Chapter 8

The wedding reception was a blur of sounds and faces, and it took all Matthew’s strength of will not to compare it to his wedding reception with Rosemary all those years ago. He remembered that with sharp and sometimes disturbing clarity. Once they returned to the townhouse, his shoulders tensed. He had done it. He had wed Lady Tabitha—no, Her Grace. His duchess, Tabitha.

Tabitha. He did not want to call the young woman Your Grace or My Lady, even teasingly. That would be too much. It would be like he was replacing Rosemary with this new, younger duchess, and even though he had relented to his mother’s wishes, he had no desire to ever supplant Rosemary with another.

“Where is my room?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Adjoined to mine, but for the first few nights, I imagine we will both sleep in my room.. This way.”

Matthew led her upstairs and to his—their—bedroom. He swept open the door and waved her inwards. She entered slowly, her wide grey eyes taking in the expanse of their bedroom.

“This is it, then,” he said.

How romantic, he thought dryly.

Tabitha did not seem to notice, though. “It is lovely.”

“Yes.”

Matthew stared silently at her as she approached the bed and stared at it for a long time. “Are you going to leave for me to ready myself?” she asked.

The tension in the air was so thick that it seemed to Matthew nearly as if it were a physical thing, something that could be cut with a blade. He turned his back to her. “This will be sufficient.”

It seemed ridiculous to think of her modesty, anyway, given that he was about to see all of her entirely naked. The last time he had engaged in these activities had been with Rosemary. His heart ached, at odds with the heated desire curling in his loins.

He wanted Tabitha. He wanted to sheathe himself inside her and feel the hot, dampness of her maiden walls pressing against him, but when he thought of being intimate with Tabitha, his thoughts always returned to Rosemary.

He heard the rustle of clothing behind him as Tabitha quietly undressed. His body responded, his member hardening inside his trousers. He felt his pulse jump in anticipation. Would she be clad in her chemise and stockings when he turned around? Or would she remove everything and stand entirely nude before him? Either option sent a fissure of excitement through him, awakening all those dormant impulses at once. He felt as if she and Rosemary were the only two things that mattered in the entire world—

“I am ready,” she said.

He turned around. It was neither of the fantasies he had imagined. Instead, she stood in a nightgown, her slender body entirely concealed by the mass of fabric. Matthew’s fingers itched to tear the garment away and reveal all her soft, supple flesh to his hungry eyes.

“I see,” he said, keeping his voice level.

She curled her arms around herself, looking vaguely unsettled. Embarrassed, even. “Should I lay back on the bed?”

He looked at her, the very image of maidenly modesty. Rosemary had not been like that. She had been fiery and eager, and they had fallen into bed still fully clothed. He remembered having little patience that night. Matthew had not even wanted to remove his hands long enough for his newly-wed wife to undress. It was strange to think that Tabitha, the same young woman capable of such boldness, would approach her wedding night with such demureness.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice low and dark.

“Yes.”

He approached her, towered over her, and she stared at him with wide eyes. “You need not be,” he said. “Although this is a marriage of convenience, I would never sully you in any way. This can be very pleasant, indeed. If you will allow yourself to relax, you may even find that you enjoy it.”

Rather than appearing comforted, she only snorted. Perhaps she found some humour in the situation. Matthew supposed there was something vaguely amusing about it all, or there might be if it were not for memories of Rosemary lingering still in his thoughts.

He leaned forward and kissed her. Tabitha’s mouth was warm and soft against his own, and a guttural groan tore from his throat. She put her hands on his shoulders and pressed herself against him.

Then, the world was only Tabitha, and she was all his. He pressed his lips hungrily against hers. Matthew curled one hand in her hair, pulling free the pins and flowers that had kept it in place. His other hand curled on her hip, tracing the curve hidden from sight by the shapeless gown.

When Matthew’s lungs burned for air, he broke the kiss. Tabitha remained in his embrace, her chest heaving and her breath coming in quick pants. “Your Grace,” she rasped.

Her hair was dishevelled. It had fallen in long curls around her shoulders, still dotted with the odd flower or pin. “Call me Matthew,” he said.

With strong hands, he seized the fabric of her skirts and hauled it up over her slender thighs. Seeing her bare legs, pale and smooth, nearly undid him. He curled his hands beneath her thighs. As he hefted her up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her chest against his.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “That—is that your—”

“My manhood?” he asked.

He assumed it was that. Matthew was hard and pressing against her stomach. He ached to unsheathe himself, desire burning and pulsing with every breath of air. Tabitha smelled like a beautiful woman. The sweetness of flowers and the sharpness of desire and sweat danced together in the air. He carried her effortlessly to the bed and placed her down. “Lay back,” he said.

She did, pliant and obedient. The room was dark, but he could nevertheless discern that her expression was curious rather than frightened. She wanted to experience what was to come.

“Lift your hips.”

She did, and he drew the gown further up, letting it pool around her waist. He traced his hands along the inside of her thighs, her skin soft and smooth between his large palms. She trembled and spread her legs wider. Matthew was uncertain if that was a deliberate invitation or some unrecognized, instinctive response to his touch.

He went onto his knees at the edge of the bed and lowered his head. Matthew kissed her thighs gently and slowly. Tabitha groaned, and when he glanced up, he saw that her fingers curled tightly in the bed furnishings. “Oh,” she murmured.

The young woman tossed her head back, and Matthew smiled a little to himself. He kissed her again and again, trailing kisses and caresses over her legs. Tabitha’s body became increasingly restless. Her legs trembled, her back arched, and her hips bucked.

“Do you—is it supposed to feel—” she rambled, starting and stopping sentences, seemingly without the faintest idea how to conclude them.

He chuckled against her thigh. “You have seen nothing yet, Tabitha.”

“Oh?” She sounded nearly breathless.

He kissed that place between her legs, the soft curls of hair brushing against his chin. Tabitha made a soft, whimpering sound laced with want. Matthew gently placed his thumb against her desire and stroked. The change in Tabitha was obvious. She let out a loud cry and bucked her hips against his hand.

“That!” she exclaimed.

He smiled. “Eager, huh?”

Tabitha groaned. “Do not tease me. That—that felt—I need that.”

Matthew obliged. He swirled circles over her, and Tabitha trembled hard beneath him. She was close to coming undone simply from his hand. Matthew dipped a finger lower and carefully entered her. Tabitha’s inner walls clenched tightly about his finger, and Matthew breathed raggedly, thinking about how it would feel to have her clenched around his manhood.

Tabitha arched her back, driving his finger deeper into her. She groaned and shifted, rocking against him. Her inner walls clenched, wet against his finger. With his thumb, he resumed stroking her. Matthew stroked and moved inside her, carefully inserting a second finger.

“Oh, God,” Tabitha breathed.

She was nearly frenzied, moving and pushing and shifting against the bed. Tabitha bucked, moved, and twisted, and at last, her whole body grew taut like the string of a crossbow. Then, her release came. He felt it in the shuddering of her legs and her inner walls, and he heard it in her sharp, surprised shout and the raggedness of her breaths. He had pleased her.

Matthew stared at her, looking at her in the darkness with her arm tossed over her head. Tabitha’s gown was still hitched up past her waist, and he thought of—

Of Rosemary. Always of Rosemary.

He had thought that marrying another would be the worst betrayal to her, but that was not true. This was far worse. He had not even delivered this as a cold duty meant to produce heirs. Instead, he had been kind. Gentle. He had thought of Tabitha’s pleasure, which a gentleman ought to have done, but it still felt like a betrayal. Matthew withdrew his hand and absentmindedly wiped away the evidence of Tabitha’s arousal on his trousers.

She moved her arm and gazed at him, her body relaxed and calm. “Are you going to enter me next?”

Matthew’s member was pressed so tightly against his trousers that it hurt. He ached to drive himself into her. She was ready for it now. Tabitha was wet and prepared, and if he began very slowly, it would not even need to hurt. He cleared his throat and shook his head. Matthew was glad it was dark, for it meant that Tabitha could likely not discern the bulge pressing insistently against the fabric. “I do not think you are ready for anything further tonight.”

The worst betrayal would be bedding this young woman. That would be a sign that he had really and truly replaced Rosemary, and he was a fool for thinking that he would be able to complete this task so coldly and callously. That he could engage in an amorous congress with this young woman out of duty alone and feel no other sensitive sensation.

“Oh,” she said.

“You are tired,” he said. “Ladies are always tired after that, and it has been a long day already. You ought to rest. We can—we can finish this another time.”

He left no room for argument and undressed, aware of her watching. Matthew did not look at her, and when he turned back to the bed, she had pulled her nightgown down. His member still ached with need. He considered going somewhere and tending to his needs, but it would be better if he did not. It was almost a penance, lying so terribly aroused and wanton beside the young woman whom he could not touch.

Matthew joined her in bed, keeping a considerable distance between them. Tabitha said nothing, but he felt her gaze on him. She was too clever for her own good, and she probably sensed that he was either displeased or conflicted about what had just transpired.

“What about you?” she asked softly.

“I am fine.”

“I have read that men—”

“I think I know more about a man’s needs than you do,” he interrupted curtly. “Sleep well, Tabitha.”

There was a beat of silence. He turned his back on her and tried not to think about the ache between his legs. Eventually, the feeling would fade, but waiting was agony. He must think of Rosemary and all that he owed her. If he did that, the want would be unpleasant but manageable.

“Sleep well, Matthew,” Tabitha murmured, her voice soft and kind.

He winced. It had been foolish of him to tell her that. So few people called him Matthew, only his family and—well—

Rosemary. Of course.