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He gave her what she needed—the pressure, the friction, and a single leather-clad finger slipping in to stretch her just enough to torture them both until her body found release. He savored the burning ache in his cock. The need to take her was undeniable, but it would go unassuaged. He’d already led her down the wrong path, debauched her in a way one shouldn’t do with one’s wife—not in the Ton, at any rate. But he no longer cared. She was his, and he intended to make certain she didn’t regret the choice. Or change her mind.

He took his pleasure from her lips, holding her securely as he pressed himself against her wet heat, and thrust against her without entering, sliding his tip against her clit instead. The deed took only the slightest contact with her scorching body, his need overpowering all sense and experience, and he spilled not into his hand as intended, but along her soft thigh. “Fuck.” The oath tore from him. “You are … overwhelming my judgement, Elinor.” He groaned, powerless to stop himself kissing her again, as if he hadn’t just embarrassed them both with his lack of control.

When he drew back enough to look at her, her eyes were still closed. She wore the most blissful expression he’d ever seen on her face. Then, suddenly, she laughed, her eyes opening, glistening. “You’re overwhelmed? I don’t … I don’t think I remember my own name at the moment.” She shifted against him, sighing. “I did not imagine this to be so messy, but I understand now your worry over my dress.”

“Mm. Imagine what a full night of this can lead to. Now, keep still, or I’ll forget not to ruin you.” He laughed, but at last lowered her to stand on her own power, careful to keep her dress pulled up as he drew out his kerchief and gently wiped away the traces from her thighs. “Your chemise will be soiled. Best soak it with water before your maid gets a close look. Unless you trust her.” He let her skirts fall, then saw to his own clothing. “I’ll speak with your uncle in the morning, but I’d rather not walk into an ambush of an angry guardian.” He smiled. “Unless you’d rather escape to Gretna Greene tonight.”

“Do not tempt me,” she said, still leaning back against the wall. “I would very much like my uncle’s blessing. And my father’s.”

That reminder stung. This was Harcourt’s daughter he’d just sported with, however honorable his intentions were. Tristan grimaced and refastened his breeches, tucking away the kerchief to be lost with his glove in the next available basin. “Yes. That might be a delay. I must ask him in person. He remains a fellow officer, injured or not.” And there was the matter of marriage settlements. He knew Elinor herself expected to have very little in that way, but who knew what her real concept of money was? Harcourt had taken prizes in the Peninsula, and likely in India before. Her uncle might be more generous than she realized. And few people knew just how much capital Tristan himself possessed after inheriting the individual fortunes his brothers had amassed beyond his own. The thoughts buzzed through Tristan’s mind, even as he gathered Elinor into a chaste, but secure embrace.

“How much of a delay?”

“Not great. But I fear our conversations tomorrow must be very practical, dearest. Settlements, expectations. Plans, and routes to Ashforde House…” he sighed and brushed a kiss to her forehead. “If negotiations drag out over a month, I really might kidnap you to Scotland and damn the scandal sheets.”

She laughed, rocking a bit between both feet as if she were testing how well her legs worked. “That’s how he and my mother were wed. If Father objects overmuch, tell him you’re of a mind to follow his tradition.”

“Precisely why he might object. He knows exactly what we’re about.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Fathers are generally not keen on their daughters following their wilder footsteps. But it will give him less moral high ground. So that’s a benefit to our cause.” He absently traced her neckline, already distracted at the idea of stripping off her dress. Damn, I’ll have to plan on a month’s wedding trip or be useless for all but her company. “We should get you up to bed, love.” He eyed the dark passage, then her still-glowing, somewhat dazed countenance. “The servants’ stairs will do. If anyone asks, your maid took you up early, for you quite strained your foot.”

“That, ah, actually isn’t so much a lie,” she admitted. “Arabella moves much faster than I can keep up with sometimes.” She embraced him around his waist, and he felt rather than heard her sigh. “I do not wish to leave your side tonight. I fear when I wake in the morning, this part of the evening will have been a wonderful dream.”

“By the time you wake up, I’ll have settled with your uncle and will be taking my leave to visit your father in Bristol,” he promised as he scooped her into his arms. It was easy enough to navigate to the back stairs—the servants were mostly busy in the main rooms and kitchens, stables and yards, so precious few were left to mind the upper stories. “Make certain Hannah fetches you something to eat,” he directed once they reached the landing. She and Arabella shared a bedroom connected to the one given to their aunt and uncle for the night, and it was no great distance, but he watched from the shadows as she made the short, halting journey. Only once the door was shut behind her, did he seek his own room for a new set of gloves and a better survey of his own clothes. Then he headed back the way they’d come up, intent upon finding Summersby and discussing how best to approach Edward Weston.

Chapter Ten

Merfield House, Somerset. June 15, 1814

It was not the crystalline dream of a wedding day Elinor prayed for, nor did it bring everyone she hoped to see. June fifteenth dawned cloudy and cool—the whole year had been cold, as she reminded herself the entire way to the village church—but at least it wasn’t raining. Her aunt and Lady Summersby helped her dress, and her uncle escorted her down the aisle. Her parents sent only letters—heartfelt and touching missives, to be sure—and money for her settlement and trousseau. Elinor felt their absence more than she’d expected. Her mother was busy nursing Elinor’s youngest sister through a cold, and her father was freshly commissioned as a major in an invalid regiment in Southampton (she suspected Asherton had something to do with it, but her new husband refused to comment). The increase in his pay and rank, added to her uncle’s generosity had financed a far better dowry than Elinor expected, and a lovely wedding gown done by Lady Summersby’s favorite modiste. But none of that gave her the surety of her own father’s presence at her side as she walked down the aisle toward Tristan.

She spoke her vows in a nervous trance, concentrating only on not stumbling as they left the church, or fainting as they returned to Merfield House, with the marriage record still an unreal weight in her reticule. Countess of Asherton. Bride of Major Tristan Ruthven. She could not believe it. Not even with a heavy gold and sapphire ring on her third finger, her hand on his unyielding arm, his fingers twining with hers. When he helped her out of the carriage in front of Merfield, he kissed her cheek for all to see—and a few cheers came from her cousins. Even her uncle laughed.

She intended to go with Tristan into the opened rooms where Lady Summersby had laid out a breakfast fit for a small army, to greet his various red-coated friends who had materialized yesterday and this morning, along with her new younger sister and brother-in-law—and little Lydia—who were deemed too young to attend the wedding. But somehow by the grand staircase, Aunt Charlotte and Lady Summersby intervened, and like one more chapter of this unreal day, she was hauled into an upstairs chamber to discuss “what must happen tonight” in case she had, by some miraculous misapprehension, missed every naughty jest in Shakespeare, failed to notice the mating practices of horses, hounds, or stablehands, or had no idea how her mother produced a baby every time her father came back from abroad.

Though, upon reflection of the night of the ball, and the personal … dimensions… Asherton had revealed that evening? “Exactly how much does it all hurt?” she found herself asking her flustered aunt and smiling sister-in-law. “Should I take something for the pain before we come to that point?”

“I shouldn’t think so. It’s only a, um, that is to say…” Aunt Charlotte floundered, and looked to Lady Summersby.

“A drink of wine should suffice,” Evelina said graciously. “And a good deal of optimism. I find if one is not averse to the proceedings, things go much easier.”

“True enough. And it’s only truly unpleasant the first time,” Aunt Charlotte added. “It’s not quite such an ordeal thereafter.”

Well, if the proceedings included the things he had done—and hinted at—at the ball, perhaps that would make up for what was sure to be a fair amount of pain for a night. “I’ll do my best,” Elinor said, still dubious. “I do not wish to disappoint.”

“I’m sure you could never disappoint him as a wife.” Aunt Charlotte patted her shoulder. “If you think of anything else before you leave, find me at once.”

“Or me,” Evelina added, still smiling. “But I think we’ve worried you enough. Let’s go find you a cup of chocolate and some cake, hm?”

****

Downstairs, the wedding breakfast marched on, with musicians at the far end of the hall and children as well as adults dancing to a merry tune Elinor was too flustered to name. Calder Fair, perhaps? Whatever the title, Arabella was making the most of it by weaving gaily through a line of officers with the dance. And there was a group of boys, including… Wait. Elinor stopped to look again. Cavendish wasn’t among the boys. She studied the room again and caught sight of him furtively slinking along the far side, doing his best to blend into the ancient paneling on his way to the heavily laden tables. A lifetime surviving Arabella’s mischief (and her own raucous siblings before that) set off an alarm in Elinor’s head. She moved toward the tables but made it only a few steps before someone touched her arm.

Elinor turned, hoping to find her new husband, but it was Henry’s sapphire eyes staring into hers. “Elinor, cousin—er, Countess, can we speak?”

She shifted her weight, hesitant. Henry seemed earnest—his worried expression was a far cry from the cruel smile he’d given to her at his engagement announcement—but the longer Cavendish remained out of sight, the more anxious she felt. Still, she should do her cousin the courtesy of listening. He had, after all, been a friend for many years. She mustn’t forget that.

“What about?” Please, let it be quick.

“I wish to, er, apologize. For what I said the day of the ball. For the whole day, really.” His gaze swept toward his own feet. “I was severe on the Ruthvens mostly out of fear for Arabella. She’s too young for a match, and I wanted to scare her out of any silly ideas. And later. I should have talked to you before. About Georgiana, er, Miss Mitford. Soon to be Mrs. Blalock, as it turns out.” A weary half-smile touched his handsome features.