Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1)

by Rosemary Morris

  “Would you have preferred to marry our friend, Pennington?” If she were a kitten that scratched him with extended claws, he could not have seemed more astonished.

  Georgianne studied her bridegroom’s face. “Do you wish I had?”

  “No, never think so.”

  “It is wrong of me to have taken advantage of your gallantry, for I daresay I am not at all the sort of girl you ever expected to wed.”

  If only he would say something tender.

  “After my brother’s death, I gave little thought to whom I would marry until I saw you again.”

  Silence lengthened until it became embarrassing.

  “Georgianne, you are everything a gentleman could desire in his wife yet…as I assured you, I am in no hurry to set up my nursery.”

  She shrugged. “I have pointed out that most ladies of my age marry. What is more, my mamma bore a child before she reached my age, so if you want me to bear you a child…”

  The memory of Dolores’s face contorted in pain, even after death, returned. He swallowed hard to banish the memory. “You are young. I want you to enjoy a London season without the tribulations of being with child.” He stood. “It is late. Go to bed, Georgianne, or shall I use your father’s nickname for you? Goodnight, Princess, may sweet dreams attend you.”

  Choked with emotion at the mention of her father, she rose. “Goodnight,” she whispered.

  Tarrant held out a long-fingered hand, bronzed by the Spanish sun. By contrast how white her own hand was, yet due to riding, driving, and shooting, her hands—always protected by gloves when she took part in such activities—were stronger, and more capable than they appeared to be.

  Tarrant looked down at her. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  Why did he repeat himself? “I am not afraid. I cannot imagine being frightened by you.” She inclined her cheek toward him. “Will not you kiss me goodnight?”

  * * * *

  How could he refuse his bride’s innocent request? She turned her head. Vivid blue eyes gazed into his. “Georgianne?” His wife continued to regard him expectantly. Without further pause to think, he kissed her on the mouth. His lips warmed at the touch of hers. Tarrant put his arm around her waist to draw her closer. He moulded her to him as though they were of one flesh. His hand cupped her head. Tremors ran through Georgianne. She clutched his shoulders while he kissed the silky skin of her neck.

  Celibate for a long time, it took all of his will power to release her. Immediately, he thought of Dolores. By taking a wife he had betrayed her. His breath came unevenly. “What have you done to me, Georgianne? Have you cast a spell?”

  She laughed. “Of course not.”

  “You must have, for to say the least, it is ungentlemanly of me to force myself on you.”

  “You did not force yourself on me.”

  He ignored her reassurance. “Yes, I did. What sort of a buffle head am I, to begin making love to you when you are tired and in pain?”

  “I could never think of you thus, besides I am not tired.”

  “Yes, you are.” He scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to her rooms. “Goodnight.” When he put her down he kissed her on the forehead before he opened the door to her boudoir. It was hung with brightly coloured silks more suited to an Eastern dancing girl than his wife.

  * * * *

  After a maid helped her to undress and get into bed, Georgianne could not sleep. What could she offer Tarrant, her handsome, considerate, generous husband whose kiss had delighted her? She wriggled her toes. His touch had made her tingle from head to toe in the most extraordinary, but pleasurable fashion. “Dear Lord,” she prayed, “never let him regret marrying me, and please do not allow him to rejoin the army.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tarrant entered the sunny breakfast parlour and smiled at his bride. He raised her hand to his lips and courteously pressed a kiss onto its silky back. A blush stole into Georgianne’s cheeks. Her eyes blazed at him for a fleeting moment. “Did you sleep well, Georgianne? Is your back less painful today?”

  “I must answer yes to both questions.”

  Bright sunlight from the window intensified the dark shadows under her eyes. They answered him better than her brave words which did not admit pain.

  Helen looked at him. “Good morning, Cousin Tarrant.”

  He released Georgianne’s hand while fathoming the depths of her eyes with his. She gave no indication that his passionate kiss on the previous evening had alarmed her. To the contrary, something in her glance indicated she would have no objection to his kissing her again.

  Georgianne smiled at him so charmingly that he wondered if she would have preferred to breakfast, tête-à-tête with him.

  Bab, who tugged at his heart like no other child, stood to greet him. “Good morning, Cousin Tarrant.” She looked from the table—spread with a starched, linen cloth—to the gold-framed paintings of Indian court life which hung on the kingcup-yellow walls. “Do you like yellow?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because there is lots of yellow in your house.” Bab fingered the silk curtains, the colour of old gold and embroidered with peacocks and exotic flowers.

  He nodded. “Yes, I like yellow. It is such a cheerful colour.”

  “Oh.” Bab eyed the sideboard, on which stood a silver service heaped with food. “I do like this room.”

  “Sit down again, dearest,” Georgianne said.

  The child resumed her place. She scrutinised the preserves, jellies, jams, and silver baskets full of different types of rolls.

  “What would you like to eat, Bab?” Georgianne asked.

  A greedy glint in her eyes, the child regarded the selection of buttered eggs, coddled eggs, steak, kidney, ham, and mushrooms.

  “Egad, do you want to try everything?” Tarrant teased.

  “Yes, if I could eat so much.” She giggled. “Georgianne, please may I have some ham, mushrooms, buttered eggs, and a roll.”

  After Georgianne served her, Bab pushed back her sausage-like curls with one hand. With the other, she stabbed her fork into a piece of ham as though it was trying to run away from her.

  Tarrant looked at the sisters, struck by their differences: Bab, a mischievous sprite, red- haired and blue eyed, Helen, a serious young lady with her mother’s oval face, green eyes, and tall frame and as for his wife, well, he had admired her before they married, but yesterday, when he saw her walk down the aisle in her celestial blue gown, a mental image of her impressed itself on his heart.

  “Good morning.” Langley strode into the breakfast parlour. “Good morning.”

  Georgianne gestured to an unoccupied chair next to Helen. “Good morning, please sit there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “May I pour you some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” He sat while Bab helped herself to cherry preserve which she spread on a sweet roll.

  Fascinated by Bab’s appetite, Tarrant watched her. She glanced at him while twisting a curly strand of hair around her finger. “Cousin Tarrant, it is rude to stare.”

  Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “Bab.”

  Tarrant glanced fondly at his wife. He wished he had the forethought to order their breakfast to be served in her boudoir so they could engage in private conversation. No, such intimacy would be most unwise. Even if he could not resist Georgianne’s charms, at the crucial moment he would be sure to remember Dolores. He frowned, directing his thoughts elsewhere. Were Georgianne’s sisters accustomed to partaking of breakfast with their elders every day? He turned his attention to Bab. “What do you enjoy, Bab? Do you like to ride?”

  Bab rubbed the tip of her lightly freckled nose with her forefinger. She glanced at Georgianne, who nodded encouragement.

  Yet again, his bride’s beauty enthralled him.

  Bab inclined her head toward him. “I like riding my pony. If the pond freezes in winter, I enjoy skating. I hate nursery food. I love reading and listening to stories. Do you know any sto
ries?”

  “I cannot think of any.” In his father’s house, his small half-sisters endlessly demanded stories. He did not intend to tread that somewhat tedious road again.

  Bab pouted. “I do not believe you. Everyone knows some stories. You must know exciting ones because you are a soldier.”

  He suspected Bab always pursued answers to her questions with the tenacity of a determined terrier. “What else are you good at, Barbara?”

  She shrugged. “I do not know.” Her mouth quivered. “I want my mamma.”

  “Bab sings like a nightingale.” Helen’s voice filled an awkward pause.

  Tarrant glanced at his bride. Should he beguile her with stories of Spain and Portugal, those lands of sunshine and shadow, cork trees and grapevines, personal honour, pride, and sometimes cruelty? And what of the beautiful women? If he did speak of those things, he would not mention the ladies. The memory of Dolores pierced him like a sharp thorn. No, he would not speak of Portuguese ladies.

  Georgianne’s melodious voice returned him to the present.

  “Some more coffee, Tarrant?”

  Startled from his thoughts, Tarrant clattered his fork on his plate. “Yes, yes please.”

  No need to think of Portugal. He wanted to pull the thorn out of his heart…put Dolores, together with her land of startling contrasts, out of his mind. He looked at his bride. She either belonged in romantic gardens, perfumed with honeysuckle and roses, or on horseback, riding at his side through country lanes, past cottages with open windows, from which wafted the fragrance of fresh baked bread. Good God, why did he think of her in such terms? Had his bride bewitched him? He cleared his throat, and then sipped some coffee before addressing Helen. “What of you? How do you like to occupy yourself?”

  Helen blushed, peeped sideways at Langley, and hesitated.

  Georgianne smiled. “Helen is a talented artist. Her water colours are much admired.”

  Langley leaned forward to look at Helen across the table. “I would like to see your work, Miss Whitley.”

  More colour crept into Helen’s cheeks. “How kind of you, however you would be disappointed.”

  Tarrant regarded Helen thoughtfully. “Would you paint my likeness so we can judge?”

  “If my mother permits—”

  An awkward silence ensued until Langley’s hand reached out across the table. For a moment it seemed he would pat Helen’s hand. Instead, he cleared his throat.

  Bab pushed her plate away. “I have eaten enough.”

  Tarrant looked at her unfinished food. He remembered when he went hungry on campaign. He also remembered the starving peasants he had encountered. Unlike most of his contemporaries, who gave little thought to waste, he could not tolerate it. “In future, do not pile your plate with food you cannot finish. Starving people would relish what you have left uneaten.”

  Bab burst into tears.

  Repentant, Tarrant wished he could take back the harsh reprimand.

  Georgianne patted Bab’s back. “Do not cry. I am sure Tarrant did not mean to upset you. Dry your eyes.”

  Tarrant handed Bab his handkerchief. “Of course, I did not.” He turned his attention to his bride. “Langley and I are leaving for London today. I must see if the Grosvenor Square House is fit for occupation. My godfather was old when he returned to England and his health was not good so he preferred the country to London. His house in Grosvenor Square was neglected. My steward tells me it requires substantial repairs to make it habitable. If I am to reach town before nightfall, I must leave soon.” He ignored his friend’s astonished stare. He smiled at Bab, who had dried her tears. “What would you like me to bring you when I return?”

  “My mamma.”

  Tarrant had expected her to ask for a toy, a locket, or some such thing. Surprised, he looked into her eyes. “One day you will see your mamma again. In the meantime, I shall do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  She slid off her chair, reached up and threw her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek. “I like you, Cousin Tarrant.”

  He untangled Bab’s arms. “And I like you.”

  Tarrant glanced at Georgianne. Taut with unanticipated desire for his wife, he struggled to conquer it. He would not risk her death in childbirth.

  Georgianne looked at the floor. “I wish you a pleasant journey.”

  “Thank you, m’dear. I shall return soon. In the meantime, I hope you will be comfortable.”

  “I am sure I shall, besides I shall be busy.”

  “Busy?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Moorton intends to show me round the house. We shall decide what needs to be done. She tells me the linen is in a shocking state, some of it has worn thin.” She bent her head, but not before he saw her smile as though she did not care in the least about the state of the linen.

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Please do not exhaust yourself with household matters.”

  * * * *

  In Brooks, his father’s club, Tarrant faced his irritated parent.

  Sir James’s lazy eyes widened. His cheeks reddened. “Confound you, why the devil did you wed the minx? There will be gossip over your marrying in such haste.” He sighed. “I do not want your havey-cavey marriage to put foolish ideas into Lavinia’s mind.”

  At the thought of his fanciful half-sister, Tarrant suppressed an indulgent smile.

  “M’boy, if I allow your step-mamma to present Georgianne at court, who knows what romantic flimflam will enter Lavinia’s head?” He paused for breath. Before Tarrant could agree his father continued. “What if your wife does not receive vouchers for assemblies at Almacks from one of the patronesses?”

  This was worse than Tarrant had anticipated. “Such dramatics are worthy of an actor, sir.” As nervous as he had been when a schoolboy, summoned to account for a misdemeanour, he ran a finger around the edge of his starched shirt collar.

  Father shook his head. “Fine manners you brought back from overseas. Your hasty marriage will set tongues wagging.” He continued to shake his head. “Mark my words, there will be speculation. People will wonder if you married because your wife is in the family way.”

  “You insult us, Father.”

  His parent ignored the protest. “I cannot imagine why you think I should accommodate you and your new family in my London house.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart, sir, and because my late godfather’s London house is uninhabitable.” Tarrant refused to be intimidated. Anyway, in spite of his bluster, Father was kind-hearted.

  “You should not have meddled, should not have taken the girls away from your Aunt Whitley.”

  Tarrant would not fall into the trap of trying to justify his action. “After I explained my reason, I hoped you would understand.”

  “If you repeat your request the answer will still be no. Do you know what it is like living with a clutch of chattering females? No you do not. You went to Eton before you joined the army and served overseas. Now, you are about to familiarise yourself with petticoat society.” Sir James paused to catch his breath. “It wears a man out, living with a wife and six daughters. I will not add three more females to my household. Why do you think I am here instead of in the country with the family?” He sighed. “When your step-mamma comes to town we shall consider it.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, sure his good-natured step-mamma would oblige. After all, she was Georgianne’s maternal aunt, and was fond of Georgianne and her nieces.

  “So, what are you going to do, m’boy?”

  Tarrant tapped his riding crop against his boot. “Rent a house, bring my wife up to town with her sisters for whom I will seek a school.” While he spoke, he wondered if Helen—almost old enough to make her debut —would wish to go to school. Besides, would his wife want her sisters to be sent away? As for Bab, missing her mother as much as she did, would the child be unhappy if she boarded at school?

  Sir James settled deeper into the wing chair in which he had been enjoying a morning snooze before Tarra
nt disturbed him. “I do not approve of schools for young ladies, so I employed a governess to educate your sisters.” He snorted. “With regard to your wife, m’boy, employ a companion for her. One who will guide her. Having lived in the country all her life, and married from the schoolroom—so to speak—your wife will not know how to conduct herself in society. After all, when young ladies of quality enter society, their mothers—if they have mothers—guide them until they marry.” Sir James shook his head. “A bad business your marriage, a really bad business.”

  “Georgianne did not marry from the schoolroom,” Tarrant objected when his incensed parent halted.

  “Yes, but you know what I mean, m’boy. You wife has no experience of society. Why, she might even commit the faux pas of galloping in Hyde Park or, or of driving down St James Street.” His father drew a deep breath before glaring at him. “Do me a favour. Invite my Cousin Deane to be Georgianne’s companion until she is up to snuff. My cousin is a distant relative whose late husband gambled away his fortune. The poor creature is in reduced circumstances. You will like her. She does not hang onto one’s coat tails like some relatives I could mention. In fact, Cousin Deane is as proud as Lucifer. Although she is not in dire straits, she will not accept charity from anyone.”

  “I remember Mrs. Deane,” Tarrant mused. “She enjoyed entrée to the first circles. She might do.”

  “Take a chair, Tarrant. I cannot abide you looming over me.”

  He sat opposite his father and stretched his legs toward the fire.

  “Leg still trouble you?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “Good, glad the wound healed properly. Proud of you, m’boy.” Sir James cleared his throat. “Where was I? Cousin Deane. No need to dismiss her when Georgianne acquires some town bronze. When Helen comes out, she can chaperon her and keep an eye on Barbara when she has leave from the school.”

  “I have not yet made up my mind to send my sisters-in-law to school. I must consult my wife before any decision is taken.”

  His father ignored the interruption. “What’s more, I daresay your step-mamma will be glad of Mrs. Deane’s help with Lavinia. I am sorry for you, m’boy. It will cost you a pretty penny. You will have to pay for Cousin Deane to be well turned out.”