By Jaimey Grant (Darkness~Faith~Perplexed)
Lady Maria waited in her bed, clothed in a diaphanous nightdress. A single candle, burning on the nightstand, kept the room from complete darkness.
It was the fourteenth consecutive night she'd waited thus, a book in hand so as to appear nonchalant, less like a young wife awaiting her husband's presence in her bed.
Would this be the night? She'd listened to rumor after rumor concerning her husband and where he preferred to spend his nights. She'd accepted it as life in high Society, the life of a real lady.
They'd consummated their marriage, of course. Her face warmed at the memory, a tiny smile touching her lips. Even now, weeks later, Maria could still feel Richard's caress, feel his fingers grazing her skin, his lips brushing her lips, her neck, her shoulder, her...
Maria sucked in a trembling breath. The intimacies they'd shared meant everything to her. For him...what did she know of men and their feelings? Certainly, he'd felt something more than duty? Duty didn't demand the tenderness he'd shown her, the whispered words of reassurance, the easing of her nervous fears. And duty certainly didn't demand his continued presence in her bed, holding her in the aftermath of their passion, sleeping in each other's arms.
The following morning, she'd awakened alone. As her maid went about her duties, pouring warm water and laying out drying cloths for Maria's morning ablutions, Maria had stretched, surreptitiously grazing her hand over the opposite side of the bed. The lingering warmth there indicated Richard's recent departure.
This was a circumstance Maria's mother had not mentioned. In fact, she'd told her daughter the opposite, assuring her the loss of her virginity would be unpleasant but quick and her husband wouldn't linger in her bed once the deed was done. And after she conceived, he would cease to plague her altogether.
It seemed he'd already decided to no longer plague her, she sighed. Only her faith in love, in her love for him, could account for her continued belief that Richard would return to her, would eventually choose her over his mistress.
A tiny, cynical voice in her head mentioned the far more likely reason he'd return: He'd yet to beget an heir.
It was true. That was the reason he'd seek her out. At least, for the foreseeable future.
In the utter silence of the moment, footsteps sounded without. Maria froze, hardly daring to breathe, praying her husband would remember his duty, choose her and ignore his mistress. He'd returned home nearly every night since they married, changed from his evening dress and left again. Maria could only assume his destination to be the small house in Kensington, the pretty little domicile one helpful lady had pointed out to Maria with a whispered, “Lady Hensley spends most of her time there with—oh! Forgive me.”
The footsteps paused outside her door. A smile tugged at Maria's lips as the latch moved; a smile that swiftly disappeared a moment later. The footsteps moved on, stopped at the next chamber down the corridor. A different door opened and closed, Richard's door.
Had he paused outside her door by mistake, confused and thinking it was his own chamber? Surely a man couldn't make such an error in his own London residence? Even a drunken man could not make such a mistake.
Was it possible that he'd assumed she would not welcome his attentions? It was true she had not encouraged him, but a lady would never indicate her willingness to engage in intimacies. To do so would brand her little better than a strumpet.
Maria carefully placed her book on the nightstand, leaning close to snuff the candle. She settled into her bed, thick blond curls falling over both shoulders. Her mind would not settle, however, truly perplexed by Richard's behavior.
Why had he already tired of her? His need for an heir hadn't changed. She knew the ducal estates were entailed on the male heir and, at the moment, a male heir didn't exist. If Richard died without issue, the title and property would revert to the crown. Honor demanded he sire a legitimate heir.
The darkness enveloped her. She tried to close her eyes, prayed for the sleep that would allow her a few hours of peaceful oblivion. Her mind refused to cooperate, instead conjuring images of her, bold as you please, marching into Richard's chamber to demand her marital rights.
Her eyes shot wide, fingers clenching in the counterpane. Dare she attempt it? Her eyes slid towards the connecting door, the only physical hindrance separating her from her husband. It was nothing more than a dim shape in the faint glow of the coals from the hearth.
What she contemplated doing was base, unladylike, possibly immoral and went against everything she was taught. How could she even consider it?
Almost without thought, Maria slid from the high bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the floor. She approached the door that stood between her and Richard and raised her hand. One small tap, that's all it would take, a small tap and a hurried explanation, a whispered plea for his attention.
His love.
Maria's fist opened, her palm flat against the smooth wood door. Her head came to rest beside her hand. A single tear escaped her tightly closed eyes.
What was she thinking? How could she proposition her husband, beg for his favors like a strumpet? He would have even more reason to revile her then.
Shame crawled through her. How very lowering to realize such a thing about oneself! The daughter of a man in trade, married to a duke in need of money, in love with said duke, and begging for scraps of his attention. Her actions screamed of her common blood.
She was common.
Desolate, Maria sucked in a breath, preparatory to pushing away from the door. Before she could move, the door opened, swinging into her husband's chamber. Maria lost her balance and tumbled headlong.
Right into Richard's arms.
Lady Maria waited in her bed, clothed in a diaphanous nightdress. A single candle, burning on the nightstand, kept the room from complete darkness.
It was the fourteenth consecutive night she'd waited thus, a book in hand so as to appear nonchalant, less like a young wife awaiting her husband's presence in her bed.
Would this be the night? She'd listened to rumor after rumor concerning her husband and where he preferred to spend his nights. She'd accepted it as life in high Society, the life of a real lady.
They'd consummated their marriage, of course. Her face warmed at the memory, a tiny smile touching her lips. Even now, weeks later, Maria could still feel Richard's caress, feel his fingers grazing her skin, his lips brushing her lips, her neck, her shoulder, her...
Maria sucked in a trembling breath. The intimacies they'd shared meant everything to her. For him...what did she know of men and their feelings? Certainly, he'd felt something more than duty? Duty didn't demand the tenderness he'd shown her, the whispered words of reassurance, the easing of her nervous fears. And duty certainly didn't demand his continued presence in her bed, holding her in the aftermath of their passion, sleeping in each other's arms.
The following morning, she'd awakened alone. As her maid went about her duties, pouring warm water and laying out drying cloths for Maria's morning ablutions, Maria had stretched, surreptitiously grazing her hand over the opposite side of the bed. The lingering warmth there indicated Richard's recent departure.
This was a circumstance Maria's mother had not mentioned. In fact, she'd told her daughter the opposite, assuring her the loss of her virginity would be unpleasant but quick and her husband wouldn't linger in her bed once the deed was done. And after she conceived, he would cease to plague her altogether.
It seemed he'd already decided to no longer plague her, she sighed. Only her faith in love, in her love for him, could account for her continued belief that Richard would return to her, would eventually choose her over his mistress.
A tiny, cynical voice in her head mentioned the far more likely reason he'd return: He'd yet to beget an heir.
It was true. That was the reason he'd seek her out. At least, for the foreseeable future.
In the utter silence of the moment, footsteps sounded without. Maria froze, hardly daring to breathe, praying her husband would remember his duty, choose her and ignore his mistress. He'd returned home nearly every night since they married, changed from his evening dress and left again. Maria could only assume his destination to be the small house in Kensington, the pretty little domicile one helpful lady had pointed out to Maria with a whispered, “Lady Hensley spends most of her time there with—oh! Forgive me.”
The footsteps paused outside her door. A smile tugged at Maria's lips as the latch moved; a smile that swiftly disappeared a moment later. The footsteps moved on, stopped at the next chamber down the corridor. A different door opened and closed, Richard's door.
Had he paused outside her door by mistake, confused and thinking it was his own chamber? Surely a man couldn't make such an error in his own London residence? Even a drunken man could not make such a mistake.
Was it possible that he'd assumed she would not welcome his attentions? It was true she had not encouraged him, but a lady would never indicate her willingness to engage in intimacies. To do so would brand her little better than a strumpet.
Maria carefully placed her book on the nightstand, leaning close to snuff the candle. She settled into her bed, thick blond curls falling over both shoulders. Her mind would not settle, however, truly perplexed by Richard's behavior.
Why had he already tired of her? His need for an heir hadn't changed. She knew the ducal estates were entailed on the male heir and, at the moment, a male heir didn't exist. If Richard died without issue, the title and property would revert to the crown. Honor demanded he sire a legitimate heir.
The darkness enveloped her. She tried to close her eyes, prayed for the sleep that would allow her a few hours of peaceful oblivion. Her mind refused to cooperate, instead conjuring images of her, bold as you please, marching into Richard's chamber to demand her marital rights.
Her eyes shot wide, fingers clenching in the counterpane. Dare she attempt it? Her eyes slid towards the connecting door, the only physical hindrance separating her from her husband. It was nothing more than a dim shape in the faint glow of the coals from the hearth.
What she contemplated doing was base, unladylike, possibly immoral and went against everything she was taught. How could she even consider it?
Almost without thought, Maria slid from the high bed, shivering as her bare feet touched the floor. She approached the door that stood between her and Richard and raised her hand. One small tap, that's all it would take, a small tap and a hurried explanation, a whispered plea for his attention.
His love.
Maria's fist opened, her palm flat against the smooth wood door. Her head came to rest beside her hand. A single tear escaped her tightly closed eyes.
What was she thinking? How could she proposition her husband, beg for his favors like a strumpet? He would have even more reason to revile her then.
Shame crawled through her. How very lowering to realize such a thing about oneself! The daughter of a man in trade, married to a duke in need of money, in love with said duke, and begging for scraps of his attention. Her actions screamed of her common blood.
She was common.
Desolate, Maria sucked in a breath, preparatory to pushing away from the door. Before she could move, the door opened, swinging into her husband's chamber. Maria lost her balance and tumbled headlong.
Right into Richard's arms.
Writers love hearing from readers. Leave a comment, won't you? Thanks!
RSS Feed
