with sprays of orange blossoms. The groom, equally resplendent in an elegant, striped morning suit, stood tall and handsome beside his bride in the village church.
They made a handsome couple.
Everyone agreed. They were perfectly matched. Blake thought so, too, until he kissed his bride.
Their first exchange as husband and wife had been revealing. Too revealing.
It was a greedy kiss, grasping and desperate, but devoid of love or tenderness. It was passionless. It was disgusting. It was faked. Meredith pretended overwhelming passion but she shuddered with disgust and a barely concealed tolerance of his touch.
It was as if a veil had been lifted from Blake's eyes. He had been so blinded by her beauty that he hadn't been able to see what was clearly visible. She didn't want him.
Nigel had seen it as had Beth, Nigel's wife, and his own parents. They had all tried to caution him not to be too hasty, but he hadn't listened to them.
Marry in haste, repent in leisure. The idle phrase ran through Blake's mind as he stared down at the emerald creation that had triggered the Pandora's box of his memories. He had repented and repented and repented. He had repented for six bloody years--until mercifully, the farce had ended.
Blake jabbed his fingers through his hair. Had there ever been a bigger farce than his wedding? He remembered brooding all through the reception following the wedding. He had stood in the midst of the celebration and gaiety accepting congratulations, and wondering how he would cope with the ugly realization that his wife--his bride--didn't return his affections, until Meredith interrupted him.
"Darling, I'm going upstairs to change."
"I'll go with you," Blake suggested.
"No." Her objection was hasty. Too hasty. She tried again, softer this time. "No, stay and enjoy the reception a while longer. I need a few minutes alone. To get ready." The words rolled off her tongue convincingly, but Blake was aware only of the fact that his wife was stalling--delaying her wedding night.
He told himself it was natural for a bride to be nervous, to dread the unknown, but a seed of doubt had been planted. He wondered about his wedding night. And, as he wondered, he ceased to look forward to it. He dreaded what he would find. A stone-cold wife. A wife who hated his touch. He prayed he'd be wrong, prayed he'd misread the situation. He hoped he was mistaken, hoped he'd find passion and love.
Blake had waited an hour, then half an hour more before he made his way up the stairs. He paused outside his bedroom then tapped on the door. He knew what he would find as soon as he heard the voices, the urgent, unmistakable murmurs of lovers. Still he had waited, delaying the inevitable, listening through his bedroom door like a thief or a spy--or a betrayed husband.
The jewelry box slipped out of his grasp and dropped to the tabletop and Blake squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for a brief moment that he could finally blot out the ugly image burned in his memory. When he opened his eyes again, he fixed his sight on the mantel, then walked over and poured himself another brandy, waiting for the pain to begin--waiting for the vivid, wrenching knife of betrayal to turn in his gut at the remembered sight. A snort of self-contempt for the boy he'd been escaped him. He had wanted so desperately to find Meredith consumed by passion. And he had.
She was so consumed by passion she'd risked discovery on her wedding night.
The memory of that night and the voices assailed him.
"Goddammit, Meri, this was a stupid idea! He could walk in at any minute."
The man snarled at her between grunts and groans. "Did you even bother to lock the door?"
"Of course not." She laughed. "The thrill of discovery has always lent a certain edge to the fun."
"You're crazy," he muttered.
"I always have been. About you. For as long as I can remember." She gasped in pleasure and a series of whimpers escaped her.
"If he walks ... in ... everything ... is ...
They made a handsome couple.
Everyone agreed. They were perfectly matched. Blake thought so, too, until he kissed his bride.
Their first exchange as husband and wife had been revealing. Too revealing.
It was a greedy kiss, grasping and desperate, but devoid of love or tenderness. It was passionless. It was disgusting. It was faked. Meredith pretended overwhelming passion but she shuddered with disgust and a barely concealed tolerance of his touch.
It was as if a veil had been lifted from Blake's eyes. He had been so blinded by her beauty that he hadn't been able to see what was clearly visible. She didn't want him.
Nigel had seen it as had Beth, Nigel's wife, and his own parents. They had all tried to caution him not to be too hasty, but he hadn't listened to them.
Marry in haste, repent in leisure. The idle phrase ran through Blake's mind as he stared down at the emerald creation that had triggered the Pandora's box of his memories. He had repented and repented and repented. He had repented for six bloody years--until mercifully, the farce had ended.
Blake jabbed his fingers through his hair. Had there ever been a bigger farce than his wedding? He remembered brooding all through the reception following the wedding. He had stood in the midst of the celebration and gaiety accepting congratulations, and wondering how he would cope with the ugly realization that his wife--his bride--didn't return his affections, until Meredith interrupted him.
"Darling, I'm going upstairs to change."
"I'll go with you," Blake suggested.
"No." Her objection was hasty. Too hasty. She tried again, softer this time. "No, stay and enjoy the reception a while longer. I need a few minutes alone. To get ready." The words rolled off her tongue convincingly, but Blake was aware only of the fact that his wife was stalling--delaying her wedding night.
He told himself it was natural for a bride to be nervous, to dread the unknown, but a seed of doubt had been planted. He wondered about his wedding night. And, as he wondered, he ceased to look forward to it. He dreaded what he would find. A stone-cold wife. A wife who hated his touch. He prayed he'd be wrong, prayed he'd misread the situation. He hoped he was mistaken, hoped he'd find passion and love.
Blake had waited an hour, then half an hour more before he made his way up the stairs. He paused outside his bedroom then tapped on the door. He knew what he would find as soon as he heard the voices, the urgent, unmistakable murmurs of lovers. Still he had waited, delaying the inevitable, listening through his bedroom door like a thief or a spy--or a betrayed husband.
The jewelry box slipped out of his grasp and dropped to the tabletop and Blake squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for a brief moment that he could finally blot out the ugly image burned in his memory. When he opened his eyes again, he fixed his sight on the mantel, then walked over and poured himself another brandy, waiting for the pain to begin--waiting for the vivid, wrenching knife of betrayal to turn in his gut at the remembered sight. A snort of self-contempt for the boy he'd been escaped him. He had wanted so desperately to find Meredith consumed by passion. And he had.
She was so consumed by passion she'd risked discovery on her wedding night.
The memory of that night and the voices assailed him.
"Goddammit, Meri, this was a stupid idea! He could walk in at any minute."
The man snarled at her between grunts and groans. "Did you even bother to lock the door?"
"Of course not." She laughed. "The thrill of discovery has always lent a certain edge to the fun."
"You're crazy," he muttered.
"I always have been. About you. For as long as I can remember." She gasped in pleasure and a series of whimpers escaped her.
"If he walks ... in ... everything ... is ...
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