Penny had been clenching her fists to keep from doing that. “Then you are not going to . . .”
“Ravish my reluctant bride?” He let the disgust sound in his voice, along with the dashed hopes. “I could not if I wanted to.”
Now she did reach out, and kept reaching. “It’s gone?”
He rolled off the bed, rather than face explaining that ignominy to his ignorant wife.
“I am sorry,” she said in a barely audible voice, reminding him again how very inexperienced she was.
“No, this entire debacle was my fault. You are so mature and managing—in a good way, of course—that I keep forgetting what an innocent you are. I moved too fast and frightened you, which is inexcusable. I was the proverbial overeager bridegroom, and I apologize. You need more time, that is all. Tomorrow we can try again, moving far more slowly.”
Penny thought she would surely die of slowness if tonight’s speed almost did her in.
West was going on: “Books are not good tutors. And watching the ram tup his ewes is not a firm foundation for love. Tomorrow we will have a real courtship.”
He kissed her gently, without the fervor. “Good night, my dear. Sleep well. Until tomorrow.”
Sleep? He expected her to sleep? Just because the cad was no longer interested in his wife did not mean she was ready for bed. What good was having a rake for a husband? She fell asleep reciting the alphabet.
Arrogant, beastly, careless, despicable . . .
Chapter Thirteen
Squire W. and his wife were content with their arranged marriage. They had goose on Sunday, mutton on Monday and Thursday, beef on Wednesday and Saturday, sex on Friday.
—By Arrangement, a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber
. . . Useless, vile, wicked, expendable—Penny cheated on x; she told herself she deserved the leeway—and why the deuce was he not at the breakfast table for her to rail at? Maybe he’d taken his disappointment or disability or disinclination to Kitty in the next village. Maybe he’d gone back to London on his own. Maybe he’d fallen down the stairs and broken his fool neck.
Penny jumped up and ran around the house, out to the stable. His rented horse was gone; Jem Coachman knew not where.
Penny tried to hide her anxiety in finishing the packing. What if he did not return in time for the baron’s party tonight? She could not face her neighbors. She could not face her mirror. How could he do this to her, again? And when was she going to learn not to trust the bounder? He was going to sweep in and out of her life whenever he chose, like a lazy housekeeper. She was dust to him, that was all.
Then Marcel walked by with his lordship’s evening tailcoat, the one he had worn for their wedding. “Monsieur asked me to brush it before tonight. George le chien may have slept on it.”
Now Penny could breathe again, and think about her own ensemble. He was coming back. She was his wife, and he had not forgotten that fact. She knew it was her job to make certain he never did. Tonight she wanted the baroness’s guests to think she was worthy of a viscount, and she wanted the viscount to think she was worthy of his name and his notice.
She spent the afternoon trying on dresses, then pulling off the lace trim that kept her gowns modest, as befitted a woman on the shelf, no longer looking for a husband. Tonight she was going to make her own husband look at her. He said he liked her breasts. Very well, let him see them. If he’d said he liked syllabub, she would have it on the menu, wouldn’t she? So she rejected the trims and the lace fichus and Kashmir shawls, no matter if the Whitstanleys were known to keep their rooms cool. No retiring pastel colors for her tonight, either. Penny chose a cherry silk she’d had made up for a Christmas assembly two years ago. She’d felt self-conscious, as if she were drawing unwarranted attention to herself, so she’d never worn it again. Tonight everyone would be looking at her anyway—those who could take their eyes off West—so she might as well dress the part. The evening already held the excitement, the expectancy, the tingle of Christmas. Too bad there was no mistletoe.
She tried new hairstyles next, practicing wrapping the pearls he had given her around the plaited curls atop her head, like a coronet. She decided to wear her mother’s ruby and pearl earbobs, but no necklace to distract from the expanse of skin from her neck to the abbreviated bodice. White gloves completed the ensemble. She’d do. She changed back into her dun-colored round gown, to count the trunks again.
West was shopping. This time he rode farther afield, as far as Doncaster, for more selection. He returned by midafternoon on a disgruntled horse that was not used to having bags and boxes bouncing along its sides. West’s arms were full when he reached the library, where Penny was making copies of her lists in case one was lost.
He put his packages down on her desk, and took another armful from a footman before dismissing the man and closing the door.
Penny eyed the mound of tissue-wrapped parcels, a hatbox, a large square covered in paper. “What have you done?”
“I have bought gifts for my bride, of course,” he said as he helped himself to a glass of brandy.
“But you gave me the pearls. And I have everything I need.”
“Of course you do, but everyone needs presents. Besides, the pearls were for the wedding. These are to show my delight in our marriage. I admit I might not have looked forward to it, but I do not want you to doubt that I am pleased. There are thirteen presents, one for each birthday of yours that I missed. When we reach London, I shall try to find thirteen more, for every Christmas, and another thirteen for the anniversaries we should have shared.” He moved the packages around, in some order only he knew. “Perhaps not thirteen anniversaries, for no one intended us to wed when you were so young, but I shall think on that.”
“Oh, West, the thought alone is enough.”
He quickly reached for a small parcel. “Here, open this one first.”
It was a lace handkerchief, with gold leaves embroidered on it. Penny used it to wipe her eyes.
Next he handed her a book of poems. “This Layton chap is all the crack in London. I did not see this volume on your shelves.”
“It is on my list to buy. How did you know I like poetry?”
He would not peach on her grandfather. “A lucky guess, that’s all.”
To change the subject, he uncovered a sheaf of music, some for pianoforte and some for the harp. “For when you learn,” he said.
A box of bonbons was next. “Not very original, I’m afraid, but I wanted to get you something sweet.” He helped himself to one, and held another up to Penny’s lips.
“I am overwhelmed,” she said when she was finished.
“But we are not half done. Here, open the largest.”
She unwrapped the square box to find a beautiful cherrywood travel desk, all inlaid with flowers and birds. The lid rose to hold pens and ink and paper and pencils. “So you can write your lists while we travel.”
As beautiful as the desk was, Penny’s eyes kept straying to a hatbox in the distinctive color of the most exclusive milliner in the county.
“Would you like to open that one?”
She held her hands out, instead of answering. Inside the box, in a nest of silver paper, was the most beautiful, frivolous bonnet Penny had ever seen. Of turquoise silk, it had tiny artificial pansies under the lace brim.
“I tried to match the color of your eyes, but could not find anything suitable.”
“This is exquisite!”
He handed her a small velvet pouch.
“A lorgnette?” she asked when she opened the drawstrings.
“It is a quizzing glass, so you can look down on all the lesser beings. Ladies use them at the theater, too.”
“I am overwhelmed.” She was sitting in a sea of papers and wrappings.
“We are still not done.”
He gave her a box that held a new fan. “So you can rap the knuckles of anyone who becomes too familiar.”
It was beautiful, ruffled lace with purple irises pai
nted on it, with ivory spokes and handle. Unfortunately it did not match her cherry gown.
The next package was a paisley shawl, in pinks and yellows that would make her look like a hot-air balloon in the red silk.
A paper cone contained a nosegay of flowers for her to carry tonight to the party, in a gold filigree holder. The flowers were all blue. “Now, those do match your eyes.”
But not her gown. Penny tried to hide her dismay, saying, “Grandpapa will be thrilled. He loves all these bright colors.”
“But you do not?”
She picked up the shawl and the fan and the flowers, thinking they were a garden by themselves, a field of vibrant color. “I adore them all, but I was going to wear cherry red tonight.”
“Ah,” he said, “then this will match.” He took a jeweler’s velvet box out of his pocket.
“You have been so extravagant,” she protested, not taking the gift.
“Remember, I do not have to repay that loan from my father’s debt. I am well-to-pass now.” He’d pawned his watch, until he could send a bank draft back from London, but West saw no reason to tell Penny that. Just watching her pleasure in the presents was worth every farthing.
She finally opened the box, to find a thick gold chain, with a heart-shaped ruby pendant. “Oh, West, how did you know? This is perfect!” She jumped up, spilling the music and the book and the bonbons, but she did not care as she rushed into his arms. “This truly is Christmas.” Then she stepped back, embarrassed. “But I have nothing for you. You should have told me.”
“Well, the last gift is more for me, I have to admit. And let me tell you what courage it took for me to enter the shop.”
He held up a negligee so sheer she could see him through it. Penny quickly glanced over to make sure the door was shut.
“They call the color maiden’s blush, so I knew you had to have it,” he said, enjoying the sudden pink in her cheeks. “Will you wear it tonight?”
“To the party?”
“Great gods, this is for me, no one else.” Just the thought of anyone else ogling his wife made him say, “Must we go?”
“We have accepted, and we are the guests of honor.”
He sighed.
She sighed.
“How long must we stay?”
“Not long, with the excuse of traveling tomorrow.”
He smiled.
She smiled.
They did not stay late at the party.West took one look at Penny in her cherry gown, his ruby heart between magnificent creamy orbs, and almost refused to leave the house. She had a shawl around her shoulders, and he hated the thing for covering one inch of her glowing skin.
Then he wished she’d keep it on—or a horse blanket—so no one else could see her. The baroness had invited all the gentry for miles around to come meet a real London lord, so there were plenty of gentlemen to irritate West. Two baronets and a knight were in attendance, but he was the highest-ranking gentleman. From highest to lowest, every man there was drooling over his wife before dinner was served. West wanted to rage that she was not on the dinner menu. She was his.
Except she was hardly his tonight. They had to go into the dining room separately, after Penny was reminded that she led the way, as the highest-ranking female. They were seated at opposite ends of the long table, he next to his hostess, she next to the baron. Then the ladies withdrew and the gentlemen stayed behind, to West’s aggravation. Even the dances were country-style, in rows or squares, with no waltzes where he could have held her. Besides, most of her dances were already spoken for by the time he escaped the clutches of a retired general ready to refight the latest battles. He hovered over her anyway, bringing punch, plying her fan lest she become overheated, glaring at her partners so they knew not to go beyond the line.
Suddenly Penny discovered herself the belle of the ball, popular for the first time in her life, with gentlemen tripping over one another for a chance to lead her onto the dance area, or out the open door. She was used to sitting out most dances, joining the matrons and the mothers of younger girls at the sidelines.
“It must be the title,” she told West, after refusing yet another invitation to stroll through the secluded gardens.
He laughed. “My sweet innocent. Your title has nothing to do with it.” He pulled her through the open doors himself, and into a dark corner of the terrace.
Who needed mistletoe?
After an interval sure to have tongues wagging, Penny tucked back a curl that had come loose from her intricate arrangement and said, “Grandpapa must be getting weary.”
West straightened his neckcloth. “Of course. We must think of the gentleman.” West had, which was why he’d hired another coach, so they could return separately.
“And we still have packing to do.”
“Hmm.” He was nuzzling her ear, dislodging another curl. “And I am tired of sharing your company.”
Now he was kissing where the ruby pendant touched her skin.
Penny was suddenly out of breath.
“We are newly married,” he added, licking at the crease in her décolletage. “No one expects us to stay.”
“They’ll all know.” Maybe she did not need to breathe anymore.
“They already know. They’re all jealous.”
They left before the gathering had even more to gossip about.
The carriage ride was torment. With Penny in his lap, every bump in the road jogged West’s desire. Unfortunately, he could not rip off her gown and make love in the coach. Not her first time, he told himself, not with the coachman apt to hear, not to face her grandfather at the door when they arrived home. Still, he could not keep his hands off her.
Penny had the same problem. The elaborate knot in his neckcloth was gone, and so were the top buttons of his shirt and waistcoat, landing on the floor of the carriage. Now Penny could put her hand against his warm flesh, the way he was heating hers.
That was not enough for either of them.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked, almost frantic with need.
“Making you want me. The way I want you.”
“If I wanted you any more, you’d have to carry me into the house.”
He did anyway. West carried her through the entrance, down the hall, up the stairs, and straight to her room. The groom who came for the horses turned his back; the footman at the front door faded into the paneling; her maid disappeared through the dressing room. West was out of breath, but not from the carrying.
He put her down and pointed to the blush-colored negligee on her bed. “Don’t bother. I might rip it. With my teeth if I had to.”
Penny was snatching the pearls from her disheveled hair, while he unfastened her gown and corset. Soon his clothes were on the floor. Her clothes were on the floor. West and Penny were almost on the floor.
“No, not here, my sweet.” West lifted her again and carried her to the bed. “Should I douse the lights?”
“No, let me look at you.”
He was splendid. And hers. She held her arms out. “Come, husband. We have waited long enough.”
She was naked, panting, her lips swollen from kisses in the coach. More importantly, she wanted him, not a mere cursory bedding to seal the marriage bargain. He sat beside her on the bed and said, “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you want me.”
She smiled. “I have no way to say it. You have stolen my breath and my wits. If you do not come to me now, I shall perish.”
“We cannot have that, by heaven.” He did not rush, though. He caressed and stroked and suckled, until she was almost screaming with want, which meant he had to stop her with more kisses, lest her household hear. “Sh, sweetings. I need to know you are ready, so I do not hurt you.”
She was hot and wet and taut as a bowstring. He played a concerto with his fingers and his tongue.
“Oh, oh, oh,” came the crescendo, then, “Oh, my. I never knew.”
“Well, the maids in the upper floor kn
ow now, too,” West said, but he was grinning with pride and power and her pleasure. “And that is only the start.” He raised himself up, poised above her. He slowly started to enter—as slowly as he could go, considering he was about to burst into a thousand pieces. “Lud, I do not want to hurt you.”
Penny did not think she could feel pain now, in the euphoric afterglow. She pulled him closer, her legs around him. He pressed deeper, his mouth on hers, as if to absorb the discomfort he feared causing. Then he pulled back, ready to thrust fully, ready to find his own release.
But there was a noise.
“What was that?” Penny asked, pulling back, pushing him away.
“Nothing. Just a sound.”
“It was not nothing. I heard it.”
“It was George,” he said, trying to reposition himself.
“George is never in my room.”
“Then it was me, by Jupiter,” he cried in desperation.
“You did that, in my bed?”
“Lud, Penny, it was nothing. Making love is messy and noisy.”
“It was me! Oh my heavens, I know it was!” She shoved him off her altogether and curled into a ball, her head burrowed under the pillow. In muffled moans she lamented what a failure she was, how no true lady made such noises, how she could not do this anymore.
“Not . . . ?” he asked in disbelief.
“I cannot. Go away. Oh, how can I ever look at you again?”
Easily. If she would take the pillow off her head, she would see he was as eager as ever. “Please, sweetings, do not fret about this. Truly. In another two minutes you would not have heard it. You would not have cared.” He practically pleaded for those two minutes.
She shook her head, or the pillow. “No, it is too terrible.”
Terrible? West thought it was glorious. “Come, now, you saw how beautiful lovemaking could be. Let me show you the rest.” He touched her back—all he could reach of the knot she was curled into—but she pulled away, grabbing the bedcovers to pull over her. Next thing he knew, West was looking at a mound in the mattress, his manhood minified, his marriage a muck.
The Bargain Bride Page 11