Hello, Beautiful Ones.
This story takes place in a time where marriages, especially like the one depicted in this story, are seen primarily as contracts between families. To ensure a binding contract, sometimes measures were taken to ensure the marriage was properly consummated. This story is in no way condoning these measures. Please use reader discretion while reading this chapter.
Thank you to Mel, Jill, Gemma, and Pamela
Chapter 2
The chapel is small and nearly empty when I enter it. I can hardly see through the ridiculously thick veil over my head, and in my nerves, my steps are unsteady over the hard stone floor.
Do not trip, do not trip, do not trip.
It would be just like me to ruin something so important with my utter lack of grace.
At the altar, I can see the priest and the shape of the man I am going to marry, but the veil is obscuring my vision too much to make out more detail than that.
I make it almost to the altar when my foot catches on a stone, and I tumble forward.
A strong hand reaches out, catching me before I can fall completely to the floor. My face is aflame, and suddenly, I am grateful for the veil to shield me from view. It would be so much worse for them to see my shame.
"Are you all right?"
His voice is deep, the sound rolling through my chest as he tries to right me. I cannot manage any words because my throat is tight.
"Shall we begin?" the priest asks. My betrothed's hand is still on my forearm, and I can feel his gaze on me through my veil. When I do not protest, he turns to the priest.
"Yes, please."
The priest clears his throat and begins to speak, but I am focused on the large hand wrapped around my wrist. His touch is surprisingly tender, and I wonder if he even realizes he is holding me still.
The priest sounds rushed, like he wants nothing more than to get this over with. As a result, the ceremony is swift, and before I can even catch my breath, he is pronouncing us man and wife.
I turn to the man—my husband—and fight down my urge to flee back up the aisle.
Through the veil, I see his hands lift, fingering the material, before he is pulling it back.
I look at his face for the very first time.
He is young, his smooth face without any sort of beard. His hair is a bright, almost shining bronze in the light of the chapel windows. His eyes are brilliantly green, like fresh grass in spring. He is so much taller than I realized, with broad shoulders and muscles straining under his restrictive wedding clothes. One of his large hands is still around my wrist, and I let my gaze fall to it, taking in the length of his fingers, and the clean square shape of his nails.
He is beautiful, but it makes me trust him all the less.
His hand leaves my wrist and gently nudges my chin up so that I meet his bright gaze again. He leans down toward me, and I stop breathing as his lips brush over mine. He smells good, like apples and woodsmoke, and he is surprisingly gentle as his lips press into mine.
After a moment, he steps back, leaving my lips feeling tingly in his wake.
He takes my hand, and with words muttered to the priest that I do not catch, he turns and guides us down the aisle and out of the chapel.
I let him lead me, unsure of where we are going, but too distracted by the heat he left on my lips.
He steers us to a small chamber, where inside there is food piled onto a large platter on the table by the fire. He drops my hand as we enter the room, striding across to pour himself a glass of wine.
"Do you drink?" he asks, turning to me. I stare at him blankly. He frowns and turns to his own cup, filling it. He pauses, picking up the cup and drinking most of the contents down in a single gulp. He looks back at me.
"Say something, please," he begs.
I blink. "Hello, I am Bella," I say, then realize the stupidity of my words.
Across the room, he snorts, setting his glass down. "Christ." He groans, and I am a little taken aback to hear him curse. "This has all gone awry," he complains.
I feel my cheeks grow hot. Of course he would feel that way. He must hate having to be married to me. I am nothing like my sister, who is elegant and charming and witty and talented.
I am no prize.
Before I can apologize to him for this—for the situation he has found himself in, being married to a worthless girl for the rest of his life—the door opens, and I look up to see Grandmother come in with three men I do not know.
Grandmother's eyes land briefly on me before turning to my husband. "We are rather busy tonight," she declares. "Let us hurry this along."
I frown, turning back to my husband, who is downing another glass of wine. He swears again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before he turns to me.
"I am sorry," he says, coming closer to me.
My body begins to tremble. "For what?" I whisper, fear clear in my voice.
He winces. "Just trust me, please," he begs. It is asking too much. I do not trust him. I cannot even remember his name.
He reaches for my waist, and to my horror, begins unfastening my dress, while people are still in the room.
"No," I protest, my voice a whisper. "No."
His hands keep going as his eyes find mine. "We have to. We have to prove our marriage has been consummated."
Horror floods my core. My first time, with a man whose name I cannot remember, in front of my grandmother and three strange men?
"No, no, no," I wheeze, tears welling in my eyes. He stops, his hands stilling around my waist before they lift to my cheeks.
"I promise," he murmurs, brushing the tears away. "I am going to do what I can to shield you from this."
How can this be okay? How can this be an acceptable thing?
He undresses me down to the shift I am wearing, and I feel utterly exposed in the dim light of the room. He leads me to the bed, nudging me down gently. My knees feel close to giving out anyway as I sit.
I watch him as he strips down until he is in nothing more than his tunic. It is covering most of him, but I can see the strong muscles in his thighs as he drops his trousers, and it makes me nervous. No part of my body looks or feels as strong as his thigh alone.
I am completely at his mercy.
He pushes me back onto the bed, nestling himself between my legs.
"I am sorry," he whispers. "I am so sorry."
He leans down to kiss me, and while his lips are busy, I feel his hand reach to the bottom of my shift, sliding under it to find my leg.
I flinch under his touch, but he does not stop, letting his hand keep trailing up until it hits the apex of my thighs. His touch is foreign and confusing and a little bit scary.
His fingers rub over me, and an involuntary gasp leaves my lips as a fissure of pleasure runs through me. Encouraged, his fingers double back, finding that spot again.
Instinctually, my legs part to let him have more access.
His lips continue to stroke mine, his tongue sweeping past to tangle with my own. I can taste the wine on him, and it makes me dizzy.
"Get to it, boy," Grandmother's voice cuts through the haze I am in, and I feel my body tense. Above me, my husband lets out a breath before his eyes meet mine.
"Hold onto me," he tells me quietly.
My shaking hands clasp his covered shoulders as his hand leaves my center. I feel him pull my shift up until it is around my hips, and I silently pray his body is blocking the view of everyone else in the room.
"Try to relax," he tells me, just as I feel something warm and hard near my center. My breathing hitches, my body locking down in my fright.
"Relax," he urges, leaning down to kiss me. "Relax."
I start to, ever so slowly, but before I am ready, he is pushing into me.
It is a bright, burning pain that shocks my body. I whimper and he leans down, kissing my mouth. He is still for a moment once he is in me, and I have to fight back the tears that are stinging my eyes.
"I am sorry." He groans, his voice tight. I can feel his body straining over me, and his hips flex, rocking in and out of me.
It hurts and I bite my lip to stop myself from crying.
He begins to move, and though I know he is trying to be careful, every slide of his body through mine is agony.
I have to turn my face from his so he does not see the tears. His head is on my shoulder anyway, and I can feel he is lost to whatever possible pleasure he can take from such an act.
His hips falter over mine, and then a strange warm sensation is happening, and I feel him filling me. His body slumps as he pulls out of me, leaving my body burning and aching and confused.
He sits up on the bed, pulling a blanket over me as he turns to speak to Grandmother and the three men. I glance in their direction to see them all nod and exit the room without another word.
He turns back to me, but I cannot move, cannot even shift to look at him.
Large tears are streaming down my cheeks, the only thing I am unable to keep back.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice soft. I do not want to be touched anymore, and instead of answering him, I turn on my side so that my back is to him.
It is then I let the sobs come, blurring my vision until they eventually put me into a fitful sleep.
…
I wake to an empty bed the next morning. My body is aching and bruised in places I have never felt before, and the shame from the previous night makes me feel heavy.
I want to stay in bed all day, but eventually, I know I must rise.
My husband isn't in the room, though I know he slept beside me.
Several times, I felt his hand hovering over me, like he longed to reach out to me, but he never did.
I do not know if this makes me relieved or regretful.
There is a wash bin in the room, and I dip a cloth into it, carefully pulling my shift over my head to scrub my body. There is blood between my legs—not much, but enough to bring tears to my eyes again.
When I am cleaned up and dressed again, he is still gone. I pull myself together and force myself downstairs. We are guests in the duke's residence, and though I am related to him through marriage now, I know I still must tread carefully. Likely, I am not welcome here.
I find my way to a dining hall where the duke is seated at a long table. Aside from a few servants, he is alone, and I falter at the door, not wanting to intrude. He looks up when he hears me and motions me into the hall.
"Bella. Come eat. I am sure you are ravenous," he says with a chuckle. His words make my head dip in shame.
"Yes, your excellency," I whisper.
I take a seat down the table from him, and someone comes to bring me wine and a plate.
"I am sure you are looking for your sister." He hums. "But she is rather occupied at the moment." He chuckles to himself. "Did you wake to see your husband off?"
I pause, a grape halfway to my mouth. "What?"
The duke frowns. "I do hate to have to send him into battle the morning after his wedding, but it is how these things go," he says, shaking his head. "Do not worry. I have promised to look after you. You shall receive your land and will be gifted a handful of servants to run it while your husband is away."
My mouth is dry. "H-how long will he be gone?"
The duke shrugs. "Impossible to stay. Months, perhaps?" He seems to be losing interest in the conversation.
"Months," I echo quietly. I will be alone for months? I have never been alone in my life, in any way. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to take care of myself?
I feel a hollowness carve itself out where my stomach should be.
What do I do?