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Damien smiled without much humor, unconsciously eased his clothes around his still-swelled sex, and made his way upstairs to his wife’s bedchamber.
Victoria felt as if a weight had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders the moment their carriage bowled out of the Drago Hall drive. She patted Rafael’s arm when he slammed his cane head on the roof of the carriage not five minutes later to have Flash pull over.
“Sorry, but you know this weakness of mine.”
“It’s not one of my favorite pastimes to ride with a green-faced man,” she said.
And he was gone, to mount his stallion, Gadfly.
She shook her head and settled back against the soft leather squabs. Damien’s carriage was very comfortable and luxurious; she would give him that.
They arrived in the bustling market town of Truro late in the afternoon, Rafael having made innumerable stops along the way. He’d spoken to a tin-mine owner in Trevelland and visited a mine just two miles east of Truro itself. The Gwithian Inn was doing a fine business and Rafael was greeted warmly by Mr. Fooge, who believed him at first to be the Baron Drago.
“Ah, Master Rafael,” he said, rubbing his fat hands together upon correction, “so alike you and your brother are. And this is your lovely wife? A pleasure, ma’am, such a pleasure. Do come along, Master Rafael.”
“As loquacious as ever,” Rafael said once he and Victoria were shown to their large airy bedchamber some minutes later.
She smiled at him, and immediately made her way to the window that looked toward the market square. Today wasn’t a market day, and the stalls were empty, looking somehow abandoned and forlorn. Rafael came up behind her and said softly, “Do you know what day this is, Victoria?”
“Your birthday?”
“No, my birthday is in January. I trust you won’t forget. No, today is a day of celebration. We can call it the Carstairs’ gratification ceremony.”
“Ah,” she said, feeling at once excited and embarrassed and very eager, the truth be told.
Rafael wasn’t blind or unversed in the moods of women. He smiled blandly down at his bride, knowing very well that the reins of control were firmly in his two strong hands. He wondered just how long he would tease her. Perhaps it would lessen the amount of time she would feel embarrassed around him in the future.
“Shall we change for dinner?”
Victoria could only stare up at him. “What?”
“Change for dinner,” he repeated patiently.
“But I thought that . . . “
“What, my dear?”
But Victoria hadn’t been raised to baldly state that she wanted her husband in her bed.
“You’re a bully,” she said, and pulled away from him.
“Very well, Victoria. I wish to speak to Mr. Rinsey for a few minutes before we dine. He is the Demoreton solicitor with whom I have been dealing.” He flicked a finger over her cheek and was gone.
18
Nature made him, and then broke the mould.
—LUDOVICO ARISTO
Perversity, Victoria thought as she ate her delicious roast lamb and suet dumplings across the small oak table from her husband, was more the prerogative of the male than the female. Rafael was regaling her, with all the enthusiasm of a male very pleased with himself, about this Mr. Rinsey, a bespectacled, stoop-shouldered gentleman who couldn’t manage to disguise the urgency of the sale of the Demoreton property.
Finally, when Mrs. Fooge had given them their rich apricot blancmange dessert, Rafael came to a final halt in his endless monologue. He cocked a black brow at Victoria
“Did you say something, Victoria?”
“Me? Say something? Speak when you are declaiming fit for the diplomatic service? Actually, I have been enjoying a fascinating internal conversation.” She broke off, her thoughts flying forward. She lowered her head and her hands fisted in her lap. It simply had to stop. It had to. There were no thick, full hangings on their bed upstairs. There was even a wide window that admitted, she well imagined, a surfeit of moonlight. And there was a brilliant half-moon this evening.
But she was still furious at him for his damnable distrust. He didn’t deserve any explanation from her, even though it should sink him in guilt. And perhaps revulsion. She knew at that moment that she wouldn’t be able to bear it if he looked at her leg and felt sickened. And she would know, no matter how he would try to hide it.
