The Bargain Bride (2 page)

While she rubbed her skin raw, Penny tried to regain her equilibrium. She was not going to let that man affect her one bit, never again. And, she told herself, dunking her head under the water, sending soap bubbles flying across the room, he had not actually ruined her life. She would not give the toad that much credit. She liked the life she had, running her grandfather's country house, supervising the staff, managing the nearby orphanage and school, helping the vicar care for the aged and infirm in the parish. She led a worthy, rewarding life. Not like some London rake who cared for nothing but his own pleasure.

No, her life was fulfilling. It simply was not the life she had imagined before he entered it, then left without a second glance. Granted, he was not responsible for his father's debts, the war, her mother's death, or her father's remarriage, but nearly everything else in her life could be laid at his door. Why should her new stepmother keep Penny on in London's marriage mart when she was already promised? Why pay for new gowns and more Seasons when the new Mrs. Goldwaite had two young daughters of her own—less well favored, considerably less well dowered—to raise? Why have another mistress at Goldwaite House—one used to running the household and adored by the servants—when Penny's maternal grandfather in the country had no one to look after him? So Penny had been sent to Yorkshire to wait for her fiancé to come.

He had not.

He had not rescued her from the wicked stepmother. He had not saved her from banishment to a hidden castle. He had not slaughtered any dragons for her. Kendall Westmoreland, now Lord Westfield, was no fairy-tale hero. He was no hero at all. What he'd killed was her childish dreams; that was all. The first time she had seen him, when their fathers met to sign contracts, he'd been kind. The second, at her mother's death, he'd been comforting. He was the handsomest, noblest young man in the entire kingdom, a prince from her storybooks, a god from the myths she read, a creature of magic and wisdom and beauty and sweetness and strength.

She was a child, and a fool. He was a weakling. And cruel.

He should have escorted her the year of her come-out, before her father remarried, when Mr. Goldwaite hired a widowed baroness to chaperone Penny, but he was with the army on the Peninsula. He should have visited her before he went off to war. She would have followed the drum gladly if he asked her. He should have come to see her when he reached his majority, rescinding those contracts and ending the betrothal while Penny could have found another man to marry. She had been certain he would come four years ago when he succeeded to his father's title and sold out of the army. No one would have expected a viscount to wed a banker's daughter. She was suitable enough for a second son, but not the heir. He had not come to York even then, nor sent for her to come to London. He stayed in Town enjoying himself, likely using the engagement to keep himself safe from matchmaking mamas, if he mentioned it at all.

Penny would have stopped scanning the London newspapers when she started seeing her fiancé's name in the society columns instead of the war dispatches, except she had to read the papers to her grandfather. According to the
on-dits
columns, his lordship's current inamorata was a Lady MG, dubbed the Colorful Widow, whatever that meant. Penny assumed she was buxom, beautiful, and wealthy, to boot. Not that she cared, of course. Westfield obviously did not care about her or her feelings. He never once came, or wrote, or sent a message. Never.

Now he was arriving this afternoon. Likely because her father had been made a knight, probably for paying Prinny's debts, the same way he had paid the previous viscount's. Perhaps her father's new title made Penny a more acceptable bride for his lordship's puffed-up pride.

She tossed the washcloth across the room with enough force to knock over a bottle of perfume. No, by heaven, he'd come to ask her to cry off, finally, because he had to start his nursery. Women who wanted to be mother to his sons must be lined up in London, waiting six deep.

Good. Let one of those silly twits have him and his care-for-naught manners. Let her worry when he rode off to war, and let her weep when she read about actresses and opera dancers. Let her spend thirteen years waiting for love.

No, Viscount Westfield had not ruined Penny's life. He'd broken her heart. Now she would not marry him if he were the last man on earth. He was here only because everyone knew a gentleman did not break an engagement. He simply made his betrothed so miserable that she was eager to end the arrangement. Cry off? She would shout it from the rooftop this very afternoon, if she had any skin left.

 

A boy ran around the side of the building to lead West's horse away, but no one answered when he let the brass door knocker tap on the door twice. No one answered, which would never have happened in a properly run gentleman's residence in London. Even more telling of the difference between city life and country dwelling, the unlocked door creaked open when he rapped again.

“Halloo?” When no one answered his call, West stepped through the entry and found himself in even more unfamiliar territory. Bright splashes of color assaulted his sensibilities from every inch of the narrow hallway, from paintings—no, he amended, smears—of every size and shape, that were hung ceiling to floor. The Academy of Art was known to fill their walls, but with art, not these . . . these . . . Words failed West. The closest description he could give was the works on display might have been painted by a cow with a brush tied to its tail. Great daubs of color flew across the canvases with no rhyme nor reason that West could see.

He shook his head. Here he'd been worried that his promised bride was no beauty. He should have been concerned that she was cockle-headed, and color-blind to boot. How could anyone live in a place like this? He thought of the quiet refinement at Westfield Manor, the few cherished heirloom masterpieces he'd been able to reclaim. Then he thought of Miss Goldwaite being chat elaine there. “Great gods.”

West turned, and shook his head again. Maybe he was the one with attics to let. A large man stood there, carrying a ribbon-wrapped spear. The man's size did not intimidate West, although his own six feet were overshadowed by the other's height, nor did the spear seem threatening. What had him nonplussed was the fellow's attire, or lack of it. He was wearing a feathered head-dress, a beaded leather breechclout, and war paint, lots of war paint. Now he pointed the spear at one of the paintings and answered for West. “A masterpiece,
oui
.”

“Oui . . . ,”
West sputtered, eyeing the spear's sharp point.

The Indian raised a thick red-striped eyebrow. “We are early?”

“We . . . that is, I, have come to call on Miss Persephone Goldwaite. Please tell me I have the wrong address.”

The Indian bowed with all the pomp and punctilio of a London upper servant. “This is the home of Monsieur Cornelius Littleton and his granddaughter.”

West's spirits, already low, plummeted to his feet, where at least he wore boots, unlike the barefoot butler. “Please tell them that Viscount Westfield has called.” He reached into his pocket for a calling card. At least he had pockets, unlike the red-skinned retainer.

The Indian took the card and bowed again. “Monsieur may wait in the library.” His expression said it might be a long wait.

Before the man turned to lead him farther into the house, West asked, “Are you a French-Canadian Indian, then?”

The butler straightened to his considerable height. “I am sitting.”

The viscount smiled. “Odd—I've never heard of that tribe.”

West could swear he heard a muttered French imprecation that had more to do with his own parentage than the Indian's. “
Je suis
Marcel. Monsieur Littleton is an artiste of great note.”

West took one last look at the paintings on the wall before following Marcel. That great note must be a sour one, indeed. Then he realized that the back side of a beefy man in a breechclout was even less attractive than the paintings. To exacerbate the matter, Marcel flounced down the corridor to the library. There was no other word for it. The model-cum-majordomo swung his hips and jiggled a jig right down the hall.

Good grief, this was no bucolic bride's abode. This was Bedlam!

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

 

 

 

T
he view from the library was a lot better than the one from behind Marcel's behind. The windows overlooked a terraced garden, with an orchard in the distance. Inside, the decor was far more pleasing than the hall's. Here, at least the few paintings carefully placed against the dark wood paneling were truly works of art, skill, and composition. West particularly admired a landscape that hung over the table where Marcel had directed him to liquid refreshments. The artist had captured a storm in the woods so well that West could almost see the branches of the trees moving. The painting was signed
C. Littleton
, so the man actually did have some degree of talent. He had excellent taste in brandy, too. West poured himself another measure. Lord knew he needed it.

With the library door left partially open, he could hear shouts and footsteps, curses, and slamming doors. From the feminine tones of some of the imprecations, he gathered he would need a bit more fortification.

He made a more thorough survey of his surroundings while he waited and sipped his brandy—or brandies. For the first time since coming on this benighted journey, he was pleased with what he saw. A man could be comfortable here. The walls were high, with bookshelves to the ceiling, the windows letting in light to read in the inviting leather armchairs. A wide cherrywood desk was placed in a corner, with what appeared to be the estate ledgers neatly arranged on the shelves behind it. As he examined the other walls of books, West noticed classic literature, plays, and philosophy mixed in with the latest volumes of poetry, fiction, and scientific speculation. One glass-fronted cabinet held a few valuable editions that any collector would prize. The volumes appeared well read and carefully handled, not merely arranged for show, so the household was not entirely filled with barbarians. Here was a gentleman's library, West decided with relief, not a madman's. And the brandy was excellent. He eyed the crystal decanter with longing, but set his glass down. He needed all his wits about him if he was to leave Yorkshire alive and a bachelor.

Eventually Marcel returned. This time he was dressed in proper butlerish attire, from spotless white gloves to dark tailcoat to powdered wig, all of which made the war paint on his face look even more bizarre. He made a formal bow at the door, then announced his master in tones sonorous enough for a bishop. “Monsieur Cornelius Littleton, my lord.” He stepped aside, then led a slender old man into the room by his arm.

West stepped forward, bowed, and put his hand out. It was Marcel who placed Littleton's hand in West's for a shake, before guiding the impeccably dressed gentleman—except for a streak of crimson in his white hair—to one of the leather chairs. That explained the splashed paintings in the hall, West supposed.

Marcel started to place a blanket over Littleton's knees, but the old man patted the butler's hand and said, “Do not fuss,
mon ami
.” That explained Marcel, West supposed.

The smell of turpentine and linseed oil replaced the comfortable aroma of the old books and brandy as Littleton sat back against the cushions after Marcel left to fetch refreshments. West hoped his host couldn't see him take out his handkerchief to rub at a spot of yellow ochre on his thumb.

Littleton appeared to be waiting for West to begin the conversation, but the viscount's mission was with Miss Goldwaite, not her grandfather, which left idle chitchat, the weather and such. “A lovely day, sir.”

“I have not been out.”

A comment on the local scenery was obviously impolite, as was praise for the paintings in the library. The artist could not produce such again. Neither could West compliment the books when Mr. Littleton had not read those latest novels on the shelves. He settled on, “Excellent brandy.”

“Helped yourself, did you?”

Now West felt like a thief, besides a tongue-tied trespasser. “Marcel directed me. May I pour you a glass?” He got up and refilled his own.

“What, in the morning? Some of us have better things to do than addle our insides and benumb our brains.”

“Uh, quite.”

“And some of us do not need courage from a bottle.”

West pushed aside his glass untouched. He resumed his seat, noting that Littleton's head followed his movements. The awkward silence fell again, as thick as the smell of paint. For all his thirty-two years and experience as an officer, West felt as if he'd been called before the headmaster in school, waiting to find out which of his many infractions had been discovered this time. There was no doubt he was already judged guilty.

He would not be accused of ill manners. “Your home is lovely, sir. And I appreciate your kindness in seeing me so unexpectedly and interrupting your, ah, work.”

“It is love, of course.”

For the painting? West prayed they were not discussing Marcel. “I can tell you are devoted to your art.”

Littleton waved his hand around, narrowly missing the decanter West had unknowingly moved. “I paint for love, yes, but for the money also now.”

People paid for the monstrosities in the hall? West made a noncommittal sound of assent.