The Bargain Bride (19 page)

“Your ice, my lord.” His valet came in, then a footman with more hot water, and Parker with his wife's salve and bandages.

“Damn,” West cursed at the interruption. “The only thing missing is the dog.”

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

 

 

 

L
ady Bainbridge moved in the next morning, all abuzz with the news. Most of London was talking about the heroic viscount and his brother. General Fitzgerald was singing their praises to every news reporter who came to interview him. The general's house was smoke filled and water damaged, and his wife was having nervous spasms—but his horses were safe. The papers recounted West's army career to fill more columns, his own horse-breeding efforts, and, of course, his rakish past. His hurried marriage also got its fair share of interest, so West and Penny were the topic of the day. The early, arranged match, the connection to the banking industry, the arrival of an eminent artist at the viscount's house, all were printed, read, and digested over breakfast by the Polite World.

“You'll be inundated with invitations now,” Lady Bainbridge told Penny. “So you really do not need me at all.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Penny said, thinking that now she would be even more on show, like some sort of circus performer whose whole history was written on the play-bill. She'd find no quiet entrances, no gradual joining of West's circles, only more glare, more gossip. Parker had already presented her with a silver tray overflowing with cards from the curious, and it was just after breakfast. Had they written them in their sleep? Tittle-tattle must fly through London like sparrows through the trees.

“I have never met half these people and I have no idea which invitations to accept, which to refuse.”

“See which ones your husband prefers. I can eliminate a few as unsuitable, climbers wanting to attach themselves to the newest comets through the social sky. And I know which hostesses will be helpful later, which will be offended if you fail to appear. But Westfield will have preferences.”

Which meant Penny had an excuse to visit West in his room after seeing Lady Bainbridge settled in a suite that was not too dreadfully decorated. Regrettably, she encountered West's valet just coming out of the bedchamber. According to the man, Lord Westfield was still fast asleep. He never woke when George barked to be let out, or when a footman came to remove the torn velvet.

Master Nicholas, the man reported, had awoken, clutched his sore head, and swore he was dying. Marcel made him a potion consisting of rum and raw eggs, which cured him of complaining, if nothing else.

Penny decided to spend the time waiting in continuing her survey of the house, with Mrs. Parker assisting to identify family pieces. She was too on edge to concentrate on her lists, though, so excused herself to the housekeeper and went out through the glass doors in the rear parlor to the terraced gardens behind the building. There she found a little piece of the country, a welcome, warming spot with the morning sun shining on overgrown flower beds, untrimmed trees, roses needing pruning, a knot garden gone wild. Her father had not touched a single weed, thank goodness. Of course not, when few would see the results.

Penny wished she could find a pair of thick gloves, her old boots, and pruning shears and start working immediately, but knew she would have to hire a gardener instead. She'd be too busy to play in the dirt, too involved in playing her new role of lady. Still, she'd have the gardens brought back to order as soon as possible, so she'd have a refuge from the coming social storm.

She did stay outside, despite the chill in the air, and pulled a few vines away from the roses, not wanting to face her future just yet. Her husband was a notorious figure, more so than ever. Penny always knew he was dashing and daring. He'd been her ideal for a decade, after all. Now everyone else knew his worth, too, which made her even less of a good match for him. They'd all disapprove of her the more.

 

Penny's first encounter with society's scrutiny came far sooner than she expected. A gentleman was sitting with West in the parlor when she came back in through the glass doors. Botheration, she had wanted him to herself this morning, and besides, here she was with her hands dirty, her hair windblown, grass stains on her skirts from where she could not resist kneeling to pull up a weed. She thought about fleeing back the way she had come, but both men were standing at her entrance, the stranger slowly and with difficulty, leaning on a cane. He was somewhat older than West, a dignified gentleman with silver at his temples and a military bearing, but a pleasant smile to counteract the lines etched in his face.

She hadn't thought much about West's friends, but supposed them to be libertines, dissipated, debauched, drunken. This man appeared to be none of those. Before Penny could make her excuses, he politely apologized for calling unannounced, at such an early, unfashionable hour.

“I fear I am used to running tame here, my lady, so never thought twice about coming to see for myself that West survived the fire and the general's gratitude. I understand some of the firefighters are still asleep in the ashes. I am sorry to intrude.”

Penny liked him immediately, for his graciousness, for his pretending not to notice her ragged appearance, and for his caring enough about West to hurry to his side. Mr. Michael Cottsworth, formerly Major Cottsworth of His Majesty's Cavalry, was a fine figure of a man despite his obvious limp. He was also West's good friend, she learned, confidant, and adviser. Penny realized that just as West had wed her family along with her, taking in Grandpapa and Marcel and George, facing dinner at the Goldwaites', she had to tolerate his circle of acquaintances. She was glad Mr. Cottsworth was one of them.

She offered to ring for refreshments, but the men had just eaten a late breakfast or an early luncheon, and Mr. Cottsworth had duties at the War Office, although he was retired from active duty. Penny invited him to attend dinner at her father's that evening—Sir Gaspar would be delighted to have another wellborn gentleman at his table—but the former soldier refused, citing a previous engagement. He did not give the least hint of any disinclination to sup with a mere knighted banker, which raised his esteem in Penny's eyes even further.

In return, he asked if they were to attend Lady Alder shott's rout. Penny looked to West, who nodded.

“Then I would be honored if you would sit out a dance with me, that we might become better acquainted,” West's friend said. “I regret I cannot offer for a waltz, but I fear your every moment will be spoken for as soon as you arrive if I do not get a jump on the other chaps.”

Penny agreed, with pleasure. Now she had another friend. West looked pleased, too, which added to her happiness.

After the gentleman left, West and Penny went over the other invitations that had arrived.

“Zeus, it appears we will need a social secretary to handle this mess or you'll spend half your days answering correspondence.”

“Lady Bainbridge offered to help.”

“Good.” He was studying the names on the cards, putting them into piles. “We do not need to attend every function or go out every night, not as newlyweds. I already told Parker to deny us to callers rather than fill the house to the rafters with gawkers, especially until you decorate the place to your liking and select your new wardrobe. Some of these are invitations to teas or ladies' at-homes during the day. You do not have to accept any but the most important until you are ready. Lady Bainbridge will know which. But you'll want to meet enough people to feel comfortable when it is our turn to entertain. And I wish to be seen with the pretti est woman in London on my arm.”

Penny blushed, and West laughed. “Lud, you are so easy to fluster. I doubt that will last past your first ball when every gentleman lays his heart at your feet.” He looked down, to see her slippers covered in mud. “Speaking of feet, why don't you show me what kept you out of doors so long?”

He followed her back to the gardens and listened to her plans to restore them. He did not know a rosebush from a rhododendron, but he loved the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips when she pointed to this scraggly shrub, that broken-limbed bush.

So he kissed her. He'd enjoyed many a tryst in abandoned gardens with pretty women, but few in the sunshine where people might see, and never with one who belonged to him. Not that he considered Penny as a possession—she'd likely darken his daylights for thinking such a thing—but she was his wife, his to cherish, his to kiss in the morning . . . and all night if he could convince her.

“Are you sure we have to go to your father's dinner tonight?” he whispered in her ear, which was already tingling from his breath and his fingers feathering through her hair. “I can think of better things to do out among the roses.”

Penny could barely think. What roses? What father?

He sighed and stepped away. “I suppose duty calls. Dash it.”

Doubly so.

 

Lady Bainbridge cried off from the dinner at Sir Gaspar's house that evening. She had a few last commitments to the young lady she was recently chaperoning. A duchess's granddaughter, Miss Lovell was already betrothed, thanks to Lady Bainbridge's efforts. The paid companion's services were hardly required so close to the wedding, but one never offended a duchess, especially not until one had been paid in full. Besides, Lady Bainbridge would be seeing more of Penny's stepsisters than she wished, all too soon.

Penny's grandfather also declined the invitation. He still had a cough. He still needed to send messages to his old friends in Town. And he still remembered dining at Goldwaite's table before.

“And came home needing another supper,” the old artist swore. “The man is so wealthy because he never spends a shilling more than he has to.”

Penny thought about defending her father with the information that he'd been supporting them all these past eight years, buying Grandpapa's paintings anonymously, but she held her tongue. Mr. Littleton was never going to look with favor on the man who carried his daughter off, then let her die, as if Sir Gaspar's money should have protected Penny's mother from an influenza epidemic.

And he had sent over his unwanted furniture.

Nicky flatly refused to go. He knew Penny's stepsisters, for one thing, and their matchmaking mama. For another, he had to go retell his story of the fire rescue to his chums. Everyone wanted to buy him dinner and a drink. How could he refuse such an opportunity? He was a hero, the man of the hour, a goer among goers. He needed a new waistcoat. Marcel managed to convince him that a true hero did not dress like a caper-merchant, so Nicky wore one of West's, his chest puffed up with pride enough to fit his brother's larger size.

Penny and West went by themselves. They had not been alone in a carriage much since their wedding, and Penny was ill at ease, anxious about the coming dinner, nervous about what might come after, unsure about her reaction to her husband's nearness. Why, her fingers were quivering simply from his touch as he handed her into the coach.

West seemed unconcerned. He was glad, he said, to be going to her father's house rather than going out in public to face the ridiculous notoriety his actions at the stables were causing. Any man would have done the same—Penny disagreed—and the furor would die down as soon as another story or scandal took its place. All those who sent cards or callers had nothing better to do with their time, he told Penny, his eyes telling her he could think of many things. And what did those well wishers think they were going to do with so many bouquets of flowers or baskets of fruit?

“What, do they think an orange will get the smell of smoke from my lungs?”

Penny instantly asked, “Are you ill? Should we send our regrets?”

He pulled her closer to him on the carriage seat, but shook his head. “No, we may as well get this over with. That is, I am eager to meet the rest of your family.”

“Liar.”

He laughed, and Penny felt warm all over, not just where their bodies were touching. She wished they were not going anywhere that night.

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

 

 

 

C
onstance, Lady Goldwaite, was obviously disappointed not to have her table full. Penny had made sure she'd received notice in the afternoon, in time enough to rearrange her table, but her stepmother was still annoyed. As always, she blamed Penny.

According to Constance, Mr. Nicholas Westmoreland was a fribble, a useless younger son with no fortune of his own, but his name was on everyone's lips. Her girls could have practiced on him. Lady Bainbridge would have been a coup, for the widow was known to be excellent
ton,
traveling in the highest circles despite her lowered circumstances. Penny's stepmother did not miss Mr. Littleton, she said, who was too eccentric and too outspoken. Her neighbors and closest friends would not have been impressed to hear his name in the morning anyway, if they recognized it. Artists were not quite the thing, she told the artist's loving granddaughter.