Chapter 5: The Wedding Night
The Christmas wedding was a spectacle of frost and forced smiles. St. Margaret’s Westminster was a cavern of staring eyes and murmured blessings. Evangeline walked down the aisle on the arm of a somber-faced cousin of the Duchess, a stranger playing the part of a father. She felt the weight of the antique lace gown, the tiara of pearls and diamonds pinning the veil to her elaborately coiled hair. Every step was measured, a performance for a society that believed she was a distant Lennox cousin from Canada, her parents tragically lost at sea, her fortune conveniently absorbed into the family trust.
She saw only Henry. He stood at the altar, impossibly handsome in his morning coat, his blond hair gleaming under the weak winter light filtering through the stained glass. His face was a mask of appropriate solemnity, but his eyes, when they met hers, were a blaze of blue fire. That look was a thread pulled taut between them, a secret in the sacred space.
The reception at Richmond House was a blur of champagne flutes, veiled insults disguised as congratulations, and the dry, papery kiss of the Archbishop on her cheek. Through it all, Henry’s hand was a constant, warm pressure at the small of her back, a brand through the layers of silk and boning. His thumb would stroke, just once, whenever a particularly fatuous lord commented on her “exotic” beauty or her “good fortune.”
“Soon,” he murmured into her ear as they pretended to admire the wedding cake, a monstrous confection of marzipan and silver leaf. The word was a promise that sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill drifting from the tall windows.
They escaped under a shower of rice and good-natured bawdy shouts from Henry’s club friends. The carriage that bore them away from London, towards the Richmond estate, was a haven of sudden, profound silence. He did not touch her then. He simply watched her across the space, his gaze soaking in every detail: the way she nervously pleated a fold of her cloak, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, the slight tremble of her lower lip she could not control.
“Mrs. Lennox,” he said, testing the words. They sounded different on his tongue now. Final. Official.
“Henry,” she replied, the name a question and an answer.
He smiled then, a slow, wicked thing that erased the last of the polite groom. “We have hours of journey. I could wait. I should wait.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “But I find I have no more patience in me.”
The estate was dark, staff dismissed for the night on the Duchess’s orders. Henry carried her over the threshold of the honeymoon suite not with chivalrous grace, but with a purposeful stride that spoke of imminent possession. He shouldered the door shut behind them. The room was beautiful, bathed in the soft glow of a well-laid fire and dozens of candles. She had a fleeting impression of pale gold damask, the heady scent of lavender and beeswax, the vast bed.
He didn’t take two steps inside. He spun her around, pressing her back against the solid oak of the closed door. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. His hands came up to frame her face, but it wasn’t a caress. It was a cage of heat and intention.
“I’ve waited months to ruin you properly,” he growled, his voice rough, stripping away the last vestige of ceremony. “To ruin my wife.”
His mouth crashed down on hers, a conquest, not a kiss. It was all teeth and claiming tongue, a desperate, starving thing. Her hands flew up, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on as the world tilted. He tasted of champagne and the unique, dark spice that was him alone.
While his lips devoured hers, his hands went to the intricate closures of her wedding gown. Buttons, hooks, layers of delicate French lace—he didn’t fumble. He tore. A rending sound filled the quiet room as the fragile fabric gave way under his impatient hands. Cool air kissed her exposed shoulders, her back. He yanked the gown down, not even bothering to remove it fully, just enough to bare her to the waist. The corset followed, its laces yielding with a series of sharp pops. Her breasts spilled free, the peaks hardening instantly in the cool air.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, breaking the kiss to look at her. His eyes were black with need. “Every fucking time. It’s like seeing you for the first time.”
He didn’t kneel. He didn’t worship. He dropped to one haunch only to hook his hands under her thighs, hauling her up with a grunt of effort. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her shredded skirts a tangle around them. The hard, straining bulge of his cock pressed against her through his trousers and her thin silk drawers, a blunt demand.
With his free hand, he wrestled his own clothes open. Buttons flew. Then he was yanking the delicate silk of her drawers aside, the fabric tearing like tissue. The broad, hot head of his cock nudged against her. She was already slick, wet for him, her body betraying her with a readiness that made her burn with shame and fierce arousal.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t gentle. He just slammed up into her, one brutal, deep stroke that pinned her to the door.
She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was swallowed by his mouth on hers again. The stretch was immense, shocking, a glorious, painful fullness that stole her breath. Her back scraped against the carved wood with each thrust. He fucked her like that, holding her aloft against the unyielding door, his hips driving into her with a relentless, piston-like rhythm.
“Mine,” he grunted against her throat, his breath scalding. “Say it.”
She could only gasp, her head knocking back against the oak. The sensation was overwhelming—the pinch of the wood on her bare skin, the brutal, deep penetration, the sheer animal strength of him holding her, using her.
“Say it!” he demanded, his pace becoming frantic, jagged.
“Yours!” she sobbed, the word ripped from her. “God, Henry, I’m yours!”
It was what he needed. A groan tore from his chest, raw and ragged. His rhythm fractured, his thrusts turning hard and shallow as he chased his release. She felt the tight, hot coil within her snap. Her climax was a violent, silent convulsion, her inner muscles clenching around him in frantic waves, milking him. It triggered his own. With a final, deep grind that pressed him to the root inside her, he came, pulsing hot, his release filling her as he shuddered against her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
For a long minute, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and their ragged, intermingled breaths. He was still inside her, still holding her against the door, both of them suspended in the aftermath. Slowly, he withdrew, lowering her until her bare feet found the polished floorboards. Her legs nearly buckled. He held her up, his hands gentle now on her bruised hips.
He looked at her then, really looked. Her hair was a ruin of pins and tumbling gold. Her lips were swollen, her breasts marked by the rough stubble on his jaw. The beautiful wedding gown hung in tattered ribbons from her shoulders.
A slow smile spread across his face, breathtaking in its tenderness and its triumph. He traced a finger along her cheekbone. “Well,” he said, his voice husky, “that’s one tradition thoroughly observed.”
He swept her into his arms, this time with careful grace, and carried her to the large, copper bathtub steaming by the fire. He washed her with a strange, reverent focus, soaping every inch of her skin, rinsing away the sweat and the scent of their joining. He washed her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp. He said nothing. The silence was soft, full.
Wrapped in a huge, soft towel, he carried her to the bed. He laid her down on the cool, monogrammed linen and simply looked at her, his gaze tracing her body in the candlelight as if memorizing it.
“I meant it, Vanja,” he said softly, using her real name. It was a secret between them, here in this room. “My fidelity. It’s yours.”
She reached for him, drawing him down beside her. “Prove it,” she whispered, a challenge and an invitation.
He did. For hours, he proved it. Not with the fierce, door-rattling possession of before, but with a slow, exploring tenderness that unspooled her completely. He kissed the inside of her wrists, the backs of her knees. He used his mouth on her until she was shaking, sobbing his name into the pillows. He entered her again, this time with a deep, rolling rhythm that felt less like fucking and more like a conversation, a melding. They moved together in the firelit dark, learning each other’s bodies in this new, legal intimacy. She rode him, her hair a curtain around their faces. He took her from behind, his arm wrapped around her waist, his hand cupping her breast, his lips on her shoulder.
Exhaustion finally claimed them as the first grey light of dawn tinged the balcony windows. She lay curled into his side, her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His arm was heavy around her, possessive even in sleep.
Just as she drifted off, he spoke, his voice thick with sleep. “The first gift,” he mumbled into her hair.
“Hmm?”
“The first of many. My name. My protection.” He tightened his hold. “The key.”
She smiled against his skin. The cage, for the first time, felt less like a prison and more like a territory they had claimed together. She slept, and did not dream of the past.
---
She woke to weak winter sunlight and the smell of coffee. Henry was already up, standing by the balcony doors in a dark robe, looking out over the frost-whitened park. He turned, a cup in his hand, and offered it to her.
“Good morning, wife.”
She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. “Good morning, husband.”
He watched her sip the coffee, his eyes thoughtful. “There’s a house in Mayfair,” he said after a moment. “Mother’s wedding present to us. We’ll take it. Establish our own household.”
She lowered the cup. “Away from here?”
“Away from her,” he confirmed. “You’ll be mistress of your own domain. No more playing a part under her roof.” He came and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her free hand. “You can make it a… a sanctuary. Fill it with your books. Your thoughts. Your peculiar future gadgets, if you can sketch them for an engineer.”
The offer was staggering. It was freedom, of a kind. It was a life.
“And you?” she asked.
He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. “I will be the devoted husband. I will go to my club, attend the House of Lords when duty calls, and come home to you.” His gaze sharpened, a flicker of the old intensity. “Only to you.”
She saw the truth in his face. This was his vow, his new reputation. The reformed rake. The uxorious husband. It was a role he would play for the world, but the fire, the wildness, the raw need—that was hers alone. A secret to be explored behind the locked doors of their own Mayfair house.
She set the coffee aside and crawled across the bed to him, kneeling before him on the mattress. She took his face in her hands. “Then we’d better practice,” she said, her voice low. “Your devotion.”
He laughed, a real, free sound that warmed the sunlit room, and let her pull him back down into the tangle of sheets.
He laughed, a real, free sound that warmed the sunlit room, and let her pull him back down into the tangle of sheets. His robe fell open. She kissed the line of his throat, the rough stubble along his jaw, her hands sliding inside the silk to find the hard planes of his chest. He was already hard against her thigh. “Devotion requires application,” she murmured against his skin, her voice still sleep-rough.
“And what is your lesson plan, Professor?” he asked, his fingers threading into her hair.
“Practical demonstration,” she said, shifting to straddle him. The morning light gilded his skin, casting the scars and contours of his body in sharp relief. She leaned down, taking his nipple between her teeth, biting just enough to make him gasp. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there. “First, we establish the subject’s focus.”
“Consider it established,” Henry groaned, his head pressing back into the pillow.
She moved lower, her mouth trailing down the tense line of his abdomen. She tasted salt and sleep and him. When she took him into her mouth, he swore, a filthy, beautiful word that ended on a shuddering exhale. She used her tongue, tracing the vein underneath, sucking hard around the swollen head before taking him deeper, her hand working the base. His hips lifted off the bed, a helpless thrust into the wet heat of her mouth. “Christ, Evangeline,” he choked out, his fingers tightening in her hair, not guiding, just feeling.
She released him with a soft pop, looking up the length of his body. His eyes were slammed shut, his lips parted. “Pay attention,” she said, and lowered her mouth again.
This time, she didn’t let him think. She set a ruthless rhythm, her head bobbing, her hand twisting, using every piece of knowledge she had of what drove him wild. He was muttering a stream of obscenities, praises, raw pleas. His body was a bowstring pulled taut. Just before he broke, she stopped, crawling back up to kiss his mouth, letting him taste himself on her lips.
“Cruel,” he breathed against her, flipping her onto her back with a strength that left her dizzy. “My turn.”
He didn’t enter her. He pushed her thighs apart and buried his face between them. His tongue was a lash, a probe, an unrelenting stroke over her clit. He held her down as she arched off the bed, his arms hooking under her knees, spreading her wide. He fucked her with his tongue, deep, then concentrated on that one sensitive nub, circling it with a relentless precision that had her seeing white behind her eyelids. She fisted the sheets, a cry tearing from her throat.
“Come on my mouth,” he ordered, his voice muffled against her. “Do it.”
The command, the raw mastery in it, tipped her over. Her climax shattered through her, violent and wave after wave of pulsing heat. She bucked against his face, her back bowing. He didn’t let up, drinking from her, drawing out every last spasm until she was limp, gasping.
Before she could recover, he was on her. He guided his cock to her entrance, still slick from his mouth and her release. He pushed inside in one slow, devastating inch. The fullness was overwhelming. He watched her face as he seated himself to the hilt, his own features strained with the effort of control.
“Now,” he said, his voice gravel, “my devotion.”
He began to move. Not with the frantic pace of the night before, but with a deep, rolling rhythm that filled her completely with every stroke. Each thrust was a claim, a promise. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The angle was perfect. He hit a place inside her that made her gasp with each inward drive. The sound of their joining was obscenely loud in the quiet room—skin slapping skin, the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths.
She clutched at him, her hands sliding over the sweat-slick muscles of his back. The intensity built again, a coil tightening low in her belly, tighter than before. He shifted, lifting her hips, driving even deeper. “Look at me,” he demanded, his eyes locking with hers. “See who you belong to.”
The possession in his gaze, the raw need, undid her. A second orgasm gathered, a tsunami this time, pulling everything inward before breaking. As it ripped through her, a scream lodged in her throat. Her fingers curved, finding purchase on his skin.
She claws his back.
Her nails dug in, raking down the musculature from his shoulders to the base of his spine. It was an anchor in the storm, a purely physical claim to match his. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath that turned into a guttural roar. The pain triggered his own release. He slammed into her one last, final time, shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her with a force that seemed to come from his very bones.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. The scent of sex and sweat filled the air. She could feel the raised, heated lines her nails had left on his back under her trembling fingertips. He turned his head, his lips near her ear. “Marked,” he panted. “Good.”
They lay like that for a long time, until their hearts slowed from a gallop to a walk. He finally rolled onto his side, taking her with him, tucked against his body. The angry scratches on his back stretched and glistened in the sunlight.
“The Mayfair house,” she said later, her head on his chest, tracing idle patterns around his nipple.
“Mmm?”
“When do we see it?”
He stretched, wincing slightly at the pull on the scratches. “Today. If you like.”
“I would.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “I want to see the library. And the light. I need good light.”
He smiled, a lazy, satisfied expression. “For your diagrams.”
“For my diagrams,” she confirmed. The future, their future, stretched out before her, not as a predetermined path, but as a blank page in a house of their own. It was a different kind of hunger, one of the mind and spirit, but he had awakened that, too.
He rose from the bed, padding naked to the washstand. She watched the play of muscles in his back, the four parallel red lines standing out vividly against his skin. Her mark. He poured water into the basin, splashing his face. Over his shoulder, he caught her looking. “Admiring your handiwork?”
“It’ll scab,” she said.
“I’ll wear them proudly.” He turned, leaning against the stand, unabashed. “A reminder to any valet or clubmate who might see. My wife is not… decorous.”
She got out of bed, feeling his eyes on her as she crossed the room to where her own robe lay discarded. She slipped it on, not bothering to tie it. She walked to him, took the damp cloth from his hand, and gently dabbed at the scratches. “And if I want to be? Decorous?”
He caught her wrist, his thumb stroking her pulse point. “Then you’ll be the most beautiful, boring Duchess in London.” He kissed her palm. “And I will come home every night and utterly ruin you.”
The door to the suite opened without a knock.
The Duchess of Richmond stood framed in the doorway, her face a frozen mask of porcelain and displeasure. Her sharp eyes took in the scene: the destroyed bed, her son naked and marked, Evangeline in her state of undress, the air thick with the evidence of their morning. A maid, wide-eyed, peeked from behind her and quickly looked away.
Henry moved, not with haste, but with a deliberate calm, placing himself slightly between Evangeline and the door. He didn’t reach for a covering. “Mother. A bit early for calls.”
“The Bishop and his wife are downstairs for breakfast,” she said, her voice like chilled steel. “They wished to extend their blessings to the newlyweds.” Her gaze swept over Evangeline, a look that could etch glass. “You will both be dressed and presentable in the breakfast room in twenty minutes.”
She turned and left, the door clicking shut with a sound of finality.
The shared space filled with a new, cold tension. Evangeline felt the ghost of the door against her back from the night before, a phantom pressure. Henry let out a long, slow breath. “And so it begins,” he said, quietly.
He turned to her. The vulnerability from moments before was gone, sealed away behind a familiar, rakish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Twenty minutes, Duchess. Best get your armor on.”