by Mary Balogh
THE PATIENT HUSBAND
The Viscount Astor prided himself on his understanding of his young wife. After all, Arabella was innocent and country-bred. It would take time to teach her the ways of the world.
Therefore he was not annoyed when Arabella became upset on learning that he was keeping a mistress. Instead he quietly and clearly explained the differences between that kind of love and the duties of the marriage bed.
How could so level-headed a girl deny his logic? How could so obedient a wife defy his authority?
How could she, indeed…?
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THE OBEDIENT BRIDE
Mary Balogh
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Copyright © 1989 by Mary Balogh All rights reserved
1
Viscount Astor yawned widely enough to hear his jaws crack and lifted one booted leg to join the other on the plush velvet upholstery of the carriage seat opposite him. He wriggled his shoulders against the cushions at his back in a futile attempt to ease aching muscles and find a comfortable position. It really was almost pointless, he reflected, spending a king's ransom on a handsome, luxuriously padded, and well-sprung traveling carriage when the only place on which to demonstrate its superiority was English roads. Under such conditions springs were about as much use as wings would be.
He was regretting for perhaps the dozenth time in the past three days his decision to travel in the coach with his valet and his baggage instead of bringing his curricle. At least with the curricle he would have had fresh air and the mental and physical activity of propelling himself along the road. Perhaps too he would be capable of seeing and avoiding more potholes than his coachman seemed able to do.
But then, he thought, yawning hugely again and crossing his boots at the ankles, he could not have foreseen that the late-February weather would be quite so gloriously springlike. The sun was shining down from a flawless sky; the trees were beginning to bud; he could glimpse snowdrops and primroses in the hedgerows; and he could imagine the freshness of the air and the singing of the birds, though the dust of the road and the noise of the horses and carriage wheels blotted them from his senses.
Oh, for the chance to ride astride a horse or to be seated in his curricle, ribbons in hand! The sight of his valet's head flopping from side to side on his chest and the faint whistling sound of his snoring were beginning to grate on Lord Astor's nerves. He had tried clearing his throat loudly a few minutes before, but that had succeeded only in causing Henry to jump, rumble in his throat, smack his lips, and resume the head lolling and the gentle snoring.
Lord Astor examined his Hessian boots glumly, twisting his feet from side to side in order to do so. There should be some consolation in the fact that he would be reaching his destination within the next couple of hours. But under the circumstances, he thought that, given the choice, he might prefer two more days on the road, even if they were to involve two more nights at unspeakable inns like the one of the night before.
Four females. He was to face four female strangers. And they were strangers even though they were connected by some distant relationship. Only that fact accounted for his present newly acquired title and wealth. He was the closest male relative of the lately deceased Viscount Astor. It was rather a shame, the new Astor thought uncharitably, that he was not also the only relative of the dead viscount. The man was survived by a wife and three daughters. And he was on his way to pay his respects to them and to view his new home and estate.
It was a deuced embarrassment, actually. He had known he was the heir, of course. How could he not, when he had lived a life of relative poverty, especially in the six years since he had come down from university and settled to an expensive life in London? But he had never been in communication with his cousin—a term he used for want of a better one. The connection was actually quite distant. His father had quarreled with the late viscount about fifteen years before and had never seen him after. And he himself had had no occasion to renew the acquaintance after the death of his father almost four years before.
So he found himself in this predicament, Lord Astor thought, putting his feet back on the floor of the carriage and looking impatiently through the window for he knew not what sign of nearness to his destination. He was on his way to visit four females whose home was now his, whose whole security had been cut from under their feet by the untimely demise of his predecessor. The solicitor who had brought him the news of his good fortune had told him that the late viscount had made no provision whatsoever for the future of his family, an almost unbelievable oversight in view of the fact that its members were entirely female.
And what had he done: the new Viscount Astor, basking in the glory of his new importance, bursting with euphoric feelings of goodwill to the world? He had offered to marry one of the daughters, that was what he had done. Sight unseen! He had learned that their ages were twenty, eighteen, and fifteen. And that was all he had learned. He did not know their names, their dispositions, their appearances. He had not even specified which one he wished to be his bride. He had left that decision to their mother.
He was on his way, then, mainly to meet his future bride. And his offer for her had been quite formally and officially made. He could not back out now even if he found all three girls to be as ugly and uncouth as his nightmares were beginning to depict them.
It had been a rash offer. It was true that his acquisition of the title had made him feel the necessity of also acquiring some respectability. What was more respectable than the presence of a wife in one's home and perhaps a child or two in one's nursery? And really he was not too fussy about what female would be found to fit the role. He spent little enough of his time at home. A wife would not upset his habits to any great degree. Provided she was a lady of the proper breeding and provided she conducted herself with the proper decorum, she would suit his purposes admirably.
But even though he felt he would be relatively easy to please, it had perhaps been rash of him to offer for any one of three females he had never seen and about whom he had not even heard any report. He could become the laughingstock if the sister selected were unusually ugly or if her manners were noticeably awkward or worse.
Lord Astor shrugged and cleared his throat loudly once more. The whistling of Henry's snores had progressed from gentle to piercing and were setting his lordship's fingers to clenching and unclenching. There was really no point now in teasing his mind with all the horrors his rash offer might have in store for him. There was nothing whatsoever he could do about the matter. Except perhaps to leave his bride in her childhood home with her mother and sisters when he returned to London for the Season.
He would have to wait and see what she was like. It might be amusing to introduce her to society if she were at least passable. And it might be personally gratifying to have a female constantly on hand for his own pleasure. Not that he would expect much of a country-bred wench, of course. His tastes ran far more to mature and experienced courtesans. Like Ginny, for example—who liked to be called Virginia and who became furious enough to throw things when he laughed at her preference and pointed out all the inappropriate-ness of the name. Ginny was his resident mistress and had made something of an art of her trade.
No, really, he must not expect too much in the way of sexual satisfaction from his new wife, even if she turned out to be pretty. It would be unfair to do so. And as for companionship—Lord Astor shrugged again—he had never looked to any female for that. He had friends enough in his various clubs, and activities enough to make of his home little more than a place in which to sleep at night—or for what remained of the nights after he had left Ginny or a late card game or drinking session.
He must not allow himself to become too apprehensive of the ordeal that faced him
within the next few hours. A wife was really going to be a fairly unimportant adjunct to his life.
Lord Astor yawned once more, glared balefully at the unconscious figure of his snoring valet, wriggled downward in his seat, and allowed his eyelids to droop and his thoughts to slide into oblivion.
The Honorable Miss Frances Wilson was in tears. Again, her sister Arabella thought, watching from her place in the window seat and marveling as she always did that Frances succeeded only in looking more beautiful when she cried. Perhaps that was why she did not make more of an effort to overcome her sensibilities. Now, when Arabella cried, which was a rare-enough occurrence, her tears left a red and swollen face in their wake. And her younger sister Jemima was no better. She always wailed loudly when she wept, so that an unsympathetic Papa had once told her that she sounded like a cow in pain.
But Frances, the oldest sister, the beauty of the family, could weep and be beautiful. Not that she needed to weep in order to accomplish that result, of course. She was slim and shapely, with big expressive blue eyes, a creamy complexion, and masses of silky blond hair. And dark eyelashes that could fan her cheeks when they were lowered, as they frequently were when some gentleman was by.
Frances. The beauty. Her parents' favorite. And her sisters' favorite too. One could not not love Frances. She was all gentle and weeping sensibility. She was not even weeping for herself at the moment. She was crying for Arabella. And not for the first time. Surely every day for the past two weeks she had wept for the great sacrifice, as Arabella's decision had come to be known.
Arabella was touched to be so appreciated, and perhaps a little proud of herself too. But in all honesty she could not see herself as a great heroine. She had no particular objection to marrying Lord Astor—strange to think of another man than Papa with that title. It was true that the new viscount must be close to Papa in age, as far as Mama could remember from her last encounter with him many years before. But that did not matter. Arabella had always been fond of Papa. And she had never been fond of any of the horrid boys who had pulled her braids as a girl and refused to let her climb trees with them and who now expected her to dance with them at assemblies and simper at their awkward compliments. If she must marry, she would as soon marry an older man.
"Frances, my love, do not take on so," Lady Astor said, hovering at the shoulder of her eldest daughter, vinaigrette in hand. "Remember that there are compensations for Bella's sacrifice. Lord Astor—oh, your poor dear papa, my love—may be an older man, but he will be steady, you may depend upon it. And Bella will be the new Lady Astor and mistress of Parkland. She will be set for life. And a viscountess at eighteen, my love." The mother had turned her attention to Arabella. "Really, there is scarce any sacrifice at all."
Arabella drew breath to agree quite sensibly with her mother. But Frances sobbed so affectingly that she closed her mouth again.
"But to be married to an old man when she has seen nothing whatsoever of life. To sacrifice her youth and all her hopes for our sake, Mama. Dear, dear Bella! How very much I love you. And how guilty you make me feel that you have taken off my shoulders the burden of making the sacrifice myself."
"It really would have been foolish for you to do so, Frances," Arabella said, swinging her legs against the wall behind them, as her feet did not quite reach the floor. "You have other prospects. And Theodore would be brokenhearted if you were borne away by our cousin. And besides, as I have told you and Mama a thousand times, I really do not mind. His lordship must be a reasonably kind man, for he has offered for one of us when he has not even met us, just so that we will not be destitute."
"He will surely allow us to continue living here after you are married, Bella," her mother said. "And you shall persuade him, my love, to take Frances with you to London so that she may be presented to society. It is only right for one of such rare beauty to be seen in the capital."
Truth to tell, this often-mentioned idea was the one part of the plan that Arabella disapproved of. She had released Frances from the necessity of marrying the viscount mainly so that her sister could marry Theodore. Sir Theodore Perrot, she had to accustom herself to calling him now. They had called him Theodore—sometimes even Theo—all their lives, but it seemed that there was proprieties to be observed now that they were all grown up.
Frances and Theodore—Sir Theodore—had always planned to marry, and Arabella was only too glad to make it possible for them to do so. Theodore, stocky, blond, and ruddy-cheeked, was so thoroughly solid and dependable that Frances would be safe with him. And she would need keeping safe. Frances would never cope with life if she did not have someone to carry her through it. Arabella did not like the thought of Frances being borne off to London with her and the viscount in order to be viewed by other, less-steady gentlemen. One of them might just run off with her, and then where would her poor sister be for the rest of her life?
Arabella was wearing her best day dress. She looked down at the light sprigged muslin with its wide blue sash and thought again that it was quite inappropriate for February. It might be springlike outside, but it was hardly the time of year for muslin. She was thankful that the sun shone so strongly through the window that she felt almost too hot despite the thinness of the fabric. At least it was pleasant not to be wearing black. Mama had announced that they would leave off their mourning for the new Lord Astor even though poor Papa had been gone for only eight months.
Arabella wished as she had for the past two years that she had not stopped growing when she was still such an unimpressive height. She was perhaps a little too plump too, though she supposed it was rather unfair to herself to make comparisons between her own shape and Frances'. Mama was always careful to assure her that she was not plump, but merely well-rounded and short of stature. And she could not yet compare herself to Jemima, who was still as thin and shapeless as a rake and who frequently and loudly bewailed the fact that she would never be any different. But Jemima was already taller than she. And her hair was too thick, Arabella thought. It was quite a becoming shade of dark brown, as Mama kept pointing out soothingly, but it was very difficult to make it hold any style.
Arabella had no great craving to be a beauty. One in a family was blessing enough, she had concluded with great good sense more than a year before. And since she had not started to consider suitors and marriage until the viscount's startling letter had arrived more than two weeks before, she had had no particular desire to be attractive to gentlemen. She had no great wish to be so even now. After all, the viscount was an older man who would not care for such things as a girl's looks. He was marrying her out of kindness only. And she had no desire to attract his admiration. She would marry him because it was necessary to do so and because she would thereby be released from the nasty chore of finding herself a husband within the next few years.
But she did wish that she looked less childish. She was eighteen years old, fully a woman. And yet she looked like a child, younger even than Jemima, she sometimes thought in despair. She was small and plump—her mother's protestations to the contrary never convinced her—and her round face accentuated by her thick hair did nothing to reveal to a stranger that she was a woman of mature years already. To a man of close to Papa's age she was going to look like a veritable babe.
Arabella sighed. Perhaps she should have been more insistent when Mama had recommended the blue sash that she not wear it. It really did make her look as if she had just stepped out of the nursery.
"There, my love," Lady Astor was saying to Frances, patting her shoulder, "you are showing great fortitude, as I knew you would. Put your handkerchief away; your eyes are quite dry again. His lordship will be here at any moment, and it would not do at all for him to see you cry, even though it is Bella he is to marry. He will think that you and Bella have quarreled over him, and that would not give him a favorable impression of our family."
"Dear Bella," Frances said, her voice quavering and her eyes looking suspiciously bright again. "His lordship will see immediatel
y how dearly we all love you. He must see that we have not sacrificed you but that you have sacrificed yourself entirely of your own free will. Oh, I do hope he is not quite bald or white-haired or toothless."
"Gracious, my love!" her mother exclaimed. "Papa was none of those things. Papa was quite a handsome figure of a man to his dying day." She removed her own handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "Bella, my love, I think it would be as well to remember not to swing your legs like that when his lordship arrives. It does not look quite ladylike."
"Yes, Mama," Arabella said, holding her legs still immediately. "Perhaps I should carry the stool over here to rest my feet on. Else I shall surely forget."
The door to the sitting room opened with a sudden crash and a tall, thin young girl in muslin and wide pink sash remarkably like Arabella's rushed into the room, auburn ringlets bouncing against the sides of her head. "Mama, he is come," she said. "In a strange carriage. Two men. I think one is a servant. They are in the hallway even now. I came down from the schoolroom as you said I might even though Miss Roberts said I should wait until I was summoned. But if I had done that, Mama, you might have forgotten and I would not have seen his lordship meet Bella. He did not look a very old man from upstairs. He does not stoop."
"Gracious, child!" her mother said. "The man is not old. Merely Papa's age or close to it. Straighten your sash and sit down quietly. Quietly, mind! Young ladies still in the schoolroom are to be seen and not heard, remember. And don't forget your curtsy in your eagerness to stare when his lordship is announced. Frances, my love, you are not about to cry again, are you? And, Bella, dear, don't swing your legs. Jemima, before you sit down, carry the stool across to Bella, if you please."
Viscount Astor felt almost instant relief after he had been announced and had made his entry into the drawing room of Parkland Manor. For one thing, Lady Astor displayed perfectly civilized manners as she crossed the room to greet him, hand extended, and curtsied as she welcomed him to his new home. And the three younger females behind her appeared suitably well-bred. Each had risen to her feet and was curtsying low to him.