Now he was reeling from her question about children. His children, to be precise. Something, some novel emotion, unfurled inside him when he spoke to Belle about having sons. It seemed almost incomprehensible that he would have sons with Belle. The very notion had him picturing sons who looked as Robert Pemberton had looked at fourteen when Gainsborough had painted him with his dog and musket. Only these young Robert Pembertons he pictured were short!
He found himself wondering of what stature Mrs. Pemberton had been, found himself wondering why he could not remember what the woman looked like. There had to be a portrait of her, but he had never noticed.
Then his thoughts came back to this marriage. He would be expected to share a bed with Belle, but blast it all, he could not contemplate such a thing!
Once again, he recalled her asking him to think of her breasts whenever he doubted she could be his wife. He visualized her as she had appeared strolling up to take her place beside him for the marriage ceremony. How lovely she had looked! The bodice of her gown dipped low enough in front to reveal the plump tops of her breasts. The vision had erased his conception that she was an eleven-year-old child. She was a grown woman. A woman with womanly breasts.
“I must say, Belle, this is the longest you've gone in a great while without finding something to criticize about me. Why is that?”
“I take vows seriously. This morning we pledged to become one flesh; therefore, I will try to never hurt you again. You are now part of me, and I shall be part of you.”
Good Lord! The prospect was nearly terrifying. Nevertheless, he found himself patting her hand.
“Since you're to be my other half,” she said, peering up at him, “I suppose I need to learn more about you. I don't mean those things men like to know about like how well you ride or stand your own with Gentleman Jackson or how fine a cricket player you are. I assure you, my knowledge of cricket is so lacking that I would not be able to determine who was good or who was bad at the sport.”
He shrugged. “What else is there to know?”
“I shall endeavor to tell you what I do know about you. I know you're more bookish than others of your set.”
He nodded. Was that something he should deny? Would women find such a trait less manly?
“I know that you value truth.”
“That I am proud of.”
“As you should be. I find truthfulness a most noble quality. Let me see, what else do I know about you? You're affectionate to your sisters.”
He nodded. “It occurs to me I don't know a great deal about you.”
“I share your love of books. What a grand marriage we'll have, sitting before the fire reading our respective books in complete silence!”
They both laughed.
“Let me guess as to your favorite authors.” He made a great display of pinching at his clefted chin. “Shakespeare.”
She nodded. “Of course. I adore him.”
“I should think the tragedies.”
She shook her head.
“The histories?”
She shook her head again.
A slow smile eased across his face. “The comedies! I confess I, too, prefer the comedies.”
“I don't like any kind of tragedy.”
She always had been soft hearted. “Then I suppose you like poetry.”
“Of course. Can you guess which poets I admire?”
“Lord Byron. All the women adore him.”
She shook her head. “He's lived his life so wickedly, I can't divorce the man from the poet. I refuse to read him anymore.”
“Then I imagine you like the Lake Poets. Women like to worship nature.”
“You'll find I'm not very modern in my poetic tastes. Though there is much to admire in Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, I look to the last century for my favorites.”
It was the same with him. “Pope?”
She shook her head.
Dare he hope she felt the same affinity for Cowper as he did? It would be far too extraordinary. “Who, then?”
“Cowper.”
He could not believe it! “How did you know he was my favorite?”
Her eyes widened. “I did not know it. What an extraordinary coincidence!”
Yes, it was. “Now, my lady, allow me to ask what you think about children.”
“I adore them. I've always adored them. I love babies, and toddlers, and six-year-olds who've lost their front teeth, and nine-year-olds whose teeth are too big for their little faces. I suppose because I had no siblings, I always craved being around children who were younger than me.”
“And do you prefer girls or boys?”
She grew solemn. “I had always hoped . . . my father would live to see a grandson.” Her voice broke, her eyes misted.
He drew her close and planted soft kisses in her hair. “He may, love. He may.”
She began to cough, separating from him, and turning her head away.
She had coughed a great deal on their journey, and it now seemed to him her cough had worsened. He turned to her, his brows lowered with concern. “How long have you been suffering that wretched cough?”
She shrugged. “It does seem a little worse each day.”
“You should be snug in a warm room, not in this frigid coach.” He put his arm around her and gathered her close. “Perhaps you should put your face beneath the rug so the air you inhale won't be so cold to your compromised lungs.”
Her little arm came around him as she nodded and nuzzled her face just below the rug that spread over their torsos. Soon she was asleep.
Hers was a surprisingly comforting presence but disappointingly different than he felt with others of her sex. A pity. With Belle, he felt protective, not seductive.
Chapter 5
“Put me down! I am not child!” She looked around to discover they had arrived at Upper Barrington under dim late afternoon skies. Her maddening husband was carrying her from the coach to the house as if she were a helpless babe.
She would almost rather he loathe her than to treat her so blasted fatherly.
He stopped in mid-stride and stood her up. “It's just that I hated to awaken you. You were sleeping so soundly, and that nasty cough has to be wearing on you.” His gaze fanned over the gravel drive which was blanketed with a fresh snow. “I was trying to protect you from the cold.”
She should be grateful for his concern, but she was not. He acted far too much like a father than a man who could ever come to desire physical intimacy with her. They silently trod to the massive front door of the equally massive house which looked far more like a medieval castle than a country home built during her father's lifetime. Her thoughts turned melancholy. Will he ever desire me as a man desires a woman?
She made up her mind on the spot she would not force this marriage. He would not be welcome in her bed until such time as she could be convinced that her bed was where he truly wanted to be. Up until this moment she has assumed she would give herself to him that very night, but now she knew it could be a very long time before this marriage would be consummated.
If it ever was.
Only a handful of servants stayed on at Upper Barrington year-round, the chief one being the housekeeper. She rushed to greet them, smashing her mobcap on her brown and silver curls. Belle understood that the middle-aged woman would have had no need to dress her hair since she'd been rattling around the big house almost alone for months.
Mrs. Farraday's quizzing gaze went first to de Vere.
“Lord de Vere,” Belle said, “I should like to present our housekeeper, Mrs. Farraday.” Turning to the woman, Belle added. “His lordship is my husband.”
Her eyes wide with surprise, the bony Mrs. Farraday curtsied. Belle knew her marriage must be a shock to the housekeeper. Most people had assumed Miss Annabelle Pemberton was entrenched into spinsterhood.
Despite that de Vere was being beastly brotherly, Belle was rather overjoyed to be able to introduce this magnificent creature as her husband.
“Oh, dear me,” Mrs. Farraday said, “I haven't prepared a room for his lordship. Will he be in yours, your ladyship?” The silly woman had wasted no time in addressing Belle by her new title. What was there about servants that made them so snobbish? All her servants back in London had swelled with pride to now be engaged by a real lady and wasted no time in addressing their mistress as such.
At the very idea of sharing her bedchamber with this man she had married, Belle's heartbeat roared. “The one next to mine, I should think.” Somehow, she had managed to maintain her composure. She gazed up at de Vere and tried to speak casually. “Will that be agreeable to you, my darling?”
His dark eyes glittered. “A wise husband always defers to his wife's judgment.”
He was likely thrilled not to have to sleep with her. Odious man!
“I'll have the room freshened up in a just few minutes,” Mrs. Farraday reassured them. “And I'll see to it that a nice fire's built in each chamber.”
While they waited for the fires to warm their personal chambers, Belle whisked him about the common areas of the big, chilly house to refresh him on the floor plan. They soon went to their chambers to change for dinner, which would be served at five o'clock—total darkness at this time of the year. She was looking forward to the peaceful hours kept in the country.
They climbed the broad brick stairway, her hand skimming along its solid Romanesque banister that could compete with the ancient statuary that was scattered throughout the house and grounds. On the third floor, they stopped at the first chamber in the corridor: hers. She was conscious of feeling awkward standing there in front of its closed door.
“I'll collect you at five,” he said. To her astonishment, he bent to kiss her.
On the cheek. Odious man!
* * *
At five, she awaited just behind her chamber door, quickly opened it upon his knock, and began to step into the corridor when she noticed the red velvet box in her husband's hand.
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to bring you this necklace from the de Vere jewels. Thought you might wish to wear it to dinner.”
Her face lifted into a smile. “That would be lovely!” She backed into the chamber, widening the door for him. “Allow me to look at it where the light is better.” When she stood beside her French dressing table, which was lighted by a pair of torchieres on either side, he handed her the box. Its crimson velvet had long ago faded to where it now resembled a rose blush.
She tried to remember the late Lady de Vere wearing jewels, but she was too young when that lady had died. She eased open the hinged top and was dazzled at the beauty of the multi-layered diamond necklace. Her breath hitched.
Her first thought was that she wished she had known the necklace was coming so she could have selected a gown that would display it as something that beautiful should be displayed, but she did not want to say anything that would make him think she was not honored to wear his family jewels. “Oh, my lord! It's magnificent!”
She was not exaggerating for his benefit. Despite all her father's riches, neither she nor her mother had ever possessed anything so beautiful. Her eyes—lamentably—misted. Why did everything this man did have such a profound effect upon her emotions? She looked up at him. “Will you fasten it upon me?”
“May I suggest you sit at the dressing table?”
She lowered herself to the gilt and velvet chair and sat there peering into the glass, as he settled the gems high on her chest and clasped them behind her neck. The scalloped rows of large diamonds descended to the center where the largest of the diamonds poised just above the separation of her breasts. One could not gaze upon the necklace without seeing her bosom.
She and her maid—whose carriage arrived at Upper Barrington just after the bride and groom—had taken great care with her appearance, her first dinner as Lady de Vere. The blue velvet gown was favored for two reasons, the first being that it matched her eyes, which were said to be her best feature.
The other reason for donning the gown was that its neckline was cut so low, it displayed her breasts to great advantage. Despite that she was small of stature, her breasts were not small. Surely, that was a good thing. Did men not admire women with full breasts? Would de Vere even notice?
Her dress also favorably displayed a large expanse of milky shoulders, and the combination of smooth, pale skin, blue velvet, and glittering diamonds was the closest thing to perfection that had ever appeared in her looking glass. She could not have selected a gown better suited to display the de Vere diamonds.
“I am destitute of words to tell you how beautiful it is, how honored I am to wear it.”
He watched her reflection, his face serious. “I am destitute of words to tell you how lovely you are. You have never looked prettier.”
His words had her feeling like a diamond, sparkling from the inside out. “Oh, my lord, that is exceedingly kind of you. I am so touched that with all you've had to do these past two days, you thought of me.”
“What's this my lord about? You're not one of my servants.”
She swallowed. “No. I'm your wife. I've the de Vere jewels to prove it!” She stood, and he crooked his arm to escort her to dinner.
* * *
After dinner they came to the lofty library, a long room of soaring ceilings with dark, book-lined walls and real wood fires blazing in scattered inglenooks throughout the chamber. He quite thought it was his favorite room in all of England. “You must not be offended,” he teased, “when I tell you that this library was a very strong recommendation for marrying you.”
She smiled. “You always did love this room. That is something else we have in common. It's my favorite room, too. Should you like to select a book?” Her gaze climbed up to the catwalk that circled the upper storey of the library.
“Where shall I begin?”
“I could direct you. What would like to read? Cowper?”
He shook his head. “No. I'm in the mood for something serious. Someone like Burke.”
“Come right this way.”
He followed her past nearly a dozen bookcases filled with fine leather and gilt books. “Here.” She paused in front of a case filled mostly with Burke's writing. He also spotted volumes of nonfiction by Charles Lamb, Jeremy Bentham, Edward Gibbons, and Rousseau. “Papa has two shelves of Burke's discourses. I daresay every word ever written by the man can be found here.”
“Our fathers were not just his friends but also his admirers. We, too, have all his works at Hamptonworth, and I'm in the process of reading every one of them.”
She picked up one slim volume with a heavily scrolled cover titled Burke's Speech on Conciliation with America. “No matter which of his works I read, I continue to marvel at his exceptional eloquence, marvel that I actually spoke to the man once.”
“I know of no man who can write with more sense, and of course you're right about the eloquence.” He took the book. “I haven't read this one. I have now in my hands a few hours of reading pleasure.”
She selected another book from the same shelf. “We have found still another author upon whom we perfectly agree.” She linked her arm through his. “Come let us go read.”
They settled in a cozy alcove on a velvet settee in front of a fire. A tall window on their right was draped in emerald colored silk.
“I love to read here on a frigid winter day,” she told him, her voice soft. “This window is the only one which offers us a wonderful view of Capability Brown's lake.” As soon as she spoke, her cough commenced.
His brows lowered. “Are you all right?”
It was a moment before she could respond, a minute before her nasty cough subsided. Then she merely nodded.
Not five minutes later, she went into another coughing fit. He did not like the sound of it, but then he could never hear a female coughing and not be reminded of his mother's final weeks, when consumption stole away the last of her last breaths. With each successive cough from Belle, a melancholy agitation mounted within hi
m.
This time when she stopped, he got up and rang for a servant.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You know very well what I'm doing.”
“Allow me to rephrase. Why are you summoning a servant?”
“Because I wish to procure a shawl to drape about you to ward off the chill. And I think you need a glass of warm milk.”
“Honestly, de Vere, I wish you would not treat me like I'm your child!”
“I don't think you should address me as de Vere now that we're married. It's what all the bloods call me.”
She peered up at him, and he was powerless not to gaze at her breasts dipping beneath the blue velvet, powerless not to consider how much he would enjoy peeling away that blue velvet. “How would you like me to refer to you?” she asked, her voice low.
“My name's William.”
“I'm well aware of that fact. It's the name I called you until you succeeded when I was eleven.”
He frowned. “I was not happy when you suddenly began to call me de Vere like everyone else.”
“You objected to being called by your title?”
He shrugged. “At first it seemed like I was stealing my father's name. It didn't seem to fit me. Far too stuffy for a lad still three years away from obtaining his majority. I thought it far too . . . cold and impersonal.”
Her eyes misted. “I wish I'd known. . . I would have continued to call you William. I remember how melancholy you appeared to me, how hard I prayed for you that year.”
He doubted anyone had ever prayed for him in his life. A single brow elevated. “You prayed for me?”
She nodded. “I worried so about you having no parent, about you having to grow up practically overnight. I cannot tell you how keenly my heart ached for you.”
“You were surely the only person in the kingdom who did not think me fortunate.”
“Then the others didn't know you as I like to think I did.”
A warmth spread throughout his body. There was an intimacy between him and this woman he had married, an intimacy that stretched back for many years now. How could he have failed to acknowledge it long before now?
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) Page 5