Bang!
Michael jumped at the sudden intrusion and whirled around, his scotch sloshing and falling to the ancient rug. His mouth fell open and he nearly dropped his glass altogether.
There in the doorway, with a purely mutinous look on her fair features, stood his wife in one of the most scandalous gowns he’d ever seen in his life. Dear God. The neckline scooped so low that he was sure if she moved another inch, her nipples would pop free. Not that it would have mattered. The material was so flimsy he could practically see the buds through the fabric, as well as every other perfectly designed part of her body.
He swallowed an oath as she sauntered into the room and perched herself on the edge of the sofa. “Good evening, darling. I thought to join you for dinner, if that’s all right.”
Her light blue eyes focused on him with a wicked twinkle. Damn her! How in hell was he supposed to get through dinner with his cock straining against his breeches in this way? Surely, this was her idea of retribution for this afternoon, and Lord knew he deserved it. But what she did to him was far more painful than a little rope burn across the wrist.
Mr. Kerr appeared in the doorway to the drawing room, and Michael could have sworn the man’s eyes were going to bug out of his head. He made a note to talk to Mr. Kerr about maintaining discretion, and then waited for him to make his announcement.
“D-dinner is s-served,” he stuttered.
“Thank you, Mr. Kerr,” Michael said and then, without looking at her, walked to his wife and offered his arm.
Silently, she turned her nose up and stood on her own to walk into the dining room, making sure to swing her hips as seductively as he was sure she knew how. Averting his gaze, Michael followed her down the hall and into the dining room, which had been set ablaze with candles. They flickered rather spastically and Michael noted the draft in the room.
His wife would surely catch cold since she was wearing next to nothing, so he turned to address Mr. Kerr. “There seems to be a draft, Mr. Kerr. Can you make sure all the windows are secured tightly? I wouldn’t want my wife taking ill.”
Elizabeth gave a little gasp at his clear reference to her attire, but by the time he turned to look at her, her face was once again impassive.
“‘Tis not a draft milord, but I’ll have a look anyhow.”
“Thank you,” Michael said. He was half wondering why the man was so sure it wasn’t a draft, but the other half of him was too aware of his wife’s alluring frame that was silhouetted so well through the gossamer silk. He could see every blasted inch of her perfect form.
Deciding it was best to have her seated where most of her would be hidden under the table, he rushed to her side and pulled out the chair by which she stood. Michael gripped the chair hard, forcing his hands to keep from reaching out to touch her. She took her time sitting down, drawing out every moment until her perfect little bottom finally landed on the tufted seat.
A puff of dust escaped from under her, and both of them gasped before erupting into coughing fits. Yes, he would have to start interviewing for staff immediately.
***
“It’s nice to see you decided to wear a shirt this evening, my lord,” Lizzie said as Michael took his seat in the chair opposite hers.
“It’s nice to see you didn’t,” he replied, causing a hot blush to rise to Lizzie’s cheeks.
But this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to notice her, to lust after her, and know he couldn’t have her.
Oh, but he can have you, Lizzie. You’re his wife now.
Lizzie silently screamed at the little voice in her head that reminded her of things she’d rather not remember. He couldn’t have her and he wouldn’t have her. Michael was too honorable to force her into something she didn’t want to do.
Although, ever since he tied her to the bedpost that afternoon, she hadn’t been so sure.
“Ah, here we are!” Michael exclaimed as Mr. and Mrs. Kerr dropped two hefty plates of food before them.
A large slab of beef, accompanied by a tower of potatoes and a slightly shorter stack of carrots, adorned the plate, and Elizabeth’s mouth watered fiercely. She looked up to see Michael staring at his own beef in much the same way he’d stared at her when she entered the drawing room earlier.
Thankful there was something to occupy them, they both dug into their meals, allowing silence to reign over the dinner. By the time Mrs. Kerr brought out a gooey looking cake for dessert, neither of them had said a single word to the other. Though, Elizabeth had to admit, the silence hadn’t been entirely uncomfortable.
A coldness came over her just then, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She shivered and drew her arms around her. Michael looked up and then looked about the room.
“Where on earth is that draft coming from?” he wondered aloud. “Mr. Kerr just finished inspecting all the windows.”
“It’s all right, Michael. I think I will go to my room now anyhow.”
Lizzie watched as a hint of disappointment flashed in Michael’s eyes. No doubt he thought the comfortable silence through dinner had meant something. That perhaps she was warming to him.
But, no, that was certainly not the case. She was simply too exhausted to fight anymore tonight. The trip had taken a great deal out of her, and it would take a day or two more before her body returned to normal.
“Could I convince you to share dessert with me in the drawing room?” he asked, a note of hopefulness in his tone. “Poor Mrs. Kerr worked so hard to bake us this lovely cake,” he continued. “I would hate to disappoint her by not eating it.”
Oh, he was good. Clever man. Of course she wouldn’t want to disappoint the old woman, and he knew that well. However, based on his prior behavior, she was sure that was not at all the reason he wanted to have dessert with her this evening. He was ready to toss the housekeeper out on her bum only a couple hours ago.
“Fine,” she finally agreed. “For Mrs. Kerr.”
A slow grin infiltrated his lips before he lifted the tiny bell and rang for the Kerrs.
“Milord?”
“Mr. Kerr, we wish to retire to the drawing room for dessert. There’s still a bit of a draft in here.”
“Of course, milord.” The old man nodded and set to moving the cake, plates, silverware and their wine onto the trolley. “Though you’re sure to feel a draft in that room too.”
“Why do you say that?” Lizzie asked, curious as to why the drafts seemed to follow wherever they went.
The old man smiled warmly without showing his teeth and said simply, “It’s just the way of things, milady.”
Michael and Lizzie stared after him as he strolled the cart from the room and then turned to look at one another.
“What do you think that means?” Michael wondered.
“I’m not at all sure. Perhaps he’s simply referring to the age of the house. How old is this place, anyhow?”
Michael joined her in her assessment of the dining room. With its recessed, rounded windows, massive fireplace and Elizabethan furniture, it was clear the house had not been built—or furnished—within the last two centuries. Just as Lizzie looked up to study the chandelier above the table, a spider the size of Hampshire descended from a strand of its web and landed perilously close to her napkin.
She jumped at the same moment her heart ceased its beating. Her heavy chair fell backwards to the floor, ramming in to the backs of her ankles as she stood.
“Elizabeth?” came Michael’s voice, and in her terror, she realized there was not a hint of amusement in his tone. “Are you all right?”
“Sp-spider,” she mumbled, backing further away.
“Yes, I know.” He stood and rounded the table to get a closer look at the offending insect.
“Not too close!” Lizzie shouted, not understanding why she was suddenly concerned for his welfare.
A smile tugged at Michael’s lips, but it wasn’t patronizing. She believed he was truly trying to put her at ease. Unfortunately, that
would never happen with that thing in such close proximity.
She watched as he silently transferred the tiny bit of water left in her glass to his own and then clamped the empty one over top of the spider.
“Perfect,” Lizzie said, watching the bug as it scurried around its transparent prison. “Now I will forever wonder if my water glass was once home to that disgusting creature.”
Michael laughed in earnest now. “Lizzie, it’s only a spider.”
“Only a spider?” She gave a shiver and danced about a bit to shake the feeling that bugs now crawled up and down her entire body.
“Yes, look.” Michael picked up the glass, scooping the spider so it fell to the bottom, and then covered it with his hand. “Look how small he is.”
“Stop!” Lizzie backed up further until she could feel the coldness of the windows at her back. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Elizabeth,” he drawled, his tone now verging on patronizing.
“I mean it, you wretch.” Her words were acerbic, but she knew her tone was not. She was trembling too much to have control over her voice. “Please.”
A sobered expression replaced the previous one of amusement, and Michael gently put the glass back on the table, top down. He held up his hands in surrender as he walked towards her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had such a fear of spiders.”
He took her hand, and she resisted the urge to pull it away. Actually, if she were being honest, she didn’t really have the urge at all. Her heart continued to race, although whether it was due to the spider or the jolt of awareness that shot through her at his touch, she did not know. All she knew was that she wanted to get out of that room as quickly as possible.
Five
Michael led his wife down the hall to the drawing room, never once letting go of her hand. He didn’t want to think about how adorable she’d been in her panic over the tiny little spider that landed on the table. Or how soft and delicate her hand felt, encompassed as it was in his own. Or how much he liked her this way: sweet and vulnerable, the way she’d been before he and Andrew admitted they’d lied to her.
And he certainly was not willing to acknowledge the stab of guilt he felt over deceiving her. It wasn’t as if they’d tricked her out of twenty pounds, after all. They’d tricked her into a marriage she never agreed to. But he didn’t regret it. Not one bit. He had wanted Elizabeth Crawley for as long as he could remember, and he was determined to find a way to at least make this marriage tolerable for both of them. And, dare he hope, happy?
“This room isn’t much better,” he said as they crossed the threshold. “But perhaps, Mr. Kerr, if you would be so kind as to build up the fire, we can chase a bit of the chill from the room.”
“Of course, milord,” the old man said, throwing another log into the fireplace.
“Oh, and, Mr. Kerr,” Michael continued, “how might we go about hiring staff here? I daresay we’d like to begin as soon as possible.”
“I could have a line out the door by tomorrow afternoon, milord.”
Michael didn’t question how that could happen, he was simply grateful to know it could be done. “Wonderful! That will be all for tonight, Mr. Kerr.”
With a bow for the two of them, the man backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.
Michael turned to his wife and realized she still appeared to be in a state of shock. He almost laughed, but didn’t. Though her fear seemed entirely irrational to him, he was sure it was very real to her.
She’d already found a seat on the dusty settee near the fire. Before sitting down himself, he crossed the room to the scotch decanter and poured them both a glass. Not only would it warm them up, but it would hopefully calm her nerves.
“Here,” he said, holding the glass out to her.
Her eyes fixed on the tumbler, then shifted to him. “What is it?”
“Does it matter, if it helps?”
She wanted to argue, he was sure, but she didn’t. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the drink and raised it to her lips. Michael was about to tell her to drink slowly when she swallowed a too-big gulp and began sputtering like a fountain with a sporadic water supply.
Naturally, coughing and wheezing followed as she, no doubt, tried to relieve the burning in her throat. When she regained her faculties, she leveled Michael with a menacing glare.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she spat.
Michael rolled his eyes. Did she always have to be so melodramatic? “It’s scotch, not hemlock. And you’re supposed to sip it, not guzzle it down like a glutton.”
“A glutton!”
Oh, Lord.
“So, I’m a glutton now, am I?” Her blue eyes blinked with indignation.
Michael let out a long breath and counted to ten in his head. Would he always have to walk on eggshells with this woman? Did he care? His body certainly didn’t. His soldier was at full attention, despite the frigid temperature of the room or the contempt in his wife’s voice.
“No, Beth, you’re not a glutton,” he said quietly, hoping to bring the atmosphere back to one of contented silence, as they’d had over dinner.
“Are you going to insist on calling me by that name?” she asked, her eyes focused on the flames that now raged in the fireplace.
A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “Do you mind terribly? I rather think I like it.”
Her jaw tightened, clearly not wanting to give in to anything that would make him happy. “Elizabeth will do.”
With a defeated sigh, Michael finally sat down on the settee next to her, prompting Elizabeth to move further to its edge. “Something wrong?” he asked. “Do I smell badly?”
He almost gave a victorious shout when he saw his wife’s lips twitch at his suggestion. Good God, had he finally begun to chip away at the ice? Was self-deprecation the way to Beth’s heart?
“No,” she finally replied, schooling her features back to impassivity. “I simply...enjoy my space.”
“Ah. Are you warm enough now?”
Beth nodded her yes, and Michael turned his attention back to the fire. They sat in silence for a while, staring at the flames side by side, before Michael decided he’d try his hand at a real conversation.
“I’m going to be interviewing household staff tomorrow,” he announced, certain she’d not been paying attention to his discourse with Mr. Kerr a few minutes earlier. “You are welcome to join me since this is, after all, your house too.”
“Oh, well...thank you.” Her head nodded awkwardly in response. “I will need a maid eventually. Not all my dresses are as easy to put on as this one.”
Michael itched to make a comment that what she wore didn’t actually qualify as a dress, but she was finally being civil, and he didn’t want to ruin it.
“Of course,” he agreed.
“What else do we need, in terms of servants?”
As Michael ticked off the positions they’d need to fill, he took note of his wife’s fading hardness. She relaxed back against the settee, kicked off her satin slippers and shifted her feet to curl them under her. One tiny, bare toe peeked out from the hem of her dress, and Michael nearly lost all train of thought. It was perhaps the most adorable toe he’d ever seen in his life. What he wouldn’t give to—
“Michael?”
He snapped his gaze from her toe to her face, bypassing the rest of her on the way. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, hating the befuddled sound of his own voice.
“You stopped mid-sentence.” She self-consciously pulled her dress over her feet, effectively covering the mesmerizing toe.
“Right, well, no sense talking about it all night. I’m sure there won’t be many to choose from anyhow. We’ll have to hire the ones who show up and assign them the best we can.”
***
Catching sight of the trolley cart, Lizzie stood to fetch a piece of the cake Mrs. Kerr had made. She considered offering to cut one for Michael as well. It would be the polite thing to do. But now that she’d been so bea
stly to him for so long, she wasn’t sure she knew how to be polite. How had she gotten herself in such a snit?
This wasn’t her. She’d been raised properly, had always striven for kindness and gentility. Then why did she only feel hatred and resentment whenever Michael Wetherby was around?
It wasn’t as if he were being beastly to her. Well, not really, anyhow. She had behaved abominably over the biscuits and chocolate that afternoon. And it wasn’t his fault she struggled so hard against the ropes. No, that she did on purpose, hoping to inflict even more guilt on his already heavy conscience.
She took a deep breath, as if she were preparing to face the gallows, and asked, “Would you like a piece?”
Michael turned startled amber eyes on her and blinked. Twice. Before a grin spread on his lips that rattled her against her will. No matter how astonishing his eyes were, she did not wish to be attracted to her husband.
“I would, thank you. More scotch?”
Lizzie snorted at his suggestion. “I think I’ll have wine, but...thank you.”
Another chill ran down her spine, but from what she didn’t know. The fire had warmed her sufficiently; she wasn’t at all cold any more. Though, she couldn’t shake the feeling of icy fingers snaking down her spine. She gave a hard shiver.
“We might as well be outside for all the drafts in this cave,” Michael said, obviously having seen her shiver.
“Yes, but I feel no real breeze, do you?” They both glanced about the room, clearly looking, listening for wind. “It’s just a sudden coldness.”
When she looked back at her husband, his dark brows were furrowed with concern. An uneasy feeling stole over her. If he was concerned—this seemingly brave, virile man—then certainly she should be too.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Hmm?” He turned abruptly to look at her. “Oh, nothing. Come, sit back down where you’re nearer the fire.”
She did as he suggested and they both nestled in with their cake to continue watching the flames.
“Chloe has written,” she offered between bites, attempting conversation. “There were several letters waiting when we arrived today. She and Andrew are well. He’s purchased a home from your brother-in-law. One of the few that weren’t entailed. In Essex.”
Bedeviled Bride (Regency Historical Romance) Page 3