and he would retreat again, behind his barricades, to safety.
‘They’re all having such fun here together,’ Aunt Thea continued, ‘that Rosalind has invited us all to come again at Christmastide. I do hope you and Jane will come—we shall be here from a week before Christmas right up to Twelfth Night.’ She looked at Alex hopefully. ‘It would be lovely for the entire family to be together.’
‘Oh, what a wonderful idea,’ said Jane, before Alex could reply. ‘I remember coming here at Christmas. How I loved all the old traditions—the Yule log, the Christmas Candle, decorating the house with greenery on Christmas Eve. Do you remember, Alex?’ Her eyes turned wistful. ‘The fun, the laughter, the games—so different to Christmas at Stowford Place. Stepmama never countenanced those old traditions. To her, Christmas is a religious observance and all about charity for the poor. We never even exchange family gifts, whether on St Nicholas’s Day or on Christmas Day as your family did.’
‘I remember. I’m sure we’ll be able to come.’ He said the words, but didn’t mean them. Christmas was far too soon—he doubted he would be ready by then to stomach all that enforced gaiety.
Jane smiled happily at Alex. ‘I shall look forward to it, especially as we won’t be spending much time with you all now—assuming you still wish to leave tomorrow, Alex?’
‘I do.’ He averted his gaze, guilt at misleading her making him brusque, but there were months to go yet. Time enough to prepare her for disappointment. ‘Father has ordered the carriage for nine so, if you’ll excuse us, Aunt, I think it’s time we retired.’
It was their wedding night. The perfect excuse to go to bed early…no one would question them doing so, especially with an early start in the morning. He stood, helping Jane to rise. Her hand trembled in his as they said their goodnights. If the circumstances had been different and if Alex had been his brother, or his uncle, there would have been a few pointed, if not ribald, comments made. There were none. It was as though they’d been married for years: no teasing; no winks; no nudges.
He told himself he didn’t care. He was used to being the outsider. He read the concern on every face in that room. Well, they needn’t worry about him—he was determined he and Jane would be happy together. It wasn’t until they were walking side by side up the stairs that it occurred to him the concern was for his bride. He squared his shoulders and hardened his heart. What did he care? He would be the very best husband he could possibly be to Jane. Surely her life with him couldn’t be any worse than life with that old witch of a stepmother?
Jane stared into the mirror. She was ready, clad in her best nightgown, trimmed with lace at the neckline and sleeves and fastened at the bodice with three pairs of blue ribbons. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and Peg, her maid, had brushed it until it shone. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to bring a little colour into them. Huge, troubled eyes stared back at her, revealing the dread coiling and writhing in the pit of her stomach. Dread at what was to come.
Eyes…the windows of the soul. What would Alex see in them? Would he even care if she was nervous?
She reached for the scent bottle on the dressing table and dabbed a spot above each collarbone and at her wrists, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent that always calmed her.
Jasmine. Her mother’s scent. Not that she remembered her mother but, after she died of childbed fever, Peg had transferred her devotion to Jane, ensuring she grew up knowing about her mother. Peg had even saved a half-used bottle of her mother’s scent to give to Jane when she was old enough to understand and, since then, jasmine had infused her with a feeling of peace, even in her most troubled moments.
Except…now…tonight…peace evaded her. Her stomach still swarmed with nerves. She knew what must happen. And she desperately wanted to please Alex. She could not bear for him to regret this step they had taken. But, try as she might, she could not banish the memory of Pikeford.
The weight of him on her. His hands scrabbling at her body. The stink of spirits and of foul, hot breath and stale sweat.
Her stomach lurched and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, swallowing hard.
To give the newlyweds privacy, Jane had been allotted a room in the east wing of the Abbey with Alex in the adjacent bedchamber. The rest of the family slept in the main part of the house, apart from the children who occupied the nursery wing to the west. The quiet weighed on her…no distant murmur of voices, no doors opening and closing, no footsteps coming and going. She could almost believe she was entirely alone…until the sound of the door opening behind her set her pulse galloping.
She swallowed again and stood to face her new husband. Her nerves eased a little. This was Alex. He would not hurt her. As long as she kept her mind on tonight, and the present, and blocked all memories of the other day—surely she could manage that?—then she would cope.
She could hardly believe her long-held fantasy had come true as she gazed at him. He was still half-dressed, his shirt—open at the neck to reveal a tantalising glimpse of chest hair—tucked into his trousers. His thick mahogany brown hair was dishevelled and his amber eyes were fastened on hers, a look in them she had never seen before. She had dreamed of this moment, all those nights she had spent alone in her bed. If only… She thrust that thought away before it could take hold and spoil the night to come. Their wedding night. She clamped her teeth together, determined not to reveal her fear. She forced her lips into a smile as Alex stepped closer, scanning her from top to toe and back again.
‘Your hair…it is beautiful. Before I saw you in church, I never imagined…’ He lifted a lock that draped over her shoulder, allowing it to slide through his fingers. ‘It is so soft, so silky.’
He tipped her chin, tilting her face to his, and his mouth covered hers. A gentle caress. She closed her eyes and concentrated on that. Only that. The warm smoothness of his lips as they moved over hers, unhurriedly. Soothingly. His thumb and forefinger still beneath her chin. No pressure. No force. Her heart lurched, and her breathing hitched.
‘Shh…’ A whisper of sound.
Concentrate. It’s Alex. My love. My handsome hero. This is my dream.
His mouth moved, kissing and nibbling a path from her cheek to her ear. He nipped gently at her lobe, then caressed her neck with lips and tongue, and pleasure…anticipation…tiptoed through her. His arms came around her and tightened, bringing her close, and she relaxed into him. Into his hard body…his lean but muscular form shaping her softer flesh. Then his lips found hers again, moving gently. When his tongue probed her lips, she opened her mouth and let him in.
Alex. Her love. Her husband.
As he explored her mouth, she curled her arms around his waist and then slid her hands up his back, palms flat, learning the size and shape of him through his fine lawn shirt: the muscles either side of the dip of his spine, the wings of his shoulder blades, the broadness of his back, the width of his shoulders, the corded muscles in his arms. The strength of him. The maleness of him.
He murmured, deep in his throat. A sound of appreciation. And a strange, achy feeling gathered at the juncture of her thighs.
His hands wandered lightly over her back, shoulders and arms. Learning her, as she had learned him. They moved lower, cupping her bottom, kneading gently. Without volition, she pressed closer
