The Bargain Bride (11 page)

“Did you?”

“Put cake under my pillow? A few times.”

“But did you dream of me?”

“I dreamed of cake and woke up hungry.” But she smiled. And she did not shy away when he used his finger to wipe a dab of icing from the corner of her mouth. That was progress.

When they were done, she was yawning again, this time for real. Her eyes were heavy, her movements less graceful. West held the candle on the way up the stairs. She made no resistance when he set the candle down outside her door, raised her hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. That was more progress. So he turned her hand over and kissed the palm, and the wrist, and—progress ended with the door in his face again.

“Well, George, it's just the two of us. And only one of us gets the bed.”

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

 

 

 

I
f Penny Goldwaite, now Lady Westfield, had been with Wellington's army, the war would have ended years sooner. She had her whole household fed, organized, and in action by nine in the morning.

Except for the viscount, who slept until ten. Someone had come at dawn to retrieve George for his morning constitutional, so West had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. He worried that his wife had less, since she already had her lists in hand when he entered the dining room.

She did not appear as tired as he felt, with her hair held back with a yellow ribbon that matched the color of her gown. The day was overcast and damp, but Penny looked like sunshine. She had the usual pucker between her eyes, however, which deepened when she saw him, also as usual. Whatever ground he'd gained last night, West knew, had been lost with her remembering that he was a profligate London beau, sleeping half the day. The prickly female was determined to remember that, but not the dog, the late-night meal, or her own appeal, which had kept him awake. He wondered how long she was going to blame him for everything from the bad weather outdoors to the price of corn. Forever, he thought with a sigh, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“I do not suppose you dreamed of me last night,” he said, hoping for a smile, something to brighten the gloomy day besides the color of her gown.

“Why should I dream of you, with no wedding cake under my pillow? Besides, that is for unmarried girls. I already know who my husband is.”

He thought she might have muttered, “Unfortunately.”

“Ah, but there is no rule saying a woman cannot dream of her wedded spouse, is there?”

She ignored his flirtatious tone. “Did you dream of me?”

If waking up in a state of half arousal counted, yes. “In fact, I did. And wished you were beside me instead of George.”

If he could not get a smile, he could get a blush. He laughed at how his bride was so mature and efficient, and yet so like a schoolgirl. He liked the combination much better than he would have enjoyed a silly young wife with more hair than wit who was wise only in the ways of the world. Penny must hate her telltale coloring, he thought as she hid her face behind her pages of notes. She would lose that touch of innocence soon, he knew, when she faced flattery and flirtation as a steady diet in London. Now, that idea did not please him, anyone else bringing an embarrassed flush to his Penny's cheeks. Or flirting with his wife. Lud, married a day, by law if not biblically, and he was jealous already. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee without thinking and burned his tongue.

Penny ignored his cry of pain, and his later attempts at polite conversation. Yes, the day was gloomy; no, she did not think she would be ready to set out before the end of the week.

He had left London, his appointments, his investments, his duties at Parliament, within a day of her father's visit to his town house. He could not see why she needed so much time.

“Yes, but you had no one but yourself to think of,” she said, a world of meaning in her words.

“True, but you have servants to obey any orders you might give. You can have them pack up your clothes, or whatever it is you think you need, and ship them to London. That should not amount to much, since you can purchase everything else there new, your wardrobe, household items, even your grandfather's paints.”

She blew out a breath of air. “That shows how much you know about artists. Grandpapa has his paints specially compounded for him by a chemist in York. He would never leave without them, or his brushes and canvases and props and costumes. Besides, you forget I am a banker's daughter. Why buy new when we already have what we need?”

Once again, what she did not say was evident in her voice, that West was a spendthrift wastrel just like his father, ready to toss his money around on foolish ventures.

“I stand corrected, but you will find that London fashions have changed.”

“I am not speaking of gowns and slippers. I know my country-made gowns are not suitable for a viscount's wife.”

“But they are lovely,” he told her, trying to sweeten her mood. He might as well have poured more sugar in her tea.

“Aside from the monetary aspect, I do have a sentimental attachment to a few belongings of my mother's, a couple of books, some childhood treasures.”

Which meant that, once again, West had trampled on her tender emotions. “Then of course you must take them. I will help you prepare for the move to London. It is the least I can do.”

His offer of assistance surprised her. Her acceptance surprised him, until he realized she'd figured out a way to get rid of him, if not kill him outright.

Before he had eaten his fill of breakfast, West found himself out inspecting the Littleton traveling coach and her grandfather's cattle. The lumbering old coach was nearly as ancient as the driver, but both looked sturdy and reliable. Jem Coachman also looked after the horses, the pony cart, a gig, and Penny's mare. His nephew, Harry, was groom, stableboy, and sometime footman. They might be adequate to convey Mr. Littleton and his niece to Bath once a year, but they were not up to the task of moving the entire household to London.

So West rode to all three nearby villages in the pouring rain. Little Falls did not boast a coaching inn—it barely boasted a church and a general store—so he had to ride farther to find enough carriages and wagons and horses for hire, along with drivers, grooms, outriders, and guards. The additional conveyances were for the servants, the luggage, and the kitchen supplies Cook demanded be transported.

Only she knew exactly how Mr. Littleton liked his eggs, Mrs. Bigglesworth declared, so she was going along. Besides, her sister lived in London, and so it would be like a holiday for the cook. Since Westmoreland House in Town had no resident chef, West was happy to agree. Mrs. Bigglesworth did not trust West to have the proper pots and pans, so she was taking everything.

When he returned, Penny informed him that her grandfather did not trust him to have an adequate wine cellar, so another well-sprung coach was needed to carry Littleton's best bottles. West rode back to Upper Falls, again in the pouring rain.

Penny next assigned him the job of sending messengers ahead to reserve rooms at decent inns along the way south. Separate rooms, she insisted, not trusting him, either.

“You might have mentioned that before I rode out the first time,” he said, donning his damp greatcoat once more. “Or the second time. I'll have to ride back to the inn where your father stayed to consult the innkeeper about the best accommodations, and to hire someone knowledgeable about the roads.” Her own footmen were too busy to go, she told him, and too seldom out of Little Falls to select routes and rooms for overnight.

In the late afternoon, when he had changed into dry clothes, West considered his equerry duties ended. Littleton's brandies had not been packed in straw yet, so he thought he'd sit by the fire with a glass or two, warming his toes.

Penny thought otherwise.

“You did offer to help, didn't you? The sooner we get packed, the sooner we can leave.”

So she had him boxing up the
few
cherished belongings she could not part with, the
couple
of books Grandpapa liked her to read to him,
some
things it would be wasteful to leave behind. Hah! She might as well have put the whole house on a barge and towed it to London!

They started in the library. Most of the Littleton servants, West learned, were too old for the backbreaking work of crating up her grandfather's favorites. She swore she was not going to bring every single book, although it felt like it to West, after an hour of climbing up and down the ladder, filling boxes. He kept reminding her that although his collection was small, London was full of booksellers and lending libraries.

“Of course it is, and I am quite looking forward to establishing an account or a subscription at each of them. I already have an extensive list of the books I wish to purchase, after I see your library, of course. But I do like to have my favorites with me, too.”

He looked over at the section of novels whose shelves were nearly bare by now. “I thought you were bringing the ones your grandfather particularly enjoyed.”

She waved her hand, the one not holding her endless lists. “But these are my old friends.”

She had a lot of old friends. She pointed; he packed.

After an all-too-brief rest for tea, they moved to the attics, room after connected room that traversed the entire upper story of the house. The ceilings were low, the windows few, the air stale, and the dust thick. Boxes lay atop trunks; sacks sat on sofas; paper-wrapped parcels hung from the rafters. Penny had to inspect it all.

Her mother's collection of porcelains and her monogrammed linens and china had to be taken to London, of course. They were part of Penny's heritage, the same as West's entailed heirlooms, so he could not argue. Some had been handed down from her mother's mother, or her mother. He could not expect her simply to leave them here, could he?

“I am not certain we'll find room for everything in London. And the monograms are wrong, naturally.”

“Then we can take them to Westfield in the country. Surely there are attics and cupboards there.”

What, carry them again? The silver tea set alone weighed a ton, and would take up half a carriage. So would her mother's harp that Penny did not play, but intended to have lessons on in Town. Or should she try her great-aunt's spinet?

“I have a pianoforte. It is out of tune, but I can have a man in as soon as we return,” he offered, in vain.

She decided to take both instruments. They were not much more difficult to wrestle through the mounds of boxes and down the stairs than the five trunks of fabrics.

“I purchased the dress lengths in London, and some more in Bath, or whenever there is a fair in the neighborhood. And my stepmother sends me a few every year for my birthday and Christmas, but I do not need many clothes for the country.”

No one needed that many gowns, not even the queen. West simply grunted as he hefted another trunk to his shoulder.

“You see?” she asked when he went past her. “I can have these made up in the latest styles, by the most fashionable modistes, without wasting all of the funds Father allotted for my trousseau. Just think of the money you can spend on your horses. You should be pleased you have such a thrifty wife.”

He would be if he did not keep bumping his head on the low rafters. He'd be pleased if he did not see stars for the rest of his life.

Penny even had to take—and he had to carry down—a beloved wooden dollhouse from her childhood. Her father's new stepdaughters had been hellions who would have wrecked the miniature architectural marvel if it were left in the nursery at her father's house. The tiny furnishings would have been splinters in a day. Instead they were packed in yet another crate.

“I suppose that was uncharitable of me,” she mused, checking the dollhouse off her list. “But the little girls got my father and my London home. The dollhouse was something of my own I could claim.”

Now his head ached from the attic and his heart ached for the girl she had been, waiting for the rescue that never came. “Well, you could not have taken any of this following the drum.”

“No, but I might have moved it to Westfield, or Westmoreland House.”

“Then my little brother would have destroyed it.”

Life would have been far different for both of them if they had wed eight years ago, and they both knew it. They might have had a little girl or two to play in the dollhouse.

West carried it down the stairs as quickly as he could.

When he returned, Penny was in another area of the vast attic, locating the furnishings rescued from her stepmother's redecorating efforts. Selected by her own mother as a bride, they had to come with them, too, all the elegant chairs and carved end tables, mirrors and rugs. Penny seemed to consider each piece essential, as if his own house were a tent in the wilderness. Well, it might have been, West conceded. Most of the public rooms were stripped of furniture, and what remained was under Holland covers in who knew what condition. If Penny would rather be surrounded by familiar pieces instead of the new fashion for Chinese lacquerware, he would not complain. Until he bumped his head again. And again.

Next she pointed toward an entire room filled with Littleton's valuable early paintings, the masterpieces Littleton had promised to Penny before losing his eyesight. They could not be left behind, nor be handled roughly by draymen when they arrived. Oh no, West had to carry them down himself, in their heavy frames.