the window. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and slumped down in a chair, his gaze turning inward to the time over seven years ago when he discovered, only two days before the wedding, that his fiancée had eloped with another man.
Their wedding was to be celebrated here at Westhampton in the picturesque stone Norman church in the village, where all the earls of Westhampton had been married for longer than anyone could remember. The house was packed with friends and family who had come to celebrate the wedding, and still more were staying in the inn in the village and with Sir Edward Moreton, a neighbor whose kind lady had taken on the burden of lodging several of the wedding guests.
It was a joyous occasion. Michael could not remember a time when he had been so happy. He thought that Rachel had been warming to him during the past few months. Once they were engaged, they had been allowed to spend more time together in comparative solitude. While Rachel’s mother or sister was always with them when he came to call on her, they now often sat discreetly apart from the engaged couple, allowing them to talk more freely. And at balls he was now allowed to dance with her more than twice in an evening without calling down gossip upon their heads.
The fact that she seemed to like him more the more she was around him made him hopeful that he would be able to win her love completely once the massive production of the wedding was over and they were finally alone together.
It was two days before the wedding, and as Michael strolled with Rachel from the music room after a convivial evening of song and merriment among their friends, he was thinking with anticipation of the time when they would at last be alone together. He did not intend to consummate their marriage that first night; it would be, he thought, too frightening for a young woman still virtually a stranger to him. No matter how much he wanted Rachel, he intended to take his time and build her trust in him, to awaken her gradually to passion. He had long ago vowed that no woman would suffer at his hands, and he certainly would not inflict any pain or fear upon Rachel, whom he loved.
But it would be wonderful just to be alone with her, without the constant presence of a chaperon—to be able to talk with her, to laugh and do as they pleased, to get to know one another, to kiss and hold her, to take her hand, without anyone there to watch or gossip. There had been times in the last few months when he had wondered if that moment would ever arrive.
Rachel, he thought, had been quieter than usual all evening, and as he looked down at her, it seemed to him that she was a trifle pale. She was, he supposed, nervous about the wedding approaching so rapidly.
As they passed the conservatory, empty and dark, he took her arm and whisked her inside the door. Rachel looked up at him, startled, her eyes wide.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He smiled down at her. “No need to be frightened,” he told her.
“What?” Rachel stared at him and let out an odd little laugh. “What do you mean? Frightened of what?”
“I don’t know. The wedding. We’ll get through it well enough. Everyone always manages.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose they do.” Rachel gave him a small smile. “I am a little nervous, I guess.”
“Don’t worry. I shall be there with you. Just dig your fingers into my arm if you feel that you are about to faint. I’ll prop you up.”
“All right.”
He thought that there was the glimmer of a tear in her eye, but she glanced away just then, and when she looked back up at him a moment later, he saw that her eyes were dry. Michael put his hand under her chin and gazed down into her face.
“You trust me, don’t you?” he asked softly. “Please believe that you always can. I will not hurt you, I promise.”
“Oh, Michael…” Her voice broke with emotion, and her hand came up to curl around his. “I am not…worthy of you.”
He smiled. “What nonsense. You are worthy of any man.”
Overcome by the love that swelled his heart as he looked at her, he bent to kiss her. Her lips were warm and soft beneath his, hinting of such pleasure that he almost could not bear it. He wanted her in that moment more than he ever had before. His blood pounded in his ears and thrummed through his veins. He thought of Rachel’s body pliant in his arms, of her mouth opening to him in passion.
His arms went around her, and he pulled her close against him, his kiss deepening. Heat surged through his body, and he pressed her body into his, delighting in her softness. His lips moved against hers, tasting the sweetness he had dreamed about for months. He thought of the days and weeks ahead, of introducing Rachel to the delights of the flesh, of exploring her body with his hands and mouth, of teaching her the pleasure they could bring each other, and a tremor of lust shook him.
The last thing he wanted to do was to end the kiss, to release her and step back, but he made himself do it. He must not frighten her with the extent of the passion pounding through him.
Rachel stared up at him, eyes wide with surprise. Her lips were soft and moist, dark from the pressure of his mouth, and the sight of them was enough to stir his lust all over again. Michael carefully took another step back, clearing his throat.
“I beg your pardon. I should not…” His mind was too clouded with desire to think of anything rational to say. “Perhaps we should, um, say good-night.”
“Yes, my lord.” Rachel’s words were barely a whisper, and she whirled and hurried from the room.
Michael took a step after her, suddenly worried that it had been fear he had read in her eyes, not merely surprise. Then he stopped, thinking that if she was a little frightened, his chasing after her would only increase her fear. No doubt his sudden kiss had startled her. It had not been, he thought rather disgustedly, a suave or subtle move on his part. It was not like him; in general, he was a man who was in control. But Rachel’s beauty tested his control, and over the months of their engagement he had had to exercise an iron control over his desires. With the end almost in sight, he had let his guard down. He would have to be more careful, he thought, to keep his distance from his fiancée until after the ceremony.
Right now, he told himself, the best thing to do would be to leave her alone. If his passion had upset her, her mother or sister would be much better at allaying her fears than he.
Michael retired to his study and poured himself a brandy.
He was still there over an hour later, his blood cooler, reading a book and sipping at the last of a second brandy, when there was a polite tap on the door. It was the butler, looking faintly embarassed.
“My lord…” he began somewhat tentatively. “The, ah, head groom wishes to speak to you. I told him you were in your study, but he was most insistent. He would not say what it was.” The butler looked displeased at that notion, but continued. “However, he seemed to feel the matter was urgent. I am sorry to disturb you, but, as it was Tanner…”
“Yes, quite right.” Michael rose from his chair, faintly curious. He supposed there must be some problem with one of the horses—or perhaps one of the guests’ animals. Tanner was a normally phlegmatic sort, not the kind to urgently seek his employer’s counsel.
Tanner was waiting for him just outside the door leading into the back garden, holding his hat in his hands and twisting the soft cloth nervously. Michael had known the man since he had come there as a groom when Michael was just a boy, and there was something in his leathery face that made Michael suddenly apprehensive.
“What is it?” he asked without preamble, striding over to the man. “Is it Saladin?” He named his favorite mount, a black stallion of unusual grace and speed.
Tanner looked faintly surprised. “What? Oh, no, my lord. Nothing like that. Saladin’s as fine and fit as ever. ’Tis something else entirely.” He paused, looking at Michael uncomfortably. “I’m hoping you won’t take this the wrong way, sir. I wouldn’t have even come to ye, ’cept that the lad generally has a good head on his shoulders. He’s not the sort to go startin’