The Bride of Larkspear: A Fitzhugh Trilogy Erotic Novella (Fitzhugh Trilogy #3.5)
Sherry Thomas
Foreword
THE BRIDE OF LARKSPEAR STARTED as a story within a story, an erotic manuscript given by David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, to Miss Helena Fitzhugh, both of whom feature prominently in the Fitzhugh trilogy, three interconnected novels by Sherry Thomas.
Lord Hastings and Miss Fitzhugh have long had an antagonistic relationship. But unbeknownst to Miss Fitzhugh, Lord Hastings loves her. She, on the other hand, is in love with a most unsuitable gentleman.
Lord Hastings comes to fear that she will ruin herself over said gentleman. Should that happen, he would, of course, step in, offer his hand in marriage, and save her from being cast out by Society. And she would, if only for the sake of her family, accept him.
The prospect of such a marriage of necessity, with Miss Fitzhugh certain to be unhappy and he himself perhaps no less miserable, troubles him. And it is his fear—and his unvoiced hopes—that compels him to write this story.
(At some point in the future, Lord Hastings will learn, much to his surprise, that Miss Fitzhugh is still a virgin. But at the time of the writing of Larkspear, he is of the belief that she is experienced in carnal matters.)
Chapter One
1896, England
I SHALL BEGIN WITH A DESCRIPTION of the bed, for one must make the setting of a book clear from the first line. It is a bed with a pedigree. Kings have slept on it, noblemen have gone to their deaths, and brides beyond count have learned, at last, why their mothers ask them to “think of England.”
Tonight another bride will receive her lord and husband on this bed in the manner ordained by God. My bride, the woman I have desired for nearly half of my life.
The bedstead is constructed of oak, heavy, stout, almost indestructible. Pillars rise from the four corners to support a frame on which hang heavy curtains in winter. But it is not winter; the heavy beddings remain in their cedar chests. Upon the feather mattresses are spread only sheets of French linen, as decadent as Baudelaire’s verses.
Fine French linen is not so difficult to come by these days. And beds with pedigrees are still only furniture. What distinguishes this bed is the woman standing next to it—her back against one of the excessively sturdy bedposts, her wrists tied behind.
This being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked.
My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night.
I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. My hand on her chin, I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember.
“Why are my hands tied?” she murmurs. “Are you afraid of them?”
“Of course,” I reply. “A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary.”
A lioness—the way I always think of her, a creature of power and danger.
Earlier in the day she had been dazed, her eyes almost vacant, as we went through the motions of the hasty wedding ceremony that bonded us as husband and wife. It was as if she could not believe that her life had taken this particular turn, this disastrous plunge into the abyss.
But now that we are alone, in the midst of one of the most pivotal encounters of our lives, she has chosen to display neither hesitation nor fear. Instead her eyes glitter with calculation, as if assessing how she might turn being tied to a bedpost into an advantage for her.
“And what does that man do when he has caught said lioness and put her in her cage?”
It is high summer, but a fire has been lit in the grate. Her skin glows in the firelight. I brush aside a coppery strand of hair that has fallen before her eyes. “He teaches her that captivity can be wonderfully enjoyable—and trains her to become a tame house cat, a sweet, willing little pussy.”
Her eyes narrow at my not-so-subtle double entendre. “Lionesses do not become house cats—or have you not heard?”
My hand travels down and skims her rib cage. Her gaze follows my touch intently. As my knuckles brush the side of her breast, she shivers.
“Why belittle your ability to change?” I ask. “It is only your first hour of captivity.”