Welshman's Bride

by Bancroft, Blair

  I gasped. Oh, surely not. No. I refused to believe it.

  The stars were fading into pre-dawn when I finally dragged myself to bed. Married ten days . . . and now this.

  When you grow up!

  Had I deserved that? Did it matter? For the new day yawned before me, and I had no answer to the question: Where do I go from here?

  There was no sign of Rhys in the morning and, truthfully, I was relieved. I suspected he was still asleep or nursing a sore head, but I did not know him well enough to speculate. A thought that depressed my spirits even further, though I knew I could not be the first bride to feel so lost and alone.

  Lady Aurelia and Miss Farnsworth, I’d learned, did not break their fast with the family, preferring to remain in their suite of rooms until close to noon each day. So I was left to dine in weighted silence with my mother-in-law, Liliwen, and Mrs. Trewent. Until, when I was in the midst of chewing a sausage that bore no relation to any I had ever tasted before, Gwendolyn. Maddox turned to me and said, “Mrs. Trewent goes to the village today, Jocelyn. I think it appropriate that you accompany her. The sooner the villagers’ curiosity is satisfied, the sooner they will return to their daily activities, and our lives may get back to normal.”

  The villagers were curious about me? Well, of course they were. Though they might not be aware the old regime was still firmly in place. Or perhaps they were wagering on the outcome? The Battle of the Castle? I almost smiled before memories of last night came back to haunt me. Ah yes, yesterday I had confidence my time would come. Today I was far less certain.

  Mrs. Trewent and I set out within the hour, traveling in a modest open carriage with a footman sitting on the bench beside the coachman, both dressed more casually than their counterparts in England. Though I had to admit they blended far better with the wild and rugged landscape than would the colorful and ornately uniformed servants at home.

  So far I had found Mrs. Trewent dour and uncommunicative, but she surprised me by pointing out the various landmarks as the road wound its way down the mountainside. The name of the stream tumbling toward the river below was so unpronounceable it flitted out of my mind on the instant. As were the names of the crags towering around us, as well as those on the far side of the valley. Being in a rather dour mood myself, I wondered if a spate of Welsh names was her form of intimidation. Unfair, I supposed, but I wasn’t too kindly disposed toward anyone in Wales this morning.

  As we drew closer to the village, Dilys Trewent named the tenant farmers as well. I grasped at the blessed familiarity of Evans and Jones. But the farms were more stark, more worn, more . . . meager than those near Handsworth Wood, mere shadows of the prosperous acreage that could be seen in England’s southern counties.

  Did Rhys truly believe investing my dowry in a copper mine could mend the poverty dictated by the peculiar nature of Welsh land—or should I say mountains? A horrid thought struck me. What if he did not plan to spend the profits on the people of Glyn Eirian? For that was surely the reason he had given for the need to marry a handsome dowry.

  No! I would not believe it.

  “The colliery is appallingly ugly, but we are accustomed to it.” Mrs. Trewent’s statement catapulted my attention back to the here and now. We were entering the village, which was not so different from the houses and shops at home, except for the fine coating of coal dust that dimmed the villagers’ attempts to trim their cottages and businesses with bright paint. The great English cities were just as bad, I told myself, but a country village covered in soot . . .

  I raised my gaze to the colliery tower, which loomed above the rooftops less than half a mile on the right. To the tall chimney needed by the steam boiler that ran the lift. To the slag heap that rose nearly as high as the lift tower. Mrs. Trewent was right. It was exceedingly ugly. And could not be healthy.

  Finally, it struck me. I was meant to be more than chatelaine of the castle. When I married Rhys, I became mistress of the whole of Glyn Eirian—the mountains, rivers, farms, village, mine, and foundry. I, not just Rhys, was responsible for improving the lot of farmers attempting to make a living on rocky ground, of villagers attempting to eke out a living where poverty ruled, of men laboring in the dark depths of the earth, and men dripping sweat from the heat of the blast furnaces.

  I had grown up understanding that my father ran an empire, a not inconsiderable triumph even though it was a empire of trade. Yet here was an empire in microcosm. And I, in total ignorance, had married it. Dear heavens, but the burden was onerous. How could anyone, no matter how hard they tried, make life better in the valley of Glyn Eirian?

  Yet for a moment the challenge beckoned, exciting all my senses. And then I was swamped by the futility of it all. What I’d heard was a siren’s call, luring me to disaster. The truth was, I was being shut out. I had no place here. No future. My husband had a morganatic wife and child, my mother-in-law despised anything English, my sister-in-law might even be accused of being careless with my life . . .

  “Good morning, ladies. Well met, Mrs. Trewent! Will you be kind enough to introduce me to your charming companion?” The ebullient tone of a rather dashing English gentleman jarred me straight out of my fit of feeling sorry for myself. A young man in his mid to late twenties was beaming down at us from a mirror-polished curricle with wheels and spokes picked out in bright yellow.

  To my surprise, a crack appeared in Dilys Trewent’s cool demeanor. She actually came close to simpering as she said, “Jocelyn, may I present Lord Dawnay? The viscount’s father is an investor in both mine and foundry and maintains a country cottage near the head of the valley. My lord, this is Mrs. Rhys Maddox. She is from the Midlands near Birmingham.”

  “Good God!” he exclaimed before apologizing profusely for his slip of the tongue. Recovering, he offered an openly admiring smile that I confess made my heart sing. I needed that, as well as the welcome sound of an accent that proclaimed him a member of the ton. “How fortunate I should be visiting at such an auspicious moment,” he declared. “Do grant me permission to call so I may compliment Maddox on finding such a treasure.”

  I had not been so sheltered that I did not recognize a rogue when I saw one, charming though he might be. I had two brothers, after all. Lord Dawnay was most likely on what was called a “repairing lease,” hiding from his creditors until his next quarterly allowance. Or else he’d done something worse and been banished to Wales by his irate father. For there was no other explanation for a town dandy, which he most certainly was, driving the streets of a Welsh village on a Thursday morning in early September. But he was strikingly handsome—slim and elegant with blond hair that waved about his face and gray eyes that sparkled with mischief. Frankly, Lord Dawnay was a tonic I sadly needed, and I felt myself slipping under his spell.

  “You would be very welcome,” I pronounced gaily, as if I were back in Handsworth Wood and not in an inimical household in Wales. Nor was I put off by Mrs. Trewent’s sharply skeptical glance, a glance that said she might be charmed by Viscount Dawnay but Mrs. Gwendolyn Maddox was not, most likely because he was English. But I was now Mrs. Rhys Maddox, and I would have a word with Gruffydd, ensuring that Lord Dawnay would not be turned away from the door. For my spirits had revived quite wonderfully at thought of another young person from England in this benighted place.

  I knew I was being unreasonable. But I had been buffeted one too many times since crossing the River Dee. Simmering resentment, augmented by pride, had me in its grip. I was ready to take the bit in my teeth and make a run for it.

  If only I knew which direction to take.

  If only . . .

  A farm wagon came rumbling down the high street, forcing Lord Dawnay to move on. He tipped his hat, promised to call in the very near future, and drove off, leaving Mrs. Trewent and myself to stare after him. As if suddenly aware she had revealed a weakness, my companion snapped, “His given name is Hugh, and though he is heir to an earldom, he’s a wastrel. Gwendolyn accuses him of representing the worst of t
he English, . . .” Dilys Trewent sighed. “As I see it, the disasters and humiliations perpetrated on Wales were effected by soldiers, not fops. And I admit I cannot help but like him. Perhaps one day he will learn to be a man.”

  Like Rhys. That’s what she meant. Rhys who thought me a child. And perhaps it was true. If one had always been wrapped in a cocoon of money, never done a day’s work, never had to accept responsibility for running an estate, running a household . . .

  Never had to deal with adversity.

  Lord Dawnay’s greatest challenge was likely finding a way to live easy while waiting for the next quarter day. Mine? What challenges had I faced? I had never so much as come close to overspending Papa’s generous allowance. My only transgression, perhaps, refusing an endless stream of suitors. And, in truth, most of them had been fortune hunters, so Mama and Papa did not mind . . .

  Heeding Mrs. Trewent’s reminder that we had come to the village to accomplish a series of errands, I followed her down the walkway toward the modest shops lining both sides of the street.

  As we walked, my half-boots beat a tattoo: Lord Dawnay, Viscount Dawnay,. Hugh . . . Somehow the day had grown brighter.

  Chapter Nine

  Gruffydd looked down at me from a face as stern as an ancestral portrait. “Mrs. Mad—Mrs. Gwendolyn,” he corrected, “does not approve of Lord Dawnay, Mrs. Jocelyn.”

  “Then she should not feel obliged to join us,” I responded evenly, quashing a sudden flare of temper. “Though I believe Mrs. Trewent will be pleased to see him. Perhaps Miss Liliwen as well,” I added. “And surely Lady Aurelia and Miss Farnsworth would be delighted to speak with an English nobleman. There is, after all, nothing like a whiff of home to perk up the day.” Adopting a stance copied from Papa at his most intractable, I looked straight into Gruffydd’s doubtful eyes and said, “Be sure you do not turn Lord Dawnay away from the door.”

  As I swept toward the stairs, my dignity clutched round me like a cloak, the chilling thought occurred to me that there was one person who could gainsay my order. Rhys. What if he did not like Hugh Dawnay and . . . Oh dear heavens! Any authority I had would crumble on the instant. No order of mine would be obeyed if each time the servants waited to see what Rhys or his mother had to say. No, no, quite impossible. I would not even consider it. I pelted up the stairs at an undignified pace, clenching my teeth, while vowing to prevail. I would, I would.

  But I was already at outs with Rhys . . .

  Would evening never come?

  But when we were seated at dinner, I discovered we were under scrutiny not only by the entire family, but by a panoply of servants and the sharp eyes of Eilys Pritchard. And I do mean sharp. I swear she watched me almost as closely as Liliwen did, her gaze darting back and forth between Rhys and me, as if she expected us to erupt into a public quarrel at any moment. Good God, I suppose everyone knew Gwendolyn had practically forced me to the truth about Eilys and Carys. This lowering thought was reinforced by occasional glances of sympathy and murmurs of encouragement from Lady Aurelia, who was again seated on my right.

  I shut them all out, rousing only enough to respond when spoken to, which wasn’t often. As I worked my way through the array of food, I allowed Lord Dawnay’s flirtatious smile to soothe my soul. Not the best attitude for a bride, but I was in such need of an ally, even a rogue would do.

  When at last it was time to go up to bed, Gwendolyn asked Rhys to remain in the drawing room, no doubt to complain about my giving an order to Gruffydd. And for some inexplicable reason my hackles flattened, a frisson of doubt ran through me. Rhys and I already had a much more serious problem to settle. I simply could not bear to be scolded over something so mundane as a gentleman caller. The gentleman at hand—the one in my bed—was worry enough.

  Rhys. With that all thought of Lord Dawnay vanished. Rhys and I had unfinished business. My most pressing decision at the moment—where should I be when he joined me? And he would join me, I was certain. He was not a man who took the coward’s way out, avoiding an issue, hoping it would deflate of its own accord.

  “No, not tonight.” I waved Alice away as she began to braid my hair. “You may go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” After bobbing a curtsy and flashing me an impertinently knowing grin, she scurried out.

  So . . . I surveyed the room with some trepidation. Where should I wait for Rhys? Not in the chair by the window, which would remind him of last night. In bed, as if last night had never happened? At my dressing table, still brushing my hair?

  Or perhaps I was wrong, and he was so disgusted—or possibly ashamed?—that he would not come at all.

  In the end I made a pile of the bed pillows before climbing in and sitting up very straight, more like a queen on her throne than a bride awaiting a husband of less than a fortnight. Ah, what a short honeymoon we’d had. The sharp knife of reality cut deep.

  I climbed out of bed, retrieved a book from a table by the window, and resettled myself, staring at the novel with great concentration even though I was not comprehending a single word. By the time the door clicked open, my nerves were so taut I nearly screamed.

  He was wearing his banyan. And nothing else. Thank you, Lord.

  Rhys stood for a few moments beside the bed, looking down at me with what I fancied was perplexity. What to with a silly chit who doesn’t understand how the game is played? My heart hiccupped as he shoved my feet to one side and sat down beside me.

  His solemn blue eyes did not waver as he said, “I owe you an apology. I should have warned you. But I never dreamed Mother would flaunt . . .” He broke off, flipping a hand in dismissal. “Ask yourself,” he said, “how a man could say to an innocent such as yourself, ‘Oh, by the way, my former mistress and a love child also live at Glyn Eirian’.”

  I looked away, biting my lip. Former? Really?

  “I had no more intention of marrying Eilys than I did Mother’s chosen bride from the north—”

  “Which is why you ran off and married an English fortune to thwart them both.”

  Rhys jumped to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath. Putting distance between us before he rattled my teeth?

  “I married you—you—because I wished to,” he ground out. “Because I liked you, you silly twit. I married you for all the reasons I have already told you, choosing you over a rather surprising list of young women with titled fathers. I may be Welsh, Jocelyn, but I am not a nonentity.”

  “No, of course not,” I murmured. Miserable man. How dare he attempt to put me in the wrong when he was the one with a mistress and a bastard child?

  Rhys huffed a breath. An exasperated one, I feared. “Jocelyn, you need to accept what I told you on our wedding day. We Welsh are more accepting of . . . shall we say, male-female relations? We do not consider such a pleasure sin, and we respect any offspring who may come of it.”

  “The church condones this?”

  “Our Welsh churches are also more tolerant. Though perhaps not those who serve the English among us,” he amended with what I considered a most annoying flash of amusement.

  I clenched my hands tight and said, “You actually expect me to tolerate a mistress who lives but a floor above?”

  “Former mistress. And this is her home. I could not allow Carys to live elsewhere.”

  I would not be the Duchess of Devonshire. I would not! “And the next time we quarrel, you will not go to her? Or when I am–ah, um–unavailable? Or with child?” Oh drat! My face burned with the heat blossoming in my cheeks.

  “I will not.”

  I wished I could believe him.

  I wanted to believe him, but my inner voice, at its most insidious, whispered, He did not promise not to go to anyone else.

  “I would like you to leave now,” I said. “I need time to adjust my thinking. By tomorrow I hope to have molded myself into the wife you want.”

  I had severe reservations about that, but I would try.

  Rhys held up his hand in a fencer’s salute, acknowledging the hit. And he s
miled—he dared smile! The wretch. “I accept the test, my dear. And vow to spend the night in my very own bed.” He paused, taking the time for a leisurely perusal from the top of my head to the bump of my toes pressed against the bedcovers. And then he leered at me, his lips emphasizing each word as he said, “I look forward to tomorrow.”

  I came close to throwing my book at his retreating back. Tomorrow indeed. More like next week, next month . . .

  Oh no, that stupid I was not. After a struggle with my screaming nerves, I tossed all but one pillow aside, snuggled down, and actually fell asleep with a tiny smile on my lips. After all, I rather thought I’d won that round.

  The next night, when I accepted Rhys into my bed, the lingering stiffness between us lasted only as long as his first lusty embrace, which demonstrated an unexpected eagerness which could not fail to please. Only later, when I once again woke to find him gone, did a niggling doubt appear. By welcoming him into my arms—and there was no denying that is what I had done—had I inadvertently accepted all that went with him? His mother’s dominance. Eilys. Carys. Any other female who might strike his fancy.

  If Rhys had made that assumption . . . he was quite, quite wrong!

  I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting to calm my dire thoughts. I was a bride. So far my husband had spent every night but one in my bed. Shutting him out once might have made a point. Or might not. Common sense dictated that I must keep Rhys close, for only through him did I have any power.

  And besides, I had made a great discovery. Rhys and I might be destined to disagree on a variety of topics, but never in bed. The truth was, I liked being married.

  Most of the time.

  Two days later, Lord Dawnay came to call. Lady Aurelia, Miss Farnsworth, and I thoroughly enjoyed his ebullience, his humor, the latest on dits from London. Evidently, Liliwen was also numbered among his admirers, as both she and Dilys Trewent joined us not five minutes into our lively conversation. They made no excuse for Gwendolyn Maddox’s absence. None was needed. Though, to my surprise, Rhys appeared just as Lord Dawnay was taking his leave. Clearly, he had been sent for. By Gruffydd? His mother? I was happy to see him, but that someone should think the viscount’s call needed male supervision . . . I had to struggle to keep my inner scowl from showing.