Wicked Delights Of A Bridal Bed Read online

  “You’re entirely right. It’s not,” he agreed, crossing to drop with negligent ease into the chair opposite her. His long, athletic frame was clothed in a dark green coat and trousers with a cream waistcoat and gold watch fobs. Leaning back, he lounged with the insouciant grace of some fabled prince––strong, confident, and possessed of a dark sensuality that elicited interest wherever he travelled, and from whomever he met.

  “Then again,” he continued, “I’ve never been any great hand at obeying the rules. Besides, what’s going to happen with your brothers no more than a quick shout away? And considering the open door and your maid’s presence in the room,” he added on a devilish turn, “chances are rather slim that I’ll sweep you off your feet and ravish you in your bed. Do you not agree, Penny?”

  The servant’s eyes grew round as marbles before a giggle escaped her lips. “I should certainly hope not, my lord.”

  He laughed and sent her a wink that turned the girl’s cheeks a bright crimson.

  “Quit tormenting my maid, Lord Gresham,” Mallory said in a reproving tone that had no real heat behind the words. “Penny, you may go along now and leave us. I shall be completely safe with his lordship.”

  Her maid glanced between them before nodding. “Yes, miss.”

  “But leave the door open,” Mallory called at her retreating back. “Wide open.”

  Adam grinned.

  Henry, who’d been watching the tableau from his spot near the hearth, chose that moment to rise and amble toward Adam, the dog’s tail wagging a cheerful greeting that bespoke of long acquaintance and old, dear friends. Reaching out, Adam stroked the dog’s sleek head, earning Henry’s complete adoration.

  Mallory watched, realizing that she was another of Adam’s old and dear friends. She’d known him more than half her life and in all the ways that counted, he was like one of her brothers. Well, not entirely like her brothers, she amended, since he was a man that even the most frigid of females would deem desirable.

  In fact, years ago as a green girl of sixteen, she’d nursed a powerful, though short-lived infatuation for him. But when he’d been kindly dismissive of her naïve overtures, she’d quickly realized that her feelings were not returned and had worked to put out the nascent flame. Since then, she’d been satisfied, even happy, to be his friend, any notions of deeper intimacy between her and Adam Gresham gone forever.

  And now he was here to act as her friend once more.

  “Mama sent you along, I suppose,” she said. “Or was it Claire?”

  He studied her for a moment. “Neither, at least not directly, although I have been charged with the goal of lifting your spirits.”

  She grimaced. “Yes, that seems to be everyone’s duty these days. See to Mallory’s flagging spirits.”

  “Which is why I shall make no such attempt,” he stated, steepling his fingers together on top of his lean stomach. “You have every right to feel miserable under the circumstances, and I shall do nothing to curb your despondency.”

  “Oh,” she said, air flowing in a small puff from her lungs.

  “What is the point in trying to jolly you when you clearly do not wish to be jollied?”

  “That’s very…good of you, Adam,” she said, wondering why she felt even lower of a sudden.

  “You are a grown woman, after all, and if you don’t want to eat dinner, that should be up to you.”

  She frowned. “Who says I don’t want dinner?”

  “Oh, I just assumed as much when the duchess told me you would not be joining us this evening.”

  “No, I shall not, but that doesn’t mean I plan to forgo dinner. I will sup here in my room.”

  “Of course, I understand.” He paused in quiet contemplation. “Although I should think you could be every bit as unhappy among company as you would be alone here in your room. No one will expect you to do anything but sit quietly and take a bite from your plate every now and again. If you like, we can all of us ignore you completely.”

  “Adam!”

  His dark eyes met her own. “Mallory.”

  “Don’t be cruel.”

  “It is not my intention to be. But I believe you ought to consider the fact that you are hurting your family by hiding yourself away. Surely dinner is of little enough consequence that you could put in an appearance this evening.”

  When he said it that way, she realized how churlish her behaviour sounded. “But Adam, all those people…” she whispered.

  He reached over and covered her hand with his. “All those people are family and friends, each of whom loves you.”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

  “There is no ‘suppose’ about it. But if it would make you feel easier, what do you say to sitting between me and one of your brothers? Drake, perhaps? He’s quiet, always busy figuring out something in his head. That way, if you don’t wish to talk, you don’t have to.”

  She looked up again. “I guess that might be acceptable.”

  Adam smiled.

  “But I’m not joining everyone afterward for cards and games. And I don’t want to play the pianoforte. I cannot bear the idea of being put on display and forced to perform. I simply haven’t the heart for it since…well since.”

  Adam squeezed her hand in silent understanding. “Once dinner is finished, I’m sure no one would mind if you retired early. Although I hope you won’t rush off the instant the last dessert fork is laid down.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why is it I feel as though I’ve just been thoroughly managed.”

  His wide shoulders rose on a shrug of supposed innocence.

  “And you say you’re not in league with Claire and Mama. Has anyone ever told you that you’re diabolical, my lord?”

  His smile turned into a slow grin. “Just one of my many and varied talents, sweetheart.” His thumb stroked over the top of her hand for a long moment, her flesh tingling where he touched. Before she had time to think more on it, he let go and leaned back in his chair. “Now,” he asked, “what are you planning to wear?”

  Her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “I hardly see that it matters. My grey silk will do, I expect.”

  Adam’s dark brows joined hers in a scowl. “Grey? Lord no, you can’t wear grey.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, because it’s long past time you were out of mourning attire. For another, because I absolutely detest grey, at least on women.”

  “Black then, though I do not believe I solicited your opinion on the selection of my wardrobe,” she pronounced with a challenging tilt to her chin.

  “You may not have sought my opinion, but you’re going to get the benefit of it nonetheless.”

  Her lips parted. “You are completely outrageous, do you know that?”

  “And you are pigheaded enough to appear tonight in widow’s weeds despite the fact that you are not a widow.”

  She froze, stricken, as a tight band of pain squeezed her chest. Adam was right, of course, she wasn’t a widow and had never been a wife. Still, she felt Michael’s loss as keenly as if she’d been both. Her lower lip trembled, a tear sliding without warning down her cheek.

  Leaning forward, Adam wiped the moisture away with the edge of his thumb. “Shh,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not usually weepy,” she defended. “Not any longer. I thought I’d already cried all my tears.”

  “Apparently there are still one or two left.”

  She said nothing further, her damp gaze meeting his as he caught her chin gently in his hand. She waited, expecting him to tell her what everyone else said.

  That all would be well.

  That time would heal her wounds and make her whole again.

  That she was young and had so much living left to do.

  And most importantly, that she had mourned Michael Hargreaves long and well, but that it was time to let him go.

  Her family meant to be kind, she knew. She had their steadfa
st love and support, and she adored all of them for it. And yet, despite their best intentions, they didn’t understand, and she couldn’t seem to find either the words or the strength to explain.

  And now Adam was here.

  Now Adam would say it all again.

  She glanced away.

  “He wouldn’t like you wearing grey and black any more than I do, you know,” Adam said in his deep, resonant voice. “He wouldn’t want you clinging to customs that serve no useful purpose. Wearing pretty colours doesn’t mean you loved him any less.”

  She trembled and shed another tear, which he brushed away as well.

  “Besides,” he told her, withdrawing his hand, “we can’t have you going to dinner looking like a crow.”

  Her lips parted on a mixture of outrage and amusement. “A crow!”

  Leaning back again in his chair, he crossed his arms. “Most definitely, particularly if you decide to wear black feathers in your hair.”

  She gasped. “I ought to box your ears for such impertinence.”

  “Go ahead if you’d like. The right or left?” He turned his head to both sides. “Which one do you prefer?”

  She huffed out a breath. “Fine. I’ll wear a shade other than black or grey.”

  Adam praised her with a smile.

  “You’ll make Penny ecstatic, you know,” Mallory informed him. “She’s been pestering me for the past month to put off my mourning. Every day when she asks what I’d like to wear, she suggests some bright colour.”

  “Good for Penny. Why don’t we ring for her now, so you can choose.” Without waiting, he rose and crossed to the bellpull.

  She tossed him a look. “Surely you don’t plan to remain here while I select a gown?”

  “I don’t see why not. That way you won’t be tempted to recant your decision. Or pick lavender.”

  “What is wrong with lavender? It happens to be one of my favourite colours.”

  “It also happens to be a traditional colour for half mourning. Starting tonight, you’re officially out of mourning, at least when it comes to your clothing. I think you should begin with something bold. Green, perhaps. You’re always especially striking in that hue.”

  A sound soon came at the open doorway, drawing his attention. “Ah, and here is your maid now. Penny, Lady Mallory has decided to attend dinner tonight after all. I am going to help her choose a gown.”

  The maid’s eyes grew round at his bold and decidedly improper statement. But she made no objection, clearly pleased that Adam had been able to convince her mistress to change her mind about attending the party.

  Perturbed, Mallory laid her hands on the arm of her chair. “I didn’t realize you took such a keen interest in fashion. Have you turned into a man milliner, Adam?”

  Rather than taking offense, he tipped his head back on a laugh. “Not at all. I don’t give a rap about men’s attire. Now women, they are another matter entirely. I love dressing women.”

  And undressing them, she thought, fully aware of Adam’s reputation when it came to the fairer sex. No doubt he knew his way around a woman’s garments—and undergarments, come to think—with the skill of a master violinist playing a concerto.

  Heat warmed her cheeks, and she found herself vaguely shocked by such musings. She swallowed, wondering if Adam had noticed. If he had, though, he gave no sign, his attention fixed on the pair of evening dresses Penny was holding up for his inspection.

  Begrudgingly grateful for his interference, Mallory leaned back and let him choose.

  CHAPTER 3

  A few minutes past six o’clock that evening, Adam stood bare-chested in front of the washstand mirror. With confident precision, he drew the sharp edge of a straight razor across his cheek, coming away with a coating of soap and black stubble. Rinsing the blade clean in a basin of warm water, he repeated the routine action. Generally, he ended up having to shave twice a day since his beard grew fast and heavy.

  After years of living a hairbreadth away from penury, he’d grown used to performing his own ablutions without the aid of a valet. And although his recent increase in wealth had afforded him the luxury of hiring a man to care for his clothes and other personal belongings, he still preferred to bathe and dress himself without assistance. God knows he didn’t need anyone to hold his shirt and trousers for him. He could put them on himself, thank you very much.

  Scraping away a last strip of whiskers, he rinsed the razor, dumped the water and poured fresh. Using both hands, he splashed his cheeks clean, then reached for a nearby towel. With his face presentable enough now for company, he took up a pair of silver-backed brushes and ran them through his hair, smoothing the dark, wayward strands into place. As he did, his thoughts turned to Mallory, her beautiful countenance alive within his mind’s eye.

  I was hard on her, he realized. But had he been too hard? Had he been insensitive and unsympathetic to her needs and her grief?

  His heart gave a painful beat to remember her tears, her distress having nearly proved his undoing. For the last thing in the world he would ever wish to do was hurt Mallory.

  He remembered his first sight of her today and his shock at seeing her looking so thin and hollow-eyed. Her blue-green gaze had been as lonely as a distant sea, her cheekbones sharp beneath skin as pale as alabaster, her raven-dark tresses arranged into a severe chignon that exactly matched her doleful mood. The need to protect had risen inside him in an instant, making him long to snatch her up in his arms and hold her close.

  Instead, he’d forced himself to sit and talk, determined to do what was best for her even if that best might not be what she wished at the moment. Because mourning or no, everyone could see she needed a push. She’d been walled up inside her grief for far too many months now, allowed to retreat so that she was a shadow of her former vibrant self.

  Quite obviously, continuing to leave her to her own devises wasn’t the answer. Nor was tiptoeing around and indulging her with kind words, attentive care and concern. What she needed was a bit of shaking up, a diversion that would draw her back into the life she used to lead. While it was true that nothing would ever be quite the same for her again, it didn’t mean that her life was over.

  He understood about grief, knew firsthand what it meant to lose someone so dear that the hole left behind yawned as wide and endless as a chasm. But he’d learned to go on, and so would Mallory.

  From what he’d observed though, she was too entrenched in her pain right now to break free on her own. She needed someone else to help her escape.

  She needed him.

  After all, when you loved someone, that’s what you did. You helped them.

  And God knows, if there is anyone on this earth I love, it’s Mallory Byron.

  Even now, he could remember the day, the very instant, he’d recognized his feelings for her. The way the awareness had reverberated through his muscles and veins as though he’d taken a jolt from one of Drake’s electricity machines.

  “Come play a game, Adam,” she’d entreated, her lilting voice filled with all the merry innocence of the sixteen-year-old schoolgirl she’d been then.

  He hadn’t wanted to play. He’d been a grown man of six-and-twenty. What use did he have for children’s games? Especially since he’d stopped being a child long before his youth was even done. But somehow Mallory had drawn him in, she and her young female cousins and little brothers, the happy band frolicking with youthful abandon on the verdant grounds of Braebourne. The time of year hadn’t been all that different than it was now, late summer, with its moist ripples of sunshine and heat, droning insects and blossoming honeysuckle bushes releasing clouds of succulent perfume into the air.

  Mere seconds after he’d begrudgingly agreed to Mallory’s scheme, the world went dark, the black cloth of the hoodman-blind thrust over his head. All of the participants squealed with excitement, hands spinning him in a circle before dancing backward to evade his pursuit. They laughed and prodded him as he turned and chased, their footsteps soft against
the grassy lawn.

  Then he caught someone, one of the older girls by the feel of her as she squirmed and struggled in his embrace. She was a delightful handful, her lithe young body brushing against his own in a most enticing way. Whirling her around, he held her fast, as he reached up to yank the hood from his head.

  His gaze locked with Mallory’s, her aquamarine eyes gleaming more brilliantly than the sky. Air rushed from his lungs, then stilled completely when she leaned up and kissed him, laughing all the while. Her touch was nothing more than a peck, an affectionate brushing of lips. But that simple touch sent his world spinning around him, and improbable as it seemed, he knew in that moment that he loved her. Stunned and uncomfortable, he pulled away, making some excuse that took him quickly back into the house.

  He waited for the emotion to fade, telling himself he couldn’t trust such irrational feelings. She was only sixteen, after all, far too young for him to consider in any adult sort of way. It was preposterous, mooning over a girl not even out of the schoolroom. And yet she was bright and sweet-natured and so unbearably lovely the sight of her made him ache.

  Over the weeks to follow, he felt like some jaded roué coveting a tender young morsel and did his best to steer clear of her company. She was forbidden fruit, and he trembled with longing to pluck her from the vine. But he couldn’t have her, and not simply because of her youth and the disparity in their ages.

  For a start, she was his best friend’s sister, the cherished daughter of a family he’d come in many ways to regard as his own. But as much as Jack and the other Byron brothers had welcomed him into their circle, he knew they’d take his head off if they so much as imagined he had designs on their little sister.

  Yet even if that obstacle might have been overcome, and he waited a respectable amount of time for Mallory to come of age before courting her, she was still as far beyond his reach as the stars in the sky.

  Galling as circumstances might be, he’d inherited a title that was all but worthless. His wastrel father had seen to that—gambling, drinking and whoring to the point where there’d been almost nothing left of the estate except a mouldering house and lands so poorly utilized they barely provided the funds to pay the necessary taxes each year. His father would have sold those off as well if the entailment hadn’t kept him from liquidating every last nail and brick. Nonetheless, the old devil had done a masterful job stripping the estate of its pride and possessions, so that pitifully little remained by the time the reaper came to carry the earl off to his final reward.