Merrick decided as he sat there that he would return to London alone the next day. The decision had really been made a few days before, but now he made the conscious choice. His wife would stay at Redlands. Who would blame him? It was quite common for wives to be left in the country while husbands lived in London. The house was quite comfortable and well-run. He would make her a generous allowance. She had achieved what she wanted. She had his name and his title, and was assured of a comfortably secure future. That had been her goal, Merrick was convinced. He had learned in the few days he had spent at her brother's home that they were impoverished. If only he had traveled one day later, they would not even have been in the area but at a village thirty miles distant, where his wife's brother had taken up a position as a schoolmaster. If only he had listened to Horace!
Merrick twirled his empty glass in his hand and resisted the idea of motioning to Dodd again. This was his wedding night and tomorrow he would be gone. The marriage must be consummated. He could not have the girl writing to her brother or to that vicar complaining that she had been cheated, that hers was no proper marriage. Distasteful as the idea was, he must go to her. And, since go he must, there was nothing to be gained from delay. He put the glass down on the table and pushed himself to his feet.
Anne was standing beside the high bed when Merrick entered the room from the dressing room that joined their two rooms. She was looping back the heavy blue curtains that surrounded the bed, looking timid and hesitant, as if she did not know whether she should climb into the bed or not. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his hand on the knob, taking in with some distaste her most unbride-like appearance. She wore a long and loose nightgown of white flannel, quite unadorned. It hung shapeless around her plump figure. She wore no nightcap; her hair had been brushed loose about her shoulders. It framed a round and anxious face that appeared far too childish for her years. She was two-and-twenty, her brother had informed him. Merrick closed the door quietly behind him.
"I expected to find you abed already," he said as he approached her.
"No," she said. "I have been trying to pull back these curtains. I suffer from fear of suffocation when I am enclosed in too small a space, my lord."
"Then you must instruct Mrs. Rush to remove them altogether tomorrow," Merrick said, and put back with one hand the hair that hung over one of her shoulders. His knuckles brushed the nape of her neck.
"I would not wish to appear too demanding so soon," Anne said breathlessly, hardly aware of what she said. His lips were against the hollow between her shoulder and neck, his breath warm against her skin.
"Nonsense," he said. "You are mistress here now, as I am sure you fully realize. You must begin your relations with the servants as you mean to go on."
His hands moved to her breasts as he looked down into her upturned and dazed face. They were as firm and as feminine as they had felt during the light, exploratory touch he had permitted himself just a few nights previously. Merrick half-smiled down at his bride. He wanted to humiliate, even hurt her. She had schemed to acquire him as a husband. Let her take the consequences, find that she had a husband who would not be content with a discreet exercise of his rights. He lowered his head to hers, took her mouth beneath his parted lips, and nibbled lightly at her lips until they relaxed.
This time he found that his probing tongue met no resistance. He ravished her mouth, one hand spread firmly behind her head. His other hand still fondled one breast, teasing the nipple erect, reaching to undo the buttons that held her nightgown primly closed to the neck. He was hardly aware of the fact that her passivity was gradually melting, that her head angled against his own and her mouth opened wide to his invasion, that her shoulder shrugged aside the nightgown to assist his pushing hand, that her body, naked from the waist up, molded itself eagerly against the brocade of his dressing gown. He was too much involved in the desire that had swept over him in a flood and that made him forget for the time all else except that he held a woman whom he wanted with a passion that was not to be denied. He turned her in his arms and tumbled her to the bed.
Anne reached out for him in bewilderment, feeling bereft. But he had not left her. He was merely shrugging out of his dressing gown and pulling off his nightshirt. She gazed at him through passion-heavy eyes, quite unembarrassed, aware only of male beauty and of the blood that was hammering through her veins and against her temples. She did not for a moment think of covering her nakedness, but instead lifted her hips when he reached down to remove the nightgown that still clung around her. He did not extinguish the candles before coming down on top of her on the bed.
Dreams could never begin to capture the wonder of it alclass="underline" his long-fingered hands exploring and caressing, finding out unerringly the places that made her ache with longing; his mouth and tongue, which claimed her own and that left hot trails of desire along her throat and on her breasts; his body, so warm and firm and heavy on her own; and his legs, which pushed firmly between her own. And then the moment of entry, so often imagined with terror, so wonderful beyond imagining. She was quite unaware of pain, all her desire culminating in the blazing shock of invasion.
She felt no reluctance. Anne knew in that moment that she loved her husband with all her being, with all the feelings that had been frozen inside her since the death of Dennis. She opened herself to him, lifted her legs from the bed so that he might thrust more deeply into her, and wrapped her arms around the firm muscles of his shoulders and back. She shuddered against him and stifled her cry of fulfillment against his shoulder moments before his full weight pressed her into the bed as he pushed himself deep inside her and gradually relaxed.
Anne was the first to recover conscious thought. Her husband was still lying heavily on top of her. His weight made it difficult for her to breathe freely. But she lay very still, staring up at the shadows cast on the canopy of the bed by the candles. She did not want to move, did not want him to stir. It was a more wonderful wedding night than any she could have dreamed for herself. All was well. The unease she had felt for the last few days and during this day had been unnecessary. He had just proved to her that he desired her, that he wanted her as a wife. She could not feel more beautiful if she had all the most lovely clothes in the world and the most sylphlike figure. He had made her beautiful with his hands and his lips and his body. He had worshiped her. She was filled with wonder. She did not know why it was so. She was not beautiful and he was. It was impossible to imagine a man who could be more so. But somehow it had happened. He had seen beyond the outer appearance to the Anne beneath, and he loved her.
She moved her head slightly until she could feel his thick hair against her cheek. She closed her eyes and concentrated on holding back the tears that wanted to flow. She must not let him see her cry. He might misinterpret her tears. She reveled in the discomfort of his weight on her.
Merrick awoke with a slight start. He had never fallen asleep on a woman before. Most females he knew would have pushed him away long ago. He lifted himself away from his wife with something like reluctance and lay beside her. He turned his head to look at her and found that she was looking back with steady gray eyes. She was the same unattractive Anne; she looked even more childish, in fact, with her cheeks flushed and her hair in tangled disarray. Was it possible that he had felt such desire for her only a few minutes before? It must have been sheer lust, he decided. She had not a single one of the attractions he always demanded in his women.