O'Rourke's Heiress

by Bancroft, Blair

  Within reason.

  Drinking champagne and brandy to celebrate your wedding was within reason. Beth lifted her glass, raised it to the one Rodney had poured for himself.

  “To us,” he said.

  “To us,” Beth murmured in reply. The glasses clinked. Rodney’s silvery blue eyes glowed in the lamplight. He really was a fine figure of a man. It was kind of papa to let her choose. Truly, it was. This was scarcely the moment to recall the terrible limit which had defined her suitors.

  When the champagne bottle was sufficiently depleted, Rodney poured the entire contents of his brandy flask into it. The result, of course, was that Beth drifted out of the coach, floating dreamily along on her husband’s arm as they made their way up the broad front steps of the manor house loaned to him by a friend for their wedding night.

  Although he had imbibed a little too freely himself, Rodney was generally pleased with the day so far. There were times when Elizabeth Brockman showed flashes of an all-too-sharp intelligence. Too much like her father, by God. Not really the sort of little widgeon he wanted at all. Tonight, however—since his capacity for drink was considerably greater than her own and his knowledge of the arts of love infinitely greater—he could feel superior. Not to mention the patent superiority of his rank and title, of course.

  Which he had just given to the little Brockman. Made her a viscountess, by God. Warmed her father’s gold-plated heart.

  But what if she weren’t the innocent she appeared to be? He’d not liked the animosity in the bloody brother’s eyes. Any more than he liked the fact O’Rourke wasn’t truly her brother. And Harding? Another bastard in every meaning of the word. Would they . . .? Had they . . .?

  Rodney looked up, realized he was standing in his own bedchamber, the butler poised woodenly at attention, awaiting his orders. Beth had been handed over to the ministrations of her maid who, with his valet, had followed in a second coach piled high with baggage. “Send a cold collation to m’lady’s chamber,” he ordered more coolly than could be expected from an eager bridegroom. Well, too bloody bad, he thought as the butler bowed himself out. This was no ordinary wedding, no ordinary bridal night. A vast amount of money was at stake. Money that might be whistled down the wind if he did not make his wife truly his.

  Even if another man had gotten there first.

  What she was, Beth decided, was foxed. That’s what Terence called it. How sternly he’d warned her never to drink so much.

  But tonight did not count. She was married. She could do anything she pleased.

  Or her husband pleased.

  How could Terence have gone away and left her to face this alone?

  She was deserted. Abandoned.

  She was never going to think about him again.

  Like a good little statue, Beth stood while her maid removed her clothes, right down to her fine muslin drawers and lace-trimmed garters. Swaying slightly, she lifted her arms to receive the kiss of the gossamer-sheer linen which her modiste insisted was suitable for nightwear. In November. Goosebumps dimpled her skin. Cold or fear? Gratefully, she accepted a diaphanous robe of the same transparent linen as her gown. Her eyes widened. Even to her somewhat bleary gaze, it was apparent that even two layers of sheer fabric did not adequately cover what God had given her.

  She was supposed to greet Rodney wearing this?

  Beth allowed herself to be led to a dressing table, where she scowled at her all-too-revealing image in the mirror as her maid unpinned her hair and began to brush her waves of blonde hair into a glowing golden sheen. The champagne and brandy roiled in her stomach, drifted like fog through her head. She had swallowed the lethal mix quite deliberately, exactly as if it were the medicine Rodney said it was. Because for all her curiosity, their bouts of experimentation, she feared she had made a mistake. It was wrong, wrong, wrong to marry one man when you loved another. Surely, it must be a sin.

  She was doomed.

  Terence said hell was a Christian invention. Since he’d seen his mother buried in a pauper’s grave outside sanctified ground, he preferred the teachings of the Old Religion. She had never seen him set foot in a church.

  Perhaps that’s why he’d gone to America instead of attend her wedding.

  Silly. Everyone knew he’d been sent. Jack admitted as much.

  Beth examined her hazy mirrored image, the eighteen-year-old in the transparent garments, which concealed nothing from the man who was now her husband.

  The man who was not Terence O’Rourke.

  Tomorrow would be different, she vowed. Tomorrow she would once again be Tobias Brockman’s hard-headed, dutiful daughter. But tonight she was poor foxed Beth, who had no backbone. Who was frightened by what she had done, frightened by the myriad unknowns of male-female relations which Terence had not explained.

  The mysteries he had refused to demonstrate.

  Stupid! Even brides who married for love might well panic at the sight of the marriage bed, at the titillating fear that two wispy layers of linen enhanced rather than shadowed the charms beneath.

  Until today she had been able to convince herself she would be joyous. Eager.

  She was not.

  She should be. Rodney had married her in good faith. At least she thought he had. Although he had shown a flattering interest in her physical charms, they had never exchanged vows of love. Nor had she expected it. They liked each other. Each was getting a heart’s desire which had nothing to do with romantic love. He was acquiring a fortune; she, nobility for the grandchildren of a man risen from the depths of a Welsh coal mine. A fair bargain, sweetened by Rodney’s handsome face and abundant charm. Therefore, all was as it should be.

  Why then did the girl in the mirror look so pale and sad?

  The butler appeared, directing two footmen in placing a table, laying out an array of delicacies from thinly sliced him and wedges of cheese to a variety of tartlets and . . . more champagne?

  Beth found her voice. “Tea,” she enunciated clearly, vaguely surprised the hazy maiden inside her could sound so normal. “A large pot. Very hot.”

  The butler bowed, swept an eagle eye over the table arrangement, then bowed himself out, waving his minions before him.

  Ellie Freeman, Beth’s maid, made a similar examination of her mistress. “Oh, miss—my lady, you do look a treat. Good enough to eat!”

  Ellie, a cheerful and energetic presence in the Brockman household, had a genuine flare for fashion and coiffeurs. At the moment, however, Beth wished Ellie had chosen a different phrase. It conjured visions of a helpless creature about to be devoured by a tiger.

  Foolish. Rodney was a pussy cat. Terence was the tiger.

  The champagne haze seemed to be drifting away into the dim shadows of the room. Beth made a fleeting effort to snatch it back. Rodney was right. All brides should be a bit foxed. For as her haze retreated, she became all too aware of where she was, of what was expected of her. Only a few feet away a fire crackled and burned, but its warmth was nonexistent. She was freezing cold, fine blonde hairs standing up on her arms, a shiver vibrating between her shoulder blades.

  “As soon as the tea arrives, you may go, Ellie. I’ll put myself to bed.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey, flashed her mistress a broad smile and a wink. “His lordship’s a handsome man, m’lady. He’ll do right by you, never fear.”

  It was the first time Beth had ever been irritated by Ellie’s cheerfulness. This was not the time nor place.

  Of course it was! It was her wedding night. A joyous occasion.

  She should get up. Climb into the vast bed. Await her lord and master.

  She sat glued to the delicate gold chair of the dressing table, unable to move a muscle.

  She could hear the snap and crackle of the fire, see the dancing shadows on the walls. But the room was cold, cold, cold. Again, a shiver shook her.

  After what seemed an eon, the tea arrived. Beth snatched at the cup Ellie poured for her. It was hot and strong, perhaps now she could be warm.<
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  “Goodnight, Ellie.” Beth shooed her maid toward the bedroom door, feeling as if she was losing her last friend.

  Ellie paused with her hand on the knob, looked back at her mistress. “You’ll like it, Miss—my lady,” she gushed. “Truly you will.” A fierce blush swept over her round earnest face. “That is, that’s what m’sisters tell me,” she added hastily. “And his lordship being such a handsome gent and all . . .” The maid’s voice trailed away. “Ah . . . goodnight, my lady,” she mumbled and whisked herself out the door.

  Beth shook her head, winced. Slowly, she turned to stare at the platters of food on the table. She needed to eat. In the manner of brides she had barely touched the lavish treats served at Brockman House after the wedding. In spite of the roiling in her stomach, she must eat. But the table was a full ten feet away. And . . .

  The click sounded loud as a shot. The dressing room door, the passage between Rodney’s chamber and her own. Dear God! Who was this wide-eyed, petrified creature looking back at her from the mirror? A Brockman had more courage.

  She was a Renfrew now.

  And Terence—that source of love and strength—was far, far away on another continent. Perhaps in the bed of the American heiress. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  Bed. The word loomed in her mind as large as the great canopied behemoth behind her.

  You’ve made your bed, now lie in it. An expression as old as time. And horribly applicable to the moment. Rodney was guiltless. He had wanted a fortune, and he’d gotten it in the most charming, insouciant, and skillful manner possible. He actually seemed to hold her in affection. Under the circumstances, what more could she ask?

  Head high, chin up, Beth turned and offered her new husband her most winsome smile.

  And instantly quailed. He was wearing a black silk satin robe heavily embroidered in the Chinese fashion. His ankles were bare, with no sign there was anything beneath the black silk but himself. Beth gulped. One of the dragons on the front of the silk seemed to grow, slithering to life as Rodney moved, its jaw gaping, dagger-like teeth biting into the flames shooting from its mouth.

  Terence, help!

  Rodney paused, a look as hot as the dragon’s breath caressing her as he took in the transparency of her garments which were, Beth noted with shock, almost as revealing when she was sitting down as they were when she was standing up.

  “You do blush so prettily, my dear. You could give lessons to some of the ton’s far-from-blushing brides. Though . . . I’ve sometimes wondered if you are truly as naive as you appear.”

  Beth widened her eyes. She could not have heard him correctly. The champagne had pickled her brain.

  Rodney sauntered toward the table of food, robe flapping, revealing a flash of long bare leg lightly covered in brown hair. The sight was still dancing in her mind when he appeared by her side holding a thin slice of pure white bread with a bit of ham rolled on top. “Can’t have you fainting from hunger, my dear,” he said, “but first . . .” With his other hand he positioned a bite of cheese in front of her mouth. “Open. Ah, that’s a good girl.”

  Since her teeth seemed to be as frozen as her feet, Beth nearly choked on the small wedge of cheese. Chew, swallow, don’t be so stupid! she ordered her feeble brain. Coughing lightly, she forced her lips to curl into a smile of thanks. He really was gorgeous. More delectable than the food, as he hovered close, offering the bread and ham as if holding out a treat for his pet dog.

  Oops! Bad thought. Beth almost giggled. Blast the champagne! She was Elizabeth Mary Brockman Renfrew, Viscountess Monterne. And nobody’s pet! She opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her. As she daringly licked his fingers clean, she brought her teeth down ever so lightly, testing, tasting, wondering what he would do if she nipped him. Playfully, of course.

  Treat a woman like a dog, what could a man expect?

  More cheese, more ham . . . then a tiny cake and an apricot tartlet with melt-in-your-mouth pastry crust. As they neared the end of their meal, Beth’s gaze grew sharper. The dragon had calmed, but in its place was—what was that creature?—a satyr. Yes, she was sure that was the right word, though until now satyr had been a mysterious creature in books she wasn’t supposed to read. But the odd gleam in Rodney’s eyes as he examined her body beneath the layers of tissue-like fabric matched the illustrations in the books. The lines in his face—usually nearly invisible—had deepened into shadowed valleys. His crescent eyebrows seemed to arch upward on one side. His cheekbones had sharpened, ears peaked. Rumpled brown hair spiked to gargoyle proportions.

  Imagination! This was Rodney. The chosen. How many brides on their wedding night were faced with ugly old men, fat or shriveled, who had wasted their best years whoring and gaming until they finally selected some sweet innocent young thing to give them an heir? She was fortunate, immensely fortunate, to have Rodney. He did not look like a dragon or a satyr. He was an eager bridegroom on his wedding night, her fears absurd!

  His long fingers reached out, tilted up her chin. She shivered as his thumb traced her lips.

  “Tell me,” he said, “are you a virgin?”

  His tone was so perfectly natural, so entirely in the manner of a proper London drawing room that for a moment Beth did not take in the question. Frowning in confusion, she lifted her eyes to his oh-so-handsome face. “W–what?” she stammered.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  Suddenly, a Brockman to the core, she was furious. “How can you ask me that?” With each syllable her voice rose. “How can you possibly ask me that? How can you even think I would be anything else?”

  Rodney shrugged. The dragon seemed to flex its muscles. “So bourgeois, my dear. Middle class morality. One would think your family Evangelicals. You’d be surprised how many young ladies of the ton go to their wedding beds enceinte.” Idly, he reached out, let a strand of her golden hair sift through his long patrician fingers. “I only asked because it would be so much simpler if you were not.” His eyes sharpened, glittering coldly in the reflected firelight. “And because I’ve seen the way your so-called brother looks at you. And you’ve not exactly been a shy blossom when we’ve been alone together, now have you?”

  A silver tongue, Beth thought. Hinged at both ends. Leaving her to play the fool. Yet she knew perfectly well many women of the ton were promiscuous. Perhaps, for all her naive shock, he had a right to question her.

  Of course he had the right! Every right. He was her husband, the master of her fate, her money, her property, her person. Her life. He could love her, starve her, beat her, sleep with as many women as he liked. He could abandon her, kill her. He could . . .

  Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, Beth declared, “I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but my only experience has been with you. And, yes, I am a virgin, as you should very well know.”

  Rodney sighed. “Ah, well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?”

  Beth shot to her feet. “You dare doubt my word?” Involuntarily, the hand of the Merchant Princess shot out, the flat of her palm aimed straight for his handsome face.

  Rodney laughed, a not-pleasant sound, and caught her wrist quite handily. “If you want blows, my dear, I assure you mine will be much harder than yours.” The silver-blue eyes had gone to ice. Beth’s cold chills intensified to naked in a blizzard.

  “But this is no way to begin a marriage,” the viscount purred. “God knows you’ve been eager enough in the past. I could have had you any time I wanted. What a silly little twit you are, my dear. So willing, so trusting. Playing your little games. ‘No, Rodney. That’s enough, Rodney. Don’t do that, Rodney!’ he mimicked. And I let you get away with it because I didn’t want a quick roll in the hay, I wanted the whole thing. You and all that went with you. All legal and tied up right and tight for generations of Renfrews to come. And now there’s one last hurdle. Consummation. So your dear papa can’t cry foul and take it all away.

  “That’s right, dear girl,” Rodney mocked as his young wife’s eyes flew to the d
oor. “There’s no place to run. You’ll find I’m really quite good in bed. And I do find you attractive, remarkably little of the Cit in you at all. Except for your bourgeois notions of morality, of course.” His lips curled as his eyes swept her from head to toe. “Too bad you have such a hard head, my dear. I suppose I should have broken out a second bottle but, truly, an unconscious bride has little appeal. I enjoy my women with a little fight in them.”

  She wouldn’t let him see her horror, the depth of her disillusion. She wouldn’t! “Your façade was remarkably well constructed, my lord,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I knew this was a business arrangement, but I thought . . . I truly thought you liked me.”

  “But, my dear child, I do. I find you utterly delightful. As I do all the money that is now mine instead of yours. I expect you to be loving and obedient, to warm my bed and grace my table. I find you presentable enough to stand at the top of my stairs and bear my children. You will allow me into your bed when it pleases me and turn a blind eye to any other beds I might visit.” His long fingers traced her throat, settled around her neck, two strong thumbs toying with the vulnerable hollow beneath her chin. “You’ve been far too spoiled and pampered, my dear. It is I who am lord and master now, and you would do well to remember it. High time to come down off your high horse and learn the meaning of being obedient to your betters.” The thumbs pressed down, teasing, threatening . . .

  Terence! Tildy!

  She could never tell them. Terence, Papa, Tildy . . . Jack. Not a word. Ever. It would break their hearts. As it was hers.

  She had thought her husband a charming fribble without a serious thought in his head. She had fooled herself into a shallow imitation of love, into believing she and Rodney were good friends who could easily settle into the comfortable fit of a suitable marriage.

  She had believed.

  The more the fool, she.