Page 17 of The Trouble with a Dare

They finished their meal in silence, Sterling in a stew of misery and confusion. The only thing to do was keep his distance, he told himself sternly. The idea of keeping away from her tore at him, making his guts twist, but what else could he do? He’d made this mess, so he must fix it. He would work doubly hard, he’d ensure the farm was prosperous so she might have whatever she wanted. Then she could have her friends visit her without feeling ashamed, and he’d keep out of the way, so he’d not shame her either. Soon she would have her baby, too, and she could be happy with her friends and her child and entertain herself with whatever it was ladies did, and she need not see him much at all.

By the time he had made this appalling bargain with himself, he was utterly wretched.

“I think I’ll go up now.”

The soft voice penetrated his gloomy introspection, and he looked up from the empty plate he’d been staring at for longer than he liked to consider. Despite having spent the past hour in her company, the sight of her was as much of a shock as it had been the first time he’d seen her at Holbrook House. He’d wanted her then, from that very first moment, though only as something he might see in a dream or a picture book. If anyone had told him she would be his wife in a matter of months, he’d have laughed in their face.

“It’s been a long day,” she added, giving him a hesitant smile. “Are… Are you c-coming to bed now?”

For a heart-stopping moment, Sterling considered it, not only going to bed but… taking his wife to bed and making her his own. She was his wife, after all. The marriage wasn’t legal until it had been consummated and….

He shook his head.

“Got things to do. Be up a bit later.”

He wasn’t that much of a selfish bastard. The poor girl had been through enough without him—nigh on a stranger—taking his pleasure with no thought for her feelings.

“Goodnight, then.”

“Night.”

He heard the door shut and let out a shaky breath, putting his head in his hands.

“Well, Sterling, lad, a right mess you’ve made of this and no mistake.”

Chapter 6

Grace,

What the devil is going on? I come back from Hampshire to discover my sister is married, and I knew nothing about it! Who is this Oak fellow? Where did you meet him? Father says he’s a good man and I’m not to go down and call him out for what he’s done, but I don’t understand why not. This has all happened so fast. Too fast to be for any good reason.

Why didn’t you tell me, Gray? Why didn’t you come to me? I would have done anything to help, surely you know that. Instead, I hear nothing at all and when I get back, you’re gone, and everything is settled. The house is too dashed quiet without you. I wasn’t ready to let you grow up and be a married lady. You didn’t even have a season. It’s not right. I was supposed to protect you and keep all the scoundrels at bay, and now I feel like I failed when I didn’t even know it had begun. You’re still the little squirt who insisted on trying to beat me at war games although I’d made you Napoleon and everyone knows he is the villain and the loser to boot. You are my annoying little sister and without you here pestering me over some nonsense or other, I feel all at sixes and sevens. It’s too soon. Pa should never have allowed it. I should have argued till I was blue in the face had I been here, which is why I was kept in the dark, I don’t doubt.

I am anxious for you, sis. Pa misses you something fierce and Mother is worrying herself sick. Please write to us at least and tell us how you go on. If he’s the slightest bit cruel to you, I shall pound him to dust no matter what father says.

Write back, Gray.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Mr Larkin Weston to his sister Mrs Grace Oak (children of Baroness and Baron Rothborn, Jemima and Solomon Weston).

Night of the 4th of September 1839, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

Grace lay in bed in her new home and stared up at the ceiling. Though worn to a thread from the stresses of the day, she was too tense to sleep. She could not help but listen out for the sound of her husband’s footsteps coming up the stairs to bed. It had been more than an hour since she’d climbed up onto the huge four poster, but there was still no sign of him, unless that… yes—footsteps. Oh, lud. Her heart began crashing about in her chest and her ears strained to work out where he had gone. His dressing room, no doubt.

Grace was so intent on listening to every distant creak and rustle that the sound of the door opening had her almost leaping from her skin. She held her breath, realising his feet must be bare as he trod soundlessly across the room and drew back the bed covers on his side. The mattress lurched as he climbed on and lay down, and then all was still… except for Grace’s heart, which she was certain must be loud enough to wake the dead. Surely, he must hear it too, for it beat so frantically in her chest. It soon became apparent that he meant to keep his word, however, as he did not move an inch. Gradually the frantic galloping in her chest reduced to an anxious trot, though Grace could not conceive of how she was going to get a moment’s sleep, knowing her husband’s large, masculine form was so close to hers. Worse, she was rivetingly aware that he was awake too.

They lay like that, neatly parallel, like part of an orderly table setting, and Grace was quite certain they would see the sun come up together, still as rigid and unmoving as sentries. Yet the rigours of the day and the demands of the growing babe in her belly caught up at last, and reluctantly she drifted into slumber.

Sterling let out an uneven breath as he realised his wife was finally asleep. Christ, but he had not realised just what manner of torture he had let himself in for when he’d been so idiotically noble as to assure her he’d not consummate the marriage. He could not see her in the darkness, but he was alarmingly aware of her. Her scent tantalised him. It was sweet, like chamomile, perhaps from the soap she’d washed with. Such a delicate, innocent scent it was, and yet it affected far more profoundly than the wickedest lure a worldly woman could throw. Worse than that, he was aware of the warmth of her body, warming the side of the bed that had always been cold and empty. He heard the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing, and the desire to reach for her was so intense that his whole body ached with the effort of keeping his hands to himself.

It was a strange thing to not be able to sleep. Not something he’d ever experienced before. Used to long hours and hard work, he was generally asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, and it seemed wrong and self-indulgent to waste the precious hours of rest when he needed his energy for the day to come. Yet his mind would not grow still as it used to, instead turning over and over the events of the day, and the astonishing fact that Miss Grace Weston was now Mrs Grace Oak.

There was not much of the darkness left by the time Sterling’s tired mind retreated into a troubled sleep, but he woke not too much later, as he always did at first light. Usually, he was easy in his mind, waking quickly and ready for the day ahead, but this morning his mind was all fog, his thoughts and feelings muffled and unclear even to himself. He blinked, gritty-eyed and weary, trying to drag himself from the grasp of uneasy dreams he could not remember, and found himself staring at the shimmering gold of his wife’s hair.

She had tied it with a length of blue satin ribbon, which had come loose and fallen to the mattress. Her hair spilled out across the white cotton pillow cover, a ripple of ripe barley even in the dim light of the bedroom. Sterling’s hand lay close to the pillow and with his heart in his mouth, he dared to close the distance and touch one shining lock. It slid through his rough fingers like silk and longing swept over him as he imagined being able to stroke it without such furtive, despicable secrecy, how it might feel against his skin. He swallowed and dared to lift his head to look at her, his Grace. She had turned her face away from him, a faint flush of sleep touching her cheeks like the sunrise touched the clouds outside his window. Her nightgown had slipped off one white shoulder, exposing skin so exquisitely fine the ache of longing became heat and pain and he forced himself to look away. He ought not spy on her so; she would not like it.

Without another glance, he slipped out of bed and noiselessly out of the room.

The next few days established a pattern of sorts, with Sterling making only brief and apparently reluctant appearances at mealtimes.