Page 8 of A Gentleman Never Surrenders
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes, please just do not let me trip,” she begged him. The voluminous skirts of her lovely gown were far more fabric than she was used to, and given how frantic her heart was beating made her feel unsteady on her feet.
“I’ve got you.” Owen’s body was warm and hard beside her own, which was an unexpected but welcomed comfort. He covered her hand on his arm with his free hand, patting it gently.
At least in this we are united, she thought.
They walked down the aisle together, stepping over a trail of rose petals as they headed to the entrance of the church. There would be a light meal taken by her family and Owen before they would leave for his estate. Wesden Heath. She knew so little of the man she’d married. Her husband. How strange the word felt on her tongue. All she knew was that his lands were nestled somewhere in the small region of the Cotswolds.
During their time together in the last three weeks leading up to the wedding, he had spoken of his home fondly, the soft smile on his full lips lighting up his eyes. She’d felt melancholy to think she would leave Pepperwirth Vale because she felt the same way about her own home as he did his. But she had to go with him now; as his wife, she could not stay here with her parents and hide away any longer. New fears had replaced her old ones. What was to come? Would he abandon her at the estate and return to London to conduct affairs with mistresses?
Milly flinched, trying not to think of that. First, she had to survive her wedding night. Owen had mentioned the day before they would take a coach to an inn halfway to his estate. Milly knew she couldn’t protest any of his plans, but a tiny part of her was frightened at leaving Pepperwirth Vale permanently. It was one thing to travel and come back, but Pepperwirth Vale would no longer be her home after tonight. Perhaps it was usual for some women to be fine with abandoning their homes when they married, but she was a woman who grew roots where she lived and felt connected to the place where she made a life for herself. Wesden Heath would have to be her new home and she would have to learn to grow comfortable there.
“Milly, what’s the matter?” Owen had stopped them in front of their coach, which would take them back to her parents’ home for them to dine and change.
“Hmm?” she replied, glancing about at the wedding attendees who were filing out of their church after them, laughing and smiling. A few already threw rice at them.
“You have a viselike grip on my arm,” Owen said, looking more than a little concerned, given the way his brows drew together.
Forcing herself to unfist her fingers, she dropped her hand from his arm and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Milly. No need to apologize.” He helped Ivy and Rowena gather her skirts and then caught her by the waist and lifted her into the carriage.
When they were both seated, alone except for the driver in the front, she turned to Owen.
“You can stop that, you know.” She set her bouquet on the seat across from them and glowered. Between the kiss he’d given her on the night they were discovered and the gentle, caring façade he was showing now, she wanted to scream. No woman liked knowing a man was placating her. If she was to be trapped, he shouldn’t condescend to treat her like a skittish horse.
“Stop what?” Owen tugged on the edges of his gloves and curled his fingers to better the fit of the gloves.
“Treating me so nicely. You don’t have to pretend. Our situation is bad enough. We ought not to add lies or false behavior to this farce.”
The horrid man laughed. “You have a sharp tongue, wife. I had hoped marriage would tame that shrewish temper.” He leaned back in the open carriage, striking a pose of a man so at ease that Milly snapped.
“You cad!” She retrieved her bouquet from the opposite seat and leaned over to smack him in the chest with the flowers. Petals exploded in a floral burst and the light breeze from the carriage’s forward movement caught the petals and scattered them all over the interior of the coach and on their clothes. The people standing on the church steps burst into laughter at the sight of the wind and the flowers dancing around them.
“What the devil?” Owen bolted upright, trying to brush the flowers off his lap, and he fixed Milly with a narrowed gaze. “I’m not opposed to putting you over my knee!” The sharpness of his eyes lit with a heat that startled her. The threat seemed more sensual, as though he didn’t plan to harm her. For some reason that infuriated her all the more.
“Put me over your knee?” Her voice was shrill, even to her own ears. “How like a man! And you wondered why I never wanted to marry?” She slapped a palm to his chest, attempting to shove him away, but he curled an arm around her waist and dragged her across his lap. She was still sputtering in outrage when he slanted his mouth over hers. This was no sweet, lingering brush of lips like that night in her room. It was hot, wet, delicious, and wicked. Her lower belly quivered and her hands flattened on his chest before curling into fists as she relaxed. It was impossible not to enjoy this.
His hand cupped her cheek and he whispered against her lips, “Open your mouth.”
“Open my—” Her confusion was replaced with shock when he took advantage of her parted lips and slid his tongue inside. The odd sensation, the eroticism of it, was too much. Milly squirmed as part of her lower body throbbed to life, almost hurting with an intense ache. How could Owen of all men affect her like this? She didn’t like him.
What’s wrong with me? Was a woman supposed to feel such things for a man? She’d heard the occasional rumor, but that’s what she believed it was. Rumor and nothing more…but this…this was not fantasy. This was hard, sharp, wonderfully confusing, pleasurable reality.
“There now.” Owen stroked a fingertip across her bottom lip. “Feeling less shrewish?” The devilish glint in his eye said he was teasing, but it still upset her. She didn’t want a man to call her a shrew, especially not her husband. It hurt. She wasn’t shrewish; she just hated being forced to marry a man she was quite certain would never see her as more than a bank account.
“You used my body against me!” she accused, fully aware she was still in his lap, clinging to his coat like a startled kitten, but she couldn’t seem to let go of him.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ll wager that if you stopped fighting yourself, you might be happier with our situation.”
“Happy being married to you? Not until pigs have wings!” She finally had the good sense to scramble off his lap, and he let her. A tiny part of her, just a sliver, was disappointed he didn’t fight to keep her close.
I should be grateful, not disappointed. But there was no denying the presence of that traitorous emotion. She buried it deep inside her and focused on the light meal they would have at her home and the long travel ahead with her husband.
What am I going to do? Alone with him for the rest of my life…He will never want me, never see me as an equal in our marriage. He wasn’t like her papa and wouldn’t value her the way her father did her mother. She’d be alone, just as she’d vowed she’d always wanted, even if it felt like such an awful lie. Why did it now seem such an unbearable fate?
* * *
