Relia swallowed, coughed, shivered . . . and recognized how much the incident had unsettled her when she caught herself regretting the loss of her husband’s touch. A cozy shawl was wrapped about her shoulders. Thomas Lanning was making it very difficult for her to dislike him, even if he wanted her only for her acres.
She had bought him, had she not? Very well. How fortunate he seemed intent on giving good service.
Relia took another sip of brandy, then raised her eyes. Dear God! She had seen him with many faces, but nothing like this. If she had not known his glower was not directed at her, she would have been terrified. She rather hoped the boys had safely hidden themselves away, for their youthful heedlessness did not deserve to have this particular Thomas Lanning descend on them.
“I must apologize,” he declared stiffly. “You should have your maid to attend. Shall I send for her?”
“No . . . truly, I am fine. I am . . . ashamed to have made such a piece of work of it.”
“It was a close-run thing.”
“Yes . . . and I have not properly thanked you for saving me. I am most grateful.” Heavens! She sounded as if she were speaking to a chance-met acquaintance.
“That is what men are for, are they not?” Mr. Lanning countered just as coolly. “Protecting the weaker sex is one of our duties.”
“But I don’t wish to be weaker!” A tell-tale tear surprised her, slipping out of one eye and rolling down her cheek.
Her husband lowered himself until he was hunkered on his heels, his sharp gray eyes on a level with his bride’s. His grim look had turned to one of concern, with a hint of puzzlement. “You are a brave woman, Aurelia. In scarcely more than a year you have suffered a series of blows that would have sent most females into strong hysterics. But you fought through your problems and achieved your own solution. Now, however, what I cannot understand is that you seem sorry for it.”
“I am not sorry! I merely—” Relia sniffed, searched for a handkerchief. Thomas handed over his. “’Tis bridal nerves,” she pronounced at last, squaring her stubborn Trevor chin. “I will recover. And are my nerves not allowed to be a trifle o’erset from nearly breaking my neck?” she added on a slightly more plaintive note.
With a shake of his head, Thomas unfolded himself to his full height. An odd sort of female, his bride. Most women he knew would be prostrate on their beds, clutching their vinaigrettes, perhaps even sending for the doctor. He should not be surprised, of course. From that very first meeting he should have known he was getting an Amazon wrapped in a pint-sized package. Men made marriages of convenience all the time—it was both expected and accepted. But for a female to choose a husband in such a manner, without the aid of any male member of her family, was almost unheard of. And he, who prided himself on being a hard-headed man of business, attentive to his own gains, had found her so appealing—in spite of her arrogance—that she had touched some hidden streak of gallantry, nearly causing him to refrain from joining his empire to hers.
Dragonslayer. Knight Errant. The temptation had been too great.
And just now . . . if he had not moved so fast out on the terrace, she might be dead. And Pevensey Park and all its enterprises would have been added to his other acquisitions. All of which would have turned to dust. For the arrogant little minx attracted his interest as no woman ever had before.
Thomas strode across the room, yanking the bell pull so hard it nearly came off the wall. He had a few words with Tilly before the two women retired to his wife’s bedchamber so she could change into the garments he had dictated.
Relia made straight for the chest on which rested a delicately painted porcelain pitcher and bowl, lavender soap, and a stack of embroidered linen towels provided by The Swan.
The water, deliciously cool, brought sudden relief to her oddly heated body. As she dried her face, Relia sank onto her bed, wondering that such an incident, however close to disaster it might have been, should have overset her nerves so badly. She was not cowardly, never inclined toward fits of the vapors. So why . . . ?
She did not care for the answer that popped into her mind, although, in all fairness, she could not reject the notion out of hand. The flush of heat that had wracked her body was not so much due to her near fall as to her shocking proximity to Mr. Lanning. Her husband.
Thomas. Who did not choose to exercise his husbandly rights.
For which she should be heartily thankful.
“Come now, Miss. You’ll feel ever so much better when you’re out of your stays.”
Intent as Relia had been on washing away the strange sensations that had somehow taken over the emotions of the sensible, pragmatical young woman she had thought herself to be, she had failed to notice the clothing Tilly was laying out for her. Her steel blue eyes opened wide. “I cannot wear that. ‘Tis scarcely past tea time.”
“M’lord ordered it, Miss—ah, Ma’am.”
“He is not a m’lord!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tilly bobbed a curtsey, adding irrepressibly, if somewhat softly, “But he sure acts like one, don’t he?”
Indeed he did. Relia was uncertain if she wanted to smile or continue the good cry she had almost begun in the sitting room. For close to the thousandth time she wondered what she had done to herself. Who was Thomas Lanning? She now bore his name, yet she knew almost nothing about him.
And why was that, pray tell? Quite simply, because she had not demanded that Sir Gilbert tell her. Because it had not seemed to matter. Because she had been so arrogant she had thought to hire Mr. Lanning’s services, like a steward or a butler, based solely on the recommendation of others and on a brief personal interview. He met her list of qualifications; she was desperate. What else mattered?
Forcefully, Relia reminded herself that many woman had made far worse bargains. No. Most women had this kind of bargain made for them. They could always have the satisfaction of railing against father, brother, or guardian, while she had no one to blame but herself.
With some deliberation Relia laid the damp towel over the top of the pitcher, then stared at the garments Tilly had placed over the coverlet at the end of the bed. The beautifully embroidered, though nearly transparent, linen bedgown and midnight blue velvet dressing gown were among the many items of elaborate nightwear Gussie had insisted she purchase while they in London. Since Relia had not wished to think about this aspect of her marriage, she had simply allowed Miss Aldershot to do as she pleased. And, naturally, Tilly had packed her newest and best for this short journey to Tunbridge Wells.
Beneath her breath Relia muttered a word overheard in the stables. “Miss!” Tilly declared, much shocked.
But she wasn’t a miss, she was a wife, Relia thought glumly. Though like to be a virgin . . . for months. Maybe years, maybe forever.
Wasn’t that what she had wanted? An itinerant dragonslayer, who would do his job and ride on, leaving her exactly where she had said she wanted to be?
Relia’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. Very well, she would do as her new husband ordered. After all, the fine linen bedgown would be completely hidden beneath the heavy velvet dressing gown . . . and it would be infinitely more comfortable. Surely one of the more unexpected advantages of being married.
And perhaps, just perhaps, she might once again jog Mr. Lanning’s amused tolerance of her. For there could be little doubt that her near accident had torn through his indifference. If only for a short time, he had cared what happened to her.
Stoo-pid. Thomas Lanning would have felt the same for any female under his escort.
The former Aurelia Trevor, every inch the daughter of Pevensey Park, turned and presented the row of tiny buttons down her back to her maid. “Very well,” she pronounced with regal indifference, “we will do as commanded. For now.” Relia lifted her chin another notch, while Tilly failed to stifle a giggle.
Thomas sat slumped in a wingchair set before a crackling fire, idly twirling a brandy glass and wondering about what was beginning to seem like an ominous sil
ence from his wife’s room. Was she going to hide in there all night? With the demmed maid as chaperon?
What a fool he was. Had he actually thought he could carry this off like any other business contract? Just sign his name and acquire yet another vast holding? If he had, he’d been disabused of the notion when he saw his new wife about to be taken from him. Of course, no one and no thing, once acquired, was ever allowed to escape Thomas Lanning’s control, yet . . . this had been different. As difficult as she could be, the new Mrs. Lanning had some rather remarkable qualities. Besides being an all-too-tempting morsel—
A soft snick of the door . . . and there she was, turning scarlet the moment she saw him looking at her. Virgins!
Lord, what else could he expect? Her only contact with men was likely her father, the dastardly Trevors, and that son of the squire, who was likely so backward he hadn’t even tried to steal a kiss. And her mother may well have died before having time to impart the necessary female information. Not that she would need it tonight, of course. But Thomas began to realize that his body had failed to get the necessary message from the more rational part of him. Devil it! Bridegrooms should be granted immunity from fashionable tightly knit trousers. He could only hope his wife was too innocent to notice. Thomas Lanning, rock hard man of business, brought low by the sight of a female—his female—enveloped from neck to toe in a cocoon of dark velvet. Thomas Lanning—Prince of the Exchange, the man who prided himself on never being at a loss for words—rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and held out his hand. “Do join me, Aurelia.” Somehow he could not call her Mrs. Lanning, in spite of the vicar’s words, the music, the avid congregation, and his signature on so many official documents. The reality of it would not settle in his mind. “You will find the fire . . . warming,” he added with little of his usual glibness of tongue.
Relia fixed her gaze on his hand. He was adept at holding out a hand, was he not? Both literally and figuratively. But—dear Lord!—what was he wearing? Or not wearing.
“I trust you have no objection to dining en déshabillé?” her husband ventured, as he waved her toward a tall upholstered chair next to his.
Relia had strong objections. No gentleman would think of dining with a female with his jacket off and his waistcoat quite shockingly unbuttoned, revealing so much of his fine lawn shirt that she could see the shadow of something dark beneath. Merciful heavens! She had occasionally seen shirtless workers in the field and knew many men had hair on their chests, but surely not here in her very own room!
Their room. This very morning she had married this man.
But, of course, Thomas Lanning was not a gentleman, so how could she expect gentlemanly manners? Relia rather suspected he had . . . had stripped quite deliberately—
“Come, come, my dear, no need to look so wary. How could I tell you to dress comfortably and not do the same myself? I would have looked quite foolish in coat and cravat when you were . . .” Thomas sketched a graceful wave toward her garments, his voice trailing away, to be replaced by what Relia could only characterize as a salacious grin. She remained immobile, her lower lip jutting into something that might, in a lesser female, be called a pugnacious pout.
“Aurelia,” her husband said, still holding out his hand, “may I remind you we are married? We are about to enjoy our wedding supper. Think of it as en famille rather than en déshabillé.”
Relia stared at the solid reality of Thomas Lanning. Husband. The strongly handsome face, the warm brown hair and piercing gray eyes. So very far from the vulgar Cit with mediocre education she had once feared. The man who had saved her life in more ways than one.
Yet her feet refused to move toward his outstretched hand.
With easy grace, he strode toward her, as inexorable as the change from day to night. He clasped her hand, then paused, his gaze shifting to someone behind her. “Tilly, is it?” Thomas said. “You may have the remainder of the evening off.” The maid bobbed a respectful curtsey and left, carefully closing the door behind her. “She cannot stay to attend you later,” Thomas added quietly. “Indeed, she does not expect it, and we must maintain the façade. You would not, I think, wish everyone to know that I have not demanded my husbandly rights. Such news would reflect badly on both of us. There might even be legal repercussions from Lord Hubert, alleging that we are not truly married, and although I do not enjoy the reputation of being a man in the petticoat line, I would not care to have anyone question my manhood.”
Relia, who had gotten rather a good look at his manhood in the past few moments, did not doubt the sincerity of his statement. She did, however, have grave reservations about the sincerity of his promise to maintain a mariage blanc. Five months until the end of her year of mourning. Did he have a mistress in London? Very likely. Yet his reasoning was not unsound. They needed the time he had so graciously offered. But somewhere deep inside, she was sorry for it. A bride was entitled to a true wedding night, was she not?
A foolish female fantasy. An air-castle constructed from too many Minerva novels and too little attention to the tragic romances of the classics. For Thomas Lanning, she was a means to an end. As he was for her. Now that he had acquired what he wanted, he had little use for her. He would go back to his London life and his London women, while enjoying all the luxuries the income from Pevensey Park could offer.
How appallingly fortunate to be born male!
By the time the bridal couple had enjoyed the fine supper provided by The Swan and downed a good many glasses of wine to go with it, they had worn the rough edges off some of the awkwardness of their situation. How could any man object to so lovely a bride, even if she did occasionally display the tongue of an adder? And the bride ceased to have heart palpitations every time her husband moved so much as a finger. By Relia’s second glass of wine she was even able to swallow a bite of beef without feeling that it was going to choke her. By the moment she found herself nibbling daintily on a meringue while watching Mr. Lanning—Thomas—finish a compote of peaches and the rest of the meringues, Relia had nearly forgotten her pique with him.
At least it could be said she had postponed it for another day.
It might have been a good moment for Mr. Lanning to forget his solemn promise. Unfortunately, he had made his considerable fortune and sterling reputation by always keeping his word. He was not about to shatter a lifetime of principles, however calculated and conniving they sometimes might be, in regard to the woman he was destined to live with for the remainder of his life. She had to trust him, did she not?
And how long would trust last after she discovered the real reasons why he had married her?
Mr. and Mrs. Lanning lingered in front of the fire, the small round table set between them now cleared of all but the requisite bottle of port. Thomas poured a glass for his bride. She shook her head, then changed her mind. Tonight it seemed she could not deny her husband—Thomas, her rescuer—anything.
They talked desultorily of places she had visited in London and Bath, of Aurelia’s father and mother, while somehow avoiding all talk of Pevensey Park and the Trevor relatives. It never occurred to Relia to ask about Thomas’s family. By the time they realized the hour had grown late, the newly married couple was in considerable more charity with each other. But when Thomas Lanning walked his bride to her bedchamber, he left her at the door, with no more of a kiss than the one he had bestowed on her at the altar.
Then he turned and stalked toward his own bedchamber, pausing only long enough to take up the bottle of port. An observer might have said Mr. Lanning was close to running. His bride, however, did not notice, for she had slammed her door and was leaning back against it, eyes closed, bosom heaving. She had done it! The legalities of her marriage were a triumph.
Why then, was the actuality such a bitter disappointment?
~ * ~
Chapter Nine
Throughout the next two days Mr. and Mrs. Lanning, keeping well away from the precipitous edges of the flagstone terraces, explored every sho
p on the hillside known as The Pantiles. They sat on conveniently placed benches and enjoyed the fountains, while watching the slow parade of those who had come to take the waters, to shop, to see and be seen. They dined, meticulously attired, in The Swan’s elegant dining room. They spoke in desultory tones of nothing, as if they were chance met at a teeming London rout party.
Yet at no time did they come close to the all-too-brief rapport they had reached for few hours in front of the fire on their wedding night. Each had retreated from the brink of what neither wished to acknowledge, enclosing themselves in a shell of pride and wilful misunderstanding. Mr. Lanning reminding himself, sometimes forcefully, that his bride was merely enduring his Cit presence, wishing him back to London as fast as he was able. Mrs. Lanning, equally certain that her husband wanted nothing from her that he had not already acquired, and that he could scarcely wait to be released from the obligation of his wedding journey so he could disappear down the London road behind a team of fast horses, unlikely to return for some time to come.
On the third morning after their wedding, the newly wed couple, carefully repressing mutual sighs of relief, boarded their coach and set off for Pevensey Park. The journey was accomplished in near silence, as they had already exhausted every innocuous topic of conversation from books to the weather. If Thomas recalled that he had arranged for his wife’s maid to travel and sleep as far from her mistress as possible so that he might become better acquainted with his bride, he gave no sign he now recognized the futility of this plan. That they were, in fact, almost as close to being strangers as they had been on the day they met.
Miss Augustina Aldershot, not standing on ceremony, was waiting on the broad front steps with open arms as Relia descended from the coach. Thomas Lanning, his perfectly bland façade firmly in place, watched as the ladies embraced. One would think he and his wife had just returned from a year’s journey to the far side of the world.
A Gamble on Love Page 8
