Page 55 of The Unwilling Bride
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DAY OF LADY CONSTANCE’S wedding to the lord of Tregellas dawned misty and cool for May, but that did nothing to dampen Beatrice’s enthusiasm or stem the bride’s barely contained excitement. If someone had told Constance a month ago she would welcome this day so eagerly, and be looking forward to the night to come, she would have said they were mad. Or drunk.
Yet as she dressed in a new gown of brilliant royal blue edged with gold, and with a wedding gift from Merrick of a lovely circlet of gold on her head, she felt like a queen. Better than a queen. Happier than any queen had ever been.
During the ceremony in front of their families and assembled guests, Merrick stood beside her looking seductively, incredibly handsome, even though his black wool tunic lacked any embroidery or other embellishment. The unrelieved simplicity suited him, and indeed, seemed to accent his powerful body more than any finery could. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of him as it always did, and when he had sealed their vows with a kiss, she thought it seemed an age until they could be alone.
Merrick was as reserved as ever, perhaps even more so. She had come to accept that he would always be so when they were in public, and she tried to act dignified and calm, too. No doubt, to many she appeared equally cool and aloof, even though when he touched her, he set her very flesh ablaze.
During the wedding feast of roasted suckling pig, venison, boar and a host of fowl, she remembered all the reasons she had accepted him. The yearning vulnerability in his eyes when he asked her to be his. That he’d called her his weakness. His generosity to Beatrice. His vow to protect the people of Tregellas. Her certainty that women need never fear him.
And she drank only a little wine.
Merrick, meanwhile, conversed with his guests, discussing hunting and the responsibilities of running an estate. She noted he never, if possible, spoke of the king and queen. And when their eyes met, she knew he was as anxious as she to leave the wedding feast.
Before that time came, however, they had to endure the celebrations and toasts in their honor. Henry’s slightly drunken voice rose louder and louder, and he made the most outrageous jokes, much to Beatrice’s amusement. Ranulf’s smile grew rather strained, until he finally whisked Beatrice away to dance. Constance and Merrick joined them, and while Merrick was a fine dancer, his mind was clearly not on the dance. Or the music.
Neither was hers.
The uncles, nearly as far in their cups as Henry, gotinto a heated discussion about the breeding of horses, and only the intervention of Alan de Vern prevented them from coming to blows. As the steward separated them, he winked at Constance, then steered them to different sides of the hall. Sir Jowan flirted outrageously with Demelza, who flirted outrageously back, while Kiernan sat sullenly in the corner, pouting over his wine.
Then, at last, it was time for the bride to retire. Although she’d been anticipating this moment for hours, Constance flushed scarlet as she hurried toward the stairs to Merrick’s bedchamber—now hers, as well—trailed by Beatrice, who could scarcely breathe for giggling, and accompanied by what was surely far too many maidservants.
Beatrice giggled and chattered merrily as the servants prepared Constance for her bridal night. Although most of her comments were innocently intended, the maidservants exchanged looks that gave everything she said a hidden, lustful meaning.
Constance didn’t know whether to laugh or send them from the room.
“Oh, I hear the men!” Beatrice suddenly cried, jumping up and oversetting the stool upon which she’d been sitting. “They’re coming, they’re coming! Quick, Constance, to bed!”
She eagerly shoved her silk-clad cousin toward Merrick’s bed, newly made with fresh white linen and strewn with herbs intended to be both sweet smelling and conducive to conception.
Horrified that the men might see her in her shift, Constance practically dived for the bed and scrambled under the covers in a most undignified manner. That made Beatrice giggle more, until Constance feared the girl would collapse.
Then Beatrice was forgotten as Merrick appeared in the door, with Henry, Ranulf and several other gentlemen behind him.
A laughing Henry shoved the bridegroom through the door. “Here he is, my lady, and none the worse for drink, I assure you.”
Merrick might have been perfectly sober—and Constance believed he was, for he’d barely touched his food and drink at the wedding feast—but Henry and the others were not.
Henry’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’ve been giving him lots of excellent advice,” he assured Constance, swaying a little. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
Blushing, Constance glanced at her husband to see how he was taking this good-natured teasing.
He barely seemed to hear. Instead, he strode over to the carafe on a side table and poured himself a drink.
“Wheest, man, now’s not the time to get into the wine,” Henry said in a loud whisper. “You don’t want to be limp.”
Ranulf took hold of Henry’s arm. “That’s enough out of you,” he chided, his words slurring slightly. His reddish brown hair was disheveled to an astonishing degree, making it look more ruddy and him more foxlikethan ever. “Merrick knows what he’s about. He first dipped his wick months before you and—”
As he realized what he’d just said, and when, and where, Ranulf’s face turned red and his eyes went wide as cartwheels. The uncles, who’d entered after the others, looked equally shocked at his crude revelation. Sir Jowan, however, blinked stupidly, as if he didn’t understand at all.
It would have been comical, except that…it wasn’t. Constance didn’t need any reminders that Merrick had been with other women. Of course, she would have been more shocked if her husband had been a virgin, but she didn’t want to hear about his past escapades on her wedding night—or at any other time.
Merrick’s deep, gruff voice suddenly filled the chamber. “I believe my bride and I should be alone.”
Beatrice giggled, then hiccuped loudly. Her father, frowning, took hold of her arm. “Come along, Beatrice,” he said, pulling her out the door.
Lord Algernon and Sir Jowan followed, both trying to exit at the same time. Lord Algernon muttered a protest, and Sir Jowan his apologies, bowing and gesturing for Lord Algernon to go first. Lord Algernon suggested Sir Jowan lead the way.
