The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  “Mrs. Coleraine?” Penny echoed faintly.

  “Mrs. Daphne Coleraine, his lordship’s—” Once again, Blossom clapped her sooty hands over her mouth. “Y’r fire’s workin’ fine now, m’lady. I’d best be off. And thanks ever so fer askin’ about me problem.” Poor Blossom was out the door before Penny could form a question from the disastrous thoughts suddenly flitting through her head.

  Mrs. Daphne Coleraine. But of course Jason would have a Daphne Coleraine in his life. Perhaps two or three at once, if all that she had heard were correct. Honesty forced her to admit he had sent the woman away. None too kindly, from the sound of it. At the moment Penny was more inclined to sympathize with the unknown Mrs. Coleraine than with her errant husband.

  She was about to be tied to an insensitive rake.

  She had been tied to an insensitive rake for nine and a half years. The only difference now was . . .

  Her second wedding night would not leave her a virgin.

  As it turned out, she was, once again, mistaken.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Eleven

  The breakfast room was a surprisingly cheerful spot, with a roaring fire in a red brick fireplace embellished with an intricately carved oak surround. Through two floor-to-ceiling windows, sun could be seen sparkling off the snow outside. And delicious odors wafted from beneath the round silver covers set upon the sideboard, mixing with the pungent smell of coffee.

  Relief flooded through Penny as she realized she had the room to herself. She had never cared to chat before breaking her fast, and on this particular morning—her second wedding day—she could well do without the presence of her erstwhile husband, the Earl of Rocksley, or his companion, Lord Brawley, who seemed to see the world as one vast source of cynical amusement. Penny allowed Hutton to bring her two shirred eggs, bacon, kippers, and toast. She took a sip of coffee, sat straighter in her chair, and decided that perhaps she would, after all, survive this gray echo of her dramatic, and exotic, first wedding in the Topkapi palace.

  It was, she supposed, thoughtful of Jason to arrange a renewal of vows, though her personal sentiments on the two occasions contrasted as greatly as the opulence of the Sultan’s court to winter in Shropshire. She had been so excited, so thrilled, to become Jason’s wife. Jason. Savior. Hero. The love of her life.

  And then he’d abandoned her. Sailed off and left—

  Untrue. Jason may have preferred the company of his friends to hers, but it was she and Aunt Cass who had sailed off to the Americas, leaving her young husband behind.

  Penny chased away a lump in her throat with a goodly swallow of coffee. They were each at fault, she supposed. Aunt Cass, who wanted to protect her . . . and who perhaps enjoyed her niece’s company a shade too selfishly. Jason, who could not be blamed for wanted to indulge in a few more years of freedom. And she herself, who could have broken away any time after she reached her majority. Who could have contacted Jason, even if Aunt Cass’s illness kept her immured at Pemberton Priory.

  Pride. The ancients had the right of it. Pride was indeed a bitter pill to swallow.

  And now? Now she would make the best of a bed made long ago. After all, there could be little doubt about the choice between earning her daily bread as a governess or companion and being the Countess of Rocksley. Unloved though she might be.

  Yet, even with sun sparkling off the snow, the day was gray.

  It did not matter. Close on ten years ago, she had wandered into a nightmare in Constantinople’s Grand Bazaar, and ruined Jason Lisbourne’s life. She owed him a proper wife, no matter if her schoolgirl adoration had long since turned to dust. She owed him her life, and she would pay the price.

  Penny blinked, focused on her food, and discovered she had eaten almost nothing. Grimly, she forked a bit of egg, now cold and congealed. She chewed and swallowed. For her second wedding day she needed all the strength she could muster.

  As Penny was finishing her meal, Mrs. Wilton entered the room. Not so much as a wisp of hair escaped her severe dark coil of hair. Her white cap was starched to perfection, her keys dangling over black bombazine so stiff the gown looked as if it might well stand on its own. Her lips, however, hinted at a tremble and her tone, when she spoke, was quite altered from the previous night. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” she said, standing stiffly erect, “but did you wish to look over the menus for today?”

  Penny regarded Mrs. Wilton with curious eyes. “May I ask why you think I might wish to do that, Mrs. Wilton?” she inquired.

  “I–ah–as his lordship’s wife, it is your right, m’lady,” Henrietta Wilton managed, telltale white knuckles showing on the hands that were clasped in front of her. “I’m that sorry, my lady, I did not know who you were when you arrived. I fear I did not . . . that is, when his lordship said you were to have the countess’s suite, I never dreamed— Ah, my lady, if you’ll forgive my impertinence . . .”

  “It is scarcely your fault, Mrs. Wilton, if the earl did not tell you,” Penny assured the stricken housekeeper, “but I admit I am curious about why you are now so certain the earl and I are married.”

  Henrietta Wilton turned pale, then under Penny’s continued stare, flushed to an alarming shade of strawberry puce. “Hutton heard his lordship say so, my lady, and then, of course, we realized the earl would never put anyone but his wife in the countess’s rooms.”

  “And were all the earl’s guests privy to this information as well?” Penny asked softly.

  Mrs. Wilton struggled visibly between the flat truth, the necessity of being loyal to her master, and the certain knowledge that from this time forth her life would be governed by the lady sitting in front of her. “I believe, my lady, some of the guests left before the facts became generally known. Those who left later in the day, however, could not fail to have been aware . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wilton?”

  The housekeeper pressed her lips together, disapproval radiating from every pore. “There was talk, my lady, some of it rather loud. In the end, there is not a soul in the household who has not heard of his lordship’s marriage.”

  Rather loud. Mrs. Daphne Coleraine screaming, “Married!” and tossing things about. A China vase? Idly, Penny wondered if it had been Ming. Poor Jason. As much as his negligence hurt her, she could never forget the sacrifice he had made. If he had not married her under such strange circumstances, would he have become a rake? Or would he have made a conformable marriage to a proper young lady and be the father of a hopeful family by now?

  Penny looked up to find the housekeeper still standing stiffly in front of the door that led to the kitchen regions. “By all means, let us begin as we mean to go on, Mrs. Wilton. Is there a room where we may confer in comfort?”

  The morning parlor at the rear of Rockbourne Crest was as warm and cozy as the breakfast room. And more colorful, as its furnishings were a cheerful blend of bright yellow and gold, accented with cherry. It was, in short, an inviting parlor any lady would welcome as the ideal place to speak with her housekeeper, write letters, or indulge in the latest novel. Penny’s decidedly mixed emotions about Rockbourne Crest tilted more strongly toward the favorable.

  When she had approved the menus, including a rather sumptuous evening meal Mrs. Wilton termed a wedding feast—a gesture Penny found oddly touching—the Countess of Rocksley realized the moment had arrived when she must try out the story she and Jason had concocted the night before. The housekeeper was a good woman, and efficient, a proper, respectable messenger for what the Earl of Rocksley and his countess wished the world to know.

  Penny smiled as she returned the neatly written menus to Mrs. Wilton across a pedestal table placed only a few feet away from the steady glow of the fireplace. “Mrs. Wilton,” she began, “I am sure you must be curious . . .”

  Several hours later in the earl’s study, Penny joined her husband in recounting the same remarkable tale to the vicar. Mr. Adrian Stanmore was young, as the Reverend Philip Hunt had been young. And Mr. Stanmore was almost uncomf
ortably handsome. Somehow Penny had hoped for the comfort of a fatherly vicar, even a grandfatherly one, but at least Mr. Stanmore did not appear as dour as Mr. Hunt. Nor did he indicate one whit of disapproval as the earl explained the awkwardness of their situation.

  “I was doing the Grand Tour with some friends,” the Earl of Rocksley said. “And, to my surprise, whom should I meet in Constantinople but a connection of my family, Miss Cassandra Pemberton, and her niece, Miss Penelope Blayne. Several weeks were spent by our various parties enjoying the sights, and then Miss Pemberton fell ill.” Jason leaned forward, confidingly. “I am certain, Mr. Stanmore, you have heard of the many diseases prevalent in the East, most particularly of Lord Elgin’s unfortunate disfigurement.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Adrian Stanmore, his handsome face wreathed in genuine concern, “a tragedy. As was his divorce and the current contretemps over the marbles.”

  So, the earl thought, the young whelp had two thoughts to rub together, an improvement over certain vicars he had known. He had appointed Stanmore to the living, as he recalled, because a friend had asked it as a favor. Perhaps the boy had more possibilities than he had expected.

  “Miss Pemberton,” the earl continued, “was thought to be on her deathbed. She and Miss Blayne, who was little more than a child, were thousands of miles from home. Miss Pemberton begged me, as a representative of the family, to look after Miss Blayne. When the doctor told us Miss Pemberton would not live through the night, I acquiesced to her pleading that I wed her niece so that all would be proper for me to escort her back to England. I was one and twenty, Mr. Stanmore; Penelope, a scant sixteen.” The earl’s voice dropped to nearly sepulcher tones.

  “But then my aunt made a miraculous recovery,” Penny contributed. “Aunt Cass and I eventually sailed off to the Americas, while Jason—Lord Lyndon then—returned to England. My aunt and I continued to travel until we were forced out of Lisbon in the great evacuation just before Marshal Junot’s invasion.”

  “Unfortunately,” the earl continued, “Miss Pemberton had formed an–ah–rather poor opinion of my character by that time and discouraged both my wife and myself from revealing our marriage.”

  “And then my aunt fell ill . . . again,” Penny said, “a lingering deterioration of nearly three years.”

  “I wrote to Miss Pemberton,” the earl said, “attempting to reconcile the situation with my wife, but when Miss Pemberton informed me she was truly dying this time, if by inches rather than from a virulent fever, I could not, of course, take Penelope from her side.”

  “Most proper, I’m sure,” Mr. Stanmore nodded, though Penny could see that the vicar’s intelligent eyes harbored a few doubts about the earl’s laggardness as a lover.

  The Earl of Rocksley removed a worn and much-folded document from his inner jacket pocket. “Here are our marriage lines, Mr. Stanmore, signed by the Reverend Philip Hunt with Lord Elgin as one of the witnesses.”

  “But since so many years have passed,” Penny said, “and because the marriage was in such a distant land, we would be pleased if you would allow us to renew our vows.”

  The young vicar’s slightly puzzled frown dissolved into a pleased smile. “Splendid. The very thing,” he declared.

  “Today,” declared the earl. “Now, in fact, for we do not wish to give the appearance that we are living under the same roof without being husband and wife.” Jason raised one inquiring brow. “I trust you brought the necessary items with you?”

  “Yes, my lord, though when I read your letter, I was not expecting to perform the service for such an illustrious couple. May I say I am honored, truly honored—”

  “Yes, yes, shall we get on with it?” Jason interrupted, rising to his feet. When the butler answered his tug on the bellpull, the earl ordered, “Assemble the servants in the drawing room, Hutton. Tell them to step lively. We are about to have a wedding.”

  Turning, he offered his arm to his wife. “My lady, if you will come with me . . .”

  As they walked, Penny’s thoughts once again whirled back to the Topkapi, to Sultan Selim the Third, a man of more kindness than she had appreciated at the time. A man who had since been assassinated by his own janissaries, and all because he had become too modern, too westernized by his Francophile ways. Indeed, Penny would forever believe it was Aimée de Rivery who had influenced the sultan on her behalf.

  Oddly enough, the French schoolgirl had triumphed in the end. The janissaries’ revolt had been short-lived, and Aimée de Rivery’s son now ruled the Ottoman Empire and was proving to be the most enlightened sultan yet.

  As for herself . . . it was past time to admit she was not renewing her vows solely because she owed Jason for being able to live the life of a privileged Englishwoman in her own land. She would repeat the ancient vows because she did not truly wish to live out her life alone. Because she fervently wished to have some of those wonderful children who had run through the rooms and gardens of the seraglio, shrieking with joy and laughter, whose tears she had dried on occasion. Those charming, wilful, loving little creatures, wide-eyed over their limited world and too young to understand the severe confinement to come, for even royal princes could not run free after a certain age. In a world where sultans enjoyed multiple wives and primogeniture was not the norm, the life of princes was almost as hazardous as the life of princesses was boring.

  So now she would allow Noreen and Mrs. Wilton to fuss over her while the household assembled in the drawing room. The oddity of it struck her. The guests at her first wedding had been the highest authorities in the Ottoman Empire. This time, everyone except Lord Brawley was a servant. But she had Noreen at her side, and Mr. Stanmore appeared considerably less formidable than Mr. Hunt, who had said the words of her first marriage service in the sultan’s throne room as if he were committing an act of blasphemy.

  In an unusual attack of feminine vanity, Penny glanced down at her gown. A relic from the years before Miss Pemberton’s illness and no longer in the first stare of elegance, its soft blush silk was, nonetheless, the perfect foil for Penny’s golden brown hair, from whose modest coil Noreen had tweaked soft curls to frame her mistress’s pale but lovely face. Mrs. Wilton offered a Book of Common Prayer with white leather cover, to which she had added long white ribbons that trailed nearly to the floor. Tears sprang to Penny’s eyes as she accepted the housekeeper’s gift. And then she gasped as a veil dropped over her head.

  “Not a word,” Noreen hissed in her ear. “I’ve kept that piece of silk tucked away all these years. Why not make use of it?”

  But Noreen did not understand. Could not understand what that transparent white silk meant to her. It was her shroud. A manacle binding her to that horrible time. A symbol of all that had gone wrong in her life. She could not be married in it!

  How exceedingly foolish. She had been married in it. She had repeated her vows from under its silken folds once before, and she would now do so again. Marriage or loneliness forever. Which did she prefer?

  Clutching her prayer book, Penelope Blayne Lisbourne took her place at her husband’s side. Noreen stood to her left, Gant Deveny to Jason Lisbourne’s right. Mr. Adrian Stanmore regarded them all with a benign smile, and began the service.

  That night, Penny regarded, with considerable resignation, the serviceable cotton nightdress Noreen was holding up. “I wish I might have had some inkling of the earl’s intentions,” she grumbled, “so I might at least have acquired a few brideclothes.”

  “’Tis the best I could find, m’lady. I fear you’ve had little thought for yourself these past few years.”

  Penny allowed Noreen to slip the plain cotton garment over her head. There was, at least, a bit of lace trim around the high neck and on the edges of the long sleeves. Not that it mattered in the dark. Ignoring Noreen’s protest, Penny ordered her to extinguish all candles before she left the room.

  And then she waited . . . her mind inevitably filling with visions of her first wedding night. Her joy that rescue wa
s at hand. Her eagerness to show Jason how well she had learned her lessons. The transparency of the azure shalwar and tunic. Heat stained Penny’s cheeks. She could not have been that foolish child who actually thought Jason loved her. She could not have been Gulbeyaz, who crawled up from the foot of her lord and master’s bed and . . .

  O-o-o-h! In anguish, Penny groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Now, in her wisdom, she knew she had thoroughly shocked him. He had turned away from her in revulsion, running back to the safety of his friends as soon as he could. And staying away for nine and a half years . . . until, driven by the necessity for an heir, he had finally acknowledged her existence.

  Heirs were good, Penny conceded, shutting out those mortifying images from the seraglio. She could give love to children, and receive it in return. And, if she were very careful not to further offend Jason, they might go on very well. Certainly as well as the many other couples who had marriages of convenience. Yes, she would be exactly what he wanted, a proper English wife who would bear his children, ignore his occasional peccadillos . . .

  Well, possibly not. She would consider that another day. For the moment she must remember to be everything she was not on her first wedding night. Cool, calm, resigned to her fate. A true Englishwoman of noble birth.

  Men of thirty did not approach their brides with pounding hearts. It was absurd. He had quite happily dragged his feet for ten years. He had fallen into the habit of addressing all thoughts of his wife with reluctance. But now, memories of that first wedding night surged across Jason’s vision, sending his blood pulsing in a way he had forgotten was possible. And tonight . . . tonight he was no longer under restraints. Tonight he could enjoy his bride to the fullest. Ah, he hoped . . . surely she had not forgotten all those delicious things she had learned in the seraglio. No, of course she had not. Together, they would rediscover each and every one of them.