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‘I do not believe you,’ Ellie said, laughing. ‘And what about me? I have to shop endlessly. And have pins stuck in me, and endure my bridesmaids squabbling genteelly about headdresses, ribbons and prayer books.’
As her bridesmaids had been selected from amongst her bookish friends, who normally took little notice of what they wore, it was taking all Verity’s best efforts to turn them out looking like Society ladies.
And then there was the little matter of learning to walk in the new shoes Verity’s cordwainer had made for her. It hurt, changing the whole way she had adapted to cope with her slightly shortened leg, and she was not going to wear them every day—she was certain of that. But just for that walk do
wn the aisle, when all Blake’s friends, family and acquaintances saw her properly for the first time, she was determined not to give them something else to criticise.
The gossip and comments about marrying a plain nonentity would be quite enough for Blake to have to put up with, without adding her lameness to the list. Once they were used to her, then she would be her normal self again.
Verity’s modiste had stalked around her, clicking her tongue and muttering about enhancements. But Ellie drew the line at padding. She was doing her best to eat well, but sooner or later—much sooner than later—she was going to be skin to skin with Blake and he would know what had been false and what was true. Honesty was something else she owed him.
Whether she was receiving honesty from Blake in return was something Ellie wondered about in the early hours while she lay awake and told herself that there was nothing to worry about. That there was everything to worry about—
‘What is wrong?’ Blake asked, and she realised that she had fallen abruptly silent. ‘It is not like you to brood.’
‘How do you know it is not?’ Ellie said, far more lightly than she felt. ‘I could spend most of my time brooding for all you are aware.’
She usually spent most of her time writing, and that involved a great deal of brooding, although she had hardly touched either of her manuscripts since Blake’s proposal. She must finish the latest and final account of Oscar’s educational travels, because she had an undertaking with her publisher, but as for the Minerva Press romance…
No, countesses did not write faintly shocking novels. She might not know much about the haut ton, but she was pretty certain of that. The manuscript and all her notes were securely locked away in the bottom of her trunk. Besides, she had her grey-eyed, black-haired dashing hero in reality—there was no longer any need for her to weave fantasies about him.
Blake was still looking at her with that small vertical line between his brows and she realised that he could not see her expression clearly because of her black veil.
She tossed it back and smiled at him. ‘I am teasing. It is simply that there is a lot to do, and Verity is tutoring me intensively about Society and how to go on, which is making me dizzy. I promise you, I woke up last night from a nightmare in which I had to plan the seating for a dinner with a rural dean who was the son of a marquess, the well-born but scandalous mistress of a royal duke, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Prime Minister. It was a miracle that my screams did not wake Polly.’
‘You have my promise that I will never invite the Archbishop to dinner,’ Blake said solemnly, and then they were both laughing, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and everything was all right.
Under her fingers his muscles flexed, making small adjustments that must be communicating themselves to the horses, although she could see no movement in his hand. It was very arousing to touch the subtle strength, to sense his awareness of the animals. Would he be as aware of a woman when he was making love to her?
She thought about that kiss in the field, about waking with the weight of his arm—this arm—over her, about the heavy-lidded appraisal whenever she caught him looking at her mouth.
Yes, he would be aware of his bed partner, of her pleasure.
Ellie shivered, unsure whether it was with anticipation or alarm. What if he did not want her when they finally got to bed? What if he found her skinny body too unattractive, or missed the beautiful faces of the women who had been his mistresses? Men could not disguise a lack of arousal—she knew that.
And what about her? She had somehow avoided thinking beyond kisses, but the wedding night was very much more than kissing, and she was not certain that she would be able to hide her fears and her shrinking from Blake. Women could feign arousal—she knew that too—but wanting Blake was not the problem…
Chapter Twelve
‘Cold? I can stop and find the lap rug.’ Blake craned round to look over his shoulder, reining in as he did so.
He must have noticed that tiny shiver.
Ellie looked about her. They were in the lee of a large clump of shrubbery, screened from the open part of the park. It was ridiculous to feel emboldened by there being no one else within sight, because no one would overhear them unless they shouted. Even so…
‘I am not cold.’
Blake stayed where he was, half turned on the seat, then he thrust the whip into its holder and wrapped the reins around it.
‘Stand.’
The well-trained horses flicked their ears at the sound of his voice, but stayed still as he stripped off his gloves—almost, it seemed to her, a signal that he would wait, would listen to what she had to say.
‘I am afraid.’
‘Afraid?’
He looked appalled—as well he might. What had come over her, blurting it out like that?
