Although he had decided many weeks before that he would marry one of the daughters of the late viscount, and although he had spent a month on his new estate, getting acquainted with his bride, growing accustomed to the idea that he was to be a married man, it was still difficult now to grasp the fact that it was all accomplished.
He was married to Arabella. She was his wife. The Viscountess Astor.
He did not think he was sorry. He needed to be married. He would need a family. It was as well to do the thing this way: acquire a wife and settle the problem of the family of his predecessor at the same time.
Even the consummation of their marriage had not been the disaster he had feared. The girl had avoided him so much since their betrothal that he had half-expected to have to deal with tears at best or hysterics and the vapors at worst when he went in to her. He had felt when he had left his own room earlier to go to hers as a soldier must feel when going into battle. He had not known how he would acquit himself. Would he force himself upon her? Or would he leave her alone until after their journey?
As it turned out, there had been no decision to make. She had been lying in her bed, her hands spread on the covers. She had watched him come into the room and cross to the bed, saying nothing after calling to him to come in when he had knocked on her door. If she had been frightened, only the wideness of her eyes and her somewhat heightened color had betrayed her.
He had flicked her cheek with one finger. “Are you afraid of me, Arabella?” he had asked.
Whenever she did speak to him, she rarely said what he expected. “A little, my lord,” she had admitted.
“You have no need to be,” he had said with a little smile. “I do not plan to be a wife-beater.”
“You will have no reason to be,” she had said, her expression perfectly serious. “I will be a dutiful and obedient wife, my lord.”
“Will you?” he had said, reaching down and drawing back the blankets that covered her. She had not flinched. He almost forgot to snuff the two candles that stood on the table beside her. He normally preferred to make love with light around him, but he did not wish to make the consummation of his marriage an unnecessarily embarrassing ordeal for Arabella.
He had been somewhat touched by her quietness. If she meant to be as obedient throughout their marriage as she had been in the performance of her first duty as his wife, he supposed he must consider himself a fortunate man.
She had said nothing and had given no indication of discomfort or shock or pain. She had not resisted him in any way. She had lain apparently relaxed while he raised her nightgown, lowered himself on top of her, and eased her legs apart. And he had felt her take a slow and deep breath before he had mounted her. She had made no sign as he did so, even though he had felt the breaking of her virginity. And she had lain quiet and still until he was finished with her. It had taken rather longer than he would have wished. He was not used to proceeding immediately to the final stage of lovemaking without all the pleasurable stages that usually went before when one dealt with a mistress rather than a wife.
It was only as he had been withdrawing from her that a whimper had escaped her. It had been quickly stifled, and he had not remarked on it. He guessed that she had been feeling far more than her calm manner had indicated. He had not wished her to feel that she had failed. He had sat on the edge of her bed and touched her cheek again before getting to his feet. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, but he could not see her expression.
“I am afraid I hurt you,” he had said. “But I believe you will find your duty less painful after tonight.”
“That is what Mama said,” she had replied. “But it was not your fault, my lord. It is always that way for a bride on her wedding night, Mama says.”
He had smiled in the darkness. “Well, your duty is done for tonight,” he had said. “Good night, Arabella.”
“Good night, my lord,” she had said.
Lord Astor found that he was smiling now at the canopy over his bed. She spoke just like a child, seeming not to choose her words with the diplomacy one expected of an adult.
It was a relief at least to know that he was not going to have trouble with Arabella. She was going to be obedient and dutiful, she had told him. And she had proceeded with unexpected docility to prove she meant what she said.
Strange! There had been something almost erotic about the stillness of her small body, her silent surrender, her total lack of involvement in what he had been doing to her body. He tried to imagine Ginny lying and behaving so, but he repressed the thought before it had a chance to develop in his mind. It would not be fair to make comparisons. Not tonight. Not when he had just left his wife’s bed. She was probably still suffering from shock and pain.
Chapter 4
THE dowager Viscountess Astor and her two unmarried daughters returned early to Parkland the next morning so that the travelers might be on their way. Arabella met them at the outer door, which a footman held open. Her husband came behind her, having moved from the breakfast parlor at a far more sedate pace than his wife when they heard the carriage.
“Mama!” Arabella cried, rushing into her mother’s arms as if they had been apart for a month.
“There, there, my love,” her mother said, patting her daughter on the back. “Let me look at you. Lady Astor! Whoever would have thought that one day you would have my title, my love? How pretty you look this morning.”
Arabella doubted the truth of that remark. She knew that she must look more childish than usual with her cheeks flushed.
“Welcome back to your home, ma’am,” Lord Astor said, coming up behind Arabella and extending a hand to his mother-in-law. “We will be on our way as soon as we can.”
Frances was sobbing into her handkerchief. “Bella,” she said. “Oh, dear Bella, how happy I am for you. Such a handsome husband! Even more handsome than Theodore, I do declare. I am so glad for you. I know you will be wonderfully happy.”
“Are you very sad to be leaving Theodore?’’ Arabella asked, her face sympathetic. “It must be dreadful for you, Frances.”
“I do not know why you say that, Bella,” Frances said, dabbing at her moist eyes and putting her handkerchief away. “Sir Theodore is merely a neighbor and friend.”
“Bella. Oh, Bella.” Jemima was bouncing on the spot, waiting for some of her older sister’s attention. “You will send me a present from London? You will not forget, Bella?”
