Page 56 of The Unwilling Bride
This went on for another few moments, until Ranulf pushed his way between them.
That left Henry.
“Well, Merrick,” he said, regarding his friend with a slightly stupid grin, “you’ve done it and well, too. Inever thought you’d be the first of us to be married. I always thought it’d be Ranulf, for all his protests and claims that he could love no woman well enough to wed.” He beamed at Constance, then spoke to Merrick as if he forgot she was capable of hearing. “Now, before I forget, remember what I told you about—”
Merrick pointed imperiously at the door. “Out!”
Henry blinked. “God’s blood, man, there’s no need to shout.” He backed toward the door. “Just wanted to remind you that since this is her first time, you should—”
Merrick started walking toward him. With a comically exaggerated look of fear, Henry turned and fled, his laughter echoing down the stairs.
“May he trip and break his neck,” Merrick muttered as he closed the door.
Constance was sure he didn’t really mean that, but she wasn’t about to chastise him. Indeed, she wasn’t sure what to say or do now that they were alone, and married.
Merrick marched to the side table, where he downed the wine he’d poured. Then he added some more into his goblet.
Was he going to get drunk now?
He raised the goblet, then hesitated and glanced at her. “Would you like some wine?”
She shook her head.
Still holding his drink, he sat on the stool in front of her dressing table and put the goblet on the table without drinking from it.
Aware of her rapidly beating heart, mindful of every kiss and caress they’d already shared, Constance wondered why he wasn’t getting undressed. He’d seemed very keen to make love with her before their union was blessed by the priest.
Perhaps his friends’ remarks bothered him. “Weddings seem to inspire a certain ribald revelry,” she noted. “I hope you didn’t take offense.”
“Henry has a loose tongue.”
It was probably better not to discuss Henry. “Does Ranulf really claim he’ll never love a woman well enough to wed?”
“So he says.”
“Why not?”
Merrick shrugged. And still he sat on the stool.
Chewing her lip, Constance wondered what was wrong, and what, if anything, she ought to do.
As the silence continued and Merrick kept staring at his wine, she grew impatient, and then a little annoyed. If he didn’t want to marry her, he could have broken the betrothal. She’d certainly given him cause, at least in the beginning. And hadn’t he been anxious, almost desperate, for her to accept him? So what was his reason for this hesitation now? Or was this an attempt to increase her anticipation for what was to come?
Perhaps it was a way to prove who was truly in command in the bedchamber.
If so, had he not learned she was no mild maiden to sit quietly by and wait to be told what to do?
She rose and went to the side table where the carafe and another goblet glimmered in the flickering candlelight, moving slowly, very aware that the glowing night candle beside the bed would make her gown virtually transparent. The coldness of the stone floor made her nipples pucker, as they did when he caressed them.
Merrick glanced at her. She saw his surprise and then desire, enflamed in a moment.
Even though her hands trembled a little, she picked up the carafe. “Perhaps I will have some wine.”
Merrick slowly got to his feet. “Constance…?”
“Yes?” she inquired, raising the goblet to her lips and sipping the rich, red drink.
“I’ve heard the king is on his way back to England, and the earl of Cornwall with him.”
