He had no idea what to say. He had no words, no excuses. He couldn’t believe they were even having this conversation, but he supposed he deserved it. It wasn’t even as if she were trying to make him squirm—though he was.
A low rumble sounded from beneath the bedclothes, and she blushed and placed a hand over her stomach. “I’m sorry, that was me. I’m fearfully hungry. I suppose I should get dressed for dinner.”
“Don’t bother, I’ve rung for a servant,” he said brusquely. “We’ll eat up here.” He wanted to finish the conversation, find out just how badly he’d messed up. And where on that wretched scale of hers he rated.
“In bed?” She brightened. “How lovely. Is that normal for a wedding night?”
He shrugged. Nothing about his wedding night was normal. Luckily at that moment the butler arrived, offering a temporary reprieve. Ned ordered dinner to be brought up, with champagne. And a glass of brandy to be brought to his room at once. He badly needed a drink.
“The food will be here in about fifteen minutes. I’ll have a wash in my room and let you, er, take care of things here.” First rule of soldiering: retreat, regroup and try again.
He stepped into his own room and shut the connecting door to give her privacy. He picked up the pitcher and poured some water into the basin. The water wasn’t even lukewarm. He was about to ring for hot water and his valet, then hesitated.
Her water would be cold too, but he was reluctant to interrupt her private female ablutions to ask her. If she wanted hot water she could ring for her maid—though fifteen minutes to dinner wasn’t enough time for a bath. Blast it, he could do without a shave, and if she wanted a bath, she could order one after dinner.
The everyday intimacies of married life. He supposed he would get used to it.
Why was it so different from the day-to-day intimacies he’d shared with lovers in the past? He didn’t know, but somehow with a bride—with this bride—with Lily—it was different. Old habits, old understandings no longer fit. Marriage, Lily, it was all new territory.
He washed quickly, combed his hair, then paced about the room. The brandy arrived—a decanter as well as a glass—and he drank the whole glass down in two gulps and poured himself another. Lord, he’d needed that.
She probably needed one as well.
Though once again, she’d seemed to take it all in her stride without a fuss. He was sure other bridegrooms—the ones who’d bungled things as he had—he never lost control!—had to deal with tears and recriminations, or stiff, martyred silences. What had that aunt of hers told her? An unpleasantness to be endured.
He’d probably ensured that, pouncing on her like an eager boy. But Lily seemed quite philosophical. He was certain she wasn’t trying to disconcert or tease him—she wasn’t that sophisticated. She was simply trying to be candid.
But lord, to be on a wretched sliding scale somewhere between bliss and endurance vile! He snorted at the inadvertent pun. But it wasn’t the least bit funny.
He prided himself on his skills in the bedroom. Never before, not since he was an awkward youth, had he left a woman less than thoroughly satisfied.
And now, to fall short of his usual standard, on his wedding night, with his innocent new bride—it was mortifying. He wanted to take her back to bed and show her how it was supposed to be.
Only she was bound to be sore. He had a feeling he’d been unwontedly rough. He’d utterly lost control. He couldn’t recall the last time that had happened.
She hadn’t complained—but that was Lily; she wasn’t the type to whine. In any case, she’d been a virgin. He was the expert here, the one who was supposed to induct her into the pleasures of the bedchamber.
Somewhere between endurance vile and bliss. A vast gulf between the two.
Next time they lay together, he’d take it slowly and bring her to—forget bliss!—he’d show her the meaning of ecstasy. And in the meantime . . .
• • •
The minute Edward closed the door behind him, Lily slipped out of bed. She found a large jug of water behind a screen in the corner of the room, cold now, of course. She quickly washed her face and sponged the rest of her body, especially between her legs, which was a bit sticky.
She pressed the wet cloth against her heated skin, enjoying the cooling sensation. She was a woman now, a wife. Emm’s explanations of what to expect on her wedding night had been a little vague and unclear, and Lily could see why now. Who could find words to describe . . . that?
She tried to recall that almost-feeling. As if she’d quivered on the brink of . . . something. And then lost it.
Had she done something wrong? The trouble was she couldn’t think of anything she’d actually done. As well to expect a gale-tossed leaf to remember the journey it had taken.
But she could tell Edward hadn’t been quite happy about it.
Imperfect or not, the experience had been . . . breathtaking. She’d had the physical procedure of the act explained to her, but she hadn’t been in any way prepared for how it would make her feel.
She shivered deliciously in remembrance. It had been blissful at the start . . . those kisses and caresses, and the way he’d removed her clothing, piece by piece, as if unwrapping a very special gift.
The touch of his hands . . . of his mouth . . . She’d felt like a candle, ignited, melting.
And when he’d slid into her—it had hurt a little, of course, but she’d expected that—but oh, the way it had made her feel. Strange and raw and yet somehow, right. The intense intimacy of it was a little overwhelming. Then when he’d started to move inside her . . . her body responding without her volition, shuddering and gripping him, in a way she’d never imagined . . .
