Theory of Magic Read online

  “Swiftly this time. It’s been too long a time for me and I need you desperately,” he said, returning to her breasts, lavishing them with attention until her womb ached, and she parted her legs of her own accord.

  In appreciation, he kissed down her belly and nipped lightly between her thighs until she grabbed his hair and tried to tug him away. She supposed she ought to be embarrassed and wonder if this was proper, but right now, she didn’t care. She ached for his possession. “Now,” she agreed.

  “Slower next time.” Ash shifted his weight over her, his arms on either side of her head, his magnificent shoulders thrown back as he positioned himself.

  Christie gulped, closed her eyes and felt the heaviness pressing into her most private place. “Swiftly, yes,” she muttered incoherently, wanting and dreading this moment.

  He leaned over and kissed her, then when she wrapped her arms around him and felt her body open, he impaled her . . . swiftly . . . as he’d promised.

  She cried out her pain and pleasure, and he halted, letting her adjust to his thickness. And she did—swiftly. That he filled her completely seemed to indicate she’d been empty too long. She was designed to be a vessel for his lust.

  Ash renewed his kisses to her breasts, and before long, she arched against him, taking him deeper, accepting his thrusts, thrilling when he threw back his head and roared his pleasure.

  She was finally a wife. She belonged. Satisfaction settled deep inside her.

  “I would pour you champagne, if I could see it,” Ash said, although he said it with what sounded like contentment instead of his usual bitterness.

  Now that she knew her husband admired the large bosom that had always discomfited her, Christie boldly leaned over his chest to reach for the bottle.

  He caught one of her breasts and suckled. “The ambrosia here is better.”

  She nearly dropped the bottle, then pushed it into his hands to occupy them. “I cannot open it.”

  Propping his bare shoulders against the headboard, he took the bottle and expertly cracked the neck against the bedpost, snapping it off and shooting champagne over the wall. “Neither can I. Glasses?”

  Astounded, she laughed and leaned over him again to reach the table. “I prefer not to imagine how you perfected that trick, sir.” She grasped the stems of both glasses in one hand, then took the bottle from him with her free hand.

  “Being a crude male without a butler, not knowing where the cork remover is, and lacking the patience to fiddle about might have more to do with it than your lewd imaginings,” he said, taking the glass she pushed into his hand.

  “I did not know how to imagine lewd until now,” she said in reprimand. She sipped the effervescent liquid she’d never before tasted. “Ooo, I think the bubbles went up my nose. This may be an acquired taste.”

  “Assuming we only have this night to ourselves, I mean to make you drunk enough to forget the pain and be ready for that slow round I promised.” He pressed the chilled glass to her breast.

  Christie nearly snorted out the bubbles as her nipples rose to the occasion and her insatiable insides craved what he suggested. But the place between her thighs was sore, and she wasn’t prepared for another assault.

  “You mean to do this more than once a night?” she asked in doubt, casting a worried glance to that part of him that seemed to have lost some of its length.

  As if he knew where she looked, Ash set his glass on the table, stood up, and removed his trousers entirely.

  He was a magnificent animal silhouetted against the dying light from the window. His one thigh seemed more withered than the other, the damage that often caused him to limp—a result of senseless violence, if she understood correctly. She had not questioned the reason for leaving his trousers on until now. Had he tried to conceal his flaw as she had tried to hide hers? She was too new to marriage to ask, but his vulnerability added another warm nugget to her feelings for this indomitable man.

  He paced away from the bed, counting off steps until his hand touched the mantel. Then he rooted around until he found coals to throw on the grate.

  “This next time, you will share the pleasure. I want you to want our bedplay as much as I do.” He fumbled about until he found her water basin and doused a cloth before turning toward the bed.

  His manly sword was already rising to the occasion. Christie gulped. “You are very large, sir,” she said tentatively. “You did say I was to tell you what I liked. I think I should like to wait.”

  He sat beside her and dabbed the cool cloth between her thighs. She thought she might expire in embarrassment. She exchanged her glass for the cloth and completed the job herself.

  “Thinking is dangerous,” he informed her, handing her the champagne once she was done. “It would only give you time to fear. I promise, this next time will be better. Have I ever broken a promise?”

  She sipped the sparkling wine, feeling the bubbles stream through her blood. Or perhaps that was the effect of the naked man beside her. She narrowed her eyes in thought, trying to concentrate on words instead of his . . . manliness. “I don’t believe you have ever promised me anything.”

  She glanced at the beautiful ring on her finger. That wasn’t quite true, but promising to love in a church was simply a means to an end. As practiced liars, they’d both understood that.

  “Perhaps that is why I am a very bad politician,” he said with a shrug of his magnificent shoulders. “I must learn to make more promises—except a politician’s promises are based on the premise that he can persuade hundreds of wrong-headed people to do what is right. I prefer promises I can make without beating people about the ears with a stick.”

  She laughed and the bubbles went down wrong. She coughed and Ash pounded her on the back, then handed her a chocolate morsel from the tray. It was almost natural to be sitting in bed, completely nude, and consuming champagne and chocolate beside this marvelously masculine marquess.

  It still didn’t relieve her concern about having that great weapon of his shoved clear up her middle until he nearly reached her heart. Compared to him, she was tiny. It was a very disconcerting sensation. Was this how the rest of the world felt next to her?

  “My lady needs more wine,” he said at her silence. He took her glass and poured until the liquid slopped over the brim and down his fingers.

  “My lord is a messy pig,” she said aimlessly. “The maids must clean that up in the morning.”

  “People are messy. We are basically animals beneath our veneer of civilization. And we breed just as animals do. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. Just imagine the king and queen doing as we are about to do. George Three had fifteen children, if I don’t mistake.” He fingered the morsels on the tray until he found one that apparently squished the way he liked it, and popped it into his mouth.

  “I can tell you I do not want fifteen children,” she told him as assertively as she knew how. “I wish to have a life of my own, above and beyond children. I don’t believe the poor queen had that.”

  “That’s why nurseries were invented. And French envelopes. And other preventives. We’ll learn together.” He spilled a bit of champagne on her breast and licked it up.

  Christie gasped. Deliberately, he repeated the gesture. When he dribbled the liquid down her belly, she threw back the rest of her glass as she’d seen him do with whiskey. She sputtered and coughed as he sucked on her flesh, then gasped again when his fingers slid between her thighs.

  “Do you like this?” he asked, penetrating and rubbing at a place that liked it very much.

  She moaned in answer.

  “I don’t think you need much wine,” he said wickedly, plying her with two fingers until she arched and begged for more. “You are incredibly responsive. I need only . . .” He tweaked a little more, pushed his fingers a little deeper, and her insides quaked and shivered, and she reached to pull him back.

  “Touch me,” he demanded, bringing her hand down to the part of him growing longer. “Then I’l
l be as ready as you are shortly.”

  “I will accept your bullying tonight, but beware of it on the morrow,” she warned. In wonder, she did as he said, wrapping her fingers around his velvet hardness. She stroked as he showed her, and almost yanked away when he groaned and shoved against her, excited by her touch. Which excited her.

  “You learn quickly,” he muttered, leaning over to kiss her. “I may need more lessons since this,” he rubbed her again, “is more pleasurable to learn than undoing the bad habits of a lifetime.”

  This time, when he pushed into her, it didn’t hurt, and she was more than ready.

  In fact, she bubbled over much as the heady champagne had, exploding with a triumphant cry of release, followed by a series of frantic bubbles foaming over as pleasure coursed through her.

  As promised, Ash took longer, bringing her to shudders over and over again, until he spilled deep inside her, quite possibly planting his heir.

  Wife, marchioness, possible mother of an earl . . . it was too much for a country girl. Tomorrow, she would worry about promises and lies and secrets. Christie fell asleep with her new husband still inside her, sheltering her with his big body.

  24

  The next day, reality returned with a vengeance.

  Wrapped in a warm cocoon of lush woman and soft sheets, Ash was willing to even ignore his waking cock for a few more hours of much-needed sleep. Except Hartley’s dog set up a howl of loneliness in the garden, and a maid scratched at the locked door, reminding them of the world awaiting them. The maid distracted Christie, who rolled away and dragged a sheet up to her chin—as if he could actually see her nakedness. At least it was light enough to see where she was, and he kissed her cheek.

  “Rise and shine, beloved, before the twins return and Moira decides to redecorate this chamber.”

  He wished he could see her expression as Christie fought him for the sheet, then grudgingly rolled from the bed without it. Satisfied, satiated, and almost at peace with the world, Ash sat up, resting his bare shoulders against the pillows, and pulling the sheet over his stiff cock. In the dim light of dawn, he watched his wife’s shadow flicker back and forth past the window as she washed and dressed. She had the substance so many skinny misses lacked—in more ways than in the flesh.

  She leaned over to nibble his ear and tickle his rib. “Twins,” she reminded him. “Moira. Visitors.”

  He sighed and prepared to return to the real world. Without his valet, his robe, or his shaving gear, Ash reluctantly had to let his new bride half dress him and lead him down the stairs to his own chambers before his first visitors arrived.

  Ash despised asking for help, but Christie made it easy by knowing what he needed without his having to actually put it into words. And she did it while smelling of lilies and sex and laughing at him and with him and making him want to return to bed instead of his office.

  This was what it was to be alive again—bliss.

  “After this is all over, we’ll have a honeymoon,” Ash told her, catching her arm before Chris could escape when his valet arrived to shave him. “We’ll go to Iveston, order whatever changes you need made there, then travel wherever you’d like to escape family and the demands of the estate.”

  “You lie,” she said without rancor. “You won’t leave the house if you can avoid it.”

  He glowered at her. “You’re supposed to believe my promises.” Even though he hated the confinement of carriages, and she was probably right.

  “Just as you should believe me when I say your great-grandmother just told me I should put a ring through your nose and lead you down the garden path. She is a very strange woman.”

  “My grandmother is dead, and you’re the strange one in this room. Go prepare yourself. The visiting will commence shortly.” He kissed her, actually reveling in not seeing the disapproval on his haughty valet’s face.

  He was probably fortunate that he couldn’t see Christie’s glare as well. Marriage didn’t mean he had to actually change his ways. His wife was clever enough to understand that.

  After he’d been made presentable, Ash poked his way to the dining room in hopes of finding his new marchioness waiting, only to be disappointed. Upon inquiry, he learned his ladyship had asked for toast in her room, so he ate in lonely splendor.

  Judging by the rush of feet up and down the back stairs, he suspected his bride was taking a bath, which was entirely understandable. She’d been a virgin, and despite her apparent joy in their conjugal union, she was probably feeling a little shy. They needed to retire to Iveston soon so he could show her their decadent Roman-style bathing room—and join her there.

  Imagining all the ways he could take his bride, Ash worked his way through the morning’s estate business without his usual boredom and irascibility. Even Erran commented.

  “We should have found you a bride much sooner,” his brother said, taking the papers Ash had just sealed with his signet. “You won’t need this collection of inkpots any longer. May I have the crystal one?”

  “No, it will shatter nicely when I next throw it at you. How close is the head count?” Ash wiped off his pen nib and tested its sharpness with his finger. He’d had to verify with a footman which pot held ink instead of water.

  “They’re still closely divided. Trying to persuade some of the more northern Whigs to travel is difficult in this rain. Aster’s father claims to be hauling some men down with him, but we can’t count on a timely arrival. Grey’s idea is a good one—gather the indecisive ones here, feed them a hearty meal, and fill them with ale, so they’re eager to see things our way when the speaker calls for a vote of confidence on Monday.”

  “Promise them manna from heaven, that they’ll never die, and all their sons will be dukes,” Ash said gloomily. “Nothing I like better than dealing with fools. Couldn’t you send me the intelligent ones and let Grey deal with the stupid?”

  Erran chuckled. “There’s the Ashford we all know and love. Go find your bride before your next visitors arrive.”

  “Better yet, send her in here and let her play my secretary. That will provide some entertainment,” he decided in satisfaction.

  “She’s decorating the front rooms with Moira so your guests won’t have to sit on paint brushes and cat hair for much longer. They’re also packing off Aunt Nessie to the next needy cousin. Do you really want me to disturb a nest of Malcolms? And what’s this Celeste tells me of your bride hearing our grandmother’s voice?”

  Ash waved his hand in irritation. “They feed off each other’s fantasies. Christie only mentions such things when she’s in the company of your wives, so I’d be pleased if you’d tell them to cease and desist their idiocy.”

  Although she’d dared to mention his great-grandmother just this morning. How far did one have to humor a wife?

  He could hear Erran rise and slide the documents into a portfolio.

  “I’m thinking your wife is cannier than you are and has learned to hold her tongue to prevent pot throwing. You might encourage her to talk of her idiocy someday. It could be meaningful when you least expect it.”

  “If you think you and Celeste have some magic greater than erudition to lead people when you speak, you have as many attics to let as they do. There is no magic in impassioned speech. You merely fill empty heads and tell them what they wish to hear. And talking to dead grandmothers is a useless habit.” Ash re-ordered his inkpots rather than reveal his curiosity about his wife’s Malcolm ability.

  Sometimes, he was almost convinced that Christie did have some magic ability to understand him where others did not, but he knew that was just his need to believe he’d married the right woman.

  “It’s not magic in the fantastical sense,” Erran argued. “It’s just an extra ability that other people don’t have or don’t recognize, and that Malcolm women have learned to exploit—with the encouragement of all their nattering journals.”

  “I’m fairly certain that most people who have voices in their heads belong in Bedlam,” Ash
said disparagingly. “And if you and Celeste wish to mesmerize crowds, don’t ask me to bail you out afterward.”

  “And there, the Beast is back. I’ll try to return before your meeting this evening. Give my sympathies to your beautiful wife.” The door opened and closed and Erran’s breath of fresh air was gone.

  Apparently having watched to know when Ash’s office was empty, Hartley dashed in a trifle breathlessly. “There’s a man in the mews who wants to buy Chuckles. How do I know he’ll be kind to him?”

  “William usually visits the places where he sends his dogs,” Ash explained. “I won’t sell a horse unless I know how the man treats his animals. I don’t think you’re quite old enough to make that judgment. We’ll take Chuckles back to the estate after the election is over.”

  He couldn’t see Hartley’s expression to judge his reaction. He’d always been too busy to pay attention to his sons when he’d been able to see them, and now he would be unable to watch the changes as they grew into young men. He wouldn’t be able to see any babe Christie bore.

  He buried the sadness and shut the lid on it.

  “I don’t think Chuckles will like the other dogs in the country,” he heard Hartley say, before the new butler introduced another visitor.

  “He wants a soiree Sunday night, and then a luncheon buffet on Monday, before the vote,” Christie said, attempting to hide her distress.

  What if she failed? What if the entire country was doomed to revolution because she could not be the political wife she needed to be?

  Don’t be foolish, the voice in her head said angrily. Just keep my grandson out of trouble. He’s blind in more ways than one.

  That was helpful. Christie rubbed her temple and shut out the voice. She didn’t want to be told Ash was in trouble when she was already in over her head.

  “The rooms should be ready for guests today,” Moira said, straightening the new drapery and completely missing the point. “The dining room is still shabby but cover it in food and silver, and men won’t notice.”