The Irish Bride

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  The only absolutely satisfying thing to come from his marriage thus far was that, since their wedding night, he’d not had a single nightmare.

  After all, he rarely had nightmares while lying wide awake. Every night he retired, moderately sleepy. Yet within five: minutes of lying down, when he should have been drifting away on an ocean of sleep, he would find himself lying broad awake, staring at the ceiling. The bed and the ceiling were the only things in the room that did not have some intimate acquaintance with Rietta.

  The floor, of course, was where they’d made love. He’d thrown her petticoat over the back of the chair, later found a stocking draped behind a picture frame, and the windows had allowed in the light that had let him see all of her. Even the dressing table mirror had reflected her beauty when they’d stood before it, finding it a sturdy support for the two of them. He couldn’t stand to look at any of it.

  So he would lie there, hour after hour, trying to think of other things and returning helplessly to his wedding night. The knowledge that Rietta slept on the other side of the wall was like a flask of water just beyond the reach of a man dying of thirst. She was all he could think about. He fantasized about holding her, kissing her, and keeping her close to his heart throughout the night.

  During the day, he managed to project an air of civility. He was as polite and charming as she herself. He could conceal all his yearnings, driving them inward to devour what they would.

  One night three weeks after the visit to Badhaven, his mother paused on the way out of the dining room. She laid her fan against his sleeve with a playful tap. “You should strive to let Rietta get a little sleep at night, my son.”

  He had been staring after Rietta as she left the room with his sisters. The white gown she wore had silver flowers interwoven in the fabric so that she glittered like an unattainable prize as she walked away. Would she ever walk back?

  “I beg your pardon, Mother?”

  “Rietta doesn’t look rested,” Lady Kirwan said, her knowing smile a trifle forced. “I know you are a bridegroom, but she needs her rest.”

  Nick transferred his stare to her. How could his own mother be so blind? Rietta carried herself through the day with perfect posture, her face so smooth it might as well be a mask, while he staggered around, hollows burned beneath his eyes, from a lack of sleep and an excess of desire.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Mother.”

  “Good. She’s a dear child. I’m so glad you brought her into our lives, even if the arrangement was somewhat irregular. I’ve told my friends that you had an understanding with dear Rietta before you went away, but refrained from marriage because you did not wish to leave a young widow.”

  “That was noble of me, wasn’t it?”

  “They all know how noble and romantic you can be; I’ve told them often enough how proud I am of you. You’ve never done an ungenerous thing in your life, have you?”

  “Not quite never.”

  Lady Kirwan patted his arm. “You can make it up to her. It will take a long time ... but she’ll forgive you.”

  “Mother, what do you know?”

  “Everything. I know why you married Rietta.”

  “Do you?”

  “I—er—overheard Mr. Ferris discussing the matter with you. Has he paid all the money into your account?”

  Nick nodded. “Mother, it isn’t the way it looks. Yes, Mr. Ferris offered me quite a sum of money to marry Rietta, but that isn’t why I did it! I can’t be bought like a hundredweight of potatoes in the common marketplace. Mr. Ferris threatened her—his own daughter—with a dreadful fate. What could I do but marry her?”

  “And since you married her, you might as well accept his so-called reward?”

  “We needed it; why not? Could I ask her to live in poverty because of my stupid pride? I’d give it back if I still had it all, but we’ve used rather a large chunk of it already.”

  “So what will you do? You can’t go on making love to her and never discussing the matter.” Lady Kirwan arranged tie cobweb of her shawl over her elbows and missed the expression of blank amazement her son wore.

  “I only wish making love was all I could do,” he said, with heartfelt longing.

  “Take my advice,” she said. “If you don’t mean it, don’t do it. She’s not likely to be fooled by any insincere protestations, no matter how much she’d like to hear them. She’s not a fool, Nick.”

  “I know it. She’s probably the cleverest woman I’ve ever met—present company excepted.”

  “No one ever thought me clever. I was lucky to have been beautiful.” Something of that former beauty was in her eyes as. she appraised him sympathetically. “Are you in love with her?”

  He shook his head before he thought. She sighed and left him after changing the subject to the upcoming wedding. He was to be sure to have plenty of beer on hand for the tenants. Nick told her he’d discuss it with Rietta.

  Nick sat alone in the dining salon, a diamond-bright decanter in front of him. He turned it meditatively, studying the play of light off its many facets. Like everything else, lately, it reminded him of Rietta. He’d tried several other methods of putting himself to sleep—maybe it was time to try intoxication.

  An hour or so later, Bevans, the new butler, interrupted the ladies at the whist table set up in the drawing room. He’d only come to this decision after consulting the new valet, Everest.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” Bevans said in a low tone over Rietta’s shoulder. “Would you be so good as to join me in the dining salon?”

  “Is something amiss, Bevans?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Bevans had a deep voice and at times could sound funereal. Growing alarmed, Rietta excused herself, telling Lady Kirwan not to disturb her hand.

  She became aware of the noise just outside the dining salon’s doorway. “Almost got him that time,” Nick said cheerfully. “I’ll bag him the next shot, Everest, see if I don’t!”

  Rietta heard a respectful murmur in answer. “Has some animal come into the house?”

  “No, my lady. I’m afraid it’s Cupid.”

  Rietta’s first thought was that the butler, despite his references, had been drinking. He withstood her scrutiny, standing as straight and unwavering as a soldier. Shaking away her suspicions, Rietta opened the door an inch and applied her eye to the gap.

  Nick, his coat off, his hair disheveled, sat cross-legged in the center of the gleaming dining table, shouting instructions to the unseen Everest. The plate and crystal on the sideboard rattled in accompaniment to emphatic thuds. “Higher, man, higher. Jump to it. You’ll never catch him like that.”

  Nick raised his hand and it was Rietta who jumped back.

  “Where did he obtain that gun?”

  “From me, I’m afraid, my lady. He rang for it.”

  “You didn’t have to give it to him. You should have come to me at once.”

  “Sir Nicholas was most insistent, Lady Kirwan. I did, however, take the precaution of putting aside the ammunition and powder he requested. I told him that my unfamiliarity with the household precluded my finding any.”

  “Well done, Bevans. But why did he want it in the first place?”

  “To shoot Cupid, my lady. Sir Nicholas seems to feel that particular deity owes him a certain attention he has hitherto withheld.”

  “Oh, I see. He’s drunk.”

  Rietta felt the butler would have looked on her with sympathy, if it were permitted. “Fairly well to pass, my lady, indeed. Not a usual indulgence, I fancy.”

  “I’ve never known him to do so,” Rietta said, not adding that she hardly knew Nick at all. For all she knew, he might be foxed two weeks out of four.

  “He bears none of the signs of habitual tippling, if I may say so. Unlike my last master who was addicted to a vile French potion known as creme de menthe.” He gave a delicate shudder.

  “Pray call to Everest, Bevans. But please wait here. Sir Nicholas may require more assistance than I can give him.”r />
  When the salon’s door had closed behind Rietta, the two servants sighed. “The mistress will soon have him sorted out,” said Everest, panting from his exertions. “It’s just pitiful how some can’t see what’s plain as print in front of them.”

  “The way of the world, Mr. Everest. Yet I would wager that the mistress will know how to manage him.”

  “Do the other ladies know about his condition?”

  “On the contrary. The mistress showed nothing of her anxiety. Even Lady Kirwan remains in ignorance.”

  ‘That’s good, or we’d have the whole scaff and raff of them here offering t’put cold compresses on his head. If he needs ‘em tomorrow, the mistress will give it to him, aye, and a hot plaster to his feet.”

  They’d settled the problem of having two women entitled to the name Lady Kirwan by reserving that title for the elder while Rietta was from their first day known as “the mistress.” They implied no lack of respect. Rather, their experience taught them that Rietta would undoubtedly manage the household while Lady Kirwan retired more and more from the duties that had hitherto been hers.

  In the salon, Rietta approached Nick carefully. “May I ask why you have that pistol in the house?”

  “Almost... almost...” He raised the muzzle of the pistol higher, squinting along the top edge at something invisible at the height of the window cornice. “Blast! I wish the naked little halfwit would hold still for a minute.”

  “Nick? What are you doing?”

  “Shooting.” He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger. Rietta couldn’t keep from flinching, even though she knew there were no bullets. “He’s trapped in here with me but I want him to stop flying around. He’s giving me a headache. His quiver’s empty; he’s shot all his arrows.”

  “At you?”

  “No, silly. I’m imp ... impervious. Pardon me. Hiccups.” He hiccupped again and added, “Must have been the mustard sauce.”

  Was this Nick’s way of telling her not to hope for his love? She hadn’t had very high hopes to start with. “Why keep him, then? You could open all the windows and let him fly out.”

  Nick’s eyes were following the flight of something only he could see. “He’s keeping that special arrow back. That’s the one we want. Whoops! Watch out for the chandelier, old man, won’t you?”

  Though she knew it was but the wine working in him, giving his imagination free rein, Rietta began to have the curious feeling that she, too, could see some winged sprite zipping about the room. Nick raised his pistol, steadying on his forearm. “By the ranks ... wait for it, lads, now, wait for it! Fire!” He even said “Bang!” adding, “Missed the blighter.”

  “Why do you want to shoot Cupid?” Rietta asked. “Is it so no one else can fall in love?”

  “That’s a silly reason,” Nick said, gazing about him owlishly. “I want everyone to be in love. I want everyone to be happy. Are you happy?”

  “Not very, perhaps. I’ve tried to fight against feeling this way, but I...” Rietta noticed that Nick was humming a march under his breath, one she recognized. It was called “The World Turned Upside Down” and had long been a favorite of hers, despite the Americans playing it when Cornwallis surrendered. Nick was not listening. Really, she’d been foolish to attempt any serious subject with a man half-seas over.

  “You should go to bed, Nick.”

  “Hmmm... I’m not in the least sleepy. Wish I were.”

  In the course of an aimless look around the room, his vacant eyes fixed on her. He suddenly smiled and Rietta felt her heart squeeze, just as it had that first day.

  “It’s you.” he said, pointing a finger that wavered despite his holding it with is other hand.

  “Yes, Nick, it’s me.”

  His smile widened. Straightening out his legs, he swung them around, then rested his cheek upon his hand, so that he was lying at full length on one hip. With his hair negligently tumbled and that gleam in his eyes, he looked like a wicked heathen from some gold-encrusted Arabic fairy tale. He patted the table invitingly.

  “The table’s remarkably comfortable. Why, if it weren’t for you, I should go to sleep right here.”

  “Why don’t you go to bed? You won’t be disturbed and you’ll feel much, much better in the morning. A bed’s far more comfortable than sleeping on a hard, cold tabletop.” Her experiences with her father, when he’d had a drop too much, told her she was being too optimistic.

  “On the con ... contrary, I shall feel much worse in the morning. As for hard and cold, you could give this table lessons,” he said, sounding quite sober. His tees would have made an Oxford don cry for joy. His esses were clean and crisp. But his words made no sense. Rietta decided to humor him until she could persuade him to go to bed.

  Rietta held out her hand to Nick. Without a word being spoken, he helped her climb up. He draped an arm about her shoulders, while he tracked “Cupid’s” progress with the muzzle of the pistol. He’d taken off his coat at some point and unbuttoned his waistcoat. The hanging sides of the waistcoat accentuated his flat stomach and narrow hips. The heat of his arm penetrated her clothing, reminding her of their one night of intimacy.

  She had tried, often, not to think of that night and of all they’d shared. For a time, she’d kept her anger hot by thinking of how he’d agreed to an arrangement not only scandalous but ruinous to her self-respect. When that feeling began to cool, she fanned the flames by recalling how he’d avoided telling her the truth until after they’d consummated their marriage.

  Yet her thoughts always turned to how she’d felt that night when he touched her with such gentle hunger. Whether it had been the aftermath of his ill-dreaming or the end of a long period of celibacy, he’d needed her that night. He’d needed her with an intensity that still hummed in her body. She found herself often lying awake, listening for any sound at all from Nick’s room and hearing nothing, not even a snore.

  After he’d “fired” and missed again, Rietta asked, “Any luck?”

  “He’s faster than a peregrine on the hunt. He’s taunting me, I think.”

  “What docs his special arrow do?” Rietta asked, leaning into Nick’s warmth. Funny, she hadn’t felt cold, but she realized that she’d been freezing ever since she’d heard her father pay Nick. It was heaven to be this close to him again, even if he wouldn’t remember in the morning. “Nick? What does it do?”

  “It makes you fall in love....”

  “Don’t all Cupid’s arrows do that?”

  “It makes you fall in love with me. And the little bastard won’t shoot it!”

  Rietta tried to wriggle away from Nick’s clasp. Just as she was about to free herself, a beatific smile woke on his face. “He shot it,” he said happily.

  Then he kissed her.

  It was impossible to push him away, to whisper “don’t,” not when she’d been imagining this moment for weeks. He tasted of the wine’s mellow richness, intoxicating on his lips. The pistol dropped to the floor with a rattling thunk.

  He pulled her closer yet, gathering her in his arms, his breath tickling her ear as he pressed his lips against her throat, her jaw, her mouth. She longed for him to kiss her deeply, adding those maddening flicks of his tongue and the incitement of delicate nips. But he rocked her in his embrace, tender, gentle, loving.

  She tensed. Had “Cupid” shot Nick already? Could he possibly be in love with her? The temptation to believe it was harder to battle than that of his kisses.

  Rietta slipped her hands inside his open waistcoat, skimming over the thin linen shirt. Nick groaned, returning with growing fierceness to her lips. If he loved her, she knew she would give herself to him without reservation.

  Opening her mouth, she invited his tongue to dance with hers. A welcome heat began to burn in her body, even as she felt his harden. His hands moved restlessly over her gown, then he raised them to the sheer crepe sleeves covering just the cap of her shoulder. In an instant he’d dragged them down, taking a good portion of her bodice with the
m. She wore the lightest of corsets, which he dealt with summarily.

  “Nick,” she gasped when the cool air touched her.

  He gazed at her eyes, then down at his own hands overflowing with her breasts. “I’m sober—sober enough, anyway,” he said in wonder. “And I’m more drunk on the taste of you than I’ve ever been on wine.”

  “Nick, we must talk....”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” He hesitated, then, as slowly as if she’d been an unexploded shell, he took his hands away. He swung his legs over the edge of the table and stared at nothing.

  Rietta felt cold again, the unfulfilled need in his eyes as chilling as the north wind. She glanced down at her uncovered bosom, at the soft nipple on one and the hardness of the other. “Do I please you?” she asked.

  His answer was a groan. “You’d tempt a stone saint.”

  When she put her hand on his shoulder, she felt the quiver that ran through him. “I don’t forgive you. I’m sure you had a hundred extenuating reasons for marrying me, but the truth remains that you let me believe ...”

  Suddenly her words dried on her lips. She wet them, and tried again. “I can’t say that you let me believe you loved me. You said you wanted me and, if we are to have truth between us, I wanted you, too, Nick. From the first day.”

  Nick turned to her. “Yes, but...”

  “Then if that’s all we have, let’s not spoil it by worrying about the why. If you want me, then take me.” She smiled at him, offering him everything and demanding nothing. What could she demand? That he love her?

  She was Rietta Ferris Kirwan. She could hardly recall her mother, the last person who had loved her. The others had only valued her so far as she was useful to them. Now she had a new value, as her husband’s obedient wife. She would seize whatever benefits came with such a position and not ask for more. If she could not have Nick’s love, she’d settle for his lovemaking.

  Nick looked at her trembling mouth and wished to heaven that the befuddlement of wine was still with him. At least he understood the process at work then. If a man drinks sufficiently, he will be drunk. But the delirium that seized him when Rietta told him she wanted him defied explanation.