The Bride Takes a Groom

by Lisa Berne

  “You traveled here today from Bruton, I understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you pass the night in the Pomfret Arms?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I applaud your choice. By far the best inn in Bruton. I trust the sheets were properly aired?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe so.”

  Mrs. Penhallow nodded, then began to turn upon the fourth finger of her left hand a singularly beautiful sapphire ring, of a simple yet exquisite design. “It has come to my attention,” she said, “that you and Hugo are traveling with three carriages which are very nearly empty, and that you brought with you no maid or dresser. Naturally my curiosity is piqued. May I inquire as to the reason why?”

  A little wildly, Katherine thought about making up a story of some kind—We were waylaid by highwaymen, a rogue band of raccoons made off with everything during the night, I did bring a maid but she ran off to Mexico to join the fight for independence—but it seemed impossible while being scrutinized by those sharp blue eyes. So she said:

  “We left my house in Cumbria with those three carriages holding my trousseau, ma’am, but it didn’t suit me. I gave it away on the way here.”

  Those silvery brows now arched high in evident surprise. “You gave it away because it didn’t suit you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “To whom did you give it?”

  “A poor parish in Kendal.”

  “I see. A charitable gesture.” Mrs. Penhallow nodded slowly. “Why did your trousseau not suit you?”

  The clothing had itching powder in it. The shoes all squeaked when you walked in them. “Nothing in it was to my taste, ma’am.”

  “Indeed.” Ruminatively Mrs. Penhallow added, “I recall a certain hat, strewn with artificial cherries.”

  Katherine grimaced. “Yes. It looked like I had a fruit bowl on my head.”

  There was a tap on the door and then it was swung open by a footman, who solemnly announced, “Here is Muffin, ma’am.”

  In shot a little white dog, with absurdly short legs and great pointy ears, who ran joyously to the old lady, then dashed over to Livia and Miss Cott, its curly tail thumping, and then to Katherine, as if wanting to make sure she was included in its exuberant greeting; after which it bounded back to Mrs. Penhallow and leaped up next to her on her elegant rococo chair. Her handsome face softening ever so slightly, the old lady gathered the little dog onto her lap. A further surprise for today: Katherine would have expected a graceful well-bred whippet, or a fashionable pug, not this charming, but rather motley-looking creature.

  “The hat,” pursued Mrs. Penhallow, with the air of one determined to get to the bottom of things. “Why?”

  Because plums were out of season. I had a dreadful spot on my forehead I wished to conceal. They were actually real cherries, so I could eat them if I got hungry. Katherine blurted out:

  “Oh, ma’am, how can I explain it to you? It was easier to wear it than to fight about it. I gave up years ago. You don’t know my mother, but . . .”

  “A domineering sort?”

  Already regretting her impulsive frankness, Katherine only nodded, and saw, to her surprise, an expression of—why, it looked like sorrow flitting across Mrs. Penhallow’s face. Somehow it galvanized her to go on. “My mother—my parents—believe that one’s wealth should be clearly signified by what one wears. And so they allowed themselves to be guided by what I believe were unscrupulous modistes, who indulged in all the worst—and most expensive—excesses of fashion. They wanted to make sure that everyone in the beau monde knew that I was very wealthy.”

  “A miscalculation. Such displays are garish and vulgar, and deceive no one. If anything, they make things worse. You had a Season last year, then?”

  “Hardly deserving of the term, ma’am.”

  “A failure.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you hope for a better one this year?”

  “More than hope, ma’am. It must be better. It has to be.”

  “You want this very much, I perceive.”

  “Yes.”

  The old lady was silent for a few moments. “You remind me of someone,” she said, in her eyes now a faraway look. “A strong-willed young woman bent on taking the ton by storm.”

  “Who was that, ma’am? And was she successful?”

  The tiniest of smiles played about the old lady’s lips. “It was me. And yes, I was successful, though not in the way I originally planned.”

  To Katherine came a sudden vision of Mrs. Penhallow as she might have been when young: slim, upright, graceful, dazzlingly lovely. She would have worn those elaborate gowns with the very wide, full skirts and ruffled sleeves, and the high-dressed, powdered hair. Oh, a diamond of the first water, without doubt. It was easy to believe the young Henrietta Penhallow would have conquered Society in a heartbeat.

  It came to her, too, that here was, perhaps, a commonality between herself and Mrs. Penhallow, as different as they were. Katherine leaned forward. “Ma’am, might you be willing to offer me your guidance? I’ll need to replace my trousseau, and you’re renowned throughout London for your sens de la mode.”

  “Only throughout London? Dear me, how the mighty have fallen.” Mrs. Penhallow’s voice was serious, but in her eyes there was a faint little twinkle, encouraging Katherine to say:

  “Perhaps everywhere, ma’am. Will you help me? Is there a seamstress nearby whom you patronize?”

  “I do. But she’s engaged in work for Miss Cott, for her wedding-gown. However, I may be able to persuade a certain modiste I know in Town to travel here, along with her assistants. But she’s very expensive.”

  “That wouldn’t be a concern for me, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t think so. You’ll require everything? Gowns, shoes, hats, gloves, shawls, and so on?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll let Madame Hébert know, and that she’s to bring along some colleagues, whose names I shall also suggest.” Mrs. Penhallow looked at Katherine with an exacting kind of deliberation, and Katherine felt—not with rancor, but with hope—as if she were a lump of clay being assessed by an artist.

  I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

  The great Michelangelo had once said that. Though, of course, she herself was no angel—

  “Jewel-tones,” said Mrs. Penhallow decisively. “White cannot be avoided, of course, for day-wear, but you will do better in a softer white tending toward cream or ivory. No pastels, ever! As for your hair . . .”

  “I know it’s a horrid mess, ma’am. At school they called me Medusa.” Oh, God, she hadn’t meant to reveal this hurtful memory, ever! But somehow it had just slipped out. Katherine felt herself blushing hotly.

  The old lady, however, only said, “Girls can be so cruel, can’t they? I daresay they may have been envious, for it’s quite arduous to transform straight hair into curls.”

  Envious? Of her? Katherine’s mouth dropped open. She stared at Mrs. Penhallow, who, for her part, continued gazing back in that same pensive manner. Finally she said:

  “As someone with curly hair myself, I may be biased, but I must say I think curls very attractive. My suggestion to you is that you stop fighting them. It doesn’t suit you to pull your hair so tightly onto the crown of your head, or to pin it behind your ears. Better, perhaps, to have a loose arrangement across your forehead and framing your face—and a simple, unadorned coil in the back, with tendrils allowed to trail at the nape of your neck and a few brought forward, as if an ornament to the collarbone. Yes, that would be a great deal more flattering. What you need is a competent friseur who understands curly hair.”

  “I like your suggestion very much, ma’am,” said Katherine in a voice in which sincerity, and a kind of awe, were blended. “Do you have a particular friseur in mind?”

  “I do. I’ll send for him as well. Would you like me also to engage the services of a dresser?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Katherine tra
iled off, embarrassed all over again.

  “But what?”

  “Oh, ma’am, I’d like to have someone pleasant.”

  Those silvery brows went up a little. “There is an employment agency I patronize while in London, and I’ll write to the proprietress tomorrow. Your request is not unreasonable.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Penhallow.” For a crazy few seconds she felt like leaping to her feet and hugging the old lady.

  Henrietta Penhallow didn’t immediately reply; she had that faraway air again, as if she hadn’t heard, as if her thoughts had drifted elsewhere. “We know what we are,” she murmured, “but know not what we may be.”

  “Hamlet,” said Katherine, and the old lady’s look sharpened again.

  “You know your Shakespeare?”

  “Well, I like reading it, ma’am,” she answered, and then, to her surprise, she and Mrs. Penhallow plunged into an amiable debate about the plays—the old lady plumping for The Tempest as the Bard’s best, and she herself arguing for Macbeth. It proved to be a pleasant distraction, but fell away when the gentlemen joined them again.

  Because soon it would be bedtime.

  Hugo looked around the capacious room that was his and Katherine’s bedchamber. There was a reasonably big bench, padded with dark blue fabric, over by one of the windows. That would do, although he’d have to prop his feet up on the armrest, or wedge himself between the two armrests, and hope he didn’t roll off in the middle of the night. Or, worse, get stuck there.

  “Hugo.”

  “Yes, Katherine?”

  “Thank you for not saying anything to Livia—or anybody—about our—arrangement. About the bedrooms.”

  He looked down into her face. She was pale and tense; strained. Visibly exhausted. He exerted himself to say, pleasantly, “It’s all right. I’ll just take a blanket and a pillow, then.”

  “What? Why?” Her glance flashed around the room, to the bench, then to the bed and lingered there: it was quite a bed, very high and old-fashioned, and draped with crimson bedcovers. It was set on an equally old-fashioned platform, formed from carved oak, and above it was a canopy with long silken hangings in the same vivid red. “Oh. I see.” Her face worked; she brought one of her hands to her mouth, worried at a fingernail. Finally: “There’s no need for that. We can share the bed. It’s big enough for two people. Will you keep to your word?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll undress behind that screen. If—if you could undo my gown for me?”

  Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn. Help her undress. It was not unlike asking a starving man to hold a delicious loaf of bread and refrain from eating it while you just stepped outside for a while. He said, “Certainly.”

  Katherine turned, and he began—with an efficiency that was, under the circumstances, remarkable—to unfasten the long column of buttoned loops at the back of her gown. He wondered if she had any idea how hard this was for him. Standing so close, performing such an intimate task. He caught a subtle scent from her, sweet and faint. Delectable. It took him a few moments to identify it as chocolate.

  Then her gown slid apart, revealing the delicate white linen of her shift. It was all that stood between him and warm, soft flesh. Between him and Katherine.

  Speaking of hard, he was hard now, and breathing rather audibly.

  Damn it to hell.

  Last night she had accused him, You’re happy all the time.

  He definitely wasn’t happy right now.

  No, he was in agony.

  Because he wanted quite a lot to topple her and take her right there on the wide, ancient oak floorboards upon which Henry the Seventh may or may not have trod. Ho. Unmanned in the war? He’d show her unmanned. Until she screamed with pleasure.

  Sweating, he gritted his teeth.

  Will you keep to your word?

  Yes.

  Then, with effort, he relaxed his jaw.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s done.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, and quickly went behind a tall three-paneled screen set in a corner of the room. Her voice, a little steadier now, came floating to him from behind the screen:

  “Will you let me know when you’re in bed? And could you blow out the candles?”

  “Certainly,” Hugo repeated, rather heavily, aware that before him loomed again the dark, dangerous, fatal slough of regret. Christ, what had he done?

  He turned away and rapidly began to undress.

  They lay in the dim flickering light of the waning fire. Katherine was on her back, safe under the bedclothes, hands folded over her middle. It was strange, but she wasn’t tired anymore. She was, in fact, wide awake, her mind looping, over and over again, to those moments during which Hugo had unbuttoned her gown. She had felt his warmth, his solidity, his bewitching maleness, from behind her and an electrifying thrill had shimmied everywhere within her. These were circumstances, had they been related in a naughty novel, which would have had her eagerly turning the pages to see what would happen next.

  But this was not a novel, this was real life, with all its uncertainties. Its mystifying twists and turns. The unknowable future. Looming large . . . frighteningly large.

  When she’d taken off her shift and put on her nightgown, she had very nearly kissed the screen for being there. Because she could hide behind it. At least for a little while.

  Oh, God, how awkward this all was, sharing a bedchamber.

  Sharing a bed.

  But anything was better than having people know the truth.

  Luckily, she was in control.

  Completely and fully in control.

  That was the saving grace of this difficult situation—her self-control. And into her mind, with immediate irony, popped an image of that hapless, silly heroine in Mrs. Brunton’s Self-Control. Tumbling along a raging river. Lashed to her canoe.

  It came to Katherine that she felt a little like that heroine right now. Tumbling, hapless, helpless . . .

  Go to sleep, go to sleep, she told herself sternly. She made herself picture sheep, identical white fluffy sheep, jumping over a stile. That would work for sure. Count them, damn you.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four—

  Was Hugo sleeping? she wondered. The sheep vanished and she noticed, out of the tail of her eye, his big body next to hers. She could just make out that he had one long muscled arm, bare, above the covers.

  His shoulder was bare, too.

  Was he . . .

  Was it possible he was naked?

  Her fingers flattened out on the cambric material of her nightgown.

  She was properly attired.

  But Hugo?

  An image came to her: Hugo, so tall, big, broad-shouldered. Lean-hipped, long-legged. Utterly naked. Completely male. Her mind projected it in two dimensions, as if it were a lifeless portrait on a wall, something from which you could stand apart and objectively view. An image you could coolly walk away from.

  But—as incendiary as it was—it was just in her imagination.

  Hugo himself, three-dimensional, living and breathing and solid and real, was right next to her. Just a few feet away. Her nostrils flared, like a deer scenting danger. And—oh God, oh dear God—her body was reacting to his presence. Between her legs, in that secret place, a slow delicious swirl of energy, of subtle pleasure; in her breasts, a warm, lovely, tingly sort of feeling, as if that same illicit energy was flowing throughout her, unquenchable, unstoppable, a river broken free from a dam.

  Treacherous.

  But, undeniably, delightful. That is to say, full of delight. Her arms and legs felt heavy, languid, in the most wonderful way, she was melting, spreading across the bed, hot, like wax from a burning candle.

  Oh yes, she was awake, as wide awake, Katherine was certain, as she had ever been in her whole entire life.

  Then came a torrent, urgent, from deep within her brain, repeating old, scathing, familiar words from the past. No, no, no, you mustn’t, you sordid
sneaking criminal girl, this is shameful, this is wrong, this is bad, and continued with increasing panic as desire nonetheless built, grew, overtook her. No, no, don’t, but still her hand drifted up, to slide around the cambric-covered curve of a breast, to feel a hard and sensitive tip beneath the fabric; her fingers slid up, up, to wonderingly stroke lips that felt swollen, hungry. Needful. That is to say, full of need.

  A wave of lust lifted her, rising high above her brain’s chatter, and recklessly she rode it.

  No, no, stay the course, don’t, don’t, be careful, be safe, be good . . .

  But it was as if every cell in her body combined to shout out a loud and defiant response:

  No.

  Out loud Katherine said:

  “Hugo.”

  Perhaps he had been awake also, because right away he answered, in his deep, calm voice. “Yes, Katherine?”

  How to begin, she wondered, how to frame it? Hunger, impatience, rose up. Roaring. And before she could stop herself she said it. Again.

  “You can have me.”

  There was dead silence.

  Finally: “I beg your pardon?”

  Recklessly she rode the wave. “You can have me. If you want to. Do you want to?”

  Silence again. Then: “Yes. Do you want to?”

  “Yes.” Katherine watched, a little breathless, as Hugo lifted himself up on one elbow, facing her. She could see that the bedclothes had slipped down quite a lot. And that his chest was bare. Oh, delicious. Saliva began to pool in her mouth and she swallowed convulsively.

  “Are you sure, Katherine?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to happen?”

  She blurted it out. “Surprise me.” And in the dimness she saw a slow, slow smile come to Hugo’s perfect mouth.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He slid close to her then, brought his long self against her. Oh my goodness, he was naked. And his—what was the right word for that?—his—well—manhood was pressing against her thighs, hard, hard, utterly foreign, incredibly exciting, but her nightgown was in the way. The damned thing. But she had a feeling that somehow they would fix that annoying little problem. She felt herself arching up, as if involuntarily, and her mind seemed to be fizzling away like a spent firework. O joy. She said, in a soft, silky voice she hardly recognized as her own: