Page 28 of Grasp the Thorn
That toast was followed by another, and another. Bear noted that Rosa confined herself to sips, but even so, when he finally extracted them from their well-wishers and gave her his arm to escort her to the chaise, she leaned into him, her gait unsteady. “I feel a little odd, Bear,” she whispered.
He should have realized she was unused to wine. “Just lean on me,” he murmured back. “You’ll be fine.”
Climbing into the chaise was beyond her, which she found very funny. He lifted his giggling bride and set her on the seat, then rounded the carriage and climbed up beside her. Jeffreys stepped away from the horses’ heads and Bear snapped the reins. Rosa waved her bonnet so enthusiastically that she almost lost it when it flew from her hand.
Bear, catching it, told her, “I’ll just tuck this down here, Rosa, for when you need it again.”
“Thank you, Bear. I am glad I stole your roses,” she told him.
Minutes would see them home at Rose Cottage. At last. Would she consent to an early night? It was still only afternoon, but it was, after all, their wedding day.
His hopes soared when she tucked herself against him, resting her head on his arm, but sank again when he glanced down to find she had fallen asleep. They were out of the village, and no observer was in sight. He dropped a kiss on her hair. So much for his plans. When he arrived at the cottage, he would indeed carry his new bride up to bed. To sleep off the wine.
CHAPTER 19
Some four hours later, Bear sat beside the large bed he’d ordered and watched his wife wake. He cupped a large glass of a pick-me-up made by Jeffreys, a recipe known only to that excellent individual.
Rosa groaned.
“Drink this, Rose. It will help with the headache.”
She blinked at him, her eyes slowly focusing on his face. “We got married,” she stated.
“We did.”
“I do not feel well, Hugh.”
Jeffreys’ pick-me-up did its usual sterling service, and once Rosa had a light meal inside her, she recovered her colour and her spirits, though she was particularly quiet this evening. Conversation remained sporadic until he asked about the new garden beds the handyman had dug behind the cottage. Rosa opened up then, explaining her plans for a winter garden. “Though if this weather continues, Hugh, I do not know how well it will do.”
Bear, treading gently, waited for her to suggest they retire for the night, but took the initiative when she yawned for the third time. “You are tired, Rosa.”
“I am,” she sounded surprised. “You do not mind if I…”
Mind? Hardly! “Go on up and get ready, my dear. I will come up in a few minutes.”
She blushed. “Oh. Oh yes, of course.”
Bear sat sipping his brandy as slowly as he could, watching the hand of the clock creep slowly between the minutes.
Thank goodness she was not a virgin, because his patience had run out and his self-control had become a thread. She had shown interest and even enthusiasm when he kissed her, but had been almost maidenly in her responses. He could understand that, with the servants around and her father likely to call on her at any time. But they would not be disturbed tonight. Jeffreys performed nurse duties, with strict instructions to leave Mr and Mrs Gavenor alone.
Neatham—his father-in-law…a thought to stop him in his tracks—Father Neatham liked Jeffreys, recognized him as a servant from his extreme youth, and accepted his services with equanimity. Even Rosa was not concerned about her father tonight.
She was concerned, though. Edgy and skittish. The aftermath of her hangover? She said she was well, though. Perhaps she was worried about his size? If so, it was further evidence of her relative inexperience. The stories that made her out to be a light woman, to which he had been an unwilling listener and over which he’d punched more than one impudent idiot, were made from whole cloth. The only one he still credited involved old Hurley, the lecherous goat. Hurley had been a little man, by all accounts, with small feet, which was meant to signify a lack of measure in another, more intimate area.
Bear was big as men go, but women were accommodating creatures. He would reassure her and take enough time to make sure she was ready to receive him. All would be well.
At last. Fifteen minutes was enough, surely? He took the stairs two at a time to the room they would share, stripping off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat as he went.
She sat, straight-backed, with her hands folded in her lap and her legs dangling, on the edge of the bed. The night rail she wore obscured her form. It was plain white cotton with a few tucks and pleats and a little white on white embroidery. He would buy her silk and lace to adorn her beauty, teach her to lie waiting for him with the buttons half undone and the soft material draped over her curves.
“Rosa, at last,” he said, his mind already removing the night rail to reach the soft flesh beneath. He wriggled out of his shirt, then undid his trousers and let them drop to the floor.
Rosa’s eyes fixed on his male parts, proudly upstanding, and her eyes widened.
That thing wasn’t going to fit. Rosa had no one she could ask about her marital duties—only guesses and what she’d been unable to avoid observing when she took her goats to the farmer’s billy. She knew that men had an appendage similar to the one the billy used. Since her father’s injury, she had become used to washing the soft little thing. It was nothing like the object before her, which surely could not have grown under her horrified scrutiny.
“What…” She swallowed and tried again, “What do I need to do?”
