Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  “Agreed.”

  “And your acquisition?”

  “I inherited it from my maternal grandmother. Her father won it in a card game nearly a century ago. The property was unentailed and hers to dispose of as she wished. She deeded it to me on the day I was born.”

  She sighed. “Such a romantic story. Did you know her well?”

  “Never met her.”

  “How odd.”

  “Mother rarely mentioned her family, and Father did not speak of Mother’s family at all. Jeremy and I decided there had been some kind of rift, and Father seemed to confirm it.”

  He was not familiar with his mother’s relatives. Mother was born and raised in Scotland, and for reasons he was now suspicious of, there had been no visits to grandparents or aunts and uncles. Maybe Mother purposely kept Father from knowing them, from finding out she had tainted blood.

  Gwen seemed to be mulling over what he’d revealed. If she asked more questions about his maternal relatives, she’d be disappointed.

  Instead, she leaned forward. Her plump cheeks were flushed, and her eyes showed interest and intelligence. “I read our part of Yorkshire is mostly open land with acres of rolling hills, green even in summer. Is that true?”

  He leaned back against the squabs. The smell of leather reached his nostrils. He breathed deeply.

  A fine smell.

  Finally, he was going home. His home. He gazed at the woman across from him. Her home, too.

  “It is, but my, er, our home is in a copse surrounded by trees. Another small stand of trees lies in the distance, probably planted originally for firewood. Nowadays most of the fires are peat, but a few logs find their way into grates. As for green even in summer? I was once there in July, and it was green. Short grass grows on the hills, making it ideal for sheep. On some hills a yellow plant grows, making it seem like they’re speckled with gold. I believe the plant is called gorse.”

  Gwen widened her eyes. “I love to garden, did you know? Of course not. We have much to learn about each other. I can hardly wait to see Yorkshire. Might we visit York? I’ve read about it in history books. It is a walled city, is it not? I love to see places where history was made. And it has a magnificent cathedral. I read one can climb all the way up into the bell tower where the view is spectacular.” She clasped her gloved hands together. “I’ve so longed for adventure and thought I might be able to travel to faraway places one day. But when Reggie married, my dream died.”

  “I know you’ve mentioned this before, but what is the situation with your brother? I cannot believe he would have cast you out. He’s never seemed like a cold-hearted chap. And what about your mother?”

  “He’s not. Or at least he wasn’t until last year.” She bit her lip, a gesture he was coming to know as a sign of distress. “It was Lydia, you see. She hates me.”

  “Come now, nobody can hate you. You’re too much fun.” He grinned, trying to catch her gaze, but she was looking out the window.

  “You are kind to say so, my lord. Lydia is most conventional—prim and proper to a fault. She’s also very beautiful. Reginald was felled by Cupid’s arrow the moment he saw her. Now she leads him around like a lapdog.”

  “And yet . . .”

  She brought her gaze back to her folded hands. “I am her opposite. Too fond of sweets, too unconventional in my tastes, too outspoken, too plain. You recall she did not attend the ceremony. We married outdoors. It’s not done. Plus, the ceremony was at your brother’s home where only two years ago Miranda was Phoebe’s governess. I’m sure Lydia believes your brother married beneath him. And I’m equally sure she begged Reginald to remain at home with her, but he has a duty to Papa . . . perhaps the only one stronger than his ties to Lydia.”

  “I see.” His new sister-in-law was someone he did not care to know. He’d met her on two occasions during the betrothal period and was not impressed. “What about your mother? Will she be cast out and come to live with us when your father passes?”

  Gwen gaped at him like he’d grown horns. “Good heavens, no. Mama was born and bred in London. She loves town and hates the country. Furthermore, she is as much a stick for propriety as Lydia. They get along famously. Besides, it would be considered bad ton to throw one’s mother-in-law out of her home. Mama is safe. She will always have a home with Reginald and Lydia.” She nodded firmly and found something to look at out the window. “It will be years before Papa’s ailments overtake him. Perhaps he can visit. He might recover more quickly away from the city.”

  “You’ve been speaking to Miranda, I’d guess.”

  She laughed, a high musical trill that made him smile. “Ah, you did not tell me you were a clairvoyant, sir.”

  “Hardly. Fresh air and sunshine seem to be Miranda’s recipe for curing any malady, along with frequent hand washing. She learned these traits from her first husband, who was our village surgeon. Fine chap, died several years ago.”

  “Will. Yes, she’s spoken fondly of him. He was older, more like a father to her.”

  “That he was.”

  John reached over and took her hand. It was cold. “Do you wish the blanket?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Montague. It is a bit cool today, even with the sun shining.”

  She was back to formality. Perhaps she was nervous about the impending night, although he’d reassured her they would not share a room at any of the inns on their journey north.

  He had not told her why. He was not ready to share family secrets yet. He’d have to in time. But not yet.

  He let go of her hand and put the blanket around her. She removed her bonnet and laid it on the seat next to her gloves and reticule. Her hair was in a prim style today, pulled back from her forehead, with only a few loose curls over her ears. The flowers that held the veil in place this morning were gone. The dress and veil were packed away and would remain in London. The flowers had been a nice touch, softening her features, and the color of the wedding gown had emphasized the blue of her eyes.

  When she’d stood before him in the pergola he’d almost believed their lie—that they’d known each other for years and had carried on a flirtation, then a secret correspondence.

  He thought his promise not to consummate the marriage right away would be easy to keep. Now he was not sure. She could not remain a virgin forever—their marriage wouldn’t be legal—but he wanted to pick the time and make it as clinical as possible, to be sure there would not be consequences.

  Miss Pettigrew, or Mrs. Montague as she was now, may not be a diamond of the first water, but she had many fine attributes he admired in a woman. Her hair was always shiny, and he expected it would be soft to the touch. Her figure was full, and he liked women who were not sticks. And her eyes were beyond sultry, long lashed and the color of the sky after a storm.

  An uncomfortable fullness filled his chest. He must not dwell on her appearance, but on her character. She was a strong woman, stronger than most he knew. But she had one human weakness that silently reached out to him. She truly believed that her father was not as ill as he actually was. At least now she would have a husband to lean on when her father died, and he expected that passing would not be too far in the future.

  Gwen needed support and comfort. He would provide both.

  He was her husband, and he’d promised to become her best friend.

  Friendship would not be difficult. Keeping his hands off her, while living in close proximity, might.

  Chapter 6

  They made the trip from London in three days’ time. Gwen longed for a proper bath and firm ground under her feet. The inns on the Great North Road were plentiful, and John’s choices had been more than adequate. Each night, after a repast in a private dining room, they’d retired to separate rooms.

  While not the wedding trip she’d once dreamed of, she was grateful for John�
�s consideration. He’d been meticulous in his care of her, making sure she had the best room and always providing a cot for her maid. If Sadie thought something was amiss, she was too well trained to say anything.

  Secretly relieved, Gwen could not imagine herself bedding a man she scarcely knew. And yet an unaccustomed restlessness had settled over her, especially in John’s presence.

  On both nights during the trip, she’d dreamed of him. The sweet wedding kiss must have prompted it. She’d never allowed any of her unwanted suitors to kiss her. One had tried and had found his face red from her slap. She’d wondered if she might be frigid, a term she’d read in one of the books high on a shelf in her father’s library. Some women, it said, did not fancy the attentions of the opposite sex. Such females were more suited to a life of religious service.

  John’s kiss had been a welcome surprise. She’d expected a brief peck on the cheek. Instead she’d received a soft exploration of her lips with increasing pressure until warmth drifted through her body with wisps of promise. Her heart had thrummed and her knees had turned to jelly while his soft lips brushed hers. When they’d turned to walk down the makeshift aisle, to nods and sobs and grins, she’d gripped her husband’s arm, her cheeks aflame, and knew without a doubt she wanted him to kiss her again soon, if only to see if it had the same effect.

  But he had not.

  So she’d dreamed of him. Kissing her. Touching parts of her body where the warmth had lingered. And each morning she’d awakened restless and bewildered, eager to be off so her mind would be filled with new sights, sounds, and smells.

  Instead of the unaccustomed longing now in her body, a feeling that seemed to grow whenever her husband was near.

  The coach slowed, and she gazed into the distance. For part of yesterday and most of today, the countryside had been as John had described on the first day of their journey. The air smelled fresh, and green hills rolled endlessly as far as the eye could see. If this was the scenery she’d wake up to each day, she couldn’t be more pleased.

  Yorkshire, she imagined, would be a gardener’s paradise. She’d read about plants that thrived here, and while her efforts at home had always been with flowers, she hoped to plant herbs and vegetables in her kitchen garden. She had funds. John had set aside half her dowry for her use, and told her if he needed it, he’d consult her. They were partners.

  Partners.

  Such a thoughtful husband and such a modern arrangement. How did she get to be this fortunate? Eventually, they would consummate the marriage and children would come. Most of her friends thought her to be indifferent to children. Even Miranda had chided her when Gwen had hastily handed back James when he fussed. It upset her to see a baby unhappy. Babies wanted their mothers, not a stranger.

  One day soon I’ll have my own babe.

  The thought put a secret smile on her face.

  The coach stopped, and John rode alongside. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the rear, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  “I think your first view of your new home should be with me by your side. I am not being sentimental, Gwen. I am sure you’ll be disappointed, so I want you to see it through my eyes.”

  “How very thoughtful of you, husband. But you need not worry. I am quite able to visualize what can be, not what is.” She grinned, and he grinned back, displaying his adorable dimple. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes soften for a moment? He settled on the seat next to her, their thighs touching, their gazes holding.

  If only he would kiss me. His lips are not far away.

  As if reading her thoughts and being dismayed by them, he moved away, rapped on the ceiling, and the coach started again. Gwen swallowed her disappointment. Surely, kissing was acceptable. She was anxious to try it again, but perhaps not today.

  John pointed to stone pillars that once held a substantial gate. “This was the entrance to the abbey. I mentioned a portion of a wall and chimney and one tower still stand. We’ll pass it in a moment. It is on your side.”

  “Our own ruin. How delightful.”

  She peered through the glass pane and was rewarded with an interesting sight. Actually, two walls remained, but one was only a remnant. She gazed up at the tower as they passed. It was intact and must have wonderful stories associated with it.

  This was exhilarating. She wanted to see the manor now and could barely contain her excitement. The steward’s house, a plain stone building with two floors, wooden shutters, and a slate roof, was next. John had said they would stay there because their home was not yet ready to be occupied. They rounded a bend, and through a thick copse of trees, the house came into view.

  Her spirits plummeted.

  She wanted to cry. The dilapidated building marred its surroundings. The roof was caved in on the east wing, and a creeping vine covered some of its walls. The west wing seemed intact, but she shuddered to think what she might find on the inside. She took a deep breath, grasped John’s hand tightly, and forced a smile to her mouth.

  “It looks like it was quite grand at one time. Are you sure we can put it to rights?”

  “Yes.” His tone brooked no challenge. The coach halted near the front steps.

  Gwen straightened her shoulders. “Then let us alight and look over our domain.”

  ~ ~ ~

  John studied his bride as he handed her down from the carriage. She seemed happy enough, but his instincts told him she was being overly polite, a bit too cheerful. He’d expected her to be interested and perhaps dismayed. That had been his reaction when he’d first seen the building. But she twittered on about the shape of the windows and the color of the stone as if she wanted to find something she could like.

  He led her through the front door, which he saw had been repaired, and paused in the main entry. The rough wooden banister along the curving staircase was worn, but the marble floor in the entryway was intact, and the steps were solid. As they climbed the stairs, John was pleased to see someone had swept the floor and cleared the cobwebs from the landings. John pointed out where entrances to the east wing were closed off. Only the west wing rooms could be entered from the central staircase.

  They passed through a large sitting room, and while grimy, the windows were intact. Odd shapes squatted in the corners, denoting a few pieces of furniture under dirty slipcovers. Gwen wandered over to the windows and exclaimed, “There’s a view through the trees to the south. It is quite breathtaking.”

  He stood behind her as she took her spectacles out of her reticule.

  “How far does our land go out in this direction?”

  “All the way to the house over there on the far hill. While not visible, there’s a stream running through the property to the north with a picturesque stone bridge to cross over. Perhaps we’ll picnic there later in the week if the weather holds.”

  Clouds were already forming. But they had encountered no rain on the trip.

  John touched his wife’s shoulder. “Shall we inspect the bedchambers?”

  “Yes. I want to see everything.”

  They left the room and went back to the stairs.

  “We can’t explore the east wing yet because of the roof. I don’t know how safe it is. But it will remain closed off while we concentrate on putting the west wing to rights.” He held out his arm until her fingers pressed against him. “This way.”

  “Is one wing the same age as the other? The chimney pieces on the east side looked different.”

  “An excellent observation, madam. The east wing is older and was built when the abbey was still in use. The west wing was constructed by whomever owned the property before losing it to my great-grandfather.” He paused and ran his hand over a design carved into the bannister. “The style appears to date back to George I. During construction, the main door and entry hall were relocated. They are now in the center of the two wings
. It appears the architect tried to have the façade of the east wing copied exactly, but as you pointed out, there are anomalies. The chimney pieces are a good example, and the east wing still has its original front entry. The west wing has one, but it is not in use.”

  When they reached the next floor, he opened several doors leading into modest-sized bedchambers. Two larger ones, with a sitting room between, would be theirs.

  “Goodness. This room has not seen a broom in decades.” She moved around the dark space, opening the tattered drapes to let in light. Something scurried across the floor. Gwen squeaked, but didn’t swoon. “What was that?”

  “A mouse, I suspect. Perhaps we should find a cat.”

  “Or two.”

  “This will be your room.”

  “It has a wonderful view.” She sounded skeptical.

  He took her arm and led her through to the sitting room. “This will be used by both of us and . . .” He continued walking to the opposite side. “This is my room.”

  His was a pleasant room, the same size as the one reserved for the mistress of the house. But the windows looked out into trees. He suspected Gwen would like her view better because it opened onto what was once a formal garden at the front of the house with the abbey ruins in the distance.

  He’d discovered his wife knew a lot about history. Their conversations about the past during their evening dinners on the road had been quite lively as she recited the origins of various towns in Yorkshire which she’d found in a traveler’s diary in her father’s library. Unfortunately, the tome had not mentioned Woodhaven Abbey.

  She frowned as she moved around the room. He wondered what she was thinking as she peered into an armoire and opened drawers. She shook the draperies and a cloud of dust rose into the air. “Phew, we have our work cut out for us, milord. I daresay I’ve never seen so much dust.”