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but his bride clearly did not think it good for her .
    And there was more to come, of course. A
wedding night, and Aidan’s first foray between a virgin’s thighs.
Another reason not to overindulge.
    Finally, the ladies took his bride off to the
“nuptial chamber,” which was doubtless another grimy, chilly room.
Aidan attempted to have words with her father, about the fine
wedding and his intention to honor his daughter. The baron squinted
back at him, hazy and sloppily drunk. More toasts, more wine. The
men called out to each other in Welsh, bawdy sallies they were
happy to translate.
    Then, remarkably, all the males in the room
swept him up in a mob of laughter and song and bore him toward the
stairs. Aidan thought of medieval wedding night customs, beddings
and shivarees. He was a duke of the realm, for God’s sake. His
friends would never believe this. Never. He could hardly believe it
himself. So then they carried me upstairs and crowded into the
bedroom, and threw rosemary sprigs onto the bed.
    His new duchess awaited him there, shivering
pitifully under the sheets as fifty or more people entered the
chamber. Aidan wondered, with dark humor, whether they’d stay to
witness the consummation in true medieval fashion.
    When it seemed they intended just that, he
reached the limits of his patience and ordered the drunken mob
downstairs. Their retreat left behind a heavy silence. He rubbed
his neck and muttered, “What a singular display.”
    “They only meant to wish us well,” said his
bride. “It is the local tradition, to see newlyweds to bed.”
    “Would you have preferred them to
remain?”
    She shook her head, regarding him from under
her lashes. He shouldn’t grouse at her, or frighten her any more
than she already was. He tried to smile but imagined it came out
more of a grimace. She paled. Was he so terrifying? Christ, this
marriage nonsense. Best to get this unpleasant duty done.
    He turned away and began to undress. Valets
were not meant for wedding nights at filthy castles. His man was
abed in the servants’ quarters, and thank God, for he would have
fainted dead away at the stampede of drunk wedding guests. Oh, to
be back among civilized people. The revelries below seemed to grow
louder by the moment. “Welshmen like their drink, don’t they?” he
said.
    She pulled the covers up to her neck. “I
suppose. What will you do if they come back?”
    “Two of my burliest grooms are outside the
door.” They were not precisely grooms, being more concerned with
ensuring his personal safety. Now that he was married, these
“grooms” would look after his duchess too. He’d tell her about them
in time, but not tonight. He laid his coat over a chair, and then
his waistcoat. He took a poke at the fire, only for restlessness,
but the servants had built it properly to burn all night.
    There was plenty of light to see his bride.
He crossed to her, ignoring the way she shrank back beneath the
covers. “Take out my cravat pin, would you?” he said, sitting right
beside her. “And help me undo my neckcloth.”
    For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but
then she pursed her lips and reached to unfasten the gold and
diamond pin. She was such a pretty, fluttery thing, his Welsh
fairy. He recalled their moments in the meadow, the way she’d
leaned against his chest as he kissed and stroked her, and traced
her nipples to enjoy her soft, breathless moans. He eyed the
gathered neckline of her ivory shift. “That’s a pretty garment. Was
it made especially for the wedding?”
    She nodded and handed him his cravat pin.
    “Fix it through the shirt’s collar, so I
don’t lose it,” he suggested. “Try not to stab me in the neck.”
    His jest went unacknowledged. Not a peep of
laughter. In fact, she gave a little shiver as she loosened his
neckcloth and drew it from his collar.
    “Are you cold?” he asked.
    She shook her head in answer, her lips
clamped tight.
    “Do not wag your head about like a horse,”