The Bargain Bride (38 page)

He kissed her again, long and hard, trying to express feelings that words alone could never convey.

Penny would have collapsed, but for his arms around her. When she caught her breath enough to speak, she said, “I was not frightened. I knew you would come. And I did have my pistol. But I know precisely what you mean. I felt the same way. My heart almost stopped beating when they shot at you. And I would never have forgiven myself if you were hurt when your horse threw you. I was the one who put you in danger by buying such an unreliable mount.”

Cottsworth might be joining the ranks of those with black eyes, West decided, limp or no limp. “Someone might have warned me about the horse.”

Penny rubbed his scowl away with her fingers and a kiss. “You fell asleep before I could.”

West had to smile. “You are never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“In about thirteen years, I'd wager.”

“I'll make it up to you, I swear.”

“I know.”

He would have started, right there in the roadway, but the sound of horses and vehicles came to them. West reached for the pistol, just in case, but he recognized his own curricle, Mr. Littleton's traveling coach, and Sir Gaspar's town carriage coming down the hill, Cottsworth riding alongside on his gelding. Two other men rode in front—the local authorities, he assumed.

He had time for one last kiss before the cavalry arrived.

Mr. Littleton could see well enough to notice the embrace, when Marcel helped him out of his coach. “I knew he'd make her a deuced fine husband.”

Sir Gaspar climbed down from his own carriage and mopped his brow, relieved to see both his daughter and her viscount standing, even if they were behaving scandalously in front of any chance passersby, and the constable. “I picked him, didn't I?”

For once Littleton did not argue with his son-in-law. He did gesture for Marcel to break open a bottle of brandy. “We all need it.”

Mavis ran to Penny, crying, half in relief and half because Nicky wanted to shoot Nigel.

“He is my brother!” she wailed.

Nicky came right behind her. “Well, he would have killed mine, and your stepsister, too.”

“What will happen to him now?”

“He ought to hang.”

The constables gathered up the weapons and checked the accused for injuries, of which there were many and varied. They chose not to ask for details. “No talk of taking the law into your own hands, young sir. There will be a magistrate's hearing, then a trial. They'll likely be transported.”

West was conferring with Cottsworth, who was leaning against the carriage, after the grueling ride. “I could populate New South Wales with criminals all by myself, it seems. I wonder if Nigel will be on the same boat with my arsonist.”

Both of them welcomed the bottle Marcel passed around. Sir Gaspar, a bottle of his own in hand, huffed that a trial would be bad for Penny, bad for the other girls' chances of making good matches—with an eye toward Nicky—and bad for business. Besides, it would be bad for Nigel's mother's nerves. Goldwaite did, however, have an investment in Jamaica, and a partner with a shipping concern.

“I can get him there, and ensure he stays there, if you are willing, Westfield. His mother and I can go visit sometime if she wishes.”

“What do you think, my love?” West asked Penny. “I would agree as long as he knows I will kill him on sight if he ever steps foot on English soil.”

One of the constables warned, “Here, now, my lord, none of that talk or we'll have to write it in the report.”

Penny touched her neck, where the maggot had held his knife. Then she looked at West, who would abide by whatever decision she made. “Well, Nigel did not actually hurt me or profit from the attempt, and he did say he was looking forward to a boat ride, so I suppose that is as good a solution as any.”

Mavis and Sir Gaspar hugged her because they were happy to have the dirty linen swept under the rug, or under Jamaica's sands. West hugged her because he hadn't in at least ten minutes.

After that, it was only a matter of arranging transport. The constables waved down a farmer and his wagon to carry Nigel's cohorts to the local lockup after a stop at the surgeon's. Still unconscious, Nigel was bound and bundled in with Sir Gaspar and Mavis, with Nicky happy to hold a gun on him. Cottsworth would drive the curricle back to London, in a hurry to report to Lady Bainbridge that everyone was safe. Everyone who mattered, anyway.

Littleton's driver always carried an extra set of leathers, so he fashioned new harnesses for the horses West had cut loose from Nigel's coach. West tied Sungod and the spent gelding to the back.

“But who will drive?” Penny wanted to know.

“I will, my love. You can sit beside me until we reach the outskirts of London. It would cause far more talk if a viscountess is seen beside a common driver.”

“There is nothing common about—,” Penny started to say, but Marcel interrupted.

“
Non, chère.
I will drive. Monsieur Littleton will sleep with George, and you must have the proper reunion, no?” He held up one hand, with its lace cuff. “Me, I have been a coachman, so you will be safe.”

“Is there anything you have not been?” West asked softly, handing Penny into the carriage.

“
Oui.
I have never been an opera singer, but I shall en deavor to sing very loudly, all the way back to London.” Marcel winked and climbed up to the driver's bench.

“The horses are tired,” West reminded him with a smile, “so you must go slowly. Very slowly.”

So West and Penny had hours in the comfortable carriage, with a bottle of excellent wine, a hamper of uneaten food, and music. The shades were drawn again, and West had Penny in his lap, on the leather cushions, on her knees, in the corner, half on the floor, every way he could think of to give her pleasure with his hands and his mouth and his words of love. Maybe not thirteen times, but who was counting? Certainly not Penny, who was floating on a cloud of sensual euphoria.

“I told you I would make it up to you.” He was grinning.

Penny was almost too sated to smile, but she did have stars in her half-closed eyes. “But don't you need . . . ?”

“I have everything I need right here.” He kissed her lips. “And here.” He kissed her bared breasts. “And here . . .”

He worshipped every inch of her beloved body, from the top of her gold curls to the bottoms of her pink toes.

“I love you, Lord Westfield.”

“Because I make you feel so good?”

“Because you
are
so good. I have decided that you are the perfect husband for me. I could not have found a better match if I searched for thirteen years.”

“That is a good thing, Lady Westfield, because I do not intend on going anywhere. You are mine, and I am yours—forever. A bargain?”

“A bargain,” she agreed, and they sealed that vow with another soul-binding kiss.

West had one last question: “And you finally trust me, don't you?”

“With my life.”

“But you'll still carry a pistol?”

She laughed. “Which I will not hesitate to use if you ever betray that trust.”

“I won't. But tell me, would you truly have shot Nigel?”

“If he threatened you? In an instant. You are the love of my life. No, I would have no life without you, no joy, no sunshine.”

He stroked her hair. “Nor would I, my golden girl, if I lost you. I do love you, Lady Westfield. And we are still a few miles away from home.”

Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Metzger's

 

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The end was near, inevitable and inescapable. All men had to meet their fates. Like all men, Daniel Stamfield protested his imminent demise.

“Great gods, I'm not ready!” he shouted, his fist raised to the heavens.

The gods, great or small, did not answer, but his companion cringed farther back on her side of the bed.

Daniel did not notice. He leaped from the bed, bare as the day he was born, and charged to the dressing table. He grabbed the bottle there—brandy or gin or spice-scented cologne; he didn't care which. He ignored the nearby glass just as he ignored Miss White's mew of distress when he raised the bottle to his mouth and took a long swallow. Then another. The liquor could not change the outcome, nor delay it. Being dead drunk on judgment day wasn't such a wise act, either, he realized, which only reminded him.

“Dead. I'm a dead man.” He went back to the bed, as if sinking into the downy mattress, pulling the covers over his head and Miss White closer to his cold body, could save him. “I'm too young to die. Not even thirty. I thought I had more time.”

Don't all men think that?

The note was still on the bed, though, where he'd tossed it after the manservant brought the damn thing. On a silver tray, no less. Daniel stared at it now—the expensive stationery, the flowing script, his name on the front of the folded sheet, the familiar seal on the back. His blue-eyed glare couldn't make the missive disappear, this death warrant, this end of his carefree days, this letter from his mother.

“They're in Town,” he told Miss White, “expecting me to play the beau for my sister's come-out.” He looked longingly back at the bottle on the table, then at the window overlooking the valley, as if escape lay in that direction. There was no escape, Daniel knew, not anywhere in London. “I wrote that Susanna was too young to make her curtsies at court. I said she and Mother should come to Town before next Christmas to shop, to take in the theater and visit the lending libraries. A few tea parties and morning calls to Mother's old friends, especially those with daughters Susanna's age. I'd take her to Astley's Amphitheatre to see the trick riding. Susanna would like that. I did at her age.”

Daniel still enjoyed visits to the circus, but now he went more to admire the bareback riders in their tights and short spangled skirts. He groaned at the memory that would be just that, a fond, forlorn dream, now that his family was in Town. “A short visit would have been fine—a chance for Susanna to see the metropolis and pick up a bit of Town bronze and perhaps make some new friends before facing the marriage mart next year. A week or two, that's what I told them. Did anyone listen to me, the head of the family? No, damn it. They are here now, here for the whole blasted spring Season. Weeks. Months. Maybe into summer. An eternity of balls and routs, masquerades and presentations and operas. Balls,” he repeated, with a different meaning.

No more bachelor days, wagering and wenching and lying abed, when he found his way home at daybreak or later. No more race meets or prizefights or tavern brawls. No more comfortable clothes, either. He grimaced at the loose shirt he pulled over his head, the baggy Cossack trousers he dragged on. They'd soon be gone, along with the opera dancers and actresses and serving girls.

The spotted kerchief he knotted at his throat felt like a noose. “Gads, they'll expect me to wear satin knee breeches and starched neckcloths.” He could feel the rash already. And that was the least of his itches.

Some men came home from war with wounds or scars or medals. Daniel Stamfield had come home with a rash. Like all the men of his family, Daniel had a gift—or curse, depending on how one felt. Somehow they could all tell truth from lies. His uncle the Earl of Royce heard discordant notes. His cousin Rex, the Royce heir, saw scarlet. Harry, his other cousin, from the wrong side of the blanket, tasted bitter lies on his tongue. Daniel? His curse wasn't subtle or private. That would have been too easy, too comfortable for a man who already stuck out like a sore thumb because of his overlarge, ungainly size. A sore thumb? He'd be happy with that. Instead he got itchy toes, itchy ears, bright red splotches on his neck, his face, his hands. Worst of all, a lot of lies, continuous lies, blatant lies, gave him a rash on his private parts. That was how he'd been thrown out of Almack's his first time at the hallowed hall of propriety. He'd scratched his arse. What if Susanna was denied vouchers for that sacred altar to the matchmaking deities because of him?

Hell, he would die at the first Venetian breakfast from all the polite mistruths and insincere flatteries the beau monde mouthed. His mother and sister would die, too, of embarrassment. Susanna's Season would be ruined, a debacle, a disgrace. No gentleman would marry her. Sweet little Sukey would be an old maid at seventeen, all because of him and his sensitive skin. He should have stayed in the army, no matter the cost. Perhaps he had time to reenlist. So what if the war with France was over and that madman Napoleon was finally defeated? There was bound to be a battle somewhere, some way he could prove useful. More useful than he'd be to poor Susanna.