Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride

by Annie Burrows

  ‘Aimée,’ he groaned, taking her by the shoulders and turning her towards himself. ‘Don’t cry …’

  He could not believe how badly this had all gone wrong. He had come in here to make a fresh start and ended up making her cry.

  ‘I am not crying,’ she retorted, pulling herself out of his embrace. Indeed, she was not. The sparkle in her eyes now was one of anger.

  ‘Keep your stupid book,’ she said, flinging up her chin. ‘And your stupid flowers, too.’ He found a soggy mass being pressed into his hands. ‘Better be rid of them now, than …’ She spun away again, her breathing ragged as she tried to master herself.

  He beat a hasty retreat. Words would do her no good. Besides, he was clearly completely useless at apologising.

  He went to his own room and cast the book on his desk. Then spread out the mangled relics of her wedding bouquet thoughtfully. Who would have guessed, after the way he had treated her, that she would have wanted a keepsake of their wedding day?

  But she clearly did.

  A smile spread from deep within him, making his whole being feel unaccountably weightless. He had found a way to reach her.

  It was some time before he was ready to return to her room, but he felt that, all things considered, he had not made a bad fist of making some form of reparation for the hurt he had inadvertently caused her. She was sitting on the bed when he went in, her hands clasped in her lap, her expression as closed as her trunks. He eyed the neatly bound cords, and hoped she had not as efficiently shut him out.

  ‘Is it time to leave yet?’ she said coldly.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘I have something for you.’

  She eyed the book he held out towards her with suspicion.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The History of the Present War with Spain and Portugal.’

  Not surprisingly, she looked baffled.

  ‘It was the only book I had to hand. I suppose most men would have had something more suitable, like a book of verse, but, Aimée, you have not married a sentimental man. Look,’ he said, flicking it open to one of the pages where he had carefully set one of her discarded flowers. ‘I do not know much about pressing flowers. But you are welcome to use this volume, if it serves the purpose.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, some of the frostiness melting from her face as she took it from his outstretched hands.

  ‘And since you mentioned that nobody had ever given you flowers, I should like you to accept this, too.’

  He held out a dog rose he had plucked from the plant that rambled over the inn’s back porch. It was a poor specimen compared with the full-blown blooms his crew had purloined from Sir Thomas’s well-stocked ornamental borders. And the puzzled expression on her face as she examined the puny little flower suddenly made him feel like an utter fool. What kind of woman would be pleased with what was little more than a weed, wrenched from the garden of a public inn? He should have sent out for an elegant little posy, made up with skill by some florist.

  But then, to his amazement, her features softened, and she reached out to take the rather ragged little flower from his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, slipping the rose at random between the pages of Theophilus Camden’s opus.

  ‘And another thing …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I do not want our marriage to be in name only. I thought I had made it clear that as head of this family, part of my duty is to produce heirs. Which I very much want to do.’ Damn, this was not coming out right! ‘With you. I want …’

  She frowned in evident bewilderment. ‘But you have never attempted to … that is, you do not seem to find me very attractive. When I tried to show you that I wanted.’ Her cheeks went bright red.

  He sat down on the bed next to her, took her hand and kissed it fervently. ‘You are very brave to try to inure yourself to me, Aimée, but remember, I heard how you wept on our wedding night. I am not a brute who would demand my rights while you are still trying to accustom yourself to being married …’

  Oh! So this was why he had been so restrained with her since they had got married. This was why he had turned into a polite stranger, a man who was so very far removed from the blunt, autocratic man she had first encountered. He was trying to give her time to get used to him!

  And no wonder she had not recognised his behaviour for what it was. She had never witnessed any man acting so selflessly in her entire life. Nobody had ever put her feelings before their own. Not even so mistakenly.

  ‘Septimus! It was not that, I was not upset!’

  ‘Do not lie to me, Aimée,’ he said sternly. ‘I heard you crying.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I was crying. But what I meant was that it was not because I was upset.’ She grasped both his hands hard, and looked up at him earnestly. ‘You have no idea … the way I have had to live …’ She checked herself. Now was not the time to tell him about any of that.

  ‘S-suddenly it was all over. I was safe. I had been so scared, for such a long time. And it did not really hit me until I looked at the ring on my finger that I really was married. I was not on my own any more. I did not have to hold myself together any more … and I let go, and it all came out. All the years of anxiety, and making do, and dodging and hiding.’

  He reached out and ran one finger along the curve of her cheek. ‘So why did you look so appalled when I came in and gave you that brandy? You were like a cat on hot bricks …’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ She gulped. ‘I see I am going to have to confess …’ Her cheeks turned pink, but she kept on looking him straight in the face as she explained, ‘I am not used to brandy. I was shocked at the effect it had on me. You see, I …’ she gulped ‘… I experienced the most humiliating urge to fall at your feet and kiss them. Because, thanks to you, I am respectable. Beyond the reach of—’ She shut her mouth abruptly and averted her eyes.

  ‘It is not my feet I should like you to kiss,’ he murmured.

  ‘No, I know,’ she said mournfully. ‘You do not want me to kiss you at all …’

  ‘The hell I don’t!’

  ‘But when I tried to, you pushed me away!’

  It was his turn to look uncomfortable. ‘I thought you were trying to repay me for the things I had bought you. I thought you were forcing yourself to go through with a task you found repulsive …’

  ‘No! Oh, no! I just wanted …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Did you? Truly?’

  She nodded shyly.

  His brows knit in a ferocious scowl. ‘Do you mean to tell me we have been at cross-purposes all this time?’

  She reached up her hand to smooth away the scowl. ‘Well, now that we have that sorted out, perhaps we need not waste any more time,’ she suggested timidly.

  ‘Oh, God, yes,’ he growled and took her in his arms.

  He felt no need to hold anything back this time. Not now that he knew she was not unwilling. Had been willing, since their wedding night. And, as he kissed her, caressed her, it did not escape his notice that she was, albeit inexpertly, kissing him back. Touching him all over with inquisitive little hands. This did not feel like gratitude for the things he had bought her, a mechanical performance designed to pleasure him. She was with him every step of the way!

  Before very long he was no longer thinking anything. He was just holding and squeezing, unbuttoning and panting, and giving little groans as skin found skin, and somehow they were lying full length on the bed, with him half on top of her, their clothing disarrayed and their legs intertwined.

  Then somebody knocked on the door.

  ‘You ready to leave, miss?’ came Nelson’s voice.

  ‘Dammit!’ Septimus raised his head and glared at the door. ‘Not yet!’ he bellowed. Aimée had tensed, so he cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand and said gently, ‘No, my sweet, do not think I am about to hastily consummate our marriage now, with my men waiting outside to load your luggage into the coach!’

  She looked crestfallen for a second, but then he sa
w the practical side of her nature reassert itself. She sat up, straightened her skirts and patted her hair back into place.

  He got to his feet and pulled her into his arms for one more lingering kiss, not stopping until she was limp and quivering.

  ‘Tonight,’ he growled, ‘I promise you, nothing and nobody will stop me. I shall not rest until I have made you my wife …’ he kissed her again ‘… completely.’

  Chapter Eight

  Oh, Aimée wished he had not said that! Not that she was not glad they were going to consummate their marriage. But now all she could think about was what the coming night would bring!

  It was extremely hard to sit beside him in the close confines of the hired post chaise and four all day and behave demurely. She could not stop darting surreptitious glances at him. The fact that they were both fully clothed was absolutely no impediment to the explicit nature of her thoughts. She had a pretty good idea what the body beneath was like. She had guessed he must be in splendid form, after the ease with which he had picked her up and carried her in his oak-like embrace all the way from the woods. And then, this morning, her hands had explored the breadth of those shoulders, felt the firm tone of his back and his stomach. Yes, she sighed, she knew exactly how hard were the muscles concealed beneath those coat sleeves.

  But though he was so strong, he had the capacity to be very gentle, too. When he had bandaged her ankle, he had not been in the least bit rough. She sighed dreamily. She was absolutely certain he would put all that leashed strength to very good purpose tonight!

  She knew she ought to have taken more note of the grounds as their carriage approached the house. But when he had turned to her and said something about gravel driveways, she was far more interested in watching the way his lips moved than attending to his words. His kisses had been so exciting!

  And when he leaned past her, to open the door, and she caught the scent of his skin, it shot her straight back to those few glorious moments when they had been lying, all tangled together, in a writhing mass of mutual passion on top of that hotel bed.

  But then they were standing in a lofty marble-pillared hallway, with liveried staff lined up on each side and finally something her husband said jolted her back to the here and now.

  ‘Ah! Lady Fenella! How good of you to come and make my wife welcome.’

  A short, square-faced girl in yellow satin was standing at the head of the stairs, her round eyes sliding across Septimus’s features with evident discomfort before coming to rest upon Aimée. She smiled hesitantly and began to glide gracefully down the stairs.

  Though she felt half-inclined to dislike her after what Septimus had told her about her mother’s plans in her regard, Aimée smiled back politely.

  Lady Fenella held out both her hands, and said, ‘You must be so thirsty after your journey. Mama and I are just having tea in the gold sitting room. Won’t you come and join us?’

  ‘Shall we?’ Aimée asked, glancing up at her husband.

  He gave a curt nod.

  ‘Tea would be most welcome, Lady Fenella,’ he said, causing the girl to visibly sag with relief.

  As they followed her up the stairs, Aimée thought she could see why the crew had rather unkindly named her Frog Face. The rather plump young woman was not ugly, she would not go so far as to say that. But she had scarcely any chin, her mouth was on the wide side, and her muddy-coloured eyes were somewhat protuberant.

  And nobody with that skin tone, she decided cattily, should ever wear that particular shade of yellow!

  It did blend in rather well with the décor of the room she led them to, though. The gold sitting room was done out in greens and yellows that must have looked spectacular when new, but now the silk wall hangings were faded to a muted mustard colour. The curtains were of no discernible shade whatsoever. And she could not decide whether there had once been patterns on the upholstery that had now faded, or whether they had been plain and become stained with use. In any case, wherever Lady Fenella stood, she was camouflaged so well that if she made no sudden movements, she was in danger of disappearing altogether.

  ‘M-Mama, they are here. That is …’ Lady Fenella floundered to a halt under the withering glare of the woman sitting on a sagging sofa that was made comfortable, if Aimée was any judge, only by the massive assortment of cushions piled upon it.

  She was, very clearly, Lady Fenella’s mother—the facial features were so markedly similar. Except that the passage of time had made everything slide and pucker until it was not a frog she resembled, but a rather irritable pug dog.

  ‘I can see they are here!’ she snapped. Then, having run her eyes contemptuously over Aimée, she turned to Septimus and said, ‘So this is your wife?’

  ‘Yes. My bride. Lady Bowdon.’

  The fat little woman on the sofa seemed to swell to twice her size with indignation. But then the way Septimus had placed such emphasis on Aimée’s new title had seemed deliberately antagonistic.

  ‘I do hope …’ Lady Fenella interjected, turning towards Aimée with an air of desperation, ‘you will be happy with the arrangements we have made for your stay here, my lady.’

  ‘Of course she will be!’ snapped the Dowager Countess. ‘She has the suite that belongs to the lady of the house. The very suite I myself occupied when I came here as a bride!’

  Aimée reflected that the tradition of placing the new bride in the suite occupied by the lady who had formerly held the position of Countess of Bowdon was not a very good one.

  Nor had she demanded it be observed. So there was no need for the woman to glare at her as though she had ousted her from her position. Or was it that she was daring her to have the effrontery not to like the rooms?

  Mentally, she shrugged, facing the Dowager’s glare with her head held high, her hands unconsciously curling into fists at her side.

  This woman hated her. Hated the mere thought of her. And there was nothing she would ever be able to do to win her round.

  All she could do was stand her ground.

  ‘Fenella!’ the Dowager finally barked, when, at long last, it became obvious to all she was not going to intimidate Aimée. ‘Take this person off to her rooms. I need to have a few words with his lordship.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ replied the girl, looking distinctly harried. She scuttled over to the door, from where she shot Aimée a beseeching look.

  Aimée had been somewhat baffled when Septimus had told her that the Dowager was pushing her daughter at him. She had said nothing at the time, but she could hardly believe that any gently reared girl with an ounce of self-esteem would fall in with such a plan. But now it flashed into her mind that at one point Septimus had referred to her as a jellyfish. And she could see why. This girl lacked any sort of backbone. Not only did she meekly obey whatever her mother told her, but she somehow gave the impression that she would be quite happy to float along with whatever anyone with a stronger will decided for her, in just the same way as those almost invisible creatures drifted along on the surface of the waves wherever the strongest current carried them.

  Though she felt truly sorry for the girl, she turned to Septimus and asked him, ‘Do you wish me to leave you to discuss your business?’

  Septimus merely gave her a brief smile and a nod.

  She made her curtsy to the seething Dowager and made her way across the room to where Lady Fenella stood quivering in the open door.

  ‘I am so sorry about Mama,’ Lady Fenella breathed as soon as they were safely outside in the corridor. ‘She is not in the best of moods today. I am sure she did not mean to be so rude.’

  Aimée was equally as sure that she had, but kept that opinion to herself. ‘Perhaps we can have some tea sent up? Which I am sure I shall enjoy all the more in peace and quiet.’

  Lady Fenella had been leading Aimée along the corridor, but at this, she whirled round and said earnestly, ‘Oh, yes, indeed! I do so dislike it when Mama and his lordship have one of their discussions. They say such unpleasant things to each ot
her and become so heated. Sometimes, they even shout!’ She wrapped her arms about herself. ‘I do so hate it when people shout,’ she said miserably. ‘It gives me the headache.’

  Aimée attempted a sympathetic smile.

  ‘And his lordship has such a very loud voice, all the time,’ said Lady Fenella, unwinding her arms and setting out along the corridor again. ‘Even when he does not mean to, he frequently makes me jump out of my skin. I dare say it comes from spending all those years at sea, bellowing orders at rough sailors …’ She shuddered.

  Really, thought Aimée irritably, the Dowager must be all about in her head to think a poor little dab of a girl like this could smooth off her husband’s rough edges! Or, indeed, make any impression on him whatever.

  ‘Oh, dear! I do beg your pardon. I should not be saying such things to you. Please say I have not offended you!’

  ‘Not in the least,’ she said coolly. ‘I admire my husband very much. He was an excellent example to his men of the kind of gallantry that has made our navy so very successful.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Lady Fenella clasped her hands together at her breast. ‘It was so very brave of him, to return to his duties after suffering such a terrible injury. To think of those dreadful Frenchmen firing their cannon at his ship like that, and t-t-tearing out his eye!’

  Aimée refrained from pointing out that British seamen fired their own cannon straight back, and to rather more effect, given that England now ruled the waves.

  Lady Fenella came to an abrupt halt outside a door and grabbed hold of the handle. ‘Every time I look at his face, and imagine how much it must have hurt him, my stomach turns right over. D-did you nurse him?’

  ‘No,’ said Aimée, choosing her next words very carefully. Though she did not want to tell outright lies, Septimus had indicated he did not really want this girl to know the exact circumstances of their marriage.