by Mary Balogh
And yet on balance, Wren did not really regret what she had agreed to. At least she had done it. And now she had met almost the whole of her husband’s family and that terror was not still ahead of her.
Her husband. Every time that fact was mentioned—and it was mentioned a great deal—she felt an inner welling of joy. When she had made her list back in February and started to interview the gentlemen whose names were on it, she surely had not really believed her dream would come true. Had she?
But it had. Today.
Today was her wedding day.
• • •
Everyone left late in the afternoon. Everyone. Harry and Abigail went with Cousin Louise and Jessica to spend the night at Archer House. Cousin Viola went with the dowager countess and Matilda. Alexander’s mother and Elizabeth went with Aunt Lilian and Uncle Richard Radley. It had all been planned ahead of time and was accomplished with a great deal of chatter and laughter and hugs as the bride and groom were left alone at Westcott House.
“Would you like a stroll in the park?” Alexander suggested as they waved the last carriage on its way. They both needed some air and exercise, he believed, and he for one was not quite ready yet for the sudden quietness of the house.
“Lovely,” she said. She did not change out of the pink dress she had worn for the wedding, but she did don a plainer bonnet—a straw one he had seen before—and she drew the veil down over her face before they left the house. He raised his eyebrows. “Please understand. I have felt so dreadfully . . . exposed all day. It is something I have never done before. So many people! Until the day you first came to Withington I had not shown my face to anyone except my aunt and uncle and my governess and a few trusted servants in almost twenty years. Not even to anyone at the glassworks from the manager on down. Not to anyone.”
It was incredible to think that she had spent almost twenty years behind a veil—all through her girlhood, all through her early adulthood. “I am not intending to scold you,” he said as they made their way along South Audley Street. “You must always do as you choose. I am not going to play tyrant.”
“I know,” she said, and he turned his head to smile at her. It was still a bit dizzying to think that she was his wife, his countess.
“Do you realize,” he said, “that there is no marriage contract? You once told me you would protect your rights and your options before you married.”
“And do you realize,” she said, “that you still do not know the extent of my fortune? But marriage is not a business deal, is it? I am accustomed to deals and contracts and the careful protection of my rights and interests. Marriage ought not to be like that.”
“So you decided to trust me?” he said.
She did not answer for a while. “Yes,” she said then. “And I think perhaps you did the same thing, Alexander. I could be a pauper or deeply in debt for all you know.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But when I proposed marriage to you, it was because I wished to marry you, not your money.”
“We are a couple of fools,” she said as they crossed the road to the park. “Or that is what my business instincts tell me. I tell them to be quiet, however. I always remember something Aunt Megan once told me. Our brains are not in command of our lives unless we let them be, she said. We are in command.”
“We are not our brains, then?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We possess brains, but sometimes they try to make us believe they possess us. My aunt was a placid lady and did not usually say much, but she had great depths of wisdom.”
“I know that today has been a huge ordeal for you, Wren,” he said as he led her onto the wide lawn between the carriage road and the trees. “I knew it even before you drew the veil over your face. I just hope it has not been too overwhelming.”
“I very much like your family,” she told him, “on both sides. You are very fortunate.”
“I am,” he agreed. He hesitated for only a moment. “Do you have family?”
It was a long time before she answered. “If by family you mean people with whom I have ties of blood,” she said, “then I assume so. I do not know for certain. Twenty years is a long time. But if by family you mean ties of affinity and loyalty and affection and all the things that bind the Westcott and Radley families, then no. I have no family. My uncle and aunt are dead.”
He kept his head turned toward her. Carriages and horses and pedestrians passed one another on the main thoroughfare, but here it was quieter. “Will you tell me about them one day?” he asked her.
“Perhaps,” she said. “One day.”
“But not yet.”
“No,” she said. “And perhaps never. It is not a story I want to tell, Alexander, and it is not one you would want to hear.”
“But perhaps you need to tell it,” he said, “and perhaps I need to hear. No, forget I said that. Please. I will not add yet one more burden to your load.” Although she was his wife, he had no right to her heart and soul. What was inside her was hers to guard or disclose. She had married him out of trust. He would earn that trust, then.
He talked of their wedding and the breakfast, of Harry and Abigail and Camille, of some of the mischief he had got up to with Sid when they were boys. She spoke of her governess and her aunt, of the time when her uncle and aunt had chosen Withington House as their country home, consulting her wishes every step of the way.
They dined together later upon cold cuts and leftovers from the breakfast—at Wren’s insistence for the sake of the servants, who had been unusually busy all day—and they spent the evening in the drawing room, talking again. This time she wanted to talk about Brambledean Court and what ought to be done there first now that there were funds.
Alexander felt the awkwardness of his situation. “I cannot in all conscience make grandiose plans for the spending of your money, Wren,” he said.
“But it is our money now,” she told him. “Not mine, not yours, but ours. We must always decide together what ought to be done—at Brambledean, at Withington, at Riddings Park, at the Staffordshire house, even at the glassworks if you are prepared to take an interest in it. I shall feel uncomfortable about the money if you do, Alexander. I hope you will not. We are us now.”
“It sounds ungrammatical,” he said at the same time as he was jolted by the idea of it—we are us now. “But I shall try. It will take a little getting used to, though. I have stood alone since my father’s death and managed my own affairs. In the normal course of things, I would have continued to do so after my marriage, and I would have provided for my wife too.”
“Then our marriage will be good for you,” she said briskly. “It will be a necessary lesson in humility. I need to have a say in all the decision making, Alexander, not because the money has come from me—I wish it could be otherwise—but because I want to be involved and like and need to be involved. I am not anyone’s idea of a typical lady, as you may have noticed. I can work cooperatively with other people. I did it with my uncle, especially during the last few years of his life when he was a bit weary. We worked together, and it worked well—is that a pun?”
“Probably,” he said. “Very well, then, let’s talk about Brambledean. Everything hinges upon the farms, Wren. Without them, the estate cannot prosper and we cannot prosper. Poor us, one might say, when we have all our other properties and sources of income. But there are many people dependent upon me—upon us. And it is for their sakes that the farms need to be made prosperous.”
“Then give me your ideas on what needs to be done first,” she said. “I know very little about either farming or the running of a vast estate, but I will learn. Be my teacher.”
And they talked and planned for a whole hour—dry, dull stuff that would have driven most brides into hysterics or a coma on their wedding day. She listened, sitting back in her chair, her arms folded beneath her bosom, her head tipped slightly to one side. And occasionally s
he spoke, either with a pertinent question or with an intelligent comment or suggestion. It was like talking to another man, he thought as he relaxed back in his chair—until he caught himself in the thought and was very glad he had not said it aloud. She was nothing like a man, except perhaps in her willingness to use her mind to its full capacity without fear of being considered unfeminine.
She was very feminine actually. There was something surprisingly appealing—sexually, that was—about a woman who demanded to be taken seriously as a whole person. Though whether that was deliberate on her part, he did not know. He would guess not.
Their discussion came to an end when Lifford brought in the tea tray and lit the candles and drew the curtains to shut out the heavy dusk of evening. They talked on more general topics after that until the conversation lagged as they finished their tea.
“I get security with my marriage,” he said at last, “and the wherewithal to repair the neglect of decades to what I have inherited. And an intelligent wife with a good business head. What do you get in exchange, Wren?” He wished he could rephrase his words as soon as they had been spoken. An intelligent wife with a good business head. It was hardly a complimentary way to describe one’s bride on her wedding day.
“Marriage,” she said without hesitation, her head tipped slightly to one side. “It is what I wanted, remember? It is why I invited you to Withington.”
“I passed the tests you set me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
It was impossible to know what else lay beyond the simple answer. Was marriage the be-all and end-all to her? The security of being a wife, of having a shared home and a family? Sex? He knew that was part of it. She had admitted it in so many words before they ever came to London. It was impossible to know what her feelings were for him, and he could not ask, because she might ask the same question of him, and he did not know how he would answer. He did not know the answer. Liking, respect, even admiration did not seem enough.
“Are you ready for bed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
The final chapter of their wedding day still had to be written. He got to his feet and offered his hand. She took it, and he drew her arm through his when she was on her feet. They proceeded upstairs without speaking and stopped outside her new dressing room, which was beside his and linked to it, her new bedchamber on the other side of it.
“I will come to you in half an hour if I may,” he said.
“Yes.”
He took her hand in his and held it to his lips before opening the door and then closing it behind her.
No, he did not know how he felt about her. Perhaps it did not matter if he could not find the appropriate word. She was his bride. That was really all that mattered tonight.
Fifteen
Maude helped Wren out of her dress and took the pins from her hair while telling her that her aunt would be the happiest woman in the world today if she were still alive.
“Well, the second happiest woman, I suppose I mean,” she added. “I suppose you are the happiest. And I am the third happiest, though since she is not alive, God rest her soul, I daresay I am the second.”
Wren laughed, wiped away a few tears, and hugged her startled maid before dismissing her. She donned her nightgown, a new one of fine linen Elizabeth had helped her select, and brushed her hair until it shone. Then she waited in the bedchamber to which her belongings had been moved this morning after she left for church. It was a lovely room, large and square and high ceilinged and decorated tastefully in various shades of fawn and ecru and cream and gold. It did not look down upon the garden at the back of the house, as her other room did, but upon the street at the front. It was a pleasant view nevertheless. Even an urban scene could have its charm—just as an industrial workshop could. Beauty came in many forms.
She was not nervous. Perhaps she ought to be. A typical lady would have been, she supposed. But she was filled with elation and expectation. She could hardly wait. And even as she was thinking it there was a light tap on her dressing room door. She had left it ajar, and Alexander came into her room without waiting for her summons. He had looked splendidly handsome in his black-and-white wedding clothes with a silver embroidered waistcoat and lace at his neck and wrists. He looked no less so now in a wine-colored brocaded dressing gown and slippers. It was certainly obvious that the breadth of his shoulders and chest owed nothing to padding.
He looked around the room. “I have never been in here before,” he said. “It is lovely, is it not?”
“It is,” she agreed.
“It is a great pity,” he said, “that my predecessor, the beloved Humphrey, did not lavish the same care upon Brambledean as he did upon Westcott House.”
“Ah,” she said, “but then he would have deprived us of the pleasure of re-creating it for ourselves.”
His eyes came back to her. “That is a striking thought,” he said. “So I may remember the late Earl of Riverdale with some fondness after all, may I? Ah, Wren, I have wondered how long it is.” He was moving toward her.
“My hair?” It was thick and almost straight and nearly waist length and a rich chestnut brown. She had always thought it her best feature.
“It is beautiful,” he said.
“I considered braiding it,” she told him. “But I have always worn it loose at night, sometimes to the despair of Maude if she is called upon to brush out the tangles in the morning.”
“You must continue to wear it down,” he said. “Husband’s orders. You did promise to obey me, if you recall. And if Maude complains, I shall dismiss her without a character and demonstrate that I intend to be master in my own home.”
She tipped her head to one side and smiled slowly. His eyes were, of course, laughing. “I am in fear and trembling,” she said.
“As you ought to be,” he said. “Wren, I never quite understand why married people of the upper classes have separate rooms. Just to prove that they can, perhaps? It seems especially puzzling when the two people are young and there is pleasure to be had and children to beget. Will you keep this room for your private use during the daytime and consider my bedchamber ours from tonight on?”
She was glad he was talking to her more as an equal than as a timid bride. She was equally glad of his suggestion. Aunt Megan and Uncle Reggie had always shared a room and a big old canopied bed, which sagged slightly in the middle. She had gone there screaming a few times in the early days when she was still suffering from nightmares, and they had taken her in between them and she had slept in warmth and happiness, half squashed and utterly safe.
“Yes,” she said.
“Come, then,” he said, and took up one of the candles from the table beside her and snuffed the others. He led the way through their dressing rooms and into his bedchamber. It was a twin to her room in size and shape, but this one was decorated in rich shades of wine and gold and lit by one branch of candles on the mantel and two candles in wall sconces on either side of the canopied bed. She ran her hand down one of the smooth spirals carved into the thick wooden posts at the foot of the bed.
“This is a fine room too,” she said. “But we will absolutely have to find a way to outdo it at Brambledean.” She turned a smiling face to him.
“I am in perfect agreement,” he said, setting down the candlestick beside the candelabra. “But perhaps we can wait until another occasion to discuss it. I find myself distracted tonight, I must confess.”
“Me too,” she said, and he kissed her.
She realized almost immediately that he was going to take his time about it. The bed was beside them, but for now he was ignoring it. He had kissed her before, but each time it had been all too brief for someone who was starved of intimate human contact and yearned for it. She knew very little. Almost nothing, in fact, but she knew enough to understand that there was a whole world of erotic experience that had been denied her—or that
she had denied herself. Tonight would begin to set that right, and she was glad he was in no hurry.
He opened her mouth with his own, slid his tongue inside, and proceeded to do things that had her clutching the sides of his dressing gown at the waist and fighting to keep her knees under her. With the lightest of strokes against sensitive surfaces, he sent raw aches shooting through her. But it was not just his mouth. His hands roamed over her, seeming to find curves where she had not thought she had any and to appreciate the curves she had thought inadequate.
His hands spread over her buttocks at last and drew her fully against him. His hard, muscled man’s body was enough to make her want to swoon. Not that she would. She had no intention of missing a single moment. She could feel that he was aroused, though she had no experience. She inhaled slowly as she tipped back her head, and his mouth, freed from hers, trailed kisses along her neck.
Please never stop. Oh please, please never stop.
“Come and lie down,” he murmured, his mouth against hers again, his eyes gazing, heavy lidded, into hers.
“Yes.”
“Will you let me remove your nightgown first?” he asked her.
Oh. Really? Now? With so many candles burning? “Only if I may remove your dressing gown,” she said.
“Agreed.” He laughed softly. “But me first.”
He edged her nightgown up between them and lifted it off over her head when she raised her arms. He dropped it to the floor and took a step back, his hands cupping her shoulders. Wren found herself curiously unself-conscious, though she did fight the urge to apologize. She was such a shapeless beanpole. Well, not quite shapeless, perhaps, but certainly not shapely. But he had chosen to marry her. He really had. On Easter Sunday she had released him from any sense of obligation he might have been feeling. He had proposed marriage to her here in London entirely of his own volition. He had had options—that pretty and shapely young lady with whom he had been walking in the park, for example.
