When she was returned to Penworth’s side after a particularly vigorous country dance, she was beginning to flag. She leaned against a pillar, flipped open her fan, and used it vigorously.
He laughed softly. “One of the problems with being the belle of the ball is that you get no rest.”
“What about you?” she asked, “Why are you not being worn out?” She noticed that a lock of hair was again falling across his forehead. She considered brushing it back into place but decided that would be too forward.
“Gentlemen have a great advantage. We are the ones to do the asking, so if we tire, we simply keep silent.”
She gave a histrionic sigh. “Just one more example of the unfairness of the world.”
“Come take a turn in the garden. The fresh air will help.”
With a smile, she put her hand on his arm. His invitation was quite perfect. Here she was at her first ball, or at least, the first ball where she was one of the dancers, and she was even being led down a garden path by a handsome young man. She was glad to have this opportunity before she was married, even though the handsome young man was her betrothed. She hoped that he intended to kiss her. She wanted to have at least one real kiss before she was married. She did hate being ignorant.
He could not forget that kiss earlier today. It had not even been a kiss, really. He had just brushed her brow with his lips—he knew that was all that had happened. Why did he keep thinking that a bolt of lightning had been involved? Just as had happened when he kissed her during that absurd comedy they played for her aunt and cousin.
He needed to kiss her again before they were actually married. He needed to know.
“Mmm,” she sighed and breathed deeply. “You’re right. The fresh air does help.”
Good lord, he thought, she thinks a man brings a girl into the garden at a ball for the fresh air. She really is an innocent.
He guided her down a path that led, he knew, to a reasonably private alcove in the shrubbery. Once there, he pulled her around, clasping his hands at the back of her waist. She tilted her head back, resting her hands on his arms, and looked inquiringly at him.
“We have neglected something, you know,” he said, half smiling.
“And what might that be, my lord? A formal introduction, perhaps?”
He smiled in delight. She surprised him every time she spoke. “And bouquets delivered to your doorstep, and carriage rides in the park, and ill-framed sonnets to steal your heart. I fear we will have to forego all that. But there is one thing we can manage. A kiss. An engagement is not really official without a kiss, you know.” He lowered his head towards her.
“A kiss?” she said softly.
“Yes, we had best have that engagement kiss now, while we still have a chance.” He brushed his lips against hers, and then did it again. When she did not pull away, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her gently until she softened and sighed. His tongue slipped between her lips. She opened to him, and he was tasting her, exploring her. Delicious!
Her hands had moved, and instead of resting on his arms, they were around his neck, clinging to him, one wrapped in his hair. His hands moved, too, one caressing her breast while the other slid down, molding her against him. She felt…he did not know how to describe it. She was so soft. It was almost as if she was melting into him. He was falling deeper and deeper into the kiss. He was losing control. He bent her back over his arm. He heard a moan and he was not sure which one of them it had made the sound.
Then he heard a yelp, and he was quite sure that it was not his. It must be Anne. He pulled away and could see the distress on her face.
He had frightened her.
It was doubtless her first real kiss and he had gone too far too quickly. He should have thought. “I am sorry,” he began, but then stopped. She did not look frightened, precisely. She looked to be in pain, and she was bending back at a strange angle, holding on to his sleeve with one hand to keep from falling.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I seem to have leaned into something thorny, and my dress is caught.”
He breathed deeply in relief. He had not frightened her. “Hold still,” he said.
“I have to. I would hardly be standing like this if I could move.”
Trying to stifle his amusement at her sardonic tone, he examined the situation as best he could in the dark. She was well and truly caught on a large rose bush. The white floaty stuff of her dress seemed to be snagged in several directions at once. It would probably be easier to get the dress loose if she weren’t wearing it. He started to suggest that, but decided against it. Even if they were to be married in the morning, another scandal was hardly something they needed. Besides, there would be plenty of opportunities to take off her clothes in the future.
Stop it, he told himself, directing the comment to that portion of his anatomy in need of the reminder.
“I am afraid I cannot see well enough to untangle you without damaging your dress,” he said.
“Please do whatever needs to be done. This position is really quite uncomfortable. I would rather sacrifice the dress than my skin.” She sounded a bit sharp.
He realized then that she was standing at a peculiar angle in an effort to keep from being raked by the thorns. “Right,” he said, grabbed a handful of fabric and gave the dress a sharp tug. She stumbled away, leaving behind a large piece of tulle. He caught her before she could tumble into another shrub.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to look over her shoulder. “How bad is the damage?”
He turned her so that the moonlight hit the back of her dress, where the torn edges were obvious. “Ah, I do not know if your maid can manage some repairs, but I think you might want to wear a shawl for the rest of the evening.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she looked at him. “This is not a particularly auspicious debut for me. I seem to be more accident-prone than is suitable for the role of marchioness.”
“Do you think so?” He closed the distance between them. “That’s curious. Everything I discover about you makes you appear to me more and more suitable for the role.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Such a suitable kiss, for example.” His cheek was so close to hers that he could feel the heat of her blush.
“That is not what I mean, my lord.”
She had stiffened, but his arms kept her from pulling way. “But it is most surely what I mean, my lady. Trust me when I tell you that your kiss is far more important than the state of your gown.” He was rubbing her back in little circles, urging her closer. “Besides, the accidental damage to your garment was my fault yet again.” Then he bent down again and whispered, “I promise, the next time I tear off your clothing, it will not be an accident.”
For a moment she simply looked startled, then she turned away—to hide a smile, he thought. He wrapped his arms around her and held her gently. She gave a small sigh, so small he could barely hear it, and leaned against him, softening in his embrace. He was almost shocked to realize how much pleasure that little softening gave him.
“Never fear,” he said. “We will do well together, Lady Anne.”
Chapter Fifteen
In which a different wedding is planned.
“You’re sure she is pretty? I would not care for a homely wife.”
Craddock was finding it difficult not to sneer, so he stopped making the effort. The fool sitting beside him was probably used to seeing that expression on his companions’ faces.
Sir John Comyn of Mingey Cairn, a baronet of no repute whatever, was a weak-chinned young man whose mouth tended to hang open. His pudgy figure was corseted, and he was dressed beyond the height of fashion as interpreted by an incompetent tailor, in garments made of shoddy fabric. His shirt points pricked his ears, held in place by a red paisley neck cloth. The velvet collar of his bright green tailcoat stood well up in the back, brass buttons the size of teacups ran up either side, and padding puffed out both the chest and the sleeves. His tr
ousers, striped in yellow and brown, ended inches above his ankles, displaying gray worsted stockings to any who cared to look. Craddock preferred not to look.
Comyn appeared to have no more understanding of business matters than he did of fashion. He showed little interest in—and no comprehension of—the documents he had just signed, committing him to a financial arrangement by which a bit more than half of his wife’s fortune would be handed over to her uncle as soon as they married. All he seemed to grasp was that he was going to London and would have a wife, something it was doubtful he could ever have achieved on his own.
“Quite pretty,” said Craddock, beginning to think he had made a mistake. There had been no need to offer this idiot half of Anne’s inheritance. He looked at the papers that had been spread out on the table at the inn, freshly signed by Comyn and the witnesses—a pair of travelers who were willing to witness anything for a pint of ale. Should he tear them up and have a fresh agreement drawn?
Better not.
Grogan had drawn up the papers for him before he left York. He had not wanted to have them drawn here in Edinburgh—the Scots had all kinds of peculiar laws, and solicitors in Edinburgh might be familiar with Comyn and his…limitations. They might question the arrangement. They might create problems. Better by far this way.
Besides, Comyn wouldn’t really know what half amounted to.
As for Anne, now that he thought about it, she probably was rather pretty in her quiet way. She might well have attracted suitors had she been out and about in society. He suddenly felt as if he had had a narrow escape. It was fortunate that she was such a docile creature and always did as she was told. She won’t even object to marrying this idiot, he thought.
“A pretty wife,” sighed Comyn contentedly. “Will she like me?”
“How could she not?” replied Craddock absently. He narrowed his eyes. Docile she might be, but she was not a complete fool. It would be just as well to have her married before she was given a chance to speak with the groom.
He had already obtained a license, but before taking Comyn to Mount Street, he would stop off to notify the clergyman. Then the happy couple could be married in the morning and sent off to Scotland that same day. Yes, it would definitely have to be done quickly.
There was also Mrs. Craddock to consider. She was foolish enough to be impressed by the title, but even she might have qualms about marrying her niece to a simpleton.
Speed was needed so that neither his niece nor his wife would have a chance to do more than exchange greetings with the groom before the ceremony.
There was no point in asking for trouble.
“And she won’t mind living in Scotland? The castle isn’t in the best of condition, you know.”
From remarks people had let slip in Edinburgh, Craddock had concluded that very little of the castle was even habitable and much of it had tumbled into ruins.
“Don’t worry,” Craddock assured him. “Anne is quite accustomed to making do.”
It should not take them more than a week or two to get to London. Then his worries would be over.
Chapter Sixteen
In which the marquess takes a wife
Lady Anne had been dressed in her wedding finery—a gown of heavy ivory silk with three deep flounces of ivory lace and sleeves billowing out above the elbow and tight to her wrist below. Tilted to the side on her head had been an enormous round hat bearing a fantasy of feathers and ribbons. Then she had been taken to the manor’s chapel, where she was led down the aisle by the Earl of Greystone and handed over to the Marquess of Penworth. They had repeated their vows after the bishop, and then Penworth led her back down the aisle. She had been hugged and kissed and cried over by everyone—even Aunt Craddock and Corinne had hugged her and wished her well with what seemed like sincerity.
There had been flowers everywhere—in the chapel and in the ball room where tables had been set up for the wedding breakfast. Pots of white jasmine perfumed the air. Spikes of lupine paired with lacy hydrangeas. There were even roses, bowls and bowls of sweet-scented roses. Campbell’s hothouses must have been denuded, she thought. She hoped he had not minded too much.
She had been seated at the head table, at Penworth’s side. He kept turning to her and smiling, even when he was not saying anything. He looked, she thought, extraordinarily handsome in his brown velvet-collared coat and gold waistcoat. That lock of hair was falling across his forehead again. Without thinking, she reached up and brushed it back. He caught her hand and held it to his cheek for a long moment. His eyes caught hers—they seemed to darken, to hold some sort of message—and she was unable to look away. Then someone interrupted, offering good wishes, and they went back to smiling and making conversation.
Dishes appeared on the table, and were taken away and were then replaced by others. There had been a white soup, followed by lobster salad and slices of ham and various little patties. There had been slices of melon and of cucumber, also from Campbell’s hothouses. There had been rolls and biscuits. There had been little tarts, baskets of bonbons and an iced plum cake. She was utterly unable to eat any of the delicacies placed before her or to drink any of the wine in her glass.
Then she had been whisked away again; her bridal finery was taken off and her traveling finery put on, her hair was redone, and she was brought downstairs, handed over to her new husband, and placed in the carriage.
It had all been in impeccably elegant taste.
She had been a chess piece, moved about the board by others while she had had no voice in the matter.
She peered around the edge of her hat, a round wheel of stiffened silk festooned with ribbons, at the man sitting beside her. He was looking at her with a little half smile that was starting to be familiar. She looked away and sat up even straighter. She was not sure if she should say something, and if she should, she had no idea what. So she stared at her hands and fiddled with the button on her glove.
“It is awkward, isn’t it?”
She could hardly pretend that it was not, so she nodded.
“We are still virtually strangers. Shall we therefore limit ourselves to the prescribed topics of polite conversation? What say you of the weather?”
He was talking nonsense again. She looked directly at him. To be honest, she had tried to avoid looking directly at him for most of the day. He was looking quite relaxed now, and quite attractive. She could hardly deny that she found him attractive, especially after that kiss last night, but it made her uncomfortable. He seemed to know all about her reaction, but she was not at all sure about his. He had seemed to enjoy it, but was that just because he was a rake, and kissing women was something rakes did?
“I am afraid, my lord, that you will have to take the lead here. I am not at all sure what is appropriate under the circumstances.”
“Ah, yes, the circumstances.” He was still smiling that teasing half smile. “I am afraid this is all new for me, too. I have never had a wife before, just as you have never had a husband.”
She humphed. “I have never even been alone with a man in a carriage or anywhere else. I am sure that you have had far more experience than I. Being alone with a woman, I mean—not being alone with a man,” she added when he looked confused. “After all, my lord, you are the one who is a rake.”
She was surprised to see that he looked embarrassed at that. She had always thought that gentlemen were rather proud of that reputation.
“I suppose I really should explain,” he said. “We are, after all, married.” He sounded decidedly uncertain.
Suddenly she was even more nervous. What could possibly embarrass a rake? Unless… In his rants about decadent aristocrats, Uncle Craddock had often claimed that many of them were diseased. “Is there something wrong with you?” She tried to sound sympathetic, but suspected that she only sounded frightened. “Some sort of…problem?”
Now he looked more annoyed than embarrassed. “Problem? No, I assure you I am not, uh, incapable.”
Now she was the
one to feel embarrassed. “I never meant to suggest that you were impotent, my lord.” She was fairly sure such a suggestion would not be considered flattering. “I meant disease.”
“Good God, no!” Now he was clearly shocked. “How could you think…? Where did you…? You should not even know about such things.” He knocked off his hat and ran his hand through his hair.
She turned quite scarlet with embarrassment. “I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to insult you, but I understood that it was a danger. Uncle Craddock was always talking about licentious lords and how they would end up rotting away.”
He went back to being embarrassed himself. “Oh, Lord, this just gets worse and worse. You have to understand that I am not much of a rake. Not really any of a rake, if you must know.”
Now Anne was thoroughly confused. “But you were running away from Lady Hadlow’s room.”
“I was, well, I was planning to…you know…be a young bachelor about town. She was my first step toward rakehood, so to speak.” He sat turning his hat in his hands without looking at her.
There was a moment of silence while she thought about it. Finally she said, “I cannot say much for your taste.”
He stared openmouthed for a moment and then gave a shout of laughter. “You do not mince words, do you? Well, we rakes-in-training must take what’s offered.” Then he sobered. “But I want you to know that I am not really like that.”
She considered this. “Does that mean that you have never…?”
He closed his eyes. “No, it does not mean I have never. Lord, do all newlyweds have such hideously embarrassing conversations? I am neither diseased nor impotent, and while I may not be a libertine, I do have some knowledge of what to do. Could we now talk about something else?”
A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS Page 10