“Are you enjoying the meal?” he asked politely.
She looked at the fine grain of her beef and the fluffy, buttery vegetable mash on the thick white plate. “It’s beautifully cooked.”
“So, please leave me to decide how I spend my money.”
She glanced at his face. Yet again she’d annoyed him when she was only trying to help. She’d never had a way with men, likely because she was too plain-speaking. Perhaps she needed to learn when to keep quiet. Finally, the half-empty bottle was re-corked. With Devon carrying the remains, she walked in the failing daylight across to the lodging with him, steeling herself for the night ahead.
She lit a lamp and waited in the study while he put the water on to boil for the baths. Though by rights, as his wife, she should do this, he said he had done the task for months and would continue. When she heard the rattle of the pan being dragged off the hob, she undressed down to her chemise, collected the fresh towels to hide her legs, and descended to the kitchen.
The stars outside the window began to emerge in the gray sky. After her bath, she lit up her bedroom, took out the sponge she had bought some years before, sprinkled on the vinegar she had poured into a jar from the kitchen, and inserted her womb guard. Then, she dropped her clean nightgown over her head and sat on her bed. She didn’t cry. Brides did not.
* * * *
Dev couldn’t imagine being more tense. He’d planned to impregnate Wenna, breed a son or two and live his own life, but the look of her in her wedding gown had tempted him to call the whole thing off. She’d looked calm, beautiful, and full of hope. He’d expected her to look satisfied to be going ahead with their plan, like a business partner ready to sign the contract. Instead, she’d looked like a sweet young bride.
And now he planned to put his baby inside her. Fortunately, his body was a step ahead of his brain and didn’t mind that they were almost strangers. His towel around his waist and already half-aroused, he walked into the light of his bedroom.
“What the devil?” he muttered.
She’d turned down the covers of the bed, but had made herself scarce. She couldn’t be nervous. She’d been loved before, which any man would have expected given her age. Some women of the same age would have eight children by now. He reversed and followed the lamplight to her room.
“Changed your mind?” he asked the redhead who sat neatly on her single bed.
“I thought it would look a little gauche to be waiting for you in your bed.”
“Gauche?” he said. “For a maid, you have quite an extensive vocabulary.”
She gave him a smile full of cynicism. “I wasn’t born a maid. I was trained to be a maid, and maids learn from their masters and mistresses. For example, my first mistress said to me, ‘You look like a gauche country girl.’ Then she had me hide my hair.”
“I expect she couldn’t stand the competition. Now, would your ladyship join me in my bed?” He stood aside so she could walk before him, which she did.
He followed her night-braided hair, her squared shoulders, and her white cotton-tented body, his bare feet padding on the floorboards while he struggled to breathe evenly. This composed woman aroused him like no other. He watched while she neatly folded his suit into a lower drawer and paired his shoes into the bottom. Apparently, she would rather act the maid than share his bed.
He didn’t bloody well care.
He would have her unless she left him right here and now. He would take her without emotional involvement. She needed no emotion, either. She wanted to leave this country, he wanted to stay, and neither needed to complicate matters. His hands clenched while she began to fold his shirt. “You’re delaying, my dear.”
“I’m tidying up after you.”
He dropped his towel. His erection hit mid mast, jutting at right angles. Her eyes focused on his rod, and she backed a little.
“Then, I’ll tidy up after you.” He stepped forward, only slightly impeded by his now full erection banging on his belly, scooped up the hem of her nightgown, and lifted the pristine white cotton over her head, trying to roll the damned thing while the sight of her nakedness left him dry-mouthed.
She stood, lifting her chin, daring him to stare at a slender white body unmarred by a single mole or freckle. The palest of pink nipples, barely a skin tone darker than the rest of her, tipped her surprisingly lush breasts. Telling a beautiful woman how beautiful she looked was as pointless as complimenting a genius for his brain. He could see that she wanted to cover herself with her hands, and he appreciated her determination not to be coy.
“You should stay naked for the rest of your life,” he said in a forced voice.
“I don’t have a choice at the moment. You have appropriated my nightgown.”
With that, she snatched, and trickled the garment onto the floor. Her breath tingled on his shoulder while her palm brushed the underside of his rod, which jerked in anticipation.
“Mm,” she said.
“Mm?’
“You should leave this on display, too. Your social calendar would then be full.”
He could barely breathe, which ended up not being a problem because she fastened her mouth across his. Just as he prepared to take her lovely bottom into his two palms and lift her onto his upright rod, she ended her kiss and moved back, eyeing the bed.
Accepting her clear invitation, he lifted her by the waist, threw her onto the bed, and dropped beside her. One roll, and he took her onto his chest. Her heart thundered against him and he arranged his cock between her thighs. “This is a wildly inappropriate moment,” he said, wishing his brain hadn’t started functioning while his tool wanted to guide him. “But are you clean?”
“I had a bath just before you.”
“I mean, disease-free.”
She pushed up from him and stared right into his eyes. “I’m not a whore, and I suspect you’ve diddled quite few. Are you clean?”
He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been with a whore. I, ah, would normally use a contraceptive sheath. With you, I’m not using anything because we want a baby. Now, lie on me while I fix your hair.” His fingers slid to the back of her neck, and she let her soft breasts compress against his chest while he removed her clips, which he tossed onto the floor. When he found the end of the braid, he pulled off the tie and combed his fingers through the heavy mass, freeing her locks. “That’s better.”
She shook her hair, letting the curls trickle across his chest. Her hand lifted to the top of his shoulder, and she tinkered over his skin for a moment, her mouth sulky. “Get on with it.”
He lifted her hair out of the way, stroking the silky softness as he rolled on top of her. His thighs parted hers, and he angled his hips, desperate to begin the act that would end with the hot rush of his semen into her.
Her unconfined hair spread across the pillow, and in place of Jenny’s soft loving smile, Wenna’s face wore an expression of wariness. He gently dropped his mouth across hers and she responded by lifting her knees. Other than that, she kept still.
This wouldn’t work, and he didn’t know how to proceed. He’d never had a woman who didn’t want him, didn’t grab his buttocks and urge him on. Ridiculously, he’d thought she shared his desire. Why? She’d never been anything other than cool.
“I’ll turn off the lamp,” he said gruffly. He reached over and drowned the wick.
When he rolled onto his side again, he drew her into his arms, running the flat of his palm down her smooth back and delightful bottom. Eventually she did the same to him. With his mouth just under her ear, he put her hand onto his heavy erection. Breathing audibly, she explored. Her breath heated on his cheek and her palm found a frustrating rhythm, too slow, too gentle. He kissed her, took her hand in his, and settled it on his chest. She’d relaxed. For tonight, that would suffice.
* * * *
A drawer squeaked. Surreptitiously, Wenna cricked open her eyes and watched Devon drag his old trousers over his linen under-d
rawers and his even-older shirt over his head. He collected his soft-soled shoes and, without washing or shaving, left the room. She heard the downstairs door slam.
She yawned and stretched. Without a doubt, Devon slept on a better mattress than hers. His sheets were the finest cotton money could buy, but better than comfort and luxury was the fact that he hadn’t pushed his huge oldjohn inside her. Last night, after he’d fallen asleep, she’d taken out her sponge, and then she’d worried that he might try to poke her some time during the night. She needed to learn his habits.
The town hall clock struck six. Lately, she’d been sleeping an extra hour, but since he appeared to be an earlier riser than she suspected, she clumped out of bed, washed quickly, and dressed in her black gown, assuming he’d gone for his daily run. As a wife, she should take an interest. As a wife, she bundled down the stairs with his shaving mug and lit the stove.
While the wood crackled and smoked, she shot back to the bedroom and tidied. For a moment, she paused to examine her face in his shaving mirror. She didn’t look any different for having spent a night in a man’s bed—in her husband’s bed. He’d had his hands all over her body and he’d kissed her. She wouldn’t mind at all if he did both again.
And she’d caressed his silky-hard oldjohn. My. She hoped he didn’t remember but she suspected he would. The man was a reprobate and had encouraged the touching. Her cheeks warmed. She was hardly a virgin, but no man’s hands had smoothed her the way his did, and no man’s eyes had seen her naked body. None had handled her hair so reverently.
She gathered together the sheets from her single bed and took them downstairs for the laundress. After she filled the kettle, she put the oats on to cook. While setting the small table, she examined the plates that sat boxed in the storage cupboard. Each plate she drew out was gold-edged with bouquets of flowers painted in the center—large plates, small plates, bread-and-butter plates, dessert plates, cake plates, lidded vegetable dishes, and serving platters. No two plates were exactly the same. Nonetheless, the set matched. His mother’s plates, he’d said. His mother had died. Why did his father not use them?
Her mouth quirked into a rueful smile. He didn’t use them because they were too beautiful, each a work of art. Wenna couldn’t use them either—not in a set of rooms behind a shop front with no dining table, and no point in having one, not for two people like her and Devon, who had nothing in common, who wouldn’t sit over candlelit dinners discussing their dreams. She shut the door of the cupboard and took out the thick plates and mugs she used for breakfast every day.
The door squeaked, light momentarily appeared in the foyer, and then the doorway darkened.
“Good morning,” her husband said with the sort of smile that made her insides hum. Perspiration beaded his brow, and his shirt clung to his chest. “I thought you would sleep longer.”
“If you’re up and about early, I should be, too.”
“I went for a run around the city perimeter. This morning I stopped off at the market and bought fruit for breakfast.” He walked into the kitchen with a newspaper-wrapped bundle, which he passed to her.
“I cooked porridge.”
“We can have both.”
“Just a moment, and I’ll pour the hot water into your shaving jug.”
He blinked at her. “I usually use the cold water. Wenna...” He took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
He left with the jug. Her heart resumed a steady beat. That’s what impressionable brides hoped would happen when they’d married a golden god. She sighed. Now a wife and with virtually nothing to do, no washing, no cooking, she was in a position to be a particularly supportive wife—if she found the courage to follow her plan.
Chapter 7
When she’d been nothing but a lodger, Wenna had assumed she couldn’t change anything in Devon’s bedroom. Now a wife who shared his bed, she thought she could freshen up the area.
First she took down the velvet curtains and whacked them on the clothesline outside until the nap stood up again. The multi-paned window looked almost gracious when she replaced the revitalized fabric. Pleased with herself, she shifted the washstand to catch the morning light beneath the window. This left more space at the end of the bed, and more space for her to get to work polishing the enormous bed, starting at the foot.
As her rag moved over the ornate wooden embossing, she found carved figures among the leaves and flowers, persons who appeared to be...she peered closer and stared. Her mouth went dry as she gaped at the appalling sight of bodies writhing into unlikely positions with unlikely beings. Her husband slept in a bed lewd enough to take the place of pride in a brothel. Short of breath, she examined each exaggerated phallus and every sexual depravity known to man, woman, or beast.
By the time she’d been reluctantly enlightened, the carvings gleamed a golden red and the silver travelling clock in Devon’s study chimed the hour of ten. A trifle late, she delivered the morning mugs of tea to the office, afraid her cheeks still held the warmth of titillation.
Now free until three o’clock, she patted her neat chignon, brushed down her black gown, straightened her collar and cuffs, and jammed on her elderly hat. Now or never.
Assuming confidence with a ramrod spine, an elevated chin, and a determined smile, she put her drawings into her cloth bag and left for the hat shop. As luck would have it, the only customer left as she arrived on the doorstep. The bell jangled as she walked in, alerting Mrs. Busby, the middle-aged proprietor of Madame Fleur’s hat shop, to her presence.
“Good morning, Miss Chenoweth.” The woman’s professional smile spread across her well-worn, comfortably plump face. Like Wenna, she wore black on her substantial frame, but for another reason entirely. When fitting hats on ladies sitting in front of a mirror, she needed to be the background for the hat and not let her gown distract from the color or design she hoped to sell. “Another order for Mrs. Brook?”
“Not today, Mrs. Busby. I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you, if I may?”
“Of course you may. Your ideas in the past have been good for my business, which is why Mrs. Brook has always had a special price from me.”
Wenna rested her bag on the nearest seat, a red padded velvet with a carved wooden back. “Mrs. Brook brought you extra customers because her hats looked so stylish with her hairstyles. As you know, I designed her hairstyles using the latest pictures from France. These days, the ladies like large, complicated hairdos. This means the hats need to be small to set them off.”
“And your idea is?” Mrs. Busby raised her thin black eyebrows.
“I’ve left Mrs. Brook and branched out on my own now, Mrs. Busby, and I have a few drawings I would like to show you.” Wenna set her four pages across the countertop where Mrs. Busby usually made out her accounts. “I have depicted various hat shapes and the hairstyles that look best with them. When ladies try on hats, often they buy the first one that fits their hairstyle. This might not be the best in a fashion sense, or to suit the occasion, or even to suit your pocket. If the ladies had a hair stylist, perhaps in the back of your establishment, hair could be designed to suit any hat. I think this might be good for both of us.” With a certain amount of trepidation, she watched the milliner’s face.
Mrs. Busby’s tongue rolled over her teeth while she thought. “You would be the hairstylist?”
“I can work from half past ten until half past two every day. Today, without charge, I’ll style the hair of any lady who would like to see the effect.” Wenna held her breath.
“Would you like a small glass of sherry, Miss Chenoweth, while we discuss this?”
Wenna left at half past two wearing a cream fabric pillbox decorated with black leaves—bought for a discounted price. She’d styled five heads, sold ten hats, and managed to remain “Miss Chenoweth” the whole time. Tomorrow, she would earn six pence per head. Smiling, she paused on the street to admire the cut flowers in buckets for sale outside the toolmaker’s establishment. A po
sy of pink roses absorbed her for a moment. Even from some feet away, the heady fragrance perfumed the surrounding air. Knowing she shouldn’t buy frivolities with her meager funds, she turned away.
“Lovely, ain’t they?”
She smiled at Mr. Snow, the tavern owner. “I love roses. I love the delicate perfume.”
“A newly wed, pretty young woman should have some. Let me buy you a bunch.”
She blushed. “Thank you. No.”
“I’m an old and ugly man. Your husband won’t say a thing.” Mr. Snow had an expression of little-boy mischief on his face and a definite twinkle in his round brown eyes.
She laughed. “What a shame. I’d love him to be wildly jealous.”
“Done, then.” He pushed his hand into his trouser pocket, searching for tuppence.
“You’re very generous, Mr. Snow, but I don’t have a vase. I couldn’t take something so lovely and watch it die.”
“Reckon I could find a spare pickle jar or two from The Pig and Whistle, if you think they would be good enough to hold your flowers.”
“I think they would be perfect. Thank you, Mr. Snow, for your practical suggestion.” She watched him choose the prettiest bunch. As he presented her with the posy, she said, “I see they’re digging up the road in front of your hotel.”
“Gas pipes,” he said in a morose tone. “Street lightin’ is all very well, but not when we keep havin’ problems with the pipes. Twice they’ve changed my nearest, and twice they’ve dug up the road. Needs to be finished before winter, or we’ll have bogs in the street the way we did last year. I’ll walk back with you.”
She walked beside him through the crowded street. Wagons trundled by, and various men greeted Mr. Snow, staring at her. Previously, she’d been glanced at and dismissed. Selling her idea had added a lift to her confidence. She would need this tomorrow, when she charged money for her services. “I’ve heard that we’ll all have gas lighting in our houses within a few years.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Progress keeps creepin’ up on us. No more’n twenty years ago, this street was mostly tents, and look at it now.”
Wenna Page 9
