Love with the Proper Husband

by Victoria Alexander

  “I doubt that that is at all uncommon, Miss Townsend. I suspect many women are fearful of bearing children.”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about that.” She waved away his comment. “Although that does not sound especially pleasant. My mother died in childbirth.” Again she paused. “Did you know I was a governess?”

  He nodded. Between Whiting and his mother, he knew most of the details of her life thus far.

  “I was not a very good governess,” she said wryly. “Children do not seem to like me. Even my own ne—charges were not fond of me.” Her brows pulled together thoughtfully. “I think they sensed my fear of them.”

  “Why on earth would you fear children?”

  “I have tried to determine that myself.” She shrugged. “I can only think it was because I was scarcely more than a child myself when I took my first position. In truth, I had no experience with children, no idea what to do. I believe I expressed my fears by being too harsh and rigid in my treatment of them.” Her questioning gaze caught his. “Does that make any sense at all?”

  “It seems quite logical to me.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” She nodded in agreement. “I have recently discovered that treating children as rational beings rather than completely foreign entities seems to elicit a far better response.”

  What was she talking about? “I should think so, although admittedly I have had no experience with children myself.”

  “And you don’t like girls. That does make things awkward.” She heaved a sigh and wandered toward the fireplace. A dark, old-fashioned portrait of the seventh Earl of Pennington hung above the mantel. “Is that your father?”

  “Yes.” Marcus joined her and stared up at the painting. The artist had managed to capture his father’s character well: the expression on his face was firm but not unkind. And there was a hint of a smile in his eyes.

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Indeed I do.” Marcus had quite liked his father and never doubted the affection was mutual. Even now, in the situation his father had placed him in, he was hard-pressed to resent the man who had always done what he thought best for his son. “Do you miss yours?”

  “I did not know him well enough to miss him.” She continued to stare up at the painting. “He wanted sons and had only daughters. It was a great disappointment to him. He sent me away to school when I was very young, and I saw him only infrequently.” Her manner was matter-of-fact, as if she was relating facts that had nothing to do with her.

  “You said daughters. Do you have sisters then?”

  “One, but she married against my father’s wishes and went off with her husband to wander the world in search of grand adventures. I did not know her at all.” She sipped her drink. “She’s dead now. Eaten by cannibals, I believe.”

  “Good God! Cannibals?”

  “Something like that. It’s of little consequence.” She shrugged. “She’s dead and I am quite alone.”

  He stared at her profile for a long moment. She was so dispassionate, as if having a sister eaten by cannibals, or whatever; a mother dead in childbirth; and a father who seemed to care nothing for her was not at all unusual. His heart twisted for her.

  “Not quite alone,” he said quietly. “Now you have me.”

  She laughed. “Whether you want me or not.” She turned her gaze toward him. “I cannot believe marriage to a woman you do not know would be your preference.”

  Without thinking, he took her hand and pulled it to his lips. “You, my dear Miss Townsend, have become my preference.”

  “Because, as you have so plainly stated, you have no choice.”

  “I was mistaken,” he said firmly. “I do indeed have a choice. I can choose to ignore my father’s decree, forfeit my fortune, and make my way in the world on my own. It would not be easy, but I do not doubt I could do it. Isn’t that precisely what you did?”

  “And it was not at all pleasant.” She pulled her hand from his. “I was forced to find employment that I was neither prepared for nor suited to. I was little more than a servant and completely dependent on the whims of others for my keeping and for wages that amounted to next to nothing. If you believe nothing else I say to you for the rest of our lives, believe this.” The corners of her lips quirked upward. “Poverty, my dear Lord Pennington, reeks.”

  “Then by all means, we shall avoid it.” He laughed, and she joined him. It was an odd moment of accord, and he wondered if they had just taken the first steps toward a life together.

  “Now then.” She returned to the sofa and seated herself. “We should continue with the terms. In addition to my income, I have a small house in the country which shall remain mine alone.”

  At once the feeling of unity vanished. “Am I to understand what is yours is yours, and what is mine is to be yours as well?”

  She thought for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds accurate.”

  “But not at all fair.”

  “I will give you children. Sons.” There was a slight note of disgust in her voice, and given her history, he could well understand it. Still, his understanding made it no less irritating. “It seems exceedingly fair to me.”

  “Fair or not, there is more involved in the duties of the Countess of Pennington than the breeding of children.” He followed her and settled back on the edge of the desk. “I shall expect you to run my households in an efficient manner. You will be provided with a suitable allowance for household and personal needs. Clothing and whatever other sorts of things women require. In addition, my position demands a certain amount of entertaining, and that shall fall to you as well. And you will be required to behave in a manner suitable to the office of my wife.”

  “We wouldn’t want to scandalize Godfrey.”

  “Godfrey is the least of my concerns. As the purpose of this, in truth most, marriages is the continuation of my family line, until such time as heirs are provided”—he narrowed his eyes—“I shall expect complete faithfulness, fidelity, and loyalty.”

  “As shall I,” she said primly.

  He raised a brow. “Most women do not expect that from their husbands.”

  “Then most woman are fools.”

  “Perhaps.” In truth, he had no problem with that particular term. “Agreed, then.”

  “I do reserve the right, however, to come and go as I please. Within reason, of course.”

  He shrugged. “As long as you remain faithful to me, I have no objection to that. Indeed, I have never particularly wanted a wife who would not have a certain amount of independence in her spirit.”

  “Then, Lord Pennington, we may well suit after all.” She cast him a brilliant smile, and again he noted how it transformed her face. And how pretty she really was. “And I believe this evening’s business is concluded.”

  “Not entirely.” He straightened and stepped toward her. “I do not relish the thought of my wife calling me by my title. Regardless of the circumstances of our union, it is indeed a union, and a lifetime one at that. I would much prefer to be called by my given name.”

  “Very well, Marcus. And you may call me”—she looked up at him with a distinctly teasing look in her eye—“Miss Townsend.”

  “As you wish, Miss Townsend.” He laughed, plucked her again empty glass from her hand and set it aside, then held out his hand and helped her to her feet. She swayed and he caught her in his arms. “My dear Miss Townsend, you are indeed foxed.”

  “I most certainly am not,” she said with a weak attempt at indignation. She drew back and grinned up at him. “I do feel remarkably…confident, but I am not inebriated.”

  “Have you ever been inebriated?”

  “I have drunk enough wine in my life to know what inebriated is.” She smiled smugly. “And this is not it.”

  Her acquaintance with wine explained why the brandy had not overwhelmed her. He was at once pleased and a tiny bit disappointed, although he was far too honorable to ever take advantage of a drunken Gwendolyn.

  “Now, I think you shou
ld kiss me.” She closed her eyes and raised her chin.

  “Should I?”

  “Indeed you should.” She waited, then opened her eyes. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  She sighed. “You told me I would know when you wanted to kiss me.”

  “And do I?”

  “Yes, you do.” She flashed him a wicked smile that would have done Berkley proud.

  “Very well, then.” He chuckled and lowered his lips to hers.

  “I have never truly been kissed before,” she said, her lips a scant breath from his. There was a tremulous note in her voice at odds with the forthrightness of a moment ago. She rested her hands on his chest as if to push him away, or perhaps to pull him close. “Not when I wanted to be.”

  “And do you want to be kissed now?” His lips brushed against hers.

  “I think…yes.” Her words were little more than a sigh.

  “Very well then.” His lips met hers gently, tentatively. He gathered her closer against him and deepened his kiss. Her lips opened slightly beneath his, and he felt her relax against him.

  She tasted of brandy, sweet and warm and inviting. Her lips were pliant, welcoming. Without warning, desire swept through him for this stranger, the woman he would spend the rest of his days with. He wanted her here and now and…yes, even forever.

  She moaned, a sensual sound deep in her throat, and her hands slipped upward to wrap around his neck, her fingers cool against his flesh. An odd shiver raced down his spine. An ache of wanting, of need filled him, and he crushed her tighter against him, the curves of her body molding to his. Intriguing and irresistible.

  And for the third time in his life he tottered on a precipice wondering if with this woman he would have the courage to fly or if caution would hold him back. Dimly, in the back of a mind already fogged with desire, a familiar voice screamed for him to take care. In truth he did not know her at all. He could indeed bed her, but it was too soon for more. He could not give her his heart as easily as he gave her his name. He did not have that courage yet.

  Slowly he raised his head and stared down at her.

  Her eyes opened, and her gaze met his. “I believe, my lord…Marcus…” Her blue eyes were dark with newly awakened passion and understanding. Her voice was breathless. “I have now been truly kissed.”

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Townsend.” A lingering passion still edged his words.

  He cleared his throat and released her, well aware if he did not let her go now he would kiss her again and again and make her his before the night was out. Given her response to his kiss, he did not doubt she would be willing, even enthusiastic. But he suspected that would not be the way to begin life with this particular woman. Besides, it was apparent the brandy had indeed affected her.

  He stepped away, and her eyes widened, her knees buckled, and she sank back onto the sofa. She gazed up at him with surprise. “Oh dear.”

  “I must say, my kiss has never had quite this effect on a woman before.”

  “Have you kissed many woman?”

  He ignored her. “Although I suspect it’s probably the brandy. I did warn you.”

  “But I feel so confident. As if I could do anything. Not the tiniest bit inebriated. Do you know I was quite nervous about coming here?”

  “Were you?”

  She nodded in a deceptively sober manner. “I have never told a man I would marry him before.” Her brows pulled together thoughtfully. “Although I have been asked…once.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s of no importance.” She shrugged off the question.

  Marcus wondered if this previous proposal was indeed insignificant or something she’d simply prefer not to discuss. Had her heart been involved with this other man?

  “I suppose I should go,” Gwendolyn murmured. She got to her feet, immediately tumbled backward, and giggled up at him. “This is quite embarrassing.”

  “Have you ever lost your composure before, Miss Townsend?”

  “Not that I can recall. Nor have I ever…giggled.” Her brow furrowed. “There have been moments, though, when I could not control…well…life, as it were.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I left.” She grinned. “As I shall do right now.” She rose to her feet in a slow and careful manner. “There. I am quite all right.”

  He tried not to laugh. “But can you walk?”

  She frowned. “Oh dear, I will need to do that, won’t I? To get to my carriage.”

  “Not at all.” He stepped to her, scooped her into his arms, and started toward the door.

  “Are you taking me to my carriage, then?”

  “I would rather take you to my bed,” he murmured.

  She gasped, then giggled again. It was an altogether delightful sound. “But we are not married yet. Indeed, if it’s two sons you want, I should think I shall be in your bed no more than twice anyway.”

  He snorted. “Not if I can help it.”

  She snuggled against him, and the muscles of his stomach tightened. “My, you are dangerous after all.”

  “And getting more so by the moment,” he muttered. He reached the door, shifted her in his arms, and managed to pull it open. “I have already arranged for a special license. I am nothing if not determined and optimistic. I shall make further arrangements tomorrow, and I think the day after will be an excellent day to wed.”

  A gasp sounded from the shadows of the corridor. Godfrey, no doubt. Marcus was in no mood to deal with him at the moment.

  “Do you, Marcus?”

  “If that meets with your approval.” He glanced down at her. “Take care, Miss Townsend, it will soon be too late to turn back. For either of us.”

  “Well, I do want my money as soon as possible.” Her smile belied the mercenary nature of her words.

  “My lord, may I be of some assistance.” The butler appeared out of nowhere.

  “Call for my carriage, Godfrey. I am accompanying Miss Townsend home.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Godfrey’s tone left no doubt of his opinion of any woman His Lordship carried around like a sack of flour. He started off, then turned back. “Forgive me, my lord, I could not help overhearing. Am I to understand you intend to”—Godfrey paused as if struggling to say the word—“marry this young woman?”

  Gwendolyn giggled.

  “Yes, Godfrey, I do.”

  “I see.” Godfrey drew a deep breath. “Then I assume she is the daughter of—”

  “Viscount Townsend. Yes, Godfrey, this is the woman my father arranged to be my bride.” Marcus heaved a resigned sigh. “But you know all about this, don’t you?”

  “It is my business to know, my lord.”

  Marcus was not surprised. Godfrey always knew everything.

  “Good evening to you, Godfrey,” Gwendolyn said politely.

  “And you, miss.” Godfrey’s lips pressed together. “She will need a bit of work, my lord, if she is to be a countess.”

  “She will do fine, Godfrey. This is entirely my fault,” Marcus said firmly. “Now then, the carriage.”

  “Yes, my lord. It will be at the door in a moment.” Godfrey vanished into the corridor.

  “I have a carriage waiting.” Gwendolyn waved in the general direction of the front entry. “Somewhere out there.”

  “I cannot possibly let my future wife leave unaccompanied in this state.”

  “I am not in a state, Marcus, I am simply confident. I have no idea why my legs won’t work,” she said loftily.

  “Nonetheless.” He grinned in spite of himself. “Consider it one of my terms.”

  “You are extremely nice,” she said under her breath. “It will be exceedingly difficult to dislike you.”

  “Why do you want to dislike me?” His question came too late. She was already dozing against him.

  It was an odd thing for her to say, yet what that had passed between them thus far was not a bit odd? Perhaps she was as cautious about love as he was. The question now wa
s why.

  Marcus had watched Reggie break his heart too many times to count and had come close enough himself to that emotion to at least taste the possibility of pain. Had Gwendolyn had a similar experience? With the man who had once offered to marry her? Had she known love with him only to have her heart crushed?

  Or worse—his jaw clenched at the thought—did she love someone still?

  Chapter 6

  Even if a man is chosen for the right reasons, fortune, title, power, we will always love them for the wrong.

  Francesca Freneau

  “It sounds so…inconvenient and awkward,” Gwen said under her breath. “And not at all appealing.”

  She gingerly lay back against her pillow and adjusted the wet cloth over her eyes. Any noise at all, even that of her own voice, reverberated in her head. It was already midday, and she hadn’t yet found the strength to move from her bed. Indeed, Gwen thought she’d have to feel considerably better simply to die.

  “My dear girl, it is extremely appealing.” Colette perched at the foot of her bed. “And a great deal of fun.”

  Madame Freneau—Francesca—sat in a chair beside the bed. The women were kind about the ill effects of last night’s brandy but insisted on what they saw as their responsibilities, in the absence of Gwen’s mother, to educate her as to wifely duties and the pleasure a woman could derive from them. It was rather hard to believe.

  “Exciting?” Gwen shuddered. The details of the marriage bed were not a complete shock: the girls at Madame Chaussan’s had discussed such matters late at night amid a great deal of giggling. Still, it was surprising to note how much they had. “I cannot imagine that would be exciting.”

  “With the right man it can be wonderful.” Madame—Gwen never could think of her by her given name—smiled, and Gwen wondered if she was thinking of her husband.

  Madame had been married only a few years before her French-born husband had been lost at sea. She was not yet twenty at the time. To support herself, she’d become a teacher at Madame Chaussan’s Academy and a substitute mother to countless young girls boarded at the school. For whatever reason, Gwen had always been one of her favorites.