Theory of Magic Read online

  “They’ll come just to see your new bride. Have her help gather and encourage your followers. Once we have the momentum, Wellington will be on his way out,” Whyte said.

  As if Miss Chris had any notion of how to gather society and feed them at a moment’s notice. He’d married her because he needed her. He hadn’t considered sharing. Hadn’t thought beyond the bedroom, actually.

  He tried not to reveal his uneasiness. Even though he knew the real business of government was done at gatherings like the one they suggested, he hadn’t planned on entering society. Once the administration was settled, his place was on his estate.

  His bride had made it clear that she might have different ideas. Ash tugged at his confining neckcloth.

  “We’re counting on you, Ashford.” The earl pounded his shoulder. “We’ll leave you to the wonders of married life for now.”

  Within moments, the crowd that had surrounded Ash had abandoned him—in a strange room, in a strange house, with no means of knowing what in Hades was in his vicinity.

  He could discern no windows and very few shadows. He swung his stick idly, as if in thought, just to determine what obstacles were in his way.

  He wanted to rage and heave heavy objects, but he could only do that in the security of his home, where the inhabitants knew him, where he preferred to stay. He had appeared in public only for Christie—because his bride deserved the wedding of her choice.

  He loathed being an object of pity and wouldn’t do this again. The only way he could lead anyone anywhere was if someone led him.

  The lush scent of lilies filled his nostrils, and Ash relaxed a fraction, although his temper was still on edge. The soft pressure against his chest didn’t feel like the breasts he wanted. He grabbed the pillow she thrust at him and tossed it to one side, uncaring if he knocked over a dozen lamps in the process.

  “Time to leave?” she asked hopefully.

  “How do you always know to be in the right place at the right time?” he asked in exasperation. “You were even there in the park that day when my abominable footman abandoned me. Don’t tell me your ghosts told you.”

  She took his arm and steered him in what he hoped was the direction of the door. “Don’t be silly. I hadn’t even met you then, so I couldn’t have met your great-grandmother’s ghost. And my mother’s ghost doesn’t know you.”

  “I’m fairly certain that hearing voices in your head is not a sign of sanity,” he grumbled. “I wouldn’t spread the word about if you wish these people to heed you.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she said cheerfully. “Why do you think I spent so much time hiding? I couldn’t very well tell Townsend what my mother thought of him, could I? She wasn’t very helpful anyway. Your great-grandmother is much more outspoken.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear about it. Imagining my grandmother in your head while I’m making love to you could be a deterrent to creating heirs,” he said dryly, sensing a crowd ahead and keeping his voice down.

  She laughed, then whispered as they walked, “Lord Rainsford, the duke’s son, has already left, but he was most pleasant and promised to call on us soon. I hope that is a good thing?”

  “It is an excellent thing for you,” Ashford said, hiding his dismay that she had relations as powerful as he and thus didn’t need a blind recluse. “He’s not often in town, so it would be good for you to know that side of your family.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said in relief. “Even if he only sought me out now because I’m married to you.”

  She’d done it again—settled his anger before he even expressed it. He kissed her hair, relieved to discover the folderol had been removed, and he could run his hand through silken tresses.

  They made their farewells, with Christie deliberately using each person’s name so he knew who he was greeting. Her performance was astonishing. To him, her ability to say just the right thing at the right time was a far more interesting magic act than speaking to dead grandmothers.

  Escaping without being held up by a dozen well-wishers was probably also a magic act, but one many people performed with more grace than he. So that was within the realm of normality.

  “I am amazed that someone who has spent her entire life hiding is comfortable in a crowd of strangers like the one we just left,” Ash said, assisting her into the waiting carriage once he heard the footman open the door.

  “I pretend I am Christie, a bold wench capable of saying what she thinks. And now I can be the Marchioness of Ashford and pretend I’m actually important.” She shifted her petticoats out of his way. “Mostly, it’s easy because I know to avoid the people who resent or dislike me and to encourage the ones who crave my notice.”

  “I would ask how the devil you know which is which, but then I’d have to believe you a witch, when all I want to do is this.” He turned her soft cheek toward him and located her plush mouth with ease.

  She parted her lips hungrily, running her hand over his rough jaw, and pressing closer so he could take advantage of her lavish curves. A moment later, she pushed him back to gasp for air.

  “Which witch is which?” she asked in amusement. “Shall we write a nursery rhyme while we wait to reach home?”

  “Devil take it, now I understand why men marry stupid women,” he grumbled, burying his lips at her nape. “How can you think at all when only one part of me is functioning?”

  “Magic,” she whispered as she rubbed the functioning part of him through his trousers.

  They had to hastily right their clothes when the carriage stopped and the footman opened the door. Ash felt the carriage tilt as his bride stepped down, so he was able to catch her by the waist and swing her, petticoats and all, into his arms. “Lead on, Smith.”

  Christie squealed in shock, and he grinned at catching his know-it-all bride by surprise. She was a goodly size, but he’d wrestled heavier. Carrying her, he counted the steps it took to enter his home. This, he could manage, even limping as he did.

  “You will break both our necks or strain yourself to incapacitation,” she protested as he carried her over the threshold. “Put me down!”

  “Is the champagne chilled, Smith?” Ash called upon entering, knowing full well there were more than two footmen in the house and that they weren’t all named Smith. It simply saved time and embarrassment for both parties if he didn’t have to ask which one was present.

  “Someone has gone to fetch it, my lord. May we extend our congratulations to you and the new marchioness?”

  “That’s the new butler, but he has intelligently not lined up the staff to greet us,” his bride whispered in his ear. “Now put me down.”

  “Thank you, Jessup.” He knew the butler’s name, even if he hadn’t learned to detect his silent presence yet. “Have the wine sent to my chamber, then all of you may have the rest of the day off.” Ash carried his bride straight down the hall, trusting the new butler to know to dodge out of his way.

  “The staff must have champagne and cake too,” Christie called over his shoulder. “This should be a day of celebration for everyone!”

  “Thank you, my lady,” the butler said from safely behind them.

  Ash navigated the doorway of his chamber and the few steps to his bed. Instead of releasing his beautiful burden, he kissed her. Heady with anticipation, he continued kissing her as the servants carried in a bucket of ice and a tray of edibles. Only when they closed the door did he lower her to the mattress.

  “It’s still daylight,” she murmured as he leaned over the mattress and began hunting for her bodice hooks.

  “Not in here,” he said. “I should have had them light all the lamps so I have some hope of seeing you.”

  “Seeing me?” Christie squeaked nervously, scooting backward on the covers. “You can see me?”

  “Not at the moment, no,” he said impatiently. “I need sunlight. Then I can see your shadow.”

  Christie had placed her new husband’s hands on the cunning fastenings she’d had the sea
mstress sew over her breasts so she needn’t call for a maid at private times like this. Registering his words, her heart pounded erratically, and she stopped his fingers. He could see her? “Wait! How much of me can you see?”

  “None of you in here,” he grumbled, pushing her hands aside to go back to the hooks. “Merely your silhouette and motion when we’re outside.”

  He knew how large she was and had still married her? Of course he knew. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t touched her every chance he had! Finally accepting that he really didn’t care about her size, she let warmth and desire spread through her, adding to the surge of lust. For this man, she would risk all. “Instead of this gloomy room, you need sunlight to move about?”

  She admired Ashford’s massive shoulders as he shrugged. Even though his leg must have been tired, he had carried her, as if she were a featherweight. Her marvelous husband could have done nothing better to encourage her desire. She tugged him down to the mattress and began unfastening his waistcoat.

  He deftly helped her, then reached for his trouser buttons so she could tug his shirt loose. “It’s not as if England provides a vast amount of sunlight,” he said deprecatingly. “So it matters little.”

  “It matters a great deal,” she said in astonishment. “I am not entirely certain I am comfortable with you seeing me, but if that is what you want, then we shall go upstairs where there are windows. There are a few more hours of daylight.”

  He hesitated. “Upstairs?”

  She felt his fear and his surge of curiosity. She had to be brave enough to do this, for him. “We’ll count the stairs as we go. My room is in the very back, so once you hit a wall, you’ll know where you are.”

  She offered this with her heart in her throat. She had counted a great deal on him not actually seeing her. Still, if all he was seeing was a silhouette, at least he wouldn’t be discouraged by her lack of beauty.

  “I want to see you,” he said in determination, refastening his trousers.

  Swallowing her own fear, Christie rang for a maid and ordered the tray and wine carried to her room—and the draperies pulled back.

  “This house isn’t large enough if you mean to stay in London,” she said nervously as she held his arm and steered him toward the wide front stairs. “And if you need sunlight, I’m not entirely certain London is a good idea at all.”

  “This place is close to Parliament,” he said with a shrug. “Unless we wish to rent one of the palaces closer to Westminster, I don’t have many choices.” He leaned over to nibble her ear. “And there are other things on my mind at the moment.”

  Since she wasn’t at all certain his trousers could contain his rampant masculinity, she hadn’t lost sight of that matter. Frock coats really needed fronts. She didn’t dare look at him for fear she’d stumble, and they’d both fall backward down the stairs.

  The maid would take the back way, out of sight. Christie hoped no one was peering from behind doors as they worked their way up the stairs in near dishabille like a pair of drunks. But the intimacy of sharing this moment shored up her flagging nerves.

  Ashford had told her something no one else knew—his eyes still worked! They just didn’t work well. She swelled with pride that he’d trusted her with his secret.

  “I don’t think you could have given me a better wedding gift,” she said as they traversed the upper corridor. “Have you talked to your physician about seeing shadows?”

  “It hasn’t improved,” he warned her. “This is why I say nothing. I cannot raise hopes if there is no improvement. It’s little better than being completely blind. I am trusting you to keep this quiet. It would be hard on the children.”

  The children—another matter she must consider, once the election was over. He had at the very least three offspring already. “You are right, I understand. I hoped perhaps your physician might have some thoughts.”

  “He says it means my eyes aren’t damaged but my brain is,” he said in a tone as dry as the desert. “All in all, I do not consider that a betterment.”

  She laughed, feeling his acceptance of what must have been a terrible disappointment. “You have enough brain to spare a little damage. You must have been formidable when you had your sight. I probably would never have dared approach you, and you most certainly would never have noticed me.”

  “Then I would have been a great dunce,” he said, adding wryly, “And I’m aware that I’ve been a dunce more often than not.”

  “Being blind has given you wisdom?” she asked in laughter. “Do you think that works with everyone? We could blindfold all Parliament.”

  At the end of the corridor, two maids darted from her room and ran down the backstairs, eyes averted.

  “We’ve arrived. If you should decide you’d like a suite up here, perhaps we could install gas lamps along the wall and you could count them instead of steps. Or I could place a table outside the door so you know you’re in the right place,” she suggested.

  “Mind no longer functioning,” he reminded her, striding through the doorway and closing the panel behind them.

  He halted, as if to measure the level of light. It was a southward facing wall, so the sun’s rays still fell through the windows, although winter illumination was never strong.

  “Now,” Ashford said in delight, “show me that front fastening again.” He reached for her without a moment’s hesitation.

  Oh dear Lord, he really could see her.

  23

  Ash savored this moment of “seeing” his bride, now that he knew how easily these rare privileges could be lost. He’d spent years taking women and sex for granted—until he’d lost his sight and realized how much time he had wasted on sating his hunger instead of appreciating moments of sensual beauty like this.

  His new bride’s silhouette against the window light was all lush, firm young curves, more seductive than any of the blowsy mistresses he’d known. He delighted in the silkiness of her skin as he fumbled with the hook that would release her bodice. He relished her intake of breath as his fingers slid between her breasts. She was Juno come to earth, and she was his. The knowledge that she was his alone, the woman who had chosen him for partner, was arousing enough even without the blessed gift of Christie’s innocent eagerness.

  The fastenings came undone, and Ash pushed her bodice off her rounded shoulders. He could see how they curved, unlike his squared ones. He squeezed her giving flesh and could almost, almost see the movement of her breasts if he tilted his head just right.

  She eased her arms from the sleeves while he sought the ribbons of her chemise and released them.

  Undressing her was a slow process, but Ash meant to take his time. No matter how starved he was, she was a dish meant to be savored. Where once his fingers had been swift and sure on corset strings, he now fumbled, but inexperienced Christie didn’t know the difference. She ran her fingers through his hair and moaned with each new field he conquered.

  They fumbled together. In tandem, they pried off his coat. She undid the last of the corset hooks when he could not find them. She tore off his neckcloth. He lifted her breast from her under-chemise and suckled. She muffled a scream.

  He could see the outline of the bed and decided it was best to repair there before the light gave out entirely. Still drinking at the fountain of her beauty, he lifted her by her silk-clad waist and dropped her on the mattress.

  The bed wasn’t as wide as his, but Ash didn’t give a groat. Enough light fell over them that he could see the curve of her waist and hip beneath whatever flimsy bit of nothing she still wore. “You are the most exquisite creature I’ve ever touched,” he murmured, kissing her shoulders as he unfastened the last bit of cloth covering her.

  “I am no slender sylph whose waist you can encompass in your hands,” she countered.

  “That’s hardly a test that interests me.” He wrapped his big hands around her waist and squeezed.

  “Your hands are very large,” she said, sucking in her breath and laughing when his thum
bs didn’t touch but dug into her supple belly.

  “You are the perfect size,” he declared. “I need not fear I’ll break you. You must tell me what you like, so I can give you the pleasure you are giving me.”

  Amazed that Ash’s big hands could almost circle her waist, Christie would have handed him the sun if he’d asked. “I like everything you’re doing,” she said with certainty, tracing the darker V of skin at his throat where he’d apparently discarded his neckcloth in the sun for too long. “I cannot imagine you doing anything that wouldn’t please me . . . in bed,” she amended honestly.

  He chuckled, and she felt the vibration through her skin, right down into her woman’s place. She tugged his shirt upward, wanting more of the crisp hairs she could see beneath the linen.

  “You are such a virgin,” he said with another chuckle.

  Then he ran his hand beneath her chemise, skimming his rough fingers over her naked hip, and she arched into him in surprise at the intimacy.

  “I admit ignorance in many things,” she agreed, finally freeing his shirt and pulling upward until he threw it off. “But that simply means you may educate me in the manner you prefer.”

  Awestruck at the rippling musculature revealed, Christie’s attention wandered from wherever the conversation had led. “Oh, my,” she murmured, stroking heavy muscles, eliciting a moan from the mighty marquess. “You are so very . . . hard.”

  “You don’t even know the beginning of how hard,” he muttered, leaning over to kiss her with thrusting tongue and a heated passion that left her mindless and empty.

  Not until he’d unfastened his trousers and released the long bulge he’d concealed beneath his civilized façade did she have any inkling of what he meant, and by then, it was far too late to object.

  Her husband was a large man in every possible way.