The Bargain Bride (12 page)

As he trudged up and down the narrow attic stairs, he passed servants who were too busy or too clumsy for his wife's precious horde. They got to carry sheets, by Jupiter! Clean sheets, at that.

West was filthy, covered in dust and cobwebs that were stuck to his face and neck and clothing by perspiration.

Lady Westfield, the dainty darling, was covered in a shapeless apron that stayed spotless, while she sat with her lists atop a trunk, one he'd moved three times. She was humming; he was panting, every muscle protesting. And he'd thought he kept fit, sparring, fencing, riding. Hah!

“Oh, and when you are done here,” his bride cheerfully chirped, “you can help Marcel box up Grandpapa's paints and canvases. He won't let any of the servants handle them, but you are family now.”

He was family, oh joy. He felt more like a coal heaver than any kissing cousin.

She let him stop hauling near dinnertime. Most likely she did not want to starve the beast of burden, he decided. Then she added, “I told Cook to serve it later, to suit your usual Town hours. And so that we could get more done in daylight.”

He was too tired to be hungry, and too dirty to think of food. He needed a bath first—if Her Highness could spare a servant to carry cans of water for him—and a second shave of the day, to be ready for the night. He planned to claim a reward for his hard work; lud knew he deserved it. He'd been Penny's serf all day. He fully intended to be her seducer after dinner—a smooth-shaven one.

His bath arrived mercifully quickly, and he soaked away both dirt and sore muscles. West found it so relaxing, in fact, that he thought he'd just lie down for a few minutes to dry off, before dressing. He lay on his back, a smile on his face, thinking of the night ahead. He still had that bottle of champagne, and still had not had a wedding night. Now he had a grateful bride. Surely the gods were smiling, too.

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

 

 

 

T
he gods were not smiling. They were laughing out loud. A maid woke West up at dawn, bringing fresh hot water. She fled, screaming, spilling the water. Thinking he'd be blamed for the puddle, George the pug tried to burrow under the covers, at the same time West grabbed for them to hide his nakedness. A growling, grumbling tug-of-war ensued, all of which brought Marcel, West's robe, and Penny from across the hall, but not in that order, unfortunately.

When West came down to breakfast, Penny was still blushing. She stammered out that Marcel had gone to help the viscount dress before dinner last evening and found him too deeply asleep to awaken.

“Too bad it wasn't you. You could have tried to revive me with the kiss of life, like you'd do for George.”

Now she sputtered: “M-Marcel swore he covered you, but you must have thrown the blanket off.” The problem was not what Marcel did when he went into the viscount's room, but what he said when he came out. Monsieur would miss dinner, he announced, but, la, what Madame was missing! What a magnificent body, what luck that my lord had finally come up to scratch, and what an imbecile my lady was.

Worse than advice from the flamboyant Frenchman was the urge to go look for herself, with West so sound asleep. Penny could check if he was warm enough. Or if he snored. She could bring a plate of food, in case he woke up in the night. She could bring George. Whom was she lying to? She could finally see what a naked man looked like.

She resisted the temptation, more for fear of being caught than respect for West's modesty. He obviously had none, and he was her husband, after all. Gracious, though, he'd think she was ready to join him if she was in his bedchamber, staring like a child at a pastry shop. Buns, biscuits, and baguettes, oh my.

She had not gone peeking, but she had stayed awake all night wondering. No innocent maiden would have such questions in her mind. Every married matron would have the answers. Penny was neither. Caught betwixt and between, she was confused about her own desires, duties, and debts of honor. So she had made more lists, through a very long night.

The glimpse she'd had this morning did nothing except confirm Marcel's opinion: Westfield was perfect; Penny was a perfect ninny. But, she told herself, handsome is as handsome does, as her mother used to say. Unfortunately, her husband was looking incredibly handsome this morning after his good night's rest. He was dressed for riding, with fawn-colored breeches that hugged his thighs, a bottle green coat, and high-top boots. And he was eating enough breakfast for three men, having missed dinner. He was a real man, as Marcel might have said, but in French, with innuendo. Penny nibbled on a slice of toast with jam.

When West's appetite was partly satisfied, he smiled and asked, “What Herculean tasks do you have for me today, my dear? As you see, I am ready to ride to the ends of the earth for you, lift the moon, or fetch a star.”

“Nothing so demanding as that, I am afraid. In fact, I shan't need you at all.” In actuality, she would be better off without his disturbing company.

That was what he was afraid of. “Nevertheless, I am at your service.”

“I am merely going to drive the pony cart to deliver baskets around the neighborhood, foodstuffs Cook deems too perishable to transport to London, other things too good to throw out when there are those in need. I make these rounds often, alone. There is no need for you to come along.”

West could not like the idea of his wife, no matter what strength in her right arm or that she was no dewy young girl, traipsing around the countryside by herself. She was dressed in a shapeless brown wool gown whose only virtue could be that it was serviceable and warm, not the least fashionable or revealing, but there were always highwaymen, beggars, returned renegade soldiers, who would not care if she sparred with Gentleman Jack-son himself or wore flour sacks.

“In Little Falls?” she asked with a laugh. “They could not find their way here, and they would have poor pickings if they did. No, the most danger is if a rabbit runs in front of old Molly.”

“Nevertheless, I shall accompany you,” he said. He decided that Penny looked tired, as if she had not slept again. The new pages of lists in front of her confirmed his guess, as did the dark shadows under her blue eyes. She was still lovely, with those blond curls falling out of her neat bun to frame her face, but now she looked like a wounded angel. Once again he had let her down. He'd slept the night away thinking delicious, decadent thoughts, while she had been poring over her notes, thinking of her grandfather and her neighbors. Then he had awakened her early, wrestling a dog for a decent cover.

Lud, he had to stop making things more difficult for his wife if he had any hope of getting into her good graces, or getting into her bed. Dragging baskets to the poor was not his idea of a romantic interlude, but he was willing to try anything.

“It will be the perfect opportunity for us to become better acquainted,” he told her before she could reject his offer. “And your neighbors will ask embarrassing questions otherwise. I would hate them all to think that I am lazing by the fireside, brandy in hand”—which sounded delightful to West, on this second gloomy day in a row—“rather than at my new wife's side, helping her do good deeds.”

He was right. There would be curious stares and awkward conversations when yesterday's bride appeared by herself today. Penny reluctantly agreed to his company, then was glad she did when she saw how many hampers Cook had filled, how many bags and boxes she herself had decided to discard.

They took the filled pony cart to the orphanage, the poorhouse, and the vicarage, then came back and refilled it for deliveries to invalids and oldsters and indigent widows. They argued briefly over who should drive.

“I am the man.”

“But I know Molly and the roads and where we are going.”

Somehow being stronger, older, and supposedly wiser was not enough. Nor was membership in the Four Horse Club. “But I am the man,” West repeated. If he gave up the reins now, he'd never regain the upper hand. “The gentleman always drives.”

Penny scowled at him but took the other side of the driving bench. He pushed a basket out of the way, sat, and gathered the reins. Then he clucked at Molly.

Molly turned her head to look at him. He flicked the whip over her ear, said, “Walk on” in an authoritative voice, and jiggled the reins. Molly stayed glued to the stable yard.

“You need to kiss her.”

First she wanted him to breathe into the dog's mouth. Now he should kiss her horse? Like hell he would. But the blasted mare would not move.

Penny reached over for the reins. “You can drive home. Molly is always in a hurry to get back to her oats.” Then she made a kissing sound and the mare stepped out.

West balanced a bundle on his lap and waited for Penny to overturn the loaded cart. She did not, of course, and they reached their first destination without incident. Without speaking, either. West's only consolation was that he did not know any of the field workers or sheepherders they passed. He'd wager none of them let their wives drive the family wagon.

After a few stops, West decided that Penny was trying to kill him a different way from landing them in a ditch or destroying his dignity. Yesterday it was hard work; today it was with arrows to the heart. Every sad farewell, every hug good-bye from this old crone, that little moppet at the orphanage, was another shaft of pain. Everyone knew her; everyone was going to miss her. Worse, she was going to miss them.

When they left the orphanage, Penny wiped a bit of moisture from her eyes before taking up the reins. The tears kept falling, though, as they watched the children wave. Good grief, West thought, she was crying. The intrepid Miss Goldwaite, who struck first and asked questions later, was weeping. He knew she was not crying to get sympathy, because she was trying her best to hide the sniffs and gulps. Nor did she look pretty, with her eyes turning red and her cheeks getting splotchy. That made it all worse. Proud Penny was crying because she could not help it, because she was miserable, because of him. He was plucking her away from the life she'd made, all her friends, the worthwhile and rewarding work she had found. The arrows hit their mark.

A single tear West might have managed; this flood unmanned him. “Pull over, dash it, and let me drive. I can throw kisses to your wretched horse.”

“I am fine. I am simply tired, that is all.”

“No one turns into a watering pot when they are weary. Now pull over.”

She listened to him, mainly because she could not see through the tears, and because she could not reach her handkerchief. When Molly was at a standstill, he took the reins and handed over his own soft linen square.

He did not kiss Molly, but he reached for Penny's hand after she blew her nose. “My dear, I am so sorry.”

She left her hand in his but sniffled and looked away, embarrassed that he was seeing her so foolish, so unrefined. Ladies never showed their emotions or made scenes. “For what? You did not do anything.”

“But I am the one dragging you away. You would not have to endure these wrenching farewells otherwise.”

“Heavens, you are taking the blame for that? I always knew it is a woman's duty to follow her husband. You are the man, remember?”

He felt like a maggot now. “That is the way of the world. I have lands to manage, a voice in the government. I cannot stay here, but we can come back to visit your friends. And all that trousseau money you are saving can go to your special causes. The children here are so much better off than the poor waifs in Town. You can help them, and the scores of people at Westfield who must be needing a caring mistress. You'll see. Your grandfather will be with us, so you do not have to fret over him. And you will like London, I know.”

Her lower lip started to quiver; a new tear started to form.

“Do not cry, sweetings. Lord, do not cry.” West was in a panic, ready to weep himself, or leave her and the horse right where they were.

“I am not crying.”

“Of course not. You are simply tired, as you said.”

She nodded and brushed at her cheeks while West looked on, feeling as helpless as a flea. Then she said, “I grew up in London and I was happy there, but now things will be different. I know no one; I will not know how to go on.” West would leave her for his wanton widows.

It was London that was making her cry? Zeus, West realized, his strong-willed wife had butter for a backbone. She was not just sad to be leaving; she was afraid of what was ahead, of facing the
ton,
of playing the part of a peeress. He relaxed. He might not be able to handle a woman's tears, but he had guided plenty of raw army recruits through their first battles. “Of course it will be different. You are no girl having to follow every ridiculous rule; now you can make your own. Remember, you will take precedence over nearly everyone. If the high sticklers do not like you, so what? I have never cared for any of those stiff-rumped, long-nosed crones anyway. Besides, you said your friend Lady Bainbridge will help. She can make introductions.”

“What if she is too busy? She always has a young lady under her wing. That's how she makes her living.”

“We'll offer her more money.” He paused for a minute. “It is your father's blunt, isn't it?”

That won him a tiny smile, so he rushed on: “And do not forget the city has so much to offer, the theater, the opera—you do like music, don't you? Of course you do, you are going to take harp lessons.”