“I like you,” he said again as they lay together in the dark. She curled as far from him as she was able, but in sleep, she always ended up in his arms. “I like you even if you don’t like me.”
“It’s hard to like you when you’re always punishing me,” she said. “Especially when it’s not deserved.”
“I decide when it’s deserved. Perhaps I’ll take you to the Greek temple next time.”
She made no answer to that, only lay very still as if to discourage that line of thought, or escape his notice altogether. He was probably making a mess of things in their new marriage, but he’d always been one to act up and do as he pleased. His father called it boldness and thought it was good. His mother called it mischief and chided him to be civil. His wife...
Well, she had two stripes across her bottom, and a lingering bit of sting in her arsehole for good measure. She would lie still and pretend surrender for now, but it was temporary, which pleased him. If they must be rivals, he would turn it to his purposes time and again, until she realized her resistance was pointless.
When she began to murmur in her restless dreams, he drew her naked limbs close and cradled her until the tension ebbed and eased away. “Sweet songbird,” he whispered. “This isn’t a cage, you know. I’ll hear you sing again one day.”
He didn’t stir again until late the next morning, when he heard his valet tap softly from the dressing room.
“What is it?” he asked, blinking to wakefulness. His wife came from a heavy sleep, stirring against his side. She looked tired in the late morning light, rumpled in the most alluring way.
“My lord,” he said through the door. “You have visitors: your parents the Duke and Duchess have arrived with Lady Hazel and Lady Elizabeth, and a pair of your gentleman friends.”
He rubbed a hand through his hair, stifling a groan. Visitors? It hadn’t been a week yet since they’d married.
“Marlow and Augustine?” he asked.
“Indeed, my lord. They’ve apologized that it’s not winter yet.”
Marlow and Augustine would have come to the country with their families to spend a few days. He supposed he was lucky the entire Oxfordshire circle hadn’t arrived on his doorstep. Here he was in his honeymoon bed with a morning cock as stiff as petrified wood, and a drawing room full of visitors.
“We’ve offered them luncheon in the larger parlor,” his valet added when he didn’t stir or reply.
“Very well,” he called toward the door. “I’ll get up to dress in a moment.”
“I await your pleasure, my lord.”
As Wescott stretched beside his bride, memories of the previous night returned, making his cock ache even more. She remembered too, if her sudden blush and frown was any indication.
“Some family and friends have come to visit,” he told her. “That’s the only thing about the Abbey. It’s situated far too close to everyone else’s home.” He reached to touch a lock of her hair, so blonde and fine. “As much as you love lying abed with me, we must awaken and dress.”
She needed no further invitation to escape his company, and made as if to rise at once, but he pulled her back and surprised her with a kiss. Perhaps it surprised both of them. She responded at first, moving her lips against his, but as soon as he pulled her closer, the mood was broken and she scooted back.
“It would be rude to keep our visitors waiting,” she said.
His only answer was a frustrated sigh as she went for her dress and stockings, and wrapped them about her waist to hide her naked, cane-marked bottom as she left.
Chapter Eleven: Visitors
Ophelia shifted in her wing chair, her bottom still sore from last night’s “erotic punishment.” Worse, her husband kept catching her eye amidst the company’s merry conversations. She suspected he enjoyed watching her discomfort from across the drawing room, where he sat with his friends. That was the sort of perverse person he was.
Their guests kept the tone light at the after-dinner gathering, and she tried to fit in, playing the contented wife as far as she was able.
Which wasn’t very far.
Oh, she knew enough to play a gracious hostess. She’d learned it from her mother, in between embroidery and music lessons. She directed the seating at dinner and conferred with the cook on a pleasing menu, and had the servants make up comfortable rooms when it seemed their guests might be staying for a few days.
It frustrated Wescott, but what did it matter if they had visitors? Their honeymoon had been over before it began.
She was also capable of making polite conversation with her husband’s parents, who were not haughty at all, despite their ducal titles and wealth. His mother spoke kindly to her, asking how she liked Wescott Abbey. What she meant was, how do you like being married to my son? Ophelia had answered that it was a lovely place, not mentioning that she’d barely roamed beyond her own suite of rooms, at least inside the house.
“Ophelia, you look so far away.”
Elizabeth’s voice at her shoulder startled her from her darkening thoughts. Wescott’s youngest sister was sixteen, only a couple years younger than her, but she was so innocent, bright, and pure that Ophelia barely knew what to say to her. The ebony-haired young woman had played the piano when they first retired after dinner, and encouraged Ophelia to sing. Instead, she’d sat by the fire, blushing and refusing to share her talent. I still cannot sing, she’d lied. I’m sorry. The fire...
“I’m not so far away,” she said, smiling at Elizabeth. “Just thinking of your skill at the piano. You must practice a great deal.”
“I don’t practice as much as I should. August is better, and you ought to hear his father play. Do you remember Lord Barrymore from the wedding? He looks exactly like August, but for a few strands of silver in his hair.”
“Indeed, I remember meeting Lord Barrymore, as well as his wife. You are all very close,” Ophelia observed.
“Family friends.” Elizabeth rolled her green eyes, so like to her brother’s. “Which is well enough until you must go to this party or that because Mama’s friends are planning it, or dance with this or that son at a ball because you haven’t enough names on your dance card. That didn’t happen to me,” she added. “I’m not old enough for balls yet, not really, but Mama allowed me to attend a few given by the Warrens, as long as I didn’t dance.”
“I haven’t been to many balls.” Ophelia’s own foray into society had been so brief, and so fraught with worry about her reputation, that she hadn’t been able to enjoy much dancing, flirtation, and courtship. “I was studying music in Vienna for the last several years.”
“How interesting, that you lived in Vienna. I’ve never been there. I haven’t done a great deal at all, although I will when I’m older. At least I hope so.”
She made a small frown, and Ophelia thought again how very innocent she was. The girl would have less opportunity to do things in the future, if she married. Even a duke’s daughter would find her world shrunk down to a respectable, confining box within society.
“Will you tell me what it was like at your music school?” she asked. “Did you have daily lessons? Were any of your teachers famous? Did you sing in many operas? How often did you perform?”
Ophelia smiled at Elizabeth’s curiosity and glanced about the room, saw that Wescott’s parents and his other sister had taken up a game of cards with Lord Marlow, and that her husband was deep in conversation with Lord Augustine. “I did have daily lessons, and we performed quite a lot as part of our studies. We were graded on our performances, even ranked against one another. I suppose some of my teachers were famous. At times, great masters would spend a few days in our classes to instruct and inspire us.”
“And were you inspired?”
“Some of the time.”
“Do you like being married to my brother?”
Elizabeth’s abrupt change of topic took her aback. She could be very direct, her light eyes piercing beneath her deep black hair.
“Of...of cou
rse I like being married to Wescott. He is a very...good husband.”
“A good husband.” She smothered a laugh behind a small, gloved hand. “What a perfectly polite thing to say. Now tell me the truth, Ophelia, because I’d always pictured Jack being a bang-up husband when he finally got married, but the two of you are chilly as anything together.”
“Chilly?”
“Chilly,” Elizabeth repeated, not taking any of the bluntness off the word. “Like you don’t care for each other very much.”
Ophelia blinked, wondering how to explain the direction of their marriage so far. Chilly, yes, and a disaster too, especially in the bedroom.
And that, Ophelia, is entirely your stubborn fault.
“We are still getting to know each other, I suppose,” she said aloud.
Wescott’s sister had an uncanny habit of studying people’s faces, and whenever she turned those eyes on Ophelia, she felt she could read every emotion there—even the ones she hid.
“You know, we have hardly been married,” she went on. “It’s only been a few days. Things can’t be perfect all at once.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “Things will improve when you know Wescott better.” Her sincerity was endearing, as was her adoration for her big brother. “He’s the best sort of man. He can tease and be sweet, but be strong and protective too. He knows how to fight with swords, did you know that?”
Ophelia shook her head, glancing over at her husband, deep in conversation with his friend. What was he telling him? How awful she was as a wife? How many times he’d had to punish her thus far?
“He learned to wield swords because he was too restless to succeed at piano,” Elizabeth went on. “My brother Gareth and he used to practice with swords for hours, and pretend they were knights rescuing damsels. Gareth grew out of it, he’s off now at university, but Wescott stayed with it. When he’s in London, he practices at a club with other swordsmen, not that gentlemen fight with swords anymore like they did in the old days. But he looks so dashing when he does.”
Ophelia sat quietly, listening to all this. Wescott, adept at swordplay? What an interesting hobby, and she hadn’t heard a word about it from him.
“He has an armor room here at the Abbey,” Elizabeth said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t know where it is. I’ve never been allowed in.”
“Why not?”
She giggled. “Because I’m his annoying little sister and he doesn’t trust me with the knowledge. It’s hidden away. There’s a secret passage or something to get there. I suppose it’s down underground, so I don’t want to go there, but isn’t it interesting? I’m sure he’ll show it to you some day.”
Ophelia wasn’t so sure, but she held her tongue.
“There are ghosts too, I think,” Elizabeth went on. “Perhaps they take up the swords in Wescott’s secret armory and have battles while we all sleep.”
Goodness, his sister was imaginative. “I’m looking forward to meeting all the ghosts here, and finding Wescott’s secret hideaways.”
Elizabeth looked pleased, her pretty face lighting up. “Oh, I hope you do. It’s the perfect continuation of your love story.”
“I don’t know that we have a love story yet,” said Ophelia, not quite suppressing a sigh.
“Oh, but you do. He rescued you the night of that awful fire, like a knight in shining armor.” Elizabeth clasped her hands, her voice going soft and dreamy. “You were a real-life damsel in distress.”
“That was a terrible night, though, not a fantasy in any way.”
“But he saved you, and look at you both now, married, setting up a home in this fascinating, mysterious old place.”
Ophelia couldn’t imagine how Elizabeth thought any of those were good things, or romantic things. She’d had so many nightmares about the fire, and now his sister was stirring up the idea of ghosts...
Wescott turned at that moment to look at her, and in his gaze she saw a protectiveness she didn’t expect. He appeared quickly enough each time she had a nightmare, and beat away the fiery demons that tormented her. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him brandishing a sword, and probably besting all the other gentlemen at his London sports club.
“The swords have blunt edges,” Elizabeth said, as if she’d heard Ophelia’s thoughts. “So they can’t stab each other, although they do get hurt sometimes. Wescott came home with such a bruise one day when he was younger. It ran all along his side and up his right arm. Mama didn’t like it at all, but Papa said he could be brash if he liked it, for he was to be the duke one day.”
“He’s good at being brash,” Ophelia said, turning from her husband’s gaze.
“How was it when he rescued you?” asked Elizabeth wistfully. “Was it as romantic as I imagine? I’d like to be rescued someday. It must be a lovely feeling, to be whisked away from danger by someone caring and strong.”
How naive the young woman was. Her rescue hadn’t been lovely at all. “That night was more frightening than romantic,” she said, looking down at her hands. “Of course, I would have hated to succumb to the fire, but it was also scary to be rescued by your brother. I didn’t know him when he swept me up onto his horse.”
“Ah, he swept you up.” A soft blush pinkened Elizabeth’s cheeks. “My head is full of silly dreams, everyone says so. Forgive me. Of course the fire was frightening and not romantic at all. I’m glad you’re here now, and safe. Wescott will always keep you safe and help chase away your fears.”
Ophelia glanced again at her husband, wondering if he’d told his family about her nightmares. “I’m sure he wants me to be happy.” By some miracle, she kept the doubt from her voice.
“Oh, yes, of course he does,” Elizabeth said with no doubt at all. “He was the best big brother to me and my sisters, the very best. I know a great many things about him even though we’re the farthest apart in age. I shall tell you some things right now, so you can know him better. Where to start?” She laughed. “Well, he can be a bit high and mighty at times. You’ve probably already realized that.”
Ophelia shifted on her bottom without thinking. “I did realize that early on.”
“Let’s see, what else? He enjoys gambling at cards, but he’s not a problem gambler. He mainly plays at parties so he can win small prizes and gloat.”
“I can see him doing that.” Elizabeth’s comical tidbits about her brother were starting to mellow Ophelia’s dark mood.
“He also likes the theater. Oh, I hope your voice recovers, because he’d love to hear you sing. As far as what he likes to eat, it’s pretty much anything and everything, although he’s especially fond of Welsh shortbread.”
“Welsh shortbread?” Ophelia tilted her head in question. “How is that different from Scottish shortbread?”
“It’s not different at all,” said Elizabeth with a grin. “But Mama told us it was Welsh whenever the cook made it for us, because that’s where she was from. We’re all half-Welsh, which is where I got this dark hair. It runs in her family. I wonder if your children will have dark, Welsh hair. Probably not, since Wescott got my father’s blond hair, and you’re blonder still. Are you half-anything?”
Ophelia thought a moment. “I’m...well. Perhaps I’m half used to being married to your brother.” She might as well tell her the truth. “I’m half worried, and half pleased. Sometimes I look at him and find him very handsome and interesting, and the other half of the time, I wish I was back at my parents’ house in my childhood bed.”
Elizabeth’s easy smile dimmed a little at those words. “Oh, Ophelia, I suppose that’s how things naturally go, if you don’t marry for love. I’m sad things aren’t falling right into place for both of you, but they will. You must believe that.”
Whether they do or not, I’m stuck for life. She didn’t say the words to Elizabeth. His sister was so kind, and so fond of Wescott, she couldn’t say anything rude.
“You must come visit me at Arlington Hall this fall and winter,” she said. “Whenever you’re fru
strated or lonely, ride over to see me and we’ll pretend to be real sisters, and tell each other all the secrets we wish. I can help you solve any problems that come up, and you can help me prepare for my first season, since you’ll be a wise married lady and I’ve not even danced at any balls.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, and we can use familiar names with one another. Sometimes my family calls me Lisbet, and you...perhaps I can call you Fifi. Isn’t that a pet name for Ophelia?”
She hid a grimace. “You can call me Fifi if you like.”
“Perfect. Come, would you like to talk to Hazel? I believe their card game is at an end. Look how my sister pouts, she must have lost badly. By the by, Hazel thinks your fine, pale hair is ever so pretty and elegant. She’s jealous but she wouldn’t admit it. She’s just your age, and she can’t wait to be married. Our other sister Charlotte just married last year, and she and her husband are expecting a baby soon, and my oldest sister Louisa, well, she’s been married forever.” Elizabeth paused to laugh. “Louisa gives all of us advice about husbands and children whenever we see her, whether we ask for it or not.”
“My sister recently married too,” Ophelia offered, trying to get in a word edgewise. “Her name is Nanette.”
“I imagine Charlotte and Hazel might know her. Let’s go ask.”
Elizabeth took her hand and led her over to Hazel, rattling off the primary men her sister was interested in, as well as the hopefuls who didn’t stand a chance. Ophelia didn’t know who any of them were, but the sisters’ chatter was so amusing, she could almost picture the hapless men trying to keep up.
Like Elizabeth, Hazel was well-spoken and warm, and indeed eager to marry and have children. Why couldn’t Ophelia be happy with such traditions? Why had she pined for a more adventurous life, only to lose any chance of it?
Worst of all, why couldn’t she situate herself with Lord Wescott, when those around him esteemed him so greatly? In this room of his family and friends, she felt lonelier than ever. She felt like the very worst wife.
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