The Vengeful Bridegroom

by Kit Donner

  A thought occurred and immediately worried her. She couldn’t make herself an important part of the household, knowing that any day, she would depart. She shrugged. What would it matter? For the present, she must continue the pretense of the mistress of Westcott Close.

  Madelene ventured out to the porch when she saw Mr. Westcott riding through the stone archway into the courtyard.

  “Greetings, Mrs. Westcott, how are you enjoying your first day at Westcott Close?” he called to her as he superbly dismounted, threw his reins to a new footboy standing nearby, and ran up the stairs with his hat in hand.

  Before Madelene could respond or greet her husband, they heard a loud thump and a wailing. Her husband brushed past her and into the house with Madelene following close behind. The cries appeared to be coming from down the corridor, where she had left Mrs. Lavishtock. Oh, no. Mrs. Lavishtock.

  At the top of the kitchen stairs, Madelene and her husband stared in disbelief.

  Mrs. Lavishtock lay on her side at the bottom of the stairs holding her ankle, moaning, “Och, I think it’s broken, I think it’s broken.”

  Poor Mrs. Lavishtock. She glanced at her husband, worrying her lip. If Mr. Westcott thought a strange woman with a broken bone in his kitchen a trifle odd, he kept his thoughts to himself. Madelene couldn’t stop castigating herself for having left the older woman alone and not helping her down the steps. Grimacing, she trailed her husband down the stairs to kneel by the elderly woman, whose turban had begun to slide down onto her forehead.

  Mr. Westcott stooped to lift the old woman to a more comfortable sitting position. “Now, let’s have a look at that ankle. I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen broken ankles before.”

  Mrs. Lavishtock paid no attention, all the while moaning, “Oh, my ankle, my ankle.”

  Mr. Westcott positioned himself in front of the older woman and gently lifted her leg, careful not to raise it any more than necessary. He was entirely solicitous to this stranger, which surprised Madelene.

  Wanting to help in some way, she hopped down the last few stairs to sit beside Mrs. Lavishtock and hold her hand as both women watched Mr. Westcott examine the black-stockinged leg. When he removed her sturdy black shoe, the woman moaned again, then leaned against Madelene.

  Mr. Westcott looked up into the woman’s angst-ridden face. “It’s not broken, but perhaps sprained. I will have a physician look at it.” As if suddenly remembering something, Mr. Westcott looked at Madelene with lifted eyebrows. “Mrs. Westcott, would you, perhaps, introduce us?”

  Madelene met his eyes, smiled and, said faintly, “Mr. Westcott, meet Mrs. Lavishtock, our new housekeeper?”

  Chapter Eight

  Mr. Westcott and Madelene had settled Mrs. Lavishtock into the housekeeper’s rooms near the kitchen when the physician arrived to examine the patient. After taking measure of her pain by the housekeeper’s moan every time he touched anywhere near her ankle, the physician turned to Madelene and her husband and assured them it was only a sprain.

  This news greatly relieved Madelene, who still blamed herself for the accident. The physician put liniment on the ankle and wrapped it, warning Mrs. Lavishtock to stay off her feet for the next few days. Before the doctor left, he whispered to Madelene that a bit of spirits might hasten her healing or help her to sleep. She nodded and smiled at him, thanking him for seeing to their housekeeper.

  At one of the less harried moments during the doctor’s visit, Mr. Westcott and Madelene found themselves with a housekeeper, with nary a word exchanged of experience or references. Madelene had whispered to her husband they couldn’t very well throw the old woman out on her injured ankle. Mr. Westcott had nodded his agreement, but asked her if she could handle the housekeeper’s duties until Mrs. Lavishtock was able.

  Madelene twisted her mouth ruefully. She had no intention of performing the duties of a housekeeper and opened her mouth to object.

  Except at that moment, Mrs. Lavishtock had told them how grateful she was to them that they had given her a position in their household, and as soon as she was on her feet (in no time), she would prove their confidence in her.

  Madelene closed her eyes and said a little prayer her husband would offer to return to Town and find Mrs. Henchip or someone as a temporary replacement for Mrs. Lavishtock.

  Only he didn’t.

  As Mr. Westcott and Madelene closed the door to the housekeeper’s rooms, they could still hear Mrs. Lavishtock mumbling about being an inconvenience, and it wouldn’t be too long before she would be earning her keep.

  After everyone had left the room, Mrs. Lavishtock looked up at the ceiling. “It looks like our plan has worked. I’m to be their new housekeeper. I can watch her while I’m resting. Don’t worry, I’ll make it all right. I’ll see to her.”

  After a long day of cleaning, moving furniture, filling fireplaces, and stocking the storeroom, Madelene and Mr. Westcott sat in the newly polished dining room for their first meal of chewy venison and tasteless stewed tomatoes. Madelene managed a few bites and determined to have a word with the new cook in the morning. Even the raisin pudding stuck to her spoon. Her old cook had taught her spices should be used liberally for practically every dish. Given their untenable repast, Madelene wondered if Mr. Westcott couldn’t find a more capable cook so far from Town.

  As she contemplated a plan to repair the cook’s menus, she realized Mr. Westcott had yet to say one word to her about the new servants, her duties, or his plans for reopening Westcott Close. She watched him surreptitiously over her wineglass, noting he appeared to have a lack of appetite. However, she couldn’t determine the source, whether it was the meal or something on his mind.

  A knock on the door alerted them to a guest. “Excuse me, Mr. Westcott, I wanted to advise you that I have returned. You requested I inform you immediately upon my arrival.” A tall, thin man presented himself inside the dining-room doors.

  Mr. Westcott looked over at the stranger and nodded. “Windthorp, it is good to see you.” He paused. “Windthorp, my wife, Mrs. Westcott. I had mentioned her to you and the occasion of our marriage.” Her husband turned to look at her. “Mrs. Westcott, this is my valet, Windthorp. He would have been here to meet us; however, he had to undertake business transactions for me in Town.” Mr. Westcott looked once again at the quiet man at the door. “Please wait for me in the study. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Madelene inspected the tall man with an almost gallows-like visage and small dark mustache. The new arrival never looked in her direction, which did not deter her from taking his measure. His skeletal form barely fit his clothes, and his demeanor was anything but lighthearted. Indeed, if possible, she felt a thinly veiled mood of disapproval emanating from him. She tried not to shudder at this darkness, the only word she could think of to describe him.

  Windthorp. Mr. Westcott’s valet and obviously Man of Affairs. Madelene wondered what secrets he kept for his employer.

  After Windthorp departed as silently as he had entered, Madelene tried to fashion a conversation with her husband. However, in mere moments, Mr. Westcott excused himself to join his servant.

  Madelene sat back in her chair, relieved to watch his departure. Mr. Westcott always seemed to judge her and find her lacking.

  Later that night, as she donned her night rail, she worried if her husband would make an appearance in her bedchamber. When would he require his husbandly rights? And how much longer could she endure not knowing his plans for her and wanting to escape this place to return to her own home? Home—a place she knew, and where she wasn’t a stranger living in a strange house with an enigmatic husband. How the Fates played games with her life.

  She felt caught in a web of circumstance and could find no way out. Would her brother find her and take her home? Before it was too late?

  Not yet ready to retire to bed, Madelene contemplated her husband as she sat on the window ledge, gazing on the spring night. All was still, except for a shallow breeze now and then rustling the leaves and a lon
ely frog croaking from the lake.

  Mr. Westcott. Who was he really, and what did he want with her? He had shown her many courtesies since they had been married, and he wasn’t exactly the unkind man she had thought him to be. Even if he had placed a guard on her, which did not suit at all.

  But it still didn’t change the circumstances, which found her married to a man who could not possibly love her and for whom she could not possibly care. How would it end, she mused. Was theirs to be a marriage of comedic or tragic proportions?

  She stared a long while at the stars lighting the night, the moon hiding behind misshapen, floating clouds. Since she couldn’t depend on her brother finding her, and soon, Madelene would have to handle the matter of returning to London on her own. She would save herself.

  With no easy answers in sight, she sighed and crawled into bed with the merest of linen draped over her in the heat of the May night. Deep in sleep, she never heard the door open or the little paws padding across the floor and Brussels carpet.

  Madelene did, however, awake when something began to lick her face. She promptly sat up and screamed. The little dog barked in her face before jumping off the bed and running beneath it, howling in fear.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Westcott burst in the door dressed only in his robe. “What is it?”

  Madelene swore she could hear someone laughing in the hall.

  The little dog continued barking under the bed. Mr. Westcott must have realized instantly what had caused the commotion because he knelt down by the bed, lifted the bedclothes, and looked underneath. “Falstaff, come here, boy. Falstaff,” he commanded in a soft but firm voice.

  Madelene watched this tall, almost assurredly naked man cradle the scruffiest little dog she had ever seen. The little black-and-white ball of rough fur had black eyes with lopsided ears—one flopped over and one stood straight. Although she couldn’t claim fondness for animals, the little fellow did seem appealing, happily licking the face of Mr. Westcott, who minded not a bit.

  Her husband looked at Madelene and smiled. “This seems to be a habit with us. You scream, and I run to save you from Alec or Falstaff, a harmless little dog. He is as terrified of you as you are of him.”

  Madelene sputtered a defense, but it fell on deaf ears.

  He walked over to the door and handed Falstaff to Alec at his usual post. Madelene could hear them talking but couldn’t distinguish their conversation. All that mattered was the dog had left her bedchamber.

  Mr. Westcott closed her door and returned to her bedside. Eyebrows raised, Madelene watched him warily. Surely, he wouldn’t—She waited for him to bid her good night but instead, he sat on the opposite side of her bed, simply staring at her. Her lips suddenly felt dry. Why didn’t he leave?

  She didn’t know where to look except out the window, unnerved by his steady gaze.

  “You look lovely in pink.”

  “Oh,” Madelene breathlessly responded upon looking down to find the sheet didn’t cover her nearly as much as it should. Her nightclothes revealed too much for propriety’s sake, and his intense scrutiny made breathing difficult. Perhaps if I could change the subject—what was the little dog’s name again?

  “I know this marriage is not either of our choosing, but we can make the best of it, can we not?” His voice was soothing and soft, and dangerous.

  Without giving her a chance to reply, he told her, “I want you.” His expression was earnest as he brushed back his dark brown wayward hair.

  Stunned, she gaped at him, not prepared for a frontal attack but remembering her indignity. “Sir, I cannot entertain such a thought. This was my brother’s plan, which you interrupted for your own goals. It was to be a marriage in name only.”

  She paused, and unable to look him square in the eye, looked in fascination at the pink-frosted counterpane. “I thought I was too skinny and had scrawny feet?” She muttered under her breath as she tried to maintain some hint of defensive decorum. Madelene reluctantly pulled her gaze from the covers and returned his study.

  His smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I tried to convince myself that I found you undesirable, but I can’t persuade myself of that anymore.” His quiet sincerity struck her somewhere between her heart and her brain.

  This wasn’t to happen. She was going to leave him. He was to be a braggart, a wastrel; hard and despicable toward her. Make her suffer. He simply could not be pleasant to her, for she didn’t want to like him any more than she already did.

  His gaze never leaving her face, he rose from the bed and walked to the other side, closer to where she sat, and perched next to her. The air felt stifling even with the open window.

  Maybe she should run. Run where? How far would she get? Her senses told her to fight off any advances, but his eyes asked her to surrender. Perspiration slipped between her breasts. Was it indeed the night air or was the heat exuding from him?

  She should fear him, hate him, throw ugly remarks at him, but she couldn’t, mesmerized by the sight of her impassioned husband. She couldn’t move. Where was her courage when she needed it?

  Gabriel lifted her hand, laying by her side, and brought it to his lips, almost in homage, almost afraid he would hurt her. She quivered at the warm contact and closed her eyes, casting any immodest thoughts aside.

  This was her husband. The angel and the sinner warred within her. Indeed, she did want to feel his lips on hers. Wanted to know what this strange feeling inside that she only felt when he was around was. An aching, breathless, wordless feeling, she had never felt before, never lived before.

  He slid a strong hand up her bare arm and wrapped it around her shoulder to pull her close as he leaned in to kiss her exposed neck. Startled, she froze, her heart pounding, worried about what he might do next or what he might not do. What is he doing with his tongue? Does he realize he was making me addle-pated?

  “Madelene, I need you,” he whispered in her ear.

  She coughed, then gulped hard, unsure of how to respond. A fleeting thought—if she gained his affection, would it leave her unharmed?

  Eyes closed, she turned her head and met his kiss. A kiss she knew would brand her soul. Knew it was like nothing she had ever felt or tasted before. If this was all wrong, why did this overwhelming feeling of rightness assail her?

  When he pulled away from their kiss, she blushed at her inexperience and boldness, thinking she could not tempt him after all.

  But he appeared to have trouble breathing, too, until he swept her into his arms and on his lap, planting kiss after kiss on her cheeks and eyelids before taking her by surprise with his demanding mouth. Tasting of his warm, brandied lips, she moaned when he teased her mouth open and mated his tongue with hers, where he appeared determined to take her breath and anything else she had to give him.

  But not her heart, she thought frantically. My heart is safe from him. It must remain so. She lost her thought as he fell back across the bed, pulling her more securely on top of him, matching and molding his hard body to her soft pliable one, so easily fitting all the right places together. Her thin muslin-clad body to his—oh, goodness, nakedness, his robe vanished.

  Her husband brushed her hair over her shoulder while holding her head in his hands as he lavished kiss upon kiss to her desperate lips, pressing her warmth more deeply against his hardened arousal. She ached everywhere he touched her and everywhere he didn’t. She couldn’t stop the little sighs that escaped. He had completely captured her spirit, or had she given it to him freely? She no longer cared or remembered.

  His lips brushing the tops of her breasts sent tingling shocks through her. She felt on fire. She wanted more.

  But while his lips continued their all-consuming assault on her willing body, rational thought returned. Madelene pulled away from his heat and anchored her hands on either side of his head, looking down at him and breathing deeply, her senses regained.

  He looked at her with confused passion in his warm brown eyes as if to question why she had stopped this willing
journey they both desired.

  She closed her eyes for a moment to regain breath and virtue, then asked softly, “Is this part of your revenge of my brother?” A moment of silence later, she regretted those words as soon as they found a way to poison what lay between them.

  Gabriel stared at her for a moment before rolling her onto her back and removing himself from the bed. The heat between them chilled whatever distance they had traveled tonight.

  She watched him walk to the door, his robe securely tied, his back to her. Ready to walk out and forget what had just passed between them? She gulped with unshed tears because she knew she had hurt him, something she suddenly discovered that was the very last act she wanted to commit. But it was too late.

  Closing her eyes, she heard the door open.

  “I almost wish I could say yes, but I would be lying to both of us,” he told her enigmatically, then closed the door softly.

  Madelene continued lying in the same place for a long while. He was unlike any man she had ever met. While her mind might have retained her righteousness, her heart hurt for what he had left behind. She knew what she must do. She had to leave.

  Chapter Nine

  Restless, unable to sleep, Madelene decided to depart the house and her husband at the earliest opportunity, which appeared to be this moment. She could not dally any longer, uncertain of what lay ahead if she remained. There was no time to worry what her husband would think when he found her absent in the morning and whether he would follow her, as he had promised.

  She hurriedly dressed in her traveling clothes, resolved to leave most of her belongings behind. Perhaps she could pay one of the groomsmen to take her to Ludlow, assuming the servants had not earned Mr. Westcott’s allegiance in one day. It would make for the quickest departure so she could leave this unfathomable man behind who wanted everything from her, but could give nothing in return. Madelene had to keep the candle of her anger burning, for it would be the only way she could save herself.