* * * * *
August nudged Wescott with a grin. “Look at your poor wife,” he said. “Hazel and Elizabeth are chattering her ears off.”
“Good, it’s been too quiet here for her.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s good that they’re getting along.”
“How are you getting along?” he asked when Wescott fell silent.
He met the query with a shrug. “As well as any strangers who were recently forced to be married. Lady Wescott holds the whole situation in disdain, not that it matters at this point. You know me. I’m one to make the best of things and move on.”
“Indeed.”
They watched the women talking, as August shared news of his twin sisters Isabella and Constance, their husbands, and their ever-growing brood of chatty little girls. His sisters adored their impish “cousins,” even though they weren’t real cousins. In their circle of friends, everyone was family.
Wescott appreciated that Hazel and Elizabeth were doing their best to draw Ophelia into the familial group. He could also see his wife was not as comfortable as she pretended to be. He wondered how often she’d had time to sit about and gossip with friends at her blasted Viennese school.
“I don’t think she likes me,” he finally admitted out loud. “Not even a little. She wants to be somewhere else and lets me know it with daunting regularity. Back at home. Onstage. Traveling the world, she told me, as if her parents would have allowed it. She’s a silly ninny most of the time.”
Augustine studied Ophelia, his features creased in question. He tended to be quiet and clumsy, and was often the butt of their jokes, but he was probably, also, the most thoughtful of the four of them.
“Do you have advice?” Wescott asked.
“I can’t say I do. Haven’t been married, my friend. The most experience I have with women is jollying up the tarts at Pearl’s, and I can’t even do that now, until the madam rebuilds from the fire.”
“Wives are nothing like the tarts at Pearl’s,” he said drily. “They’re far more sensitive, in all the worst ways.”
“Sorry to hear it, Wes. You know, we would have waited longer to intrude upon your solitude, but Elizabeth was bound and determined we must come at once.” August turned his thoughtful gaze to Wescott’s sister. “We told her you needed more time alone together, but you know how she is with her...” He gestured into the air. “Her mysterious intuitions.”
“My parents should not indulge her intuitions. If she doesn’t take care, she’ll get a reputation as some sort of spiritualist.”
“You must admit, her instincts are often true.”
Wescott shrugged again. From an early age, Elizabeth had exhibited the strangest talent at reading people’s faces, and often, eerily, their unspoken thoughts. He’d flattened a man once for calling his sister the “Arlington witch.”
“She must learn to keep her instincts to herself,” Wescott said, as Marlow joined them. “Although I’m grateful for my family’s company, and yours. How was the game?” he asked Marlow.
“Convivial as always. Your father trounced us soundly, and Hazel came dead last. She has no talent for cards.”
“Or very much interest,” Wescott said with a laugh. “She’d rather be dancing or playing the piano, or buying new gowns.”
“She’ll be breaking hearts next year on the marriage mart,” said August. “I know at least fifteen men who want to court her, and only five or six are in it for the family connections. She’ll have her choice of the best.”
“I hope neither of you are on that list.”
Marlow huffed out a laugh. “I’d just as well court my sister. I’m afraid our families are too close. I played with Hazel when she was in diapers, and Elizabeth too.”
August made a lackluster sound of agreement, and Wescott wished he hadn’t made the thoughtless joke. They all sometimes forgot how much the young Lord Augustine had pined for Townsend’s oldest sister, Felicity. August had worshipped the ground she walked on, even as she kindly pushed him away, wanting nothing to do with such a young, awkward boy. She was long wed now, to a dashing Italian prince who’d swept her off her feet as August looked on helplessly.
“My advice to both of you is not to marry at all, for as long as you can hold out,” he said, to change the subject. “It’s a terrible disruption to the bachelor life.”
His friends laughed. “Thanks for warning us,” said Marlow. “We wouldn’t have known.”
Wescott had felt at ease with the other two gentlemen for as long as he could remember, but something was missing. They all felt it. Townsend had always rounded out their conversations with his pithy remarks. “What do you think Towns is up to?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Have his parents had any letters?”
“You ought to ask Hazel,” August said. “She and his sister Rosalind are close in age. The two of them ought to scheme to get him interested in some other lady...” His voice trailed off.
“Some other lady than my wife?” finished Wescott wryly. “That would probably be best. I’m not certain he won’t slap a glove in my face when we all return to London.”
“By Christmastide, he’ll have mellowed,” said Marlow. “We’ll drag him along for our winter visit here at the Abbey and force him to come around with country dances and sherry.”
“We’ll put mistletoe everywhere,” agreed August. “And keep your pretty wife away from it. She is pretty as blazes, Wes. That must make you happy.”
“We’re happy enough.” He frowned. “For people so recently wed.”
Marlow shook his head. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“He says she doesn’t like him at all,” said August. “Bit of a shame.”
Marlow’s eyes lit with mischief. “You must step up your powers of seduction, then. I can offer some tips if you like.”
“Obnoxious,” murmured August. “Just because you’re the ladykiller of our group.”
“I’ve never killed any lady, except with pleasure.”
“Gentlemen,” said Wescott. “We’re not drunk enough for this conversation, and not alone enough.” He swept his glance about the warm, bright parlor, and lowered his voice. “Although I’ll say things are just fine in that area of our marriage. It’s the one time she goes quiet, if you know what I mean.”
August shook his head. “I’d rather not know what you mean.”
And I’d rather not admit the truth, that I haven’t been inside her once since we’ve been married. How they would mock him forever afterward about it, even if he managed to bed her tonight. He was relieved when Elizabeth and Hazel came to join them, along with Ophelia. She stood awkwardly, not knowing how to greet him in front of the others, so he took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“She says we may call her ‘Fifi,’” Elizabeth said, eyes shining. “And we’ve told her all about you, all the things you should have told her yourself.”
“Such as?” He raised a brow.
“Why, how adept you are at swordplay, for one thing.”
His ignored his friends’ guffaws, sending them warning looks. Ophelia smiled uneasily. He wasn’t sure she got the joke, but having seen his “sword” on a few occasions now, she might have. He was proud of his swordplay in both the literal and provocative sense. If only she’d let him show her what else he could do to bring her pleasure.
“It grows late,” he told her softly. “When you see fit as hostess, you are free to invite our houseguests off to bed.”
Chapter Twelve: Trying to Understand
Wescott came to her room before she’d even finished her evening ablutions, dressed in his bed robe. Rochelle helped her don her night shift, then bobbed a curtsey, excusing herself. Ophelia rather wished she’d stay, because her husband seemed in an amorous mood.
He was a different man around his friends: happier, bolder, more at ease. He lounged on her bed with an air of carnality. It will happen eventually. He will demand it, eventually.
She didn’t know w
hy she continued to resist. She had found pleasure in their first joining, dread and confusion notwithstanding. In moments of reverie, as she looked at him, she admitted to herself that he had thrilled her that night at the inn, even if the morning after covered all of it with a veil of shame.
It would be better, more wifely, to give herself to him, but some stubborn part of her held to reservations. Once he had her, she would never be herself again. She’d be changed into his wife in truth, her past self no longer relevant at all.
A line played in her head from a duet she’d performed in Vienna on the topic of marriage, part of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. The German lyrics, roughly translated: nothing is more noble than man and wife. Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann. Man and wife, and wife and man. She’d sung it over and over as the character Pamina, enjoying each note as she harmonized with the young baritone who’d played Papageno. It had only been a year ago, but how innocent and ignorant she’d been.
Man and wife, and wife and man. She wished the voice in her head would be silent. She’d never be able to sing that again with the same light, easy sense of romance.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She realized she’d been rearranging the perfume jars beside her mirror for over a minute. She turned to him, taken aback by his haughty beauty, the ease with which he sprawled before her.
“I was thinking of something I used to sing,” she said. “A trifle of a duet, but with lovely notes, the type I enjoyed performing. Mozart had a talent for that.”
“Così fan tutte?”
“No, The Magic Flute. It was part of our winter performances last year.”
He leaned forward on the bed, resting his head on his hand. “Sing it for me, Ophelia. Whatever song you’re talking about.”
“I can’t.”
He snorted, his gaze darkening. “You mean you won’t. Come lie with me, at least, if you’re going to be cross.”
“I’m not cross,” she said, although she knew she was acting cross as anything. She gathered her courage and joined him, sitting on the edge of the bed, her knees pressed firmly together.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter that everyone’s descended upon our honeymoon,” he said. “We’re like an old married couple already, arguing and frowning at one another.”
Ophelia softened her frown, hating that he’d called her out on it. “The problem is, my voice is out of practice. Also, the song was in German. I doubt I’d remember all the words correctly.”
“You could at least hum the melody for me.” He moved to sit beside her, meeting her eyes. It felt intimate just being close to him. Too intimate.
“I enjoyed spending the evening with your family,” she said, to change the subject. “How interesting they all are. And your friends.”
“Interesting is one word to describe them,” he said with a laugh. “Marlow and Augustine will move into their own ancestral holdings out here when they’re married. For now, they hang about London, if they aren’t with their families, or at some house party being set up with this young lady or that. They try to avoid that.”
“Don’t they want to marry?”
He made a face. “It’s complicated. August wanted to marry Townsend’s older sister, but she wed an Italian prince years ago. Marlow isn’t ready to marry anyone, and Townsend...” He paused. “Well, he couldn’t marry who he liked. He’s run off to the continent to lick his wounds. How cruel you were to him.”
“What?” She turned on him, aghast. “I didn’t know him well enough to be cruel to him.”
He took her arms and caught her in an embrace. “I was teasing you, crosspatch. Why must you snap at me? I’ll have to spank you again.”
He was in a jolly mood, but she wasn’t. “Please let go of me.”
She pulled away but he pulled her back. “You didn’t dream of the fire last night, did you?” he pointed out. “It was the first peaceful sleep you’ve had in a while.”
“I don’t know if it was peaceful. I dreamed of ginger and canes.”
“But you slept. I think the punishment was good for you. For both of us.” He grinned. “Come, Ophelia. Let me see how things look the day after.”
“How things look?”
He meant to inspect her bottom? She stiffened as he strong-armed her over his lap.
“Come now. No protests. Just do as I ask.”
He didn’t give her much choice. No matter how she resisted, she couldn’t escape his grip, so she let him have his way and lay over his knees, across the bed. How cruel he was, amusing himself by exposing her this way. He pushed up her robe and night shift, baring her bottom. She knew the two cane welts were still there; she’d felt them all day.
“I should give you a couple of cane strokes each night,” he said, his fingertips tracing over the welts. “That’ll keep you properly in line. I can add more for poor behavior, or take a stroke away if you’ve been especially good.”
She pressed her lips shut, refusing to dignify such a horrid idea with an answer. When would he let her up?
“What do you think?” He goaded her, pinching one of the sore stripes. “It might improve our marriage.”
“It will make our marriage worse,” she said through gritted teeth. “You shouldn’t treat me this way. A proper husband wouldn’t embarrass his wife in this fashion.”
“Why should I act like a proper husband, when you refuse to be a proper wife and perform your marital duties?”
It always came back to that. Stupid, lecherous man. Why, she would never please his perverse appetites, even if she gave in and welcomed him in her bed. She tried to keep her temper as he traced the cane stripes again, for he would spank her for any reason. If she gave a snide answer about “marital duties,” she was in the perfect position for reprisal, so she held her tongue, even as his caresses grew bolder.
He kneaded her hips, stroked the small of her back, even dipped a few fingers between her thighs. She lay still, wishing he’d release her. Instead he pushed her back on the bed, coming over her. She froze, praying his robe wouldn’t fall open any more.
“Look at your frown, silly thing. Won’t you let me have you? Because I want you very much, Ophelia. You’re mine, you know, no matter how you resist.” He caressed her cheek. “I like that you belong to me.”
She reeled back from him, edging toward the headboard. “I don’t belong to you. I’m not ‘yours,’ Wescott. I am my own person, and I don’t like being played with and tossed about like a doll.”
She knew she would anger him with such talk, but her own anger had been bubbling all evening, trapped beneath the pretty smile she’d put on for his visitors.
“How do you think I feel when you paw at me and brag about your ‘ownership,’ as if I’m a plaything for you to grope at your whim? It’s not gentlemanly.”
“Gentlemanly?” His antagonistic tone matched hers. “You’re my wife. Men touch their wives.”
“Yes, in polite, respectful ways, but I don’t think you know anything about that. Do you think I enjoy being thrown over your lap to have my bottom ‘inspected’? Do you think I’m happy that I’ve been sitting uncomfortably all evening because you caned me?”
He sat up, his green eyes glinting in the dim light. “Here, now. What is this attack about? If you were not such an ornery grump, you wouldn’t have been caned in the first place.”
“And if you were not such a perverted lecher, you would not have taken my virginity that night at the inn, and I wouldn’t be here in this room with you being ornery and grumpy. I’d still be the person I used to be.”
“The person you used to be? The actress? The stage performer?” He snorted. “What a great lady you were then.”
Oh, he made her livid. “I was a great lady,” she cried. “I was talented. I tried hard, and it wasn’t all from God. It was my work, too.” She backed away from him until she was trapped, her spine against the tall headboard. “I wanted to do things in the world, and see things, and then you ruined everything b
ecause of your base urges.” She knew she ought to stop, but she seemed to have lost control of her temper. “Do you understand how much I despise this life and this marriage, and this miserable pile of rocks you’ve brought me to? I don’t care if you’re a duke’s son, or that other ladies wanted you. I don’t want you.”
“Lower your voice,” he said. “It’s bad enough that you scream at me so, but if my friends hear—”
“I don’t care what your friends hear, just as you don’t care about me.”
“Ophelia—”
“You think of me as some possession because we’ve married, but you care nothing for my feelings, nothing at all for what I’ve lost.”
“What you’ve lost?” He raised his voice now, just moments after he’d told her to speak more softly. “What about what I’ve lost, you shrieking child? Do you think I wanted to marry you? Because I didn’t, not at all.” He grasped her forearm when she tried to avoid his fierce gaze. “You were dead last on my list of marriage prospects, because until that damned night, I didn’t know you existed. I married you out of duty, when I could have had a dozen ladies, prettier, richer, and better situated than you.”
“I wish you had had any of them,” she yelled back. “Any of them but me.”
“I wish it too, by God, every hour of every day, every time you throw your sadness and regrets in my face, as if all of this is my fault.”
“It is your fault. You shouldn’t have touched me! You shouldn’t have made me do the things I did that night.”
“That night.” He groaned, releasing her arm. “That night, that night. It will always be that night, and you condemning me in your goddamned righteous tone, like you didn’t beg me every moment to keep going with your sensuous movements, and your breathless moans.”
She shook her head, jumping off the bed. “I didn’t do anything sensual. I wouldn’t have. I did not moan.”
“You did,” he said coldly. “I remember it. I hear it in my head every time you recoil from me now, and it reminds me that you’re just as guilty as me. It sounded like this.”
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