Page 35 of Maid for the Marquess

“Because you have always been a lady,” Lydia told me gently. “You’re the daughter of a baron. I was born to this life. You weren’t. You mustn’t think that I am unhappy with my lot. I am more than contented to be your lady’s maid. Wheaton is a wonderful place, and everyone here is happy and treated well, the opposite of Cliffwood.”

She finished with my hair and began tidying up the hairpins and combs. “Now, no more fretting about me on your own wedding day.”

Her words were just the reminder I needed of what this day truly meant. I was a wife now. But in name only. Perhaps that would change soon.

I was already dressed for bed, wearing a fine night rail that Constance had gifted me, along with the beautiful gown I had worn for the wedding earlier that morning. My stomach quickened as I thought of what was to come.

Would Wheaton visit me after Lydia left me for the evening? Did I want him to?

The answer to the latter question was—to my shame—a resounding yes. I was more attracted to the marquess than ever.

I bit my lip as I watched my friend finishing her duties. “Do you think his lordship will regret marrying me, Lydia?”

“Not for a moment,” my friend hastened to reassure me. “Now, if there isn’t anything else you need, I ought to leave you to your time with his lordship.”

I swallowed hard. “There’s nothing else. Thank you, my dear friend.”

Lydia bustled about and then took her leave from the chamber I had been moved to, which adjoined the marquess’s. The marchioness’s room, as Mrs. Dougall had informed me this afternoon, telling me that his lordship had given me leave to decorate it as I liked. The room was already fine, and I was so overwhelmed as I first entered it that I hadn’t been capable of thinking of one thing I would alter.

I paced the thick Axminster now, aware of every sound, from the crackle of the low fire banked in the hearth to the light lashing of rain on the windowpanes beyond. I didn’t have long to wait. A firm knock on the shared door between our chambers told me that the marquess had arrived.

“Come,” I called, relieved when my voice emerged with far more confidence than I felt.

The door opened, and there on the threshold, clad in a dark, billowing banyan, was the man I had married that morning.

My husband.

ALEXANDER

I regarded Madeleine—my wife—from the doorway. She was a vision, her night rail a gossamer wisp of silk surrounding her, fine embroidery decorating the soft fabric. Her glorious hair was unbound, hanging in ribbons of dark waves down her back. I felt my body stir and my cock thicken at the mere sight of her. I wanted to take, to claim. To make her mine.

But it was the way her small glove-covered hand fisted the fabric of the chair she stood beside, the distress she tried to conceal, that brought me under control. I smiled at her as I approached. “Are you well, Madeleine?”

“Of course, my lord.”

I shook my head in mild rebuke. “I am Alexander to you.”

She colored prettily, the rose color blooming under her skin emphasizing her delicate features. I dropped my gaze to her hands, wondering once again about the gloves. I had never seen them off—even at dinner. She had offered an excuse about painful joints and requiring them on at all times, but I already knew her well enough to know she was lying. I wanted to know the truth, but I also knew she had to trust me in order to get her to be honest. I could demand her to remove them, but I feared pushing her away. I wanted her to know she was safe to tell me anything, and I needed to be patient in order for that trust to build.

“Alexander,” she repeated.

“I like how that sounds when you say it,” I murmured.

Her smile was that of the sun on a summer’s day. Bright and warm. It brought forth unfamiliar feelings. The urge to be close. To touch her. Protect her from anything unpleasant and frightful. I had never known such intense emotions. The need to protect, to cherish.

To love, perhaps?

The past days spent with Beckett and his viscountess had shown more of her sweet personality. I found myself drawn to her over and again. Wanting to be close. To hear her laughter. Watch her discover something new and revel in the knowledge I had given that to her. I found her in the library on more than one occasion, peering at the shelves, a small pile of books set to one side, or curled into the large chair in the corner, reading, lost to a world I could not enter. I enjoyed watching her, often doing so quietly as not to disturb. Her expressions fascinated me. Happiness, confusion, sadness, excitement, all showed plainly on her countenance as she read the words in front of her, her lips silently forming the sentences and scenes the books painted for her. My chest warmed at the thought I could bring her joy.

The same joy she had unknowingly given to me by simply observing her.

She shifted on her feet, bringing me back to the present. “Sit, my wife,” I urged her, the words sounding pleasant on my tongue. “You must be tired from today.”

She did as I asked, a small frown on her face. “As you must be too, my—ah, husband.”

I beamed at her, liking how it sounded to be called her husband.

“Perhaps a sherry?” I questioned. “I prefer a brandy, but that might be too much for you.”