The Bargain Bride

by Metzger, Barbara

  Nights, however, they spent in each other’s arms.

  All too soon the date of Lady Aldershott’s rout arrived. Penny knew that after that, she would have to be on public view, making the social rounds, performing like the perfect peeress she never wanted to be. She was West’s wife, so she had no choice, not without embarrassing him and putting paid to her stepmother’s hopes of a higher-ranking hunting ground for her daughters.

  Penny’s gown was ready. Lady Bainbridge made sure her manners were polished. West made sure the Westmoreland tiara was, too.

  “You look like a princess,” he whispered in her ear as they stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for the majordomo to announce them to the hordes waiting below, every eye fixed on the elusive Lady Westfield. “Not one of the run-of-the-mill princesses, either,” he teased, “but a princess of fairyland, who will enchant every person she smiles at, the way she has enthralled this poor mortal.”

  Penny basked in the magic dust of his love, even if he had still never said the words. She remembered all Lady Bainbridge’s lessons, impressing the dowagers. Her style, her smile, her intelligence—and most of all the reformed rake’s obvious devotion—impressed everyone else. A woman who could win over Westfield had to be a true Diamond. And the diamonds in her tiara were nothing to scoff at, either. Fund-raising females wanted her on their committees; young ladies wanted to be her friend; gentlemen wanted to be her lover.

  West wanted to skewer all of them, but Penny was a success. Invitations would inundate Westmoreland House. Her own invitations would be accepted with pleasure. Her stepsisters could meet more than bankers’ sons and mill owners’ heirs. And she would make her husband proud.

  Until he left.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lord F. wed the woman his family chose for him,

  to beget the family’s heir. Lord F. took a mistress.

  His wife took the son to Russia. Heir today, gone

  tomorrow.

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

  “What do you mean, you are leaving?” Penny lay all cozy and rosy in bed, barely awake. She had actually enjoyed herself at Lady Alder shott’s rout, after the initial trepidation. She’d enjoyed herself better, afterward, here in West’s bed. His morning kiss, she thought, was an invitation to more of the delicious same. She was wrong.

  West was already up and dressed. He looked like a maiden’s fondest daydream in tight fawn breeches, shiny high-top boots, and a brown coat that stretched across broad shoulders. His cheeks were smooth from an early shave, and his dark hair was neatly combed. No maiden, Penny was disappointed. Then she noticed he held a cup of coffee in one hand, a letter in the other.

  He shoved the written page into his inside pocket. “There has been a fire at Westfield.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.” Penny knew how much his ancestral home meant to West as part of his heritage, his to hold for the next generations to come. “Can the house be repaired?”

  “The house is fine. The fire was in one of the outbuild ings, near the stables.”

  That was worse. Now Penny understood the grim look on his face. A building was brick and mortar, but horses and grooms were live beings. “How horrible. Was anyone injured?”

  “Slightly, I gather.”

  “And the horses?” Penny knew his breeding stock meant everything to West, and she never wished an animal hurt, herself.

  “My steward sent the letter immediately, before the fire’s harm was fully assessed. He was right to inform me as soon as he could. I have to go.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait for his word of actual damage? Perhaps he will find that all is well, once the smoke clears. Then you would have made the journey for nothing.” She reached out her hand to him, and he sat beside her on the bed and offered her a sip from his coffee cup. She pushed it away, preferring chocolate in the morning. The very fact that he’d forgotten her preferences showed his distraction. “You cannot know yet.”

  “He writes of loss. And waiting for my decisions.” He set the cup down on the bedside table and got up to pace, obviously impatient to be gone.

  Penny pulled the bedclothes up, against the chill in the room. West usually kept her warm in the mornings until someone relit the fire. She frowned. “But we accepted scores of invitations for this week.”

  “I know, but there is no help for it.”

  “Very well. Give me an hour, and I shall be ready to go. Lady Bainbridge can make our excuses, and the hostesses shall simply have to understand about emergencies. Lady Bainbridge can spend the time schooling my stepsisters anyway. Lud knows they need it. How long do you think we shall be away?”

  West shook his head. “I have no idea how long I shall be gone. You cannot come, sweetings. I intend to ride straight through, changing horses wherever I can, riding cross-country to save time. The trip usually takes two or three days, but I hope to make it in far less, sleeping in hedgerows or hostelries along the way. I am taking only what I can carry in my saddlebags.”

  “That is not safe. There are highwaymen and bands of renegade soldiers on the roads.”

  “My pistols are already packed.”

  “No, no, that is absurd. You are a viscount, not a soldier on command. You have to take the carriage and your valet. And your wife.”

  He brushed a hand across her cheek, then went back to pacing, as if the touch of her could interfere with his intentions. “I am sorry, Penny. I cannot wait, or spend the time a coach needs on toll roads with posting houses. Besides, remember all those invites. Some of those old dragons do not care about anything but filling their ball-rooms to overflowing. They will think you are unmannerly, crying off at the last minute.”

  “Who cares what some fusty old crones think? I cannot go without you, anyway.”

  “You must. They will cross you off their lists if you are in Town and not on your deathbed. I’ll ask Nicky to escort you.”

  “Nicky? He would not know his way around a ballroom unless it was filled with card tables or highfliers.”

  “Michael Cottsworth, then. He is a good man, as solid as a rock. He cannot dance, but you will not lack for partners, not if you dress as you did last night. The hostesses will be delighted to have you. You will carve your place in the ton, which was what you wanted, so your own parties will be filled.”

  “No, that is my stepmother’s dream.” Thoughts of Constance reminded her of that woman’s ultimate goal. “Good grief, West, we are to hold a ball in less than three weeks.”

  “Which is another reason why you have to stay in London, to make the preparations and to school the brats—Mavis and Amelia, that is—for their appearances. You’ll be so busy with fittings and furniture designers and dance instructors, menus, and musicians that you will hardly notice my absence.”

  She missed him when he was out of the room. How was she supposed to manage without him for days? “I cannot hold a ball without a host!”

  “Which is why I am in such a hurry, so I can return in time. Furthermore, you are the hostess. You can do anything, with your lists in hand and Lady Bainbridge to help. The Parkers can be trusted, and your grandfather’s cook will be aux anges to cook for such elevated company.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead, set to leave. “I have confidence in you.”

  She held on to his hand. “No, I need you here. You said you would be at my side in entering your social circles. You know I do not belong there, not without you.”

  He pulled his hand back and through his hair, disordering the careful arrangement. “I know what I said, Penny, and I intended to be here, but I never foresaw a fire. And you do belong among the haut monde, now that you wear my ring and my name. You have seen how the ton took you to its bosom. Lady Bainbridge was speaking of vouchers for Almack’s. Some women have to wait for years before attaining that lofty pinnacle of acceptance.”

  “I do not give a rap about Almack’s or acceptance or your blasted aristocracy. You know that. I am a banker’
s daughter and an artist’s granddaughter.”

  “And a viscountess, an heiress, and a beautiful woman. Please understand, Penny, I have to leave.”

  “But you have competent managers. You said so yourself, when you said we would live in London much of the year.”

  “I fully intended to make frequent visits to Westfield, once you were comfortable here in Town.”

  “And leave me alone?”

  “Perhaps I thought that at first, but no longer. I want to show you the breeding farm, the old house, introduce you to the neighbors. But not now, not like this.”

  “Then wait. Let your employees handle whatever needs to be done now and we can go together, after the ball.”

  He shook his head. “My steward and trainers and head grooms cannot make decisions. They cannot allot moneys or bargain with nearby landowners for feed or grazing if my stores and acres are ruined. And I need to see to the horses myself. They are terrorized by smoke, you know. Some could have been injured in the panic to get them away, injuries that could take days to discover in all the confusion. Others breathed in smoke, with who knows what results.”

  “The horses? You are going to Westfield on the horses’ welfare and abandoning me here?” She was terrified he wouldn’t come back. The fear made her furious.

  He pounded the mantel with his fist. “Dash it, Penny, be reasonable. I am not abandoning you. I am looking after my business.”

  “You do not need a business. You are a lord, a lofty member of your idle arrogant class that looks down their collective noses at people who actually work for a living.”

  “I am not one of them. I have earned my money.”

  “Yes, by wedding a wealthy wife. I shall write you a check from my personal account. You can send it to Westfield and be done.”

  He stared at her as if his lovely butterfly had turned back into a creeping caterpillar. He raised his chin, as angry as she was. “Then I would be a fortune hunter, in fact, wouldn’t I?”

  “No, you would be a good businessman like my father.”

  “What if I do not wish to be like your father?”

  Penny could not let the insult pass, not when he was deserting her. “You would let your plaguesome gentleman’s pride keep you from taking the funds you need for rebuilding?”

  “This is not about money or pride or position. This is about my life, what I chose to do with it.”

  “The horses,” she said in flat tones, turning her head away from the sight of him.

  “Yes. Can you understand?”

  “I understand you are going, with no care for my wishes, my needs.”

  “I have needs, too. Haven’t I proved my need for you? Do you really think I want to dash across England when I could be here, in our bed?”

  “Yet you are going, because of the horses.”

  “Now you are sounding like a spoiled child. Like your stepsisters, whining to get some treat or trinket.”

  He would compare her to Mavis and Amelia? Penny had to stop herself from childishly throwing the pillow at his handsome, haughty head. “Why, because I want my husband with me, as agreed, at this trying time?”

  “Should I be flattered?” He sounded anything but. “You do not want me—you want to have your way. You have a house, jewels, friends, a title, the nod of society—yet you cannot give me two weeks?”

  “Two weeks? I gave you thirteen years. Thirteen years, sir. Yet you will not change your ways, despite our agreement that marriage is a compromise.”

  “Aha! I was waiting for those blasted thirteen years to arise. Time and money, that is all you think of. And yourself.”

  She balled her hands into fists. “I am not self-centered and spoiled. I am not.”

  “I suppose you are going to tell me you are not a managing female, either.”

  That gave her pause. She had always been called a managing woman, usually as praise for running the orphanage, keeping her grandfather’s house in order, organizing the Ladies’ Guild. She sniffed. “Perhaps I am. There is nothing wrong with being efficient.”

  He held out a metaphoric olive branch. “Nothing at all. That is why I know you can stand up to the beau monde and plan the ball on your own.”

  Of course she could. That was no reason to shout like a fishwife, or cling like a limpet. No man wanted a nag, or a wife who lived in his pocket. “Very well, I shall stop acting like a harridan, berating you for doing what you think is right.”

  He grinned, flashing the dimple she adored. “At least you did not punch me.”

  “Is that why you are keeping your distance?”

  “No, I am staying on the other side of the room so I do not crawl into bed with you, and to hell with the rest of the world.” But he did sit beside her, gathering her into his arms for a farewell kiss.

  “I do not want you to go,” she said when he released her.

  “I know.”

  “I do not want to face your friends and all those stiff-rumped strangers without you.”

  “I know, and I wish I could be here. But what happened to the self-sufficient, confident Amazon from Little Falls? She could conquer the world on her own.”

  “You invited over two hundred aristocrats to our ball, that’s what happened. My father wants the Entwhistle girls out of his house, that’s what. I did not pick those battles to fight, on unfamiliar terrain.”

  “Life is like that. I did not ask for a fire, or for my brother’s title for that matter. But now you have total control over the party, to put your own seal on it.”

  “I’ll cancel the ball, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “No. We would only have to do it later. The girls will be older, your stepmother more strident. Do it, Penny. Make it special.”

  “Very well, in exchange for coming in second to your horses, I will turn your house into a sultan’s odalisque, with silk tents and hookahs and dancing harem girls. You will be mortified.”

  “Will you wear jewels in your navel?”

  “And veils, nothing but veils. I shall give your polite society something to speak about besides the weather for a change. And . . . and I will dance.” She stood up on the bed, letting the sheets fall away, and improvised what she thought an exotic belly dance might look like.

  The horses could wait another hour.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  In an epic misalliance, Lord Q. married his mistress.

  His parents cut him off. She cut off his . . .

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

  Ticktock. Ticktock. The house was so quiet, Penny could hear the clock on the sitting room mantel. West must have built up the fire, then told the servants not to disturb her, because not even the sound of scurrying in the hall reached her ears, not once his footsteps receded down the hall, down the stairs, out the door.

  He was gone. Worse, he’d left while she was still bemused by his lovemaking, before she could explain.

  He did not understand why she’d acted the termagant, why she’d almost begged him not to leave. West thought she feared the ton, like some foolish chit fresh out of the schoolroom, making her curtsies for the first time. Hah. She’d seen what a pack of snobbish sheep they were ages ago, when she’d first come to London. Then she’d been the fiancée of a second-son soldier, accepted in the outer circles of society only because of Lady Bainbridge and her father’s fortune. Now she was a viscountess, welcomed with open arms as if she had become more interesting, more attractive, more one of the inner echelons. And she could not care less. Anyone who would not accept her for being a banker’s daughter then was not worth knowing now.

  She’d accomplished much in the short time they were in Town. She’d seen that West was proud of her and that women in London could be friends, both of which pleased her. She had not had a female friend of her own age in a long time, and welcomed invitations to charitable committees so she could continue her rewarding and worthwhile efforts. As for West, she had not wanted to shame him, and she had succe
eded beyond her own expectations. No, she did not fear being a pariah in Polite Society. If no one spoke to her, she could go live at Westfield with her husband, raising her family, if he wanted her there. That way, even if he returned to London on occasion, she’d see him, be part of his life. He would never leave his horses for long.

  He left, believing her a coward and believing she wanted to control his life with her money, her demands. He was wrong about that, too. She’d offered him her personal fortune, the one she had tied up in trust so tightly he could not have it without her say-so, because she wanted to make his life easier. Not to own him or dictate its use or make him feel like a supplicant. What was hers was his, once she’d given her heart and her body and her very soul, whether he knew that or not.

  She thought about his angry accusations. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t wanting her own way in everything. She wasn’t a shrew, at least she hoped not. What she was, was jealous, plain and simple, and she could never confess that to him. She was mortified to admit to that basest, most corrosive of emotions, even to herself. There it was, though, as green as the ugly fern with hairy roots like spider legs that her stepmother used as a centerpiece.

  Penny pulled the covers over her chin, staring at the ceiling. How could she be jealous of a husband she never wanted to like, much less love, and not for the usual reasons, either? His previous women rankled, but they were in the past and Penny was in his bed. He seemed more than satisfied to have her there. But his horses . . . ah, she could never hope to compete with his horses. He loved them better than he would ever love her.

  Clip-clop. Clip-clop. West held his latest hired horse to the fastest speed he could, pacing the gelding for the next posting house where he could change mounts. With few travelers on this stretch of the road, his mind kept repeating their argument. He tried to reconcile his needs with her needs, while his thoughts beat in tune to the steady rhythm of the hoofbeats. His need, her need, her knees. They had a little dimple and smooth skin, with a tiny scar from a childhood fall. The backs of her knees were particularly sensitive to his tongue. He’d memorized every inch of her, and the memory was driving him crazy. Damn, he needed to be his own man, not ache with needing her.