Wicked Delights Of A Bridal Bed Read online

  Or eternal damnation more like, Adam thought now, as he reached for his shirt and pulled it on over his head.

  No, when it came to Mallory he’d had nothing to offer her back then, and he hadn’t been so idealistic as to imagine that love would make up for a life of want and privation. Of course, she would have had the large dowry Clybourne settled on her, enough money to keep them both in reasonable comfort and style. But he had too much pride to be branded a fortune hunter and too much respect for Mallory to ever want her to question whether it had been her he’d wanted or her money.

  And so, he’d given her up before he’d ever had her, burying his love for her as deep as he could force it to go. Instead, he’d settled for her friendship, a pale substitute for his real desires but a small salve nevertheless.

  Or at least it had been until she’d met Michael Hargreaves and fallen in love. He’d died a little the day she’d announced her engagement to the other man, knowing he’d lost her forever.

  Or so he had thought.

  Hargreaves had been a fine man, and he would never have wished him ill. When he’d heard news of the major’s death, he’d been saddened by the loss—especially for Mallory’s sake. But he’d also experienced a secret sense of relief, along with a tiny spark of hope that flickered back to life inside him.

  Mallory was free again and could be his, as he’d never before allowed himself to imagine she might be. Not only was she a grown woman now, he was no longer one step shy of the poorhouse.

  Roughly two years ago, he’d scraped together enough money to make a couple of investments with Rafe Pendragon, a man reputed to be a financial wizard. Jack had mentioned his own decision to give the man’s advice a try, and Adam had followed suit. Thank God he had, since the risk had more than paid off, garnering him what now amounted to a sizeable fortune.

  With money to spare, he was finally starting to undertake the improvements to his estate that he’d always longed to make. Reclaiming the land was his first priority, large numbers of fallow acres having been allowed to turn wild over the past twenty years of disuse. Next, he planned to build new houses, repair many existing ones and give his tenants the means needed to profitably work the land. The rents alone would provide him with a good income, allowing him to concentrate the rest of his funds on repairing Gresham Park and seeing the grand old property returned to its former glory. Even more, he wanted to bring laughter and love back to a house that had known far too little of either. He wanted to bring Mallory there as his wife.

  But first she would have to emerge from her grief, and while she did, he would have to continue being patient.

  I’ve waited for her this long, he mused with stoic resignation, as he reached for one of the starched linen cravats his valet had laid out for his use. I can wait a while longer. If necessary, I would wait an eternity to have Mallory as my own.

  Ignoring the ache of longing that settled in his chest and lower in his semi-aroused groin, he turned to the mirror and began tying the cloth around his neck in an intricate knot.

  Earlier, when he’d made his remark about ravishing Mallory on her bed, he hadn’t entirely been joking. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have locked them alone inside her room so he could kiss and caress her until she couldn’t think of anyone or anything but him. Stripping that black dress off her body would have been both a privilege and a pleasure. Yet another desire that would unfortunately have to wait.

  Admonishing himself for his wayward thoughts, he fixed a final knot in his cravat, then reached for his white waistcoat with its long row of mother-of-pearl buttons. A black evening jacket came next. Last he added a few extras—a pocket handkerchief, a gold watch he’d carried since his days at university and an onyx signet ring that had belonged to his grandfather.

  After a last glance in the mirror, he left the room to join the assembled company for dinner.

  Mallory slipped into the drawing room on silent feet, hoping none of the others would take notice of her arrival. Her luck held for exactly thirty seconds before her mother turned and caught sight of her.

  With a smile on her elegant oval face, Ava, Dowager Duchess of Clybourne, glided across the room, the bronze silk of her evening gown complementing her trim figure and soft chestnut hair. Were it not for the few, fine strands of silver in her tresses and the faint lines that fanned out near the corners of her clear green eyes, one might have imagined her to be a much younger woman. Even her own children agreed that she didn’t look old enough to have borne all eight of them, the eldest of whom was now four-and-thirty years of age.

  “Hallo, dear,” Ava greeted in a quiet voice before leaning over to dust a kiss against Mallory’s cheek. “I’m so glad you changed your mind about joining us tonight.”

  Mallory gave a murmur of assent, but said nothing more.

  “And don’t you look beautiful. That willow green gown is most becoming. I hope you won’t take it amiss, but it’s good to see you in something other than black.”

  Mallory held her tongue again, deciding not to mention the fact that she’d had help from an unexpected source in choosing tonight’s attire. As if attuned to her thoughts, Adam turned from where he stood across the room in conversation with her brothers, Jack and Cade, and their friends, Niall Faversham and Lord Howland. A slight smile curved Adam’s mouth, his rich brown eyes warm with approval as they swept over her.

  And why should he not approve, she thought, considering he’s the one who picked out my dress? She shot him a look that drew a wider smile.

  Glancing away, she focused her attention on her mother. Seconds later, they were joined by her sisters-in-law, Grace and Claire.

  Claire smiled and leaned near. “I hope you’re not cross with me for saying something to Adam this afternoon,” she whispered.

  Mallory gave a tiny shake of her head. “How can I be cross when I know you only mean well.”

  Claire relaxed. “I do, truly. Now come and speak to Meg. She’s trapped on the sofa at present.”

  Her other sister-in-law, Cade’s wife, was “trapped” because she was heavily pregnant with the couple’s second child. Despite being due to deliver late that month, Meg had insisted on coming to Braebourne for the country party. Mallory knew that Cade had initially worried about the journey south but had given up arguing without much protest. He was glad Meg would be surrounded by family during her confinement and labour.

  Apparently aware of the attention she was receiving, Meg waved them over, her lake blue eyes alive with a tranquil happiness Mallory could only envy. Meg and Cade were so completely in love, their bond was plain to see. The same could be said for all of Mallory’s married brothers, each of them in turn doting on his wife with an open affection that was returned fully and without reservation.

  Before Michael died, Mallory thought she would share that same kind of wedded bliss. Instead, he was cold in his grave, and she was alone. Not for an instant did she begrudge her family their happiness, but seeing them so content served only to highlight her own emptiness and loss.

  Abruptly, she wished she could retreat back upstairs to her room. Instead, she forced herself to cross to the sofa and sink down next to Meg. She and Meg exchanged warm greetings, as Grace and Claire took up chairs on either side.

  Their cousin India joined them moments later, her pert green eyes dancing with warmth and good humour. Two years ago, she’d married the Duke of Weybridge, a handsome devil who’d quite swept India off her feet. As Mallory watched, India glanced toward her husband, Quentin, who stood in conversation with Edward, Drake, Lord Damson, and Edward’s personal secretary, Mr Hughes. Their gazes met, India and Quentin sharing a brief, though thoroughly intimate, smile before glancing away again.

  A new knot formed in Mallory’s chest as memories swept through her of another occasion when she’d been in this room with India and Quentin and so many of the others. How happy she’d been then—Christmas three years ago, the day she and Michael announced their engagement. How long ago that seemed, the
last time Michael had been with them all at Braebourne.

  A chill went through her, her emotions drawing inward so that she scarcely noticed a new pair of ladies join the group gathered around the sofa. She made some perfunctory murmur of greeting to her old friends, Lady Damson and Miss Jessica Milbank, ignoring the small furrows of worry that marred their smooth foreheads.

  Directing her attention elsewhere, Mallory gazed around the room. Her twin brothers, Leo and Lawrence, and India’s brother, Spencer, lounged with negligent ease near one of the windows in the far corner. No doubt the three were trading stories about life at Oxford, Spencer having just graduated while the twins were on holiday awaiting the start of the next term.

  In another corner sat thirteen-year-old Esme, along with India’s younger sisters Anna, Jane and Poppy, and Claire’s teenaged sisters Nan and Ella. Not yet of age, the girls would be taking their meals in the schoolroom rather than joining the adult company. But as Mallory knew, given that Esme had spoken of little else this past month, her sister was simply glad to have so many other young people in residence and didn’t mind being relegated upstairs.

  And arranged in a last, very elegant group, were those at the opposite end of the age spectrum. Among them were: kind, plump cousin Wilhelmina, who’d acted as London chaperone for her and Claire last year; Claire’s parents, Lord and Lady Edgewater; the local vicar, Mr Thoms; family friends, Lord and Lady Pettigrew; and her mother, Ava.

  Being with them all should have put Mallory at ease. Yet as comfortably familiar as the assembled guests and relations might be, she no longer felt as though she belonged.

  Why, she asked herself, did I ever let Adam talk me into coming downstairs tonight?

  Suddenly Meg tensed for a moment before relaxing again. “Gracious, that was a hard one. Right under the ribs,” she said, laying a hand on her rounded belly. “This baby certainly can kick. I keep telling Cade I’m carrying a boy again, but he says he wants a daughter this time. I suspect we’re going to have to try for a third baby if he’s to get his wish.”

  “Well, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble talking Cade into helping you with that particular endeavour,” Grace remarked with a saucy smile. “But perhaps you ought to give birth to this baby before you mention wanting the next.”

  Meg nodded. “You’re right. Poor love, he nearly paced a hole in the drawing room last time I went into labour. I believe he was in more pain than I was.”

  All the ladies laughed everyone except Mallory, who couldn’t muster the requisite humour. After that, the conversation turned to babies and the third-floor nursery, which was full of nursemaids and little Byrons. India’s firstborn son, Darius, was also there, a lively playmate for his other toddler cousins.

  If she and Michael had married, Mallory realized, she might have a baby in the nursery now too.

  Rubbing her icy fingers together in her lap, she wondered if she could find a way to slip out of the room unnoticed and make it back upstairs. She was considering her options when Adam suddenly appeared.

  “Ladies,” he said, sending them all a dimple-flashing smile. “Pardon the intrusion, but I wondered if I might borrow Lady Mallory for a moment or two?”

  Feminine eyebrows arched with curiosity, but no one voiced an objection.

  Less than a minute later, Mallory found herself off the sofa and halfway across the room, standing with Adam in the only quiet corner remaining.

  She folded her arms at her waist. “So, what is so urgent that you had to drag me away?”

  “Is that what I did?” he drawled. “And here I thought I was providing you with a much-needed rescue.”

  Her gaze shot to his before glancing away. “I had no such need,” she dissembled, perversely refusing to acknowledge that he was right.

  “So you weren’t on the verge of bolting? Because from my vantage point, you looked as though you were contemplating mutiny.”

  Why does he always have to be so deuced observant? She thought. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

  A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Of course you do not.” Reaching over, he caught one of her hands in his and drew it over his arm.

  “Now, what are you up to?” she asked.

  “Dinner. If I’m not mistaken, Croft just informed the duchess that everyone may go in.”

  And so it would appear he had, Mallory realized, as Claire rose from the sofa and began circulating among the guests to share the news.

  Mallory released a sigh. “You were right before, you know, when you said I wanted to mutiny. I do, so why don’t I just slip out when no one’s looking and go upstairs to my room?”

  “Now now, none of that.” He patted her hand. “Anyway, you’re doing fine.”

  “Am I?” she said. “Well, I suppose we shall see just how fine I am by evening’s end.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Have another spoonful of the cheese soufflé,” Adam encouraged Mallory, as he directed one of the footmen to add more to her plate. “I know it’s one of your favourites, and you need to eat something. You’ve scarcely touched your dinner so far.”

  Mallory waited until the servant moved away before she replied. “I’m saving room for dessert.”

  “Then you’ve plenty of room to spare. Now, eat that soufflé and a few bites of the duck as well. It’s quite excellent, as you’d know had you done more than slide it around in the sauce.”

  Her thumb played over the elaborately scripted C engraved on the base of her silver fork. C for the ducal title Clybourne rather than for Claire as her sister-in-law sometimes liked to tease. “Strange,” she remarked, “but I didn’t realize I was in need of another mother. Obviously I’ve been living under the mistaken impression that the one I have is sufficient.”

  A brief silence fell as Adam reached for his glass of Bordeaux and took a swallow. Carefully, he returned the glass to the table. “Oh, the dowager duchess is more than up to the task of being your mother. Unfortunately, though, she cannot be everywhere at once and perforce requires the occasional surrogate to act in her stead. So eat your dinner like a good girl and don’t make me call for reinforcements.”

  On her other side, Drake let out a muffled guffaw, having clearly been eavesdropping on their conversation. Instantly realizing his mistake, he turned away to address a comment to Miss Milbank, who was seated on his left. Within seconds, the pair were engaged in conversation, Jessica Milbank appearing slightly dazed to suddenly find herself the focus of Lord Drake’s undivided attention.

  Mallory’s mouth tightened as she swung back to confront Adam. “My lord Gresham,” she stated in a voice too low to carry, “are you implying that I am behaving like a child? Because if you are—”

  “No, not at all,” he interrupted. “I am simply trying to make the point, however inexpertly, that you ought to take better care of yourself. As your friend, I feel it my duty to mention that you’ve become far too thin over the past year. The pretty roundness in your cheeks is gone, along with that extra curve to your hips that I’ve always admired. I’d like to see both of them return. So eat your dinner, Mallory. Please.”

  She swallowed and glanced away, begrudgingly aware that Adam was right. In her grief, food held scant interest for her. Over the past months, she’d eaten for reasons of necessity not enjoyment, finding it easy to skip a meal here and there without noticing the lack. But perhaps she’d skipped a few too many since he wasn’t mistaken that she’d dropped several pounds. Her maid Penny could attest to that better than anyone, since the girl had taken in all of her dresses—some of them more than once.

  She studied the offerings on her plate.

  Please, Adam had said. And Adam almost never said please. A forceful man, he wasn’t the sort to beg, not even in the most minor of ways. Yet he’d begged her over a meal.

  Am I really such a hopeless case?

  With an inward sigh, she acknowledged that perhaps she was. Taking up her fork again, she slid the tines into the airy mass of whipped
eggs, cream and cheese. The bite melted on her tongue with a pleasant tang.

  Suddenly intent on trying for Adam’s sake if no other, she ate another forkful before picking up her knife to cut a piece of duck. She discovered Adam smiling at her as she chewed and swallowed the game, finding it flavourful despite its now-lukewarm temperature. She ate most of that course and the next, earning his unspoken approbation.

  When dessert arrived, she really didn’t have room, having consumed more tonight than she had in too long to recall. “Oh, I shall never manage,” she said, casting a baleful eye at the delectable-looking fresh peach tart with vanilla-scented cream.

  “Of course you can,” Adam told her. “Two bites, then you may stop.”

  “One,” she said.

  Yet with her sense of taste reawakened, the first forkful of flaky crust, sweet fruit and cream proved irresistibly delicious. Giving way to the urge, she ate another bite, then another. Before she knew it, she was licking the last bit of crumbs and cream from her fork, wishing it wasn’t considered gauche to do the same with her plate.

  Glancing up, she met Adam’s twinkling brown gaze. “Delicious, was it not?” he remarked.

  She laid her fork across her empty plate, one of the footmen appearing with silent efficiency to clear it away. She waited until he left before replying. “It was…satisfactory,” she said.

  A laugh burst from Adam’s lips. “If that was satisfactory, I’d love to see you eat something you really liked.”

  She didn’t smile—she just didn’t seem to have it in her to smile these days—but she enjoyed watching Adam’s amusement. He was never handsomer than when he laughed or smiled, his cheeks creasing with long, sigh-inducing dimples, his even teeth flashing white against his swarthy complexion. Sometimes he looked almost boyish, a trace of mischief peeking from his dark eyes as though he were concealing a wicked secret he hadn’t decided whether or not to share.