The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “I might don one for you on our wedding night.” He gave his cocky smile, the one that melted her heart. “Or I’ll sneak over to the guest cottage tonight and inveigle a tournament.”

  She laughed, half wishing he would. “Remember my father is due here today.” She was staying at his guest cottage a quarter mile from the main house, until the wedding.

  “Well, at last the final banns have been called as I am an impatient groom.” He winked suggestively.

  “Who was that woman in the black veil weeping in church this morning?” Melwyn had felt a malevolent stare from that direction. “And the dull-eyed girl who tossed her prayer book at me? Thank goodness she has terrible aim.”

  Griffin chuckled. “Not everyone is enthusiastic about our union.” He crushed her against his pelvis and his form-fitting nankeen breeches that enveloped him like a glove. “But I’m the only one who you have to please.”

  “Soon, my love. I can tell you anticipate our joining.” She moved away a step, her face flushing. A heat started low in her belly. “As I have no knowledge of such things, even if we women should have a primer on marital relations so we aren’t ignorant, you have to be gentle with me.”

  “I promise I will, the first time, and perhaps the second.” His eyes smoldered and he ran his knuckle along her cheek. “But the third, beware my lady, all my animal instincts will surge to the fore and you’ll be ravaged from limb to limb.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way. And soon we’ll have deep understanding of one another, along with our vibrant attraction—a perfect match.” She retreated to the other side of the desk, far from his tantalizing touch. She smoothed down her flowered dimity round gown.

  “I must admit, you are correct, my naughty little minx.” He leaned over the desk, his gaze intense. “I understand we both have feral natures, that only we can temper and satisfy together.”

  She shivered and retreated another step. “True. But I’ll never forgive you for turning me into a muddle-headed bride-to-be. It must be something like rushing adrenaline that is mucking up my mind and sense of self.” She took a long, cleansing breath. “I’ll soon be back to normal then it is you who must be on guard, my Viscount of Merther.”

  ****

  Griffin stood before the communion table in the cob-walled, thatch-roofed chapel on his estate. Not the place where his parents had met their accidental demise, but the smaller, mustier one with the ordinary hard benches and stained walls white-washed with lime. Here his tenants usually worshiped.

  The parishioners sat at the ready while the vicar intoned his sermon, then the sacred and binding wedding ceremony.

  Miss Pencavel looked gorgeous in her cream-colored gown with lace trim. They recited their oaths and he slipped the ring on her finger. He melted when she smiled at him, glad he’d had no urge to run from the chapel and hide in the sheep shed before the final I Dos.

  “I present to you, Lord and Lady Lambrick, Viscount and Viscountess of Merther,” the vicar announced.

  The people stood, applauding. Beribboned and flowered hats bobbed as chatter began. Mrs. Loveday, dressed in somber widow’s weeds, wailed and blew her nose loudly.

  “Well, my dear, for better or worse. We belong to one another.” He linked his arm with his new bride’s and they walked down the aisle and out into the crisp autumn air.

  His wife stared up at him with flashing blue eyes. She caressed his sleeve. “Let us pray for far more ‘better’ than ‘worse’, though I will give you a run for your money, sir.”

  People started to throw grains of wheat for fertility. Miss Trefoile pelted hers at the new viscountess’s head as her father cheered her on. Her mother sobbed hysterically on Trefoile’s shoulder.

  “Who is that demented red-haired person? Red hair should be dyed, as it’s not popular.” Melwyn asked, ducking the onslaught. “The sheriff is here somewhere. He needs to be apprised of this.”

  “Never mind, but watch your back on occasion.” Griffin glared at the family as he brushed grains from his frock coat lapels. “If you visit the Trefoiles, as any good lady of the manor should, don’t accept anything to eat or drink.”

  “Is that one of your conquests?” she asked him slyly. “A heart you’ve broken, you lascivious cad?”

  “Hardly, and she always ran a poor second to you.” He hugged Melwyn close and kissed her cheek. His body heated with passion and, more importantly, love for her. “Everyone pales before you, my dearest.”

  “I’ll say the same about you, sir.” She laughed, eyeing his legs in their white silk stockings. His polished shoes with silver buckles. “I’ve been keeping busy at the guest cottage. Together with my abigail, we’ve sewn you a crimson toga to wear in Italy.”

  “Will I be required to feed Christians to the lions?” He helped her into the carriage festooned with pink camellias and yellow daffodils, the scent heady.

  “Only if they’re bad Christians. Start with that family of slingers back there.” She arranged her gossamer skirts around her shapely legs, her white silk slippers peeking out from the hem. “Some people don’t know how to behave in public.”

  “Your wish is my command. I’ve even given up my illicit activities for you, so see how you’ve reformed me.” He sat beside her and took her delicately gloved hand in his larger gloved hand. The driver started the team of white horses sporting ostrich feathers down the path.

  His tenants gathered to wish him well, tossing flowers, and more grain. Some of the women grappled for the grain, complaining they could make much needed bread with it.

  The open carriage rambled down the path past pungent hedgerows and beeches with fiery orange leaves.

  Griffin draped a cream-colored shawl over her shoulders. “I can’t wait for night to fall, for us to be alone. Are you nervous, my dear?”

  “You promised to be gentle.” She patted his thigh, her cheeks flushing, and he desired her all the more. “I’m not much on shyness, but on this I must prevail.”

  “Tender as a lamb, you may be assured. Don’t hesitate to partake of the mead to relax you.” Griffin held fast to her hand, satisfied to at last have found the ideal woman for his erratic nature; a woman who craved adventure as well as he.

  ****

  “Don’t fret, my anxious Clowie, I’m still the same spitfire mistress you’ve always loved.” Melwyn sprinkled rose petals across the large bed. The wedding had taken place that morning, and now the sun was setting. The revelers had drank their fill and were staggering back to their homes; the higher-born were staying the night in the manor’s many guest rooms. “If you hear me scream later, rush in and yell the French have landed.”

  “That be more like it, m’lady.” The abigail laughed, her round face content again. “More ‘an one rampart will be breached tonight.”

  Melwyn had second thoughts about the French, recalling Griffin’s brother. And the idea of ramparts being violated made her quiver. She tugged her white dressing gown closer around her.

  At a knock on the door, her father entered. “My dear, my dear, it does my heart good to see you married at last.” He clasped her upper arms, his half-spectacles nearly sliding off his nose. “And safe from an accident in Pompeii, and a kidnapping. I daresay you’ve had too many misadventures. I hope you’ll be happy. Much happier than your mother and I ever were.”

  “Papa, you do understand that mother left you, and isn’t dead, don’t you?” Melwyn met his sad blue eyes. He smelled of sandalwood and home. “She even left the second under-butler.”

  “But you must understand my delusion. She’ll always be dead to me, my dear.” He cocked his triangular face, his smile warm.

  Aunt Hedra surged in, a jeweled-encrusted bandeau wound around her hair. In her very round, purple round gown, she resembled an exotic Oriental temple. “Oh, dear brother, get a grip on yourself at last. Marry the Widow Whale, or some other idiotic female, and move on with your life.”

  “Mother is still alive, I’ve told you. I unfortunately had the ex
treme displeasure of speaking with her in Dover.” Melwyn sighed, recalling their frigid discourse; then she smiled indulgently at her father. How much the poor man had suffered. She kissed his cheek. “Petition for a divorce before the King’s Bench. Lord Lambrick will assist you with the particulars.”

  “Waste o’ breath; the master won’t listen, never does.” Clowenna flicked grains of wheat from Melwyn’s hair. “That drab Trefoile chit flung that grain with extra vigor, didn’t she? With her fat papa guffawing. I almost pushed her down the hill.”

  “I’m glad you thought of it, but didn’t go through with the assault.” Melwyn laughed, embracing and shaking her maid from side to side. “We must show some decorum now that I’m a viscountess.”

  “Has anyone instructed you about the delicacies of the matrimonial bed? That is, the intimate aspects?” Aunt Hedra asked, leaning close as she fingered her quizzing glass that hung from a chain around her throat. Her jewels sparkled in the candlelight.

  “Egad, I’ll be on my way to retire.” Her father’s face flushed and he headed for the door. “I spent most of my wedding night alone, and my valet was conspicuously absent.”

  “No, Auntie,” Melwyn admitted after her father left, “men write erotic poetry about the act—so I’ve been told. But women are forbidden such enlightenment. However, I’ve seen horses mating, and it didn’t look at all comfortable for the mare.”

  “Oh, my child, it’s much better for humans. Lord Penpol was the most tender of lovers. Just tell your husband to be patient, and you must be willing to play along with his quirks.” Aunt Hedra winked, then laughed. “All right, no more of this talk on your wedding night.” She raised up a single stocking. “In the time-honored Cornish tradition, I’m here to whip you into bed.”

  Clowenna removed a belt from the dresser, her expression jubilant. “As am I, m’lady. An’I cannot wait.”

  Lord Lambrick entered, looking elegant, freshly shaved, and striking in a red dressing gown. Not quite a toga, but close. He grinned, showing his perfect white teeth. “Should we have a hand-fasting as well? Tie our hands together and jump over a broom?”

  “Let them have their fun.” Melwyn clasped his warm strong hand and led him over to the four poster bed. Inside, she trembled, beginning to fear what might happen soon. Three glasses of sweet mead eased her jitters somewhat.

  “Be good to him, my lady—though I’m not certain the term ‘lady’ applies.” The housekeeper drifted in dressed in black as she had at church, as if she mourned rather than celebrated. “His lordship deserves a loving and dedicated wife.” She glared at Melwyn.

  “Be at peace, Mrs. Loveday, I will be a superb wife for his lordship.” Melwyn kept the part of her not being very obedient to herself. She smiled at Griffin, her heart lifting.

  “Indeed, Mrs. Loveday. I promise we will be a volatile but devoted couple.” He pressed his housekeeper’s shoulder. “Please, go on to bed.”

  “I’ll pray for you, sir.” The woman sighed heavily, shook her head, pulled a black veil over her face, and departed the chamber.

  “Commonzee,” Clowenna called. “I must throw me belt at ‘ee. Hasn’t got all night.”

  “Get into bed, you two,” Aunt Hedra insisted. “Let’s do this correctly.”

  Melwyn swallowed nervously and crawled between the cool sheets. Griffin followed, his weight shifting the mattress, his warmth distracting.

  At the last minute, Sir Arthur hobbled in. “Did I miss anything, old beans? Always late to the party, sad to say.” He held up a stocking with a tiny pebble in the toe. “I’ll try not bonk anyone in the head.”

  Kenver, Griffin’s valet, entered. He smiled at Clowenna, and the maid blushed.

  “Fashionably late, ess?” she admonished with a suggestive wink. “Never keep a lady waitin’.”

  “I had important duties, but couldn’t wait to see you again,” the valet replied with quiet dignity. “Or to join in this custom on my lord’s auspicious night.”

  With a jingle of panniers, the Duchess of Dumfort glided in. “Here I am, as instructed. What exactly am I to do with this stocking?” She held the item up and wriggled it. “Whip someone? Upon my word, you Cornish are pagans of the first order.”

  “You’ll be fine, your grace. You need to experience new things. All right, everyone ready?” Aunt Hedra raised her stocking where a small diamond nestled in the toe. “I eschew pebbles for stones of value.”

  Melwyn stiffened in the bed, her body so close to Griffin’s heat, the dressing gowns still wrapped around each of them like shields. Her fingers kneaded at the down mattress.

  “So sorry about this, my lord.” Kenver tossed a belt, which landed in Griffin’s lap. “But it is our tradition.”

  Aunt Hedra’s stocking struck Melwyn on the knee. Sir Arthur’s grazed Griffin’s shoulder. Clowenna threw her belt, after extra-careful aim, and smacked Griffin’s chest.

  “I don’t know if I can do this. The duke would not approve.” The duchess put one hand over her eyes and flailed the stocking with the other. The silk floated to the floor just shy of the bed. “I’m certain it’s some sort of blasphemy.”

  “A boy, your first babe will be a boy!” the abigail proclaimed, clapping her hands. “As most of us hit his lordship.”

  “Bravo, excellent. Well, I give you goodnight. Don’t know if I can make the voyage to Italy. Getting too old for it. A shame we found nothing in Pompeii, as you keep insisting.” Sir Arthur raised a bushy brow, then bowed out.

  “Goodnight, my darlings. Treat my niece well, or you’ll hear from me.” Aunt Hedra wagged a finger at Griffin. “Hmmm, I’m returning to London as soon as possible, since there’s no society here; only sheep and odd stones.” She exited, the top of her hair rubbing across the door’s lintel.

  “Before traveling all the way out to this hinter land, I had no idea England had a West Country. What’s it used for?” The duchess followed her aunt.

  “If you needs me, I’ll be about. Goodnight, m’lady, m’lord.” Clowenna sauntered toward the corridor. “Have a hella-ridden time o’ it.”

  “A very successful night, m’lord and m’lady.” Kenver bowed, followed the maid, then hesitated. “I’ll have my hands full with this one.”

  The door clicked shut after them.

  Melwyn turned to Griffin, her pulse jumping. This was it, tonight she’d be his, and would she regret it later? His dark eyes so full of love assured her otherwise. “Well, at last alone. I pray you’ll be gentle with me, sir.”

  “I will indeed, my Lady Lambrick. I wish to make you exceedingly happy, and never have the urge to scratch off my face as you once threatened.” He smiled tenderly, tugged the bed curtains closed, and kissed her as he brushed the dressing gown from her shoulder.

  She laughed, and slipped his dressing gown low to admire his toned pectorals. “What if I scratch at your chest instead?” She ran her fingernail over his dark chest hair, wiry and sexy. “We’re two tigers enjoying the same bed, my lord. And may it always be so.”

  “Amen, my love.” He kissed her again, slow and yearningly. His fingers caressed down her body, sending shivers all through her. His lips followed his fingers and she groaned with rapture.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Melwyn handed the basket of plum pudding, apples, cheese and breads to the woman in plain clothing and apron, whose children clung to her well-worn skirts. She gave each child a toy, a tin drum or rag doll, and sugared almonds. “Have a joyous New Year, Madam. If you require anything else, you only need to ask.”

  The woman thanked her profusely, and smiled with crinkled eyes when Griffin gave her husband a shank of lamb.

  The viscount and viscountess walked arm in arm away from the last tenant’s wattle and daub cottage. Smoke from the chimney curled into the chilly air. The bare-branched trees scratched into a grey sky, the pines the only color in the winter woods. The towers of Merther Manor poked up over the tree-line.

  Melwyn huddled in her cloak, and against the warm
th of her husband. “I’m glad you care so much for your tenants.” She laughed after a moment. “And here I was constantly warned of your nefarious character.”

  “Contented people are loyal—but I do care about my workers.” He arched a sardonic eyebrow. “I’m still quite the rogue, as I’d hate to lose all my reputation, but mostly in the bedroom now, with you.”

  “Well, at least you gave up your more dangerous activities. Do you miss it?” She ran a gloved finger down his arm as she admired his patrician profile. “I don’t want you to get bored.”

  “I’ve hardly had the chance, given the intimate time I spend with you. And you’re never boring, especially after what I’ve taught you at night.” He grasped her hand and quickened his pace; his jackboots swished through the soggy, dead leaves. “Though my smuggling wouldn’t be quite the same without Jacca. I hope he’s nearly to New South Wales. He promised to write.”

  “Such a long voyage. The poor man has suffered, after what you told me about his wife. I’d never waste good crockery by throwing it at your head.” She leaned into him again. “That harridan makes me seem absolutely angelic.”

  He laughed. “No, you’re still a witch of the first order, and have cast a spell on me.”

  They entered the woods, where even colder air seemed stalled in the danker shadows. The smell of moldy plants and moss drifted up.

  She shivered. “We should have brought mulled ale, to warm us.”

  “Aren’t I the only heat you need, my love?” Griffin chuckled, squeezed her, then kissed her temple under the brim of her bonnet. “I could slip behind a tree here and fire you up with a burning log.”

  “You are besotted, as well as depraved, sir,” she teased as she navigated the muddy path, where ice crystals floated in tiny pools of water. Her heart soared at the perfectness of their relationship. His solicitous toward her was a lovely surprise, and shock.