Page 61 of When We Touch

“But you’ve got to get to know Maggie as well, my dear.”

“Of course. I can hardly wait. Good night, Father.”

The girl was coming up the stairs. Maggie quickly retreated down the hall, slipping into the master’s chamber.

She closed the door and leaned against it, and nearly jumped a mile when she saw that Mrs. Whitley was in the room.

“I thought you might need some help with the gown, Lady Maggie,” she said.

Maggie stared at her blankly for a minute. Her eyes flew to the massive oak master bed. It was dressed in elegant sheets, with a multitude of pillows. And there, lying atop the lowered spread, was an elegant see-through nightgown in the sheerest white gossamer silk. Suddenly, the rich food, the champagne, welled to her throat.

No! Good God, no! She couldn’t marry such a good man as Charles and vomit the minute he took off his clothing.

“I think I can manage,” Maggie said. She pushed away from the door, resolved. “I’m sorry . . . I’m rather accustomed to taking care of myself. If you wouldn’t mind helping with the hooks and then the tie on the corset . . .”

“Indeed, madam.”

The very dour housekeeper was still marvelously adept. In seconds, Maggie was freed from all manner of restraint. She was uncomfortable in such a state of undress, but apparently, Mrs. Whitley had served many a young woman and before Maggie knew it, she was bereft of everything, and clad in the white gown.

Which was rather still like being bereft of everything. Mrs. Whitley, ever the perfect servant, seemed not to notice. She directed Maggie to the dressing table, where she removed all the pins from her hair, and began to brush it.

Maggie thought that she’d crawl from her skin. The last time she’d had someone tend to her hair so, it had been Jamie.

“Thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Whitley,” she said, jumping up. “I think . . . I think I’m quite fine now.”

“Aye, my lady. There’s champagne in the bucket at the foot of the bed, and a tray of fruit, cheese, and sweets, there on the marble table near the door. Naturally, if you need anything . . .”

“I’ll ring,” Maggie assured her.

At last, the woman was gone.

Maggie made a beeline for the champagne and guzzled down two glasses. She briefly considered the headache she’d have the following morning, then determined that the pain would be worth it, if she could just survive the night.

She was on her fourth glass of champagne when the door opened. Lord Charles had arrived.

He had evidently prepared for his wedding night elsewhere, for he entered the room in nothing but a rich cranberry smoking jacket.

Maggie met his eyes, then found that her gaze traveled downward to the legs, bare beneath the hem of the jacket.

Thin. Very thin. He wore matching maroon slippers.

She brought her gaze up to his knobby knees. The gaslights were down, but too many candles burned through the room.

She swallowed her fourth glass of champagne. Forced a smile to her lips.

“Well, here we are. At last,” she breathed.

“My dear . . . my dear, dear, dearest!”

He walked into the room. Maggie nervously grabbed another glass from the tray at the foot of the bed, poured him one, and a fifth for herself. She handed it to him. “Charles.”

“My dear, dear, dear . . .”

He took the glass of champagne, but set it immediately down. He took Maggie’s from her hand, despite her protest. His hands came around her waist. He lifted her, setting her standing on the bed, the white gossamer trailing around her. He was far stronger than she had expected.

“Charles . . . I think we should share a glass of champagne!” she whispered.

He came closer, ignoring her words. And suddenly, it seemed that everything about him changed. His eyes were flatly . . . lascivious.