The Dutiful Rake by Elizabeth Rolls Page B

had he bought such an unromantic present for any woman, but it had felt so right when he thought of it. At first he had just intended the caddy full of tea, but the box had that little drawer for the spoons…so he had dashed off to a silversmith…and then he had seen the caddy spoon…and all the time his heart aching to think that she had been treated as though she were one of the servants. Worse. At least they had been paid.
    He concentrated on his team, not daring to ask if she liked it, until an odd sound caught his attention: a sniff, an unmistakable sniff. He steadied his horses and looked down at her…there were tears on her cheeks and she was clutching the caddy to her as though it were the most precious thing in the world. A tea caddy for God’s sake! Apparently he had got it right, absolutely right. He shook his head slightly in amazement. Obviously he had yet a few things to learn about women.
    As for Meg, she was torn between fear at the unwitting assault his kindness made on her heart, and joy at having someone to treat her as though she mattered. It was just kindness she told herself, nothing else…he doesn’t care about you. Why should he? He scarcely knows you. But the mere fact that he was kind, despite his air of coldness, despite not caring for her, only tore at her all the more.
    So Meg went down the nave of the village church on the arm of Dr Ellerbeck to be given into the keeping of Marcus St John Evelyn Langley in a very strange mixture of trepidation and joy.
    Marcus, looking at the results of Madame Heloise’s labours, had no complaints. She looked lovely, radiant. He watched her proudly as she came to him down the aisle. His bride. He vowed silently that he would be a good husband, that he would make up to Meg for the barren years she had endured.
    Often cynical at weddings, no trace of cyncism tainted his response as the Vicar declared them man and wife. She was his. The fierce surge of possessiveness stunned him. Forcing back a wave of desire, he turned to her, smiling tenderly as he bent his head to feather agentle kiss over her soft lips. For a spine-tingling instant he felt them tremble under his, parting slightly.
    Again, desire seared through him and he drew back at once to offer her his arm and escort her to the vestry to sign the register. His body blazed with his awareness of her and this was definitely not the place to succumb to his inclinations. He was still haunted by the suspicion that he had frightened Meg in some way. Despite her denial, he was sure that he had upset her. And he was not entirely sure that he would be able to control his passions another time. She was so soft and sweet that he was actually looking forward to his wedding night and he did not want his bride to be in a frenzy of nerves beforehand just because he couldn’t control himself. He certainly didn’t want to give her a foretaste of the intimacies of the marriage bed in church.
    Meg signed the enormous old register with a trembling hand. Even that brief kiss in front of the small congregation had wholly overset her intention to maintain the sort of detachment his lordship desired. She had not been able to stop herself leaning into his kiss, had actually started to kiss him back…and he had immediately withdrawn. Taking a deep breath, she turned to her husband, holding out the quill.
    He took it with a slight smile and his fingers brushed hers gently as he said quietly, ‘The Countess of Rutherford need fear no one. Especially not her husband.’
    The velvety darkness of his voice held a world of reassurance and her eyes flew to his in consternation. Was that it? Did he still think she feared him? That she feared what he would do to her in the marriage bed? Agnes had told her last night, very gruffly, what his lordship would expect, would do. It sounded most un-comfortable, but Agnes seemed to think that he would not mind kissing her while he was doing it. In that case Meg was inclined to think she might