The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

Enticing feathers do not a willing woman make. He was unsure who had said that, but the words popped into his mind like a canker. This woman had been nothing but trouble from nearly the moment he met her. Tonight was merely one more ordeal to be gotten through as lightly as they could. Both now . . . and later. For, after they returned to the quiet house on the outskirts of the city, the earl had Plans.

  His wife, too, had plans. Though Penny was unsure if she could carry them out. The stern discipline by which she had lived the last ten years in an effort to eradicate her past was so ingrained, she feared the best of intentions could not conquer it. So now—at least for the moment—she would be content with small things, such as riding in a shadowy carriage, hip to hip with her husband, inhaling the scent of him—was it sandalwood or simply essence of Jason? She sat very straight and tried not to touch him, but her efforts were to no avail when he removed a slim velvet case from his inside jacket pocket and said, “I took the liberty of consulting with O’Donnell about your gown, my dear. I trust you will find these a satisfactory complement.”

  Penny found herself unable to move, gaping at the jewel case as if she had never seen one before. The earl flipped open the lid to reveal a delicate necklace of diamond filagree, nestled in a bed of white satin. “Allow me,” he murmured, removing the necklace from its case. He paused expectantly, obviously waiting for her to turn around.

  As her husband’s fingers touched the back of her neck, Penny was taken by a shiver that rocked her all the way to her toes. As well as a few other nameless places in between. She did not breathe as he pushed her artfully arranged curls aside and affixed the first of the matching earbobs with a skill so deft she could not help but be reminded of his vast years of experience with women.

  Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered but that they were together now, tonight, and that he would be returning to Shropshire with her on the morrow. Let the ton do its worst. Jason was right. By next Season the on dits about Lady Rocksley would have been replaced ten times over by even more shocking scandals.

  Yet as she was frozen in place, holding her breath and thinking of better times to come—while her husband’s face hovered nearly as close as his hands—the inevitable occurred. The Earl of Rocksley had no sooner fastened the second diamond earbob in place than he cupped his wife’s chin between his palms and bent his lips to hers. Though each had reached the conclusion that their marriage must take the inevitable final step, neither was prepared for the hot flare of emotion that leaped at them the moment their lips touched. Panic-stricken, Penny shoved hard, then, discovering the earl’s chest as immovable as a boulder, pounded on him with her fists, finally breaking away to back herself into a corner of the burgundy velvet squabs. The earl, breathing hard, flung himself into the other corner. Across the few feet separating them, they glared at each other, shock vying with anger.

  “I beg your pardon,” Penny gasped when she finally found her tongue. “That was most improper of me. I–I can only plead that it was most unexpected—”

  “After ten years of marriage, you are shocked when your husband kisses you?” The earl’s tone was filled with such cool sarcasm his wife was tempted to deliver a good solid yank to the dark lock of hair that fell so intriguingly across his brow. But that would mean touching him again . . . and unleashing emotions that terrified her. She could not, simply could not, love him again. Could not survive another heartbreak like the last.

  “I beg your pardon, ” Penny declared. “I am aware I leave a great deal to be desired in a wife. I have caused you nothing but trouble—” If only he knew she had lost her way in the bazaar because her mind had been filled with visions of the youthful and oh-so-charming Jason Lisbourne.

  “We will discuss this matter later,” the earl pronounced austerely as his carriage joined the line of other vehicles outside the Royal Opera House. “Later tonight,” he added most ominously, just as the footman opened the door and let down the step.

  Dear God, Penny thought, stumbling and being saved from the muddy gutter only by the strong arm of the liveried footman. Surely her night at the opera could not have had a more inauspicious beginning.

  Yet, at first, the evening was not the ordeal Penny had feared. Yes, the buzz in the great house increased threefold when she took her seat at the front of the earl’s box. Every quizzing glass in the vast tiers of boxes, and in the pit as well, was turned in her direction. But at acting a role Penny had long since proved her skill. She sat, erect as a queen, and allowed them to look. Thanks to Madame Madelaine and her own rediscovered inner strength, she had never looked better in her life. And at her side was one of the ton’s best-known peers—her husband—supported by Lord Brawley and Mr. Henry Dinsmore, whose reputations might be as rakish as the earl’s but who were as eagerly sought after by hostesses of the haut monde.

  Penny was so enthralled by the spectacle of the vast opera house and its glittering patrons—in spite of their rude perusal of her person—that she ignored the three gentlemen sharing the box until Mr. Dinsmore hissed into the near silence between the orchestra’s tuning-up and the first notes of the Overture: “Oh, I say, Rock, look at this!” And proceeded to wave the playbill under the earl’s aristocratic nose.

  Penny saw Jason’s face, already set in stoic lines, visibly pale. Lord Brawley, leaning over his shoulder to read the playbill, uttered a word so frightful, the countess gasped. The earl merely dropped the offending playbill to the floor, crossed his arms, and stared at the great gold-fringed velvet curtain as if it were the most fascinating of spectacles. While the orchestra played the lively Overture, Penny turned, hiding behind her fan, and took a look at Gant Deveny, who was seated behind her. His face, however, revealed nothing as it was always pale, though the humor that usually graced the perpetual cynicism of his green-flecked hazel eyes seemed to be missing. Something was wrong, something other than the blatant scrutiny she was receiving, yet she could not imagine what it could be. Annoyed by this phalanx of male secrecy, Penny turned her attention to the stage, where the curtain was going up at last.

  Speaking? The characters were speaking, instead of singing? Had they come on the wrong night? Gently, Penny tugged on her husband’s arm.

  The earl promptly bent his head to hers, his words whispered through inexplicably tight lips. “Singspiel,” he said. “Much of the story is in dialogue, like a play. The songs are simply for pleasure.”

  Smiling her thanks, Penny returned her attention to the stage. Caught up in the beauty of the first song, she did not immediately notice the costumes and the setting. But as the applause died away and the next unintelligible bit of guttural German dialogue rang out, her attention wandered to the painted backdrop, reversed with startled intensity to one of the main characters who was wearing shalwar and a turban, and then, with growing horror, back to the domes, minarets, and latticed balconies of the colorful stage set.

  Heaven forfend! And then, although her German was not as competent as her French, Italian, and Spanish, the meaning of one oft-repeated phrase finally became clear. “Is this the Pasha Selim’s house?”

  Penny gasped, pushing so far back into her delicate gilt chair that Lord Brawley was forced to reach out a strong arm to keep it from tipping over. Jason seized her hand, leaning over to speak directly into her ear. “I am most sincerely sorry,” he said. “I had no idea the opera was to be Abduction from the Seraglio. More of the infinitely bad luck that seems to dog our footsteps.”

  “But the same name,” Penny choked out.

  “Kindly remember Mozart wrote about his Pasha Selim before you were born,” Jason told her, a tad sternly. “I assure you he did not have you in mind when he penned this supposed comedy.”

  Comedy. This travesty on her experience was a comedy? Penny clutched her fan so tightly the ivory sticks snapped.

  “Do you wish to leave?” her husband asked.

  The old Penny—the girl who had risen from the remains of the starry-eyed Penelope Blayne, the girl who had shriveled and died on th
e voyage from Constantinople to Lisbon as reality replaced her foolish girlish fantasies—would have said yes. The new Penny, who had taken her fate in her hands and set out to dazzle her husband, lifted her eyes to the earl’s and shook her head with vigor. She was here at her own personal hero’s side, in full view of the ton, and here she would stay, and brazen it out. And, in truth, when in the third act the hero raised a ladder to the harem window in order to rescue his beloved, the absurdity struck her full force. Abduction from the Seraglio was indeed a comedy, with no relation to the true heroics that had effected her own rescue from the harem of Selim the Third. She could laugh, and applaud Belmonte’s rescue of his Constanze, and still hold her head high.

  She was here, in this box at the Royal Opera House, instead of sitting forlornly behind a lattice in the Topkapi Palace, because of Jason, a man who had dared everything for her. And never, ever, must she forget it, no matter how difficult matters might become.

  During the two intervals, Penny noted, no one was admitted to their box except those whose understandable curiosity was mellowed by long-time friendship. Mrs. Daphne Coleraine was not among them, for which Penny gave hearty thanks. And just before the end of the second interval, Lord Brawley leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “You have done well tonight, my lady. You have faced them all under the most trying conditions, and, shallow as they are, there’s none so blind they cannot see you for the fine lady you truly are. They are a strange lot, the ton. Give them time to grow accustomed to the fact they have made a mistake, and they will come around. Mercifully, their memories are short.”

  Penny offered a grateful smile before turning her attention back to the stage, her glow of pleasure shortly turning to a frown. In all the tension of the evening, she had nearly forgotten the earl’s ominous promise as she exited the carriage.

  Later tonight.

  And, inevitably, later arrived.

  Noreen O’Donnell, sensing an atmosphere, blithely laid out her mistress’s most elaborate nightwear, a garment whose only relief from transparency came from elaborate white embroidery on the bodice and a panel of white embroidery down the front, which, Penny was certain, tended to draw the eyes to her private places rather than cover them up. Over this doubtful garment—the countess could not now imagine why she had selected it—O’Donnell wrapped Penny in a dressing gown of the same white lawn, but this garment featured an abundance of flounces on the sleeves and from knees to hemline. Perhaps that is why she had chosen it, Penny thought frantically. The robe was made of so much fabric, it was like an all-encompassing protective tent, right out of the seraglio. There were even two layers of flounces that came right up under her chin and those on the sleeves fell to the tips of her fingers.

  Tent, indeed! She looked like Haymarket ware. A veritable trollop. Good God, she had chosen something Mrs. Daphne Coleraine might wear!

  But was that not what men liked?

  Penny slumped down onto the edge of the bed, her back to the fateful dressing room door. She still had no idea what Jason wanted in a wife. Every time she thought she had reached a conclusion, something happened to make her wonder. For long years she had convinced herself Jason had taken Gulbeyaz in disgust. Now, he called that naive but well-trained odalisque enchanting. Yet, at the very same time, he was so reluctant to declare her his wife, he had roistered right up to the moment of her arrival. Even after the formal renewal of their vows, he had failed to bed her. He had run off to London. She suspected he was continuing to drink more than was good for him. And yet, he had given in—if reluctantly—to her desire to view London. He had been kind—yes, that was the correct word.

  He had gifted her with diamonds.

  He had kissed her.

  And now he was coming to her. For more than conversation. Surely she had not mistaken his intention. A vivid flash of the powerful emotion that had swept her at Jason’s kiss suffused her body, causing her to blush fiery red, in startling contrast to the multiple white flounces. What if she made a mull of it?

  As she had that night in Shropshire?

  What if he didn’t come at all?

  Penny firmed her lips, straightened her shoulders. She was no longer a child, no longer bound to Cassandra Pemberton’s will. No longer the exhausted caretaker seeking a place of respite. She had already set foot on the road to re-making her life. Somehow, whatever happened tonight, she would find a way out of this coil.

  The dressing room door opened so softly she almost did not hear it. Penny simply felt his presence, knew she was no longer alone. She sat up straighter, then recalled the stiff little figure who had told her husband she was perfectly reconciled to doing her duty. And the woman earlier tonight who had fought off her husband with her fists. Truthfully, it was a wonder he had come to her at all. Struggling against years of burying all memories of those weeks in the harem, Penny made a determined effort to resurrect Gulbeyaz, that terrified, yet eager child, who had embraced her husband with enthusiasm and wonder.

  Penny stood perfectly still, allowing him to look his fill.

  “You were expecting me, I believe,” her husband inquired, sounding so sure of himself her stomach churned.

  She could not look at him, she would be lost. Keeping her eyes fixed on the flounced hem of her robe, she offered an infinitesimal nod, while clamping her teeth over a fierce urge to tell Jason Lisbourne that she had been expecting him for close on to ten years.

  Theirs was a marriage of convenience, after all. Both then and now. She must be realistic. Willing to give Jason the children he wanted, yet never letting him see how much more she wanted for herself.

  Alas, as seemed to be the usual case between the earl and his countess, the results of what Penny considered a blatant invitation were not as expected. Her smile, her seductive posture, her expensive and alluring déshabille seemed to inspire nothing more than a scowl. The earl’s cobalt eyes darkened to mysterious depths in the dim light of one flickering candle. He stood a full ten feet from the bed, enveloped in a banyan of dark blue silk that clung to his lithe form like a second skin, looking very much as if he were reviewing every last rancorous word he and his countess had exchanged since they renewed their vows.

  Or perhaps, Penny wondered, he thinking of the delightful and excruciatingly embarrassing moments as she demonstrated her skills before the watching eyes at the Topkapi. Those moments when she had been so full of wonder at the sight of her husband’s young and muscular body. So . . . so proud of being able to please him. Those moments when, at last, they had both forgotten the voyeurs peeping at them and had . . .

  Penny’s thoughts plummeted back to the here and now. Jason was still glowering, and she was still standing there, like an overly decorated sweetmeat, hidden behind a mountain of flounces, a bland smile so fixed to her face she feared she must spend the rest of her life behind the same false façade.

  Remove the flounces. Yes, that was it. But if she did, the transparent linen beneath made her shalwar and tunic look positively modest.

  Was this, her third attempt at a wedding night, a time for modesty?

  Ridiculous!

  At a speed so laggard Jason was ready to throttle his countess, the multitude of flounces fell to the floor. With the candle on the nightstand directly behind her, little was left to the earl’s imagination. His mouth went dry, his body came to attention. Rancor faded to a dim dark recess where he might retrieve it at a more propitious moment.

  Penelope, moving with the sensuous grace of the odalisque Gulbeyaz, threw back the bedcovers and arrayed herself against the pillows. The earl, with considerable interest, noted that she did not pull the covers up to her chin. Indeed, she did not pull them up at all.

  And then she stretched her arm to the far side of the bed—displaying, as she did so, a remarkably enticing view into the depths of her exceedingly low neckline—and flicked aside the covers. The earl was not so far gone in lust that he did not recognize that the look his wife cast him at this point was more challenging than seductive.
Oh, he granted her a good deal of credit for trying, but at the sticking point she had failed. That enchanting creature, Gulbeyaz, had gone back into hiding, leaving only the Penelope of five and twenty, visibly making an effort to be the wife he wanted her to be. And nearly as grimly determined to lose her virginity as he was to take it.

  Hell and the devil! At least now he would know the truth. In a few short minutes he would know if his wife’s bed skills had come from training or from practice.

  And if from practice, hissed the mind of the reasoning man behind the earl’s rakish façade, did it truly matter? For the child had had no control over her life in the harem. Whatever had happened there should be buried forever, not to be touched upon again.

  Lose Gulbeyaz? The joy of his life, for whom he had searched through so many women he had long ago lost count?

  Dropping his robe as unceremoniously as his wife had dropped hers, the earl stalked toward the bed. Penny’s eyes widened. He was more . . . ah–developed than she recalled. As was she, of course. She should not be surprised. Goosebumps broke out, including some in very strange places. And then the bed seemed to be engulfed in flames. She was so hot she could not breathe. She clutched a handful of silk sheet and hung on, even after her husband’s body loomed over her, one of his powerful arms entrapping her shoulder, while the other stripped down one side of her gown so he could suckle on her breast.

  They had waited too long for finesse, for the gentle maneuverings of a considerate bridegroom on his wedding night. They plunged into passion with that extra intensity, not only of lovers long denied, but of lovers who had known hurt, resentment, guilt, desire. Later, they would be sane. But not tonight. This moment was theirs.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was gone eleven before the Countess of Rocksley descended to the breakfast room, wearing a delicious morning gown of pale green muslin sprigged in lavender. She did not look at all like a woman packed and ready to leave for Shropshire. Nor did her husband—who had, in fact, arrived in the breakfast room only minutes before his wife—appear to be a man hastening through a meal so he might be off on a lengthy journey. Dressed in the height of town fashion, from his artfully arranged dark locks, fresh from Kirby’s ministrations, to the tips of his glossily polished boots, the Earl of Rocksley slouched back into his chair after his wife’s entrance, looking very much like a man who might be content to stay rooted to that spot all day, so long as he might be entertained by the beguiling sight of his no longer virginal bride.