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Chapter One
London, 1841
On the eve of her wedding, Lady Beatrice was permitted one generous glass of sherry to help swallow down the advice about surviving the marriage bed.
Her sister Harriet leaned forward on the settee in the drawing room, twirling her own nearly empty glass. “Since Mama is no longer with us, I shall pass on to you the same sage counsel she gave to me the night before my own wedding. The marriage bed is a fate worse than death.”
Eyes wide, Beatrice shot a look across the room to where her sister’s elderly husband, Viscount Tunmore, was dozing open-mouthed, cradled in his wingback chair by the fire, gasping every so often for air.
“Oh, Bea, your poor doe eyes. I’ve shocked you, dear. Yes, he’s frail now, isn’t he? So feeble, thank God, he no longer visits my chamber. Butdoremember I was sixteen when we married. He was”—she looked up at the ceiling, calculating—“oh, forty-seven or thereabouts. Robust enough to hurt me.”
Beatrice covered her throat with her hand. Being over twenty years her senior, her sister had married before she was born, and for as long as she could remember, the viscount had been an old man. “Hurtyou?”
Absentmindedly fingering her lace shawl, Harriet nodded. “Not on purpose, mind you. It’s simply the nature of the marriage bed. The first time especially. Oh, Beatrice, I suppose it was a kindness of sorts for Mama to have sheltered you so during her last years, but here you are, eighteen and knowing so little beyond your innocent books and music and painting.”
Her mind whirling with frightening thoughts, she defended herself without thinking. “Clara is also eighteen and only out this year, too!”
“Both of you—motherless girls, overindulged by caring relatives!” Harriet clucked her tongue. “Look at Clara now! Her brother has rejected all her suitors and sent her back to care for that Aunt Violet of theirs. Pitiable, I tell you! Perhaps I didn’t dote on you the way I could have if not for my own responsibilities, but at least we’ve done right by your season. Oh, a marquess! Amarquess!”
Bea agreed with Harriet and everyone else that she was very fortunate. While her dowry was of a good size and she was daughter, now sister, to an earl, she possessed no great wit or beauty. Her complexion was fine, but her tresses and eyes were both a shade of boring brown. Everything about her was passable, but she was no more or less acceptable than the scores of other girls making their come-out this season.
Her cheeks were already reddened by the fear coursing through her, but the reference to her betrothed, Lord William Dalfour, the Marquess of Candleton, sent a different sort of blush creeping up her neck. “The Marquess seems to be a kind gentleman.”
“So he does, but he is five-and-twenty. Young. Virile.” Harriet’s eyes flicked to her husband, whose spotted hands hung limply from the arms of his chair, then tossed back the last of her sherry. “Let us pray that when he comes to your bed, he does his duty in as short an amount of time as one can complete the task.”
After swallowing the last drops of her own light-colored fortified wine, Beatrice set down her glass and asked what, precisely, to expect the next night.
“Now, Bea, whatever your doubts—for I shall speak frankly about what will occur on your wedding night, that you might be prepared—you must simply believe me, however strange or shocking it sounds now.”
Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Very well.”
As Harriet shared the mechanics of marital congress, Beatrice’s face reflected an array of confusion, disbelief, and horror. “No, I don’t believe the Marquess would do that to me!”
“He shall, Bea, he shall. Even a marquess is a man, and a man is a beast when night falls. It is the way of life—and the waytolife. This is how you shall bear children! It is painful to conceive them, and even more so to birth them, but such is a woman’s life.”
Swallowing, Beatrice looked down at her skirts.I don’t know if I can do this.But her mother had endured it, as had her sister—and every female ancestor going back to Eve. For a moment, she envied her friend Clara, but at the same time, Bea knew she had no choice but to marry. Not only would her brother—her guardian—refuse to allow her to become a spinster, she wanted a family of her own more than anything.
“What else must I know?” she asked dully.
“For the first time only, permit yourselftwoglasses of wine beforehand. Never allow your nightgown to rise above your hips. Extinguish all candles—what happens in the marriage bed is best left in absolute darkness. Oh, and after he has finished rutting, he shall need a place to collapse and recover, but do not allow him too close.”
“Recover?”
“Yes—his wits.” Harriet waved a hand around. “When they drain their seed, it’s as if their brains are drained for a time as well. Extend him the courtesy of a minute or so to gather himself, but donotpermit him to fall asleep.”
Bea leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Why not? What could happen?”
“Snoring. A great deal of snoring. He could also rouse and wish to rut again. Now, the Marquess is, as you say, a gentleman, so I believe he will follow proper protocol and leave after he finishes.”
“He does seem most proper.”
Harriet raised her forefinger meaningfully and wiggled it, the large oval sapphire in her ring glinting. “Nonetheless, the rod I spoke of? Never touch it, no matter how much he begs. Do not permit him to touch you any more than strictly necessary.”
Bea swallowed. She supposed that sounded prudent enough. “Anything else?”
After a long suffering sigh, Harriet nodded. “Make no sounds.”
“Sounds?”
