Chapter Two
Papa brushed aside my mother’s protests that no proper wedding could be arranged in a mere two months, as well as her anguished wail that no one, absolutely no one, of consequence was married in August. And so in the third week of that month, I was married to a man I had spoken with less times than the number of fingers on my hands and with whom I had suffered but five uneasy minutes alone since the afternoon of his proposal. For Mr. Maddox had returned to Wales, while I plunged into the whirlwind of ordering brideclothes and saying yes, no, well perhaps to the incessant stream of plans my mother tossed in my direction.
But beneath the frantic activity, I was terrified. No matter how many times I told myself females had been marrying near strangers for thousands of years, the confidence that usually surrounded me was shattered. Not that I let it show. I was a Hawley, after all. There were no cowards on our family tree. And yet . . .
When we had come close to buying out the best shops in London, we returned home to Handsworth Wood and Hawley Hall, the grand country house my father’s father had built some fifty years ago. Unfortunately, as happy as I was to absorb the beauty of the grounds during the long drive through the park, the perfection of the towering Palladian columns, even the gilded dome above, brought only the overwhelming fear that I would be leaving both the estate’s beauty and its conveniences behind when I ventured into Wales.
Mr. Maddox did not arrive until the day before the wedding, and our few minutes alone were nearly as awkward as the conversation I had with my mother that same night. Merciful heavens! Really?
I believe that is when I truly began to understand what a sheltered life I’d led. As if Grandpa and Papa had endured so much to become wealthy and powerful men that they had determined to protect the females of their family from everything, including the truth about that most essential activity, procreation. Twenty years old and I had never considered that people might be no better than animals . . .
I recall sitting on the edge of my bed, eyes wide, attempting to visualize something that seemed a physical impossibility. Let alone doing it with Mr. Maddox.
I shuddered.
But the very next day I walked down the aisle of St. Mary’s Church, a solid stone structure that had come to symbolize the heart and might of the Industrial Revolution. I said all the right words in all the right places, signed the parish register, and walked out Mrs. Rhys Maddox.
Mrs. Rhys Maddox. And I hadn’t looked at him once. Not coming down the aisle. Not at the altar. Not as he took my arm as we followed the parish priest into the room that held the register. I kept my eyes down as he helped me into the carriage. I managed my best social smile for all the guests offering their congratulations, but I sat down to the wedding breakfast next to my husband without so much as my gaze coming within a foot of his face.
Oh, I knew I was being unreasonable even before Mama sidled up to me, leaning close to whisper a remonstrance in my ear. I offered an infinitesimal nod and turned my head away, promptly resuming my concentration on my food.
Never had I been so glad to escape a social event as when Mama finally signaled that it was time to change into my traveling clothes. My euphoria lasted scant minutes, however, as I realized what this transformation meant. This was it. I was about to leave home and family to accompany a strange man into a strange land, one known to be hostile to the English. Dear God, whatever had possessed me to say yes?
When we had threaded the gauntlet of well-wishers and the last cheer had died away behind us, I sat on the burgundy velvet squabs of my husband’s well-appointed carriage and stared at my toes. At his shiny black boots. For instead of sitting beside me, as one would expect a new husband to do, he took the seat with his back to the horses, and I could feel his steady gaze boring into me, drilling a hole straight into my soul.
I was behaving badly, I knew it. Enough of my strict training poked through my anguish that I was mortified by my abominable lack of manners, yet I could not seem to break out of the fit of the sullens into which I’d fallen. At least that is what Mama had called it when she whispered in my ear. I was twenty years old and acting like a child. Throwing a silent tantrum because . . .
I was terrified of the unknown.
Terrified of my husband.
Of my shocking ignorance about being a wife.
Of living in what was close to a foreign country.
And on top of all that, but a scant mile down the road I was already beset by loneliness.
I clenched my hands in my lap, bit my lip, and prayed to God to give me strength to be the woman I should be. To do what must be done, to be a good wife even though every nerve was screaming, No, no, a thousand times no! I might have been overindulged, pampered beyond what was wise, but I was not a fool. I could do this.
“Mrs. Maddox?”
I looked up into those bright blue eyes only to find they had paled to ice.
“We will not stop at Litchfield Manor as planned. I think it best to continue straight on to Wales. I will send a rider ahead to bespeak the best inns.”
A great rush of relief swept through me, all too soon replaced by confusion. Why this change of plans? I needed to know, but for the life of me I could not form the necessary question.
Correctly reading my frown, Mr. Maddox added, “You have made it quite clear that you are not comfortable with this marriage. Therefore I see no purpose in a few days of privacy that might unsettle you still further. We will return directly to Glyn Eirian, where I hope in time you may accustom yourself to the role of wife. In the meantime you may be assured I will not bother you with what you seem to believe to be my evil intentions.”
Oh no! Married but hours and already I was a failure. My husband was rejecting me. And no wonder when . . .
I had offended him, of course I had. Foolish ninny of a female—having the vapors over something women had been doing since the dawn of time.
I found my voice at last, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I most sincerely beg your pardon. I admit I am frightened, but that is entirely my own fault. You have given me no cause. It is just that it is all so . . . different. You are not like other men I have known. Your people even speak a different language. I fear I cannot live up to your expectations.” In your home or in your bed. But of course I did not say that aloud.
Did his eyes warm a trifle? I thought so, but then he said, “Nonetheless, I think it best to go straight home. In time I trust we will become better acquainted.”
At this, my mother’s horrified face popped into my head, as clear as if she sat beside me. And Papa . . . ah, dear God, I could almost hear his roar of disapproval. After all that had been done for me, after all my training and education, I had failed the ultimate test. At the first crisis in my life, I had turned tail and run.
“No.” Had I actually said that? Told my newly minted husband no?
“Wife?” So cool, so composed, his eyes back to chips of ice.
“I wish to go to Litchfield Manor as planned. I wish to have an opportunity to make up for my poor behavior today. An opportunity to know you better, to learn more about your home and family before we cross the border into Wales.” I swallowed a rising lump of panic and continued, “We can do that, if you will but talk to me, teach me what I need to know.” A wave of heat shot through me as I realized my words roused thoughts of more than his home and family.
I thought I was being wise, even magnanimous, but my offer was met by silence. I peeped at him and found him glowering, his dark lashes covering any expression his eyes might have conveyed. My head felt light, even as a whole swarm of butterflies chased through my stomach. I would not be sick, I would not be sick.
“Are you quite certain?” he asked at last.
“Yes.”
“And just what do you expect from these days that for us are so inaptly termed a honeymoon?”
This was revenge indeed. Until that moment I had not realized the depth of his disappointment. More than that, his hurt. I struggled to find
the words for a proper reply. The best I could manage was, “You chose an English bride, and I accepted. Now that we are married, I expect to be your wife.” As I said it. I looked him straight in the eye
His reply was curt, giving no respite. “Very well, we shall continue to Litchfield Manor. Where I shall expect to find a woman in my bed and not a frightened child.” He leaned his head back against the squabs and closed his eyes. End of discussion.
It might be August, but a January icicle stabbed straight to my soul.
Litchfield Manor was the country home of one of my father’s friends, who was currently summering in Scotland and only too glad to be of service to the happy couple. (His words, as related by Papa, not mine.) Of sturdy brick and surrounded by a park of acceptable size, it was a pretty property. Under other circumstances I would have admired it. But at that moment it seemed a portal straight into Hell.
A portal whose gates I myself had swung wide. The more the fool, I. I shivered as a footman flung wide the coach door and my husband jumped down, turned, held out his hand. His grip was firm, commanding. A fiery blast of warmth shot through me that had nothing to do with the temperature of a rather nippy late afternoon in August.
I was promptly shown to a bedchamber by a housekeeper, who recognized my attack of bridal nerves when tears of relief misted my eyes as I saw the bedchamber room was to be mine alone.
“There now, dearie,” she said, her round face crinkling in sympathy. “A good cry will do you good. Weddings be fine things, but when they’re over and it’s just you and the mister, there’s few brides not beset by fear. But take my word for it, missus, once you’re past the first time, being with a man’s one of the best things life can offer.”
Completely flabbergasted by this familiarity, I could only stare at her, my tears drying on the spot.
“Well now . . .” Seeming suddenly aware that in speaking as an experienced woman to a perfect stranger, albeit a frightened virgin, she had overstepped the bounds of housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey retreated into her expected role. “I’ll leave you to refresh yourself, missus. A footman will show you the way to the dining room in . . . will an hour be acceptable, ma’am?” After I agreed, she was half-way to the door when she turned and added, “I forgot to mention that your husband has the bedchamber next to this.” She nodded toward the door that led to what I had supposed was a dressing room. Fortunately, she exited before the full extent of my blush swamped my face.
Ninny, ninny, ninny. Coward!
Nothing was more natural than consummation of a marriage. A consummation I had practically demanded of my reluctant husband. And now I wanted to lock the door, bury myself behind the summer draperies of nearly transparent peach silk, pull the covers over my head, and not come out until . . .
Until I could find transportation back to Hawley Hall in Handsworth Wood.
Forever shaming Papa and Mama.
I was spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. Of all the offers I had received, this was the man I had accepted. Even though I knew I could not twist him round my little finger, as I did with Papa. So why . . .?
My thoughts were interrupted as my maid Alice arrived, closely followed by a footman with my traveling luggage. Alice had ridden in a coach loaded down with all my worldly possessions, from the many new garments ordered in London to my extensive collection of books and cherished childhood keepsakes. Truly, except for not being able to tuck Mama, Papa, Tom, George, and Hawley Hall into the coach, I would be surrounded by all I held most dear.
I kept reminding myself of that all through supper, through the tunes I dutifully played on the pianoforte in the drawing room, through desultory conversation in which I offered a series of conventional topics and my husband remained as uncommunicative as the proverbial clam. To this day, I have no idea what was said.
Alas, at two months after the summer solstice, dark came all too early. “Perhaps you might wish to retire,” my husband suggested. I’d swear that for a second or two an amused twist of his lips cracked his great stone face, which terrified me all the more. Frankly, if he’d reared up from his chair, assuming full dragon form and breathing fire, I doubt I would have been surprised.
In spite of trembling legs, I pried myself off the sofa, managed a curtsy, and excused myself. Alice was, of course, waiting and kept up a constant chatter as she divested me of my clothes. “Ah, miss—missus, you’ve no call to look so gloomy. A fine man he is. Not a London courtcard, not him, but a real man. As rugged as the mountains he comes from. You should hear the talk in the kitchen—the maids are all atwitter. Any one of them would change places with you in the wink of an eye.”
“Then tell them they may do so,” I snapped, more put out by Alice’s enthusiasm for my husband than I cared to admit. Was I angry because I thought these women fools? Or because I thought myself a fool and was all too happy to cast blame elsewhere?
Alice giggled. “Ah, missus, you don’t know what you’re saying. ’Tis naught but bridal nerves. Being with a man can be grand. Or so I’m told,” she added hastily, and quickly slipped my all-too-transparent nightgown over my head. I cast a sharp look at her as she helped me into a lacy dressing gown, but Alice was all innocence as she invited me to sit down and began to brush my hair.
When I could not put off the moment any longer, I allowed her to tuck me into bed—still wearing my dressing gown as without it I might as well have been naked. Alice shook her head, wished me well, and sailed out, but not without a quick glance over her shoulder and a conspiratorial wink, as if to remind me that a world of wonder awaited, if only I would let it in.
But I’d left my common sense at Hawley Hall. Or perhaps in London. Or lost forever under an anonymous hedgerow. Should I sit bolt upright? Slide down under the covers? Pull the silk draperies tight around the bed? Leave the candle burning? Surely Mr. Maddox would have his own.
Perhaps I should await him at my dressing table. Or in the chair by the window overlooking the gardens? Perhaps—
A door creaked. My husband, the Welshman, had arrived.
Chapter Three
Every ounce of my being wanted to slide under the bedcovers and hide, but having come so close to having my bridal night canceled altogether had taught me a bitter lesson. So I sat tall against the mound of pillows placed against the ornately carved headboard and watched my husband’s approach, eyes wide, my gaze unwavering—even though my heart threatened to pound its way through flesh and bone and flying straight out the window into the blackness of the night.
Mr. Maddox was, I feared, wearing nothing but skin under his unadorned dark blue banyan, the satin gleaming faintly as it caught the flickering light of a brace of three candles set on a small table by my bed. By the time he stood over me, his stare unfathomable, my stomach had twisted into a knot, my breath gone so short it seemed the air must have been sucked from the room. I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes to fix on his face and not drift—yes, I admit it!—not drift down to his chest, his belt . . . the regions below.
Idiot female! The truth was, I had never seen a naked male form in my life. Even the Greek and Roman statues Papa had acquired with the gleeful pride of a middle-class merchant aping the nobility wore the requisite fig leaf so the sensibilities of proper English ladies would not be offended. Yet exactly because of those fig leaves, I knew where the naughty bits were.
I blushed—head to toe, fiery red. I needed no mirror to tell me so, I could feel the heat suffusing through every pore of my body.
“I owe you an apology.”
What?
Standing a scant foot from the bed, my husband clasped his hands behind his back, rocked back on his heels. I sucked in a sharp breath as his banyan gaped open, revealing a glimpse of . . . something not cloth. “I spoke hastily in the coach,” he said, “forgetting that Englishwomen are not brought up to enjoy the greatest of life’s pleasures. In Wales, you see, we have so few pleasures we learn to revel in those left to us: the beauty of our country, the joy of family, the ultimate delight of two bo
dies joined as one.”
Surely, he hadn’t actually said that! My best intentions thoroughly shattered, my gaze dropped to the elaborately embroidered coverlet and stayed there.
“Welsh women are more elemental, closer to the earth,” my husband added in a fine imitation of my governess at her most pedantic. I even caught her familiar undertone of exasperation. “They are not afraid to feel.”
Enough! I thrust up my chin, glared at him. “You chose an English bride.”
“I did indeed. And I erred when I was insensitive to your fears. The problem is, you see . . .” Mr. Maddox rocked forward, one hand coming up to stroke his chin, “I am unsure if you are afraid of me or only of the marriage bed.”
“Am I not the one who wished to come here?” I demanded, pride surging to overwhelm my fear.
“Ah, but was that because you feared what others might think if you didn’t have the proper honeymoon? Or was it simply because you wished to postpone your journey into the wilds of Wales?”
“You are detestable!”
I gasped as he lowered himself to the bed, sitting beside me, his scathing blue eyes scant inches from mine. “I am a man, Jocelyn. A man in want of a wife. I chose you even though I knew you were overly indulged, as most heiresses are. I chose you because you are intelligent, well-educated, more of a rebel at heart than you probably realize. And, yes, I chose you because I wished to indulge myself with a woman of beauty who just happened to come with a fortune attached. But, believe me, a prince of the Cymru, no matter how many generations removed, has his pick of women. Yet I chose you.” He folded his arms in front of his chest, catching my gaze and holding me fast. “I thought you had chosen me as well, that we were agreed we would suit. But today has been more than a bit confusing, and I must tell you I am not a man who is accustomed to being confused.”
I opened my mouth and absolutely nothing came out. I tried again, managing only, “Last night . . . my mother . . .” Silence descended as I steepled my hands before my face, unable to say more.
Welshman's Bride Page 2
