How to Tame a Willful Wife

by Christy English

  “Pray God he does not. If all goes as it should, tomorrow morning he will take you as his bride and keep you in style for the rest of your life.”

  “Keep me like a mistress? Like a whore?”

  Lady Montague moved with lightning speed and slapped Caroline’s cheek before the words were barely out of her mouth. The blow stung, but her pride stung more. She had overstepped badly with her mother, and she knew it.

  “Never speak of yourself that way again, not even in jest.”

  Caroline rubbed the sting from her cheek. She felt a measure of guilt for driving her mother to such a display. “I am sorry, Maman.”

  Olivia Montague frowned, guilt written on her face. “And I am sorry I hit you. But I will never stand by and allow you to speak of yourself in that manner.”

  The two women stood together in silence for a moment, neither certain how to bridge the gap that had opened between them.

  “I understand you have been throwing knives indoors again,” her mother said.

  “Who told you?”

  “I have eyes in my head, Caroline. I saw the ruined cushion when I came looking for you in your bedroom earlier.”

  “I will mend it.”

  “Please do not.” Lady Montague held up one hand. “You have no hand with a needle. You will botch it. Leave it to Tabby.”

  “As you wish. I won’t throw a knife in the house again.”

  “I should hope not. What you mean to do in your own home is your own affair, but please respect the peace of mine.”

  Caroline smiled. “As you say, Maman.”

  Lady Montague moved to the door. “I expect you to be bathed and dressed and downstairs in an hour. You have guests to attend to, not just his lordship.”

  “I will be there.” Caroline went so far as to curtsy in her contrition, and Lady Montague’s lips quirked in a rueful smile, a smile that fled just as quickly.

  “You are so beautiful, Caroline, and headstrong. You are the work of my life. But that work will lie in ruins if you do not comprehend the simple truth that you cannot do as you please. You must live in the world.”

  Caroline did not answer. Her mother left her alone with her thoughts.

  The sun had set when Caroline came downstairs to greet her guests. She kept her smile sweet and her eyes cast down. Though she knew she could never retain that façade for long, if she began the evening in the guise of a demure young woman, her mother would be pleased. The guests who remained to attend the wedding waited for her in the drawing room. She was five minutes late. The heavy gaze of her mother was on her as she stepped in from the hallway.

  Her father was present, ready to lead her mother in to dinner, a sure sign that this night was like no other. Her father tolerated guests only when it was absolutely necessary. When Lady Montague insisted on entertaining, he often took his meals in his library. Tonight, he was playing the host, though Caroline supposed that even a battlefield in Belgium would be preferable to being surrounded by so many people from London. She found herself agreeing with him as the women descended upon her like hawks on a dove.

  “Miss Caroline, what a wonderful thing! To be engaged, and so suddenly, to the Earl of Ravensbrook! Do you know, he has been the catch of Town this last year? And now you have him! And you will be married tomorrow!”

  Lady Heathbury gushed, her words running together in one long stream as she repeatedly stated the obvious at the top of her voice. Caroline blinked under the onslaught but kept her smile firmly in place. The young girl smiled into Caroline’s face, her eyes shining, the light blue of her gaze as clear as cool water. Caroline found her smile shifting into a real one. This girl might be loud and uncouth, but there was no harm in her. “Thank you, my lady. It is an honor.”

  “A singular honor,” Lady Westwood said, her face inscrutable save for the soft light of contempt in her eyes. Her mother stiffened on the other side of the room, but Caroline’s smile widened.

  This lady had arrived that morning, come up from London to witness Anthony’s marriage. Her mother had mentioned that Lady Westwood was one of two relatives left to Lord Ravensbrook, and that his elderly aunt was one of his favorite people in the world.

  Clearly, Lady Westwood was displeased to find her cherished nephew selecting his bride from the wilds of Yorkshire instead of among the demure misses of the ton. Caroline met the old lady’s eyes and smiled. Perhaps not all the women of the South were mealymouthed liars.

  Caroline curtsied to Lady Westwood. “I beg to differ, my lady. Our alliance is commonplace, I would say. I have honored your nephew with my hand, and he has honored us with his money. By all accounts, an even trade.”

  She felt the sharp gaze of her mother like a dagger on her skin. Young Lady Heathbury gasped and drew back, as if Caroline had suddenly grown two heads.

  The old woman looked at her sharply from beneath her green silk turban. But it seemed she was not offended. Her gray eyes began to gleam with amusement. “You are decidedly blunt, Miss Montague. Perhaps my nephew has offered for a harridan.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” Caroline said, her voice deceptively soft, “he has.”

  Lady Westwood laughed, a short bark that rang on the crystal of the chandelier overhead. Jenkins stepped into the drawing room then like an emissary from God and called for dinner to be served. Caroline renewed her intention to better guard her tongue as she turned to lead the guests into the dining room behind her parents. Before she took another step, her fiancé appeared at her side, offering his arm.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Good evening, Miss Montague.”

  If he had heard her remarks to his aunt, he had not taken offense. His eyes devoured her as if no one else were present. A blush rose from beneath the lace-edged bodice of her gown. Caroline forced her gloved hand not to shake as she placed it carefully on his arm.

  Her silk gown was cast in soft tones of peach and cream. The white roses she wore were from her mother’s hothouse garden, and the tiny flowers set off the golden blond of her hair. She wore no jewels, save for pearls at her ears.

  “You look lovely this evening,” the Earl of Ravensbrook said.

  He looked untouched and untouchable, calm and reserved as any man might be in her mother’s drawing room. But his eyes were dark with fire. His hand on her arm heated the silk of her glove as if he had placed a brand there. She looked down at his blunt, square nails and the calluses along the edges of his fingertips, and she shivered. Caroline met his eyes and realized that though his touch heated her, his gaze burned.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was slightly breathless, but her words did not catch in her throat. “You look very well yourself, my lord.”

  He laughed, and the ladies walking in front of them turned to stare. He nodded to them, but instead of drawing Caroline into step behind them, he held her back alone.

  “It is not for you to compliment me, Caroline, though I thank you.”

  “I do not recall giving you permission to use my given name.”

  Anthony laughed again. “I do not need your permission for that, Caroline, or for anything else.”

  “Indeed, my lord, I beg to differ.” She tried to pull away from him, to follow the rest of the party in to dine, but he held her where she was with just his hand on her gloved forearm.

  “You may indeed beg from time to time, Caroline. And from time to time, I may indulge you.”

  “It was merely a figure of speech, my lord. I am not in the habit of begging for anything.”

  His eyes smoldered with desire, and Caroline began to wonder if she had missed a salient point in their exchange. His eyes lingered on her lips until with great effort he drew them back up to her eyes.

  “We will see, Caroline. I may have you begging yet.”

  “I would not take that wager, my lord. I fear you will lose.”

  “I never lose, Caroline. I will make you beg before the week is out.”

  It was her turn to laugh at that absurdity. “Please yourself
, my lord, but I tell you, you are mistaken.”

  He must have felt he won that round, for he led her into dinner with a smug air of satisfaction, even of anticipation. Anthony drew her chair from the table, ignoring the footman who stood by. He took his own seat beside her.

  Though Caroline and Anthony were seated together, they spoke little throughout the meal. She could feel his eyes on her as he made conversation with the other gentlemen and ladies, polite talk of London during the Season, of hunting, of war.

  Her fiancé drew the eye of every woman there, even her mother. Caroline caught other women staring at him openly, some of the older ones, the married ones, casting glances his way in invitation. Invitation to what, Caroline could only guess. Though she had not asked for the wedding that would take place in the morning, he was her fiancé. She felt sudden proprietary ownership of him, and when the beautiful Lady Clarice smiled at him, a spear of jealousy shot through her. She fumed, first at the other woman’s smile, then at herself for being a fool.

  The conversation sparkled around the table without a word from her. On any other evening, Caroline would have been in the center of it. When her father had guests, she always longed to stay behind and drink port and smoke cigars with the men when the real talk of the evening began, though her father had never allowed it. But that night she stayed silent as everyone conversed over dinner, as if she truly were the demure girl her mother had raised her to be, as if she had never made those impertinent remarks to Lady Westwood at all. She ate sparingly and watched her husband-to-be from the corner of her eye.

  Though Anthony answered questions about the final campaign at Waterloo, he spoke only of things the ladies might hear. Caroline hoped to ask him one day what the battle was really like. All anyone would say in her presence was the battle was long and honor had prevailed, the usurper vanquished, and Europe brought once more into peace. Caroline read the papers her father received from London and the Continent. She knew nothing was ever that simple. But she had never had the courage to ask her father about the war. As she listened to Anthony’s deep voice speak pleasantries about the honor of the king’s cavalry, she wondered if he might be more forthcoming with her.

  She looked up then and found him watching her.

  Another man was speaking, some young fop who had never been to war. Caroline did not hear a word the boy said, for Anthony’s eyes were on her, dark pools filled with promise. Caroline’s desire for his touch burned along her skin where his eyes caressed her, chasing every other thought from her head.

  Under the watchful eye of her father and all his guests, Anthony could not even brush her hand. The knowledge that he could not touch her only fed the fire within her. By the time the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port, Caroline longed for his hand on hers, even with the silk of her glove between them.

  She heard nothing of the conversation among the ladies, though most of it was about her wedding the next morning. Her mother discussed the flowers in the church and the lace of the veil Anthony had brought for her to wear. All the women, young and old, seemed to think it the height of Arthurian romance that the Earl of Ravensbrook had brought the wedding gown his mother had worn, and his grandmother before her. Caroline listened with half an ear as the young women rhapsodized over the sweetness of the gesture, while their mothers looked on, smiling. Only Lady Clarice’s smile did not reach her eyes.

  The gentlemen came in then, and the carpet was rolled up so the ladies and gentlemen might dance. Caroline thought to play for the company, but her mother’s hand on her arm kept her from the pianoforte. She frowned at Lady Montague, for playing well was the only ladylike accomplishment she possessed. But then Anthony towered over her, offering his hand, and she knew why her mother had held her back.

  They stepped onto the dance floor in the middle of her mother’s drawing room, in full view of all her father’s guests. As Anthony nodded politely, first to her father, then to her mother, she felt the heat of his hand through the thin silk of her glove. When they began the measured steps, the rest of the world drew back. Caroline was aware of no one but him.

  She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin. She was as sure of his desire as she was of her own. But she could see no evidence of his thoughts behind the shadowed darkness of his eyes.

  She moved as if to lead him, and he laughed. “No, Caroline, I will lead. I thank you.”

  She was used to leading young men in the dances she attended in the village assembly room. It was a little disconcerting to be drawn through the steps, strangely relaxing to relinquish control to another, even for the space of a song.

  Her first moment of irritation was absorbed by the warmth of his hand on hers. She focused on the steps of the quadrille and soon found she did not have to pay attention, as she always did with other young men or with her dancing master. Anthony moved with smooth, unconscious grace, and at his touch, she moved with him.

  “You dance well, my lord,” she said.

  His teeth flashed white in a smile. “I must admit I have not had much practice of late.” His grip grew firm, his hands heavy on her waist as he led her through a turn. His touch burned through the thin silk of her gown. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her wits about her. For some reason, her good sense had almost gone begging.

  “You appear to be a natural, my lord.”

  “What one lacks in experience, one may make up with enthusiasm.” His eyes took on a heated gleam, and her mouth went dry. “You appear to have a natural talent for many things yourself,” he said.

  She did not follow where his conversation led, but she was suddenly aware of the warmth of his body in the closeness of the drawing room. Caroline’s mind began to wander as she and Anthony moved together smoothly, almost as if they had been born to it. This time, she did not resist, but let her mind go blank, the tension in her shoulders relaxing as she danced with the man she would marry tomorrow.

  The quadrille ended as it had begun, with her fiancé standing close beside her. He spoke low, so no one else would hear. His breath was warm on her cheek. He did not lean too close this time, but she felt his nearness anyway, as she would the heat of the sun at midday.

  “When you return to your rooms, stop first in your father’s library. I will meet you there.”

  Caroline laughed at him, arranging a clandestine meeting as if they were lovers. She looked into his eyes and saw the warmth there, the same heat in the pit of her stomach as she took in the spicy scent of him.

  “My lord, it would not be proper.”

  Anthony took her hand in his and kissed it. “Your honor is mine. I swear I will do nothing to break it.”

  For a moment it seemed they were alone, with no one to watch them. It was as if her parents did not stand close by, as if the other dancers had melted away. She could see only him and the light of his smile.

  His smiled turned wicked. “I will only bruise it a little.”

  Anthony brought her back to her mother and bowed to the baroness. Lady Montague smiled at Lord Ravensbrook but frowned at her. Caroline knew she had spent too long in conversation with her fiancé. “Maman, I would like permission to withdraw.”

  “Your guests are still dancing.”

  “I know. But tomorrow is my wedding day.”

  Her mother’s eyes softened, and she pressed Caroline’s hand, hiding the gesture with her body so no one else might see it. “Very well, ma petite. I will see you in the morning.”

  Caroline curtsied to Lady Westwood, whose eyes were always on her. The old lady nodded to her. She had been taking Caroline’s measure all evening and now looked satisfied. Most of the other guests were engaged on the dance floor and did not see Caroline go. She slipped into the hallway, but not before she met her father’s gaze. She raised one gloved hand, and he smiled a small, tense smile.

  Caroline saw for the first time that her father feared for her, that he would miss her once she went to Shropshire. A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard, stepping int
o the hallway before anyone else might notice she had slipped away.

  Chapter 8

  Caroline stepped into the silence of the hall. The moon was high, its light coming in through the windows as she made her way down the carpeted corridor.

  In the library, only one candle was lit. The fire had long since gone out, and with the drapes drawn against the moonlight, the room was shrouded in long shadows. Caroline hesitated in the doorway, but when Anthony emerged from those shadows, she closed the door behind her.

  Caroline came to the edge of the candlelight.

  “You seem to have a habit of lurking in the shadows, my lord.”

  “Only when I am with you, Caroline. A man cannot help being cast in shadow by the light of your beauty.”

  Caroline snorted. “Please, my lord. I have already consented to be your bride. You have no need for such false flattery.”

  Anthony grinned. “I am wounded, Caroline. Is it that you do not believe the truth behind my poetry?”

  “I believe you are amusing yourself, my lord, at my expense.”

  This time, he did not smile, but moved closer. “You are so eager to remind everyone of your strength that I think you forget your beauty. It is intoxicating.”

  Caroline was breathless, her limbs languid at his nearness. He had not touched her yet, but he stood close, so close the buttons of his waistcoat brushed the bodice of her gown. She forced herself to hold her ground. Indeed, she found she did not want to back away.

  “So you were drunk when you set our wedding for tomorrow?” she asked. “Perhaps you’ve taken leave of your senses.”

  Anthony drew her toward him with a gentle hand on her arm. He did not take her prisoner as he had down by the river. Instead, he kissed her tenderly, holding her with only the soft touch of his lips on hers.

  She pulled back. “We should wait until after your business with the Prince Regent is complete. We have no need to marry tomorrow. People may think we are avoiding scandal.”