A Most Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Toombs

  Although Deirdre appealed to him, he had decided she would be unacceptable as a wife because he suspected she would be much too unconventional. The conventional wife of a gentleman of the ton quickly learned to ignore her husband's amorous adventures, his affairs, his succession of mistresses. The conventional wife might even take a lover of her own.

  Deirdre, on the other hand, would be faithful to her spouse which, of course, he considered an excellent trait in a woman, but she would also demand faithfulness in return, a notion that was completely repugnant and absolutely unacceptable to Edward and any other civilized gentleman in the Year of Our Lord 1813.

  And so, albeit with more than a little regret, Edward had struck a line through the name of Miss Deirdre Darrington where it appeared on his mental list of possible mates. The challenge she would provide, the hoped-for, nay, the expected fire, the passion, would not be worth the aggravation of being forced to defend himself in the face of her harangues when she learned of what she would certainly consider his unfaithfulness.

  When Edward felt the boat nudge against the dock, he shipped the oars, stood and walked to the prow. He leaped to the dock as the rain fell harder, making tiny circles in the water below him. After tying the boat to a metal ring on the dock, he looked down to find that Deirdre had already stepped from the boat to the planking. Though she attempted to shelter under her parasol, rain was already seeping through the thin silk.

  Offering her his arm, he waited until she reached out to take it and then grasped her hand. She had not replaced her glove and her fingers were warm and soft in his. Almost at once she tugged her hand away, gave him a speaking look and took his arm. Glancing at her as they started along the path leading up the bank and away from the river, he saw the upper curve of her breast and, for an instant, imagined his hand gently pushing aside her gown, imagined his fingers brushing over her nipple.

  Feeling the rising pulse of excitement, he shook his head to dispel the image. He had been foolish to take her hand in his. He must, he warned himself, do nothing to alarm her, nothing to cause her to dart away from him like a frightened deer.

  They came to the stile—"The fence is for the horses,” he explained—and he climbed to the far side, helped her to the top, then reached up and grasped her about the waist and swung her to the ground, unable to resist the temptation to hold her for a fraction of an second longer than necessary, relishing the softness of her body beneath his fingers, breathing in the delicate scent of her, at the same time cursing his impulsiveness when he noted the glint of fright in her green eyes.

  He longed to slide his hands around her body and urge her slowly into his embrace, wanted to bury his face in the sweet hollow of her neck while his fingers gently caressed her nape, to draw back and look down at her as her eyes closed and her lips parted in a silent invitation.

  Soon, he assured himself. Soon she will be more than willing to give him all that he longed for.

  As she again took his arm, this time more hesitantly, the rain swept across the meadow and the nearby lake, stinging his face and soaking his coat and trousers. A sidelong glance showed him that Deirdre's gown now clung wetly to the delightful curves of her body from her breasts to her hips to her thighs.

  Edward looked from Deirdre with her fiery hair to the Pantheon, rising pure and white beside the roiled waters of the lake, to the clouds massing above the dome and, struck by the beauty of the scene, he involuntarily drew in his breath. His steps lagged. Was he making a great mistake? he asked himself. Was it possible that Deirdre was different, completely unlike any of the other young women in his life? Could it be that, if married to Deirdre, he would want to remain faithful, would want to give up the life he had enjoyed for so long?

  What manner of sorcery was at work? he wondered. What a fanciful notion, how surprising that it had entered his mind even for a moment. Deirdre might have the appearance of a goddess, but she would prove no different from all the others. Brushing his errant thought aside, he walked on more quickly than before.

  The Pantheon, the glory of its white marble partially obscured by the slanting rain, loomed in front of them. They hurried up the steps and through an archway into the domed rotunda where, he thought, the gods watched him jealously from their niches.

  Without pausing, he led Deirdre from the rotunda into a hallway leading to a small anteroom. Here there were no statues; the carved heads of wolves, bears and other beasts of the forest stared down from the walls, tokens of a more primitive time when men hunted in these forests and sacrificed to pagan deities. He noticed Deirdre looking askance at the beasts.

  Edward reached into a crevice beside a massive door, his fingers closing on a large iron key. Inserting the key into the lock, he turned it, opened the door and stood aside so she could see past him to the fire burning in the grate on the far side of the room.

  "I have a surprise prepared for you,” he said as he escorted her into the room, “a very pleasant surprise."

  CHAPTER 10

  She was doing this for Clive, Deirdre had told herself when she accepted Edward's invitation to accompany him in his rowboat on the Thames. She would force Phoebe to realize how inconstant Edward was, how short-lived and shallow his affections were, and thus encourage her to turn once more to Clive and give him the comfort and attention he so desperately needed.

  From the very first, being alone in the small boat with Edward caused Deirdre a vague uneasiness. She found it impossible to dismiss from her mind her vivid dream of Edward shooting Clive outside the ballroom, of Edward threatening and then pursuing her. It had been only a dream, she tried to assure herself, a figment of her much too-active imagination. Her fears were baseless for Edward meant Clive no harm. Nor did he mean her harm.

  Unable to completely quell her fears, she accepted Edward's offer of champagne, hoping the wine would help dull her misguided apprehension and permit her to savor what should be a very special moment. Despite the threat of rain, she should be admiring the splendid rural vistas along both sides of the river while enjoying the company of one of the most eligible gentlemen in all of England.

  And the champagne did provide a soft glow, did allow her to relax enough to peel off one of her gloves and trail her hand in the water. Yet she was disquieted anew when Edward insisted on rowing to the shore and taking her to the Pantheon even after she called his attention to the darkening sky and suggested it would be best to return another time.

  It seemed to Deirdre that even before they left the boathouse he had decided on what they would do and nothing she said would sway him.

  She disliked the way he looked at her as he rowed downstream, distrusted the glint in his eyes as he watched her. His was not a look of camaraderie or of admiration, but a predatory stare that sent tiny shivers along her spine, not a pleasant, anticipatory tingle but one of apprehension, almost fear.

  The scheme to entice Edward—how she disliked the word entice—Deirdre quickly decided, had been a horrendous mistake. She should never have allowed Alcida to persuade her against her better judgment. What she had intended to do was not only dishonest and so unfair to Edward, at the same time it ran counter to her nature.

  When the rain began and Edward tied the boat at the dock and led her along the path to the Pantheon, she accompanied him with great reluctance. She found him much too forward. Not that she considered his clasping her bare hand or his holding her about the waist as he helped her from the stile unduly alarming. Perhaps this was the way gentlemen of the ton behaved, but she did not care for such uninvited over-familiarity.

  Her trepidation increased, however, when he led her inside the darkened Pantheon. As he unlocked the door to one of the inner chambers, she hesitantly placed her sopping parasol against the wall before reluctantly preceding him into the room where she was surprised to find a fire crackling in the grate.

  "I have a surprise prepared for you,” he said, “a very pleasant surprise."

  Doing her best not to show her growing apprehension, she
crossed the room to the fire, stepping around a large bearskin rug spread on the floor, and held out her hands to the warming flames.

  "Before we left the Hall this morning,” he told her, “I asked one of the stableboys to ride here to start the fire in the event the day turned cold."

  She had been right, Deirdre told herself, Edward had planned to come here from the first. “How wonderful the fire feels,” she said as she looked not at him but into the dancing flames.

  "Here, pray allow me to give you this,” he told her almost brusquely. When she turned to him, he was holding the key to the door. “For your peace of mind,” he said, “take this key and lock the door behind me. I plan to leave at once to walk to the carriage house and return to fetch you in a rig."

  Deirdre let her breath out in a quiet sigh of relief. Though not certain what she had expected him to do, it was not this eminently proper behavior. Perhaps she had misjudged him from the very beginning or else the fault had been more hers than his. Her hand rose to cover the deep vee of her neckline.

  "I may have something here to help you dry yourself,” Edward said, crossing the room and opening the lowest drawer of a chest. When he returned he offered her a cloth and, while she wiped the water from her face, he pulled a covering from a table.

  "A silk shawl for milady,” Edward said as he draped the covering over the back of one of the chairs. Bowing, he strode to the door only to pause and glance back at her. “The carriage house is almost three miles from the Pantheon and so I shall be absent for at least an hour.” He left the room, closing the door behind him, and she heard his footsteps recede.

  Deirdre locked the room's single door, being careful to leave the key in the lock. As she returned to the hearth, she glanced warily about the room. Since there were no windows, the only light came from the fire, the flickering flames throwing grotesque shadows on the dark-red walls; surprisingly, she saw no candles or lamps on any of the tables.

  There were, she noticed, a large number of oil paintings on two of the walls, but in the uncertain flickering light from the fire she was unable to see them clearly. The other two walls contained tier upon tier of glass-fronted bookcases extending from the floor to the ceiling. The room made her uneasy, though she knew not why, giving her an eerie feeling that she was not alone but in the presence of a watching, brooding evil.

  How morbidly fanciful you are, Deirdre told herself. This is merely a room, a man's room, perhaps, but nothing more. Any uneasiness you feel comes from wanting to be elsewhere.

  She untied and removed her wet bonnet and hung it from a hook at one end of the mantel. Her damp and bedraggled hair, she realized, was absolutely beyond salvation. Her dress clung soddenly, chillingly, to her body, causing her to shiver and clasp her arms across her breasts. Despite the warmth of the fire, the muslin seemed to resist drying.

  Again Deirdre glanced warily around the shadowed room. She saw nothing. She breathed in, thinking she had caught a whiff of some strange and pungent odor reminiscent of incense. One of the logs in the fireplace crackled and, as sparks scattered on the grate, she decided the scent must come from the burning wood.

  Standing in front of the fire, she shook her head at her ridiculous fears as she welcomed the warmth suffusing her face and hands even as she shivered from the chill of her wet clothing on the rest of her body. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted, the heat and the wine combining to induce a pleasant lassitude.

  She was being foolish, she chided herself. After all, she was quite alone here and would be for some time. Why not make herself comfortable? With a brisk, determined nod, she reached down and removed her shoes, then reached behind her to undo the buttons on the back of her gown. After struggling out of the wet dress, she brought a chair closer to the fire and spread the dress over its back.

  Wearing only her low-cut chemise, she used the silk table covering to dry herself as thoroughly as she could. When she finished, she let the cloth fall to the floor, spreading her arms and closing her eyes, as she felt the delicious warmth first on her bare shoulders and scantily covered breasts and then, when she turned, on her back. Tired, her head nodding involuntarily, she jerked back to wakefulness with an effort.

  If only she could rest for a few minutes, she would soon be herself again. As she walked away from the fire, planning to search the dark recesses of the room for a comfortable chair, she stepped, by chance, on the bearskin rug. Feeling its silken softness underfoot, she wriggled her toes.

  Tempted, Deirdre knelt on the rug and ran her hand across its smooth surface. With a weary sigh she gave in to temptation, lying full length on her side on the black fur, at first facing the warmth of the blazing logs, then turning onto her back and stretching her arms languorously above her head.

  Fighting off sleep, she reached out and retrieved the silk table covering. Shifting onto her side again, she curled into a ball, pulling the silk cloth over her and then hugging herself. Closing her eyes, she smiled expectantly as she allowed her thoughts to wander, imagining herself with Clive in a small boat, her hand trailing in the water as they drifted down a slow-moving stream. The summer sun shone warmly on her face and the scent of roses filled the air...

  She was with Clive, the two of them alone together deep in one of the mossy recesses of the glen with the sun glimmering through the branches over her head to dapple the forest floor. Clive was stroking her back, his hand gentle as his fingers traced a succession of ever smaller circles on her bare skin. She realized she should be outraged by what Clive was doing, shocked by this intimacy, yet she was not, the caresses seemed right and proper just as long as they were Clive's.

  An exquisite warmth flowed upward through her body and she sighed with pleasure. I love Clive Chadbourne, she told herself, I have always loved him and I always will, now and forevermore, regardless of whether he loves me or not. His hand left her back and her breath caught as tears welled in her eyes. He had never loved her and he never would, she told herself ruefully as her sense of loss brought a lump to her throat.

  And then he touched her again, his fingers sliding upward along her back. She felt his warm breath on her ear as he whispered her name. “Deirdre, Deirdre, Deirdre.” His fingers found the nape of her neck and he caressed her there while he said her name over and over again.

  His hand trailed across her bare skin to her shoulder, the pressure of his fingers gently urging her to turn to him, to come to him. She turned slowly, unafraid, and suddenly his lips were hard on hers, his chest pressed to her breasts.

  Her eyelids flew open in shocked realization that this was real, this was not a dream. She stared at him in horror. This was not Clive who held her but Edward.

  Deirdre clutched his hair in her hand and yanked hard, hearing him gasp in pain. She screamed as she wrenched herself free. He drew back, releasing her, and she sprang to her feet leaving Edward entangled in the silk cloth. She snatched her gown from the chair and held it with both hands in front of her.

  As she stared at him in horror, Edward thrust the cloth aside and slowly pushed himself up from the floor, his gaze on her, his gaze never leaving her. The firelight glittered from his brown eyes. He was naked to the waist. This must be a nightmare, Deirdre told herself, her heart pounding in fear.

  Edward took a menacing step toward her and she screamed again.

  "No one can possibly hear you.” His face was flushed and she could hear his short, sharp intakes of breath.

  He held out his hand to her as though inviting her to come to him. “You wanted me, Deirdre. I could tell you wanted me when I touched you, when I caressed you. How can you possibly deny it?"

  She shook her head. “No, I never did. Never. Not you."

  "You flaunted yourself before me, Deirdre. Everyone saw you. Quite without shame. You came with me to the Pantheon. Here, to this room. Alone."

  Still shaking her head, she backed away from him until her groping hand touched the wall behind her. He came toward her, stopped, his face shadowed. Sudden
ly he took her head between his hands and leaned forward to kiss her. Still clutching the damp gown, she put her hands between them, her palms spread on the bare flesh of his chest, and tried to push him away.

  Unexpectedly, he whirled to one side. She stared in confusion, saw another figure, hand outstretched, behind Edward. A man's hand. Clive! Edward stepped away from both of them. Clive peeled the glove from his right hand, held it like a whip and slapped Edward across the face.

  Edward blinked and his cheeks flushed with anger but he shook his head. “Do you actually intend to throw down the gauntlet to me?” he asked, his voice unnaturally calm. “I have no quarrel with you, Chadbourne. This is no affair of yours."

  When Clive raised the glove to strike Edward again, the image of two duelists flashed into Deirdre's mind, Clive and Edward facing one another in the misty dawn with pistols raised. No, she thought, no, no, no.

  Edward held up his hands, fingers spread wide in a placating gesture. “If you insist on an affair of honor, then of course you shall have one. Consider this, though, Chadbourne ... The reason for our encounter will soon be known and, no matter who prevails, the end result will be to ruin this young lady, ruin her completely.” He nodded toward Deirdre.

  Clive hesitated. With an exclamation of disgust, he hurled the glove to the floor and clenched his hand into a fist, swung and struck Edward on the side of the face. Edward staggered back, reaching behind him to grasp a chair only to overturn it. Clive advanced on him, hit him again, hard and full in the face, and Deirdre saw blood spurt from Edward's nose.

  With a snarl of rage, Edward assumed the time-honored boxing position, standing upright with his fists raised. He jabbed at Clive, a stinging blow to the chest followed by a sharp blow to the stomach. Clive advanced as Edward danced away from him, his tongue licking blood from his mouth, then stepped forward to jab again, this time to Clive's head, again to his body. Clive swung and his sweeping blow, partly blocked by Edward's upraised hand, glanced off Edward's forehead.