When She Said I Do

by Celeste Bradley

  Dade steadied their mother and nodded tersely to Callie. “It’s not too late, you know,” he murmured. “We can have this whole matter annulled before anyone pours the tea.”

  Callie shook her head. It was far, far too late. “No.”

  Archie harrumphed. “Don’t be silly, boy! Callie and this fellow are mad for each other. One need only look at them to know that this is a love for the ages!”

  Callie felt Mr. Porter before she heard or saw him. She knew the heat of him at her back and let out a breath when his arm twined about her waist from behind. Swallowing hard, she smiled at her father. “Yes, Papa.”

  It was silly but it would be easier on them all if her parents continued in their self-induced delusion of her love match.

  The unknown couple then approached to offer their condol—er, congratulations. The gentleman, a big, brown sort of fellow who sported the clothing of the gentry and the hands of a farmer, stood diffidently awaiting an introduction from Mr. Porter. When the ongoing uncomfortable silence informed them all that none was forthcoming, he bowed to Callie and offered his hand.

  “Mrs. Porter, we are very pleased to meet you on this fine day. I am Mr. Henry Nelson and this is my wife, Betrice.” The lady was pretty, in a sharp-eyed, watchful sort of way, with delicate features and lovely black hair. Callie liked Nelson at once and decided that while Betrice might seem a bit high-strung, she was a fount of normality compared to Mr. Porter.

  Callie curtsied. “Thank you for coming. I—” She stopped, confused. “Did the vicar ask you here to witness?”

  Nelson laughed. “No, cousin. It was Lawrence who sent for us.”

  “Cousin!” Callie’s smile widened into something truly welcoming. “Oh, you’re family!” She turned her smile onto Betrice. “Oh, if you came so quickly you must live quite close by!”

  Betrice nodded, her eyes flicking toward Mr. Porter, who had not relinquished his hold on Callie but neither had he taken the merest notice of his cousins. Callie would have liked to plant her elbow firmly in his belly for being so public with his … er … affection, but she could hardly let these people, who likely knew everyone in the village, have any worse opinion of her than they surely already did.

  Nelson nodded and smiled. “We have the neighboring farmhold, Springdell. Nothing so grand and impressive as the estate of Amberdell Manor, of course.”

  Callie blinked. “Amberdell?”

  Mr. Porter’s arm tightened. “Calliope has not yet seen the grounds of Amberdell Manor, but I believe she has a fine appreciation of the house.”

  Estate. “Yes, the house. I am most … er … impressed.”

  He has an estate. Great cannonballs—I have an estate! Her smile widened. “I cannot wait to gain a true appreciation of the grounds,” she purred.

  Something happened to Mr. Porter. She only knew because he had her pressed to his large, warm side and she was aware of every breath he took—so when she felt his chest spasm and heard a small choked sound in his throat, she was the only one in the room to notice.

  Could it have been a rusty chuckle?

  Do hermits laugh?

  Chapter 3

  After the ceremony Callie stood before the entrance of Amberdell Manor, where the aged limestone basked in the last golden light of afternoon, and bid good-bye to everything she knew.

  Mama wept, Papa snuffled into his voluminous handkerchief, and Dade glowered. Mr. Porter lurked near the grand door, as if guarding it against intruders. Well, considering the past twenty-four hours, perhaps one could understand his territorialism.

  Good-byes went round and then round again. Callie practically had to shove Dade into the vehicle, even as he cast a venomous glare at Mr. Porter over her shoulder.

  The carriage carrying Dade and her parents had scarcely rounded the bend and clattered noisily out of sight before Callie began to feel far away from them. She loved them all, entirely and absolutely, but the sweet silence of this remote country estate swept over her like a cool wave in summer. Her primary emotion as she let her aching arm drop was relief.

  She’d done it. It was yet difficult for her to believe. After all the years of allowing her own yearnings to be nudged aside by the needs of her parents and her siblings, she had finally acquired a life of her own.

  For a time, at any rate. She could not imagine remaining here forever with a stranger. The bargain she must fulfill stabbed at her recent relief and the peace drained from her abruptly.

  Mr. Porter had wed her. True, he had only done it to spare himself the bullet in Dade’s pistol—but he had done it all the same. He’d made of her a wife and himself a husband. And husbands, she’d been led to believe, had expectations.

  Well, she would not learn what those would be until she faced him down and demanded he explain his outlandish “terms.”

  Stalling, she took a moment to rearrange the tiny corkscrews of hair that had escaped their pins and to smooth the front of her spencer. Then, taking a breath, Callie turned back toward the house.

  Mr. Porter loomed beneath the portico, rather like the specter of Death in his black hood.

  Callie refused to allow the creeping alarm to rise within her. Practicality—that was what was called for to battle such theatrics. If she knew anything after dealing with her mother and her sisters, it was that nothing punctured atmospheric drama like a good dose of common sense.

  She tilted her head and smiled at her shiny new husband. “All you lack is a scythe. Shall I fetch you one from the farm stables?”

  He gazed at her for a long moment, then grunted noncommittally. Grunting? Really? Callie took a deep breath and firmed her resolve. It was not for nothing that she’d herded her four younger brothers all her life! Lifting her chin, she fixed her smile on with plaster and nails. “Shall we discuss our living arrangements now, sir?”

  He said nothing.

  Her teeth were beginning to grow dry. Mr. Porter did what he did best, which was to loom, or lurk, or possibly skulk. The blasted hood hid most of his face, as usual.

  “Tell me, husband, do you intend to wear that thing for our entire marriage?”

  His hand twitched, almost as if he wished to reach for his hood. Would he have lifted it, or tightened it further?

  She inhaled. “My brother Orion—he’s the third son—had a great attachment to a blanket when he was an infant. I suppose it was not so much a blanket as it was a square of fur cut from an elderly tigerskin rug. It was a prize from my aunt Clemmie’s adventuring days. Orion slept with it every night and carried it with him at all times. It was a vile thing, grubby and balding, but it was such a chore to pry it from him that we just let him carry the filthy thing until he tired of it. One day it simply disappeared. We all thought there would a tremendous uproar over it, but Rion never mentioned it again. I used to wonder if it had been part of him for so long that he eventually simply shed it, like a … a … scab.” Um, well, perhaps not the most ladylike topic of conversation on her wedding day. But honestly, it wasn’t as though she’d had any practice.

  At least it seemed she’d finally gotten his attention. His hood turned to regard her.

  “Are you implying that wearing this hood is … infantile?” His voice, rough and husky, held a tone of astonishment.

  Couldn’t have said it better myself. “Oh, not at all!” Absolutely. “Why, I’m sure that in the Cotswolds hoods are all the rage.” Nutter. “I’m sure I’d love to have one of my own. Imagine, er, never having to think of one’s hair.”

  Yes, now she was babbling, but at least she wasn’t hiding under a rug, like some people.

  “No.”

  She leaned forward eagerly. “No, what?”

  “No, I will not be shedding my hood.”

  Curiosity made her fingers twitch. If one of her brothers behaved so ridiculously, she’d simply snatch the silly thing off their heads and run for it, giggling. One toss to Attie and the hood would never be seen again, unless it suddenly appeared on the statue in the square.

&
nbsp; He seemed to sense her impulse, for he held up his hand, palm out. “You wished to discuss our agreement.”

  He held up his hand again as she leaned forward eagerly. “Our arrangement shall be thus. I will come to your room every evening. You will do as I command. I will then leave you alone until the next evening. Your days shall be your own, although I desire that you venture no further than the village.”

  Incensed, Callie crossed her arms. “Command? I hardly th—”

  “Hush.”

  Callie hushed. She didn’t precisely remember deciding to hush. She’d never heard such a tone in her life. Except …

  Once she had accompanied her army-mad brothers to a parade of the troops down Pall Mall. The way the soldiers had moved, as one man, had mesmerized her. Each step was taken in such perfect discipline that it sounded as though a single giant marched past her. They had turned, again as one, so ordered by an officer on a fine and glossy stallion. A single sharp word had redirected the lines and ranks of a hundred men.

  Command. Her belly shivered. Oh … my.

  “I…” She lowered her voice. “I don’t understand.”

  His hood turned back toward the darkening skies. “My offer this morning was entirely in earnest. You may return to the bosom of your family, someday to be a rich woman, once you have earned back the string of pearls you destroyed.” The shadow of the hood turned to regard her once more. “One pearl for each command you obey.”

  Callie wasn’t a fool. She knew that he meant to lie with her. It was his right as her wedded husband. “But…” Callie swallowed. “There were hundreds of pearls on that strand.” Hundreds of commands. Her belly tightened in alarm. Or something.

  “Then I expect you’ll wish to begin as soon as possible.”

  The dry amusement in his tone held a note of ridicule to Callie’s ears. Her chin came up. She did not take well to taunting as a rule, but she’d endured enough of it to know that the slightest show of weakness only let oneself in for more.

  “Yes, I rather think I shall.” She cast an airy glance toward the door. “The evening commences even now. You said ‘evening,’ did you not? Unless you’re suffering an attack of nerves? I shall understand if you need a bit of time.”

  He stiffened. “You mock me. You should not.” He stood and stepped close to her.

  Heavens, he was tall. Even slightly bent and lurching, he was a very large man. Powerful. She willed her knees to stop knocking and gazed evenly up into the hollow of his hood. The sun had already set inside that circle of black wool. She saw only the faintest hint of two darkly glinting eyes.

  One hand came up to cup her jaw. She flinched at the heat of it on her skin. He held her in place quite without effort. His touch was not rough, but neither was it tender.

  “I think…” His hand drifted down the side of her neck and slipped over her shoulder. His fingertips dipped over the edge of her neckline and followed it down … down …

  Callie couldn’t help a startled inhalation. Her bodice—it was an old gown and none too loose—trapped his fingers within for an instant. He did not tug them free, but only dipped farther within once the pressure eased.

  Callie’s mind flew back to the night before when she’d stood pinned to the vanity, at the mercy of those hot, demanding hands …

  Mr. Porter’s thoughts must have followed a similar path, for his fingers stroked deeply into her bodice, finding her rigid nipple and catching it between his fingers.

  Callie jerked and gasped, unable to keep from flinging a panicked glance about the exposed drive. Should anyone see—But there was no one there. She was alone, just as she’d so foolishly wished to be.

  Mr. Porter stepped closer, shadowing her completely, making her feel lost in the growing dusk. There was nothing, no one … no one but him, and his searching, teasing fingertips, rolling her nipple possessively between them.

  His voice went low and hot, full of sexual danger. “I think I shall want you as I first saw you, in nothing but that little wisp of a chemise, barefoot, your hair tumbling down your back…”

  Her nipple hardened for his exacting touch. She was dizzy, unsteady in her shock. Her breath left her—no, she had forgotten to breathe. Alarm roiled in her belly even as something else hummed a bit lower.

  It was his grunt of satisfaction that woke her from the daze of pleasure/pain.

  Men, always thinking they were so blasted superior.

  Callie stepped back. Her quick movement removed his invading hand and he allowed it.

  She lifted her chin. “Very well. Chemise, barefoot, hair down. Three pearls.”

  A sound emanated from him, like the growl of a faraway tiger in the jungle night. “One pearl, one command.” His hood turned away from her, as if she no longer existed. “No negotiation.”

  Callie turned and walked swiftly for the door. She was fleeing and she knew she was fleeing, but hopefully Mr. Porter did not. At the door, she turned back abruptly.

  “You forgot something in your bargaining, sir.”

  “Really. What was that?”

  Callie lifted her chin and raised a brow, but made her voice husky and low. “Last night, when we met? I was also … soaking wet.” At his sharply indrawn breath, she smiled and turned, not fleeing quite so desperately any longer. Served him right.

  * * *

  One pearl. One command. Callie paused as she mounted the stairs. Her hand trembled on the banister.

  Hundreds of pearls.

  She swallowed but the sudden dryness of her throat didn’t ease. Hundreds.

  What if she refused? What if she simply locked her door and let his bloody pearls gather dust? Would he demand she earn her food, as well? How long could she hold out?

  Actually, she rather thought she could hold out quite a while, though she had never quite attained her sister Ellie’s level of gritty resolve. Once when their parents had most uncharacteristically refused Ellie something “for your own good, pet. Monkeys aren’t truly as nice as they seem. Rather like rats with hands, I suspect,” fourteen-year-old Elektra had starved herself for ten days. On the eleventh, the monkey, a darling but filthy creature, had arrived. It promptly bit Ellie on her opposable digit and was banished imperiously back to the peddler who had procured it.

  That night, bandaged hand and all, Ellie had sat down at the dinner table and eaten more than any two brothers together, none the worse for her starvation.

  Dade had declared her simply too spoiled to die.

  Callie had never been that daughter.

  Nonetheless, she was a Worthington, through and through. Worthingtons bowed to no one short of royalty, for their family was as old as the pillars of Stonehenge—that was what Papa always said.

  So, if she wasn’t to flee and she wasn’t to starve, what must she do?

  A slow smile crossed her face.

  Why, bow to her husband’s commands, of course. Because it would not be cowardly, nor spineless—it would be the most perfect revenge imaginable. Worthingtons knew a bit about vengeance!

  She would submit to him. She would please him. She would dissolve him into a puddle of satisfied man on his neglected carpet.

  And then she would take the pearls—riches enough to give Ellie and Attie each one brilliant Season—and she would leave Mr. Porter in the dust of her carriage wheels without a backward glance.

  * * *

  The girl—Ren thought he ought to call her something else, even in his mind—his bride had run from him at last. It had taken her long enough. He didn’t know what was wrong with the creature. She seemed most unenlightened regarding her own preservation.

  Last night, she’d held still for his drunken caresses. True, she’d screamed bloody murder in the end … but by then he’d been thoroughly aroused and knew she was, as well.

  Then, this morning, just when he’d thought his reign as monster on earth was at last at an end, she’d stayed her brother’s hand. Even his lecherous offer had not deterred her from wedding him in front of her own pare
nts.

  Mad little wench.

  And just now, standing there defiantly, facing him down with her chin high and her eyes luminous with fight—God, hadn’t she looked like the goddess of flaming indignation?—he’d had to go rather further than he’d meant to in order to make her back down.

  You forgot something in your bargaining. Unable to hold back a bark of laughter at her parting sally, Ren detoured to the front parlor. Bending painfully, he lighted a candle from the coals of the hearth with the last of the paper spills on the mantel.

  The sun had set on their encounter in the drive—had he truly groped his bride whilst standing in front of his house?—and the dim interior had gone quite dark.

  As he stiffly climbed the stairs, he forgot to swear as he usually did. He was too busy remembering the feeling of her hot, rigid nipple in his fingers.

  It had been so very long, he’d forgotten what the simplest touch could do to that tempting bit of flesh.

  He could take her tonight. He had the right, bestowed upon him by the vicar himself. She would await him clothed in nothing but a scrap of batiste. She quite properly loathed him anyway. He had no doubt she would leave the moment she dared call their account settled. No love lost there.

  He’d never have another chance for a woman. He hadn’t thought he’d ever touch one again. Fate had laid her in his path and he’d tripped right over her.

  She owed him. He’d allowed her to save her idiot brother from the gallows, when he’d much rather have been far too dead to care.

  She was his to do with as he pleased. Better that she should realize what a monster he was now than later—she did seem a particularly dense female. He could take his last satisfaction and make her hate him in one degraded, bestial night. He could take her hard and fast and sweating and wet—A hot spike of pain shot up his tortured spine. He caught his breath and held very still until the fiery burn cooled and faded away.