With a loud groan he thrust one last time, pouring himself into her. He collapsed almost instantly, every muscle exquisitely weary. A thousand thoughts collided in his mind in that instant—was he too heavy for her? Did she have any regrets? Had they made a baby?—but his mouth was so busy gasping for air that he couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it.
Finally, when he was able to hear something other than their hearts thudding in unison, he lifted himself onto his elbow, unable to believe what he'd done. He'd taken Victoria in a cramped, moving carriage. They were half dressed, rumpled—hell, he hadn't even managed to remove his boots. He supposed he should say he was sorry, but he wasn't. How could he be sorry when Victoria—no, Torie—was lying beneath him, her breathing still uneven with the last vestiges of her climax, her cheeks hot and flushed with pleasure.
Still, he felt he should say something, so he offered her a lopsided smile and said, “That was certainly interesting.”
Her mouth opened, her jaw moved slowly forward as if she was trying to say something. But no sound emerged.
“Victoria?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Two times,” she said, blinking dazedly. “Two times before the ceremony.” She closed her eyes and nodded. “Two times is quite all right.”
Robert threw back his head and laughed.
As it happened, “two times” was not quite accurate. By the time Robert managed to slide a gold band onto the fourth finger of Victoria's left hand, she had been thoroughly made love to not twice but four times. They had had to stop at an inn on the way to London, and he didn't even bother to consult her before informing the innkeeper that they were man and wife, and requesting a chamber with a large and comfortable bed.
And then he'd pointed out that it would be a sin to let such a nice big bed go to waste.
They were married almost immediately on their arrival in London. Much to Victoria's amusement, Robert left her waiting in the carriage as he ran into his house to retrieve the special license. He returned in under five minutes, and then they made their way to the residence of the Reverend Lord Stuart Pallister, the youngest son of the marquess of Chipping-worth, and an old school chum of Robert's. Lord Pallister married them in a trice, completing the ceremony in less than half the time Victoria's father had usually taken to do the job.
Victoria was terribly self-conscious when they finally arrived at Robert's home. It wasn't that it was imposingly grand; with his father still living, Robert had adopted one of the family's smaller holdings. Still, his stately town house was impeccably elegant, and Victoria had a feeling that living in the family quarters of such a residence would be much different than a governess's topfloor cubbyhole.
She was also afraid that all the servants would immediately recognize her as a sham. A vicar's daughter—a governess!—They wouldn't like to receive orders from her. It was imperative that she start out on the right foot with Robert's staff—a bad first impression could take years to correct. She just wished she knew which of her feet was the right one.
Robert seemed to understand her dilemma. As they rode in the carriage from Lord Pallister's home to his, he patted her on the hand and said, “Now you shall be a countess when you are introduced to your new home. It shall be much better that way.”
Victoria agreed, but that didn't stop her hands from shaking as they walked up the front steps. She tried to keep them still, but she wasn't successful, and her wedding band suddenly felt very heavy on her finger.
Robert paused before opening the door. “You're trembling,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his.
“I'm nervous,” she admitted.
“Why?”
“I feel as if I'm at a masquerade.”
“And your costume would be…” he prompted.
Victoria let out a nervous laugh. “A countess.”
He smiled. “It's not a costume, Victoria. You are a countess. My countess.”
“I don't feel like one.”
“You'll get used to it”.
“That is easy for you to say. You were born to this sort of thing. I haven't the slightest idea how to go about it.”
“Didn't you spend seven years as a governess? Surely you must have observed a thing or two from Lady—No, I take that back,” he said, frowning. “Contrive not to emulate Lady Hollingwood. Just be yourself. There is no rule that a countess must be haughty and stern.”
“Very well,” she said doubtfully.
Robert reached for the doorknob, but the door was pulled open before he touched it. A butler swept into a deep bow, murmuring, “My lord.”
“I think he watches out the window for me,” Robert whispered into Victoria's ear. “I have never once managed to grasp the doorknob.”
Victoria let out a little giggle despite herself. Robert was trying so hard to set her at ease. She decided then and there that she would not disappoint him. She might be terrified, but she was going to be a perfect countess if it killed her.
“Yerbury,” Robert said, handing the man his hat, “may I present my new wife, the Countess of Macclesfield.”
If Yerbury was surprised it certainly did not show on his face, which Victoria was sure was made of granite. “My deepest congratulations,” he said, then turned to Victoria and added, “My lady, it will be my pleasure to serve you.”
Victoria almost giggled again at that. The thought of someone serving her was so utterly foreign. But, determined to act properly, she managed to stifle her laugh into a friendly smile and said, “Thank you, Yerbury. I'm delighted to become a part of your household.”