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  She practically beamed her defiance and waited for him to start flinging pillows. She even offered him one.

  Ashford took her offering and obligingly flung it across the room. Then he hauled her into his arms and kissed her until her head spun.

  21

  Three days after his proposal, Ashford stood in an unfamiliar space, fighting his panic, while listening to pandemonium echoing through a very large stone chamber. He was still struggling with his decision to marry a woman he’d never seen, one who wanted him to trust and respect her. He thought he did, far more than he had Margaret, at least. His Miss Chris was a remarkable person. He certainly relied on her. But he relied on his brothers and had no desire to marry them.

  Desire—ah, there was his motivation. She could be blue with spots, and he wouldn’t know. So he was marrying her for her ripe curves and her . . . reliable . . . nature. And maybe because he knew she wasn’t marrying him for his wealth and title. That seemed as solid a basis for marriage as any.

  “No doves,” he said firmly, hoping his hearing was providing the correct details in this echoing chamber.

  “We have a cage full,” one of the younger females said in disappointment. “Perhaps we can release them when you walk out.”

  “And have bird cack on their heads,” Jacques agreed cheerfully, to Ash’s relief. “Here, I’ll take charge of the cage. All will be drama, if that’s your goal.”

  “That is quite rude and not our goal,” Viscountess McDowell admonished. “This is a spiritual drawing together of two souls into one whole. The doves are for peace.”

  Ashford winced at hearing this idiocy—peace? Did she really believe marriage made peace? Not in his family.

  Rather than remain frozen at the front of a church he couldn’t see, he limped his way toward what he prayed was a distant corner. He couldn’t hope to find Christie unless he could smell her perfume, and there were so many women fluttering around in here, even smell might confuse him.

  He hated churches, he decided. They were dark and gloomy, and he couldn’t even see shadows.

  “I’m sorry, we should have done this in the park,” Christie said from somewhere to his right. “I had no idea the ladies were so . . . fond of nature.”

  “Are you wearing your crown of thorns yet?” he asked dryly, breathing a sigh of relief at having one sensible head in the room.

  How the devil had he been brought to this—marrying a crazed Malcolm?

  Because this one wasn’t crazed, he was convinced. Christie wouldn’t throw pigeons into a church. And even if she thought she heard voices in her head, she didn’t regale him with the tales. He’d found a perfectly sensible, intelligent wife who lusted for him as he did her—a most excellent bargain, better than he’d made when he’d had eyes. He allowed his panic to settle. She had a habit of calming his worst side.

  “I am wearing a rowan circlet. They have made my hair look almost fashionable, with ribbons and curls and one can hardly see the twigs. I’m also wearing a lovely white cape which unfortunately covers the bodice of the new, silver-blue gown I wore just for you.” She took his hand and lifted it to her nearly-bare bosom beneath the cape.

  “That is a riveting décolletage,” he said in approval, with a surge of relief and gratification that he had chosen his bride so well. He ran his hand over the . . . outstanding . . . bosom holding up the bodice, and down the firm curve of her waistline. She’d allowed him these liberties in the few days while they awaited a time he and the vicar and the church were all available. Being able to caress her lush form and dream of his wedding night might be the only thing saving his sanity. “Have you arranged to send everyone out of the house for the evening?”

  “I have, as you requested. Even the twins are on an expedition with one of your cousins. I appreciate everything you have done for me, and will do my very honest best to do whatever you need.” She leaned into him and related with glee, “Townsend almost swallowed his tongue when Lord Erran allowed me to approve the settlements giving me full management of my inheritance. There was much storming and frothing. It was very gratifying, and my land remains my land. I am an independently wealthy woman.”

  Ash wished he could have observed that scene, but her satisfaction was nearly as pleasing. He supposed he ought to be worried that, now she had her own funds, she could walk off and leave him anytime, but he thought his bride was made of sturdier stuff than that. “I’m glad I can amuse you so easily. Erran says the baron was so rattled by your presence and responses that he seemed glad to escape with his reputation intact.”

  Ash found it hard to believe that any man could have ignored her for all these years. The woman he was holding was built to dominate a room and had the mind to do so. He supposed some men would find that daunting, but he enjoyed the challenge. “Did Townsend never notice you before?”

  “Not if he . . . or I . . . could help it. Really, it was as much my fault as his. He disliked the sight of me, so I hid. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Absolutely not. Perhaps your milieu is with a more mature crowd than the silly debutantes in a ballroom. I hope you have a large audience here today to observe my pride in my chosen marchioness.” He could hear the low murmur of voices and echoing steps as people entered the church, but the space was too huge for the sound to have meaning.

  “I believe all of your family and Lady Aster’s family are here, plus a number of very proper gentlemen and their ladies who must be known to you. We sent no announcements, but word spread quickly. It was generous of Lady McDowell to hold the wedding breakfast for so many people in her home.”

  “Did Sommersville send anyone?” he asked gruffly. He’d hate to disregard a duke.

  “I think his son is here,” she whispered. “Or so Lady McDowell tells me. A tall, distinguished gentleman about your age?”

  “Most likely. I ought to speak with him.” He clutched his stick in frustration that he could not just stride up and greet guests.

  “If I am part of his family, I suppose I should speak with him as well, although I fear there isn’t time now. They’re coming for us.”

  “Miss Townsend,” a female voice hissed from nearby. “It’s almost time. You must stand with Viscount McDowell.”

  “You will note, Townsend did not show up to give me away. I am grateful to the viscount for taking his place,” his bride-to-be said. “Lord Theo is heading your way. Are you sure you do not want to cry off?”

  “I am salivating and wondering how quickly we can leave the breakfast,” Ash whispered in her ear, feeling her shiver deliciously as he kissed her cheek.

  His frustration continued to roil knowing that he could not spirit her away from the festivities anytime he liked. He would have to wait for others to take them from the McDowell’s house to his own. He’d waited over thirty years to marry, and he couldn’t do it his way. Humbleness did not suit him.

  “Patience, my lord,” she whispered back. “I hope you will always look on this day with the same fondness as I will. You look magnificent.”

  Then she was gone in a whisper of lilies and rustle of silk.

  “Tell me she’s as lovely as she sounds,” Ash demanded when Theo arrived.

  “You are in serious peril, old man,” Theo replied with relish, leading him toward the nave. “You may have met your match. Your bride even stood firm against Lady McDowell over the breakfast details. Her looks are half her success—not only as powerful as a Viking goddess but more. She’s stunning, yes, but not in any battle-hardened way. She’s all softness over steel, expecting people to do as she says without argument, like any good, formidable marchioness.”

  “My very own tyrant,” Ash said, not entirely certain that’s what he wanted but enjoying the idea. If even level-headed Theo was impressed, Christie was already making a difference.

  “She filled all your inkpots with water,” Theo whispered, releasing Ash’s arm.

  Ash had a hard time containing his laughter.

  Christie took a deep breath an
d released Viscount McDowell’s arm. He was a large, gray-blond, older gentleman who tolerated his Malcolm wife’s eccentricities without flinching. She’d been told he was working hard on labor laws and supported the various interests of his daughters, so she felt safe on his arm. But she only had eyes for her groom.

  His valet had outdone himself today. Ashford’s tailored black coat clung lovingly to his broad shoulders and his trousers to his muscled thighs. His silver-blue waistcoat almost matched the color of her gown and was shot through with silver threads to match his buttons. His white linen set off his naturally dark coloring to perfection, and a sapphire as large as the one in her ring sparkled against his neckcloth. Of course, it was nearly concealed by the short black cape Lady McDowell had insisted he wear.

  The rowan crown on his dark curls looked as if it belonged there. The vicar hadn’t even seemed to notice. Her crown was buried in ringlets and wrapped in a gauzy veil and not as obvious. All around the church, the ladies had lit evergreen scented candles shaped like trees. Lady Aster had told her that the ceremony had been adapted over the years for more modern circumstances, but she was to think of herself as marrying in a forest, surrounded by her Druidic clan. Christie had almost snorted the watered wine they’d given her.

  But the final effect was enchanting. The church did smell like a forest, and the cavernous space became warm and inviting in the candlelight. She almost felt as if she were a fairy princess marrying the fairy king in a medieval forest, except they were more likely giants than fairies. She took Ash’s arm to let him know she was there, and he squeezed her hand against his side.

  The vicar’s sonorous voice flowed over her. She was nervous about a thousand and one things, but oddly, she wasn’t afraid. She felt as if she were finally coming home, to a place that accepted her, where her size and her intelligence weren’t bad things that must be concealed at all cost. Since Ashford was blind, he judged her for herself, and that gave her confidence.

  She probably ought to be worrying about more than her appearance—her odd voices, for instance—but hiding had been so much a part of her past that she felt as if she’d climbed a mountain and stood overlooking a future beyond her imagination. She didn’t know enough to worry. In ways, she was as blind as Ashford.

  When the vicar waited for her to repeat her vows, she remembered the very applicable line Lady McDowell had impressed on her. Still clinging to Ash’s arm, she repeated with care, “I vow to love, honor, and take thee in equality for so long as we both shall live.”

  Her groom’s lips quirked, as if he’d been waiting for that, and he repeated it in his turn, using the deep chocolate voice that thrilled her to the marrow. Obedience would never be part of their vows to each other, and she loved that he accepted that. The love part . . . she hoped would come.

  Now, if the service had mentioned lust, she could vow that wholeheartedly. Shy, frail maiden—she was not. She was eager to see where Ashford’s hungry caresses would lead.

  When the service ended, and she was pronounced in public as the wife and marchioness of the Marquess of Ashford, Earl of Ives and Wystan, the Malcolm ladies stood and cheered. She half expected them to release the doves she’d seen earlier.

  “They should have stayed with forest ceremonies,” Ashford whispered, steering her—not toward the main aisle and their guests but toward a side door.

  He must have paced off the distance because he aimed unerringly for a courtyard exit where his servants waited to escort them into a carriage.

  “We will miss whatever your brothers have prepared for the church entrance,” she murmured back. “I could tell they were plotting, probably with my . . . family.” She was having difficulty adjusting to the knowledge that she had family who had taken her in as if they’d known her all her life.

  “Jacques has the doves,” Ashford said with a shrug. “There will be wheat grains involved. The confusion does not suit me. Having you to myself . . . suits me very well.” He handed her inside the closed carriage.

  Walking down an aisle filled with people he should greet but couldn’t see probably didn’t suit him either. Christie understood his need to hide. “Ignoring our guests is exceedingly arrogant, but this escape suits me as well,” she said, settling in the forward-facing seat, leaving room for him.

  The moment the carriage rolled off, her husband circled her waist and kissed her the way she longed to be kissed. Thrilled beyond reason, Christie threaded her fingers through his gloriously thick hair and reveled in the passion and hunger with which Ashford claimed her mouth—and more.

  She arched into his questing fingers, aching for him to release her from the confining corset, knowing he could not. But his experienced hand slid beneath her bodice, finding the needy nipple beneath the low-cut gown she’d worn for just this purpose.

  “If the carriage halts for more than two minutes, I’ll tumble you right here,” he growled coarsely. “Do you have any idea of how you’ve haunted my dreams these past nights? I almost considered finding my way up the stairs and hunting down your room.” He lifted her breast from confinement and bent to kiss it.

  Christie bit back a scream of pure pleasure. “Oh, my—I never knew . . . Please, my lord . . . Ash. We cannot do this here. I cannot put myself back together and all your friends—”

  “Will know exactly what we’ve been doing,” he said in satisfaction, nibbling and smoothing his bites with kisses. “In fact, if we did not show up, they would not be surprised.”

  Christie hastily pulled away from temptation and tucked herself back into her bodice. “No, you must introduce me. I must be able to put names to faces if I’m to be of any help to you at all.”

  She was shivering with desire, embarrassingly wet with need, but she could not let him distract from her purpose. She had to become as valuable to him as his brothers were so he would not set her aside once he grew bored. She needed an occupation so she did not grow bored.

  “I’m thinking you’ll be of best help if you lie naked in my bed, waiting for me, while I sit through tedious meetings in the next room,” he said with a lascivious leer. “I’ll not even throw inkpots if I know I can throw out my guests, then go straight to your arms.”

  He punctuated his words with kisses that carried from the tops of her breasts, up her throat, and behind her ear, until she nearly sat on his lap and agreed to anything he asked. The notion excited her beyond reason.

  She was understanding the disadvantage of marrying a man with so much more experience than she.

  “I think waiting in bed might be a trifle tedious for me,” she protested breathily. “Better that I sit in on the meetings and take notes while waiting for them to leave so I may . . .” She murmured her errant thought about sitting on his lap, determined to meet him equally but afraid she may have gone too far when he froze.

  “I like the way you think!” he finally said—to her utter delight. He discreetly adjusted himself in his tight trousers. “And now neither of us is respectable for a party.”

  “Only fair, sir. Shall we sing uplifting songs until we arrive?” She slid her hand up his thigh, not quite daring to go all the way but thrilled that he felt the same as she.

  “Why do they insist on weddings in the morning?” he grumbled. “It’s foolishness.”

  “But Earl Grey agreed to be there so that you and a few of the other members could talk in informal circumstances,” she reminded him. “So you are not completely wasting this day.”

  He groaned and leaned his head back against the high seat. His muscled shoulders nearly filled the space beside her, and she longed to see what waited for her beneath the formal clothing.

  “Speak to me of labor and electoral reform and freedom for slaves and all those things that keep me going each day,” he commanded.

  “I fear I cannot do so intelligently,” she said with regret. “I’m still learning. But I do know that it’s extremely important that your party take over the administration so reform can be had.”

  “Ye
s,” he said heavily. “Old men, entrenched in the existing state of affairs, cannot see the world is changing. Very good. That helps. I promise to be an irreproachable minister of reform for one hour.”

  “And then?” she asked, breath catching.

  He turned his handsome head and leered at her as if he could actually see her. “And then we fornicate, my dear.”

  22

  “You need to lead the way, Ashford,” Earl Grey said heatedly. “The Commons is too unpredictable. We have too many factions willing to lean toward whoever speaks loudest. You need to gather your most articulate members and push them to speak. When those on the fence see how strong we stand, they can be swayed.”

  Ash knew he was right. He also knew that the blind leading sheep wasn’t effective leadership. Unfortunately, he had no good alternative. “I’ll keep Erran on the road, gathering the straying lambs. He’ll see they’re present. If he wishes to run in the next election, it’s good for him to be seen.”

  “That’s not enough,” Birchcroft insisted from Ash’s side. “At the very least, you must hold a soiree the night before. Line up all those whose votes are still uncertain. Impress them with the importance of standing with us. We’ll all stop in during the evening to prove their votes won’t be wasted, that we have their backs. You have the industrial interests on your side as well as the agricultural. You’re our linchpin.”

  “And if your new bride is related to Sommersville, we’ll pass the word on that,” Whyte said. “It would be a coup if you could drag him out of his castle.”

  “Distant relation,” Ash said stiffly. “He stands with us, but I don’t expect him to stir himself for us. He’s not the political sort.”

  “Shame. His grandfather was a damned good party supporter,” Palmer said.

  Ash didn’t explain that the distant dukes had been good politicians only until one married into the Malcolm family. After that, the eloquent statesman had a son who became a physician, as had the current duke, and politics had become less important to them. “His Grace’s son might join us,” was all he could offer.