‘Tomorrow?’ she replied, shaking her head and pushing the untasted drink from her. She never drank anything so intoxicating. She had seen the results of inebriation far too often to fall for its dubious delights. A girl in her position had to keep her wits about her, not render herself vulnerable by fugging her senses with alcohol fumes. And now, when it might have been permissible to indulge in just one celebratory drink, she had not developed the taste for it.
‘I have had a special licence in my possession since the day Jago described you to me,’ he said, downing his own drink in one gulp and setting the empty glass down next to his plate. Though his fingers closed tightly round the stem as he said, ‘And I have already informed the local vicar, the Reverend Dean, that my fiancée would be joining me before I left the area, so that we could be married quietly before meeting my grand new relations.’
She thought she detected a hint of sarcasm as he referred to his family. It sounded as though he was not overly fond of them, but the mention of them still brought her a frisson of unease. Mr Carpenter had shown her how reluctant most decent men would be to have a woman with a past like hers brought into their family. And if his relations were so very grand …
She just hoped he had not made a very grave mistake in choosing her without enquiring too particularly into the details of her past life.
Not that there was anything wrong with her pedigree. Her grandfather was the Earl of Caxton. Unfortunately, her mother had eloped with a man the Earl had held in such contempt that he had refused to ever acknowledge Aimée. When her mother had written to inform him of her birth, there had been no response. No granting of an allowance that the necessity of feeding an extra mouth might have wrung from a more forgiving man. If she had been a boy, her father had said time out of mind, things might have been very different. For at that time the Earl of Caxton had no direct male heir. Still did not, as far as she knew. Her aunt, her mother’s older sister, the one who had dutifully married where she was instructed, had never managed to produce any sons that lived to adulthood.
‘I do not want to waste any more time,’ Captain Corcoran said, jerking her from her reverie. His gaze strayed from her face to what was visible of her form beneath her ill-fitting, high-necked gown. His fingers crept up the stem of the glass, absently stroking over the bowl in a way she found highly suggestive.
‘The sooner we are wed,’ he said, finally ending his leisurely perusal of her figure, ‘the better.’
There was, in his face, an expression she usually found abhorrent. Men had looked at her in that particular way many times before—usually just before it became necessary to take evasive action from their groping hands and slobbering lips.
So it was a shock to find that instead of engendering revulsion, or even fear, the Captain’s heated look was provoking an altogether different response. She could not help watching the way his fingers were caressing the wine glass, and imagining what those strong brown hands would feel like upon her body.
She tore her fascinated gaze from the subtle movements of his fingers and tried to look him in the face.
Oh, Lord! Now all that filled her mind—no, her entire being—was the remembrance of just how extraordinarily pleasant it had felt when his mouth briefly closed over hers in that kiss.
She swallowed, and raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
Something flashed between them. Something that made her stomach flip over and her heart trip into a staccato rhythm, and robbed her lungs of breath.
Suddenly the room seemed far too warm. She had never felt anything like it!
Completely flustered, she got to her feet, her napkin dropping unnoticed to the floor.
‘Well, until then, you had better keep your hands to yourself! Just because I permitted you one kiss, as a … to seal our agreement, it does not mean … don’t go thinking you can take liberties with me whenever you feel like it!’
Even to her own ears, she sounded like a shrew. But she could not help it.
‘It is not decent!’ she said, turning and striding with unbecoming haste towards the door.
She could feel his eyes boring into her back all the way across the room.
She pounded up the stairs, guiltily aware that she was not fleeing from the desire he had displayed towards her, but the way her own body was clamouring for indulgence. Even when she had reached the seclusion of her room, and shut the door behind her, the aftereffect of that one heated look was still throbbing through her veins.
She had always despised women who succumbed to the blandishments of men as weak-minded fools. But if what they felt was as powerful as this—well, no wonder so many of them fell pregnant outside wedlock.
‘I am not suddenly become a wanton,’ she muttered, pressing her hands to her overheated cheeks. ‘He is going to be my husband!’
His caresses would not result in her shame and degradation—so why, exactly, was she suddenly so frightened?
Chapter Six
The next day dawned bright and fair. And, since sleep had eluded her for most of the night, Aimée knew exactly how bright. From her bed, she could see out of the window across the wide, rolling moors that surrounded The Lady’s Bower. The speed with which the puffy white clouds scudded across the azure-blue sky promised the kind of summer day that she had grown to appreciate since coming to England. In years gone by, at this time of year, all she had been able to think of was finding some respite from the heat. Here and now, she felt as though she could really breathe. She got out of bed, flung up the sash and leaned out, with her hands braced on the window-sill, drinking in the cool, early morning air that was as invigorating as a dip in a mountain stream.
It was going to be a perfect day, she sighed. Her wedding day. The day all girls dreamed about, but none with such mixed feelings as she had done. For she knew what dangers lay in wait for unwary brides.
She did not know how long she stood there, just admiring the ever-shifting patterns of light and shade that rippled across the moors, but she was still enraptured by the scene when there was a loud knock on the door and Nelson’s muffled voice asking if he might bring in her washing water. She scuttled back to the bed, grabbed a shawl and, having wrapped it securely round herself, called out that he could.
Nelson came in, carrying two cans of steaming hot water, and behind rolled bow-legged Jenks with an enamelled hipbath and a pile of clean towels.
‘We’ll bring your breakfast up in half an hour,’ said Nelson. Then frowned. ‘If that gives you long enough?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she answered, blushing. Once she had stripped off, she would be excruciatingly aware she was the only female in a household of men. She was definitely not going to want to linger in that tub, naked, when there was no lock on the door!
‘Do you have everything you need?’ he asked. ‘Do you need your gown pressing, or …?’ He faltered, looking as uncomfortable as she was already feeling.
She shook her head. There was no way she was going to let any one of these men handle her gowns, or, worse still, her undergarments. Nobody, but nobody, must ever discover how much money she still had, stitched into panels all the way round her stays—though that money was better concealed than the coins that weighted down the hem of her petticoat. Not that these men looked as though they had any wish to handle her undergarments. The mere thought she might wish them to press one of her gowns was enough to make them blush and stutter and avoid meeting her eye!
Once they left, she hastily stripped off and stepped into the tub of steaming water. As she settled down, her spirits momentarily sank too. All that talk of clothing had reminded her that she did not have a proper wedding dress. Even her mother had managed to smuggle a dress, in which she looked like a picture, into her luggage when she ran away with her father, whereas she had ruined her one and only silk dress in that headlong flight through the woods.
She lifted her chin and began to soap herself thoroughly. She had no reason to feel sorry for herself. Her mother might have rushed to the altar, all wide-eyed and glow
ing at the prospect of marrying the man who seemed so exciting, in the silken gown she had kept a scrap of to her dying day, but the gloss had worn off once it became clear that the Earl of Caxton would not relent and release the money her father had expected would fall into his greedy hands.
At least the man she was marrying was nothing like her father! On the surface, Papa was always charming, urbane and witty. The Captain, she smiled to herself, was his very antithesis: rude, hot-tempered and autocratic. He had not used soft words, or made false promises of love, because he thought she had a fortune. Instead, he had very sternly warned her that love was to form no part of their bargain!
Anyway, she still had the dress she had thought to keep for Sunday best. It was not silk, but it fitted her. And she had splashed out on purchasing all sorts of matching accessories. A governess she had thought she was going to be, but on Sundays she had intended to be a rather smartly attired one! The high-necked, longsleeved cotton gown had a lovely pattern printed on it, which reminded her of sprigs of cypress. She had treated herself to a brand new pair of gloves, in a toning shade of green, and a ridiculously expensive spencer jacket, purely because it had a green velvet collar. And some little nankeen halfboots that she had quite fallen in love with, because some previous owner had embroidered daisies along the side seams. She had imagined walking to church, those daisies appearing and disappearing as her skirts swished round her ankles, to the fascination of the young charges she would have in tow.
She reached for the spare can of water to rinse herself off, smiling at her flight of fancy. It had gone to her head, having enough money to buy whatever clothing she had wanted. After all the years of feeling the cloth to decide how much wear it had left in it, then sniffing it to discover if the odour of its previous owner was not too objectionable, it had been totally irresistible to just splash out on garments that had caught her eye.
She finished her bath swiftly, dried herself, put on the undergarments stuffed with money, and then pulled the sprigged cotton gown over her head. It buttoned down the front. That was the one restriction she had had to bear in mind when she was tempted into making reckless purchases. It would have been no use buying anything she could not fasten without the help of a maid.
Though, she mused as she went to the dressing table and began separating out her braids, she would have to employ one now. Especially if Captain Corcoran wished her to impress those grand relations of his.
She had undone the plaits that were frizzy from being rubbed all over the pillows during her restless night and had just set to methodically combing out the tangles when there was another knock at the door.
The half-hour allotted to her for her bath was up, and Nelson was back with her promised breakfast. With a smile, she rose from her stool and, flicking her stillunbound hair over her shoulders, went and opened the door herself.
Nelson hastily averted his eyes and put the tray on the table just inside the door, backing out as though he had inadvertently caught her without her clothes on. She was puzzled, but by then she had been awake for such a long time that she could not spare much time to wonder what was the matter with the man. There was a cup of steaming hot chocolate on that tray. Warm rolls fresh from the oven. Butter and honey and cheese. And a few sun-ripened strawberries. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she took a seat and paid the cook the compliment of devouring her breakfast while it was still at its very best. Only then did she return to the more mundane task of combing and braiding her hair, then pinning it up so that she could conceal it decorously beneath her bonnet.
For once, she tied the ribbons saucily beneath her left ear, rather than more soberly under her chin, before leaving her room.
She felt another small pang of self-pity when Mr. Jago told her that he would be accompanying her to the church, leading her up the aisle and giving her away, for that task ought more properly to have fallen to her father.
But then he had already, in his own fashion, given her away!
Her spurt of anger at his betrayal was tempered by the sight of Captain Corcoran’s crew gathered in the church doorway, all grinning and craning their necks for a sight of her as she got down from the carriage. Jenks came forwards, and with a bow and a toothy grin thrust yet another bunch of flowers into her hands. This time it was not a random selection of hastily wrenched-up wild flowers, but a bouquet of roses and honeysuckle, bound together with one of those nautical knots she was sure were going to become a familiar part of her life in future.
And the ceremony got underway. She walked down the aisle to a groom resplendent in dress uniform, complete with ceremonial sword and gold lace, feeling suddenly very nervous.
Was she really entrusting her entire future to a man she had only just met? Was she mad?
By the time she reached his side, her heart was beating wildly. The vicar opened his prayer book and began to intone the words of the ceremony that would bind her to him for ever.
Love, honour and obey.
He did not want her to love him, and he would not love her. He expected her to honour and obey him, however, though he fully expected her to argue with him, if he became too autocratic.
She took a deep breath to steady herself before she repeated her vows. Before she knew it, he was her husband, and he was planting a rather chaste kiss on her cheek. Just that one brief contact with his skin sent a shaft of something that she recognised as desire shooting right through her body.
She darted a shy, hesitant glance at his profile as he took her arm, and led her from the church. And her spirits plunged when she could see no echo of the feelings that were making her so jittery. No, he looked his usual stern, impassive self.
When they returned to the house for the celebratory meal, she found that her appetite had vanished once more. She could only toy with the food set before her, although in her mind she could acknowledge that it all looked delicious. She tried to smile, to join in with the laughter and gaiety that the rest of the crew were displaying. But she felt somehow detached from it all, as though she did not know quite who she was, or how she ought to behave any more.
By the time she went upstairs to prepare herself for bed, she felt as though she had spent the entire day wrestling to control the varying emotions that had gripped her, at one point or another.
She was worn out with it!
And now she had to get washed and undressed, and prepare herself for her husband. Mechanically, she went through her nightly routine, keeping back a little of her washing water in the jug so that she could place her bouquet in it. She had kept it close from the moment the crew had given it to her. It was so beautiful, so fragrant, and so unexpected. Somehow, it symbolised hope for her future.
She took especial care to tuck her underwear that contained all her money under the mattress out of sight. Only then did she unbraid her hair, pick up her brush and sit down on the stool before the dressing table.
She was a little startled by the reflection that looked back at her from the mirror. Who was this woman, staring back at her with those dark, yearning eyes, her lips already parted in anticipation of her husband’s kiss? She had gone to church that morning, looking and feeling like a governess, and now, here she sat, her hair spread out all over her shoulders, looking like … another person entirely. Not Aimée Peters, that was for certain!
But then she was no longer Miss Aimée Peters. She had taken a new name today. That of Septimus Corcoran, Earl of Bowdon. So she was Lady Bowdon now. In a sense, Aimée Peters, with all her problems, no longer existed.
She sucked in a sharp breath. And exhaled on a sob, astonished to see tears begin to stream down her face. What had she got to cry about? She was safe now. And, best of all, hidden. Under a new name. A name nobody would connect with that humiliated girl, who had been sold to the highest bidder by her debt-ridden, drunken excuse for a father!
Another sob racked her whole body, and then another, and another. She could not hold herself in check. Sobbing helplessly, she went to her trunk and dro
pped to her knees to rummage for a handkerchief. And then she knelt there, holding it to her eyes while the sobs continued to rack her and the tears flowed like waters gushing from a breached dam.
‘This is absurd!’ she cried, getting to her feet. All the things she might have wept over, had she been that kind of a girl, were behind her now. ‘Stop this, you idiot,’ she chided herself as she walked up and down, up and down, alternately wrapping her arms round her waist and dabbing at her wet cheeks, as she vainly struggled to get herself back under control.
But, she gradually began to perceive, this was years and years of pent-up emotions finally finding release. She saw that her increasingly desperate circumstances had stretched her as tight as a bowstring. No wonder she had panicked the first night she had been here! She had been only one step from that state for weeks. Months. But now that she was safe, the past firmly put behind her, and she had the luxury of letting go, that was exactly what was happening.
In the midst of her tears, she hiccupped with laughter. Oh, Lord, but she was coming unwound with a vengeance!
Captain Corcoran tightened the sash of his dressing gown, then opened his bedroom door. He had given her enough time, surely, even though she did not have a maid to help her prepare for bed?
He would knock before he went into her room, naturally. He did not want to embarrass her by walking in on her unawares. The poor girl was nervous enough about things as it was. But she had said she was willing to provide him with heirs. He had offered her the chance to leave and return to whatever life she’d had before she answered his advertisement. But she had not taken it.
So she was his wife now. And would be his wife in every sense of the word!
He had raised his hand to knock on her door when he heard her, pacing up and down, and sobbing as though her heart was breaking. He uncurled his clenched fist, and let it fall to his side. Hell, this was just what he had been afraid of.
Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride Page 9
