The Bargain Bride (10 page)

“Do not worry,” she said. “He is friendly.”

—By Arrangement,
a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber

 

 

 

S
he expected West to bed down with one of her grandfather's friends? Bloody hell, if the woman thought that, she was missing a few spokes to her wheel. And her understanding of men was sadly warped by her unconventional upbringing.

West decided he'd sleep on the couch in the parlor instead, or in one of the stuffed chairs in the library. He had no idea if there would be a fire in either room, so he decided to fetch a blanket and a pillow.

No one was in the room she had indicated, as far as he could see. A warm fire glowed, and an oil lamp was left burning on the bedside next to a book. The sheets on the large canopied bed were turned down, with West's own robe spread across the foot. His bags were neatly stored beside the wardrobe, and his brushes and shaving supplies were on the washstand. He saw no one else's clothes or possessions. George must have moved to another room. And the wide bed did look inviting. The past few days and the wedding had been a strain, and the next few did not look to be any easier, as he dealt with his skittish, sexy bride. He needed his rest, not a sore back from a makeshift cot.

West started to undress. He was used to doing for himself after years with the army, then the years of scrimping and saving when he returned to England. He did have a valet in London now that his social obligations and hence his wardrobe were so extensive, but he'd left the man behind, rather than have any more gossip about the proposed betrothal and possible wedding. He'd shared Sir Gaspar's man on the road north and he supposed Marcel or a footman could iron his neckcloths on the way south.

He folded his clothes in a military-neat pile, then washed, climbed beneath the sheets, and picked up the book left beside the bed.

Love Lasts Forever,
he read, and grimaced. Well, a book of poetry was certain to put him to sleep. Then he read the inscription:
To Cornelius Littleton, in honor of his sixty-fifth birthday, with love from his devoted granddaughter.
It was signed by Persephone Goldwaite, and dated from when West's bride would have been eighteen. Motherless, sent away from the only home she knew, her place usurped by her father's new wife, his Penny had written a book of poems for the grandfather who had taken her in and shown her affection.

The vellum pages were small, neatly lettered, and bound with string. The pasteboard covers were encased in brown velvet, with the title and a few delicate flowers painted on the front.

Only Marcel could have left this for West by his bedside, and only at Mr. Littleton's orders. The downy old bird must have known the path of this marriage was a rough one. He was trying to smooth the way by letting West get to know the girl his wife once was.

No one would believe West was reading amateur, amatory verses on his wedding night, but he turned to the first poem. Some young women were mothers at eighteen. Some were still girls. In his experience, most were emotional, sentimental, and immersed in high drama, so he was not surprised to read about love and loss, unrequited affection, heroes who went off to war, and callous fools who deserved to die long, lonely deaths. West learned a great deal, as the old man must have intended.

He learned his Penny was a dreadful poet.

He also learned she had loved him once, idealisti cally, worshipfully, foolishly, before he betrayed her by neglect.

And he learned that first, young love did
not
last forever.

His was a rocky road indeed.

West finished the last poem, a paean to the artist who had painted a new world of bucolic pleasures for his granddaughter, and turned down the lamp. He had much to think about.

Despite his troubled thoughts and the early hour, West was sound asleep in minutes without a dream or a nightmare in his mind until something landed on his chest. He instantly rolled over, smothering whatever assailant was attacking him. If he'd had his pistol under his pillow, the dastard would be dead before answering a single question. If he had his sword—

Something whined. He raised himself up to his elbows, and got his face licked.

“George?”

In the last faint glow from the fire, West could see Littleton's fat old pug panting and trembling from being rolled on. “This is your room?” West was panting and trembling, too, from the shock of the assault.

In answer, the fat old dog shook himself and moved to the other pillow on the bed. He circled thrice, then lay down, his curled tail inches from West's nose. The viscount answered his own question: “This is your room.” But this was not the view West had imagined on the pillow next to his, not on his wedding night.

He tried to get back to sleep, but the dog snored. That explained why the creature was not sharing its master's bedchamber.

West turned over; George growled at him. West nudged George farther away; George showed his teeth. “She said you were friendly.”

And she'd said it was George's room, so West was the interloper and the pug was defending his territory. West sighed and thought about the chair in the library, but the bed was comfortable here, the blankets warm. He'd have to get dressed, find his slippers, relight the candles, and make his way down the stairs without disturbing the rest of the household. That felt like too much effort, so he tried to fall back asleep again, thinking about the young girl's poems instead of the old man's pet. Then he tried to recall Penny's rosewater scent instead of the pug's bad breath, her willowy shape instead of the four-footed barrel beside him in bed. It was no good. He could not sleep through the dog's gasping
whuffle
s.

He remembered sharing a tent with an Irish officer once, one who could alert the French to their position just with his loud, rasping, openmouthed breathing. West tried what had worked on McMann. He rolled the pug over.

But the pug was not a burly Irishman.West pushed too hard and the pug fell right off the high bed. It wheezed a few times, and then was quiet. Too quiet. West lay still, waiting for the snore that never came. Instead of letting him slip into slumber, the silence put his every sense on guard, kept every muscle rigid, as he waited for the heavy breathing.

West scrambled to the other side of the bed, tangling in the sheets, and leaned over. He could see the pug on its side, not stirring. “George? I say, old man, I did not mean to shove so hard. George?”

He touched the dog's flank gingerly, not willing to lose a finger to gain a night's sleep. George did not move.

Holy hunting hounds, George was dead! First West had broken his bride's heart, then he'd wed her against her will, and now he'd killed her grandfather's pet. He doubted that was a harbinger of a happy marriage. He untangled himself from the covers while he considered his options.

He could ignore the dog altogether, pretending surprise in the morning when a servant came in to relight the fire. Not only was that devious and underhanded, but how could he sleep with a dead dog next to his bed? Shutting George in the wardrobe was no solution, and no one would believe George put himself there, or that he jumped out the window, for that matter. West thought about carrying the corpse elsewhere, for someone else to find. That was cowardly, and someone might see him, besides. He leaned over and nudged the dog again. Oh, hell.

Someone had to tell the old man. What if the news killed him, too? West ran his fingers through his hair in despair. What to do?

There was nothing for it, he decided, but to ask Penny what she thought best. He'd ask Marcel, but he had no idea where the servant slept. Yes, he'd ask Penny. The woman had an opinion about everything, and she loved her grandfather. He jumped out of bed and hurried toward the door. Then he came back and put on his robe. The sight of his nudity might give his virgin bride an apoplexy. Just think, he could wipe out the entire household in one night.

He scratched softly on the door across the hall. Penny did not answer, so he pushed the door open and crept in like a sneak thief—or a dog murderer. The room was dark, the fire out. Damn. He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust, but he need not have waited. He was guided to the bed by his bride's snores. Damn again. Her snore was not as loud as the dog's had been. In fact, it was almost a sweet little ruffle of breath. He could live with that, he supposed, if she ever let him near enough after this night's work. For a craven moment he thought of moving George into her room while she slept so soundly, then mentally chided himself for the unworthy idea. Wasn't there something in those wedding vows about love, honor, and protect? If there wasn't, there should be. A gentleman's code of honor insisted he defend the weaker sex from harm, anyway. And a decent man did not deposit dead things under his wife's bed.

“Penny?” he called softly when he was near enough to make out her pale hair.

She did not miss a snore, so he shook her shoulder.

“Yeoow!” she screamed, thrashing her arms, kicking her legs, fighting like a wildcat, or like a woman being attacked in her bedchamber in the middle of the night. One of her fists caught his nose before he could catch her arm.

“It's Westfield, by George,” he yelled, feeling to see if his nose was broken or bleeding. Did someone say they were the weaker sex? “Well, bygone George.”

She sat up, furious. “What are you doing in my bedchamber? What kind of monster assaults a woman in the dark?”

“I have never assaulted a female in the dark or otherwise, and I take offense that you might think I would. Dash it, I merely tried to awaken you. Next time I will throw water at you. From a distance.” He rubbed at his sore nose again.

“Water? Is the house on fire?” She started to bolt out of bed. “Grandpapa!”

He put a hand on her shoulder, cautiously. “No, the house is fine. So is your grandfather. It's George the pug. He, ah, fell off the bed and now he is not moving. I do not know what to do.”

Penny rubbed at her eyes. She got out of bed and reached for her robe, giving him a brief, tantalizing glimpse of soft curves left uncovered by the clinging nightgown. West tried to dampen his wayward thoughts. He'd murdered the mongrel and now he was leering at his maiden bride? Devil take it, he used to be a man of principle, with a straight nose. Marriage was having a decidedly ill effect on him.

And his wife was bossy, besides having a streak of meanness.

“Light a candle,” she ordered, “and stop trying to see through my clothes.”

She took the candle from him and stomped across the hall. She went to the far side of the bed when West pointed, and knelt down. “He has only fainted.”

“Dogs faint?”

“This one does.” She propped the dog on its feet and blew in its nose.

“Should I find a vinaigrette?”

“This works. Unless you want to breathe into George's mouth?”

He stepped back. “No, you are doing admirably.”

George took a deep breath, staggered a bit, then licked Penny's cheek. She lifted him back onto the bed, where he promptly circled again and curled up . . . on West's pillow this time.

“Thank you,” West said, so relieved he reached out to pat the dog. “But you might have warned me.”

Penny was still watching the pug. “He does not go off frequently. It must have been the excitement of the day.”

Or being knocked to flinders by a trespasser in his bed. West lit the oil lamp and put another log on the fire. “I do not think he should stay here.”

“Why not? Now you know what to do.”

“Yes, I need to find another room. I do not suppose I can share yours for the rest of the night?”

Penny looked at him, in his brocade robe, bare feet, bare chest, a loose sash keeping him decent, a sultry smile on his lips. A sensible woman did not invite the devil into her chamber. “George will be fine,” she said.

“He snores.”

“Most of his breed does.”

Since she was showing no pity, West said, “You snore, too.”

“I do not!”

“I just heard you with my own ears. But do not fret. I find it attractive.”

“I could not care less what you find attractive.” But she did care, because she turned seven shades of scarlet when her stomach let out a loud rumble.

“You are hungry! It's no wonder, for you hardly eat anything at all. You are not one of those foolish women starving themselves to be stylish, are you?”

“Do not be absurd. I have been too busy, is all. I suppose I could have a piece of wedding cake now that I am awake.”

West ignored the reproach in her voice as he led the way down to the kitchen and raided the pantry. He filled plates with the cold ham and cake, while she heated water for tea and set places at the worn wooden table in the center of the room.

They were too busy eating to argue, for once.

West liked the companionship. He'd eaten many a solitary midnight meal, but this was far more pleasant. Mistresses demanded dining in style and conversation, while the young women of the polite world giggled and simpered their way through supper, under their duen nas' watchful eyes. Penny simply ate, and enjoyed the meal.

She reached for a second slice of wedding cake.“I suppose I no longer have to put a piece under my pillow.”

He eyed the icing. “Good grief, why would you want to do that?”

“Young girls do, you know. That's why we sent so many pieces along with the guests, carefully wrapped, of course. If you lay your head on the pillow, atop the cake, you are supposed to dream of your future husband.”