The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

  Now here was a dilemma to make wise old Solomon himself dash, screaming as he went, to locate the very next ship leaving for the Continent.

  Not knowing what to do, Nicholas did nothing. He’d never shared a bed with an innocent. Never.

  So he simply lay there, listening to her breathe. Feeling her head against his shoulder. Looking at her hand as it rested just above his waist.

  Her skin was so clear, so smooth, fair, but with a hint of pink, as if, convention be damned, she’d go sit in the sun if the spirit took her. Her eyes were huge, even closed, as he could see the outline of her delicate bones, the sweep of her finely arched brows.

  She had a bit of a point to her chin, and a small cleft that was…most intriguing.

  And she smelled good.

  And she fit against him, so very well.

  Asleep, she was beautiful, gentle, trusting. Awake, she was a termagant, a fighter, a woman not afraid to give as good as she got. A maddening mix of naive young girl and world-weary woman who had no patience with fools.

  She moved closer, sighed once more, and he lifted the covers, tucked them closer to her, tucked her closer to him.

  He moved slightly, brushing his cheek against her hair, finally giving in to the impulse to lift his free hand and run a finger along the length of one thick braid.

  He was married. This was his wife.

  It boggled the mind….

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ELEANOR SAT as primly as possible on the small bench seat that kept her uncomfortably aware that her hip had nowhere else to be but smack up against her husband’s hip.

  She held one gloved hand in her lap, clutching her reticule, while the other maintained a death grip on her side of the slim, low-backed seat.

  She kept her head turned to one side, her intent gaze examining every leaf of every tree they whizzed past in the curricle, just as if she’d never really seen a tree before, or the cultivated fields they’d passed, or the two small villages they’d driven through in the past two hours.

  No, she’d never been driven in a curricle before, but it wasn’t as if she was afraid of the speed of the sleek bays in the shafts, or was even leery about the driving skills of the person manning the ribbons with understated elegance and masterful expertise.

  It wasn’t that. It wasn’t any of that.

  It was remembering how she’d awakened this morning. Where she’d awakened this morning.

  Eleanor closed her eyes, feeling her face grow hot as, yet again, she remembered opening those eyes and looking up into the smiling face of the Earl of Buckland. Her husband.

  “Hello, wife,” he’d said with what could only be described as an unholy grin, then pressed a quick kiss on her forehead.

  At which point, she remembered, feeling the shame race through her body yet again, she’d squealed like a stuck pig, punched him in the chest, and then most inelegantly crawled over him to get out of the bed.

  He’d laughed. And he’d laughed some more. And she’d been mortified. And he’d kept on laughing. And she’d picked up one of her slippers and launched it at his head….

  “We’re coming up to another village in a few moments, wife, and I’ve planned a stop there,” Nicholas said, and she looked forward, reluctantly—hoping the brim of her bonnet would hide her flaming cheeks from view—to see a few chimneys and a single church spire in the distance. “There’s a very pleasant inn that serves a tolerable luncheon. Are you hungry?”

  She’d never be hungry again. But, blast it all, she had a need to use the facilities, not that she’d say so to him. And did he have to keep calling her “wife”?

  “Tolerably,” she said, mimicking his own words, then went back to intently inspecting the trees.

  It had been bad enough, waking that way, being embarrassed that way. But then she’d had to get dressed, without anyone to help her, and the only clean gown she’d had in the single portmanteau that had been taken from the coach was the same white-and-pink-sprigged muslin gown she’d worn for her wedding.

  Except that Francesca had buttoned that gown for her, and unbuttoned it last night, when Eleanor had sneaked down the hallway, knocked on her sister’s door, and begged her help.

  Someone had brought a rude screen into the earl’s room, most likely the very kind Sylvester, and she’d been able to dress herself while standing behind it, even as her new husband got himself into fresh clothes of his own on the other side of that same screen.

  He might not have needed help with his cravat, but she’d needed his with her buttons. He’d been so gracious about it that she just knew he’d been laughing at her behind her back.

  And, thinking of backs…she’d had to stand there and watch—and listen—as his friends, one by one, and in groups, came up to him once they were downstairs, clapping him on the back, offering winks and congratulations, and hinting that his lordship looked “a trifle worn, old fellow…was it a long night?”

  Mortifying. Her day thus far had been mortifying, from the moment she’d first opened her eyes this morning. But, other than the way she had awakened, running the gauntlet of his winking, laughing, well-meaning friends had been the worst. The very worst.

  He must have sensed her embarrassment, for he’d whisked her into the curricle and out of the courtyard, pushing his horses for at least a mile, to distance themselves from other vehicles also heading back to London.

  She could be thankful for that, even grateful, except that she didn’t want to be. She wanted to be angry, and to feel put upon and badly used. She wanted, very much, not to like this man, not even a little bit.

  “Here we are, wife, the Hoop and Grapes. May I suggest the rabbit stew?” he asked, lightly jumping down from the seat after throwing the reins to an eager lad who’d come running up the moment he’d pulled into the inn yard.

  “You may not,” Eleanor told him as she reluctantly allowed him to help lift her down from the seat, determined to be contrary. “I’ve had enough rabbit in the past two days to last me several years. Do you think there will be ham?”

  “I think there will be anything the Earl of Buckland asks for, actually,” he said, then tossed a coin to the boy, instructing him on the care of his horse-flesh, and leading Eleanor through the doorway of the inn as the landlord himself held the door open, bowing again and again.

  A private dining room? Of course, my lord. Ham? It would be my pleasure, my lord. Would you care to freshen up, my lady? I’ll send my wife, who will escort you to one of our rooms, my lady.

  “This is nice,” Eleanor admitted ten minutes later, once the innkeeper’s wife had led her to that private room where she’d been able to wash her hands and face…after taking care of other pressing matters. “You cannot imagine the difference between this inn and the one Francesca and I stayed at our first night out of London.”

  “Oh, I believe I could, considering the inn we just left,” Nicholas said, pulling out a chair for her just as the innkeeper and a young maid who looked very much his daughter carried in platters and placed them on the table. “And we won’t be spending another night on the road, wife, if you continue to be as stoic and uncomplaining as you’ve been thus far in our journey. As you may have overheard, I’ve got a fresh team waiting here, to help us on our way, and Sylvester will gather up my other pair as he drives through the village. Would you mind reaching London by ten this evening?”

  “No, I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Eleanor said, dreams of separate bedchambers dancing in her head. And she could send a note round to Oglesby House, summoning her own maid, Cloris, to tend to her. Protect her.

  “Good, then it’s settled,” Nicholas said, employing a large fork to lift a thick slice of ham from the serving platter and deposit it on her plate. “Eat up, wife, and we’ll chase the sun back to London.”

  NICHOLAS SAT in his own study, the only light coming from the fire in the grate, turning a snifter of brandy between his palms as he lounged in his favorite chair, his feet resting on a footstool, his dog, Archie
, snoring on the hearth.

  He was home. At last, he was home. Clarke, his majordomo, had made sure he’d eaten well, and taken over the duties Sylvester usually performed, laying out the burgundy dressing gown Nicholas wore now over a clean white shirt, fawn breeches, fresh hose and comfortable slippers.

  Clarke had not so much as blinked upon being introduced to the new Countess of Buckland. Clarke wouldn’t. Nicholas had a staff that was the envy of his peers; well-trained, loyal and at times even affectionate. Because he, as a master, was such a contrast to his late father? Possibly.

  “I’m a good employer,” Nicholas told the sleeping Archie. “I’m a good man. I’m…I’m a husband. Good God, I’ve got a bride upstairs.”

  “Actually, my lord, you’ve got a bride down here,” Eleanor said, walking into the room.

  He turned in his chair, nearly spilling his brandy, to see her approaching, dressed in a soft white dressing gown, a branch of candles held carefully away from her body. Her hair was down, not in braids, and she seemed to be smiling at him.

  “Do you talk to yourself often, my lord? I do.”

  Nicholas got to his feet, sweeping one arm toward the matching leather wing chair in front of the fireplace, so that she sat down, placing the candelabra beside her on the small table. “Thank you. I—I thought we should talk?”

  He nodded, although for the life of him he couldn’t think what they’d talk about. “That’s Archie,” he said, pointing to the dog, who had roused from his nap and was now nosing against Eleanor’s palm. “Are you afraid of dogs?”

  “Afraid? No, of course not,” Eleanor said, rubbing the dog’s head. “I don’t think I recognize the breed?”

  Nicholas smiled, unreasonably pleased that Eleanor seemed to like Archie and that Archie was behaving himself. “That could be because Archie represents so many of them,” he said, looking at the fairly short, squat animal who sported floppy brown ears, a mostly white coat with splotches of brown on it, and a tail that could have belonged to a much larger dog. “I found him in an alley, getting the worst of a tussle with several small boys and a pile of rocks.”

  “Oh, you poor baby,” Eleanor said, lifting Archie’s chin—do dogs have chins?—with both hands and going nose to nose with the animal, huge brown eyes looking into huge brown eyes.

  Archie put out his tongue and licked her face.

  Eleanor laughed and hugged the dog.

  Lucky damn dog.

  Nicholas blinked. Lucky damn dog? What was he thinking? Was he out of his mind?

  “Um, much as I dislike interrupting this mutual display of affection, I believe you said we should talk?”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said, releasing Archie, who looked as if he might weep as she withdrew her hug—do dogs weep?—then sitting back in the chair, primly clasping her hands together in her lap. “You’re right, of course. We should talk.”

  “I’m right?” Nicholas looked into his snifter, knew he’d taken but a single sip. He couldn’t be drunk. So what was this about talking being his idea?

  “Yes, of course,” Eleanor told him, nodding her head. That thick dark hair spilled over her shoulders. A lock slipped forward, hanging from her forehead to just past her chin, and she blew at it, shook her head. So natural, so unaffected.

  He could look at her for hours.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, he screamed inside his head. “No. No, you don’t, wife. I won’t be maneuvered. You wished to talk to me.”

  “Oh, very well,” she said, drawing her legs up onto the chair, so that he could see that, Lord above, her feet were bare.

  “Where are your slippers?”

  “I left them at the inn. They were ruined anyway. Cloris brought me some things from Oglesby House, like this dressing gown, but I forgot to mention slippers in my note to her,” she told him, tucking the edges of her dressing gown over her naked toes…which only made him really want to see them. See toes? This had to stop!

  “I’ll send for the remainder of your clothing tomorrow. Is it all here in London?”

  “Some here, some at home,” she said, shrugging. “None of it suitable for a countess, I’m afraid, although there is plenty of it. Are there family diamonds?”

  Ah, wonderful. A failing. The woman was avaricious. “Yes, wife, there are diamonds.”

  She made a face. “Ah, I was afraid of that. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t wear them? I really don’t like diamonds.”

  No, she liked dogs. Not diamonds. And she had a temper. She threw things. He’d heard her say “damn” this afternoon, when he’d been unable to avoid a particularly nasty rut in the roadway as he’d feathered his team past the northbound mail coach. She traipsed about in dressing gowns and bare feet, and didn’t seem to be the least bit afraid of him.

  And he was intrigued. Damned intrigued.

  “All right, you don’t have to wear the diamonds. Are you likewise opposed to pearls, rubies, sapphires?”

  “No. I like them well enough, thank you,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling in the firelight. “I like my wardrobe well enough, as well, but I’m not so silly as to not know a countess must be less…less the debutante, and more the grand dame. Yes?”

  “You couldn’t be a grand dame if you donned turbans and carried a quizzing glass,” Nicholas said, grinning.

  She grinned back at him. “Good. We agree. Cloris, that’s my maid—she was my mother’s maid, years ago—insisted I demand an entire new wardrobe. One with furs, and darker colors, and with lots of shawls. She was most particular about the shawls. I’m so glad you don’t agree, my lord. All right then,” she said, slipping her legs from the chair seat and preparing to stand up, “good night.”

  “Sit down,” Nicholas said, not willing to let her go just yet. He’d been alone in his study almost since they’d arrived back in town, thinking of what tomorrow would bring.

  He’d had his man of business write out an announcement to the newspapers, and it was highly possible the notice would appear in the next two days. But gossip moved much faster, and word of his marriage would have spread across Mayfair by breakfast time…all the way to the door of Miss Susan Halstead and her brother, Gregory.

  Eleanor had sat back down, and was now looking at him, question in her eyes.

  “You…you remember Miss Susan Halstead?”

  “Tall, blond, blue-eyed. Good teeth?”

  “Cheeky brat,” Nicholas said, muttering the words under his breath even as he hid his smile behind a cough. “Yes, Miss Halstead. She, and her brother, will not be best pleased by the news of our marriage.”

  “And…?” Eleanor prompted when he fell silent.

  “And, brat, Miss Halstead is very influential here in Mayfair. A favorite of the Almacks patronesses, among other premier hostesses. She will have great…sympathy.”

  “Do you think people will throw eggs at my carriage when I go out for a drive?” Eleanor asked, batting those absurdly long-lashed eyelids at him.

  He sat back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You don’t care, do you? I’ve never met anyone like you before you barged into my life.”

  “Perhaps, my lord,” Eleanor said, getting to her feet, so that he was forced by good manners to stand up, as well, “that’s because you were much too occupied in chasing hotfoot after blond, blue-eyed, tall women. Now, once more. Good night, my lord.”

  He was nearly dumbstruck enough to let her pass, but grabbed at her elbow just before she got beyond his reach. “I’ll be coming upstairs later.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, looking pointedly at his hand, where it gripped her arm. “And Cloris will be sleeping on a pallet beside my bed. I’m frightened more than half out of my wits, my lord, if you have to be told that, and would appreciate it greatly if you gave me some…some time.”

  He nodded his agreement and let go of her arm. What else could he do? She tried to be so brave, even arrogant, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t know this mix of woman and coltish girl deserved the time she’d req
uested, time to accept what had happened to her.

  Then he watched as his wife departed the room, Archie padding after her—did dogs have no loyalty?—while he stood in his study, suddenly very much alone.

  “I SAID I WANTED some time, Cloris,” Eleanor complained, sitting cross-legged in the middle of her large bed. “I didn’t say I wished to be ignored.”

  “Ignored, my lady?” Cloris asked, sniffing. Cloris had been pleased straight down to the ground to be maid to a countess—just saying “my lady” still gave her shivers. But she’d also taken care of Eleanor since the girl had been in leading strings, and had no compunction in employing a much more informal relationship with said countess than custom dictated. “You’ve been to four balls in four nights. I hardly call that being ignored. Now, I’m off to press this gown. You leave for the theater in less than an hour, missy—I mean, my lady.”

  “I know, I know,” Eleanor agreed as Cloris left the room, sighing. The earl had been most gracious, really he had. He took her for drives in the park during the Promenade. He introduced her to all and sundry. They attended evening parties and balls together—two routs, one dinner, one ball, but she saw no reason to correct Cloris on that head.

  He’d introduced her as his countess, called her “wife,” and had danced with her at least three times at the ball before heading into the card room with the majority of the men in attendance.

  He’d had his man of business sit her down to go over her quarterly allowance, explain that accounts had been set up for her at the best of the shops in Bond Street. He’d paraded the household staff past her, and encouraged a relationship between his new countess and the able housekeeper, Mrs. Penny.

  But he had not touched her since that fairly mocking kiss on her forehead that morning after their wedding. Their first kiss, a cursory peck on her cheek following the ceremony itself, didn’t count at all.