The Bargain Bride

by Metzger, Barbara

  He remembered sharing a tent with an Irish officer once, one who could alert the French to their position just with his loud, rasping, openmouthed breathing. West tried what had worked on McMann. He rolled the pug over.

  But the pug was not a burly Irishman.West pushed too hard and the pug fell right off the high bed. It wheezed a few times, and then was quiet. Too quiet. West lay still, waiting for the snore that never came. Instead of letting him slip into slumber, the silence put his every sense on guard, kept every muscle rigid, as he waited for the heavy breathing.

  West scrambled to the other side of the bed, tangling in the sheets, and leaned over. He could see the pug on its side, not stirring. “George? I say, old man, I did not mean to shove so hard. George?”

  He touched the dog’s flank gingerly, not willing to lose a finger to gain a night’s sleep. George did not move.

  Holy hunting hounds, George was dead! First West had broken his bride’s heart, then he’d wed her against her will, and now he’d killed her grandfather’s pet. He doubted that was a harbinger of a happy marriage. He untangled himself from the covers while he considered his options.

  He could ignore the dog altogether, pretending surprise in the morning when a servant came in to relight the fire. Not only was that devious and underhanded, but how could he sleep with a dead dog next to his bed? Shutting George in the wardrobe was no solution, and no one would believe George put himself there, or that he jumped out the window, for that matter. West thought about carrying the corpse elsewhere, for someone else to find. That was cowardly, and someone might see him, besides. He leaned over and nudged the dog again. Oh, hell.

  Someone had to tell the old man. What if the news killed him, too? West ran his fingers through his hair in despair. What to do?

  There was nothing for it, he decided, but to ask Penny what she thought best. He’d ask Marcel, but he had no idea where the servant slept. Yes, he’d ask Penny. The woman had an opinion about everything, and she loved her grandfather. He jumped out of bed and hurried toward the door. Then he came back and put on his robe. The sight of his nudity might give his virgin bride an apoplexy. Just think, he could wipe out the entire household in one night.

  He scratched softly on the door across the hall. Penny did not answer, so he pushed the door open and crept in like a sneak thief—or a dog murderer. The room was dark, the fire out. Damn. He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust, but he need not have waited. He was guided to the bed by his bride’s snores. Damn again. Her snore was not as loud as the dog’s had been. In fact, it was almost a sweet little ruffle of breath. He could live with that, he supposed, if she ever let him near enough after this night’s work. For a craven moment he thought of moving George into her room while she slept so soundly, then mentally chided himself for the unworthy idea. Wasn’t there something in those wedding vows about love, honor, and protect? If there wasn’t, there should be. A gentleman’s code of honor insisted he defend the weaker sex from harm, anyway. And a decent man did not deposit dead things under his wife’s bed.

  “Penny?” he called softly when he was near enough to make out her pale hair.

  She did not miss a snore, so he shook her shoulder.

  “Yeoow!” she screamed, thrashing her arms, kicking her legs, fighting like a wildcat, or like a woman being attacked in her bedchamber in the middle of the night. One of her fists caught his nose before he could catch her arm.

  “It’s Westfield, by George,” he yelled, feeling to see if his nose was broken or bleeding. Did someone say they were the weaker sex? “Well, bygone George.”

  She sat up, furious. “What are you doing in my bedchamber? What kind of monster assaults a woman in the dark?”

  “I have never assaulted a female in the dark or otherwise, and I take offense that you might think I would. Dash it, I merely tried to awaken you. Next time I will throw water at you. From a distance.” He rubbed at his sore nose again.

  “Water? Is the house on fire?” She started to bolt out of bed. “Grandpapa!”

  He put a hand on her shoulder, cautiously. “No, the house is fine. So is your grandfather. It’s George the pug. He, ah, fell off the bed and now he is not moving. I do not know what to do.”

  Penny rubbed at her eyes. She got out of bed and reached for her robe, giving him a brief, tantalizing glimpse of soft curves left uncovered by the clinging nightgown. West tried to dampen his wayward thoughts. He’d murdered the mongrel and now he was leering at his maiden bride? Devil take it, he used to be a man of principle, with a straight nose. Marriage was having a decidedly ill effect on him.

  And his wife was bossy, besides having a streak of meanness.

  “Light a candle,” she ordered, “and stop trying to see through my clothes.”

  She took the candle from him and stomped across the hall. She went to the far side of the bed when West pointed, and knelt down. “He has only fainted.”

  “Dogs faint?”

  “This one does.” She propped the dog on its feet and blew in its nose.

  “Should I find a vinaigrette?”

  “This works. Unless you want to breathe into George’s mouth?”

  He stepped back. “No, you are doing admirably.”

  George took a deep breath, staggered a bit, then licked Penny’s cheek. She lifted him back onto the bed, where he promptly circled again and curled up . . . on West’s pillow this time.

  “Thank you,” West said, so relieved he reached out to pat the dog. “But you might have warned me.”

  Penny was still watching the pug. “He does not go off frequently. It must have been the excitement of the day.”

  Or being knocked to flinders by a trespasser in his bed. West lit the oil lamp and put another log on the fire. “I do not think he should stay here.”

  “Why not? Now you know what to do.”

  “Yes, I need to find another room. I do not suppose I can share yours for the rest of the night?”

  Penny looked at him, in his brocade robe, bare feet, bare chest, a loose sash keeping him decent, a sultry smile on his lips. A sensible woman did not invite the devil into her chamber. “George will be fine,” she said.

  “He snores.”

  “Most of his breed does.”

  Since she was showing no pity, West said, “You snore, too.”

  “I do not!”

  “I just heard you with my own ears. But do not fret. I find it attractive.”

  “I could not care less what you find attractive.” But she did care, because she turned seven shades of scarlet when her stomach let out a loud rumble.

  “You are hungry! It’s no wonder, for you hardly eat anything at all. You are not one of those foolish women starving themselves to be stylish, are you?”

  “Do not be absurd. I have been too busy, is all. I suppose I could have a piece of wedding cake now that I am awake.”

  West ignored the reproach in her voice as he led the way down to the kitchen and raided the pantry. He filled plates with the cold ham and cake, while she heated water for tea and set places at the worn wooden table in the center of the room.

  They were too busy eating to argue, for once.

  West liked the companionship. He’d eaten many a solitary midnight meal, but this was far more pleasant. Mistresses demanded dining in style and conversation, while the young women of the polite world giggled and simpered their way through supper, under their duen nas’ watchful eyes. Penny simply ate, and enjoyed the meal.

  She reached for a second slice of wedding cake.“I suppose I no longer have to put a piece under my pillow.”

  He eyed the icing. “Good grief, why would you want to do that?”

  “Young girls do, you know. That’s why we sent so many pieces along with the guests, carefully wrapped, of course. If you lay your head on the pillow, atop the cake, you are supposed to dream of your future husband.”

  “Did you?”

  “Put cake under my pillow? A few times.”

  “But did you dream
of me?”

  “I dreamed of cake and woke up hungry.” But she smiled. And she did not shy away when he used his finger to wipe a dab of icing from the corner of her mouth. That was progress.

  When they were done, she was yawning again, this time for real. Her eyes were heavy, her movements less graceful. West held the candle on the way up the stairs. She made no resistance when he set the candle down outside her door, raised her hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. That was more progress. So he turned her hand over and kissed the palm, and the wrist, and—progress ended with the door in his face again.

  “Well, George, it’s just the two of us. And only one of us gets the bed.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lord and Lady M. were promised at birth. They wed at eighteen, and died within days of each other, decades later. They were best friends and lovers from the cradle to the grave.

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

  If Penny Goldwaite, now Lady Westfield, had been with Wellington’s army, the war would have ended years sooner. She had her whole household fed, organized, and in action by nine in the morning.

  Except for the viscount, who slept until ten. Someone had come at dawn to retrieve George for his morning constitutional, so West had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. He worried that his wife had less, since she already had her lists in hand when he entered the dining room.

  She did not appear as tired as he felt, with her hair held back with a yellow ribbon that matched the color of her gown. The day was overcast and damp, but Penny looked like sunshine. She had the usual pucker between her eyes, however, which deepened when she saw him, also as usual. Whatever ground he’d gained last night, West knew, had been lost with her remembering that he was a profligate London beau, sleeping half the day. The prickly female was determined to remember that, but not the dog, the late-night meal, or her own appeal, which had kept him awake. He wondered how long she was going to blame him for everything from the bad weather outdoors to the price of corn. Forever, he thought with a sigh, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “I do not suppose you dreamed of me last night,” he said, hoping for a smile, something to brighten the gloomy day besides the color of her gown.

  “Why should I dream of you, with no wedding cake under my pillow? Besides, that is for unmarried girls. I already know who my husband is.”

  He thought she might have muttered, “Unfortunately.”

  “Ah, but there is no rule saying a woman cannot dream of her wedded spouse, is there?”

  She ignored his flirtatious tone. “Did you dream of me?”

  If waking up in a state of half arousal counted, yes. “In fact, I did. And wished you were beside me instead of George.”

  If he could not get a smile, he could get a blush. He laughed at how his bride was so mature and efficient, and yet so like a schoolgirl. He liked the combination much better than he would have enjoyed a silly young wife with more hair than wit who was wise only in the ways of the world. Penny must hate her telltale coloring, he thought as she hid her face behind her pages of notes. She would lose that touch of innocence soon, he knew, when she faced flattery and flirtation as a steady diet in London. Now, that idea did not please him, anyone else bringing an embarrassed flush to his Penny’s cheeks. Or flirting with his wife. Lud, married a day, by law if not biblically, and he was jealous already. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee without thinking and burned his tongue.

  Penny ignored his cry of pain, and his later attempts at polite conversation. Yes, the day was gloomy; no, she did not think she would be ready to set out before the end of the week.

  He had left London, his appointments, his investments, his duties at Parliament, within a day of her father’s visit to his town house. He could not see why she needed so much time.

  “Yes, but you had no one but yourself to think of,” she said, a world of meaning in her words.

  “True, but you have servants to obey any orders you might give. You can have them pack up your clothes, or whatever it is you think you need, and ship them to London. That should not amount to much, since you can purchase everything else there new, your wardrobe, household items, even your grandfather’s paints.”

  She blew out a breath of air. “That shows how much you know about artists. Grandpapa has his paints specially compounded for him by a chemist in York. He would never leave without them, or his brushes and canvases and props and costumes. Besides, you forget I am a banker’s daughter. Why buy new when we already have what we need?”

  Once again, what she did not say was evident in her voice, that West was a spendthrift wastrel just like his father, ready to toss his money around on foolish ventures.

  “I stand corrected, but you will find that London fashions have changed.”

  “I am not speaking of gowns and slippers. I know my country-made gowns are not suitable for a viscount’s wife.”

  “But they are lovely,” he told her, trying to sweeten her mood. He might as well have poured more sugar in her tea.

  “Aside from the monetary aspect, I do have a sentimental attachment to a few belongings of my mother’s, a couple of books, some childhood treasures.”

  Which meant that, once again, West had trampled on her tender emotions. “Then of course you must take them. I will help you prepare for the move to London. It is the least I can do.”

  His offer of assistance surprised her. Her acceptance surprised him, until he realized she’d figured out a way to get rid of him, if not kill him outright.

  Before he had eaten his fill of breakfast, West found himself out inspecting the Littleton traveling coach and her grandfather’s cattle. The lumbering old coach was nearly as ancient as the driver, but both looked sturdy and reliable. Jem Coachman also looked after the horses, the pony cart, a gig, and Penny’s mare. His nephew, Harry, was groom, stableboy, and sometime footman. They might be adequate to convey Mr. Littleton and his niece to Bath once a year, but they were not up to the task of moving the entire household to London.

  So West rode to all three nearby villages in the pouring rain. Little Falls did not boast a coaching inn—it barely boasted a church and a general store—so he had to ride farther to find enough carriages and wagons and horses for hire, along with drivers, grooms, outriders, and guards. The additional conveyances were for the servants, the luggage, and the kitchen supplies Cook demanded be transported.

  Only she knew exactly how Mr. Littleton liked his eggs, Mrs. Bigglesworth declared, so she was going along. Besides, her sister lived in London, and so it would be like a holiday for the cook. Since Westmoreland House in Town had no resident chef, West was happy to agree. Mrs. Bigglesworth did not trust West to have the proper pots and pans, so she was taking everything.

  When he returned, Penny informed him that her grandfather did not trust him to have an adequate wine cellar, so another well-sprung coach was needed to carry Littleton’s best bottles. West rode back to Upper Falls, again in the pouring rain.

  Penny next assigned him the job of sending messengers ahead to reserve rooms at decent inns along the way south. Separate rooms, she insisted, not trusting him, either.

  “You might have mentioned that before I rode out the first time,” he said, donning his damp greatcoat once more. “Or the second time. I’ll have to ride back to the inn where your father stayed to consult the innkeeper about the best accommodations, and to hire someone knowledgeable about the roads.” Her own footmen were too busy to go, she told him, and too seldom out of Little Falls to select routes and rooms for overnight.

  In the late afternoon, when he had changed into dry clothes, West considered his equerry duties ended. Littleton’s brandies had not been packed in straw yet, so he thought he’d sit by the fire with a glass or two, warming his toes.

  Penny thought otherwise.

  “You did offer to help, didn’t you? The sooner we get packed, the sooner we can leave.”

  So she had him boxing up the few cherished belon
gings she could not part with, the couple of books Grandpapa liked her to read to him, some things it would be wasteful to leave behind. Hah! She might as well have put the whole house on a barge and towed it to London!

  They started in the library. Most of the Littleton servants, West learned, were too old for the backbreaking work of crating up her grandfather’s favorites. She swore she was not going to bring every single book, although it felt like it to West, after an hour of climbing up and down the ladder, filling boxes. He kept reminding her that although his collection was small, London was full of booksellers and lending libraries.

  “Of course it is, and I am quite looking forward to establishing an account or a subscription at each of them. I already have an extensive list of the books I wish to purchase, after I see your library, of course. But I do like to have my favorites with me, too.”

  He looked over at the section of novels whose shelves were nearly bare by now. “I thought you were bringing the ones your grandfather particularly enjoyed.”

  She waved her hand, the one not holding her endless lists. “But these are my old friends.”

  She had a lot of old friends. She pointed; he packed.

  After an all-too-brief rest for tea, they moved to the attics, room after connected room that traversed the entire upper story of the house. The ceilings were low, the windows few, the air stale, and the dust thick. Boxes lay atop trunks; sacks sat on sofas; paper-wrapped parcels hung from the rafters. Penny had to inspect it all.

  Her mother’s collection of porcelains and her monogrammed linens and china had to be taken to London, of course. They were part of Penny’s heritage, the same as West’s entailed heirlooms, so he could not argue. Some had been handed down from her mother’s mother, or her mother. He could not expect her simply to leave them here, could he?