Chapter Eleven
Drew groaned when the longcase clock in the drawing room chimed the eleventh hour. Its stentorian tones filtered down the hall to his study and reminded him of his duty. He drained his snifter of brandy—had it been two or three now?—and slammed his booted feet to the floor from where they’d rested previously on his desk.
Nearly the witching hour on his wedding night and he sat here hiding away like a damned coward. All afternoon the disappointment in Sarah’s eyes had haunted him. He’d run from her, afraid to remain in her presence but equally afraid to begin his life with her, for she would leave eventually.
Everyone did.
Yet she was upstairs, waiting for him to consummate their marriage, for that had been a stipulation in their betrothal contract—the begetting of an heir. Oh, God. His chest tightened with another round of crushing anxiety, as it had done since he’d spoken those vows to her. Life had changed. He’d added her to his long list of responsibilities. Another person he’d let down, make angry, and ultimately fail.
It hurt to breathe. Hell, he couldn’t take a full breath any longer. The title of earl was indeed attempting to kill him. Would he suffer an attack of the heart as his father had? What would happen to Sarah if he expired prematurely without issue? Bloody hell. Black spots danced at the corners of his vision. The title would go to Finn, but his brother couldn’t handle the strain plus survive life with his injury. Drew couldn’t let that happen. It would bury his brother as sure as it would kill him.
No. Everything rests on me.
As it always had.
The urge to retch grew. It filled his mouth with hot saliva and the bitterness of bile hit his palate. With a shaking hand, he poured out another small measure of brandy into his glass and downed it with one gulp. The burn of the liquor in his throat temporarily waylaid his tortured thoughts. I’m not strong enough for any of this.
But that didn’t negate the fact that Sarah waited.
When he’d seen her in the drawing room before the ceremony, he’d wanted to spirit her away, for she’d been a vision in that emerald gown, and with her golden hair piled upon her head secured with glittering combs, he’d lost the ability to think. Oh, he wanted her, hadn’t stopped since he’d first met her, but suddenly the magnitude of what he must do had slammed into him. Fear had taken hold.
She would expect an experienced lover, but he hadn’t had a woman in his bed for a few years. She’d want an attentive husband, yet he’d already failed when he’d run away from her directly following their ceremony. She’d wish him to be a doting father to their children should they have them, but unless he took his arse abovestairs, that would never happen. They’d merely met a week ago and now life had shifted… forever. Instead of finding peace and calm at Hadleigh Hall, he had added an enormous amount of obligation.
Each of those things added stress to the weight on his shoulders that even now threatened to crush him. Anxiety worked to pull him under into the all-consuming darkness, and he gasped for breath. At this point, perhaps death would be the easier option.
How can I do this?
It didn’t matter how. Do it he must. Scrambling to his feet as the urge to vomit rose in his throat, Drew stumbled to the door. It was his duty, and she was his wife, and by Jove, she wasn’t horrid to look at either.
He only tripped once on the stairs. Perhaps he’d stop in his room to change out of his riding clothes and wash the day’s grime off his person before visiting her bedchamber. She deserved that, at least. When he pressed on the door latch and pushed open the panel, the sight that greeted him in the dim light left him frozen.
A single candle burned on a bedside table, but that wasn’t what held his attention. Sarah lay on his bed, her slender body dwarfed by the large four-poster piece of furniture, and she had the look of an angel with the masses of her blonde hair spilled over his pillows.
His heart skipped a beat the same time his length began to harden. She’d sought him out… hoping.
As quietly as he could, Drew closed the door, and after he’d toed off his boots—nearly falling twice in the process of removing them—he padded closer to the bed. A volume of poetry lay forgotten next to her, for she’d fallen asleep waiting for him to join her. The red linen cover indicated it contained selected pieces of Byron’s work. Ah, so she was a romantic at heart.
How interesting.
Then he forgot the book in favor of looking his fill at her. She’d changed into a peignoir set of the finest lawn dyed a faint moss green. Trimmed with ribbons and delicate lace, he’d wager half his estate the clothing was what had been wrapped in parcel paper that day. The outfit coupled with her hair in a mass on his navy counterpane sent blood rushing into his shaft.
“Oh, Sarah.” The whispered words sounded overly loud in the hushed silence. Who knew the straightforward governess would favor such delicate, beautiful clothing? Quickly, he shed his jacket and waistcoat, but his gaze never strayed from her body. The moment the garments hit the floor with a soft plop, her eyelids fluttered, and she stirred.
“Andrew?” Sarah raised up on an elbow. She blinked against the candlelight. “What time is it?”
“Quarter past eleven.” God, he didn’t deserve her. She was sweet yet tart-mouthed and an innocent while he was a growling beast shrouded in dark madness. This union had been a mistake, for he would hurt her like he’d done to his family.
“Oh.” She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Where have you been?” Her eyes, dark in the dim light, reflected aggravation. The silver frames winked with each movement. “I waited for you, but you never came.” How she managed to infuse accusation and disappointment into her tone at the same time, he didn’t know. When she stood, she was toe-to-toe with him. “You abandoned me on our wedding day.”
All her points were valid. He had no cause to dispute any of them, but that didn’t mean that anger didn’t swell in his chest from being reminded. “I’m here now.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You smell of brandy.”
“I indulged before coming up.”
“Is that what it takes for you to find the courage to bed me?” She planted her hands on her hips. The points of her hardening nipples were barely visible through the filmy garments she wore. “Is the thought of lying with me so distasteful that you must drink beforehand?”
“Of course not. I drink to forget.” Close enough that her clover and violet scent teased his nose, desire roared into life. “I’ve wanted to bed you since I met you.” When she sputtered, he grinned. Having her at sixes and sevens was most rewarding. “Since you’re awake, shall we begin?” Lust fought with the simmering anger and crushing anxiety, winning temporarily.