School's in Session

by Various Authors

  Would his embrace in their marital bed hold the same strength? Would he take her in his arms and force him under her, take his rights to her body and her soul against her will? She bit her lip and pulled the covers over her face. If he tried, he would regret it. Marguerite Amanda Victoria Melton née Stokes might be her new name, but her "husband" would soon learn he held no real power over her.

  She would marry him to avoid being tossed penniless onto the street—a threat her father was using far too often, but one she believed he meant. Once they were settled in their new home, Mr. William Melton would learn he'd wed not only out of his class, but out of his depth. There were more than enough bedrooms in the house her father provided them for each to have their own. They could lead the bride to the altar, but if she'd wanted to spread her legs like a harlot, she'd have chosen the life of one.

  And she would have.

  Marguerite fluffed her pillows and tugged the comforter around her shoulders, snuggling into the soft bed of girlhood for the last time. Tomorrow she would take on the rites of womanhood, with all that involved. She would be married, with an income from her father to do with as she pleased. And she pleased to make a visit back East as soon as possible. She could be a "California widow" just as her mother had been, leading her own life while a respectable married woman. Welcome in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the city she loved.

  She merely had to ensure no complications held her there. Her husband might not be willing to let her leave if a child was involved. After witnessing him with Caroline and his other pupils, she believed he would want one of his own to be close. She knew of only one way to keep that from happening. For a moment she regretted that she'd never have a little one of her own, but shrugged that aside. The gentler sex could not have it all. Choices… but she'd made hers. After the wedding, she'd use her wiles and temper to keep her husband at arm's length.

  And her father and her husband could continue their life in the Wild West. Without Marguerite.

  Chapter Six

  The preacher arrived late in the afternoon, and Marguerite stood before him with the odious man of her fantasy the night before at her side. The words were spoken and she was married to a man she barely knew. A moment later and they faced the guests, a smile fixed to her face, her husband's light grip on her elbow a reminder of a decision made for her, without care for her feelings or desires.

  Her privileged life had not prepared her for this.

  She had no special dress—there had not been time for one to be made—and so Marguerite wore the same one she'd worn for her graduation from Miss Pomeroy's such a short time before. But at least it was white—in the manner of Queen Victoria's daughter. A small nod to fashion, from when she'd seen herself launching into Boston society and not becoming the bride of a poor man of no class in Nevada. Her mother would be rolling over in her grave. The assembled men, business associates of her father's, sat in two rows of chairs in his drawing room. None of their wives, the few who actually lived in Virginia City had been available at the last moment. Perhaps they also felt the marriage was an embarrassment?

  Despite her father's encouragement, she'd invited no one. Who would she have asked? Amelia? Miss Adams? Caroline would have been a welcome addition, her impish sparkle might have brightened the day, but Marguerite didn't know the little girl's parents to ask them.

  She flexed her hand, the cold silver of her ring chilling her to the bone.

  "My dear, you must accept the congratulations of our guests," her father said, smiling at her with such pride, she had a moment's pause. Did he truly think marrying her off to an oaf such as William Melton suitable for his daughter? "Gentlemen, I invited you to dine with us while we celebrate my daughter's marriage to the son of my late, lamented partner. I cannot imagine a match that would please me, or William's father more.

  William's grip on her arm tightened. "Yes, my beloved," he murmured. "I find myself tired, and we must sup so we can go home."

  She tugged but he remained implacable. "Of course, husband, but there is no need for hurry. Father has gone to a great deal of trouble for our special day. We must not spoil his party by rushing away too soon." And if enough toasts were drunk, perhaps William would not argue too hard when his innocent bride begged for a little time before her deflowering. If she played her cards right, she might not have to lie under him while he grunted and sweated even once. She'd wed for money—for the money that was rightfully hers as her father's only heir—but she would not give one iota more than necessary.

  Or risk pregnancy.

  They led the guests into the dining room as the day waned. There, the warm illumination of gaslight and honey scent of candles enhanced the table set with the china and glassware sent by her mother. Heavy silver gleamed beside the plates. What would Mother have thought of this match? Foolish to even consider that—she would never have been there. And, if she had lived, neither would Marguerite. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of the elegant, cultured woman who had reared her so gently, who had remained in Boston as much for her daughter's sake as her own poor health. And was that the real reason for the separation of her parents? All through her childhood doctors had come and gone, prescribing expensive treatments her father paid for with the profits of his mines. But Mother had never complained about the separation. Or anything, actually.

  How little she knew of their marriage.

  Or how to form one of her own… presuming William had not been forced upon her. Perhaps it was best she consent to this loveless union and then go live her life as planned. She'd be no boon to any man. Perhaps she had no heart.

  "Marguerite? Wife?"

  Everyone stood by their places, a dozen men staring at her, while her husband held her chair out. She flushed and took her seat. The rest followed suit and soon champagne flowed and the housekeeper brought in a parade of dishes the likes of which she'd not expected to see in the Wild West. Perhaps if she'd not kept to her room for the past week, refusing to attend meals and dining on only small nibbles of bread and cheese, boiled eggs and similar simple fare, she'd have learned otherwise.

  A huge rib roast of beef was placed in front of her father and he carved slabs and passed them around. Seafood brought on ice from San Francisco. A delicate salad of greens dressed with a light vinaigrette. Boiled potatoes. Her stomach growled in protest and, despite her intent not to eat anything to celebrate such an occasion, she longed to devour as big a slab of rare beef as any of the men. Determined, she pushed her food around her plate, but took not a bite.

  Sipping at a flute of iced champagne, she watched her husband. His dark hair was slicked down, his short beard, outlining a strong jaw, neatly trimmed. While the other men ate and joked, he remained silent, his nearly black eyes brooding under thick brows.

  "Will you have more champagne, husband?" She waved the driver, who had been pouring, over. "Or perhaps something stronger? Whiskey?"

  He shook his head. "No. I think tonight I need to keep my wits about me, wife." Under the tablecloth, he rested a hand on her thigh and squeezed. "I would not be accused of failing to do justice to my lovely bride on our marital night."

  Dear God. She would need another plan to keep him from her. "But it is a celebration, Mr. Melton. Would you not drink to my health?" She lifted her glass and, with a nod, he raised his. "To the health of my beautiful bride." He tossed his drink back, and she sipped at hers.

  "And to our marriage?" she murmured.

  His fingers clenched about her leg and he winked at her. She shifted uneasily and took a gulp of wine.

  The driver refilled the glasses and William toasted their marriage. Then, at her urging, her father's health, the continued success of the mine, their future…

  His palm remained in her lap, flexing on her thigh. She shifted in her seat, heat gathering between her thighs, reminding her of the woman on the train and her swollen woman's parts.

  And as Marguerite's anxiety level rose and her stomach tightened, she matched him glass for g
lass. Soon the housekeeper and driver carried in a massive, white sugar-frosted cake and passed out slices to the guests. She drank another glass of champagne.

  The conversations floated about her, all her focus on the hand in her lap, moving higher, nearly to her torso. She could think of no way to remove it without raising a fuss, and she would not embarrass herself publicly or do anything that would imply her much-anticipated—not yet announced—"visit" to the East was anything but that. The plates were removed, the table cleared, and her father cleared his throat.

  "I would suggest we withdraw for brandy and cigars, but I am sure my daughter and her new husband are anxious to repair to their home and begin their life together. So, if everyone has a full glass?" He lifted his, "I wish you happiness and health and many grandchildren to brighten my waning years." He drank to the bottom of his glass and she gulped hers. As the candlelight swam before her, she faced her husband and beamed at him.

  He had such a trusting face.

  Poor man.

  Moving to stand, she plopped back in her seat and giggled. "Let go of my leg."

  He cast her a warning glance but gave a chuckle. "I fear my wife has enjoyed more champagne than she is used to."

  The elderly gentleman seated across the table smiled. "Poor child. Nervous about her new life. You be kind to her, son."

  "I shall, Mr. Cooper. I certainly shall." He helped her from the chair and supported her with an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go home, Marguerite. Thank you all from both of us for joining us in our day of happiness."

  Mr. Stokes followed them to the door and gripped his shoulder. "No matter the circumstances of this match, I made it with my daughter's welfare in mind. Never make me regret that."

  Tightening his hold on Marguerite as her knees wobbled, he fixed a stare on the man. "I will never be cruel, but I will have peace in my household. I saddled myself with your problem in return for what should have been mine to start with. Do not interfere or I will take her far from here, and your money be damned."

  The words were clear but the meaning? The door opened and a cool breeze brushed her face, bringing momentary coherence. She'd agreed to marry for money, but somehow she'd thought he'd wanted her.

  A tiny bubble of feminine pride popped and the world spun, then went black.

  "Marguerite. Wake up." Light beat against her eyelids and she turned over and buried her head in her pillow but it was drawn away from her. "It's time for church."

  Church? Sunday, then but who… Oh no. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of—of what? Instead of the ornate moldings in the house Father had provided, she saw white plaster walls and a brown spot where rainwater had leaked through into…"Where are we?"

  "Home."

  Groaning, she pushed herself up on her elbows and sat back against the headboard. A throbbing pulsed behind her eyes. She looked around the small, bare room. "Is this the maid's quarters?" She hadn't visited their new home, while pouting out the week before the wedding, but even for a cook or driver, this sad cubicle was below her standards. A narrow bed with thin blankets, washstand, and a cupboard in the corner. Not much more. "Why are we here?"

  "This is our room, my dearest. We don't have a maid."

  "Not yet but I will be interviewing." She dropped her feet to the bare wood floor and cringed at the grit under her toes. "And this room needs cleaning, maybe a nice carpet against the chill. Does it get very cold here?"

  "Freezing. Snow and ice." William turned from the cupboard, buttoning his shirt. "But you can find cleaning supplies in the kitchen. You'll have to cook there, too. For now."

  Her brain slowly turned. Cook? "We'll have to hire staff quickly, but we can eat at Father's for a day or two, until they are in place." Had he gotten that shirt from the cupboard? "And have your things moved to your—our—room immediately." Although this was the quietest place she'd been since arriving in the busy mining town, it didn't merit consideration as "their room." Father would never have offered a hovel for his only daughter.

  He donned a low-cut vest and frowned at her. "This is our room. And church services start shortly. I suggest you get dressed."

  An awful feeling arose and she looked left right and left again. An uncurtained window looked out over an expansive view of the valley and distant hills. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the view from where Father told her their new home stood. It faced C Street, with the hills past that.

  Standing, she looked down at her attire and flushed. She wore her chemise and petticoats, not the nightdress she had planned to sleep in. And her corset and dress lay over a chair in the corner, the long white skirt trailing across the dusty floor.

  "Mr. Melton, I—"

  He flashed her a smile, white teeth gleaming under his moustache. "William."

  "What?"

  "William. I don't think we need so much formality in our marriage."

  God, they were indeed wed. Which made her lack of memory of the past dozen or so hours even more disturbing. "I am going to ask you the question again. And I need an answer. Where. Are. We?"

  "You mean besides our room?"

  She was going to kill him. Her fingers flexed at her sides. She struggled to hold her temper. If she killed him, she might never learn what had happened since their wedding supper. Nobody else was likely to have that information to impart. "Yes," she replied. "Besides our room." She bared her teeth in what she hoped resembled a pleasant expression.

  "Oh, at the school."

  She prayed for strength and sucked in a deep breath between her teeth. "So, we spent the night at the school. Is that where you dwelled before the ceremony?"

  "I did." He shrugged and pulled a tie out of the cupboard. "And yes, we slept here."

  Okay, perhaps he'd needed something or an emergency had arisen and if she'd been ill, he might have put her right to bed. Alone. Please, alone. The narrow bed to her left offered little space for more than one. She scanned it for signs of the blood that would indicate he'd taken advantage of her state, but saw none. "I need to get dressed and go home."

  "You are home."

  "What?"

  "I have decided that it is best we start our life together here."

  The throbbing became a pounding and she feared her head would explode. "For today?"

  "For as long as I deem it the best place for us to live."

  Her vision reddened and she took two steps and slapped him across the face. "Who do you think you are?"

  He grasped her hand before she could swing again. "Your husband."

  "My father—"

  "Your father asked me to make you civilized. He doesn't care how I do it."

  If she fled now, she could catch the train out of town in the afternoon. Even if she didn't have enough money in her purse to carry her all the way to Boston, she could get to Reno and get that job teaching that had sounded like such a bad idea before. It certainly sounded better now. Yanking at her hand, she struggled to free herself, but he held tight and brought her palm to his lips. As she panted in rage, he kissed the center and watched her, unblinking.

  "I am more civilized than you will ever be. Let go of me."

  "I don't think so. Please get dressed for church."

  "I'm not going to your backwater church. I have no clothes here and I have nothing to be thankful for. My father and my husband are insane, and I am leaving." Heat flushed her cheeks and the headache now extended into her neck and shoulders.

  "But we have our whole life ahead of us." He dragged her closer, her heels digging into the floor, but she was no match for his strength. "Surely you don't want to leave before it's even begun?"

  The sunshine coming in the window created a golden glow about him, but he was no angel. "Let me go, or I'll scream."

  He chuckled, releasing her hand to draw her against him by her arm. "Scream away. We are in a school on a Sunday morning. Who will hear you?"

  He had a point. She lifted a foot to kick him, but he stepped on the hem of her petticoat, impr
isoning her feet. "You and I both made an agreement with your father. We were to marry. We made sacred promises in front of God and man just yesterday. Are you so quick to break them?"

  Trembling with rage, she struggled, but he tightened his hold and brought his lips to the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat. His hot breath seared her skin, sending goose bumps over her arms.

  "I am not going to church." She could wait until he was busy with the school the next day to flee if necessary, but she would have to keep him from having his way with her until then. His very touch made her shudder with revulsion. Surely it was revulsion and not something else? Something much more humiliating?

  He nipped at her skin and chuckled. "So you don't want to share our love with the townsfolk so soon. I am sure they and God will understand that you cannot bear to leave my arms so soon after we were joined." Scooping her up, he carried her back to the bed and dropped her on it. "We can think of other ways to spend our Sunday. Equally sacred and perhaps more enjoyable than one of Pastor Garfield's sermons."

  The service would last two or three hours. The good pastor enjoyed the sound of his own voice, if it was anything like last week. She bounced off the bed and looked around the room. "No, you were right. We cannot miss services. But I need to pick up a dress at our—the house."

  "You will have to wear what you had on yesterday, although they will probably wonder at virginal white after a night spent with your new husband."

  "You needn't imply something happened between us. I know our marriage remains unconsummated."

  "Do you?" He caressed her cheek and she slapped his hand away. "I did not tolerate disrespect when you were my student, nor will I from my wife. Continue at your peril."

  No, of course she wasn't sure of what the night before had held. She'd been unconscious from the time he loaded her in the buggy. But she didn't feel any different. Shouldn't she if she'd… if he had? Marguerite looked for a clear path to the door, but with William so close and the other side of the bed against the wall, she had no easy way past. "Move and let me stand."