HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  “Stop grinning at me.” Hazel glowered at her brother.

  “When you stop blushing.”

  “I’m not blushing. It’s simply the exertion of the journey,” she defended.

  “In a carriage?” Young Cuthbert Walter howled with laughter. He ribbed his father and said, “I knew she’d marry the first gent to turn her head.”

  “I did not.” Hazel huffed. “It’s not a love match, if you must know. It’s…it’s convenient.”

  “Hence the blush?”

  “I should have known you’d be bullheaded. If I had given it any thought, I wouldn’t have invited you.”

  Cuthbert continued grinning, more so after Hazel stuck out her tongue. Her final action as an unmarried woman, she thought with amusement.

  Having her brother present was a godsend, although she would only confess it under duress. He had made haste upon receiving the missive, accompanied by his tutor. No one seeing Cuthbert would guess him a young boy shy of fourteen, not with his long legs and remarkable eyes, the sort of eyes that shone green in the sunlight but brown in the shadows. He did not look a day under seventeen. The only aspect that gave him away was his unforgivable use of youthful slang, not that many guests would hear past his nearly unintelligible Cornish accent, all the stronger to antagonize his family.

  Once the carriage pulled to a stop at the entrance of the red sandstone chapel, Hazel experienced each moment as a succession of flashes. One moment she was staring at the door. The next she was midway down the aisle. In a blink, she was at Mr. Hobbs’s side, repeating after the curate.

  The only moment she could recall with perfect clarity was the pronouncement of man and wife.

  Hazel turned to Mr. Hobbs, arching her neck to look up at him. My husband, she thought with a peculiar tingle in her toes. He lowered his head to kiss her, and she mistook the moment, thinking he meant to kiss her on the mouth. With a pucker of her lips and a tilt of her head, she angled to meet him, only to realize a second too late that he had been aiming for her cheek. His lips collided with the corner of her mouth. Her stomach fluttered—from embarrassment, of course, nothing more. When he leaned back, frowning, she gurgled a laugh, feeling a right ninny.

  In another blink, she faced both sets of parents, dazedly made her way to the carriage on her husband’s arm, and headed back to Trelowen, a married woman.

  His wife’s leg bumped against his each time the carriage wheels slid in the mud. Either she did not mind, or she was too nervous to adjust her seating. He could not explain why, but he found the contact reassuring. Without turning his head, he eyed her profile.

  His wife.

  Mrs. Hobbs.

  Hazel Hobbs.

  Would they ever be familiar enough for given names?

  She must think him rude, for as a gentleman, he should be sitting across from her with his back to the horses, and yet he had ignored the bench and sat next to her. It seemed the natural thing to do. They had, after all, exchanged vows.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “We’ve not discussed a honeymoon. Would you care to visit London? Travel the continent?”

  It had been a pressing thought during his sleepless night. Despite her situation and poor choices, she was a young woman who had undoubtedly never traveled outside of the West Country, not had a chance to plan the wedding of her dreams, nor had an opportunity to share plans, wishes, or desires with her betrothed. Rather than spend a lifetime resenting the match and judging her decisions, he would prefer they build a life together, starting with his attempt to see to her happiness. Assuming she did not choose, instead, to pine for lost love.

  Mrs. Hobbs took her time in considering his question. Her leg bumped against his four times before she answered.

  “I hardly see the point,” she said.

  Ah.

  Harold turned to face the opposite window, not wanting her to see how deeply her words stung. This was not a love match with two lovesick youths desperate for alone time, desirous to see the world together. The words stung, nonetheless.

  “I didn’t mean that how it sounded.” Her words rushed together, her voice breathy. “What I meant was I don’t see the point of gaining a new home and family only to travel away from it all. I would like to learn what life is like as Mrs… Mrs. Hobbs.”

  Harold angled away from her for a better view of her expression. She stared at her knees, a tell-tale pink bridging across her nose and cheeks.

  As he studied her, he searched for a reply but found none that would do justice to his thoughts, for where would he begin to say he had not the foggiest what life would be like for the bearer of the name of Mrs. Hobbs? In many ways, he had his own multifaceted role with which to acquaint himself. Life in England, his return to Trelowen, his struggle with his father and the finances, his concerns for Nana, his new position as a husband. He was one part flattered—his heart drumming a syncopated beat—that she was most interested in her new role as his wife and one part disappointed that she did not want to escape all of this with him—two strangers forsaking responsibility to run away for a few weeks, perhaps falling in love in the process.

  If Patrick could hear his thoughts, he would snort with laughter. Never had anyone accused Harold of being a romantic.

  Trelowen visible from the window, the carriage turned down the drive.

  “My mother is nothing if not a party planner,” he said. “The breakfast should not disappoint.” After a short pause, he added, “I hope you were not too disappointed by the ceremony. It’s my understanding brides dream of London weddings.”

  What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course, she was disappointed. If he could unsay the words, he would.

  A quick glance to him then back to her knees, she said, “Not all women. I liked it as it was. If I had planned our wedding—” She stopped with a sharp intake of breath as though to recall her words just as he had wished to recall his. “Well, if I had planned it, it would have been as it was.”

  He doubted she had ever envisioned him as the bridegroom. She did not say ought to the contrary, however. Instead, she laced tensed fingers, her blush deepening, causing him to question his doubts. Who had she envisioned? The carriage rocked to a halt, but Harold’s gaze remained on Mrs. Hobbs’s profile. The door opened, but his eyes held steady. In the span of a five-minute carriage ride, this stunning stranger had managed to shock him to his powdered roots, infusing him with hope.

  What should have been the most awkward wedding breakfast of the year was a raving success.

  When Harold stepped over the threshold with Mrs. Hobbs, the two were greeted with a party already underway. One of the guests was playing the pianoforte while a sizable group danced in the drawing room, never mind that it was well before noon, and in fact earlier than any of the guests had risen in a week save for hunting days. Perfumed flowers, most fake except the predominant ones from a hothouse, adorned both the dining and drawing rooms. A feast stretched across two sideboards. A cake large enough to feed the family for a week centered the table.

  Everyone attended. Everyone. Never in Harold’s wildest dreams would he have anticipated the turnout. Every guest, even the Earl of Driffield, stayed for the wedding breakfast.

  No sooner had the newlyweds entered the drawing room than Mrs. Hobbs was whisked away by Lady Williamson and Miss Plumb, the three disappearing into the dining room. The absence of his wife did not stop the guests from congratulating him on the nuptials. He would have preferred her to be at his side. Only minutes after feeling the stir of hope for their marriage did he feel robbed. One hand after another he shook. One smile after another he exchanged. Propriety worked its magic, for the scandal that instigated the event transformed into gossip of how handsome a couple they made and how everyone swore they witnessed the budding romance the whole of the hunting party.

  Just as he turned towards the dining room to find his bride, Mrs. Butterbest appro
ached. Smugness did not become her. Wrinkles creased her over-powdered upper lip as she awarded Harold a complacent smile.

  “I’ll be telling everyone I had a hand in the matchmaking,” she said in way of congratulations.

  His second attempt to head for the dining room was intercepted by Messrs. Trethow, his father- and brother-in-law. The elder Mr. Trethow embraced him and called him son. The younger Mr. Trethow shook his hand heartily, the youth’s other hand holding a plate piled with food. The boy looked more man than youth but had not quite grown into himself, a lanky fellow, all legs, and bearing the brightest smile in the room. Harold would hazard to guess the youth knew nothing of the circumstances that had united his sister in matrimony to the man before him other than impulsive infatuation or the desires of both parents to wed their offspring together. Were that either could have been true.

  Harold’s third attempt to head for the dining room to extricate his bride was foiled but this time not by someone in his path, rather Mrs. Hobbs herself, Nana on her arm. Nana patted Mrs. Hobbs’s hand while chattering until her companion laughed. His grandmother was in good form today, as spirited as he had seen her since his arrival home from India. The two ladies approached him, Nana with glistening eyes, his wife with a shy smile. He kissed his grandmother on the cheek before she drifted in the direction of a group of guests.

  Mrs. Hobbs stood before him, eyes trained on his cravat. “Lady Collingwood is under the impression my name is Helena rather than Hazel. For all my corrections, she can’t be dissuaded.”

  Harold’s lips twitched into an almost smile. “Don’t take it as an insult. She’s confused you for my mother. Lucky for you, she adores my mother.”

  She made to reply but nodded instead.

  Offering his arm, he escorted her about the room. They made as much conversation as they had at the soiree—hardly any. With each attempt to strike up a discussion or ask a question, they were interrupted by well-wishers of one type or another. Harold gave up his efforts after a time.

  Not long into the breakfast did he find himself stepping back altogether, positioning himself in a corner to observe the festivities. He was not forgotten. On the contrary. His blushing bride looked more to Harold than to anyone else in the room, even while she spoke with guests, and each time their eyes met, the pink across her cheeks darkened. Not a bride blushing with love but more likely the embarrassment of having married a stranger; nevertheless, he found flattery in each blush.

  Although she had little more than a couple of days to prepare for the occasion, she was stunning, easily the most beautiful woman in the room by his estimation. There was more in this world than beauty. He wanted more than beauty, far more, but that did not keep him from admiring her. Her dress, the same she wore at the soiree, was adorned with a new embellishment of embroidery along the hem and bodice. If he were not mistaken, a few extra bows had been added, as well. The dress showed her figure to advantage, so much so that he had to turn away to keep from thinking of the wedding night. The thought brought as much pleasurable anticipation as it did pain.

  His eyes flicked to the Earl of Driffield.

  His thoughts turned stormy. How intimate had they been? Harold had little reason to believe his bride a virgin, not if she were under Driffield’s spell. The fear of pregnancy still pressed its way into his conscience. The last thing he needed to do on his wedding day was observe the two lovers, but he found himself doing just that.

  He watched his bride. He watched Driffield. He searched for signs of something, anything, stolen glances, wistful exchanges.

  The two masked their affection well, for as far as he could tell, neither paid the other any mind. Had it not been for the scandal, he would not assume they were acquainted. Hazel acted so much the part of a bride that no one outside present company would dare suspect her of being forced to marry a stranger to save herself from ruin. More curious, her gaze continued to find his rather than the earl’s, the ever-present rosy cheeks teasing him into a half-smile in spite of the direction of his thoughts.

  By the close of the wedding breakfast, he spared little thought for the earl, scandal, or guests, his attention riveted on Mrs. Hazel Hobbs.

  Shadows danced across the wall, furniture becoming ghostly outlines in the flicker of the hearth fire. Harold’s hand rested on the door handle of his bedchamber. He ran a finger across the cold metal.

  Ought he?

  So long had he stood at the door, his left hand tingled, the arm weary from being held at an angle, weighted by the candlestick holder.

  Ought he?

  One sitting room away awaited his wife. Or he assumed she waited. She could have refused to move from the guest wing to the family wing. She could have refused to take the room adjacent to his, only a small sitting room between, so small in fact it could nary be called a sitting room. A reading closet was more apt. Space for a narrow window, corner fireplace, and chaise longue. Nothing as extraordinary as the lord and lady’s suite.

  Had she accepted the new room but locked the adjoining door? Had she barricaded herself with pillows and furniture, or perhaps hid behind a door with a fire poker?

  Images of how the evening might proceed flashed through his mind. He could take her in a passionate frenzy, prove to her he was a superior lover to Driffield, vanquishing the earl from her mind. He could propose they talk instead, get to know each other before consummating the marriage. He could not attend her at all, give them more time, give her more time. She could not possibly want him to go to her.

  Yet how could he not? Regardless of circumstances, he wanted this to be a real marriage. Had his father not gotten in the way, had Driffield not gotten in the way, they could be enjoying tonight as two newlyweds in love.

  Another factor remained ever present: the possibility of a child. Going to her tonight meant protecting her.

  Resting his forehead to the door, he decided if he stood there any longer, his toes cold and numb, he would lose all courage. He pressed the handle and stepped into the sitting room.

  The fire, however quaint, lit the space with vibrant light and heat. He took another moment to breathe, smooth a hand over his banyan, switch the candlestick to the opposite hand to shake the pins and needles from his left, and still his beating heart. So fast and so loud did it beat, Harold could hear little else. Not the crackle of the fire. Not the hoot of the owls. A hand to his chest, he made the ten steps across the room to his wife’s bedchamber door.

  Ought he?

  Butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

  Deep breath.

  He rapped on the bedchamber door thrice, waited, then pressed the handle.

  Unlocked, the door yawned before him. Harold surveyed the room, half expecting to find it empty. The hearth fire cast shadows just as it had in his room, the longer shadows of a tired fire. In the middle of the room, cozied against a canopied alcove, stood the four-poster bed, the curtains drawn to tease at the figure beneath the bedding. He swallowed, his heart pounding more furiously, if possible.

  Mrs. Hobbs was most certainly in the room. The bedding was pulled up to her chin, the only visible part of her being her head. He would have laughed had he not been so arrested by the scene. Unpowdered auburn hair fanned across the pillow, curling a halo about her face. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

  Wordless, he walked to the bedside table and set down the candlestick holder. She watched him. He watched her watching him. Parting the banyan to reveal his nightshirt beneath, he slipped the robe off his shoulders, folded it, and set it next to the candle.

  When he lifted the edge of the bedding, she squeaked. “The candle.”

  Sheet half raised, he stared blankly.

  She burrowed further under cover. “Could you douse the candle?” In a near whisper, she added, “Please?”

  Flame extinguished, he climbed into the bed next to her. Although their bodies did not touch, he co
uld feel her heat along his side. Could she hear his heart? Feel the wings of the butterflies?

  A sliver of moonlight peeked through a narrow parting in the window curtains. He stared at the beam, shadows licking at its edges. The side of his body closest to her beaded with sweat, the other side still chilled.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, his voice cracking, much to his dismay.

  Silence.

  He rubbed his feet together and watched the imperceptible movement of the moonlight.

  “We can wait,” he said at length.

  In the quietest of voices, his bed companion said, “I want to…tonight.”

  His body needed no more invitation than her lips forming the word want. Anticipation alone had hardened him before he stepped into the room, but now he felt the stoke of the fire in his loins, his body yearning to know the pleasure of his wife.

  However experienced she might be, he dared not take her swiftly. He wanted to savor their first coupling and show her tenderness. Turning to face her, he took a moment to admire her cherubic face before leaning to kiss her cheek. His lips lingered, gauging her response. She remained still, her breath jagged. He kissed her cheek again, brushing a finger over her lips. She made no movement, her breath sharper. Kissing the corner of her mouth, he moved his hand beneath the cover to lace his fingers with hers. She squeezed his hand with painful tightness.

  Harold propped himself on his elbow to gaze down at her. The tip of her tongue flicked her bottom lip before tugging it between her teeth.

  Untangling their fingers, he swept his hand over her leg to find the edge of the nightdress. She quivered at the touch, her lips parting in a gasp. He tugged the fabric up and over her hips. His body throbbed with longing. Cheek inches from her lips, he felt her hot breath.