He turned away and began to undress. Valets were not meant for wedding nights at filthy castles. His man was abed in the servants’ quarters, and thank God, for he would have fainted dead away at the stampede of drunk wedding guests. Oh, to be back among civilized people. The revelries below seemed to grow louder by the moment. “Welshmen like their drink, don’t they?” he said.
She pulled the covers up to her neck. “I suppose. What will you do if they come back?”
“Two of my burliest grooms are outside the door.” They were not precisely grooms, being more concerned with ensuring his personal safety. Now that he was married, these “grooms” would look after his duchess too. He’d tell her about them in time, but not tonight. He laid his coat over a chair, and then his waistcoat. He took a poke at the fire, only for restlessness, but the servants had built it properly to burn all night.
There was plenty of light to see his bride. He crossed to her, ignoring the way she shrank back beneath the covers. “Take out my cravat pin, would you?” he said, sitting right beside her. “And help me undo my neckcloth.”
For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but then she pursed her lips and reached to unfasten the gold and diamond pin. She was such a pretty, fluttery thing, his Welsh fairy. He recalled their moments in the meadow, the way she’d leaned against his chest as he kissed and stroked her, and traced her nipples to enjoy her soft, breathless moans. He eyed the gathered neckline of her ivory shift. “That’s a pretty garment. Was it made especially for the wedding?”
She nodded and handed him his cravat pin.
“Fix it through the shirt’s collar, so I don’t lose it,” he suggested. “Try not to stab me in the neck.”
His jest went unacknowledged. Not a peep of laughter. In fact, she gave a little shiver as she loosened his neckcloth and drew it from his collar.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
She shook her head in answer, her lips clamped tight.
“Do not wag your head about like a horse,” he said in exasperation. “Answer me with language.”
“No, I am not cold, Your Grace.”
His fingers stilled on his buttons. She had said the honorific, Your Grace, with considerable venom. “You’re afraid then?” He stood and walked away from her. “I wouldn’t have expected it, from a woman of your type.”
“A woman of my type?”
He took off his shirt, shoes, and stockings, and added them to the pile. “A woman of your type. A woman who sneaks about and trysts with strange men. Are you even a virgin?”
He knew she was, but he asked it because his pride was damaged, because she didn’t seem impressed by him at all. She scooted off the bed and stood beside it, a trembling figure of outrage.
“How dare you voice such an insinuation?” she said.
“How dare I? I suppose it’s because you trysted with me.”
“I’m perfectly pure.” She backed toward the wall. “You were the one who intruded upon me in that meadow, and asked to sketch me for your own nefarious purposes.”
“Nefarious,” he said. “What an excellent word, although I must take offense.”
“You’re the one who pulled me into your lap, remember?”
“And you’re the one who remained there all too willingly.”
She made a huff of a sound. “You think you are above judgment, that you’re so perfect as you stand about and look down your nose at me.”
“Have I looked down my nose? I’m taller than you. I can’t help it.”
“Even worse, you have frowned and endured my father’s honest hospitality as if it was some onerous burden. Do you understand all he’s sacrificed? He worked for weeks to plan this celebration, and to represent our family with pride.”
A crash and bellow drifted up from belowstairs. Aidan barely restrained a snort.
“Must you sneer, Your Grace,” she said again in that derisive tone, “and behave as if you are so much better than us?”
“Those are your words, not mine, my angry little bride.”
She looked angry, yes, but fearful too. He suspected this tirade was a ploy to distract him from the bedding. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to work. Aidan took off his breeches and returned to the bed. “Come here, Guinevere.”
She stood where she was, regarding his stiffening cock with an expression of horror. Any lingering suspicion about her innocence fled in the face of that gaze.
“I don’t want to come there,” she said. “I don’t like you. I don’t want to be married to some toplofty English duke.”
“How brutally honest you are. Remind me not to take you out among civilized people until you’ve had that directness beaten out of you.”
She blinked at him, once. Twice. “You wouldn’t beat me. You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ve spanked you once already, if you’ll remember. I can do it again, and much less playfully. You’ll find I’m a kind and patient husband, but only when I’m shown respect.”
“Is it respectful to deride the hospitality of your host? Is it respectful to accuse me of being a whore?”
He didn’t blink at the word, but the fact that she used it told him how distraught she was. “If you don’t wish to be thought common, don’t behave in a common fashion,” he said quietly. “Cease your dramatics, Guinevere, and come to bed.”
* * * * *
Gwen was afraid she might faint, and she didn’t want to faint. She didn’t want to give this insufferable duke the opportunity to lord his lordship over her as she lay sprawled on the cold, stone floor. Especially when his lordship was so very...lordly in the masculinity department.
He’d looked so different in his plain country clothes. Handsome, friendly, non-threatening. He’d smiled so charmingly in the meadow, made her believe he was falling in love with her. How stupid she felt now.
There wasn’t an ounce of love in this man. There was nothing but coldness and sneering, and insulting comments, and lofty orders as if she was his slave. How was she to go to that bed and lie beneath him, and let him have her? His muscular physique frightened her, and that daunting shaft between his legs... She was no prude, or idiot. She had lots of brothers and she knew how things worked.
And he was far too big for anything to work.
He had ordered her to come to him—twice—and while she didn’t want to obey, she was afraid of what he would do if she dug in her heels and stayed where she was. Instead, she walked a little closer to the window. Coward. No, not a coward. Just someone who needed some time and space.
“I don’t know you,” she said, shying back against the glass. “I’m not comfortable going to bed with you.”
He studied her a moment. “It’s what generally happens on a wedding night.”
“Even so, I don’t want to do it.”
He moved toward her. She tensed, fearful of his size and virility. Would he shout at her? Slap her? Drag her? She backed away as he met her at the window, and flinched when he raised his hand, but he didn’t hit her. He merely tipped up her chin and peered into her eyes. His gaze wasn’t angry, only very intent.
“Let’s have a discussion, shall we?” he said in his polite and cultured voice. “We’re married now. You’re the Duchess of Arlington. My wife. Do you dispute this?”
“No, but—”
“No, but is not an acceptable response in this conversation. You may answer No, Sir or even No, Your Grace, provided you don’t say it in that invective tone.”
He wasn’t shouting, but she felt as if she’d been shouted at. She moved her face to see if he’d tighten his grip. He did.