An Unexpected Gentleman (28 page)

“Everything is ready,” Connor said softly. “Why wait?”

She thought through the matter with a mind for what was best for herself and her family, but quickly realized that, barring Connor taking a tragic fall from his horse, her decision would make very little difference in the long run. Whether she married Connor today or married him in a few weeks time, the end result would the same.

Except that, if she waited, there would no longer be a decision to make. She would wake on her wedding day knowing her only options were to arrive at the chapel and say her vows or send her family to ruin.

But today . . . She could marry by choice. It was an exceedingly loose definition of choice, a razor-thin veneer of control, but it was enough to bring a smile to her lips.

She could marry Connor today because she wanted to marry Connor today; there didn’t need to be any other reason. There didn’t have to be strings or expectations. She could do exactly as she liked.

“I want to change,” she announced. “I want Isobel and George to be in attendance.” She gathered up the stack of papers and all but shoved them into his chest.

“And I want you to sign the contracts.”

A
t the age of thirteen, Adelaide had briefly fancied herself in love with young Paul Montgomery, the son of a local farmer, and for three long weeks she had hounded her mother for the details of her parents’ wedding day. Had there been music and flowers? Had she felt like a princess in a gown of silk and lace?

Her mother had answered with patience and humor. What she remembered was excitement, and nerves, and a great whirlwind of activity. The details would forever remain a blur.

Adelaide anticipated a similar experience on her own wedding day. Only there wasn’t much in the way of activity. The only whirlwind was George, who strenuously objected to having to bathe and wear Sunday clothes on a Friday and made his displeasure known by leaping out of the tub and streaking about the house while screeching at the top of his lungs like a soapy, irate piglet.

It took a solid half hour to catch him, rinse off the soap, and wrestle him into his clothes.

There was little to be had in the way of excitement after that. Unlike her mother, Adelaide wasn’t in love with her bridegroom. She was, at best, cautiously fond of him.

She thought perhaps she might be a little excited, but it was difficult to determine the exact cause of her racing pulse and trembling hands. It could just as well have been nerves. Unable to identify the source of her anxiousness, she set aside the question of how she felt and focused on what needed to be done.

Practicality. That’s what her wedding day was filled with.

She washed; she changed. Word was sent to Wolfgang at the tavern. No one expected a reply.

Connor left for Ashbury and returned with his carriage a few hours later to whisk them all to the small chapel where Adelaide had attended services all her life. She knew every detail of its one stained-glass window, and the backs of the pews she knew as well as the back of her own hand. The vicar was the same man who’d baptized her as an infant and patted her back years later when she’d been sick on his son.

Now she was standing before him at the altar as he spoke of fidelity and the sanctity of holy matrimony. He said something about wives and masters, as well. She pretended not to hear.

Another step, she reminded herself as her world spun. This was all merely one more step, and it had been her choice.

She said her vows. Connor said his. Isobel clapped when the vicar pronounced them man and wife. George bumped his head on a pew and howled. Michael Birch and Gregory O’Malley signed as witnesses.

And she was married. Just like that, she had a husband, a new life.

It was done.

“Well,” she heard herself whisper in a daze. “Well.”

Connor’s large hand settled on her back, and his low laughter floated over her head. “Ready to leave, are you?”

She wanted to take offense at his amusement, but the presence of his touch and voice were welcomed anchors in her spinning world. Slowly, her mind began to clear as he ushered her outside into fresh air and the last light of evening. She felt nearly coherent when she thanked Gregory and Michael for their assistance and then climbed into the carriage with her family and Connor. And by the time they were rolling down her drive, she fancied herself quite . . . Well, herself.

She’d scarcely heard the words Connor had spoken to her at the altar, but she understood what he was saying to Isobel now. They should pack tonight, as he meant to send for the family tomorrow. Thinking that made perfect sense, she nodded as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of her home.

Isobel hopped out, scooped up a fidgeting George, and headed for the house. Adelaide rose from her seat, intending to follow. Should she pack her ivory muslin gown, she wondered, or had it become so discolored as to be unsal-vageable ?

An arm looped around her waist before she could so much as poke her head through the door.

Laughing, Connor pulled her back inside and onto the bench beside him. “Where do you think you’re going, love?”

Stunned, she stared at him. “I . . . You said you’d send for us tomorrow. After we packed. You said it not two minutes ago.”

“I said I’d retrieve the Ward family tomorrow—” He reached over and closed the door. “—Mrs. Brice.”

It was then that she realized that she wasn’t quite as clearheaded as she’d imagined.
Of course
he’d not meant for her to return with Isobel and George. Because she was his wife now. Because this was their wedding day. Because, oh, good heavens, it
wasn’t
done.

Alarm shot through her at the belated realization that there was more to becoming a wife than going through the motions at a chapel. There were . . . other motions. Secret, wicked motions of which she had only the vaguest understanding.

“I . . .” Her eyes shot to the door again, and if the carriage hadn’t begun moving at that very second, she may well have made a second attempt at escape.

Evidently, her thoughts were plain to see, because Connor slipped an arm under her knees and hauled her into his lap. Her alarm spiked to near panic. Did he mean to have it done in a carriage?

But that particular terror was short-lived. Connor gave no indication of taking premature—in her opinion—advantage of his marital rights. He pressed her cheek to his chest and draped his arms loosely about her waist. She felt his chin brush the top of her head.

“You’ll not regret today,” he said softly and moved his hand in gentle circles against her back.

Clearly, he wanted to soothe her. She wanted him to be successful. She feared they were both bound for disappointment.

She was surrounded by the scent of him, vividly aware of the hard beat of his heart and the latent power in his muscular frame. He was so much larger than her, stronger than her, and undoubtedly more knowledgeable of what was shared between husbands and wives.

She could think of nothing but him, of what he would do, and of what a shortsighted fool she’d been to ask her mother about her wedding day when she ought to have asked after the wedding night. Not her mother’s wedding night, specifically, she was quick to amend—no one should be made to suffer the details of one’s parents’ wedding night—but
a
wedding night. She ought to have asked her mother what happened on
a
wedding night.

She wondered if she could ask Connor, and then wondered if asking was really necessary. While there were a good number of details that were unclear to her, she wasn’t completely ignorant of the subject. The fundamental mechanics were known to her . . . somewhat.

Maybe she should have spoken with one of the village women, or even Isobel, whose insatiable curiosity had probably led her to acquire a book on the subject. Did they produce books on the subject? Blast, she ought to have asked someone about that.

Connor’s lips brushed her hair. “Don’t think so hard, sweetheart.”

“I’m not.”

A soft laugh rumbled in his chest. His thumb sought the inside of her elbow, stroking the delicate skin. “Close your eyes, wren. Relax.”

She took a slow breath and concentrated on the gentleness of his touch and the careful, almost sheltering way he held her. It helped, a little. She wasn’t relaxed when they reached Ashbury Hall, but neither was she quite so tempted to make a dash for home.

It also helped that the staff was not lined up for a formal welcome. In her opinion, the potential awkwardness in such a scenario was mind-boggling.

Good heavens.

Mrs. McKarnin and a maid were the only servants waiting inside. “Shall I take your gloves, ma’am?”

“What? No!” Adelaide grimaced when the housekeeper’s eyes grew wide. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. McKarnin. What I meant to say is, thank you for the offer, but I shall retain my gloves for now.” No article of clothing would be removed until such time as it became absolutely necessary. The fact that this was absolutely ludicrous was something she chose to ignore.

Mrs. McKarnin’s expression softened to one of understanding. “As you like, ma’am. Is there naught I might do for you?”

“There is. Might I . . .”
Ask you some wildly inappropriate questions?
“. . . have a small glass of wine?”

Connor stepped up beside her. “I’ll see to it, Mrs. McKarnin. Thank you.”

He placed a warm hand on her back and urged her forward with subtle pressure. Adelaide had no choice but to follow where he led—across the great hall, up the stairs, and down the hall of the family wing. But to her surprise, Connor led her not into the master chambers but its adjoining sitting room. It was relatively smaller in size and less imposing than the rest of the house. The colors, mostly blues and greens, were softer here, the centered chaise lounge and set of upholstered chairs were feminine in design, and the wood in the room was stained a golden brown that glowed in the flickering candlelight.

She watched as Connor crossed the room to pour a small glass of Madeira at a sideboard and wondered if he’d had the room finished with her in mind. Then she wondered if he’d be willing to trade a night’s reprieve for the chance to outfit his sitting room however he liked.

Oh, for pity’s sake, she thought with a huff. Her fear was pushing her past ludicrous and straight into cowardice. With a long, steadying breath, she released the death grip she had on her skirts and gave herself a stern lecture.

She was being a ninny. Women became wives every day. Presumably, no one had ever died of the affliction. So, what was there to fear, really? A few moments of embarrassment and discomfort, that was all. Hadn’t Connor bartered for ten times a day? It must go very quickly indeed if one could fit the deed in ten times a day.

Probably it was like the birds she’d spied in her mother’s garden. A bit of flapping about and it was done.

“How bad could it be?”

Connor turned from the sidebar, a small glass in hand. “Beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” she chirped and forced her face into serene lines.

Expression tender, Connor crossed the room to her. “I don’t want you to be afraid, Adelaide.”

“I’m not.”

He handed her the Madeira and said nothing, which was tantamount to calling her a liar.

“Very well,” she conceded, “I am perhaps a little nervous. But I imagine it’s rather like pulling a thorn from one’s finger. The anticipation is worse than the deed. Grit one’s teeth, a quick tug, and it’s over and done.”

“Over and done,” he repeated.

“Yes.” She nodded once, then reconsidered and grimaced. “I didn’t mean to make that sound quite so much like I was anticipating an injury.” Now that it was brought to mind, however, an injury did not seem outside the realm of possibility. “I’m sure it will be lovely.” No, she wasn’t. “But as we never got around to concluding the matter before, you should know . . .” She drank the contents of her glass in a single swallow. “I’ll not do this ten times a day.”

“Ten times . . .” Connor blinked, then closed his eyes on a groan. “Oh, hell.”

“Oh, hell” was not the response she’d been hoping for. “I am willing to negotiate. A little.”

Connor opened his eyes, took the glass from her, and set it aside, all without saying a word. Then he took her hand and spoke in a tone of patience, sympathy, and regret. “Adelaide. Sweetheart.”

“Oh, dear.”

She wanted to snatch her hand back and use it to cover his mouth. Nothing good ever came from a tone like that. It was the sort one used to deliver the news of illness and death and—

“I was jesting about the ten times.”

“Oh.” Well, that wasn’t too terrible. She didn’t care for having been the victim of his jest, but it was a relief to know she’d not be expected to—