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Ella
Ican hear Mary excitedly making her way down the hall to my new bedchamber. A minute later, the door flies open. “Ella!’ She’s almost out of breath, “This place is brilliant!” She stops to take in the opulence of my room, slowly turning in a full circle, mouth agape.
I smile to myself, thinking my reaction was the same. It is nothing less than spectacular. Pale blue wainscoting adorns the walls halfway up around its entirety. Everything above that, including the ceiling, is a hand-painted mural that starts with the leaves and stems and blooms of various native blue flowers: delphinium, morning glory, blue poppy, and an occasional cluster of wildflowers. Just before the ornate crown molding at the ceiling, the scene takes the natural progression to a blue sky, wispy clouds, and birds are playfully flying about. It is reminiscent of a perfect spring day. No matter the circumstances of a previous day, I doubt there will be a morning when I wake in this room and find my mood to be sour. If only we were living here, at Alasdair’s London townhouse, for more than a few months of the year.
“This mural is fantastic!” Mary says, head titled back to admire the clouds and birds and the yellow glow of sunshine that fills the entire ceiling. “This must have cost a bloody fortune.”
“Mary!” I admonish.
“What? I only speak the truth.”
“Yes, you do. But with the tongue of an ill-mannered scamp.”
“Oh Ella, don’t be so dramatic. And besides, when have you ever known a scamp to be mannered?” Her inquisitive expression makes me laugh out loud.
“Come here, look at this.” I walk over to the wall by my dressing table and point at a cluster of leaves. “The artist added little caterpillars and ladybugs. Then over here is a butterfly.” I look around the expanse of my chamber and gesture with my hand, “I may never find all the treasures hidden in her work.” I turn to Mary and smile, the notion of a lifelong treasure hunt lighting a spark of happiness.
“Well, look at you.” She pauses with her hands on her hips as if noticing me for the first time. “Somehow, I doubt that glow on your face has much to do with the little creatures hidden in this mural. I want all the details of thedreaded consummation.” Her voice lowers in theatrical doom, and we both laugh at her silliness.
“Mary Elizabeth, you know we aren’t to discuss those things. It isn’t proper!” I respond automatically, knowing full well that I want to tell her everything about the most wonderful night of my life. I simply can’t, though. I fear even Mary would be scandalized by what I did.
“Ella, dear, are we to be in our sixth decade before you realize I don’t care about what isproper? My curiosity is too preoccupied with all that isimproper.”
I have to turn my eyes away from hers. She has a way of pulling information out of me with just a raised brow and tilted head.
“All I can tell you is that it was far better than I expected. So much so, I blushed when he bid me good morning, and I could barely make eye contact at breakfast though my eyes yearned to stare at him, and my voice yearned to beg him to do it again.”
Mary’s eyes are round. “You wanted him to do it again?” She knows that for me to divulge that much information, it must have been exceptional. “Oh, please set aside your prudish upbringing and tell me everything! How am I ever to know what the possibilities are, should I be so fortunate to marry a man who knows how to perform as apparently,yourhusband does?” She pauses in thought. “You know, we should be allowed to—how should I say this—put our suitors to the test. Try them on for size, per se.”
We both cover our mouths at the same time as the bubbles of laughter overflow. A few minutes later, Mary elaborates on her ridiculous idea. “Can you imagine? ‘Lord Stanbury, might you remove your breeches so that I may see your tallywag?’” I must sit down because I’m laughing so hard as she acts out her interview with shameless exaggeration. “‘Hmmm…I’m not entirely sure I like the looks of that. Next!’” She can’t hold back the giggles as she pretends to wait for her next victim. “Ah, the Earl of Weston.”
“No, no, no!” I protest. “Not the Earl of Weston! I simply cannot have that vision in my head.”
“Yes. You’re right. He probably hasn’t even seen histhingsince 1765! He is apparently more interested in food and wine than he is in creating an heir to the earldom. The poor fellow is going to have to pass it on to a distant cousin, so I hear.”
Still laughing, not only at her jesting but the fact that Mary manages to know everyone else’s business. “What about Graham Knightly? He’s not titled, but he is very handsome and very wealthy,” I say.
“Ah yes, Graham Knightly. He is a striking figure indeed. Even his name is appealing! I cannot deny a daydream or two about him, and if I were allowed to try him in for size, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second! However, let us not forget that title is more important than money, according to my mother, that is. And, as we know all too well,sheis the one making all the decisions here.” Mary sits down, rather ungracefully, and sighs. If ever there was a woman that should choose her own husband, it’s Mary. Her mind, wit, and beauty are too powerful and too unique to be handed off to someone who won’t fully appreciate her.
A sudden knock on the door echoes through the room and startles us both. There is only one person in the house that could command such attention with a simple knock. My heart beats faster in my chest as I await my husband’s entry.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and I hear Mary whisper,“Oh my.”
As always, he is impeccably dressed, a model of masculine appeal. Face freshly shaved, hair pulled back, dark and shiny, bright ocean eyes glowing against tanned skin complemented by a perfectly tailored dark emerald-green jacket, polished knee-high brown boots, and pale breeches that show the full definition of his strong legs. Legs that draw my eyes upward to the bulge that reminds me of last night, then cause heat to flush through my body and involuntarily make me tighten and release as subtle pleasure pulsates between my legs.
“Ladies,” I hear him say as I bring my eyes up to his.
“Hello, Alasdair.” I see Mary snap her head toward me and realize my voice must have sounded strange to her, too. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.
“Lord Stewart, it is nice to see you again,” Mary says. Standing up, she offers a polite curtsy and her hand. “The ceremony was quite lovely yesterday. I must be honest, your little handfasting speech got me all teared up.”
Alasdair releases her hand, then reaches for mine. “Hello, my dear,” he says with a smile before responding, “Thank you, Lady Mary. I rather enjoyed giving that little speech.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. Although I’m not certain Reverend Matthews enjoyed hearing it, but that’s neither here nor there. Isn’t that right, Ella?”
“Isn’t what right?” I’m not certain what Mary just said. All of my attention is directed toward my husband as I contemplate if I will ever tire of looking at him.
