A Christmas Promise by Mary Balogh

with which she had made love to him. He would have sworn that she had had a great deal of experience if it had not been for the blood—and for the barrier that he had felt himself tearing through. And he remembered the frenzy with which he had finally ended that encounter, shouting out, spilling his seed into her with all control gone.
    He inhaled slowly. It had not been the way he liked it—not that he had had it like that before. He liked sanity and warm comfort between the sheets with his women. And yet, he realized with no small annoyance as he turned onto his side and tried to will himself to sleep, he was aroused. Just thinking of his wedding night had aroused him.
    W HAT HE HAD SAID in the carriage on the way home the morning after her father’s death, Eleanor decided over the coming days and weeks, was sensible, and she was glad that it had been said even though his voice and his eyes had been icy when he spoke, and she had been chilled by the knowledge that she owed this man obedience for the rest of her life.
    But she was glad afterward that he had spoken thus. The following days would have been difficult under any circumstances, but they would have been a great deal worse if he had not put a stop to the open hostility between them. For she saw a great deal more of him during the day than she had ever seen of her father.
    Mostly it was unavoidable. The
ton
arrived in force during the five days preceding the funeral, and even afterward, to meet the bride of the Earl of Falloden, to congratulate them both on their marriage, to sympathize with them on their bereavement. Mostly they came out of curiosity, she thought, to see the cit’s daughter who had netted one of their own most eligible matrimonial catches. To look at her and criticize every detail of her appearance and behavior. To look for signs of vulgarity.
    And she would have given them what they wanted, she sometimes thought—as she had at Pamela’s party two years before—if she had not made that agreement with her husband and if he had not stayed so unwaveringly at her side through all the visits. Perhaps he stayed close just to prevent the sort of situation that would cause him embarrassment. But whatever his reason, he was always there beside her, his hand sometimes resting at her waist as he presented her to numerous strangers as his wife.
    He stayed at her side even when her father’s friends and associates came to express their sympathies, as several did. And he conversed courteously with them, even with Mr. Simms with his broad cockney accent, keeping his bargain with her as she kept hers with him.
    It was strangely comforting—except when she thought about the reality of the situation, as she did occasionally in the privacy of her own room. It was all a facade, a mere matter of civility, a way of getting through life without the unpleasantness of confrontation. It was fine for the days leading up to the funeral and for the weeks following it. But she found herself waiting for life to get back to normal again, waiting to go home. She was finding it almost impossible to accept the fact that this was now normal life, that this was home. That her father was no more. That the Earl of Falloden was the man with whom she must spend the rest of her life. Randolph. She could not quite associate the name with him. Or any other name, for that matter. He was the Earl of Falloden to her.
    There was not even the smallest degree of affection between them, he had said. His words were perfectly true. There was not. And yet the reality of it frightened her. She had grown up with deep affection—with her father and with the other members of her family when they were together as they quite often were. But her father was dead, and her family was lost to her. Her husband would not wish to lower himself to associating with them. Was she to live the rest of her life without affection, then? She already felt starved after a few weeks. Ravenously hungry for love.
    And