DeButy & the Beast Page 4
The medical books sounded quite fascinating. Poetry was boring. Novels… she did enjoy novels. “And you will be a generous husband and share your library with your wife?”
“If she agrees to be cooperative and dress like a lady when she is among others.”
She walked to the bed and lifted the linen drawers. “But at night, when we are alone, I can wear whatever I desire? Even if what I desire to wear is… nothing at all?”
Julian swallowed hard. His easy smile faded. “I am willing to compromise.”
She took the step that brought her to him, so close her nose was almost touching his chest. So close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. “I understand,” she whispered. “You wish to save my nakedness for you and you alone.”
“No, that’s not at all…”
“You wish to keep that part of me to yourself.”
“Anya,” he said in a warning voice.
“You are jealous,” she whispered.
“Fine,” he said, slinking past her and stalking to the door. “I am jealous. Just put on the damned clothes.”
She lifted the chemise and held it over her breasts. “Yes, dear.”
Her husband groaned as he left the room.
*
Anya was lovely, and he told her so. In answer, she kicked at the hallway railing and complained that her shoes pinched her toes.
“When someone compliments you, the correct response is, ‘thank you,’ ” he said as he took her arm and escorted her down the stairs.
She made a noise of pure disgust.
In truth, she was more than lovely. She was devastatingly beautiful. No matter how proper the clothing, Anya still looked untamed and lusciously seductive. Perhaps it was because she continued to wear her hair loose and flowing, an impropriety he would remedy after breakfast. Then again, perhaps it was her luscious lips, the way she smiled, the sparkle in her eyes. There was nothing tame about her face, and he had a feeling that could not be changed. Her spirit was wild, and that wildness could not be disguised with a plain day dress and a pair of shoes.
One step at a time, he reminded himself as he and his wife entered the dining room.
Anya’s grandmother and her cousins were already seated at the table. They all perked up and took notice when a suitably attired Anya made her appearance.
“Anya,” Mrs. Sedley exclaimed, “you look”—her expression softened—“so much like your mother.”
Anya allowed Julian to pull out her chair, and she sat demurely. “I do not remember her,” she said, a trace of coldness in her voice.
Julian sat beside his bride, wishing the change of clothing had subdued her sensuality. Perhaps if it had, he’d be able to steer his mind in a safer direction than the one it had chosen to take—the sight of Anya tossing her hair and baring her body, wondering what tactics she would use on him tonight, when they were again alone. Wondering how he would continue to resist her.
And he would. He had no choice.
The maid who hurried into the dining room was as surprised as the others had been. Her eyes widened, and she halted in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.
“I am hungry,” Anya said, without so much as lifting her eyes to look at the maid. “And I have a yearning for roasted boar this morning.”
The poor girl went pale. “Madam, we have no…”
Anya raised her head slowly and pinned her eyes on the trembling servant. “I have a yearning for roasted boar,” she repeated, each word precise. “See to it.”
The maid looked pleadingly to Mrs. Sedley. The poor girl was terrified.
“Ham,” Julian said gently. “Ham will be just fine. Do you have ham?”
The maid nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.”
Anya laid her eyes on him. “I did not ask for ham, I asked for roasted boar.”
“Don’t be unreasonable,” he said in a low voice.
Her hand shot out and she grabbed the vase of flowers that sat, most foolishly, within her reach. With her eyes pinned to his, she reared her arm back, readying a throw. Seymour ducked. Valerie covered her eyes.
Julian reached out and snagged her arm. “Return the vase to the table,” he said calmly.
“I will n—”
He tightened his grip and forced her arm down, very softly repeating his order. This time Anya complied, setting the vase down with such force that water splashed onto the tablecloth.
“We do not throw things when we do not get our way,” he said.
“Yes, we do,” Anya snapped.
“And I do think you owe Betsy an apology.”
Anya’s face went blank. “Who?”
“Betsy.” Julian lifted his hand to indicate the maid in the doorway. “You treated her quite badly.”
A hush fell over the room, as everyone awaited Anya’s response. She just shook her head in wonder. “She is a servant, here to do as I ask. I need not apologize when she is the one who is inadequate.”
“You know quite well there is no roasted boar in the kitchen,” he said. “You asked so you would have an excuse to raise a ruckus at the table. Offer an apology.”
“Why should I?”
He smiled at her. “Because if you do not, the medical books that will be delivered with the rest of my things will be declared off limits.”
Her lips thinned and her eyes sparkled. “And what makes you think I care at all for your silly medical books?”
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Because when I mentioned them upstairs your eyes positively lit up.”
“They did not,” she protested.
“They did.” He leaned a little closer. “Apologize.”
Anya lifted her chin, faced the servant in the doorway, and took a deep breath. “Forgive me…” She glanced at Julian and he whispered,
“Betsy.”
“Betsy,” she repeated curtly. “Ham will be just fine.” Her nostrils flared, and Betsy made her escape.
“See there?” Julian said with a smile. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”
“I cannot believe you made me apologize to a mere servant.”
“She is more than a servant, Anya, she is a person. A person with feelings just like yours.”
Anya snorted.
“Don’t make that noise,” he commanded. “It’s very unladylike.”
“We have been married less than one day,” she said beneath her breath, “and already you annoy me.”
Thank God. Perhaps if she decided to find him annoying she would quit trying to tempt him so shamelessly when they were alone. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Betsy arrived with ham, eggs, coffee, and sweet bread. Anya behaved herself as the maid placed the hearty meal before them. But when Betsy had left and the others had returned to the chore of consuming their own meals, Anya leaned close to him and whispered, “Do not worry, cher. Just because I find you annoying, that does not mean I do not want you. You are my husband, and you will come to my bed.”
*
Anya sat on the stool to which Julian gestured, plopping down too hard in protest. “I do not like pins in my hair,” she insisted. He had directed her to the south parlor for this exercise, away from the family and away from their beds. Perhaps he found this room… safer.
“You must wear your hair up, Anya,” Julian said in that sensible voice of his. “It’s—”
“Proper,” she interrupted.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Hilary, who often assists your cousin Valerie in fashioning her hairstyle, will be happy to…”
“No,” Anya said, lifting her head defiantly. “Only you.”
“What?”
“If I must wear my hair up, only you will touch it.” She turned her head and looked up, giving her husband a smile. Hilary, a docile girl who rarely said a word, stood meekly behind him. “If anyone else but you so much as touches a strand of my hair, I will cut off their fingers, one at a time, and feed them to the wild dogs that howl at night.”
But his protest came too late. Hilary was gone. Anya turned her head forward again, glancing out the window to the lovely, warm day beyond the panes of glass.
“Your manners are atrocious,” Julian accused.
“It is your job to teach me, is it not?”
He groaned, and slipped his hands beneath the long locks. His fingers brushed against her back, and the hairs on her neck stood. She closed her eyes as he lifted and twisted the strands. Oh, such strong hands he had. The top of her head positively tingled as his fingers moved clumsily through the motions of arrangement.
“This is going to look ghastly,” he mumbled.
“If I must learn new things, you must also learn,” she said softly. “I will be patient while you master your new skills, as I hope you will be patient with me.”
His fingers worked through her hair. Some strands were piled heavily atop her head, others fell around her shoulders. Julian tried to hold it all in place while he reached for the pins on the table at her side. “I cannot believe you threatened that poor girl with physical violence,” he said as he stabbed at her hair with a pin. “You actually threatened to cut off her fingers!”
“She left, did she not?” Anya said, unconcerned. “Just as I desired. And you are learning to style my hair as you wish me to wear it. We should both be pleased.”
Her grandmother had complained that she had a difficult time keeping help, as of late. Besides Peter, only Hilary and Betsy remained as live-in servants, though there were a number who came in and worked odd hours or odd days. They all avoided Anya like the plague, just as she wished. She knew quite well what Betsy’s name was, and that Hilary was easily frightened.
Again Julian stabbed at her hair, lifting some of the strands that had fallen. His hands were gentle, strong, and capable, but tender. He would make a wonderful lover, when he finally capitulated. And he would capitulate. When he did, he would be hers to command. Her willing slave, a submissive husband. He would belong to her, in every possible way.
“Hilary should have known better than to run,” he said evenly. “Even if you had been serious with your ridiculous threat, there are no sharp objects within reach for you to…”
Moving quickly, Anya lifted her skirt and unsheathed the knife she wore at her right thigh. The leather strap rested over the linen of her drawers, today, instead of against her bare thigh, but she had no trouble slipping the dagger from its sheath and lifting her hand high to display the weapon for Julian.
His hands stilled. “Where did that come from?” he asked softly.
She lifted her white-stockinged leg and slowly drew back the pale blue skirt of her blasted dress so that he could see the leather strap and sheath.
“What on earth made you decide that you needed to leave your bedroom armed this morning?” He tried to sound calm, but did not quite manage.
“Caro,” she said softly, “I never leave my room unarmed.”
“Yesterday…”
“Of course.”
“Last night at dinner…”
“Naturally.”
He poked at the twisted hair atop her head with more pins, remaining silent for a long moment. “This is your home, Anya. There is no need for you to carry a weapon. When you do leave the house you will be escorted, so at that time there will be no need. Do you… do you think someone here will try to harm you?” His voice was so gentle, so thoughtful, she felt something shift inside her. She had been right when she looked into his eyes that first day and determined that he had a good heart.
“As long as I have the dagger, I have no need to fear anyone.”
His fingers worked at stray, misbehaving strands, touching her scalp, brushing against her neck. She felt his warmth and presence behind her, and savored it. Yes, he was a good man. And he was hers.
“Anya,” he finally said. “Have you ever… have you ever used that knife?”
“Of course.”
“On a human being?”
She sniffed and hesitated before answering. “No. The threat has always been enough.”
He placed the final pin in the hair, circled around her, then dropped to his haunches so that his face was close to hers. He looked her in the eye, deep. So deep. “You are home,” he said softly. “Among family and friends. No one will ever hurt you here.”
She wanted to believe him, she did. But she had been too long alone, she had been too long an outcast. No matter how she wished otherwise, she knew she could count on no one else. Not for protection. Not for security. Not for anything. If she were successful and Julian came to her—when she was successful, she amended—she would buy his devotion with her body. It was the only way. Nothing was free. Not loyalty, not affection.
He laid a hand on her cheek. “You are not so fearless after all, are you?”
Unwilling to let her husband see too much, Anya grinned and shook her head gently. Her hair came tumbling down.
Julian’s eyebrows lifted slightly, in obvious dismay. “Well, we’ll get it right eventually, I suppose.”
She thought, for a moment, that they were finished, but Julian simply stood over her and crossed his arms. “Our first lesson will concern your language.”
“I speak many,” she said innocently.
“A lady carefully considers every word that leaves her mouth. People will judge you by your manner of speaking.”
“I do not speak well?”
He narrowed his eyes, like a hawk. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Ladies do not curse.”
“Never?”
Julian shook his head.
“How bloody boring that must be.”
Her husband ignored her deliberate jab, staring at her as his eyes went dark.
“Well, what does a lady say when she is upset or frustrated?”
“A simple mercy, if you must. Or perhaps, goodness gracious.”
Anya smiled, stood, and patted her husband lightly on the cheek. “Thank you for trying to teach me, marido, but I prefer to continue to speak as I always have.”
“Anya…”
“Are there any other lessons for this morning?” She placed her foot on the sofa, lifted her skirt, and returned the dagger to its sheath. When she glanced up and over at Julian, she found that his gaze was pinned to her leg. It was an opportunity she would not waste. She took her time making sure the dagger was secure in its leather housing, and then she picked at a nonexistent wrinkle in her drawers, raking her palm over her thigh. That done, she moved her hand lower to smooth out the stockings.
Julian said nothing, so she asked again. “Lessons? Manners? Speech? Corsets?” She smiled and raked her hand down her side, where there was no corset.
“Not right now,” he said hoarsely. And then he turned his back on her and stalked from the room.
Anya’s smile faded. Her husband might want her, but she was beginning to realize that he was also very stubborn.
Chapter 4
The next day, Julian stiffened his spine as he and Anya walked into the sitting room that connected their bedchambers. Afternoon sun streamed into the fine, spacious room. He had never in his life lived in such a place. His last, inadequate apartment had not been as large as this one sitting room. But what a price he was paying for this fine place.
Reason, he needed reason. He was a professional, a scientist, and his wife was a fascinating subject. She was a project; walking, talking evidence of the effects of a pagan society on a woman of good stock. She was a fascinating medical and sociological subject. There was no other sane way to approach the situation.
Now that a fairly pleasant lunch with the family was over, Anya was to take a nap and he would make notes on the travels he would undertake after his chore was done. Unfortunately, Anya did not look at all like she wanted or needed a nap.
He watched, fascinated, as she walked to the window and lifted her face to catch the rays of sun that streamed through the panes. With Valerie’s help, they had manage
d to restrain his wife’s abundance of red hair atop her head. Only a few strands had gone astray, wispy curls of red dancing around her cheeks and neck.
For the first eight years of her life, Anya Sedley had lived a fairly normal existence. As normal as possible, for a child living through a barbarous civil war. She had been as protected as possible, by her family and her family’s wealth. She had been schooled, sheltered, and taught the ways of a well-bred young lady. The war had ended, and perhaps for a couple of years Anya had been a part of the ideal family: a mother and father, a loving grandmother, cousins to play and learn with. And then her father had tired of Reconstruction and packed up his wife and child to leave it all behind, to join a colony of disenchanted Southerners in Brazil.
Sole survivor of the shipwreck that had taken her parents’ lives, Anya had lived the next twelve years as a pagan; and had taken quite well to her new lifestyle.
Anya was beautiful, that was true. But she was also an utterly primitive female. Sometimes he was quite sure his wife was more animal than human. Her self-control was nonexistent. She said whatever came to her mind, no matter how inappropriate it might be. Her natural sensuality rose to the surface on occasion, and she was not ashamed. She was never ashamed.
In a very small, very reluctant way, he envied her that freedom. To say what she thought without reserve. To truly dismiss the cares and expectations of the civilized world. She was fascinating. Seductive. Free. She was everything Dr. Julian DeButy was not.
There had been times, terrible moments, when he’d looked at her and wondered if there had been other men in her life, men besides the king of Puerta Sirena. She had been the king’s concubine, not his wife. Had there been other men before the king? Did the king’s concubine entertain other men? When his thoughts turned in that direction, the wondering made him a little crazy, so he never wondered for long.
She turned from the window and began to unbutton the bodice of her gown.
“What are you doing?”
“You said when we were alone I could dress as I like.” She sent her hated shoes sailing, with a hearty flailing of one leg after the other.
He had said that, hadn’t he? “Yes, but it’s an awful lot of trouble to remove… all that, and then have to dress again for dinner.”