The Bargain Bride (28 page)

Now Penny could feel the color drain from her cheeks down to her leaden toes. He wouldn't, would he?

“Oh yes,” Lady Greenlea went on. “You see, after years of marriage I never conceived. West needed an heir, naturally, so we could not wed. Not that I would have him, of course. Only a foolish heiress places the keeping of her fortune into the hands of a handsome wastrel. Oh, but you did just that, didn't you?”

Penny found her feet, and her way to the front door. “You waste your time. West and I are married, and he will keep his vows.” She put as much confidence as she could into the words, perhaps more than she felt. “So there is nothing here for you.”

“But of course there is. The game, don't you know.”

Penny opened the door. “Marriage is no game. It is my life, mine and West's. He loves me and I love him.”

Lady Greenlea turned on her way out. “Then you are doubly a fool.”

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

 

 

 

3O
ne horse threw a shoe. Another threw West. That's what he got for not paying attention to the road and the rabbit that crossed his path. Instead he'd been thinking of his wife, and how quickly he could get back to her.

Not quickly enough. The storage barn was almost completely destroyed, damage to the stables was more extensive than he'd thought, and many of the horses were injured or missing. Worse, the stable manager had suffered a seizure after the steward sent his letter to West. McAlbee was the finest trainer, breeder, and veterinarian West knew—and now he was incapacitated, for who knew how long. Possibly worst of all, the local magistrate suspected the fire had been purposely set, likely by a senior groom that McAlbee had fired for drinking on the job. The man was still on the loose, so the grooms were looking for him, the missing horses, and any further threats.

Most of West's money went to hiring extra men as guards and carpenters to rebuild the barn and the stable. He set up a pension for McAlbee, replaced the burned fodder, and offered a reward for the arrest of Fred Nesbitt.

Most of his energy went to working beside the men or with the injured horses, doctoring what he could, grieving when he couldn't. He fell into his bed at night, barely noticing that his ancestral home was damp, dank, and dirty, with no one caring for it. He hadn't been able to keep on an indoor country staff while he lived in London, or fix the leaking roof and smoking chimneys. How the hell was he going to bring Penny here? Damn, he should have held out for Sir Gaspar to make this place fit for a lady, too.

Or he could borrow money from his wife. The idea made him as sick as thinking of a person who could harm defenseless horses. If Fred Nesbitt was nearby, he was as good as dead.

Unfortunately, he did not seem to be nearby. So how could West leave? The bastard might have left the neighborhood, or he might be hiding out in some game-keeper's hut, waiting to make another move against McAlbee and Westfield itself. West could not take a chance on guessing wrong, leaving his men, his horses, his property, subject to a drunkard's grudge.

West drove himself and his men harder, raising the reward, battering at the magistrate's door to keep the man and his deputies looking. The missing horses were rounded up, repairs were under way, one of the senior stablemen was promoted to replace McAlbee, and some of the new men had wives willing to clean the manor house in exchange for food and lodgings. Some worked in hopes of permanent positions when he brought his bride home. Hah! As if she'd come.

She'd never forgive him for missing the blasted ball, the date for which was looming ever closer. Nor could West blame her. He'd left her in London knowing few people, burdened with his ramshackle residence and her own impossible relations, in addition to the improbable task of finding husbands for some of them. If he had it to do again, he'd still leave for the sake of their future, but he regretted the need.

Poor Penny, he thought, she didn't even know how to dress or act like a lady, or what was expected of her as a viscountess. She definitely did not know how to weed out the fortune hunters and rakes from her stepsisters' suitors. They'd be there aplenty, like hounds scenting a scrap of meat.

Damn, what if she fell susceptible to one of those hounds—one of those heartless hedonists—herself? A beautiful woman with a fortune of her own and more coming when her father died was an irresistible lure. The hunters might already be circling their prey. They all knew he'd left her on her own days after the wedding. There was no way that news would not spread through London like the fog. Penny would look like fair game to every philanderer in London. And she just might be mad enough, distressed enough, lonely enough, to listen to some silver-tongued devil with evil intentions. She had not known enough compliments in her life, enough caring, to tell real affection from Spanish coin. He blamed himself for that, of course.

And for introducing her to the pleasures of sex. Jupiter, she took to it like a duck to water. He might as well have been the arsonist, starting a fire that went out of control. What if she thought he wasn't coming back? Would she take a lover?

Only if she wanted her lover to join Fred Nesbitt in hell.

West rode to every hedge tavern and cutthroat hideaway in miles. Well-armed, and with murder in his eyes, he was safe enough. No one tried to rob him, which he almost regretted. A good fight might have relieved some of his pent-up frustration. His wife was waiting. He wanted her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to touch her and kiss her and tell her he couldn't live without her. He wanted to make sons with her, and yellow-haired daughters.

He wanted to borrow money from her? He was a worse dastard than the missing stable hand.

He left bribes, drank foul brews, and visited more whores in one week than he had in a lifetime, only now he was looking for answers, not pleasure. A lot of people knew Nesbitt. No one had seen him since the fire. West kept looking, ready to take justice into his own hands.

If he was forced to miss Penny's party, he might as well be dead. West, not Nesbitt.

He sent a message, but couldn't put into words what she meant to him, what being away from her did to him. He was a man, dash it, not a poet. Everything he tried to write sounded silly or insincere, so he decided to wait until he could see her, face-to-face, hopefully before she shot him.

 

Penny's thoughts were equally as murderous, and not only about Lady Greenlea's words. The widow was a woman scorned, trying to cause trouble, Penny told herself. That was all the viper meant, to have her vengeance. Penny almost convinced herself, except one note, one short, impersonal note, was all West sent. And it arrived on the day she thought he'd be returning. But no, not only had the miserable worm run off, riding neck or nothing on unfamiliar roads and unfamiliar horses, but now her bridegroom was tracking down a drunk or deranged horse groom! How could he be so uncaring, so reckless, so very, very stupid? Didn't West realize he had responsibilities now? He was probably enjoying himself playing at knight-errant detective, when he could be killed, the jackass! He'd gone and left her to worry, the same as she'd done with him in the army, only then she had worshipped him with a schoolgirl's calf-love. Now she was a woman, a wife, a lover. She cursed his black heart for making her all of them.

She crumpled the note into a ball in her fist and went to throw it into the fire. Then she smoothed it out and reread it, especially the signature line.
Yrs., West.
She touched his writing and his name, and the
Yrs
. The chow derhead couldn't even commit to the
ou
in
yours
.

He was hers. And she was his. To the devil with jealous lovers. If he got killed, she'd . . . she'd step on his grave. No, she'd take his lifeless body and hang it from a pole, so every man could see the rewards of a reckless, feckless life, and every woman could be warned about the grief in store for her. No, she'd cement him into the family crypt, so he couldn't run away ever again. No, she'd . . . go shopping.

The house was almost ready for its debut, and so were the Entwhistle females. Lady Bainbridge had the young ladies in hand, and was chaperoning them this afternoon to still another gathering for fledglings. Lady Goldwaite was content to let someone else do all the tedious traipsing about, as long as the girls were with the proper sort of gentlemen, which meant of titled families. She was wise enough to know that her presence was a handicap to her daughters' chances, reminding the toplofty nobs of their connection to trade.

Michael Cottsworth had offered to drive them all, which filled his carriage, which gave Penny the excuse to stay behind. Besides, the former officer and the widow seemed to have a great deal to speak of, and Penny would have been in the way.

Nicky had not been home since the waltzing party, as far as Penny knew. He was most likely avoiding her and any more escort duty. So much for his promise to stand by his brother's wife.

Grandpapa was off to his favorite chemist, having more of his paint colors mixed, then to visit another of his old artist friends, this one married to a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. Mr. Littleton was looking forward to seeing old Jamison, before the man suffered a heart attack.

Penny took her maid along to Bond Street. Not that she felt in need of a companion or the escort of another female. She was not the one in danger. But the gossipmongers in London looked for any chance to stir up a scandal, and breaking with the conventions would set tongues wagging. Besides, Penny knew she would need help carrying the thirteen parcels she intended to buy.

Thirteen gifts, that's what would be waiting for West when he got home, not an angry, agitated wife, no shouts or recriminations or reasons to leave again. He'd given her that number of presents, one for each birthday he'd missed, and she was determined to show West that she held him in equal esteem and affection. She might not say the words, and he might not believe her actions were genuine or sincere, but perhaps this would nudge him into understanding her feelings—and his own.

She knew he needed a new robe, not that he wore it for longer than the steps between his room and hers. Still, his dressing gown was frayed at the cuffs, so purchasing a new one was an easy decision. She selected a dark brown velvet that matched his eyes, and took the garment home to embroider with his monogram and family crest.

He never carried a watch, so she bought him a beautiful timepiece from a fashionable jeweler. The outer casing held an engraved compass, and the delighted clerk assured her they could affix a diamond chip at west. The watch also had a tiny chime for the hour, but that could be turned off with its own winding key. She blushed when the clerk explained that some gentlemen did not wish to hear the chime in the middle of the night.

When he saw her still looking in other cases, the eager salesman suggested a snuffbox. “They are all the thing with the gentlemen,” he said to this obviously wealthy patron. “Many of them have a different snuffbox for every day of the week, or to match each ensemble.”

“My husband does not take snuff. Or smoke,” she offered, when he started toward a gold pipe stand.

“A new stickpin for his neckcloth, perhaps?” The man took a tray of pins from one of the glass cases.

West had his favorite, and several others, Penny knew, but she was attracted to an interesting piece, a tiny gargoyle holding a ruby in its hands. She thought West might like that, so had the clerk wrap it for her to take with her.

“Now perhaps I might show you something for milady?” He gestured to trays of rings and brooches.

“Oh no, I am shopping for my husband today.”

The clerk smirked, as if that ever stopped a female customer from looking. “Your anniversary, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” was all she said. But the man's question reminded her of something West had said. So she went to Madame Journet's down the street and asked for the direction of the finest maker of lingerie in London.

“For a viscountess?” that wise Frenchwoman asked. “Or for a seductress?”

“For my husband,” Penny answered, smiling.

“Ah, in that case you want to go to Noelle's. She makes night wear for the most expensive of courtesans. Monsieur will be delighted.”

Penny purchased five, one more revealing than the next, and none in green. The one trimmed with feathers, especially, had all sorts of naughty possibilities. The gowns were for West's pleasure, yes, but Penny could not wait to wear them, for herself, to see the look on his face as his expression softened, then became fixed and intent.

She was glad to leave the suddenly warm shop for the cooler air outside, but had no idea where to go next. She had eight gifts and needed five more. Her maid suggested a nearby print shop, but they already had more artwork than they knew what to do with. None of Grandpapa's paintings were of horses, however, so Penny selected two Stubbs equine drawings in handsome gilt frames that West might like for his book room at Westfield.

A bookstore was directly across the street, and Penny had never been able to resist one of those yet. She found a volume of Mr. Culpepper's poetry for herself, and a thick tome on the bloodlines and breeding of horses since before saddles were invented, it seemed, for West. That one was so heavy she asked to have it delivered, with some other books she decided she needed, eight of them in fact, none for West.