The Bargain Bride (9 page)

Her lips were cold until he warmed them with his. And then his bride—no, his wife—kissed him back.

She did!

Lady Westfield was not cold at all. West smiled. Her cheeks were aflame, and her breaths were coming in gasps, and her eyes were still closed.

The vicar cleared his throat.

Penny opened her eyes, blinked away the dazed expression, and muttered for her new husband's ears only, “I still do not like you.”

The sound of West's laughter warmed the whole chapel.

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

 

 

 

N
ow, that was unfair. No man should kiss like that. Or laugh like that. Penny felt hot and cold, weak-kneed and paralyzed, humiliated, humbled, and—heavens, the man could kiss! How could she have reached the advanced age of six and twenty without knowing that a kiss could make a woman's stomach do somersaults, her heart skip a beat, and her mind skitter off? Well, the answer to that was simple: Penny did not know because her promised husband had never shown her. He'd waited all those years and then he chose today, in the chapel, to demonstrate what she'd been missing. He'd had almost two decades of practice to perfect his skills, practice on other women.

He was despicable. And he had dimples. What was a woman—nay, a wife—with newly discovered wanton tendencies to do? She would not fall in love with him, Penny swore. She absolutely would not.

Proud that she had survived the kiss, and the wedding ceremony, Penny imagined the rest of the day would be easier. It was not. She had to sign the register, and sign the papers her father's solicitor had drawn up, making her feel like a purchased pig. Then came the congratulations and well wishes of people she had known the past years. Some were angry they had not known about her betrothal to an aristocrat, as if she had misled them about being one of their own class. Some were disappointed she'd be leaving, and leaving the charities to them to manage. Some were genuinely happy for her, and some—every unwed woman and half the married ones—were jealous. During it all, Penny had to smile and coo and pretend to be thrilled with her good fortune. Her pride demanded no less.

They left the chapel in a hired coach, festooned with ribbons and flowers, leading a merry procession back to her grandfather's house. Everyone in the surrounding villages was invited, it seemed, from Baron Whitstan ley to the butcher's boy. Trestle tables were arranged on the terrace, filled with a roast, a ham, the wedding cake, and kegs of ale. Champagne was served to the family and closest friends in the parlor. Two fiddlers were set up in the cleared carriage house for dancing. Songs and laughter spread throughout the gardens as people moved from one area to the next, delighted with the unexpected treat.

Everyone insisted the newlyweds lead off the first dance.

West was an excellent dancer, of course. Penny expected no less. What did surprise her was that the viscount was not half as high in the instep as she feared, dancing with Cook and the village seamstress as well as the baroness. He even applauded the Sunday school children when the vicar led them in a hymn of celebration; then he handed them each a coin, winning the hearts of the locals, if not his wife.

After an hour or so Penny was used to being called Lady Westfield, instead of looking around for some dowager to curtsy to. After another hour, she was sick of hearing her new husband's praises sung by every man who shook his hand and talked about horses or asked about his regiment. She was thoroughly tired of watching the women ooh and ogle. For heaven's sake, hadn't they ever met a god come down from Olympus? She sighed. No, no one had, not around here. Not around anywhere, Penny feared.

He was just a man, she told the awestruck admirers, lying through her teeth.

The party went on until dark, with more toasts, more food, more noise and laughter. Penny was trying to appear so merry, so gay, she thought her face had frozen in a false smile. Her toes ached from the blacksmith's dance and her throat burned from trying to speak over the music. Her favorite gown was stained with someone's wine, her hair was falling out of its careful top-knot, and beads of perspiration dripped down her back. She had not slept last night, and had not been able to eat since yesterday. Her grandfather looked pale and weary, and the magistrate was looking at Marcel with hostility. Her father was looking at the baroness, the blacksmith's wife, and the barrister's daughter. And this was supposed to be the happiest day of Penny's life?

What made it worse, Penny decided, was Westfield. There he was, as poised and polished as he had been this morning, a few tousled curls the only sign that he had stood up for the last country reel. His neckcloth was still starched and spotless, and his smile never wavered. He was eating and drinking and dancing and flirting. The worm was enjoying himself!

If he could, she could.

Penny threw herself back into the party, dragging her father into the carriage house for a waltz. He huffed and puffed, but beamed with pride.

“My daughter, Viscountess Westfield.”

At least no one would call her Penny Gold or the Golden Penny anymore. Now she was more than the banker's daughter.

“And you are happy, aren't you? I can see you are. I knew I did the right thing for you, my girl.”

Happy? Penny thought she might cry, but it was too late for tears. She had another glass of champagne.

The guests finally started to leave when the sun started to go down. Many had distances to travel; most had work and chores early in the morning; some were already passed out from the revelries. Carriages and carts were organized to get everyone home, parcels of food and wedding cake sent with them.

Sir Gaspar was the last to leave. Penny's father would spend one more night at the inn, then head out for London the next day without stopping at Littleton's.

“Wouldn't want to disturb the newlyweds, eh?”

Penny accidentally spilled her wine down his shirt-front when she kissed him good-bye.

Marcel led Grandpapa into the house and up to his room for the night. The servants began to clear away the rest of the mess until Penny told them to leave it all for tomorrow. They had worked hard enough to deserve the night to themselves.

“What about supper?” Cook asked.

Penny knew the woman had been up all night, too, preparing the feast. “I could not eat another thing,” she said. “You go on to bed. If my lord is hungry later, I can fix him a cold platter.”

Cook winked. “If he's hungry later, it won't be for leftover ham.”

West laughed back, not in the least offended. He put his arm around a blushing Penny and guided her to the edge of the terrace, to watch the sunset.

“Beautiful,” he said, “all the colors.”

“I have always loved dusk in the country.”

“I meant your face, your hair.”

She blushed all the pinker, and he smiled, but turned to watch the sky. “I thought that went well,” he said after a moment.

Penny looked at the trampled garden, the broken glasses, the dirty dishes, and the crumbled wedding cake. “Lovely.”

“The best wedding I have ever had,” the viscount said, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

She leaped back. Oh, no, he was not going to play off his charms on her. They had an agreement. “I am filthy and exhausted, my lord.”

“West.”

“West,” she said. She decided she had to be obliging about something lest he think she was going back on her word to try for peace between them. Peace and twenty feet was what he was getting between them. She feigned a yawn. “Why, I am so tired I might fall asleep right here on the terrace. And I need to check on Grandpapa.”

“He is fine. I looked in on him. Marcel left him with a toddy, his journal, and a magnifying lens.”

Penny headed back into the house. “Thank you. I will, ah, leave you to smoke, then. You do smoke, do you not?”

“No, I am glad to say. Filthy habit.”

“Yes, well, you must be tired, too.”

“I am used to London hours. The
ton
rarely begin their evening's entertainments until far past sundown. They often party until dawn. I am not tired at all.”

Penny could see his wide, white-toothed grin, like a jungle cat's, ready to pounce. There would be no pouncing tonight, by all that was holy. She yawned again. “I am used to country hours,” she lied. “You know, up with daybreak, in bed by dark.”

“That is all right, too.”

Penny worried what he meant by his smiling comment. He could not mean to join her, could he? “I am barely awake now, so I shall bid you good night.”

West bowed. “Good night, wife.”

He made no effort to detain her or kiss her again, so Penny made her escape. She flew up the stairs, raced into her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. She tore off her clothes—the gown was ruined anyway—and wished she had asked one of the servants for a hot bath before dismissing them for the night. But they had worked harder than she, so she made do with a pitcher of lukewarm water and a washcloth. She pulled the pins out of her hair, tugged on the night rail laid out on her bed, and threw herself backward onto the mattress. Great heavens, she was married.

Her body was exhausted, but her mind was wide-awake, racing in circles like a hound after two foxes. She was married, after so many years of thinking such a thing would never come to pass. Her dreams had changed; her plans for her life were not the same. Yet she was indisputably, irretrievably married. She felt no different, but a stranger was in the house: her husband. And he would be there, or she would be at his home, until death did them part. Maybe if she put a pillow over her head . . . ?

She did not have the energy to raise her head, much less a pillow. So she did not move when she heard a knock on her door. Perhaps one of the maids was bringing more hot water. She lay flat, but called out, “Yes?”

West opened the door and stood in the entrance, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other. His neckcloth was gone; so were his coat and waistcoat.

Penny screeched and jumped up, off the bed. “What are you doing here?”

“It is our wedding night, my pet.”

“But we agreed not to . . .”

He smiled. “We agreed to delay the consummation until we got to know each other better. I thought this was a good time to start.”

She shook her head. “It is not. I have a headache.” She rubbed her temples as evidence.

“Impossible. We have not even been wed for a whole day.”

She looked puzzled.

“I apologize.” And she did have that pucker between her brows. “Perhaps I might soothe your pain with a massage, or a cool cloth on your forehead.” He looked for a place to set the glasses and the bottle.

Touch her? He wanted to touch her? “Thank you, but I believe I merely require a good night's sleep. Uninterrupted sleep.”

“I see.” What West saw by the candlelight was his exquisite wife in a sheer white gown that caressed her soft curves when she moved, and turned transparent when she stood in front of the fireplace. What he saw was a cloud of fair hair around her head like a halo, and shadows below that could tempt a saint. If she was all the colors of dawn when he first saw her—lud, was it only yesterday?—she was moonlight tonight, her skin so pale, her hair a yellow nimbus, her body an unexplored mystery, her eyes as bright as stars.

What he saw was a long, lonely night. He made one last attempt. “But it is our wedding day.”

Penny raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I know what you are after, what all the ribald jokes were about. But we agreed. You have waited thirteen years for the wedding—you can wait another while for the bedding.”

“That was not my only intention.” He was honest enough to admit his lust. How could he not, when her eyes dropped to his bulging breeches? He held the champagne bottle lower. “But I am not here solely to make love to my beautiful bride, but to make friends with her. How can we become accustomed to each other if we do not speak?”

“We shall have decades for that. I see no need to begin tonight.”

“But—” The door shut in his face. His Penny might look like an invitation with her sheer gown and flowing curls and bare feet, but she was still shutting him out. West felt as if she'd punched him again, he was so disappointed.

Penny blew out the candles and went back to bed. This time she got under the covers and pulled the sheet over her head, trying to hide the image of West in his shirtsleeves and smiles, bent on seduction. Gracious, that memory would keep her awake another night, drat the man.

He knocked on the door again.

She muttered a French word Marcel had taught her, but got up. She crossed the room by the light of the fireplace embers and pulled open the door, knowing what she would find on the other side, his loutish lordship. “What now?”

West smiled. Penny looked like an angry kitten, her fur all ruffled, ready to hiss. “I am sorry to disturb you again, my lady wife, but I need to know, where am I to sleep if not with my lovely bride?”

“Oh.” Penny hoped the darkness shielded her blushes, for once. “Marcel was supposed to show you to your room.”

West raised the champagne bottle. “Marcel is a romantic. He handed me this before going to bed.”

She sniffed. “Your things are across the hall. We have given you George's room. Good night.”

She started to shut the door again, but he called out, “Wait! Who is George?”