, to keep herself on her feet or hold him to her, she was not certain which.

  ‘It is all right,’ he said softly, and she realised she had him in a stranglehold. ‘It is all right, Arabella. There is nothing to be afraid of, we are just going to bed together.’ He might have been murmuring reassurance to a nervous filly, his hands gentling over her. He set her back against the post and untied the ribbons of her négligé, pushing it over her shoulders, then he stepped aside to where the covers had already been turned down and pulled them back further.

  ‘Is this side all right for you?’

  The prosaic question was so unexpected, so far from her lurid imaginings of what was going to happen next that she gaped at him. ‘Oh. Yes, I don’t mind, really.’ The bed was huge compared to what she was used to; she would be adrift in it wherever she slept. Elliott was waiting patiently so she let the négligé drop and climbed into bed. He flipped the covers over her legs and went round to the other side, discarding his robe as he went.

  Bella looked fixedly at the opposite side of the room, but out of the corner of her eye she could still see him. And he was wearing a nightshirt, thank goodness. She did not think she could cope with him naked, not yet.

  The bed dipped, there was the tug of bedclothes being adjusted, then he remarked, ‘You could lie down, you know.’

  Could she? Bella felt as though she was made out of wood. If her back went down, her legs would shoot into the air, like a peg doll whose joints had seized up. She tried, legs tight together, and stared up at the underside of the canopy.

  Elliott moved closer, leaned over her, one hand on the pillow beside her head. ‘Just kisses for the moment, Arabella,’ he murmured and leaned in. ‘You know you like kisses. Only kisses until you are ready.’

  It was gentle, like last night and, like that kiss on the terrace, she did not mistake the gentleness for a lack of confidence, or experience. He knew what he was doing, he knew what he wanted and how to take it but, mysteriously, he seemed interested in her too, not just her breasts or that part between her legs.

  Elliott stroked softly into her mouth with his tongue, teasing and tasting; he nibbled along her lips, sucked her top lip into his mouth, bit it gently and released it, only to do the same to her lower lip.

  It was as if he found the taste and the texture of her pleasurable—which was very strange. Surely the entire point of what they were doing was for him to penetrate her, which would give him his release?

  Every now and again he paused, as if he was waiting for something. Surely not for her to reciprocate? Did he want her to nibble and suck? To slide her tongue into his mouth too? She had done it last night, she remembered, embarrassed. Just the very tip. His mouth had been hot and moist and his tongue almost indecent in the muscular way it had moved against her lips. As if it were another part of him altogether.

  She was feeling very strange now. Warm and restless and aching. And she did want to kiss him back, to taste and feel the textures of his skin. As her tongue slid into his mouth he shifted his position with a grunt that sounded like satisfaction, moving down the bed to hold her more closely, the hand that had propped him up coming round to cup her cheek and hold her steady.

  Emboldened, Bella pulled back a little, then kissed the corner of Elliott’s mouth. She felt him smile, so she ran her tongue along the join of his lips and kissed the other corner. Definitely a smile now. It was very strange, almost as though he found this fun, as though he wanted to play.

  He tipped her head and his mouth found her ear, his tongue tracing the whorls, his breath hot. Bella shivered. It should tickle. It was her ear, for goodness’ sake. But her breasts were aching and she wanted to rub against him and molten heat was gathering, low in her belly.

  Then his lips closed over her ear lobe and he began to suckle it. Bella gasped. It was utterly…indecent. But it was only her ear lobe. He might as well be sucking her elbow! Yet it seemed to swell in his mouth, the insistent tug stimulating the morsel of flesh almost to the point of a discomfort that was perversely pleasant. Now her breasts really were too tight. She moved, restless, and felt her nipples, as hard as if she had splashed them with ice water, fretting against her nightgown.

  He t
ugged and the nightgown came off. Somehow his nightshirt had gone already.

  Elliott growled deep in his throat and shifted closer and then she felt it, the hard brutal length against her hip. He had promised only kisses, but then, for men, it was impossible to stop once they started, she understood that. So, it was going to happen now. She tried not to stiffen, to move away from him, but she could not help her body tightening as he moved his weight over her.

  ‘Arabella?’ She made herself look at him. His eyes were deep, fathomless blue in the candlelight, his lips slightly parted. He was controlling his breathing, she realised. His hand moved over her belly and she felt the chill of the familiar ring, the ring that had been on Rafe’s hand. His fingers probed between her legs where she knew she was shamefully hot and moist.

  ‘Oh, yes, you are ready.’ He seemed pleased. But Rafe had seemed pleased until… He entered her, firmly and strongly, and her entire body seemed to tighten with the fear. Too tight, too big. It hurts…I must move. I am supposed to move and to hold him and… But all she could do was lie there like the wooden doll she had imagined earlier. Lie there under him while the big, hard body surrounded her, crushed her, filled her. Used her.

  Don’t think like that. It is your duty, his right. Bella opened her eyes on to Elliott’s intense blue gaze. He was rapt, lost in sensation, but somewhere, deep, she knew that all was not well, that something was missing.

  ‘Arabella—’ Then he closed his eyes, his face tensed and he gave a stifled shout as his body convulsed into hers until she thought he would break her apart. After a moment he went limp, his body crushing down on hers. There was heat and the slide of sweaty skin and the roughness of the hair on his chest and legs.

  Between her own legs a strange pulse quivered and ached, unsatisfied as her body began to protest at the treatment.

  ‘Arabella?’ He was looking at her, hair in his eyes, his expression bleak and unguarded. ‘That was not good, was it?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bella began, with no more words assembled in her brain to continue.