Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  By the time she arrived, John and one of the workmen were busy unloading a small mattress, probably destined for a maid’s room. The wagon from the village was almost bare, but a second one—the one that had come all the way from Longley—was still full. It had arrived yesterday, too late to unload.

  John spotted her and set down his end of the mattress, motioning to a third man who’d followed him out of the house. “Good morning, lady wife. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, but you should have awakened me. I want to see everything. La, it is exciting, is it not?”

  His smile reached all the way to his eyes, and her heart skidded to a stop before pulsing again. “I love your enthusiasm. Here.” He extended his arm. “Allow me to escort you into your almost furnished residence.”

  They were both dressed in tattered clothing today, but proud as peacocks in full plume. Gwen sighed over her purchases, directing the two men where to place the chairs and tables in the entry, the drawing room, and the dining room. The library desk and books were not yet unpacked, so she climbed the stairs and wandered into her sleeping chamber. A four-poster bed now dominated the room, and a small writing desk and chair would soon occupy the corner. A substantial armoire stood against the far wall. All that was lacking were the bed hangings and the carpet.

  She raised her arms as she twirled in her space. The floors and walls were spotless and the sunlight cheerful. She’d be happy in this room.

  Taking a final look around, she traipsed into the small sitting room she and John would use. Two chairs were now placed in front of a fireplace with a small table between them. She moved on to John’s room and gasped in surprise. An enormous bed dominated the space. The bed must have come from Longley because she’d never seen it before. Carved snakes crawled up the bedposts and curled into the headboard.

  She shuddered as John approached and laid his hand on her shoulder. Her skin warmed under the cloth, and the butterflies in her belly took wing.

  He shook his head. “This bed makes you feel warm and safe with those snakes everywhere, does it not? Remind me to punch my brother next time I see him.”

  “I assume it is from your brother’s estate.”

  “It is. This bed was Father’s. Jeremy hated it and vowed he’d never sleep in it. I assume it is his little joke, sending it here to me.”

  “Oh dear. Snakes are almost as bad as Mama’s sarcophagus.”

  He turned to look at her. “What? You wouldn’t like to sleep with snakes? I am shocked.”

  “Did the late earl have a fondness for the creatures? Why would he purchase a bed like this and sleep in such surroundings?”

  “Snakes are in our family crest. Jeremy cannot imagine why, although we’ve speculated for years. When we asked Papa, he gave us a sly smile and a ribald answer which I shall not repeat.”

  “Oh posh. I am a modern woman. I can hear it.”

  “But I cannot repeat it.” He laughed and hissed in her ear.

  “You are a tease, Jonathan. Miranda warned me you would be.”

  “Did she now.”

  “Indeed. And it seems your brother is one, too.”

  “If you hear me call out in the night, you must promise me you’ll come running with some kind of weapon, something suitable to fell snakes.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A lady’s boot? The fireplace poker? A kitchen knife?”

  “Hmm. Remind me to keep an assortment under my pillow.” She paused. “What else did you do to earn your reputation as a tease, my lord?”

  He smirked. “Did Miranda tell you about the time I helped her open her trunk. The lid was stuck. She dug out one of Will’s scalpels, and I inserted it along the edge of the lid. The trunk’s lid finally gave way, revealing a scandalous garment that once belonging to Miranda’s mother.”

  “I believe she mentioned that occasion. When she tried to pull the nightgown out of your hands, you both lost your footing, and you fell on top of her just as Jeremy walked by in the hall.”

  “We were innocent, but Jeremy was most serious back then, and I nearly suffered a punch in the jaw for being a good Samaritan.”

  Gwen shook her head. “You probably staged the entire thing to get your hands on Miranda.”

  “I did not.” John grabbed a rag from the floor. “Here, tug away, and let’s see what happens when one of us loses our grip.”

  She tittered and joined the game, pulling with all her might. John tugged harder, drawing her forward. They were both laughing hard by then. Gwen forgot to hold on, and John fell backward, his leg catching hers, as they both tumbled onto the mattress that had not yet been lifted onto the bedframe.

  “Oh, you are a rogue, husband. You did that on purpose.” She smiled down at him from her vantage point on top, aware of the hard chest beneath her breasts and a ridge under her stomach. He rose up and rolled her over so he was on top. She giggled as she gazed into his face, but his expression no longer held mirth. Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. She closed her eyes, wanting only sensations—smooth lips gently pressing against hers, a callused hand stroking her cheek, the smell of leather and clove-infused soap. His lips moved, coaxing hers open, and his tongue touched hers. She moaned with pleasure as her breasts tightened. Her hand stroked the muscles of her husband’s upper arms, and she moved beneath him, trying to get closer to that elusive something firing her senses. His mouth opened over hers as he deepened the kiss. Heavens. She might go mad with wanting. Her breasts ached, and her core pulsed with a strange need. When he left her mouth to taste the flesh behind her ear, she whimpered.

  John rolled to the side and sat on the mattress. “Ballocks, what am I doing?”

  He pushed his hair back with his palm and turned his head to look at her. “I am sorry, Gwen. I don’t know what happened. One moment we were playing like children, and the next . . .”

  She could only look at him, this beautiful man who had given her a wonderful moment. She’d wanted him to kiss her since the wedding, and finally he had, and it was as splendid as she’d imagined.

  Still tingling from the encounter, she rose to a sitting position and put her arms around John’s back, feeling his body tense. “No need to apologize. I believe it is quite appropriate for married couples to share kisses, even though we are not exactly in the most romantic of settings.”

  He seemed to relax as he disengaged her arms. “You are an understanding woman, Gwen. I nearly embarrassed you here in a place where workmen are at this moment trudging up the stairs with a piece of furniture.”

  “Oh dear.” Her face flamed as she stood, smoothed her skirt, and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

  John stood as well, leaning down to wipe a smudge from her nose. “It shall not happen again. I promise.”

  But I want it to happen again. And more.

  She meandered into the sitting room and back to her bedchamber. Pausing in front of the long windows, she gazed at the ruined walls of the abbey, her emotions still in turmoil. This was indeed a dilemma of the first order. Did she have to take the initiative and seduce her husband? Did she have to demand her marital rights? How did this quandary come to pass? She wasn’t sure, of course, but she deemed the situation highly irregular.

  Maybe John is one of those men who prefers the company of other gentlemen?

  Nonsense. But it was time to have a talk, a deep one, one that might not have a conclusion to her liking.

  Chapter 12

  John pressed against an outside wall to allow the workmen to pass. The couch was long and heavy, but so was a part of his body that necessitated an immediate visit to the horse trough.

  He leaned over and splashed water onto his heated face. What had possessed him to kiss his wife in the middle of a workspace? And it hadn’t been a chaste peck to the cheek. It had been a full-blown, mo
uth-devouring, wanton kiss full of passion that would, in other circumstances, have led to a heated bedding.

  Keeping his promise to respect her individuality and to give her time to get to know him was getting more difficult by the day. He liked Gwen. What was more, he desired her. She was buxom and bouncy, and she nearly drove him crazy in her fashionable gowns more suited to a London drawing room than a moldering ruin of a manor house.

  She wasn’t displaying her charms today, you dolt. She was high-necked, unfashionable, and working alongside you.

  Bloody hell, he’d never been this randy. Perhaps he should service himself, something he hadn’t done since his early years at Cambridge. Never gambling to excess, he’d always had a coin or two to pay for a quick tumble with a barmaid, once he came into funds provided by his indulgent father.

  But that was long ago, long before he’d been sent on a journey to visit possible facilities suitable for women like his deranged mother, and had learned about the origins of madness.

  Possible origins. Everyone had a theory. Nothing was proven.

  Now he was married, but because of his personal vow, he was keeping himself from the company of the one woman he could have at will. Knowing Gwen, she was probably curious about the marital act. With careful precautions and reasonable care, there shouldn’t be any impediments to the consummation. French letters were readily available in such places as pubs and apothecaries, and he would spill his seed outside her body to be sure.

  Was it too soon? Would Gwen be a willing participant?

  His member hardened again at the thought.

  She seemed to enjoy the kiss, and he was sure she had grown fond of him these past few weeks. They had spent nearly every day together, and their evenings had included long talks about plans for the estate and their future activities while they’d played whist or sat quietly together before the fire.

  His original plan had been to wait until they were settled in their own house. In a day or two, all would be ready. Lionel had gone to the village this morning and would return with their new housemaids and a footman. The cook would be arriving imminently and would have quarters off the kitchen. Sadie had already moved her belongings to a small room near the nursery suite and was now packing up Gwen’s clothes.

  They hadn’t hired a gardener yet. Household staff took priority. The garden near the rear of the house would be Gwen’s domain. She’d told him she wanted all manner of herbs there, both medicinal and for cooking. Miranda had given her a list, and Gwen wanted to do the planting herself.

  Deflating into decency, he returned to the house. The second wagon was almost unloaded. A lovely escritoire destined for Gwen’s room was the last item. The piece had belonged to Mother, but it was not among the furnishings she had chosen to take with her to the dower house.

  The desk reminded him of Mother, and its presence in the house would fortify his resolve to remain childless, as would many of the pieces sent from Longley. Jeremy had told him to send for what he wanted. Longley was too large for Jeremy’s small family, and many of the rooms would be closed and unused.

  He had not sent for Father’s bed, the one he and Jeremy had made jests about as children. John disliked it, but he would have to make do until he could justify the cost of another bed.

  Perhaps I should bed Gwen there.

  If anything could cool ardor, a bed surrounded by carved snakes might do it.

  A few small boxes remained to be unpacked, but the main work was done. Gwen’s task now was to put that great mess indoors to rights. But for once they had adequate help, and she needn’t do more than direct placement of rugs and furniture, and decide what pictures to hang.

  He’d leave her to it.

  One wagon had gone, and the other—from Longley—would remain for his use. He climbed up beside the driver and directed him to the stable. He hadn’t exercised his horse today. Perhaps now would be a good time to check on his pasture.

  The day was bright and cold. Fall had arrived, and winter would bring rain and cold. He felt guilty leaving Gwen indoors on such a beautiful day, but they would have warmer days. Perhaps they could celebrate their refurbished house with the picnic he’d promised her the day they’d arrived.

  He saddled his horse and rode out over the meadow, heading toward a distant rise where his tenant, Harry Trevelyan, kept the new flock. Until John educated himself through the books he’d purchased, he was relying on Trevelyan to advise him about the care of sheep. The lane wound through tall trees and emerged near the sturdy cottage that had been vacant these last several weeks.

  A plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Odd. He turned into the lane and drew up before the house. The structure was much like the ones other tenants occupied. Small. No more than three rooms, with a shelter for a horse.

  He dismounted and strode to the door. Should he knock? It was his property, but he knew not whom he might encounter. The occupants of the other cottages on his property had said this tenant was here one day and gone the next, leaving no word about his whereabouts or if he planned to return.

  A shuffling noise followed by a woman’s laughter came from within. He raised his fist and knocked. The noise ceased, and the door cracked.

  “Who is it?”

  “John Montague, your landlord.”

  The door opened fully, and a woman stood before him. She was small and thin with delicate features and blond hair so pale it was almost white. She was dressed modestly in a black high-necked gown with long fitted sleeves, and her aqua eyes appeared frightened.

  “Please come in.” She stepped aside as he entered. A fire warmed the interior, and a pot of water heated on the hob. “Would you care for tea? I was about to make some.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He turned to her, more curious than angry, although she must know she was trespassing. “I was told this cottage was unoccupied.”

  “This was my father’s cottage.” Her eyes lowered. “He became ill last year. I took him to my half-sister’s home where he could be cared for properly.”

  “Is he planning to return?”

  “He died two weeks ago.”

  “Please accept my condolences. I was unaware.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “I know it is unusual, but I was hoping you would let me stay.” She paused. “Woodhaven has always been my home. I have nowhere else to go.”

  He scanned the room. It appeared clean although sparsely furnished. Two doors, most likely leading to bedchambers, were firmly closed. A man’s gloves were on a table, probably her father’s. A shawl hung on a hook.

  It was highly unusual for a single woman to live alone, especially one who appeared to be quite young. How would she live? He’d hoped to have a paying tenant in this cottage. If he wanted the abbey to be profitable again, he’d have to harden his heart against women with pleading eyes and soft voices.

  “I’m surprised you returned. Would it not be best for you to remain with your sister?”

  She fingered her apron and pursed her lips. “I remained in Devonshire to care for Papa until he died, but I would not live there. My half-sister and I do not get along. I returned as soon as he was buried.”

  A dilemma, but he wasn’t heartless.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. For now, you can certainly remain. But I advise you to consider your options. Surely there is a relative who will take you in.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled as if amused by his statement.

  He turned to go. This was all highly unusual. He needed Gwen’s advice in this matter. The woman was well spoken but obviously impoverished. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I was told you were kind. I am gratified my sources were correct.”

  She opened the door, and he went outside into the bright sunshine.

  He paused and turned. “I do
n’t believe you told me your name.”

  “I beg your pardon. It is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Addersley.” She narrowed her eyes. “I believe we are distant cousins.”

  Addersley? Cousins?

  He turned to question her further, but the door was firmly closed. Lord Livesley had told him there were no more Addersleys here. Odd he hadn’t said anything about Elizabeth’s father being a tenant, albeit an absent one. Questions crowded his mind. Had her father been in his right mind when he died? Did other Addersleys live nearby?

  He mounted his horse and rode back to the house. Gwen could advise him how long he should allow Miss Addersley to remain. She didn’t seem to be in immediate want, but it was highly improper for a single lady to live alone.

  Along the way, other buildings long in disrepair dotted the landscape. Woodhaven appeared to have once been profitable, supported by many farms. It could be again with new agricultural methods and tenants willing to try them.

  Feeling good about his future, he galloped back to the abbey, eager to share his news about a newly discovered cousin. Gwen would want to invite her to visit, perhaps even to temporarily share their home until she could get settled elsewhere.

  What if Miss Addersley had tried to inform Mother of her relative’s death and had somehow learned of her condition?

  He pulled up a quarter mile short of the house, dismounted, and walked his horse. Strolling helped him to think, and this new thought required careful consideration.

  Until he knew more about Elizabeth Addersley, he would not mention her to Gwen. He was not ready to share his family secrets.

  She would learn of them all too soon.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gwen surveyed her bedchamber and smiled. While the walls were bare of adornment, they were clean, as was the floor and the windows. The light blue draperies, hung this morning, added needed color to the room, and the flowered carpet was soft under her feet.