The older woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Ye’ll be all right, lass,” she said, her tone that of a stable hand coaxing a nervous filly. “I’ll send ye some sweet tea in the morning. My ma swore by it for new brides. Sweet tea and a hearty breakfast.”
Heavy footsteps approached, the floorboards vibrating as they drew nearer, and Olivia’s stomach twisted once more as they stopped outside the chamber next door. Mrs. Smith exited the bedchamber, and Olivia caught her words as she closed the door.
“I trust ye enjoyed yer port, yer lordship. Good night, then—best leave ye to it.”
Olivia sipped her hot chocolate, wincing as the hot liquid scalded her lips. But all she could taste was the sharp tang of anticipation. Setting the cup aside, she approached the bed and slipped beneath the sheets.
Shortly after, she heard a murmur of voices coming from next door.
No—a single voice. The valet’s, punctuated by periods of silence.
Her heart thudding, Olivia extinguished the candle, settled back, and waited.
Chapter Eighteen
Laughter echoed inthe distance, followed by a squeal of pleasure.
Doubtless the young maid was “fooling around” with Tom—perhaps they were sweethearts, promised to each other.
Olivia sighed. Most likely Betsy envied her for being a countess. Being a servant, Betsy would be at the beck and call of her employers, but she had one privilege that was denied Olivia—the freedom to marry for love. The innkeeper and his wife clearly loved each other. The friendly, sporting exchanges between them were not due to disrespect or dislike, but the free, easy speech between lovers able to tease one another without fear of reprisal.
Much like Eleanor and Montague.
Oh, Eleanor. How I wish you were here to soothe my fears!
Eleanor had said that tonight Olivia had nothing to fear from her husband and everything to enjoy, provided she relaxed and conquered her embarrassment when her husband touched her intimately.
Olivia had to admit that the prospect of the wedding night sent a little thrill through her. And, if Betsy’s squeals of delight were anything to go by, the attentions of a man were something to take pleasure in.
But when she heard footsteps outside and caught sight of a shadow beneath her door she stiffened, curled her fingers around the bedsheet, and held her breath.
Was she expected to invite him in? Eleanor had said nothing about that.
Or would that be too forward and he would think her a wanton?
But then, might he be angry if she said nothing and kept him waiting? He didn’t seem to be a man who liked to be kept waiting…
…or disappointed.
What if she disappointed him?
She opened her mouth to call out, then checked herself.
What if it wasn’t him?
Oh, heavens! What am I supposed to do?
At length, the door creaked open, and she suppressed a cry.
Foolish girl—do you want him to think he’s married a weakling?
Her husband stood on the threshold, his huge body silhouetted against the light outside. Then he entered and closed the door, plunging them into near darkness. In the soft orange glow from the dying embers in the fireplace, she saw him approach the bed, moving as silently as a panther approaching its prey.
He pulled back the bedsheet, and the bed dipped and creaked under his weight as he slipped inside. She caught a flash of light reflected in his eyes as he lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Then he shifted closer, and his body heat almost seared into her skin. Olivia let out a whimper as her stomach somersaulted.
He was naked.
