Love With the Proper Husband (17 page)

“Indeed it is. However, fate aside, I am not so foolish as to believe that what happens from here on is as destined as the forces that have brought us together. I strongly suspect the future now is up to us.”

“Really? So fate brought us together but may not necessarily keep us together.”

“Something like that.”

“How inconvenient.”

He glanced at her. “I assure you it made a great deal of sense when it first came to mind.”

She bit back a smile. “I’m certain it did.”

“At any rate, this brings me to the point I wish to make.”

“There was a point?”

He stopped and met her gaze. “I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” She tilted her head and studied him cautiously. “We are already married. I can’t imagine what kind of proposition you have in mind.”

“It’s quite simple. I propose that you, that we, do our best to make our marriage a successful one. In addition to our previously agreed-upon terms, I shall do all in my power to be a thoughtful and considerate husband.”

“And I?”

“You shall strive with equal fervor to be a good wife and fulfill your position as my countess. If, after a specified amount of time, we find we do not suit well enough to continue we may both go our separate ways.”

Her breath caught. “Divorce?”

“No, no, I am sorry, my dear, but I could never agree to divorce. The scandal would be detrimental to both our futures as well as to our”—he cleared his throat—“children.”

“Our sons,” she said wryly.

He nodded. “What I had in mind was more the type of arrangement so many couples seem to be content with. You will retain your title and position always but we will simply live separate lives.”

“I see,” she said slowly, a heavy lump settling in the pit of her stomach. “It does seem like a, well, plan for the future. How long a period do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking five years would be a suitable amount of time.”

“Five years,” she murmured. “It seems at once like a lifetime and yet not long at all.”

His expression brightened. “Ten years, then?”

“An entire decade?”

His brow furrowed. “You think it’s too long?”

“Perhaps seven and a half years would be better,” she said, the lightness in her tone belying the weight in her stomach. They’d scarce been married a day and already he was talking about living separate lives. Not that that wasn’t exactly what she wanted. He had simply thought of it first.

“A compromise.” He grinned. “I can agree to that.”

“Excellent.” She clasped her hands behind her back and circled the statue in a slow and deliberate manner. She waited until he was hidden from her view, then drew a deep breath. “I do wonder, though, if I am not now the one who should be insulted.”

There was a long pause. His voice was somber. “It was not my intention.”

“I didn’t think it was. Still, a proposition such as yours is not precisely what a lady wishes to hear on the day of her wedding.”

A soft curse sounded from behind the statue. “Miss Townsend, I—”

“Do you know how ridiculous
Miss Townsend
sounds?” she said in a sharper tone than she intended.

There was another pause. “You wanted me to call you Miss Townsend.”

“But I’m not Miss anything anymore. I’m”—she swallowed hard—“Lady Pennington.”

“Do you want me to call you Lady Pennington, then?” Confusion sounded in his voice. Vaguely endearing, actually.

“No, of course not.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “You may call me Gwendolyn now. Or Gwen. We are, after all, man and wife.”

“Gwendolyn.” Her name drifted lightly on the breeze. “It’s beautiful and it suits you. Still, I think I much prefer”—she could hear the smile in his voice—“Miss Townsend.”

“My lord.” She huffed and started around the statue toward him. “Marcus.” She reached the point where she thought he was and stopped. He was nowhere in sight. “Marcus?”

“We are going round in circles. Perhaps not the best way to begin a marriage.” His voice sounded from the opposite side of the statue, precisely where she had been a moment before. His voice sobered.

“But stay where you are for a moment. This might well be easier to say without having to gaze into those lovely blue eyes of yours.”

“You think my eyes are lovely?”

“I think everything about you is lovely. I think”—he paused and his voice was firm—“I am an extraordinarily lucky man.”

“Do you?” Her heart thudded in her chest.

“I do. And I further think that you, and marriage to you, might well be the best thing to happen to me.”

“Yet you propose the end of the marriage before it has even begun,” she said without thinking.

“I only did so because this arrangement is more to my benefit than yours. I thought it only fair that you have…that you know…well…blast it all, Miss Townsend.
Gwen
. I am not good at this.”

“Of course, you have never done it before.” She couldn’t help but smile. She noted he seemed to make her smile a great deal.

“If my proposal is not to your liking…” His voice drew closer.

“No, wait. Don’t come any closer. You’re right. It’s easier to speak one’s mind about such matters without being face-to-face.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “And I think you’re right about your proposition as well. This is a marriage neither of us planned, although I for one am willing to make the best of it.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” She nodded firmly, more for herself than for him. “I have given it a great deal of thought in the last few days. I don’t know if indeed it is right and proper or fated but it may indeed be the best thing. For both of us. For now anyway. And I am willing to try exceedingly hard to be a good countess and”—

she lifted her chin—“wife.”

“But will you allow yourself to like me?” Marcus’s voice sounded right behind her. She jumped and swiveled sharply. “Not if you constantly sneak up on me.”

“It seemed like a good idea. And I have only snuck up on you once.” The corner of his lips quirked upward in that charmingly crooked manner of his.

“Once is enough, thank you.”

“So you will give me seven and a half years, then?”

“Not at all, Marcus.” She met his gaze directly. “I will give
us
seven and a half years.”

“I quite like the sound of
us
.” He glanced upward at the figures towering over them. “And I think they approve.”

“Do you? Why?”

“Because this is probably all their doing.” He nodded at the marble women towering over them.

“Do you know who they are?”

“Muses? No,” she said quickly. “There are three of them. The Graces then? Their Greek names escape me, but they were Splendor, Good Cheer, and I can’t remember the last.”

“Mirth,” he said with a grin. “You’re right about the names but these are not the three Graces.”

“No?” she said cautiously, wondering what he was up to now.

“No. These are the daughters of the Goddess of Necessity.” He nodded at the statue. “The figure on the left is Clothos, the weaver of life. In the middle is Lachesis, who measures life, and this is Atropos, who cuts the thread of life and thereby ends it. These, my dear, are the Fates.”

“I should have known.” She pulled her brows together. “Did you plan this?”

“Not I.” He looked upward significantly. “However, they—”

She laughed. “Marcus, stop it at once.” Her gaze met his. Amusement lingered in his eyes. “You are like a dog with a bone. Honestly, you simply will not…” The look in his eyes changed, deepened, and gave her pause. The deep green of his gaze simmered, delightful and dangerous. She caught her breath and said the first thing that came to mind. “What else do you think they have planned for us?”

“For the future?” His gaze slipped to her lips and back to her eyes. He had moved closer, so close she could touch him easily. Her lips could meet his without the least bit of effort. At once she thought of the advice Colette and Madame had given her about what would happen in his bed.

Too late to turn back, Miss Townsend.

It no longer seemed as distasteful or inconvenient as it had initially. Indeed, there was an intense yearning growing inside her to feel his flesh naked against hers. It was a thought at once shocking and exciting.

“We should probably return to the parlor,” he said softly. “They will be wondering where we have gotten to. And wondering as well…” His gaze again drifted to her lips, and she leaned forward slightly, hoping, wanting him to take her in his arms. He drew a deep breath and straightened. “Precisely what we have been up to.”

“Of course,” she murmured, brushing aside a distinct touch of disappointment. He took her hand and started toward the house, then abruptly turned and pulled her hand to his lips. “I am rather looking forward to the next seven and a half years.” His gaze bored into hers. “And quite looking forward to tonight.”

“As am I,” she said, more to herself than him.

He flashed her a quick grin, then started back along the path, her hand still in his. Gwen couldn’t quite hide a bemused smile, no doubt due to nothing more than all his talk about fate and their marriage being right and proper. It was silly, of course, but what if he was right? It was no more unlikely than anything else that had happened to her in recent days. The oddest thought struck her that this virtual stranger might well be all she’d ever wanted and never known she’d wanted until him. She wondered if it was indeed fate, right and proper.

And wondered how he would feel when he learned about the secret she kept from him. And wondered as well why she cared.

Chapter Eight

A man never knows more than a woman wishes him to.

Helena Pennington

“What am I supposed to do now, Reggie?” Marcus’s low tone echoed the questions muddling his mind, and he paced the width of the library.

The viscount was the last guest still lingering at the end of an endless day filled with far too many people casting far too many speculative looks and knowing glances, and far too little time—indeed, no time at all after their brief moments in the garden—to spend alone with his wife. The afternoon had turned to evening, and an impromptu wedding dinner celebration with a discreet handful of people. His mother had taken the opportunity to gently begin advising Gwendolyn about the behavior expected of a countess. If asked beforehand, Marcus would have said he would much prefer to run screaming into the night naked rather than bear witness to such an exchange. But much to his surprise, both Lady Penningtons seemed to reach a silent understanding he was not privy to. Nor, he suspected, would any man be privy to it. There was an obvious and immediate bond forged between the woman who had always wanted a daughter and the woman who had never known a mother. Marcus was pleased, of course, yet it was most disconcerting to note more than one private smile shared between the two of them. Amusement he strongly suspected was at his expense.

He’d had precious little opportunity yet to share much more than a mere smile with his bride. Her eyes had met his now and again through the course of the day, across the crowded room, and later the dining table. They had exchanged a few lighthearted comments, a bit of casual banter, but always in the presence of others. She visibly relaxed as the day progressed, and in spite of her years in service, was not the least bit intimidated, displaying natural wit and effortless grace. Marcus was both pleased and awed. She was so much more than he had expected, or hoped for.

Yet, for him, she remained as difficult to decipher as an unknown language. He had absolutely no idea what was going on behind those lovely blue eyes. What were her thoughts? Her plans. Her desires.

“I suspect you should do what any man on his wedding night does.” Reggie sprawled in his usual chair and watched Marcus with undisguised amusement.

“That’s not what I was speaking of, and you well know it, but now that you’ve brought it up….”

Marcus blew a frustrated breath. “I have never had a wedding night. Never had a bride. And I certainly have never—”

Reggie snorted. “You most certainly have.

Marcus cast him a withering look. “As I was attempting to say, I have never shared my bed with a woman who has never been with a man. Damn it all, Reggie, I have never made love to a virgin.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Surely when you were just beginning?”

“Just beginning?”

“In your youth?”

“Never.” Marcus’s voice was firm.

“Are you sure?”

Marcus considered the question, then shook his head. “As certain as a man can be.”

“What about your, you know, the first time you—”

“My uncle’s mistress?” Marcus laughed. “I daresay she might have dressed as a virgin on occasion; my uncle had notoriously unique if relatively harmless tastes, if you recall, but there any resemblance to virginity ended.”

“You never told me she was your first.” Reggie’s eyes narrowed. “In fact, I distinctly recall you saying—”

“Implied, Reggie. I never
said
anything. At any rate, I was a mere boy at the time. I can scarcely be held accountable for what I might have led you to believe. In truth, I don’t remember what I said at all.”