Page 83 of Tremaine's True Love
“When shall we be married?” he asked, as he began their intimate joining. “We haven’t chosen a property for our own, and that might take some time.”
In Nita’s arms, Tremaine had chosen all the home he’d ever need, and yet he held off the completion of their union.
“I don’t care where we live, Tremaine, provided the place is free of creeping damp and drafts.Stop negotiating.” Nita lunged up with her hips and took the initiative from him.
“Tuesday,” he rasped as he set up a deliberate rhythm despite the desire rioting through him. “Tuesday morning.”
“Early,” she whispered, locking her ankles at the small of his back. “Maybe even Monday evening.”
They were to be wed within the week, and this was not their first anticipation of those vows. Tremaine should have treated his lady to a leisurely coupling, letting anticipation build, exploring her responses and his own.
Urgency rode him mercilessly, robbed him of finesse, and left him desperate. Nita came apart beneath him, keening softly against his shoulder, shuddering through her pleasure. When her grip on Tremaine’s hands slackened and he was sure she was sated, Tremaine gave himself permission to follow her into satisfaction. Pleasures stormed through him, dissolving plans, thoughts, and even most of Tremaine’s fears.
But not all. Though it contradicted Tremaine’s most passionate desire, at the last instant he lunged back and spilled his seed between their bodies.
* * *
“Are you nervous?” Della asked.
“Not about another assembly,” Nita replied, slipping a simple gold bracelet that had been her mother’s around the wrist of her right evening glove. Tremaine had told her the previous night that a ring would arrive with the special license. “Areyounervous?”
Della admired herself in the cheval mirror, though she had to tilt it first, because it had been angled for Nita’s height.
“Nervous about another interminable evening country-dancing with the same fellows I’ve been dancing with since I put up my hair? Swilling the same tepid punch, nibbling the same stale sandwiches?”
Older sister’s instinct told Nita that Della was nervous, though not about the assembly.
“London is no different, Della. A lot of boredom punctuated by the occasional passable dancer or clever verbal exchange. You look over the fellows, they look you over. The only differences between a London ballroom and the Haddondale assembly rooms are the quality of the tailoring and the fact that, at some point, you’ll be permitted to waltz.”
“The only difference,” Della said, tossing herself onto Nita’s bed, “is that I’ll come home this summer more disenchanted than I am now. I understand why you look after all the sick babies and doughty elders, besides the fact that it keeps Mama’s memory closer for you.”
Nita tugged at her glove beneath the bracelet, because the jewelry had bunched up the leather below her wrist.
“Honor Mama’s memory?” she muttered. “By sending Mr. Clackengeld his headache powders and thumping Dora Angelsey’s chest?” Mama had never set bones, never courted the vicar’s ire with her charity, never read Paracelsus or Galen.
Never tried to revive a baby who’d departed the earthly realm, felt the very heat leaving the infant’s body while the mother sobbed uselessly across a cold, barren cottage.
The dratted bracelet had been a bad idea, and now the clasp was caught on the glove.
“You use Mama’s recipe for your headache powder,” Della said. “Her very recipe in her handwriting. You now ride the horse who used to pull Mama’s gig. That’s a step in the direction of eccentricity, you know. Atlas is a fine fellow, but he’s not saddle stock for a lady.”
Atlas was a fine mount for a tall rider. Mama had doted on him and Mama had loved this stupid gold—
“Get this blasted thing off me,” Nita said, shoving her wrist under Della’s nose. “Atlas was going to waste, and this bracelet is too small for my wrist. You should have it.”
Della scrambled to the edge of the bed and took Nita’s wrist in her hands. “You’re giving me Mama’s bracelet? This was her great-grandmama’s, Nita. Are you sure?”
Great-Grandmama had been the original healer in Nita’s family, a formidable German lady who’d famously advised the present King’s governors on his health many decades ago.
The King had fallen quite ill in later years, nonetheless. “The bracelet is yours,” Nita said as Della worked the clasp open. “I tend to those Dr. Horton either cannot or will not treat properly. Mama has been gone for years now, and her memory has nothing to do with anything. If you remain lounging on my bed, you’ll wrinkle that dress, Della.”
Della held up the bracelet like a prize pelt. “I’ve loved this bracelet,” she said, draping the length of gold around her wrist. “It’s simple and graceful, and even a debutante can wear it in the evening. Thank you, Nita.”
Nita fastened the clasp for Della, on whom the bracelet was elegantly loose. Della remained sitting on the bed, holding up her arm so the bracelet caught the light of a dozen candles.
“I shouldn’t wrinkle my dress, my brow, my gloves… You tend to babies so you don’t go mad worrying over—heaven spare us!—wrinkles. Silk and velvet will wrinkle, but we wear them because they feel divine, light and warm even when wrinkled. You heal people because it warms your heart in a way having a dress free of wrinkles never will.”
Sometimes, caring for the sick warmed Nita’s heart, more often it broke her heart.
