by Mary Balogh
Lord Astor smiled at her. That was the only clear memory she had afterward of her wedding—that and her fervent wish that he was sixty and bald and toothless. And Frances' tender sniveling from somewhere close by.
Somehow afterward Arabella was scarcely aware of her husband. Frances wept and Mama talked all through the carriage ride home—Jemima had been taken up by someone else. And once they were home, the guests began to arrive, and there were ladies kissing her cheek and gentlemen kissing her hand and friends and neighbors wishing her well and telling her experiences of their own in London and giving advice on how she might best go on there.
And she chattered incessantly to everyone, it seemed, except to her husband. Whenever her eyes lighted on him and she thought of their new relationship, her knees threatened to wobble again and her stomach tried to stand on its head, and she smiled harder and chattered faster.
Frances, meanwhile, who had finally stopped both crying and making little runs at her sister to give her one more hug, wandered into the garden after the wedding breakfast, as did several other guests, Theodore at her side.
"The last month has passed quickly," he said. "Tomorrow you will be on your way, Fran. You must be excited."
"I would give anything in the world not to be going," she said, her eyes on the ground ahead of her.
"What?" he said. "Have you changed your mind so soon? A few weeks ago you were ecstatic."
"But then I was not one day away from having to take my leave of Mama and Jemima," she said. "A dear mother and a dear sister. And of you, Theo."
"But it will not be forever," he said, lifting one limp hand from her side and drawing it through his arm. "Just a couple of months, Fran. And it will be the experience of a lifetime. The beau monde and the Season."
"Perhaps," she said, her head drooping lower, "you will be glad to be rid of me, Theo."
"Frances!" His voice had sharpened considerably. "You know that it nonsense. We would have been married two years ago if I had not been in the army. And we would have wed last summer if your father had not had the misfortune to pass away. You know it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry you. But I think that for all that we have been wise to have no formal betrothal. You are very lovely and you have seen nothing of the world. It will be good for you to have these months in London and to be free."
"I do not want to be free, Theo," she wailed. "I just want to be with you. Dear Theo. I shall not know how to go on without you. And Mama."
"Don't cry," he said firmly, patting her hand. "People will think we are quarreling."
Frances lowered the handkerchief that had been creeping up to her eyes.
"I might even surprise you and appear suddenly in London myself," he said. "And you will probably be enjoying yourself so much that you will wish I had stayed at home."
"Theo!" she cried, raising large blue eyes to his. "Oh, how could I ever, ever be sorry to see you? I wish I were not going. But for Bella's sake I must. She is so very young and so very sweet and innocent. His lordship is kindness itself, but I am sure Bella will be glad to have me with her."
"That is good," Theodore said. "You look after your sister, Fran." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. "No, you must not cry. We will be together again before you know it."
But her large blue eyes grew even bluer before his gaze as tears gathered in them and spilled over.
"Dear Theo," she said, her voice quavering. "How am I to leave you?"
Lord Astor was lying in his bed in the master bedchamber at Parkland Manor, his hands linked behind his head, staring up at the darkened canopy above him. He wished he could be back in London at a snap of the fingers. He did not much relish the prospect of a three-day journey. However, it was good to know that tomorrow he would be on his way.
And he supposed that he must accustom himself to stop thinking in the singular number. Tomorrow they would be on their way. He and his wife and his sister-in-law. It still seemed unreal. The whole day seemed unreal: the drive to church in the morning and the marriage ceremony; the wedding breakfast afterward and the afternoon spent conversing with the guests and receiving their congratulations and good wishes; dinner and an hour spent in the drawing room alone with his wife, trying to draw her into conversation; the early retirement.
Although he had decided many weeks before that he would marry one of the daughters of the late viscount, and although he had spent a month on his new estate, getting acquainted with his bride, growing accustomed to the idea that he was to be a married man, it was still difficult now to grasp the fact that it was all accomplished.
He was married to Arabella. She was his wife. The Viscountess Astor.
He did not think he was sorry. He needed to be married. He would need a family. It was as well to do the thing this way: acquire a wife and settle the problem of the family of his predecessor at the same time.
Even the consummation of their marriage had not been the disaster he had feared. The girl had avoided him so much since their betrothal that he had half-expected to have to deal with tears at best or hysterics and the vapors at worst when he went in to her. He had felt when he had left his own room earlier to go to hers as a soldier must feel when going into battle. He had not known how he would acquit himself. Would he force himself upon her? Or would he leave her alone until after their journey?
As it turned out, there had been no decision to make. She had been lying in her bed, her hands spread on the covers. She had watched him come into the room and cross to the bed, saying nothing after calling to him to come in when he had knocked on her door. If she had been frightened, only the wideness of her eyes and her somewhat heightened color had betrayed her.
He had flicked her cheek with one finger. "Are you afraid of me, Arabella?" he had asked.
Whenever she did speak to him, she rarely said what he expected. "A little, my lord," she had admitted.
"You have no need to be," he had said with a little smile. "I do not plan to be a wife-beater."
"You will have no reason to be," she had said, her expression perfectly serious. "I will be a dutiful and obedient wife, my lord."
"Will you?" he had said, reaching down and drawing back the blankets that covered her. She had not flinched. He almost forgot to snuff the two candles that stood on the table beside her. He normally preferred to make love with light around him, but he did not wish to make the consummation of his marriage an unnecessarily embarrassing ordeal for Arabella.
He had been somewhat touched by her quietness. If she meant to be as obedient throughout their marriage as she had been in the performance of her first duty as his wife, he supposed he must consider himself a fortunate man.
She had said nothing and had given no indication of discomfort or shock or pain. She had not resisted him in any way. She had lain apparently relaxed while he raised her nightgown, lowered himself on top of her, and eased her legs apart. And he had felt her take a slow and deep breath before he had mounted her. She had made no sign as he did so, even though he had felt the breaking of her virginity. And she had lain quiet and still until he was finished with her. It had taken rather longer than he would have wished. He was not used to proceeding immediately to the final stage of lovemaking without all the pleasurable stages that usually went before when one dealt with a mistress rather than a wife.
It was only as he had been withdrawing from her that a whimper had escaped her. It had been quickly stifled, and he had not remarked on it. He guessed that she had been feeling far more than her calm manner had indicated. He had not wished her to feel that she had failed. He had sat on the edge of her bed and touched her cheek again before getting to his feet. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, but he could not see her expression.
"I am afraid I hurt you," he had said. "But I believe you will find your duty less painful after tonight."
"That is what Mama said," she had replied. "But it was not your fault, my lord. It is always that way for a bride on her wedding night, Mama sa
ys."
He had smiled in the darkness. "Well, your duty is done for tonight," he had said. "Good night, Arabella."
"Good night, my lord," she had said.
Lord Astor found that he was smiling now at the canopy over his bed. She spoke just like a child, seeming not to choose her words with the diplomacy one expected of an adult.
It was a relief at least to know that he was not going to have trouble with Arabella. She was going to be obedient and dutiful, she had told him. And she had proceeded with unexpected docility to prove she meant what she said.
Strange! There had been something almost erotic about the stillness of her small body, her silent surrender, her total lack of involvement in what he had been doing to her body. He tried to imagine Ginny lying and behaving so, but he repressed the thought before it had a chance to develop in his mind. It would not be fair to make comparisons. Not tonight. Not when he had just left his wife's bed. She was probably still suffering from shock and pain.
4
The dowager Viscountess Astor and her two unmarried daughters returned early to Parkland the next morning so that the travelers might be on their way. Arabella met them at the outer door, which a footman held open. Her husband came behind her, having moved from the breakfast parlor at a far more sedate pace than his wife when they heard the carriage.
"Mama!" Arabella cried, rushing into her mother's arms as if they had been apart for a month.
"There, there, my love," her mother said, patting her daughter on the back. "Let me look at you. Lady Astor! Whoever would have thought that one day you would have my title, my love? How pretty you look this morning."
Arabella doubted the truth of that remark. She knew that she must look more childish than usual with her cheeks flushed.
"Welcome back to your home, ma'am," Lord Astor said, coming up behind Arabella and extending a hand to his mother-in-law. "We will be on our way as soon as we can."
Frances was sobbing into her handkerchief. "Bella," she said. "Oh, dear Bella, how happy I am for you. Such a handsome husband! Even more handsome than Theodore, I do declare. I am so glad for you. I know you will be wonderfully happy."
"Are you very sad to be leaving Theodore?" Arabella asked, her face sympathetic. "It must be dreadful for you, Frances."
"I do not know why you say that, Bella," Frances said, dabbing at her moist eyes and putting her handkerchief away. "Sir Theodore is merely a neighbor and friend."
"Bella. Oh, Bella." Jemima was bouncing on the spot, waiting for some of her older sister's attention. "You will send me a present from London? You will not forget, Bella?"
"I will not allow her to do so," Lord Astor said, having finished his conversation with his mother-in-law. "Is there anything in particular you would like, Jemima?"
Half an hour more passed before Lord Astor's traveling carriage was finally on its way, a coach from the Parkland stables following behind with the baggage and his lordship's valet. The dowager viscountess had had a private word with both daughters and a hug for each.
"I can see from the harmony between you and his lordship that you did your duty last night as I instructed you," she said to a blushing Arabella. "You will continue to do so, Bella? It will not be near so fearsome from now on. Oh, my love. So young and a married lady already. It seems no more than a couple of years ago that you were a babe in arms."
Both Frances and her mother shed tears at the parting, but Arabella fought hers. The last thing she wanted was to have to face Lord Astor in his carriage with a shiny red nose, blotched cheeks, and bloodshot eyes.
Arabella was glad they were on their way. There was a certain anxiety, of course, about knowing that she was at the beginning of a three-day journey that would take her far from home, far from all the familiar people and places she had known in her life. She felt some misgiving too in knowing that at the end of that journey lay London and the Season and the ton.
But even so, given the circumstances, she was glad the journey had begun. The farewell from Mama and Jemima had been heart-wrenching. She had never been away from them for even so much as a night before last night. There had, of course, been some consolation in knowing that she was at least to take Frances with her. And perhaps it had helped her somewhat in the parting from her mother to be forced to spend the first half-hour of the journey consoling a weeping older sister. However, the worst was over. Arabella did not think she could endure too many such partings.
But perhaps her main reason for being glad she was on her way was knowing that her wedding day was safely behind her, that her new life was inevitable, and that it was as well to begin that new life without delay. In truth, she faced London and the Season with excitement as well as anxiety. She had always dreamed about seeing all the members of fashionable society of whom she was one by birth. And it would be wonderful to attend a real ball, to watch a play at a real theater, to see the queen, perhaps. If only the poor king were not indisposed!
Arabella was glad that the journey was to last for three days. For three days she would not have to undergo the embarrassment of being alone with her husband. He talked to Frances after she finally recovered from her grief, and answered her eager questions about the latest style in bonnets in town. Frances always knew what was appropriate conversation for a lady, though she had had no more exposure to fashionable living than Arabella. Why could she never think of anything to say to him?
The evening before had been pure agony. The day had not been so bad, as they had been surrounded by friends and family. And even when she had stood next to Lord Astor at the altar she had known what to say. There were certain prescribed responses, and she had had no difficulty at all in making them. But at dinner and during the evening they had been alone. And she had become almost paralyzingly aware again of what a poor excuse for a bride to such a handsome gentleman she was. How dreadful it was to know that he must be looking at her undergrown, plain, and childish person, knowing that she was his wife.
She had found herself horribly tongue-tied. She had been able to think of no fascinating topic on which to converse, though she had searched and searched her mind while she chewed each mouthful of food far longer than was necessary. Yet during the few moments when she had forgotten herself, she had suddenly discovered that she was gabbling on about George and his exploits or about Emily, her horse. She had even asked him about the health of the poor king, when she knew she should have maintained a polite silence on the topic. Who wished to admit that the King of England—poor dear gentleman—was mad? She should have asked about the Prince Regent or Princess Charlotte. But she had not thought of them.
It would be a great relief to have Frances staying with her in London. Perhaps her husband would not notice her plainness and her dullness so much while he had Frances to look at and converse with. Though of course he would also be able to see them together and be reminded of the contrast between them. How he must wish that Frances was his wife and she his sister-in-law.
Arabella was hoping quite fervently that she would not have to perform her marriage duty until they reached London. They had not brought a maid with them. Surely, then, Frances would not be expected to occupy an inn room alone for three nights. She would certainly have fits of the vapors and the hysterics at the prospect of some desperate villain breaking in upon her in the dark of the night. Besides, it would not be at all proper. It stood to reason that Arabella would share her room and Lord Astor stay alone.
Arabella hoped so. She even crossed her fingers on both hands and pressed them hard into her lap for a moment to induce the fates to be kind to her. It was not that she was undutiful. She was Lord Astor's wife now, and she planned to spend the rest of her life obeying him, doing all within her power to make him comfortable. But she needed the three days to recover from the night before.
She was so dreadfully sore. Mama had not warned her of that, and Arabella had not been able to muster the courage that morning to ask if it was a natural result of a wedding night. She had expected to feel pain
only at the actual moment of the consummation.
She certainly had felt pain then, but it had not ended there. Arabella had not been unduly shocked by the marriage act. She had grown up surrounded by animals, and at quite a young age she had concluded that what applied to them probably applied somewhat equally to humans. But she had not expected quite such a deep invasion of her person. And she had not expected that it would hurt quite so much. She had thought, as she lay quiet and submissive beneath the weight of her husband's body, that his movements would never stop. Each stroke had seemed to rub her raw.
She had concentrated all her thoughts on doing her duty like a good and obedient wife. By some superhuman power she had resisted the impulse to push at his shoulders and to cry out to him to stop, to please be finished quickly. She had let sound escape her only once. He had stopped finally and blessedly, and she had been vastly relieved. But when he had begun to withdraw, she had thought for a moment that it was all going to start again, and she had been unable to quell that sound of protest. She had been horrified. She had fully expected that he would express deep displeasure with her. But he had said nothing.
She was still sore. Arabella stole a glance at the dismayingly handsome profile of her husband as he discussed parasols with Frances. She would perform her duty again tonight if she must. After all, it was something to which she had to accustom herself. But please, dear God, she thought, let it wait until London. She could still feel the raw hurt along every inch of her he had used the night before.
Arabella set one hand loosely on top of the other in her lap and watched her husband and her sister as if she were a child who must not interrupt adult conversation. If only she were taller, she thought, and thinner. If only she could converse interestingly about bonnets and parasols. If only she could weep and look pretty. If only she could look pretty even without weeping!