The Bargain Bride (18 page)

Cottsworth emptied his glass. “Every day.”

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

 

 

 

E
leven o'clock and he was not coming home. This was to be the story of her life from now on, Penny knew, waiting for her husband, wondering whose bed he was in if not his own or hers. That widow's? A paid courtesan's or a chance-met tavern wench? Why had she thought things might be different, that she could change him, that marriage would change him? West was a rake. He'd always be a rake. If he could not find pleasure with his wife, he'd find other arms to welcome him. She knew it; she just thought he'd wait a few weeks. He'd said he would wait for her to be ready. He'd said he would be faithful. He'd lied. And she'd lied to herself.

Twelve o'clock and she was not sleepy, not with her hopes in shambles. So Penny decided to continue with the work of making her new home more comfortable. She might not know anything of intimacy, but she sure as Hades knew how to run a household.

Most of her efforts had to wait for daylight, for footmen to move furniture and maids to dust behind it. She needed help removing her father's ugly choices, and she needed the stores to be open in the morning, the linen-drapers and showrooms and warehouses Lady Bainbridge had recommended. Westmoreland House would not be up to her standards in one day, but the fine old house would not embarrass its residents one hour more than necessary.

Penny did not want to chance waking her grandfather, either, opening his crates to hang his paintings instead of the horrid pieces on the walls downstairs. So she went into West's empty rooms.

She was not trespassing, not precisely. A good wife knew her entire domain, Penny told herself. How else was she to know what to replace or rearrange for her husband's comfort? Men did not care about fabric swatches and furniture styles, she knew, but she might get a hint of what he preferred without bothering him with such petty matters. That's how she justified her snooping, anyway.

In case West's valet was there, or if his lordship returned—twelve thirty, where was the dratted man?—she brought her lists and a pencil to take notes.

The small dressing room that adjoined hers smelled of his soap and his cologne. That was the first thing she noticed. Then she saw his shaving supplies on the washstand, his comb and brush, all lined up in military precision. Penny often forgot that her husband had been a soldier, since he was so much the polished gentleman, yet here was evidence of his former training, or his valet's.

She opened the doors of his wardrobe—she had to know if the standing piece of carved wood was adequate, didn't she?—and again smelled West's distinct spicy cologne. His clothes were all neatly arranged, with room to spare. Penny supposed Nicky needed extra shelves for his apparel, but West had plenty of room.

His drawers, too, were in order, not that Penny exactly fondled his stockings and handkerchiefs and inexpress ibles. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, she hurried into the adjoining bedroom. She could not tell which furniture was his, which was her father's doing, but the massive bed that almost filled the room made her think either it was a new addition, or else her husband threw orgies.

She could understand why West disliked the heavy hangings that surrounded the huge canopied bed on three sides. The maroon velvet was so dark and thick it made the bed more of an imprisoning cave than a welcoming nest, even with one corner pulled back by a gold-tasseled tie. She recognized her father's taste here, for Sir Gaspar did not believe in fires in the bedcham bers until the depth of winter, making an enclosed bed necessary for comfort, holding body heat in and the chill night air out. In fact, Penny thought, these same maroon velvet draperies might have come from Sir Gaspar's own house, since they did not appear brand-new to her experienced eye. West hated them, so they were a recent addition. She had thought she recognized some of the paintings and chairs earlier, but now she was certain. Her father's wife had taken the opportunity of Penny's marriage to redecorate her own house, and her frugal father had sent the discards and disasters to Penny. Well, they could have them back.

The bed might be an heirloom, however, like the lady's desk in her own sitting room. For all Penny knew, her husband had been born in that enormous bed. Heavens, he might expect the next viscount to be conceived there! She thought about that for a moment while she ran her fingers down the sleeve of a paisley robe that lay across the pillows. Then she thought about how no nightshirt was laid out with the robe. Oh, my. No, she would not consider naked men making babies on this monstrous mattress.

She had to wait to find out if he wished to keep the bed or use it for kindling, but she could get rid of the offending fabric right now, this very minute.

Penny kicked off her slippers, climbed up onto the thick bedding, and started pulling. The velvet was sturdy, the seams well sewn. She pulled harder. She piled the pillows to stand on, higher, and grabbed more of the fabric in her hands. Then she got down and went to fetch West's shaving razor. Ah, that made the job much easier, starting the cuts so she could tear the velvet in her hands.

So her wandering, womanizing husband was out on the town—rip. So he hadn't wanted to be married—rip. So she was still a blasted virgin—
rriiip
. And no infant was going to be conceived, born, or dreamed of, not in this bed, not any time soon. She pulled so hard she fell off the bed.

Luckily a wad of velvet cushioned her fall. She climbed back up and kept cutting and tugging and cursing. Soon she had shredded fabric thrown all across the bed, the floor, the entire room, enough to make curtains for the Drury Lane Theatre, it appeared. Now the bed was open and airy and of better proportion for the room. If West was cold under the naked canopy, so what? He had her money. He could afford more coal for the fireplace. He would not have her to warm his sheets, not if he came home from some other woman's bed. Oh, no. Penny was not going to be just another of his conquests.

On the other hand, the one still holding the razor, Penny was as torn as the velvet. She wanted to be West's lover. She wanted to lie next to him, to fall asleep in his arms, warmed by his body after a night of pleasure. She wanted what Lady Bainbridge said every woman deserved. She wanted the impossible: West's love. She knew he'd never love a cold woman, not her hot-blooded husband. But how could she live with him—or herself—as the poor, betrayed wife?

Her thoughts were in chaos, but she would not leave West's room looking as if a band of berserk barbers had run through it. She neatly gathered all the fabric and folded it into a pile for the servants to carry away tomorrow. There were enough large pieces for capes or quilts, if any of them wanted to sew for their own use. Her father would approve of that, not wasting good material.

She looked at the soft mound, under the window. No, it should not go to waste. So she went down the hall to Nicky's empty room and fetched George.

“Here is a nicer bed,” she told the pug. “And you already like West. He'll need the company, the cur.”

 

Three o'clock, and Penny was finally asleep when she heard the commotion below. She pulled on her robe and rushed to the head of the stairs to look down, grabbing up an ugly vase from the hall table in case she needed a weapon. Instead of housebreakers, however, there was her husband, staggering under the weight of his half-conscious brother as Parker, a coat thrown over his nightshirt, and one of the new footmen rushed to help. Both brothers were disheveled and dirty and smelled of smoke.

He'd said he did not smoke. He'd said he did not drink to excess. He'd said he wanted to make their marriage work. By staying out all night, getting drunk and in brawls—on their first night in their new home together? Penny was so angry she almost tossed the ugly vase down on his head.

The inconsiderate bounder had even woken her grandfather, who was feeling his way down the hall, his nightcap askew and his feet bare. Marcel was coming behind him, yelling about riots and revolutionaries, waving Mr. Littleton's slippers in one hand, a fireplace poker in the other. Penny was ashamed that her beloved relative and his servant should see her new husband in this state. She was more embarrassed that Grandpapa and Marcel would realize that West had not come home after dinner, had not spent the night with his new wife. She supposed all of London would know, with the Westmoreland brothers' hell raking. The gossip columns were bound to be full of Lord Westfield's philandering in the morning. Sick at heart, she started to go to her grandfather, to turn him back to his own room.

West looked up. “I am sorry to disturb your rest, sir,” he said, not seeing Penny in the dark hall, and sounding remarkably sober for a man in his condition. “But there was a fire at General Fitzgerald's place, and everyone at the club raced over to help. Well, some of the members went to watch, making bets on whether the house would fall,” he added in disgust.

“I once painted the general's portrait,” Mr. Littleton said, straightening his cap. “Is he safe? His family?”

“Everyone in the house got out in time, although I do not know the condition of the rooms or your painting.”

“That's all right, as long as no lives were lost.”

“The insurance-company firemen were already there, with their bells and whistles. They did a fine job. A spark had landed on a tree in the garden, though, spreading the flames, and I worried about the horses in the mews behind the house. I sold some of those horses to the general myself. We could hear them starting to panic over the servants' shouts and the fire.”

The vase slipped through Penny's fingers onto the carpeted hallway. There was a fire?

West had handed Nicky over to the servants, who were half carrying him to the kitchen, where Mrs. Parker could tend him.

“We are both fine,” West called up the stairs, “and all the horses were saved, so please go back to bed.”

Her grandfather leaned on Marcel's arm and returned to his own room, while Penny raced down the stairs. Before West could follow the others to the kitchen, she grabbed his arm and turned him around, so she could inspect her husband for injuries. He seemed more dirty than hurt. Now she could see the soot on his cheeks, and smell manure. She brushed his hair back from his forehead to make sure, while he stood patiently, a smile on his tired face. He was in one piece, it seemed.

“What happened to Nicky?”

“Oh, he thought I should stay behind, now that I have responsibilities. You.” He brushed her cheek with a dirty hand, then winced when his sore knuckles touched her face.

Penny took his hand in hers, gingerly bending the fingers to see if any were broken. “You need some ice on this,” she said, starting to lead him after the others to the kitchen, but he held her back.

He kept her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a whisper-soft kiss on her fingers. “My valet will bring it later. I told Parker to roust him, but your touch is far more gentle than his anyway. Truly, I am fine.”

Penny did not want to relinquish him into the care of someone else, either, now that she knew he was safe. There was soap and water in his dressing room, enough to start, so she headed for the stairs, then paused. “But you still have not said what happened to your brother. Should we send one of the footmen for a surgeon?”

“No, he will be fine, especially with Mrs. Parker's ministrations. He's mostly suffering from the general's gratitude, in the form of the most potent rum punch I have ever tasted. My punch barely stopped him.”

“You hit your brother?”

“I could hear the horses,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We had to move them out, where they could not smell the fire. He was holding on to my arm to keep me from going into the stables. Then he said if I went in, he went in.”

“So you hit him?”

“I couldn't chance losing my little brother, could I? I swore on my father's grave to look after him. He came after me anyway, the clunch. Thank goodness he did, because the grooms were busy fighting the fire.”

“Nicky was a hero?”

He nodded. “Damned good man to have at my side.”

“Nicky?”

“He did complain about his new waistcoat being ruined.”

“And you were rescuing horses all this time?”

“Not quite all. The general insisted we celebrate with him after we found other stabling for the cattle. I had no time to send a message.”

“Then you were not . . . ?”

“Not . . . ?”

She did not answer, just wiped at his face with the sleeve of her robe.

He grinned, through the grime. “What, did you think I was carousing?”

“I did not know what to think when you did not come home,” she confessed.

He kissed her, dirt and all, halfway up the stairs. “Ah, Penny, when will you learn to trust me? I said I would not betray our vows.”

She turned away, climbing the last steps. “But you left.”

“I came home.”

“You won't always. I know it. Someday you'll be gone.”

“Never.”

“What about Lady Gre—?” Penny would not say the name.

“I ended all my connections before traveling to your grandfather's. You have to start believing me.”

They had reached his rooms, but instead of washing the soot and the dirt and the blood off West, they were busy spreading it onto Penny. The fire at the general's house couldn't have been half as hot as the air between them. Then there was no air between them, only a few layers of clothing, which were quickly—