Was he supposed to force himself on her? Not that he even could. His prick was as limp as a wet herring. He wished he’d thought to bring a vial of oil to ease his passage and spare her unnecessary pain, but he wasn’t about to go looking for oil now. It would embarrass them both, since he had no idea where to find some without asking.
Closing his eyes, Jeremy thought of Alys Bailey. He hadn’t seen her since that day his horse cast a shoe, but her sweet smile still haunted his dreams. He remembered how she’d looked at him when he’d first approached, her eyes full of fear, her nose pink from the tears she’d shed, but then she had relaxed, talking with him easily as she led him to the spring, her gaze trusting and open as she looked up at him. What he wouldn’t give to be lying next to her right now rather than this marble effigy he was married to.
Allowing his thoughts to roam free, Jeremy envisioned kissing Alys’s sweet mouth, then undressing her until she stood before him as God made her, warm and soft beneath his gentle hands. He’d want to bring her pleasure, to hear her moan as he made love to her, to see the look on her face as she reached her climax. Presented with this delectable fantasy, Jeremy’s cock finally sprang to life, and he rolled onto Marjorie without ever opening his eyes, allowing himself to pretend she was Alys. He pushed her legs apart with his knee and forced himself into her dry, unwelcoming body. He must have caused her great pain, but Marjorie didn’t so much as gasp or cry out. She lay there, unmoving, as Jeremy dreamed of Alys, finally spilling himself inside his unwilling bride.
“May the Lord bless our union and grant us a child,” Marjorie said, clearly relieved to have the consummation over with. “Goodnight, my lord.”
“Goodnight, wife,” Jeremy said quietly, and turned away from her.
Chapter 21
Jeremy woke early, but Marjorie was already gone, her side of the bed cold, the only evidence of her presence a brownish bloodstain that had soaked into the sheets and dried since last night. Jeremy got out of bed, poured some water into a basin, and washed Marjorie’s blood off his own body before dressing and making his way downstairs. He was sorry he’d caused her pain but glad she’d bled. Now there’d be no doubt the marriage had been consummated and that the bride had been a virgin, news that would no doubt come as a relief to Mistress Ashcombe, in case she had concerns about the legality of the marriage.
As Jeremy passed the chapel, he saw Marjorie through the open door, kneeling in exactly the same way she had last night. The lovely wedding gown had been discarded in favor of crow black, the white of Marjorie’s cap, collar, and pale skin the only reminders that this was a woman and not a demon hovering before the altar.
Did it matter how much one prayed? Jeremy wondered as he strode toward the main door. Did God bless those who spent hours on their knees, or was it the sincerity of the prayer that earned one grace? A thought came unbidden into Jeremy’s mind, and he said a heartfelt prayer for Alys’s well-being. For some reason, he was certain she’d survived the smallpox, sincerely believing he’d feel it in his heart if she were dead.
Despite the early hour, Viscount Lockwood was already in the garden, taking his morning walk before the day grew too hot. Jeremy joined him. He was warm in his leather doublet and woolen breeches, but it was pleasant to be outdoors, the vibrant colors of the garden reminding him that there was beauty and joy in the world despite the ugliness that seemed to hound them from day to day, the threat of death never too far away.
Asa Lockwood looked at his youngest son, his gaze speculative. “How was it?” he asked at last.
“Painful.”
“For her or for you?”
“For us both,” Jeremy replied, sickened by the memory of last night. “She was stiff as a board. I had to force myself on her. Not the way I’d hoped to start our married life.”
Asa chuckled. “Don’t worry, son. She’ll come around. Your mother couldn’t bear the sight of me when we first wed, but she got used to me after a time.” Asa’s eyes misted with tears at the memory of his wife. He was only fifty-one, but his hair had turned nearly white after his wife’s death, and there was a stoop in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
“Did she?” Jeremy asked, feeling a bit more hopeful. “How did you accomplish that?”
“I treated her with kindness and respect and talked to her as much as possible. She didn’t always respond, but she listened; that’s what matters.”
“What did you talk to her about?”
“Everything and anything. The estate, the people we knew, even the weather. I tried to make amusing observations to make her smile.”
Jeremy tried to imagine his stern father trying so hard to win the heart of his young wife and failed. “Did you love my mother?” he asked. His father’s marriage had been arranged, much like his own, but being the oldest son and the heir to the title and estate, his father had had more of a say in his future than Jeremy had.
“Not right away, but I came to love her deeply in the years we were married.”
“Is that why you never remarried?” Jeremy could barely remember his mother, but when he thought of her, he felt a pang of sadness and loss. Walter, who’d been ten when she died, said
