The Bachelor's Bargain

by Catherine Palmer

“Two lumps.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I do not drink it.”

  “Your favorite color is . . . pink.”

  Remembering the dress she had worn that night, she smiled. “Hardly. Blue.”

  “Green for me. The color of the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Florida. My favorite book is Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Yours is—”

  “The Bible.” Their words overlapped, and he chuckled.

  “Of course it is. Tell me, Anne, have you ever read Solomon’s Song?”

  “I heard a sermon on it once. My father says that book is a dramatic interpretation of Christ’s love for the church. Christ is the bridegroom, and the church is the bride.”

  “‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’” Ruel murmured in a low voice. “‘His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.’”

  “It is meant to be symbolic.”

  “Symbolic? I should like to hear your father interpret this: ‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks. . . . Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely. . . . Thou hast ravished my heart—’”

  “Stop!” She put out her hand. “You are hovering close to sacrilege.”

  “I am only reciting what I read as I waited for you.” He gestured to her Bible on the nearby table as he sat down beside her on the window seat. “It quite mesmerized me to think of you reading such poetry, my dear. ‘Thy neck is like a tower of ivory,’” he resumed quoting. “‘Thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon . . .’”

  Ruel reached out and gently stroked her neck with the side of his thumb. Anne shivered, paralyzed with confusion. How could he? How could a man so much in love with one woman be able to woo another with such ease? He was a rogue. With his warm breath, magic fingers, and silken words, he wove his evil spells, and she fell under them like a sailor hearing a siren’s song.

  “‘How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love,’” he whispered, taking her hand and laying it across his palm. “‘Thy stature is like to a palm tree . . . and the smell of thy nose like apples; and the roof of thy mouth like the best wine.’”

  His lips covered hers, and what could she do? Anne had thought of nothing but his mouth all evening . . . nothing but the brush of his rough cheek against hers.

  “Wicked man!” She shoved him back and turned away from him on the window seat. “You wicked, wicked man. You vowed never to touch me, but you come into my private quarters and attempt the most boldfaced seduction. You misspeak the very Scriptures in your unholy aim! Have you no conscience? You use and abuse every poor woman who falls prey to your charms. You are horrid! Leave me at once.”

  “Anne—”

  “Do not talk to me, sir. I feel disgust at the sound of your voice.”

  “Anne, I spoke the Scriptures as they were written. I cannot believe those words are some high symbolic portrayal of a holy bond between Christ and the church, no matter what your father preached. Those words are words of love from a man to his bride.”

  He left the seat, knelt beside her, and took her hands away from her eyes. “Wanting the man you married is not wrong. It is no sin to desire your own husband, Anne. Passion and ardor—if one can believe Solomon’s Song—are sacred.”

  “Passion and ardor! Yet, as you said yourself, your reputation with women preceded you on the day we met. That sort of passion is not sacred! It is sinful!”

  “I cannot deny my past. But I never took anything that was not offered.”

  “You are disgraceful.”

  “Anne, look at me.”

  “I cannot. You repulse me.”

  “I entice you.”

  “You are repugnant.”

  “Tempting.”

  “Lies!” She grabbed the shirt fabric on his shoulders and squeezed it into fists. “Lies!”

  “Truth.” He leaned forward, taking her mouth again, pressing her against the window. “Love me, Anne, I beg you. Love me.”

  His fingers slid into her hair even as tears squeezed from the outer corners of her eyes. She let him kiss her and hated herself for it.

  “Anne, I have desired you from the moment I heard your voice,” he murmured. “The way you wove that magic tale for the little girl in the kitchen. A duchess, you called that child. I wanted to make you my own duchess. I wanted to know the touch of fingers that could make lace as you make it. Please, Anne, do not be frightened of me. I am your husband.”

  It was true, she realized. Horribly true, and if she had not been so willful, she might have prevented it. But now she was a wife and this man her husband. And oh, why did his kisses stir her so?

  “Tell me you want me,” he whispered. “Say the words, Anne. I will not take you unwilling. You must desire me as much as I—” He stopped and kissed her temple again. “Your hair is damp. You are crying.”

  “Oh, Ruel,” she said, shaking her head.

  He pulled away abruptly. “I have made you weep.”

  She let out a breath. “And more.”

  Eleven

  “Why are you crying?” Ruel studied Anne’s face in the moonlight. Beautiful and good and far too pure, she was beyond him. He had assumed he might seduce her if he wished. She had responded . . . and would respond to his touch until he had won her. But suddenly he realized he no longer wanted her. Not that way.

  “The women,” she whispered, brushing her cheek where a tear still clung. “I thought about you and . . . all those poor women who have loved you . . . might love you even now.”

  “You weep for me because of my past—my black soul, as you put it? Yes, I have been a cad, but . . .”

  How could he explain that those encounters had meant nothing? Youthful gallivants, no more. And nothing to feel proud of, especially when he looked into Anne’s deep brown eyes.

  “To make a woman believe you care for her,” she was saying, “to convince her she is the only creature you desire . . . that your heart belongs to her alone . . . and then to . . . to . . .”

  “But you are the only woman—”

  “No, I am not.”

  “No, indeed.” Ruel jumped to his feet, sweat breaking out across his brow. “You are quite right about that. I cannot think why I said it. Upon my honor, I hardly know what has come over me.”

  He swiped a handkerchief across his forehead. Had he lost his mind? Almost telling her she was the only one in his life. Insane. He had gone insane. Three years without the company of a woman would do that to a man. Three years was a long time. Too long. But his travels had hardly left time for liaisons, and on the journey he had met no one he cared to woo. No wonder he was acting the fool over this creature with her white gown and brown eyes.

  “Please, sir,” she whispered. “You must not play with women’s hearts. If she loves you truly, a woman will be loyal to you no matter what happens. She will hold the candle of her passion for you through separation and obstacle and the passage of countless years. Nothing will snuff it out. Nothing.”

  “I do not want that.” He turned away, unable to face her. His words were a lie. For the first time in his life, he did want that. He craved a woman’s passion, her commitment, her faith in him through a lifetime. He wanted someone to weep over him and laugh with him. He wanted it all. And he wanted it with Anne.

  “Listen to me.” He swung on her, finger outstretched. “You will make lace, and you will pose as my wife, and that is all. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “You will not talk to me about watching hedgehogs from your bedroom window or dreaming of moss on gray stones. You will not gaze at me with those brown eyes and lecture me about passion and love. And if I am called upon to woo you in public, you will not respond with anything but sham emotion. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand perfectly.” She stood and set her hands on her hips. “And should I discover you slipping into my private quarters and kissing me, how am I to respond then, Lord Blackthorne?”
r />   “I assure you, such a thing will not happen again.”

  “I am greatly relieved to hear it. Then will you do me the favor of leaving my presence so that I may restore my dishabille?”

  “Gladly.”

  He walked to the door that joined their suites. Feeling her eyes on him, he sensed he was being assessed by someone whose character was far too close to that of God Himself. Anne reviled him. The ache that spread through his chest at the realization hurt so deeply he clutched his arms tightly around himself.

  Go away, Ruel, he could almost hear her saying. You are a rake and a libertine, a liar and a tormentor.

  He tried to rid himself of the thought. Even if there had been no other women, this one was only a temporary bride. Only a housemaid. One day he would be a duke. Even if all the other things that separated them were to vanish, that alone would hold them apart forever.

  “Good night, Lady Blackthorne,” he said, turning in the open doorway.

  She lifted her head. “I am only Anne.”

  He leaned a shoulder against the frame. “Good night, then, Anne. My lady.”

  Their eyes held until the door shut between them.

  Prudence’s squawk dragged Anne out of the depths of sleep. She squinted at the sunlight pouring through the open curtain. What time was it? And what on earth was Prudence screeching about?

  “The marquess was here! In your quarters!” she cried, staring in horror at Anne. She held out an armful of rumpled clothing. “Look! His cravat and his coat were in the sitting room. And his own bed was still made this morning. My lady’s maid whispered to me that it was unrumpled and perfectly flat! All the servants can talk of nothing else, wondering when the first little heir will make his appearance. Oh, Anne, your ruse is at an end, and I fear you are utterly ruined!”

  “What are you going on about, Prudence?” Anne edged up on her elbows and stared at her friend.

  “You ought to have resisted him, for now you must surely be cast out into the streets! No one will care for you unless I can persuade my sister Sarah to have pity. I certainly cannot afford to take you in, for I have only just enough to live on! What future will you have? You must not suppose the marquess will keep you as his wife simply because you have borne him a child. Men such as he do not. They cast their mistresses aside like so much dirty laundry. Oh, Anne!”

  “Prudence, stop it at once, I beg you.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid to the carpet. “It is not at all what you imagine. The marquess was waiting for me when I—”

  “Waiting for you! Oh, then it is true. We must get you away from London at once. We shall ask my sister Mary for a carriage to take you back to Nottingham. You can hurry home and pray you have not conceived a child by him. And if by some miracle—”

  “Do be quiet, Prudence, if you possibly can.” Anne tucked the coat and cravat under her arm. “The marquess wanted to speak with me last night, and he waited for me in my sitting room. He was reading the Bible.”

  “Oh, Anne, you cannot expect anyone to believe—”

  “I speak the truth,” she retorted. “Nothing happened between us, Prudence, believe me. You have let your imagination run away with you. All the same, you must allow people to go on thinking the marquess and I live as husband and wife, and you must let them speculate about an heir. It can only be good for his enterprise. In the meantime, have no trepidation on my behalf. I would never give myself to such an untrustworthy man as the marquess, and I should hope you would have more faith in me than that.”

  “But he sent me out of the room to be alone with you . . . and I saw the way he was looking at you all night . . . the way he follows you with his eyes and how he was kissing you in the garden—”

  “It was a charade! I told you that already. Really, Prudence, what must I do to convince you?”

  “I am frightened that you will accidentally be seduced by him. He is fearfully handsome and such a favorite with all the ladies. Their flirtations with him last night were shock- ing, and he is to be a duke one day. How can you resist him?”

  “Easily. The marquess is a cad. He holds no appeal for me. Thus my virtue is secure. It is your reputation that concerns me far more.” Anne laid a hand on Prudence’s shoulder. “Late last night after the house fell silent, I heard someone in the corridor near your room. It was Mr. Walker.”

  “Oh!”

  “I heard someone else there, also. It was a woman. They were unchaperoned.”

  “Oh, dear!” Prudence gasped, her eyes wide.

  “I have considered confronting this young lady about her behavior, for she will be startled to learn that I heard her and Mr. Walker speaking together in the darkness.”

  Prudence swallowed. “Did you hear the subject of the conversation between the lady and Mr. Walker?”

  “I did, and I believe she is in much greater danger of falling in love than I shall ever be.”

  Knitting her fingers together, Prudence stared across the bedroom to the open window. “I believe that Mr. Walker would be most unhappy . . . most distraught . . . to know he had been overheard.”

  “He will never know. Yet, my concern is greater for the woman. Their parting was most pathetic.”

  “Perhaps they realize that their situations in life must prevent their ever being together.” Prudence’s eyes filled with tears. “Perhaps they are most violently in love and yet their ages, their society, their conditions of upbringing cannot allow them to marry.”

  “Prudence,” Anne said softly, “with how many men have you been violently in love?”

  The young lady flushed a bright pink. “I do not know. Several, I suppose. But Mr. Walker is not the same as most men.”

  “I shall not deny that.” She thought for a moment. “But what of Sir Alexander? He was paying you a great deal of attention at dinner. Is he the same or different from most men?”

  “Sir Alexander is engaged to the daughter of the Comte de la Roche.”

  “True. And yet the Season approaches. I imagine you will soon have any number of ‘different’ men interested in you.”

  “As will you, Anne.” She lifted her chin. “You must not be so naïve as to suppose that you and your sham husband are immune to Society’s games. All summer long, these lords and ladies play at their affairs of the heart. They are hardly better in their country houses in winter. Men will pursue you. The marquess will pursue you. And if you do not wish to end up selling yourself on the corner of Tottenham Court Road, you would do well to keep your bedroom door locked.” Prudence let out a breath before continuing. “But we have both spoken more boldly than we should. You are my dear friend, and I wish only the best for you.”

  “Thank you, Prudence. I see that our feelings are the same.”

  “I shall speak to you again at breakfast, then.” Prudence stepped toward the door, but she caught herself and turned back. “Your carriage is waiting to take you on your morning calls. You must never forget who you are now, Anne. And I pray you will not forget what you might become if you are not careful.”

  Anne watched the door shut behind the young woman. She studied the rumple of clothing in her arms. Why had Ruel not slept in his own room last night? Had he been with another woman after Anne refused him?

  Oh, it was all so confusing. As she crossed to her dressing room, Anne wondered what she should do with Ruel’s things. The faint whiff of spiced lemon and cedar drifted under her nose. Burying her face in the folds of rough, tweedy fabric, she drank in the scent.

  “How much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices!” The words of Solomon’s Song of Songs—words she had read for so many hours last night alone in her room—came back to her. “Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. . . . Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.”

  “Two lumps as always, my dear?” Ruel held the sil
ver sugar tongs over Anne’s teacup.

  “Thank you, darling.”

  He watched her struggling to keep her hand from shaking as she stirred her tea. It was the first time they had been together among so few people since that first night at Marston House. Two weeks had passed—two weeks of paying calls and receiving calls, of going to parties and giving parties, of gossip and innuendo and slander. All the things he most despised about his rank.

  Now Anne’s mother had come to call on her daughter and new son at Marston House on Cranleigh Crescent. In the past week, Mrs. Webster, the children, and all their belongings had been transported from the rectory in Nottingham to a large, quiet house in London. The house, of course, was owned by the Chouteau family, and the Websters were provided for with funds delivered by a footman promptly at nine each Monday morning.

  Their previous patron, the baroness Lady de Winter, had not abandoned the Webster family. Indeed, she insisted on spending the first week in town helping the parson’s wife settle into her new quarters.

  The four of them were seated beside a large window in the drawing room, a prospect of sunlit summer gardens stretching out before them. The round table had been laden with scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam, and all manner of tiny sandwiches and tarts. The baroness, adrift in the scent of rose water, rustled with purple silk and countless rows of Nottingham lace. Mrs. Webster, small and timid in such grand surroundings, perched like a little brown wren on the edge of her chair.

  “Thank you, Anne,” she peeped when her daughter offered her a petit four. “Lady Blackthorne, I mean to say.”

  Anne smiled, her face pale. “You are quite welcome. Lady de Winter? A petit four?”

  “Thank you, my dear. Ah, delicious!” The baroness continued to speak between bites of the small iced cake. “I must tell you, when I first received intelligence of the love match between darling little Anne Webster and the handsome Marquess of Blackthorne, I could hardly believe such happy tidings. To see you risen from such dire, dire circumstances to this grand a height of opulence is most rewarding to me, my dear. How pleased I am to have played but a small part in your happiness.”