The Bargain Bride (7 page)

“Wife?”

“Why not, with my own wife gone to her reward these six years? I am not too ancient to wish a companion to share my days, and my nights, heh-heh.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, hiding his impious pleasure in the thought. Then he frowned, remembering both his position and Miss Goldwaite's imminent marriage. He waved the napkin in the air. “Ah, that way Little Falls could have the benefit of your kindness forever, and I would have a helpmate again.”

The day was certainly full of surprises. Penny would not be shocked to find an elephant in Grandpapa's garden at this rate. Two suitors in one day, when they had been as rare as pachyderms in pantaloons. “You . . . you never spoke of it, sir. That is, I had no idea.”

“Of course not. That would have been improper, giving rise to expectations before I had made up my mind. I felt that in time—”

“Time? I am six and twenty, Mr. Smithers. Time is fleeting.” Her mind was fleeting, too, hither and yon. If she had married the vicar when she reached her majority, she would have been safe from the viscount and her father's finagling. Of age, she would not have needed anyone's permission.

She must have spoken the last words aloud, for Mr. Smithers tut-tutted. “Oh, I would never have taken a bride without her father's blessings. There is the matter of a dowry, you know. And the dignity of my calling. Why, the bishop would have been appalled to think I had wed another man's betrothed. That might have been grounds for an annulment, although I am no legal scholar. There would have been a scandal, certainly, which would have put an end to my hopes for advancement in the church.”

Penny did not know the vicar had any hopes. Unless he had hoped to use her money to further his career.

He was not finished. “And of course there is the duty owed a daughter to her father. Why, I could never encourage a female to disobey the authority God gave to her guardian, who, after all, must have his own daughter's best interests at heart. Sir Gaspar was quite correct in making an advantageous match for his dear child, despite my own sorrow at his choice. A viscount, after all. Quite a feather in your cap, my dear, although one never knows about Londoners and their wicked ways.”

Penny knew all too much for her own comfort.

The vicar had finished the last biscuit, but not his musings on his loss of a warm woman and a warm-pocketed father-in-law. “Then again, I am not certain the bishop would have approved of your connections.”

“My connections? My father is a knight, a wealthy, respectable man of business who advises the Crown on occasion.”

“Ah, but your grandfather is a . . . an artist. Not even a portraitist, which might be more acceptable, but a dauber of colors. Not at all the thing, my dear.”

“Grandpapa's paintings sell,” she said in clipped tones, disregarding the fact that they all sold to one unwilling buyer. “And there is nothing disgraceful about his profession in general or his artwork in particular.” She stood, signaling an end to the conversation.

Good manners forced the vicar to stand also. “Ah well, one man's loss is another man's gain, as they say. I should have spoken sooner.”

Then she might have been already wed . . . and dead of the tedium. Penny had punched one man today. What was another, even if he was a man of the cloth? Instead, she decided to deflate the pompous windbag another way. “I thank you for the kind offer you might have made. But you must not lament your own dillydallying. I would have refused your honorable proposal, Mr. Smithers.”

“What? What's that? Oh, the previous engagement. Of course.”

“No, sir, Lord Westfield was not on my mind, as I was not on his. I would have refused you because we would not suit. But do come for dinner tonight. You and my father have much in common.”

 

Marcel kept pouring, the vicar kept preaching, and Penny's father, the devil take him, kept proposing toasts to his daughter, the peeress. Mr. and Mrs. Carne, Penny's friends who ran the local school, kept raising their glasses with him, until the schoolmaster almost fell off his chair and his wife started giggling. Grandpapa sat morosely at the head of the table, feeding scraps of Cook's finest meal to his fat pug under the table.

Penny could not eat a bite. She had not been able to speak to her father over sherry before the dinner, and he would not listen to her pleas now, not while he was celebrating.

“Just think, my grandson will be a viscount,” he repeated every time Marcel filled his cup. Instead of being more amenable to reason, Penny's father appeared to be growing as hard of hearing as her grandfather was blind. Could drink do that to a man? Maybe it would make Penny forget that tomorrow was her wedding day unless she found a miracle. She drank down another glass of wine. And got a blinding headache.

Surely this was the worst meal of her life. Of course the wedding breakfast was bound to be worse, with her having to act the happy bride for her pride's sake, knowing she had been bartered away to an unwilling groom. Everyone knew Westfield would never have chosen Sir Gaspar's daughter, Mr. Littleton's grandchild, an on-the-shelf spinster with little else to recommend her besides her father's money and her books.

Why, look at him now, she thought, although she'd hardly looked elsewhere than at where he sat across the wooden table from her. The man was as handsome as sin, and committing it already, right in front of her! His smile flashed as brightly as the garnet on his finger. The dastard was actually flirting with Mrs. Carne, Penny's own friend, setting her to blushes and eyelash flutter ings. And Mrs. Carne was forty if she was a day.

The last thing Penny wanted was a husband with a roving eye. Her father had always kept mistresses. Her mother knew, and now his second wife, Constance, must. The servants always did, and they always gossiped. Penny could not bear the shame, the insult, the disloyalty. She could not bear a man who prided himself on his honor, then lied and cheated to the one he owed the most fealty. Then again, she disliked her husband-to-be. Perhaps his straying would be a blessing. Let him take his smiles and seductions to his Green widow, she thought over another glass of wine. See if she cared.

Finally the last course was served and Penny led Mrs. Carne out of the dining room so the men could smoke and drink and gossip. With any luck, and a bottle of Grandpapa's best port, her father would be more open to Westfield's last efforts to change his mind.

The viscount shook his head when the gentlemen joined the ladies. The schoolmaster was staggering and the vicar was humming a hymn—no, that was a ditty from the tavern. Grandpapa fell asleep as soon as he sat in a chair, and the pug was so full it could barely waddle to the fireside. Her father was red-faced and grinning, happier with the coming nuptials than ever. Why not? He had the innkeeper's wife's company instead of his sour wife's for one more day. He was getting rid of his stepdaughters, and his grandsons would be lordlings.

Lord Westfield was as sober as a judge, one who was about to condemn the prisoner, Penny, to a lifetime sentence.

He stayed behind when the others left. He had ridden again, rather than sharing the coach with Sir Gaspar. The banker raised an eyebrow, but with only one night to go before the wedding, he winked and went on his way. He'd have a grandson that much sooner, and still legal.

“I tried,” West told her. “I swear I tried, but your father is determined. He would see us both ruined, and your grandfather, too, if he does not get his way in this. All the while he smiles and says it is for our own good.”

“Then there is no hope?”

“Barring earthquakes, floods, or a sudden plague of frogs, it seems not.” He poured himself a glass of brandy and brought another one to Penny.

And then he did an amazing thing, or Penny's brain was more addled than she thought. He set his glass down, dropped to one knee, took her hand, and asked her to marry him!

She blinked to clear her aching head. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Will you marry me, Miss Goldwaite?' I promise to be the best husband I know how, which is not much, but I am a quick learner, and I am certain you will teach me what else I need to know.”

“With my fists?”

“With your smile, which is far more potent. I swear I will try to make you happy. I have already promised your grandfather.”

“Penny.”

“What?”

“You should not propose to someone as formal as Miss Goldwaite. I am Penny to nearly everyone.”

“Very well, and you may call me Westfield, or Kendall, although my friends call me West.”

“West,” she said, in two syllables.

He set her wineglass farther away. “Penny, will you make me the happiest of men?”

“Will I?” she asked, that line between her eyebrows sharp. “Will I make you happy, that is?”

“I hope so, and believe that with respect and trust and affection, we may both be content. If you feel that is impossible, I shall try to smooth things over with your father. I will not let anyone force you.”

She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “I do not understand why you are so resigned to this marriage. You are not inebriated, are you?”

He stood, facing her. “I told you I seldom drink to excess.”

“I thought you would be raging and raving against my father and yours, and fate. And me.”

“First, none of this was your doing. Secondly, I always knew I would have to marry someday, especially since coming into the title. That is the job of the second son, to step into his brother's shoes and bring forth future viscounts who are trained for the job as my brother was. I am still learning.”

“But you could have wed a London belle, a toast. A political hostess, a duke's daughter.” A wealthy widow, she thought, but did not say it. “Anyone better suited to the way you live.”

“I could have wed a Spanish senorita or an Austrian princess, too. But you were the one chosen for me. And I am happy enough with my bargain. What of you?”

She had to look up at him, at his intense dark-eyed stare. That was too disconcerting, so she stared at his feet. His large feet, to her dismay, as Penny recalled Mrs. Carne's naughty comment. “I have been thinking, when I had the chance.”

“I could tell you were, instead of eating.”

“You noticed?” Penny had thought he was too busy charming her friend.

“Of course I did. I do not want my bride fainting in church tomorrow. People would think it was me, not hunger. I, for one, think better on a full stomach. Empty belly, my old sergeant used to say, empty head. But tell me, what was the result of your musings?”

“That I cannot displease my father. But I cannot give my hand and all my life to yet another man, not without a few terms of my own.”

West started pacing again. “Terms? As in terms of surrender?”

She raised her chin. A Goldwaite did not surrender. “Terms of negotiation, rather.”

“The details were all spelled out in the original contract. I assure you, your settlements are generous, as are your widow's benefits. You shall never be in need. And I told you, I would not take my wife's life savings. Your money stays yours, to invest or to spend or to give to our daughters, God willing. I can support you and my sons, especially since I will not have to give back the dowry money. I will let your father pay for repairs to the London house to assuage his guilt, but my estates are showing profit and the horse farm is successful.”

“What if the war ends and no one buys cavalry mounts?”

“I breed and train strong horses, not racers. There is always a call for good hunters and hacks. We shall not be poor.”

She brushed that aside. “I leave fiscal matters to my father. I am speaking of far more important matters. Like faithfulness.” Lady Greenlea's unspoken name hung in the air between them like one of the pug's emissions. “I could not bear knowing my husband preferred another woman, or women, so that I became a laughingstock, or a creature to be pitied. If you cannot be faithful, I demand discretion.”

“A wife deserves nothing less, but I always meant to honor my wedding vows, when I got around to making them.”

“Excellent. Next, I wish us not to con—” She could not say it. “Not to become, that is, not to make—”

He helped. “You do not wish for intimacy with a stranger?”

She was relieved. “That is it.”

“That makes faithfulness a bit harder, but I can understand your reluctance to consummate the union until we get to know each other better.”

“Thank you.”

“Very well, we shall stymie your father's plans for an instant grandson, without his knowing it. But I must warn you that I cannot be patient—or celibate—forever. Is there anything else? Although anything might be easier than staying out of my own wife's bed.”

Penny could feel the blush heating her cheeks and rushed on: “Grandpapa comes to London with us. He will enjoy being in Town, seeing all his old friends.”

West shrugged, still thinking of how soon he could convince Penny to renegotiate that bedroom clause. Giving up his freedom was one thing. Giving up sex was another. “If he wishes.”

“And Marcel.”

“I, ah, already have a butler at Westmoreland House.”

“Marcel can act as Grandpapa's valet and assistant. No one will question a blind man having a personal aide.”

“They will if he parades around the house half naked.”

That bright color flooded her cheeks again. “He will not.”

“Then, done. It will be your house also, to organize the staff. What else?”

“I do not want a husband making rules and demands. I am used to making decisions for myself.”