His Lady Mistress

130 His Lady Mistresswas her wedding night. Any moment Max might comethrough the door connecting their bedchambers—she glancedat the gilt clock on the marble chimney piece—and, thenagain, he might not.It wouldn’t be Max anyway. Instead of Max, her tenderlover and protector, she had Lord Blakehurst—her cold, politehusband. And the thought of sharing a bed with him terrifiedher. She had disgusted him. He thought her little betterthan a whore. She shuddered. He might not be far wrong, butshe could not bear to have him touch her in that way. Shehad to convince him that he was wrong, that she had notintended to trap him and that, despite appearances, she wasnot a whore. And how she was to convince him of that, whenshe couldn’t convince herself, was beyond her ken.Hurrying out of her wedding gown, she washed and pulledher nightgown over her head, grateful for its voluminous sizeand shape. She stared unhappily at the bed. It looked comfortableand cosy with its silk counterpane and rich hangings.And it looked far too large for her.She could sit by the fireplace, until she felt sleepy. Methodicallyshe moved around the room, turning down thelamps until the room was lit only by her bedside lamp. Settlingin the chair, she shivered a little. She had achieved heraim: she was safe. Safe from poverty and bullying. She woulddoubtless have every material benefit that could be gainedfrom her marriage. Surely she could learn to be happy, tocount her blessings?Safety—wasn’t that the main thing? Her gaze travelledaround the room again, noting the luxurious furnishings, therichly draped windows and matching bed hangings. Hersnow. She looked again. They didn’t feel like hers. The eleganceof the room mocked her, demanding to know how alittle provincial nobody could be worthy of all this. Moretears fell.She wriggled more closely into the security of the chair.Perhaps she should light the fire...