Page 17 of Entwined By Error (Madcaps of Mayfair #1)
Tea, Fairy Cakes, and Other Traps for the Heart
Walking back into Northcott Castle, this time as Mrs. Northcott, Myra found she didn’t have the wherewithal to eat the supper waiting in the dining hall. She wished to go to sleep, in her own bed, away from the man who was now her husband. But it was impossible.
She had been quite certain that the mortifying romance of her wedding vows would stand as the pinnacle of the evening’s shame—until she and Mr. Northcott were obliged to address certain personal matters.
While he attended to his, she fixed her gaze on the far wall and hummed a cheerful tune, hoping to blot out the sounds. It was a hopeless effort; her ears, traitorous things, heard everything.
When her turn came, she briefly considered a dignified refusal—then recalled that such stubbornness would cause more trouble than it would save.
So she summoned her courage, and the last of her dignity, insisted that he face the same wall, then dispatched the task with the brisk efficiency of a housemaid sweeping dust under the carpet.
After that task, the countess ushered them into the dining room where they rejoined their family.
Sitting at the table, she pushed the plate away unable to stomach the smell of food.
Her mother and father encouraged her more than once to try and eat something, but she couldn’t.
The cold meat and cheese were far from appetizing.
Casting a sidelong glance, she noted Mr. Northcott’s untouched plate and rigid posture, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and polite horror.
When he caught her eye, he inclined his head ever so slightly, as if asking for her opinion.
She had one, of course—but it was not fit for polite company, least of all within the walls of Northcott Castle.
When she was ready to beg off for the night, the countess clapped her hands and smiled at the newlyweds. “I have a bit of a treat for Mr. and Mrs. Northcott.”
Myra’s head came up, curious as to what the countess could have prepared so quickly. As the footman came around the corner that she knew led to the kitchens, she was surprised to see another tray of dessert.
The countess smiled at her son, her eyes alight with mirth. “Tea and fairy cakes.”
Mr. Northcott instantly stiffened, his expression darkening. “Pardon me?”
“A light treat to send you and Mrs. Northcott off for the evening.” The countess beamed around at their guests.
Myra accepted a fairy cake and a cup of tea, but only because the countess insisted upon it. As she nibbled on the corner of her cake, she took note that Mr. Northcott left his completely untouched.
* * *
Time was moving far too quickly and extremely slowly, leaving Myra unsettled. As she and Mr. Northcott entered the bridal suite, a room that had been prepared while they’d been at the church, Myra turned to look at her mother. “How am I to dress for bed?”
“Your maid and I will attend you.”
Myra turned to Mr. Northcott. “Please turn away.”
He did as she asked, and they stood back to back as her maid cut the sleeve and bodice of her dress until she was able to slip it off, pulling the fabric down so she could step out of it. “Oh, please do not cut my night dress.”
“Then you shall have to sleep in your chemise.”
Myra looked down at herself and instinctively she placed a hand over her chest, but Mr. Northcott’s came with it, too close for comfort, so she dropped her arm to her side. “I cannot. I wish to wear my dress once more.”
“Darling, you must realize how imprudent that would be.” Her mother reached out and placed her hands on Myra’s shoulders. “You are a wife now.”
Myra leaned forward, whispering in the hope that only her mother would hear her. “But, Mama, I do not know how to be a wife.”
Her mother smiled, but she chose not to whisper. “You will learn. I have no doubt Mr. Northcott will see to your education.”
Mr. Northcott’s head twisted around. “Mrs. Astley, I have no expectations of doing so this evening.”
Her mother laughed. “Well, perhaps not until the shackle is removed.”
With a kiss upon her cheek, her mother turned to leave, the maid following behind. Myra stepped toward her, pulling Mr. Northcott along. “Mama, you are not leaving me.”
“There is no need for you to worry. Lord Hastings has assured your father and me that Mr. Northcott will treat you with respect.”
Myra shook her head, confused. “But even you and father do not sleep in the same bedchamber.”
Her mother laughed. “We do on occasion, dearest. Moreover, I do not know how you and Mr. Northcott will manage to sleep in separate beds, what with the shackle upon your wrists.”
Grabbing onto her mother’s arm, she tried to pull her toward her. “Do not leave me.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Northcott, but the day is far spent. I too must retire.”
The moment she heard the words Mrs. Northcott, Myra’s hand released her mother’s arm of its own volition. The shock of hearing her new name was more than she could bear. She stood in the middle of the room with her hand shackled to her husband as her mother left and Mr. Northcott’s valet entered.
For another time that evening, she stood with her back to Mr. Northcott. But this time he was the one undressing. She listened to the quiet exchange between him and his valet, the sound of scissors cutting the fabric of his frock coat and then his waistcoat enough to bring tears to her eyes.
By the time the valet was leaving, Myra’s shoulders were shaking as she bit her bottom lip, holding back the sobs threatening to explode from her throat. Once the door closed and they were alone, Mr. Northcott cleared his throat.
“Are you in need of anything, a drink, perhaps?”
Her voice trembled. “A drink would be nice.”
She placed her arm over her chest as she followed him to the table where a bottle of champagne and two glasses sat waiting. Mr. Northcott poured and held the glass out to her. “Do not be concerned, Mrs. Northcott; my eyes will not stray from your face.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks as she turned away from him. Her chemise wasn’t the most modest of gowns, see-through if she were near enough to a candle or standing in the light of the moon.
She lifted the hand that was tethered to him. “I have a perfectly good hand for drinking.” Accepting the glass, she admired the bubbles, allowing them to tickle her nose before she threw her head back and drank it in one gulp. Her only goal was to forget everything that had happened that night.
Once they were finished, they both turned to look at the single, expansive bed dominating one side of the bedchamber.
Myra closed her eyes, her balance wavering.
Finally looking to Mr. Northcott, she found him with his brow arched, as though he were waiting for her to make the decision on how the night would proceed.
She planted her slippers with deliberate force into the carpet.
“It is well past the witching hour, Mrs. Northcott.”
“I am quite prepared to stand here until dawn.”
“Given the quantity of champagne you consumed, I give you ten minutes before you crumple like a tragic heroine in a gothic novel.”
“Then I shall swoon with dignity. You, on the other hand, may find the floor more fitting. Cold. Unyielding. Much like your conversation.”
“Tempting,” he drawled. “But lest you forget, it was your idea to consult that blasted fortune teller. Had we simply returned to Northcott Castle, we could have avoided being shackled together like a pair of wayward prisoners in a moral pamphlet.”
“You seemed perfectly willing to have your palm read at the time.”
“I was under duress. You were looking at me.”
“You are remarkably dramatic for a man who had sworn off women and marriage.”
“Pardon me?”
“Do not play coy with me, Mr. Northcott, you were perfectly clear earlier this day. You had no intention of marrying. Even Lord Southwood is aware of your aversion to marriage.”
“My brother is prone to exaggeration. As you can see, I am perfectly happy with our marriage.”
“I have reason enough to believe that Lord Southwood would never tell a falsehood, but you sir, are lying. You are no happier about this situation than I am.”
“Do you plan to stand here all evening, or shall we retire? I am quite exhausted from this day.”
“I shall stand here until the sun rises.”
Before she could find a comfortable stance, Mr. Northcott lifted her off the floor, carrying her to the bed, and then he threw her upon it, her wrist twisting as the shackle pulled against her hand.
“I am resigned to my fate as your husband, but if you kick me in your sleep, prepare yourself for the same in return.”
Myra pulled at the pillows, tucking them with vigor between their bodies. “How chivalrous of you, Mr. Northcott. Do not strain yourself on my account.”
Mr. Northcott pulled at the pillows, assisting her with the barricade she was making in the middle of the bed. “My dear Mrs. Northcott, until further notice, my chivalry is on sabbatical.”
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable on the floor, Mr. Northcott.”
Mr. Northcott slid under the covers, turning onto his side as he pulled her arm with him. “I think this will do very well.”
Myra balled her hand into a fist. She considered punching him in the shoulder, but instead she simply yanked their arms back toward herself. “Then you shall sleep on your back. I will not have my arm stretched over your body the entire night.”
Once they were both lying on their backs, a wall of pillows separating them, they blew out the candles and Myra closed her eyes, hoping that when she woke the following morning, this would all have been an awful nightmare.
* * *
The following morning, Myra stirred to the soft rhythm of breathing beneath her ear and the quiet warmth of morning light filtering through the curtains.
It took only a moment for her to realize that the firm pillow beneath her cheek was no pillow at all, but Mr. Northcott’s chest—warm, steady, and scandalously comfortable.
Worse still, her unshackled arm was draped across his waist, her fingers resting upon his stomach as if they had been placed there with deliberation, not desperation, sometime in the night.
The wall of pillows she’d hastily stuffed between them was gone, the protection she’d thought she’d have against her husband tossed away during the night.
She dared not move.
His heartbeat was infuriatingly calm, as though their closeness meant nothing. Although, she couldn’t be angry about that, especially since the slow, rhythmic movement told her he was still sleeping.
Planning to slowly lift her head and move away from him, she froze at the faintest tightening of muscles beneath her hand and a shallow catch of breath. He was awake.
“Good morning, Mrs. Northcott,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with sleep. “I must say, your choice of sleeping arrangements was bold. Territorial, even.”
Myra closed her eyes, mortified. “I was unconscious. If I’d been aware, I’d have rolled directly into the fireplace instead of touching you.”
“Ah,” he said mildly, “so this was affection by accident. How fortunate for me.”
She braced herself, slowly pulling away as dignity demanded. The chain at their wrists tugged softly, a mocking reminder of the previous day’s fortune-telling disaster.
“If you were uncomfortable, you might have moved me,” she muttered, sitting up and pushing a hand through her tousled hair.
“I considered it,” he replied, propping himself on one elbow with maddening ease. “But you looked…peaceful.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Please do not mock me.”
He placed his free hand over his heart as he intoned, “I am a gentleman, Mrs. Northcott; I dare not treat you with disrespect.”
“I have a mind to throttle you.”
“Please do. But not until we break our fast. You have already stolen my blanket and most of my dignity, at least allow me to have a full stomach before I go to my grave.”
“Very well.” Myra slid out from under the covers, yanking his arm as she did so. “We must dress if I am to succeed in making myself a widow this day.”