Marguerite Kaye – A Winter Wedding: Strangers at the Altar / The Warrior's Winter Bride (страница 16)

‘“Engaging in marital relations,”’ he quoted, smiling. ‘“Undergoing a husband’s ministrations.” No, don’t get on your high horse, it’s endearing.’

‘It is?’

‘It is. What were you suggesting?’

‘Didn’t you say that there ought to have been a ceremony when we arrived?’ There was a smut of mud on his cheek. She reached up to brush it away.

‘A ceremony. I’m not very keen on ceremonies.’ Innes caught her hand between his and pressed a kiss on to her knuckles.

Was it just a kiss, or a kiss? It felt like more than just a kiss, for it made her heart do a silly little flip. But his mouth did not linger, and surely knuckles could not be—what was the word, stimulating? She wanted to ask him, but that would give too much away, and he might not have been at all stimulated. ‘A celebration, then,’ Ainsley said. ‘Lots of food and drink. Something to mark the changes. You know, out with the old and in with the new.’

‘Mmm.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘I like that,’ he said, smiling at her.

‘Do you?’ She had no idea whether he meant her idea or the kiss.

‘Mmm,’ he said, pulling her towards him and wrapping his arms around her. ‘I like that very much,’ he said. And then he kissed her on the mouth.

It was definitely not just a kiss. He tasted of spring. Of outdoors. A little of sweat. And of something she could not name. Something sinful. Something that made her heat and tense and clench, and made her dig her fingers into the shoulders of his coat and tilt her body against his. And that made him groan, a guttural noise that seemed to vibrate inside her.

One hand roamed up her back, his fingers delving into her hair, the other roamed down to cup her bottom and pull her closer. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal through his trousers, through her skirts. She touched her tongue to his and felt his shudder, and shuddered with him, pressing her thighs against his, wanting more, wanting to rid herself of the layers of cloth between them, wanting his flesh, and then thinking about her flesh, exposed, thinking about him looking at her. Or looking at her and then turning his head away. Then not wanting to look at her. Like John. And then...

‘Ainsley?’

‘Your bath,’ she said, clutching at the first thing she could think of. ‘Your bath will be ready.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No,’ she said, managing a smile, forcing herself to meet his concerned gaze, hating herself for being the cause of that concern, frustrated at having started something she had not the nerve to finish, frustrated at how much she wished she could. ‘No, I just don’t want the water to get cold.’

‘The state I’m in, I think cold is what I need. What happened? Did I do something wrong?’

She flushed. Men were not supposed to ask such questions. Men hated discussing anything intimate. She knew that it was not just John who had been like that, because Madame Hera’s correspondence was full of women saying that their husbands were exactly the same. Why did Innes have to be different!

‘Nothing. I changed my mind,’ Ainsley said, mortified, not only for the lie, but for knowing she was relying on Innes being the kind of man who would always allow a woman to do so. And she was right.

‘A lady’s prerogative,’ he said, making an ironic little bow. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

Chapter Five

‘Come and sit by the fire.’ Innes handed Ainsley a glass of sherry.

‘I thought it was warm enough to wear this without shivering,’ she answered him with a constrained smile, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

Her dress was cream patterned with dark blue, with a belt the same colour around her waist. Though it was long-sleeved, the little frill around the décolleté revealed her shoulders, the hollows at her collarbone, the most tantalising hint of the smooth slope of her breasts. She sat opposite him and began to twirl her glass about in her hand, a habit she had, Innes had noticed, when she was trying to work up to saying something uncomfortable.

Her face had that pinched look that leached the life from it. Earlier, he’d suspected that she had pulled away from him because of her memories connected to McBrayne. Lying in the cooling bath water in front of the feeble fire in his bedchamber, Innes had begun to wonder what, exactly, the man had done to her. It was more than the debts, or even the fact that they were incurred without her knowing. He couldn’t understand how she could be kissing him with abandon one minute and then turning to ice the next, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t anything he’d done—or not done. When she forgot herself, she was a different person from the one opposite him now, twisting away nervously at her glass and slanting him timid looks.

Innes threw another log on the fire. ‘I think I’ve solved one problem, at least,’ he said, picking up the magazine that he’d been flicking through while he waited on her. ‘This thing, the Scottish Ladies Companion. There’s a woman who doles out spurious advice to females in here, and she uses that very same phrase of yours.’ He opened the periodical and ruffled through the pages. ‘Aye, here it is. “Make a point of extinguishing the light before engaging in marital relations”—you see, your very phrase—“and your husband will likely not notice your having so unwittingly misled him. Better still, retain your modesty and your nightgown, and your little deceit will never have to be explained.” This Madame Hera is either a virgin or a fool,’ he said scathingly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The lass has been stuffing her corsets with— What was it?’

‘Stockings.’

‘I see you have read it, then.’ Innes shook his head.

‘It was her mother’s idea.’

‘And a damned stupid one. Pitch dark or broad daylight, you can be certain the husband will know the difference. And as for the idea of keeping her nightgown on...’

‘For modesty’s sake. I am sure many women do.’

‘Really? I’ve never come across a single one.’

‘I doubt very much that the women you have—experienced—are—are— I mean— You know what I mean.’

‘The women I’ve experienced, as you put it, have certainly not been married to another man at the time, but nor have they been harlots, if that is what you’re implying.’ She was blushing. She was unduly flustered, considering she was neither a virgin herself, nor as strait-laced as she now sounded. ‘I’m finding you a puzzle,’ Innes said, ‘for the day I met you, I recall you were threatening to join the harlots on the Cowgate.’

‘You know very well I was joking.’ Ainsley set her glass of sherry down. ‘Do you really think Madame Hera’s advice misguided?’

‘Does it matter?’

She bit her lip, then nodded.

Innes picked up the magazine and read the letter again. ‘This woman, she’s not exactly lied to the man she’s betrothed to, but she’s misled him, and it seems to me that Madame Hera is encouraging her to continue to mislead him. It’s that I don’t like. The lass is likely nervous enough about the wedding night without having to worry about subterfuge. Hardly a frame of mind conducive to her enjoying what you would call her husband’s ministrations.’

‘What would you call it?’

Innes grinned. ‘Something that doesn’t sound as if the pleasure is entirely one-sided. There’s a dictionary worth of terms depending on what takes your fancy, but lovemaking will do.’

‘You might think that innocuous enough, but I assure you, the Scottish Ladies Companion will not publish it,’ Ainsley said.

‘You are a subscriber to this magazine, then?’

She shrugged. ‘But—this woman, Innes. Don’t you think her husband will be angry if he discovers her deception? And anger is no more conducive to—to lovemaking than fraud.’

‘In the grand scheme of things, I doubt it. Chances are he’s not any more experienced than she, and like to be just as nervous. I’d say he’s going to be more concerned about his own performance than anything else, something your Madame Hera doesn’t seem to take any account of.’

‘It is a column of advice for women.’

‘And most of the letters in this issue seem to be about men. Anyway, Madame Hera is completely missing the main point.’

‘Which is?’

‘The lass thinks she’s not well enough endowed, and Madame Hera is by implication agreeing by telling her to cover up. If she goes to her wedding night ashamed, thinking she’s not got enough to offer, you can be sure that soon enough her husband will think the same.’

‘So it’s her fault?’ Ainsley said.

‘Don’t be daft. If anyone’s at fault it’s that blasted Madame Hera—and the mother.’ Innes threw the magazine down on the table. ‘I don’t know why we’re wasting our time with this nonsense.’

Ainsley picked the magazine up, her face set. ‘Because I wrote it,’ she said. ‘I’m Madame Hera.’

* * *

Innes laughed. Then, when she continued to look at him without joining in, his laughter stopped abruptly. ‘I’ll be damned. You mean it? You really do write this stuff?’

‘It is not stuff. It is a very well-respected column. I’ll have you know that in the past month, Madame Hera has received no less than fifty letters. In fact, such is the demand for Madame’s advice that the magazine will from next month offer a personal reply service. Felicity has agreed a fee with the board, and I shall receive fifty per cent of it.’