by Cecilia Gray
He finally stopped speaking, but there was no silence with the roaring in her ears. Issues? Illogical? Headaches and pain? This was how he thought to ask for her hand? Lord Savage, rake or not, would never have subjected her to such insults.
“Do you read books penned by women, Your Grace?”
He eyed her warily. “Not recently. I find real life diverting enough.”
“Did you know my mother was a great reader of fiction by women? Never are our feelings so keenly presented than when done so by members of our own sex. She always told me that life’s great lessons, the lessons that we are meant to learn, could be taught in a book so one would not have to bear the pain of living them in real life.”
“Did you understand my proposal?” he asked, knitting his brow. “Bridget—”
“I’ve recently read a novel called Pride and Prejudice,” she interrupted. Her voice rose as she stepped back. “A novel in which the hero makes a rather bungled attempt at a proposal that does little more than insult the object of his affections. How many men could be saved from such an error if they would only read.”
She turned and briskly walked the perimeter of the lake back to the house, hoping he would not follow, but half-disappointed when he did not.
Woodbury had an idiot for a duke. How had everything gone so wrong? Benjamin shoved his hands through his hair and yanked at the ends. His botched proposal to Bridget came back to him in an instant.
Headaches and pain?
Had he actually said that out loud? What had he been thinking? He considered a cooling jump in the lake to clear his head. Then he considered going after her, but as he stared at her rigid back, saw her angry steps, he knew he would not be able to placate her.
Benjamin so rarely felt he made sense where she was concerned.
He’d brought her into a house of ill repute, entertained her in his private salon, cried in her arms, and spent the better part of his time on the Continent wrestling with how to understand his feelings for her.
She was a hoyden, unsuitable … and all of a sudden, so very necessary to him.
He waited until she entered Woodbury Hall before he followed. If he came upon her speaking to Damon again, he wasn’t sure he could be held responsible for what would occur. He knew for a fact that Damon would soon have to consider marriage and hated the idea of him turning his eye on Bridget. Even if Lord Savage seemed everything Bridget might want in a husband.
Damon was written up most as a hero in that wretched scandal sheet, at least according to the many women of his acquaintance. He had a way about him that convinced every chit that she was the center of his universe. He’d never seen a woman left unsatisfied after Damon, and if his handwritten accounts in the journal were to be believed, half the women he bedded were never again satisfied by another.
But that was all tales and lore. It merely scratched the surface of the man. Savage would never make Bridget happy if they were married.
Bridget needed to be challenged, not encouraged, and nurtured, not let run wild. Bridget needed Benjamin himself.
And just as importantly, he needed her.
He reached the front entrance to Woodbury and swept through the foyer and into the ballroom, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Of course not.
But he knew exactly where to find her.
When he entered the library, Bridget was seated by the picture window upon a champagne-colored settee. Light streamed into the room and highlighted her high cheekbones and the intermittent gold strands among the darkness of her hair. She glanced up from the book she was holding and studied him with dewy gray eyes.
Before he could utter a word, she spoke. “I accept, assuming my father welcomes the match.” The book snapped shut. “Alice, too.”
“Of course.” Had he gone into a fugue state? Had he already blurted all he felt in his heart and they had moved to reconciliation?
“As to our living arrangements, my first concern is Sera. If she does not want the dower house—”
“She may stay in residence wherever she desires,” he said. “Graham and I have already discussed it and made arrangements to accommodate whatever she determines is in her best interest.”
Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “As for timing, I would prefer we address the matter sooner rather than later. My father will be anxious, and I believe our attachment will relieve the need for my sisters to seek matches until next Season.”
His gut contracted sharply. “So you see me as an amenable solution to your sisters’ difficulties?”
“As you see me as an amenable solution to yours.” She rose from her perch and set the book back on its shelf.
They were coming to a logical agreement, born of sense. It was what he’d always wanted. No mess. No complications. But why wouldn’t she look at him? “I’ll speak to your father immediately. This takes precedence, given the need to secure the line. We could be married before Christmas.” He’d said it to shock her, but she only nodded.
“I don’t see the need for delay, either.”
“Christmas at Woodbury, then?” he prodded. “You would remain here. With me. As my wife.”
Wife. It was strangely satisfying and urgent to say the word. Wife. His hands itched to touch her as he said it again to himself. Wife.
She bristled but nodded again. “That seems reasonable.”
Reason and sense. This was the currency between them now.
“If there is nothing else to discuss … ?” she asked.
“Not until I speak with your father.”
She inclined her head briefly and walked out of the library, leaving him bereft. He walked over to the book she had been reading and pulled it from its shelf. It was the very book that she had referenced earlier.
He was flipping through the pages when a knock announced the arrival of his brother. Graham loomed in the doorway, looking far more serious than his usual jovial self.
Had everyone switched bodies? Now Graham was the serious one, Bridget was being practical, and he had somehow taken on internal yearnings completely unlike him. “Good, it’s you. I have something important to announce, but I wanted to tell you first.”
Graham raised a brow. “An announcement with the aura of a pronouncement? Go on.”
“I have yet to approach her father, but I intend to seek the hand of Miss Bridget Belle and for us to be married before Christmas.”
Graham did not laugh or jeer or gasp—not that Graham was given to gasping. He merely raised both brows and said, “Oh. That is soon.”
“It is,” Benjamin agreed. Or at least it was as far as Society was concerned. He wouldn’t mind sooner, if possible.
“I cannot imagine her father would object, so I suppose congratulations are in order.” Graham held out his hand and shook Benjamin’s vigorously, smiling for the first time that day from what Benjamin had seen.
He was to be married to Bridget. She would be his. Be in his home, in his life, in his bed—always. He would never be free of her imagination or musings or high jinks. There would be no need for a pretext to seek her out.
“Hmm,” Graham said. “I’m not sure I like the smile on your face. It’s… disconcerting.”
“Was I smiling?” Benjamin asked.
“Like a lunatic. Stop. You’re frightening me.” Graham shuddered.
“I’m frightening myself,” Benjamin admitted.
Dear Wife-to-be,
Arrangements have been made. I hope henceforth your correspondence is addressed with the appropriate salutation.
Your Husband-to-be
Chapter Eight
Bridget Belle’s wedding day
November 11, 1820
Woodbury, England
Bridget remembered Sera’s wedding day with a vividness typically reserved for one’s own happy occasion. She recalled the actual wedding itself with just as much clarity as she did the heady quest that had begun the moment she overheard Benjamin and Christian Hughes speaking of the missing journal.
&
nbsp; Sera had appeared resplendent, and tears of joy had streamed down Tom’s cheeks. So much so that the officiant had paused the proceedings twice to allow Tom to dab at his face and blow his nose. Even though his father had been disgusted at the display, the other guests had exchanged knowing glances that this union was sure to be a happy one.
There hadn’t been much occasion to return to the parish in Woodbury since that day, save for the occasional Sundays and Christmas, and even then, there was only a sliver of the pomp and circumstance that had run rampant at Sera’s wedding.
Today, however, was a return to grander times. Bridget stood in front of the officiant, Benjamin stiff at her side on the altar. Someone had decorated the ends of the pews with clusters of wildflowers, much as had been done for Sera’s wedding. Her family assembled in the pews behind her, exactly where she had sat and looked up at Sera.
How she wished for Sera’s advice before this moment … How she now knew that being the heroine wasn’t the same as wishing one were the heroine …
The ceremony began, and she tried to focus on the words. These were sacred vows and important exchanges. But as the officiant began to pontificate on the wonders of nature as some parallel to their marriage, her eyes were drawn to the man at her side.
Benjamin wore a dark-gray coat and pants, and his black boots with white trim had been buffed to a high sheen. His dark-brown hair had been slicked back from his face. She supposed that to many bystanders he’d appear stone-faced, but she could see his anxious state etched into the grooves above his nose, the strain across his knuckles, and way his mouth pressed in a firm line.
Married! And a duchess. In moments she would become Her Grace, Lady Bridget Abernathy. In marrying, she was ensuring her mother’s final wishes came true. Her soon-to-be husband was a man with whom she had parried over the years, and she’d been subject to his teasing and even his temper.
She was accomplishing all she had set about accomplishing, so why was she not more satisfied? Why was there a hollow feeling at her throat?
Suddenly, Benjamin’s arms were around her. They had been pronounced man and wife and she’d missed the moment. His dry lips brushed against her forehead, and then they were making their way down the aisle to cheers and well-wishes. Flower petals rained down on the ground, thrown by guests as they left the parish.
She tried to catch her breath and was bundled into a carriage along with Sera.
“I’ll see you at Woodbury Hall,” Benjamin said to her.
Was it over so soon?
He paused, then took her hand and laid one quick, firm kiss to the back of it before turning toward the merry crowd. She leaned back against the cushions of her seat, shocked. Sera leaned across the bench and took her hand.
“Your Grace.”
“No, don’t,” Bridget said. “Not when it is just us.”
“Bridget.” Sera smiled. “I felt the same on my marriage day as you look today. Confused. Overwhelmed. Years of speculating about an event and for it to be over so soon … You’re not alone.”
“I felt outside my own mind,” Bridget confessed with relief. “Is this how it is for all brides?”
“For most of the women I’ve spoken with, yes.”
Bridget grabbed Sera’s hands, desperately aware of the night ahead of her. “I am your elder, but you know more than I do of what’s to come.” The images of the journal ran through her mind. So much unknown. “Sera, you must put my mind at ease.”
Sera pulled the carriage curtains closed so the footman holding on just outside was shielded from their conversation. It plunged the carriage into darkness, making their circle even more intimate. “I cannot, Bridget. I wish that I could, but … What I am about to tell you, you must keep in your confidence. My husband and I … we never …”
“You cannot mean it,” Bridget said. “You were married three years!”
“It is not that we did not try,” Sera said. “Or that I was unwilling to be a full wife. But he was unable. Absolutely unable. Tom said it was something that had plagued him his whole life, even with his wife whom he loved very much. That is why he married me. He thought, if anyone could cure his problems….”
Her mind whirled at the new information. It was unfathomable.
“He was worried as to what would happen if his father discovered the truth,” Sera said. “I kept his secret. I was relieved, of course. But now it means I am unable to help you, and for that, I am sorry.”
“I will not whisper it to a soul,” Bridget promised. “Oh Sera. You must have been so lonely in your secrets.”
“I wasn’t,” Sera promised. “For a while, I had Tom by my side. And now, I have you.”
As the carriage rocked on toward Woodbury Hall, she felt sympathy for her sister and what she must have endured. Bridget had assumed her own issues were of the greatest import, but could it be that all her sisters bore a secret burden?
She pictured them, all alone, shrouded in their secrets, and had never felt so isolated. Only she wasn’t, was she? She would have a husband. A partner. Even if he was more serious than the husband she imagined. Even if his proposal was more practical than she desired. Even if she wanted more than he seemed able to give her. He was a good man, and it was a start.
The interminable length of the wedding celebration was going to drive him mad. What did he care for toasts and dancing and devil-may-care revelry? He wanted to be alone with Bridget. His wife.
What a curious word, and one that did not at all sum up the ways in which they were now forever entangled. He watched as she smiled and danced with her father, looking every inch the heroine of any novel. She looked lovely in her shimmering yellow dress that flowed over her curves. Her hair was an enticing pile of curls, pinned with pink and yellow flowers. She was perfect. And his.
But her beauty could not hide the worry at her brow that she hid well but he could see. He wanted to smooth it away for her, hold her.
Graham came up beside him, a satisfied grin on his face. “I’m told there are at least twelve more sets planned for dancing.”
He swore and set off for the dance floor. The last notes of the current tune were coming to an end as she bowed to her father. Her eyes widened as Benjamin reached her. Her father turned her over with little to-do.
“Wife,” he said.
“Husband,” she replied with a curtsy.
There was a satisfying clench in him at the word. “I believe it is time we left our guests.”
Her gaze shot wildly about the room. “Can we?”
“Our guests cannot leave until we retire. It is rude to keep them awake at all hours.”
“Oh.”
She seemed uncertain, and for a moment, he worried that she would insist upon staying. But instead, she laid her hand on his arm, and a tremor of relief and anticipation ran through him. There were requisite good-byes to be made, and he led her through them, a blur of faces and well-wishes.
When they came to the second floor of the west wing, she began to walk down the hall toward the room where she usually stayed.
“Not any longer,” he said, gesturing his head up another floor.
With a silent O on her mouth, she followed him to the top floor, reserved for the duke and his duchess. He had not yet begun sleeping there and only just ordered his items moved into his quarters. Her lady’s maid followed discreetly behind them, but he wished for a moment of privacy, so when they came to her room, he bade the maid stay in the hall.
“This is mine?” she asked.
“Do you like it?” His voice trembled slightly, his nerves taking hold for a moment. “They are a new addition I commissioned.”
She walked quickly over to the bookshelves that he’d had custom-built into every nook, wall, and cranny of the room. Sera had made no changes when she was duchess so he did not feel as if he would be setting the two Belle sisters against each other by redesigning the space.
“You are welcome to—and should—change what you don’t like. This is your home.”
“You added these? For me?” she asked, running a hand along the shelves.
“Yes, after you accepted. I thought …”
She turned toward him, her gray eyes luminous. She was beautiful. He’d always known that about her. But now she was beautiful and his.
“I love it,” she said. “I may change the works of art. I’ve never favored pastorals. And the sheets. But these …” She looked back at the bookshelves. “To live within a library has always been a dream of mine.”
He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and talk to her and ask her how she was and peel her dress off her, but she would need time to ready herself. Had she been prepared? He’d assumed that Alice had arranged the carriage ride with Sera for that purpose.
“I’ll leave you with your maid.”
He walked out quickly, before she could sense the direction of his thoughts. But was there any other way to handle it? Every woman who had come before her knew exactly what was to come. He had no precedent for how to proceed, for how to initiate her into what would now be a private act between the two of them.
If only there were some guide … Ah, but there was, wasn’t there?
He waited what felt like eternity, but he was sure no more than twenty minutes had passed. With his ear pressed to the connecting door, he could hear when her lady’s maid left her alone. With a deep breath, he opened the door between them.
She stood in a simple white nightgown with pearl buttons to her neck and lace at her sleeves. The hem brushed the top of her feet. It was, without a doubt, the least provocative garment he’d ever seen, but fire leaped beneath his veins nonetheless.
“What is that?” she asked.
He held the journal up in his hand. “The book,” he said. “We are to venture into unchartered territory, you and I. And as with every journey, there is a book that may foretell it.”
“But this is hardly unchartered for you,” she countered.
“Not in the same way.” He circled her, afraid to touch her too soon, come too close. “But I assure you this experience is as new to me as it is to you in many ways. You’re my wife.”
