‘I notice you write to your father often,’ he said. He had seen her sitting down with pen and paper on several occasions and noted the regular letters in the outgoing post. ‘What have you heard from him in return?’ But he knew the answer to that, for he had seen nothing from him in the incoming mail.
‘I suspect he has been too busy for letter writing. Not everyone is as regular a correspondent as I am.’ She touched a napkin to her lips, as if signalling the end of the meal might be some distraction. ‘Shall I ring for coffee, or would you prefer to take port?’
She was preparing to retreat to the parlour and leave him alone to have a glass and smoke in peace. And what would she do? Likely, she would write a letter to a man who showed no sign of answering. Fred held up a hand. ‘It seems rather a silly custom for you to withdraw when there are just the two of us here. Why don’t we go to the library? There is something there that might interest you.’
They rose from the table and she followed him down the hall, with Sargent walking between them.
What he was about to do was probably a mistake. It was a ridiculous thing to give to any woman. He need not have bothered to think of it as a gift. He could have simply referred her to the shelf in the library where it sat. Though he was normally quite clueless about such things as the feelings of others, he was not so big an idiot that he could not sense the heaviness in the air around his normally spirited wife.
She had a right to be melancholy. He had begun the day by driving her to into the country with the intent of abandoning her there like an unwanted animal, then bought her off with a cheap trinket. He’d demonstrated that he had no idea of her knowledge or ability when it came to running a house. He had accidentally commented on the fact that the father she clearly loved had not taken the time to write even a single line of congratulations to her after the marriage.
And though he had given her the loyalty of his favourite dog, he hardly deserved credit for it. He had not intended that to happen. Nor could he look at the chronically depressed expression on Sargent’s floppy face and tell himself that this was the sort of dog one should offer to a pretty young girl who was probably near to tears herself.
When they arrived in the library, she poured his glass of port as he searched the shelves for the book he thought she would enjoy. As he glanced back at her, she tipped her head to the side as she so often did when intrigued. But this time she bit her lip as if actively trying not to appear too eager for his attention.
It made him all the more eager to impress her. He held out the book to her.
‘The Naturalist’s and Traveller’s Companion,’ she read, stroking the cover and taking it from him.
‘It is really intended for explorers,’ he said. ‘I know that you do not approve of capturing and killing specimens for no reason, but the illustrations are interesting. And there is much that you might find useful about the pressing of flowers and taking rubbings from coins and monuments. And so forth,’ he added, feeling rather lame about the whole thing.
‘And I expect you read it, as a boy?’ she said. The corners of her mouth turned up just a little and the hooded gaze that accompanied her half-smile held fondness, curiosity, and something else he could not quite name.
Whatever it was, his body recognised it immediately. The last time he’d felt something similar, he’d probably been reading the very same book, ready to share the interesting illustrations, only to look at the girl next to him and see that there were things in the world infinitely more exciting than a collection of brightly coloured beetles.
He cleared his throat, and tried to focus on the book. ‘As a boy, yes, I studied it religiously. Most lads plan to go on a great adventure at some point in their life. Mine was on the Peninsula, of course. And Belgium. But at one point, my ambitions were far more tame. Exploration of the Congo.’
She made that face again, the frustrated grimace she often wore when coming up against one of the strictures of womanhood. ‘When I was that age, my governess was dead set on my learning to draw flowers without actually learning anything about them. My watercolours are dreadful. But I did do a pastel of Anne Bonny the pirate. She was standing on the severed heads of her enemies with a raised sword dripping blood.’
‘You must have been quite proud of it,’ he said.
‘Miss Soames showed it to Marietta. They made me burn it. I had to spend the next six months embroidering samplers with uplifting verses.’
‘Horrifying,’ he replied.
‘The picture or the samplers?’ she asked.
‘Both, I should think. I would rather have framed and hung the pastel than received any number of moralising cushions or candle screens.’
At this, she smiled and it was as if she had never done so before. He had seen the expression directed at others and been jealous of their luck. When she smiled at him, he knew it was with mockery or insincerity. At worst, it was a masking expression used to hide her annoyance at whatever he had just said or done. At best, she seemed to mute any real joy she felt, as if convinced that he would only spoil it if he knew her to be happy about something.
But right now, she was smiling at him.
He blinked slowly, trying to focus on the book she was holding and not the graceful curve of her shoulder as it dipped into the bodice of the gown, the fabric of which he knew was hiding a pair of stunning breasts that should be pressed into the pillows on his bed and not the grass next to an anthill.
‘Be careful what you wish for, Mr Challenger,’ she said, and for a moment, he was sure she’d read his thoughts. Then she continued. ‘I’ve a mind to take up sketching again. Then I will reproduce my lost work and insist you hang it in pride of place over your desk.’
‘I will consider it an honour, madam,’ he said. And what a relief it would be if that was the most shocking thing in his future.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As George laid in bed that night, she could not help thinking that it had been a delightful evening. She would not have thought it possible, but she had enjoyed talking with her husband even more than the dancing and kissing at the ball. Tonight, he had been the one to instigate the conversation. And though they had talked for almost two hours, she could not remember a single criticism in the whole time.
He had shared a favourite book with her. Even though she had her own copy and knew it as well or better than he did, she had read it again for his sake.
As she had done so, he had been staring at her. Her body grew warm at the memory of his gaze and she pushed the bedcover off, causing Sargent to groan in his sleep. She could not blame him. The memory of those dark eyes fixed on her would make sleep impossible.
He had not been angry. There had been no reason for it. But the intensity was much more than casual interest. Had he wanted to kiss her again? Then why had he not done so? It was not as if they needed to fear discovery. They were in their own home. The servants would think it quite normal should one of them accidentally catch newlyweds kissing in a public room. If the idea bothered him, he could have suggested that they go to bed. Even now, she could open the connecting door between their rooms.
And then what would happen? Somehow, when she imagined the scene, she could not see beyond the first kiss. He would hold her. He would kiss her. Then, suddenly, they would be unclothed, like the people in the paintings at Vitium et Virtus.
She frowned. It was not a very accurate imagining, if that happened. There was no fumbling with buttons or laces, no calls for a maid to undo a troublesome knot, or requests to wait, just a moment, while one put shirt studs or eardrops on the dresser where they would not be lost.
Instead, one moment they were clothed and the next they were not, as if there was some reason to hurry. Once her clothes were off, she would know exactly what to do that would make him happiest, for he would be smiling as he had tonight instead of frowning like he usually did.
He would call her his beautiful love and not a troublesome nuisance.
She remembered him that first night, disciplined yet angry, waving a cat-o’-nine-tails and driving the lechers away from her. She had never seen a man so fierce, so powerful, and so attractive. The libertine residing just beneath the carefully civilised veneer he presented intrigued her. Before he had rescued her from Sir Nash and been forced into a proposal, he had bought her. What would he have done had the auction been in earnest?
She stretched in bed, imagining herself at the mercy of Frederick Challenger.
He would touch her breasts, which somehow seemed to think and feel on their own at times like this. They did not precisely itch, but they were so eager to be touched that she had to clutch the bedsheets to keep herself from rubbing her nipples.
There were other places that wanted touching as well. And that, she was pretty sure, had to do with the act of procreation. One did not grow up in the country without learning a few facts about reproduction. She had learned far too much of horses until the grooms had shooed her away from the stallions and mares.
But it could not be the same with people. For one thing, gentleman could not manage to wear such tight pants, if they were anything like horses. And mares did not seem to enjoy what happened very much. There was a lot of stomping and snapping.
But if what humans did was unpleasant, then surely she would have heard something about it. Women complained about childbirth, but not the act that caused it. And all the women in the paintings at Vitium et Virtus had seemed happy enough, as had the female guests she had seen leading gentlemen up the stairs.
When the moment came for her, if it ever did, she prayed that she would know what to do. Frederick would not think her bothersome or stupid. He would think she was wonderful and would tell her so repeatedly. Then they would lie together in the bed, still naked, and there would be more kissing and no arguing at all until after they got up.
Because, no matter how good it might be in bed, and how good it had been tonight, she was sure there would still be arguing. Perhaps there was something that she could do that would render him not quite so totally unreasonable. But short of a blow to the head that left him permanently dazed, she could not think of what it might be.
At supper, he had claimed that he had no immediate plans to return to London. But even if he came to her bed, he would go eventually, back to the club he had forbidden her to enter. She had not seen him do anything particularly scandalous, when she had been there. But she could not imagine him forgoing the pleasures that he was not sharing with his wife.
He would be there and she would be miles away, wondering about him. She would be tossing in bed as she was tonight, her skin hot, her body tingling, wanting whatever it was that women got when their husbands thought of them as a wife and not an inconvenience.
She could not stand the thought of it any more. To be so near to him but still alone was agony. She slid out of bed and, without bothering to grab a wrap or slippers, slipped out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the front door of the house.
She ran through the yard, feeling the cool grass between her toes. It was a warm night. The moon was full and so bright that it was almost like walking in daylight, but there was not enough breeze to dry the perspiration that made her nightgown cling uncomfortably to her body. She paused for a moment, weighing the wisdom of her plan against how pleasant it might be. Then she turned her steps toward the pond.
It was not really an escape, she reminded herself. She was still on the property. But with each step she took she felt more peaceful than she had since the kiss on the balcony. It was not as if she wanted to get away from him. No matter how hard it was, it was better than being married to Nash Bowles. But that did not make this marriage right.
Her parents had been happy together. But more than that. She had seen the love in them when they had looked into each other’s eyes. It had been something she’d expected, when she had begun to search for a husband. But as she had watched other girls accept offers with little more than lukewarm affection, she had begun to see just how rare a thing such shared feelings must be. To find that she was falling in love with Frederick Challenger, of all people…
Perhaps it was not love at all. Maybe it was only lust. She had never felt that before. Perhaps the two were indistinguishable from each other. It was perfectly normal to be attracted to a handsome man. But it would be foolish to fall in love with a man who’d spent most of their acquaintance looking at her as though she was a broken toy that needed to be fixed.
She reached the edge of the pond and bent over it, cupping her hands and scooping up the clear dark water and splashing it on to her heated face.
She was not in love. If her feelings were more than temporary infatuation, she would begin to care that they were not reciprocated. Then, she would begin trying to follow his rules and trying to act normal to please him. Since she had no idea what normal was, she would likely fail. Even if she succeeded, there was no proof that it would be enough to win his heart. It was just as likely that he would raise the bar once she had reached it and become even more strict.
She dipped a bare toe into the water, watching the silver trail of tiny waves in the moonlight. It was some consolation that, if she had to be alone, it was at least a beautiful evening. The song of night birds was loud in the still air. The water at her feet was as warm as a bath.
Did she dare to swim in it? Frederick had promised her that the land around his home would be as much hers as it was his. What was to prevent her from enjoying it? Without another thought she stripped her nightgown over her head and spread it on a bush to keep it from the damp grass. Then, she waded into the water and dived for the centre.
This was what she had needed. Her worries seemed to melt away with the water. When she broke the surface, the drops clinging to her arms were as bright as diamonds. She splashed in front of her, watching the ripples and laughing softly at the wonder of it all. Perhaps it would not be so bad to be alone if she could have more nights like this.
With a few easy strokes, she was back to the side again and threw herself down on the mossy bank to let the air dry her skin and hair before returning to the house. She closed her eyes and watched the silver light still patterning the inside of her eyelids.
Suddenly, everything went dark.
She opened them, expecting to see a cloud on the face of the moon. Instead, the dark silhouette of a man was blocking the light. She gasped and reached for something to cover herself, then stopped. It was far too late to worry about such things, even if she’d had a robe within reach.
‘What the devil are you doing?’ Her husband’s voice brought the first chill to the night air.
‘I should think that was obvious,’ she replied, trying to keep the fear from her reply. How long had he been watching her? It did not matter, for he could see her now, lying at his feet as naked as a pagan offering.
But he did not appear to be moved by the sight of her. ‘If you wished to swim, we could have gone to Bath for the waters. Or you could have gone to Brighton and dressed appropriately for it.’
‘I could have dressed to swim,’ she said, squinting up to try to decipher the expression on his face. There was no point in bothering, for it was most certainly disapproval. ‘Have you ever tried to swim in the costumes allowed to women, on such rare occasions that we are encouraged into the water?’
The silence of his response was answer enough.
‘Nor have you been carted into the water like freight in a bathing machine,’ she said. ‘It makes no sense to be wheeled into the deep and hauled back again, just to avoid getting mud between one’s toes.’
‘If you find the process of going for a ladylike sea bath so objectionable, you should refrain from the water altogether.’ There was a curious quality to his voice now, as if he was barely maintaining control of something.
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‘But I like to swim,’ she said. ‘It is quite liberating.’ She made an expansive gesture, only to remember that when one was still totally nude, it did not do to debate the merits of athletics.
‘You are quite liberated enough for one evening, I think,’ he said, snatching her nightgown from its branch and tossing it to her.
‘And, as usual, you are more constricted than I thought it was possible for a man to be,’ she said, scrambling to her feet and clutching the fabric between her hands.
‘Constricted?’ His face was still in shadow, but she could imagine the look of anger that must be there. ‘I’ve a good mind to show you what happens when constraints are removed.’
‘I wish you would. Then perhaps I would not think I had married an unbearable prig.’
Words failed him. He responded with a feral growl and closed the distance between them with a single step, yanking the nightgown from her hands and casting it aside. Then, he seized her, pulling her to him and smothering her mouth with a ferocious kiss.
There was something in it beyond passion and beyond need. His mouth was open on hers, his tongue questing along the seam in her closed lips. She refused to open them for him, angry that he could forget the kindnesses of a few hours past and return to his old ways the first time she disappointed him.
His hands squeezed her bare bottom to elicit a gasp that gave him free access to her mouth. He thrust his tongue into it, retreated and repeated. It moved in her mouth, a low commanding pulse, as if he could reset the beating of her heart to the rhythm of his choosing.
He broke away, messaging the flesh beneath his hands in the same slow tempo. ‘I am an insufferable prig named Frederick. Say my name. You say it often enough when we are in public and you do not have to mean it.’
Convenient Bride for the Soldier & the Major Meets His Match & Secret Lessons With the Rake (9781488021718) Page 17
