The Prince's Bride

by Victoria Alexander

  If he didn’t go mad first.

  Was she thinking of him? Wanting him? Longing for him?

  He watched until the figure in the window vanished, and at last the light went out. And still he sat and watched and tried not to dwell on the lovely creature lying in his bed but considered instead the odd turn his life had taken.

  And wondered as well if the marriage, the wife, he’d had no choice in might well have been the best decision of his life.

  Chapter 8

  Damnation. Jocelyn sat upright in the huge bed and glared at the empty spot beside her. She certainly hadn’t meant to fall asleep but it had gotten so late and she was so tired. She’d tried to wait for Rand to return to their room. To their bed. And obviously he had at some point, judging by the crumpled covers on the other side of the bed.

  Then why hadn’t he awakened her?

  She punched a pillow, jammed it behind her back, crossed her arms over her chest, and tried to think. Surely after yesterday’s kiss and the truly wonderful time they’d had last night he’d want to share her bed for more than just a restful night’s sleep. Although, judging by the state of the covers, his sleep was anything but serene. Good. She hoped he’d tossed and turned all night and hadn’t had so much as a single second of peaceful slumber.

  His restlessness certainly hadn’t bothered her. She heaved a frustrated sigh. She wished it had. She wished she’d awakened to find his long, hard figure stretched out beside her. To hear the sound of his breathing in the dark. To feel the warmth of his body next to hers in the night.

  Jocelyn groaned, grabbed his pillow, and buried her face in it. How could this have happened? She wanted him. Wanted everything that was supposed to happen between a man and a woman. Between a husband and a wife. His faint spicy scent of man and heat still lingered on his pillow and surrounded her. It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. And the way he made her feel when his lips pressed hers or his hand touched hers or she looked into his eyes, everything about him was quite, quite intoxicating. And not nearly enough.

  Was this then love? She jerked her head up and stared unseeing into the distance. Or was it simply desire? Hah. There was nothing simple about it and nothing familiar either.

  She’d never been in love. Not once. Never particularly considered it one way or another. Certainly her brother and two of her sisters had found love but love had no bearing on her own plan for her life.

  As for desire, she’d never given that any consideration either. It was not the type of thing a well-bred young lady would consider. If she and her sisters were nothing else, they were indeed well-bred, and Aunt Louella had seen to it they were properly raised. But properly raised or not, Jocelyn recognized desire when she saw it. She’d seen it often enough in the eyes of men when they looked at her.

  She definitely wanted Rand, desired Rand, in every terrifying and exciting sense of the word.

  But he didn’t want her!

  Of course. That’s why he didn’t wake her up. He was probably relieved she was asleep. No doubt he made every effort not to make a single sound. The inconsiderate beast. His pride insisted on sharing their bed, his bed, but there was nothing more to his presence there than that.

  Anger, disappointment, and an annoying touch of pain mixed together in a confusing wash of emotion. She threw his pillow across the room with all the strength she could muster and resisted the urge to scream. How could he not want her? Men always wanted her. She was the pretty one!

  She threw back the covers, slid out of bed, and stalked back and forth across the floor.

  How could this have happened? Oh, certainly Rand had said he prized intelligence in a wife above anything else. She snorted in disdain. Jocelyn still didn’t believe such nonsense. Rand was a man, after all. Besides, hadn’t she proved to him she was not the empty-headed twit he’d expected?

  No, she was smart enough and definitely pretty enough. But apparently, for whatever reason, she wasn’t enough. She just didn’t appeal to him.

  Perhaps the problem was with him and not her? Good Lord, a prince had wanted her. Why didn’t her blasted husband?

  Still—her step slowed—Rand was not completely immune to her charms. It was apparent in the way he’d kissed her. Why, who knew what would have happened in the gallery if she hadn’t hit her head. No. She knew full well what would have happened, and he probably did too. He’d definitely wanted her then.

  And she’d make him want her again.

  Her chin lifted with determination.

  How difficult could it be? He was a mere man and she had been practicing the art of flirtation her entire life. Flirtation carried to a higher level was seduction, wasn’t it?

  If it was pride and his desire to keep up appearances that kept him in her bed, then it was her pride and desire that would ensure he did something more there than sleep.

  By God, as her husband the man had certain rights, and as his wife she had a duty to make certain he got them.

  The only question now was where to begin. She would obviously continue to demonstrate her intelligence but that was entirely too subtle and could take forever. Besides, she had no idea how to entice him with her mind. No, she had to rely on tried-and-true methods with Rand.

  She stepped to the wardrobe, pulled open the doors, and stared at the few dresses she’d brought with her. They were all terribly practical and horribly modest. Not at all the kind of thing to make a man take notice. Still, she selected one and studied it thoughtfully. Perhaps there was some benefit after all to a childhood in which sewing and mending were required activities. If she removed the fichu and the lace, and lowered the bodice a bit...

  She scowled at the frock. She had hoped never to have to pick up a needle again and, in truth, had never been especially good at it. Perhaps Flora could help her. She stepped to the door and flung it open.

  Flora stood there, balancing a tray in one hand and about to knock with the other. Her eyes widened with surprise.

  “Good day, my lady.” In spite of her burden, Flora managed to drop a quick curtsy. “His Lordship thought you might want a bite to eat.”

  “Lord Worthington?” Jocelyn asked. “How considerate of him.”

  “No, no, not that lordship. Dear, dear it’s always confusing with the two of them here. No, it wasn’t Lord Worthington although he has been known to be considerate on occasion.” Flora swept past her and into the room. Jocelyn followed on her heels. “It was your husband. He and his uncle ate quite some time ago. Morning is nearly over.”

  “It is, isn’t it.” Jocelyn hadn’t realized it but she had slept quite late. Not surprising, given how late she had stayed up waiting for Rand. “I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble?”

  “Not at all, my lady.” Flora set the tray down on a table near the huge stone hearth. “I expect it will take rather a while before you’re fully recovered from your travels.” The older woman shook her head in disapproval. “I can’t imagine what Lord Beaumont was thinking, dragging you halfway across the country on a horse.” She clucked her tongue. “Men don’t have half a brain in their heads sometimes.”

  “Yet they do value it in others,” Jocelyn said under her breath.

  “Now then.” Flora pulled up a nearby chair. “You sit right down and eat something. You need to keep your strength up.”

  Jocelyn sat down and stared at the plate Flora, or more likely Cook, had prepared. It was heaped with cold meats and coddled eggs, accompanied by several healthy slices of toast in a holder, a pot of jam, and a cup of tea. It was substantially more than Jocelyn normally ate in an entire day.

  “I do appreciate it but”—Jocelyn looked up at the housekeeper—“I can’t imagine ever needing this much strength.”

  “Now, now, my dear. I daresay the trip isn’t the only thing taking its toll.”

  Jocelyn picked up a piece of toast and nibbled on the corner.

  “You’re newly married and I know what that’s like. I’d wager His Lordship kept you up half the night.”<
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  Jocelyn choked and Flora flew around the chair to pound her thoroughly on the back. Did everyone in this place say exactly what they thought?

  “I’m fine.” Jocelyn grabbed the cup of tea and took a quick swallow of the tepid brew. “Really. Quite all right.”

  “Dear, dear, I am sorry.” Flora sighed, pulled up another chair, and hesitated.

  “No, please.” Jocelyn waved at the chair. “Do join me.”

  “If you’re sure.” Flora plopped into the chair with another sigh. “We’re overly casual here, I fear, and no doubt not what you’re used to. Not up to the standards of London. It was different when the countess was alive.”

  “Lord Beaumont’s grandmother?”

  Flora nodded. “Oh, she was a lovely woman, she was. With the kindest heart you’d ever want to meet. Knew her place too. Made sure His Lordship kept up the castle, and the staff, the way his father had. And her not any older than him.”

  Jocelyn shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m a bit confused.”

  “It is confusing, I suppose, if you’re hearing it all for the first time.” Flora chuckled and settled back in her chair in the manner of a master storyteller about to impart a tale. “The countess, well, she wasn’t the countess then, of course, was younger than Lord Worthington when she married his father. Even so, she wasn’t a bit flighty as you might think. No indeed, she was a good and dutiful wife to him.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Jocelyn murmured.

  “They were married more than a dozen years until his death. It was a good marriage, or so I’ve heard. I didn’t enter service here until much later.” Flora thought for a moment. “I started right about the time your husband’s mother left to marry her viscount. It would be, what? Somewhere near five-and-thirty years I would think. So long ago ...” Flora shook her head at the realization. “At any rate, that’s when the present Lord Worthington, then the young Lord Worthington, that is, returned home for good.”

  “I’ve heard he was quite a rake in his day.” Jocelyn grinned.

  “Oh my Lord, yes. And so handsome he was too. And charming with that glib tongue of his. You couldn’t blame any woman for falling in love with him.” Flora leaned forward confidentially. “I had a bit of a fondness for him myself when I was a girl.”

  Jocelyn laughed. “I can well imagine. Odd that he never married.”

  Flora opened her mouth to say something but then appeared to think better of it.

  “Flora?” Jocelyn studied her curiously.

  The older woman’s brow furrowed with indecision. “Every family has its secrets, my lady. It ain’t my place to reveal them.”

  “This family is my family now.” Even as she said the words she realized they were true. And realized as well she quite liked the idea. “I would never do anything to cause Lord Worthington the slightest harm or a single moment of embarrassment.” She smiled. “I am already exceedingly fond of him. He has lost none of his charm with the years, you know.”

  Flora chuckled. “No, indeed.” She paused, then drew a deep breath. “It scarce matters now, I suppose. The countess passed on, oh, twenty years ago.”

  “The countess?” Jocelyn stared for a moment, then what Flora hadn’t yet said became abruptly clear. She sank back in her chair. “Rand’s grandmother? That’s why his uncle never married?”

  “He loved her,” Flora said simply.

  “His father’s wife,” Jocelyn said softly.

  “Mind you, some of what I know is before my time. But my mum was in service here before me, and she said they fell in love the moment they set eyes on each other but it was too late. She was already married to his father. That’s why he stayed in London so much. He scarcely ever came home in those years.” Flora sighed. “It pained him too much to be around her.”

  “Did his father know how they felt?”

  “I don’t know. Mum told me nothing was ever said and neither the countess nor His Lordship ever showed their feelings. And she was a good wife. Never so much as a hint otherwise.” Flora shook her head. “But you never really know what secrets there are between a husband and wife.”

  “I suppose not,” Jocelyn murmured.

  “Even after his father died, His Lordship didn’t come back to stay until Lord Beaumont’s mother married and moved away. Course they couldn’t do nothing about their feelings then neither.”

  “The scandal, of course.” Jocelyn nodded.

  “Scandal, my foot.” Flora snorted. “‘Twas the law that kept them apart. Even though she weren’t a blood relation to him, in the eyes of the law she was his stepmother and always would be.” Flora shook her head mournfully. “It was a tragedy for them both, it was.”

  “How very sad.” This was obviously what Rand had failed to tell her in the gallery. She could see why he wouldn’t mention it even if she was not about to condemn his uncle and his grandmother for loving each other. Still, Rand scarcely knew her well enough to know that. Yet. “But they were able to live together here.”

  “Oh my, yes. They were great friends and companions for the rest of their days. They never did anything that would say otherwise, so much as any of us could see.” Flora wiped an errant tear from her eye. “But you could tell from the way they looked at each other their feelings were as strong as ever. From the moment they met until the day she died.” Flora sniffed. “I ain’t never seen a love like that and I doubt I’ll ever see it again.”

  Flora fell silent, and for a long moment neither woman spoke. Jocelyn didn’t think she’d ever heard a story quite so sad before. She couldn’t imagine a love so strong it would last a lifetime in secret. Her heart ached for Nigel. And perhaps for herself.

  Was his nephew capable of such a love? Was she? Abruptly she realized she wanted more from Rand than his merely desiring her. She wanted his love. And wanted to love him in return.

  “Now, my lady.” Flora’s brisk tone pulled Jocelyn from her thoughts. Flora nodded at the dress still in Jocelyn’s lap. “Did you have something you need mended?”

  “Not exactly.” Jocelyn shook out the dress. “I brought very few clothes with me and I was hoping maybe we could make this a bit more, well, interesting.” Quickly she explained what she had in mind.

  “I see.” Flora raised a curious brow. “Don’t know that it’s necessary, you being newly married and all. Still, it’s better to keep his interest right from the beginning than lose it and start over.”

  Jocelyn laughed. “My feelings exactly.”

  Flora plucked the garment from her hands and examined it. “Shouldn’t be hard. The removal of the lace alone should do the trick. Won’t take more than a few minutes I should think.” She looked up at her. “I do believe we have some old gowns of your husband’s grandmother around here somewhere. She was not as tall as you; still there might be something you’d like. They’re not the fashion now—Lord, they’d be more than forty years old—but beautiful all the same. Silks and satins and the like. If you’d be interested ...”

  “Oh I would.” Jocelyn nodded eagerly. She could well imagine how she’d look in the gowns of another era. With wide skirts and sensuous fabrics and low-cut bodices. She’d be a vision. Any man’s fantasy. And surely irresistible to one man in particular.

  They chatted for a few more minutes about inconsequential matters and Flora took her leave, promising to alter the dress at once and return within the hour, then look for the older gowns.

  Jocelyn ate absently, the story of Nigel’s tragic love lingering in her mind. She wanted to be loved like that. Wanted it fiercely. How strange when she’d been fully prepared not more than a week ago to marry without giving love a second thought. Everything, her life, her future, her desires had changed since then.

  She had changed.

  Resolve filled her and she smiled wickedly. Or perhaps she hadn’t changed much at all.

  And perhaps, at least if the love of the man you wanted was your husband, the best place to work your way into his heart was in his bed.

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nbsp; ———

  “It seems to be me that while you know everything about me, I know very little about you.” Jocelyn gazed up at Rand from beneath a fetching straw bonnet, one she’d brought with her from London precisely because she knew it framed her face perfectly.

  Jocelyn sat on a blanket beneath an old oak on a grassy rise a short distance from the castle. Rand reclined beside her. She’d asked him to show her around the grounds in the belief that if she was going to get this man to care for her, she had to spend as much time with him as possible. He had agreed without hesitation, even going so far as to ask Cook for a picnic basket.

  It had been an excellent meal and an excellent afternoon. They’d spoken of all kinds of meaningless matters and she’d learned he liked Shakespeare, had a fondness for large dogs, and detested asparagus. He also had the most intriguing flecks of green in his dark eyes when the sun hit them in just the right way.

  Now, however, it was time for more serious matters.

  Rand laughed. “What exactly do you wish to know?”

  “Well, let me think.” She kept her voice nonchalant, as though their conversation were of no importance. It was, of course. She wanted to know everything there was to know about this man who was her husband. She reached into the basket, pawed through the remaining fruit tarts and other leftover morsels, pulled out an apple and a paring knife. “Tell me about being a spy.”

  “No,” he said with a grin.

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, no true spy would ever admit to being a spy. It would quite defeat the purpose.”

  “But you were—”

  He raised a brow. “How do you know that?”

  “Why, I...” She huffed in annoyance. “I suppose I don’t really, do I?” She brightened. “However, I do know you were working for the government as recently as last week.”

  “One can perform all sorts of services for one’s country without being a spy,” he said mildly.