Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

you agreed to marry. Ah, Arabella, do leave the buttons on your nightgown alone.”

“I know,” Arabella said, doing a small dance around her bedchamber. “I must keep the silly thing on for just a while longer.” Lady Ann gulped. “Justin will be here soon. I will leave you now.” She turned, then whipped about to hug her daughter. “Be happy, Arabella. Be happy. If something goes wrong, well, I don’t know that it will, but . . . no, don’t worry.” Oh God, what could she say? How could she warn her? What if Justin was like her husband had been?

Arabella said very quietly, gently, “In matters regarding me, Mama, Father never erred in his judgment. Never.” At her daughter’s words, Lady Ann looked up quickly. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she detected a fleeting sad awareness in her daughter’s voice. No, that wasn’t possible. She gave her head a tiny shake and turned abruptly away. “I hope you are right, Arabella. Good night, my love. I hope to see a smile on your face tomorrow.”

“A very big smile, Mama.”

After her mother had left her, Arabella paced the bedroom with the eagerness of pleasurable anticipation. She delighted in discoveries, and tonight, well, tonight—She hugged herself with excited impatience. She chanced to look at The Dance of Death panel, stuck out her tongue at it, for she hated uncertainty, fear of the unknown, and let her eyes rove to the large bed. She was beginning to wonder, an impish smile on her mouth, if her mother hadn’t trapped Justin and was telling him out to go along, when the door opened suddenly and her husband appeared. How magnificent he looked in the dark blue brocade dressing gown. Her heart quickened at the sight of him. His feet were bare. She doubted very much that he was wearing anything beneath that dressing gown. She hoped not. She couldn’t wait to set that dressing gown off him. She wanted, finally, to see him naked. He was hers.

The earl closed the door, fastened his fingers over the key, and clicked it into place.

“I’m glad you did not leave me waiting too long, Justin. Do you know that I have never before spent the night in this bedchamber? I would not like to if I were alone. But since you’re here, I doubt I will even notice that miserable Dance of Death panel. Do you like my hair? My nightgown?

Mama made me keep it on.” She was babbling, she knew it, but certainly it was all right. She was a new bride, and she was a bit nervous after all.

She was so nervous she even gave him a curtsy.

He stood by the door, unmoving, just looking at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Your hair is beautiful. The nightgown is beautiful. You look very virginal. I’m pleased, but a bit surprised.”

“Indeed, I hope you are pleased. Why should you be surprised?” She was so filled with excitement she didn’t hear anything strange in his voice.

Still the earl did not move toward her nor did he answer her question.

Arabella, with a light, dancing step, skipped to him, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet. She laid her hands on his shoulders, felt the smooth flesh beneath her fingers, rose to her tiptoes, and kissed him.

His hands moved to her arms, and suddenly, with no warning, he shoved her away from him. She staggered back, clutched the back of a chair, and stared at him, mouth agape, stunned with confusion. “Justin? What is wrong? What happened? Didn’t you want me to kiss you?” He wanted to kill her. No, he couldn’t do that. But he would make her suffer. He would hurt her as she had hurt him. He said in a very precise voice that was colder than the winter frost of the previous winter, “You will take off your nightgown. You will do it now and you will do it quickly.”

Now she understood. Men were men, her father had told her that men got foxed at the oddest times. “Justin, if you have been drinking, I would just as soon that we did not—” Her voice fell like a stone from a cliff as he strode toward her. She saw the taut, angry cords standing out in his neck. She saw the fury in his gray eyes.

Fury?

At her? What was going on here? He should be as excited as she was. He had loved kissing her, pressing her close. He had told her that he wanted her breasts against his chest. Now was his chance. It was his wedding night as well as hers. Why was he angry?

“Do as I tell you, you damned slut, or I will rip it off you.” Slut? He had just called her a slut. She could but stare at him. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly, eyeing him as she backed away from him, and stood behind a very large winged chair. “Please, what is the matter? Why did you call me that? How could I be a slut? I’m eighteen and married for only five hours. I’m a virgin. More than that, I’m your wife.” There was no mistaking the raw fury in his eyes, in the way he held himself. He said nothing. He stalked her. She didn’t understand what was wrong, but she wasn’t stupid. She ran to the other side of the chair.

Soon he had cornered her behind a dressing table set close to the wall.

She held out her hands in front of her. “Justin, stop this, please. If this is a game, I do not understand the rules. I don’t like this game. My father never told me that it could be like this.” He laughed, a raw harsh laugh that brought fear hard and deep into her.

Something was very wrong. He was furious with her and she had no idea why.

He grabbed her suddenly, but she jerked her arm free, whirled about and raced to the door.