The Bargain Bride (14 page)

He laughed. “You make it sound as if lovemaking is a onetime thing.” He had set the bottle down and was touching her bare shoulder, the other hand combing through her hair, watching the play of colors as he lifted the curls. Then he lowered his lips to hers, while his hands pulled her closer, then stroked her back, and lower. “I do not think I will ever have enough of you.”

She quickly stepped out of his arms, walking toward the bed.

“So eager, my dear?” he asked, still smiling. “Would you like a sip of champagne first?”

She blew out the candles. “There is no reason to delay.”

With an invitation like that, the wine could wait. West couldn't. He did leave on his robe in an effort not to rush the joining altogether.

He followed her to the bed and climbed in next to her, under the covers. She was rigid, trembling, and he did not think it was from passion, not yet.

“Are you frightened, sweetings? There is no need to be.”

“Of course not,” she lied.

“Then you must be cold. Come, I will warm you.” He folded her in his arms and kissed her, meanwhile letting his hand explore the peaks and valleys so thinly covered by her delicate nightgown. He caressed her neck, and then he kissed it, tiny feathery kisses that started at her ear and ended at her collarbone. Between kisses he murmured endearments and encouragement. “Have I told you how I love your hair, your eyes, your firm little chin, your firm . . . ?”

Somehow the ribbons on her gown were loosened and he was stroking her bare breast, his thumb gently rubbing across the nipple, making it harden. His mouth followed, with the same light kisses, until he took her into his mouth.

“What are you doing?” she asked, gasping.

“Making love to my wife, what else?” He paused. “You do know how this works, do you not?”

“I have read books. And the servants gossip. And of course I have seen the animals in the field.”

He chose to ignore her inadequate education. “You'll see. This is a lot better than any book.”

He went back to fondling and kissing and licking. “Your skin is so soft. And your breasts are so perfect, how they fit in my hand. And your narrow waist—”

His clever hands were there now, making her writhe. Penny thought it was almost like being tickled, only not, especially when he pushed her gown down and kissed her navel. This was definitely not like being tickled. “I think you should stop.”

“Stop? I have hardly begun. Have I told you recently how I adore your hair?”

Good grief, his fingers were reaching for
that
hair!

“I would like to see it loose all the time, but I would never want another man to see it.”

He returned for another searing kiss on her mouth, his tongue dancing with hers while the weight of his arousal moved along her body. She sighed.

“And now you are perfect, all warm and responsive.”

Too warm, too responsive. Penny caught her breath and grasped the remains of her plan before she drowned. “Well, there is no reason for you to pour the butter boat over me. We are already married.”

“That is all the more reason. It is part of lovemaking, you know. Loving everything, every inch. We never had a true courtship, so I am wooing your body now.” His hands were reaching lower, pulling up the hem of her gown and stroking up her leg, her knee, her thigh.

“What are you doing?”

Was there a name for what he was doing? “Wooing.” She could barely keep herself from flying off the bed. Almost desperate, she said, “Well, I wish you would stop doing that and get on with it.”

West rose up on his arms and looked down at her, wishing there were more light so he could see her face. “Get on with it?”

“Yes, you know, just do it. Then we can both go our own ways.”

Now he sat up, leaving the covers behind. “You mean, like in some modern marriages?”

“Precisely.”

“Over my dead body.” He did not have to look down to know that his body was already dead, from the waist down, anyway. “No wife of mine will ever take lovers.”

“You did.”

“We were not wed yet. Or did you actually expect me to honor a promise I never made for thirteen years?”

Penny retied the ribbons at her shoulders. “I did.”

“That is different and you know it. Besides, I told you that I never expected this marriage to occur.”

“Well, it has, so go on.”

“I cannot.”

“Cannot ever?”

“Of course not, I hope. If there are any words guaranteed to destroy a mood, a man's arousal, yours have to be them. ‘Just do it' are not what a man wants to hear, let me tell you.”

“But I am willing.”

“Yes, willing to be the virgin sacrifice, a martyr to the marriage bed.” His voice was sharper than he'd intended. His disappointment was greater. “Great gods, woman, I do not want a partner performing her duty. I want one who enjoys sex as much as I do. I want a wife who will touch me, too.”

Penny had been clenching her fists to keep from doing that. “Then you are not going to . . .”

“Ravish my reluctant bride?” He let the disgust sound in his voice, along with the dashed hopes. “I could not if I wanted to.”

Now she did reach out, and kept reaching. “It's gone?”

He rolled off the bed, rather than face explaining that ignominy to his ignorant wife.

“I am sorry,” she said in a barely audible voice, reminding him again how very inexperienced she was.

“No, this entire debacle was my fault. You are so mature and managing—in a good way, of course—that I keep forgetting what an innocent you are. I moved too fast and frightened you, which is inexcusable. I was the proverbial overeager bridegroom, and I apologize. You need more time, that is all. Tomorrow we can try again, moving far more slowly.”

Penny thought she would surely die of slowness if tonight's speed almost did her in.

West was going on: “Books are not good tutors. And watching the ram tup his ewes is not a firm foundation for love. Tomorrow we will have a real courtship.”

He kissed her gently, without the fervor. “Good night, my dear. Sleep well. Until tomorrow.”

Sleep? He expected her to sleep? Just because the cad was no longer interested in his wife did not mean she was ready for bed. What good was having a rake for a husband? She fell asleep reciting the alphabet.

Arrogant, beastly, careless, despicable . . .

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

 

. . .
U
seless, vile, wicked, expendable—Penny cheated on
x
; she told herself she deserved the leeway—and why the deuce was he not at the breakfast table for her to rail at? Maybe he'd taken his disappointment or disability or disinclination to Kitty in the next village. Maybe he'd gone back to London on his own. Maybe he'd fallen down the stairs and broken his fool neck.

Penny jumped up and ran around the house, out to the stable. His rented horse was gone; Jem Coachman knew not where.

Penny tried to hide her anxiety in finishing the packing. What if he did not return in time for the baron's party tonight? She could not face her neighbors. She could not face her mirror. How could he do this to her, again? And when was she going to learn not to trust the bounder? He was going to sweep in and out of her life whenever he chose, like a lazy housekeeper. She was dust to him, that was all.

Then Marcel walked by with his lordship's evening tailcoat, the one he had worn for their wedding. “Monsieur asked me to brush it before tonight. George
le chien
may have slept on it.”

Now Penny could breathe again, and think about her own ensemble. He was coming back. She was his wife, and he had not forgotten that fact. She knew it was her job to make certain he never did. Tonight she wanted the baroness's guests to think she was worthy of a viscount, and she wanted the viscount to think she was worthy of his name
and
his notice.

She spent the afternoon trying on dresses, then pulling off the lace trim that kept her gowns modest, as befitted a woman on the shelf, no longer looking for a husband. Tonight she was going to make her own husband look at her. He said he liked her breasts. Very well, let him see them. If he'd said he liked syllabub, she would have it on the menu, wouldn't she? So she rejected the trims and the lace fichus and Kashmir shawls, no matter if the Whitstanleys were known to keep their rooms cool. No retiring pastel colors for her tonight, either. Penny chose a cherry silk she'd had made up for a Christmas assembly two years ago. She'd felt self-conscious, as if she were drawing unwarranted attention to herself, so she'd never worn it again. Tonight everyone would be looking at her anyway—those who could take their eyes off West—so she might as well dress the part. The evening already held the excitement, the expectancy, the tingle of Christmas. Too bad there was no mistletoe.

She tried new hairstyles next, practicing wrapping the pearls he had given her around the plaited curls atop her head, like a coronet. She decided to wear her mother's ruby and pearl earbobs, but no necklace to distract from the expanse of skin from her neck to the abbreviated bodice. White gloves completed the ensemble. She'd do. She changed back into her dun-colored round gown, to count the trunks again.

 

West was shopping. This time he rode farther afield, as far as Doncaster, for more selection. He returned by midafternoon on a disgruntled horse that was not used to having bags and boxes bouncing along its sides. West's arms were full when he reached the library, where Penny was making copies of her lists in case one was lost.

He put his packages down on her desk, and took another armful from a footman before dismissing the man and closing the door.

Penny eyed the mound of tissue-wrapped parcels, a hatbox, a large square covered in paper. “What have you done?”

“I have bought gifts for my bride, of course,” he said as he helped himself to a glass of brandy.

“But you gave me the pearls. And I have everything I need.”

“Of course you do, but everyone needs presents. Besides, the pearls were for the wedding. These are to show my delight in our marriage. I admit I might not have looked forward to it, but I do not want you to doubt that I am pleased. There are thirteen presents, one for each birthday of yours that I missed. When we reach London, I shall try to find thirteen more, for every Christmas, and another thirteen for the anniversaries we should have shared.” He moved the packages around, in some order only he knew. “Perhaps not thirteen anniversaries, for no one intended us to wed when you were so young, but I shall think on that.”

“Oh, West, the thought alone is enough.”

He quickly reached for a small parcel. “Here, open this one first.”

It was a lace handkerchief, with gold leaves embroidered on it. Penny used it to wipe her eyes.

Next he handed her a book of poems. “This Layton chap is all the crack in London. I did not see this volume on your shelves.”

“It is on my list to buy. How did you know I like poetry?”

He would not peach on her grandfather. “A lucky guess, that's all.”

To change the subject, he uncovered a sheaf of music, some for pianoforte and some for the harp. “For when you learn,” he said.

A box of bonbons was next. “Not very original, I'm afraid, but I wanted to get you something sweet.” He helped himself to one, and held another up to Penny's lips.

“I am overwhelmed,” she said when she was finished.

“But we are not half done. Here, open the largest.”

She unwrapped the square box to find a beautiful cherrywood travel desk, all inlaid with flowers and birds. The lid rose to hold pens and ink and paper and pencils. “So you can write your lists while we travel.”

As beautiful as the desk was, Penny's eyes kept straying to a hatbox in the distinctive color of the most exclusive milliner in the county.

“Would you like to open that one?”

She held her hands out, instead of answering. Inside the box, in a nest of silver paper, was the most beautiful, frivolous bonnet Penny had ever seen. Of turquoise silk, it had tiny artificial pansies under the lace brim.

“I tried to match the color of your eyes, but could not find anything suitable.”

“This is exquisite!”

He handed her a small velvet pouch.

“A lorgnette?” she asked when she opened the drawstrings.

“It is a quizzing glass, so you can look down on all the lesser beings. Ladies use them at the theater, too.”

“I am overwhelmed.” She was sitting in a sea of papers and wrappings.

“We are still not done.”

He gave her a box that held a new fan. “So you can rap the knuckles of anyone who becomes too familiar.”

It was beautiful, ruffled lace with purple irises painted on it, with ivory spokes and handle. Unfortunately it did not match her cherry gown.

The next package was a paisley shawl, in pinks and yellows that would make her look like a hot-air balloon in the red silk.

A paper cone contained a nosegay of flowers for her to carry tonight to the party, in a gold filigree holder. The flowers were all blue. “Now, those do match your eyes.”

But not her gown. Penny tried to hide her dismay, saying, “Grandpapa will be thrilled. He loves all these bright colors.”