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The Wedding Night
Summer 1739
Blake stood in his dressing room while his valet tied his cravat in elaborate knots. Blake didn’t care what his cravat looked like most days, but this was his wedding day, so he could withstand a little torture from his valet as long as he looked presentable for his bride.
His father entered then, all big and powerful, shrinking the space in Blake’s dressing room. He turned to the valet. “You can go now,” he said and waited for the servant to leave. “Good,” he said with a nod, still eyeing Blake. “You look good. Now, let’s go to your sitting chamber so we might speak more comfortably.”
Blake followed his father and sat across from him. His father lit a cigar, which he took out of his breast pocket, took a drag, and eyed Blake from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
“You did well so far,” he said. “You finished your education, you traveled the continent, you sowed your wild oats, and it’s a good time you decided to marry. Good,” he repeated with a nod. “Now, you need to learn something about marriage.”
“What’s that?” Blake sat back in his chair in a deceptively relaxed pose, although he was seething on the inside. The last thing he wanted was another lecture from his father. But he would listen like he always did, and he would follow his advice, too, just like he always did. Always a dutiful son.
“The wife is not like a mistress. Oh, no.” His father shook his head again, puffing on his cigar. “The mistress is made for pleasure, while the wife is made for duty.”
Bedding Annalise seemed anything but a duty to Blake, but he didn’t say anything aloud.
“The wife’s main purpose is to beget as many heirs as she can. It is an uncomfortable duty, painful.” He grimaced in distaste. “That is why you ought to prepare her for it.”
“Prepare her? How?” Blake’s scowl deepened.
“No cuddling her. No gentleness. No prolonged lovemaking, and under no circumstances do you pleasure her.”
Blake raised his brows. For one thing, it was unseemly to discuss such things with one’s father, but on the other hand, he wanted to ask why. He reveled in the idea of pleasuring his wife, kissing her long and leisurely.
“She’ll become too soft, and she won’t be able to birth you healthy sons,” his father said as if hearing his thoughts. This seemed like nonsense, the kind of which Blake had never heard. “Mark my words, son. You rut on her as many times as you can, as often as you can, and as fast as you can. That way, there’ll be more chance of you begetting sons. After you were born, I had gotten soft with your mother, and look where it got her.”
Dead. Blake’s mother died birthing her second son, and the babe had followed, dying a few days later.
“If I’d been rougher with her, she’d have been able to withstand childbirth the second time. I know you think you want to be gentle with her, to experience pleasure in the marital bed, but let me save you some time. Mistresses are for pleasure; wives are for duty. Your bride won’t be responsive to you in bed anyway, so you may as well not even start trying. And if you don’t believe me, you just wait and see on your wedding night. Your bride will know nothing of how to pleasure you. She will be skittish and frightened. Ladies are not bred for prolonged, tender lovemaking. They are stiff as a board and unpleasant to lie with. She will act disgusted the moment you come to her bed. Mark my words.”
Blake shook his head in disbelief. He didn’t think what the old earl was telling him held any merit, but it planted some seed in his head. He had no idea where that seed would lead him.
After the wedding ceremony was over, he went with his father and friends to a tavern, then to clubs, then to a place that looked like a whorehouse. As the rutting and the debauchery began in earnest, someone shoved Blake into a carriage and conveyed him home.
Blake was grateful to that someone, whoever that was. He thought it might have been Jarvis, but there was no way he would ever remember.
When he got home, disheveled and debauched, his innocent wife had already been sleeping in her bed.
He stalked toward her, leaving his clothes discarded in his wake. Blake climbed into bed with her, and only then did she awaken.
Annalise looked at him, and a slight smile appeared on her lips. “You’re back,” she said with a pleased smile and put her arms around him.
Blake grunted an answer and rolled on top of her. He kissed her on the mouth, and Annalise squirmed beneath him.
“What?” he asked hoarsely, and Annalise averted her face.
“You smell of spirits, cigars, and God knows what else!” she said indignantly.
“So what?” he asked in a slurred voice.
“Well, it’s not pleasant,” she answered crisply.
“Well, dear wife. It’s not going to be pleasant. Neither is begetting heirs, so you better get used to it.”
“Get used to what?” Annalise’s voice grew panicked.
Your bride will know nothing of how to pleasure you. She will be skittish and frightened.His father’s voice rang in Blake’s drunken head, making him more irritable than he was.
