The Obedient Bride

by Mary Balogh

  It seemed strange to have ladies in residence at the house on Upper Grosvenor Street. Lord Astor, used to burying his head in the morning paper at breakfast while partaking of his usual kidneys and toast and coffee, was somewhat taken aback to find his wife already seated at the table when he came downstairs the morning after their arrival in town. He had always assumed that ladies kept to their beds until noon. Though why he should have thought so of Arabella, he did not know, since she had usually been outside riding or walking with her dog at Parkland whenever he came downstairs.

  He bade her good morning, helped himself to breakfast at the sideboard, and sat down at the head of the table. He glanced regretfully at his paper, folded as usual beside his fork. He left it where it was. He wished Arabella were easier to talk to.

  "I had thought to take you shopping this morning," he said. "Both you and your sister will need completely new wardrobes for the Season. However, on second thought, perhaps it would be advisable to have a lady of some taste to help advise you. I plan to call on Lady Berry, my aunt, this morning. Perhaps she will have time to accompany you to a modiste this afternoon or tomorrow morning. Will that suit you?"

  "If you wish it, my lord," she said, looking up at him brightly. "I know I am no beauty and I know I am ridiculously small for a lady. But I wish to do credit to you when I appear in public."

  He smiled. "Very few people are raving beauties, Arabella," he said. "Most of us have to make the best of the assets we have. You are not an antidote and I do not wish to hear you repeatedly belittling yourself."

  Her cheeks flushed slightly. "I beg your pardon, my lord," she said. "I shall not do so again."

  "My name is Geoffrey," he said. "Will you use it?"

  "If you wish it, my lord," she said.

  He smiled fleetingly again. "If you are not to go shopping after all," he said, "may I send a hairdresser, Arabella? I believe you will find that fashionable hair styles are a great deal lighter and curlier than yours. One of the new styles would become you well."

  I hate my hair," she said. "It is far too heavy and will not hold into any style. I wish we still lived in an age when everyone wore wigs. I would be able to shave off my own hair beneath it."

  He laughed. "Then I am very glad that the fashion fell from favor long ago," he said. "I shall see if Monsieur Pierre can come this morning. Perhaps he can persuade you to like your hair a little better."

  "Yes, my lord," she said and smiled. "I shall try what he can do if it will please you. Are you really going to send for George and Emily as you promised last evening? It would be so splendidly generous of you to do so. George will be lonely without me, for everyone else treats him like a dog instead of like a person. And animals are really persons, my lord. At least, what I mean is that they have very real feelings and need love just as we do."

  Her eyes widened suddenly and she blushed and looked down at her plate. She busied herself pushing the remnants of a muffin around her plate with the tip of her knife.

  "I shall make the arrangements today to have them sent for," Lord Astor said. "Of course I meant it, Arabella. This is your home now, and I wish you to be happy here. You will have ample opportunity to ride your horse and walk your dog. The park is very close by."

  "The park?" Her eyes were directed at him again. They were very dark gray eyes. Sometimes they looked almost black.

  "Hyde Park," he said. "Did you not know? We are close not only to the park but also to the Grosvenor Gate leading into it."

  "Oh," she said. "Grass and trees and the chance to walk and run?"

  "Yes to the first three," he said. "But perhaps before you run, Arabella, you had better look around you carefully to make sure that there is no audience."

  "Yes," she said, and blushed deeply before starting the muffin on its travels again. "I would not wish to do anything that might prove an embarrassment, my lord."

  Yes, it was very strange to have ladies in his keeping, Lord Astor thought as he left the house an hour later and set out on foot the short distance to his aunt's house on Grosvenor Square. He was finding Arabella just a trifle amusing, but amusing very much as a child would be. It was hard to see her as a mature woman. She had sat quietly through the three days of their journey, saying hardly a word except on the rare occasions when she forgot herself and burst into speech.

  This morning at the breakfast table, in fact, was the first time he had been alone with her since their wedding day. The first time he had been alone to converse with her, that was. He had, of course, visited her on their wedding night and again the night before. But one did not visit one's wife's bed in order to converse.

  He found her amusing now. But for how long? He had not expected to have to share his breakfast table with her. He supposed that soon he must show her that it was his normal practice to read his paper at breakfast. Surely he would tire of her silences and her bursts of speech before many days had passed. Even so, he preferred her speech habits to those of her sister. He had wished for his horse or his curricle on the return journey even more than he had when traveling into the country. Miss Frances Wilson's conversation was even more trying than Henry's snoring had been. She was very beautiful, but rather tiresome. Thank heaven that she had not been his chosen bride!

  Lord Astor sighed and looked up at the heavy gray sky. It was a decidedly chilly day for the beginning of April. But the weather perfectly matched the type of day that he was expecting to have. The whole of the morning was going to be taken up with talking to his aunt and seeing if Monsieur Pierre—London born and bred despite the impressive name, he would wager—could call on Arabella and do something with her hair.

  That would not have been so bad if he could at least have looked forward to an afternoon to himself. He was impatient to see Ginny after five weeks away from her. But he would have to be at home to present his wife and her sister to his aunt. Doubtless Aunt Hermione would wish to meet Arabella without delay. And it was probable that they would make a trip to Bond Street to have Arabella and Frances fitted out for new wardrobes. He could quite easily avoid that excursion, of course, but he had definite tastes in feminine apparel, and he would wish to approve Arabella's colors and styles. She would have to choose both with extreme care to suit her very small stature.

  And he must not forget to send a groom on his way to Parkland to arrange to bring her horse and her dog to London. During their long journey, he had begun to realize how very important they were to her happiness. And if he were soon to get his own life back to its contented normality, then he must see to it that his wife too was as happy as he could possibly make her.

  Perhaps he would be able to call the evening his own, he thought hopefully for one moment. But of course, good manners would dictate that he take dinner at home with his wife and their guest on their first day back. And if he was to visit his wife's bed with any regularity, he must not be in the habit of staying from home too late at night. It would be unfair to expect her to arouse herself at all hours of the night in order to be at his service.

  Lord Astor lifted the knocker on his aunt's door with the head of his cane and allowed it to rattle back against the metal plate. He hoped that his life would quieten down again soon. He hoped that this marriage business would not after all disturb the hitherto satisfying pattern of his days.

  Arabella was standing very still even though she was aching in every limb and muscle and was fit to scream with boredom. Mama and Miss Carter, the seamstress from the village, had never taken longer than a few minutes to measure her for a dress and to decide upon a fabric and a pattern. She could not quite understand why Madame Pichot needed to measure and remeasure every last inch of her body. It was quite decidedly tiresome.

  She might have reassured herself that once the business was over with, then Madame would be able to use the same measurements for the rest of her life. But that was not true. Arabella was planning to lose weight. By the time she needed winter clothes, all these measurements—except those relating to her height,
alas—would be inaccurate.

  Frances was enjoying herself enormously. She had positively buzzed with animation all the time they had been in Madame's parlor looking at fashion plates and examining endless bolts of cloth carried in by tireless assistants. With the help of Lady Berry she had finally decided on a dazzling array of new garments and had gone happily off to the workroom to be measured.

  But then, of course, Frances had good reason to be delighted. She would look beautiful in a potato bag. She looked lovely in Miss Carter's unfashionable frocks. It went without saying that she would be quite breathtaking in all the new clothes that Lady Berry had assured her would be quite essential for a young lady making her come-out.

  Arabella herself had not been in the charge of Lady Berry. Lord Astor had decided to accompany them to the modiste's, though Arabella had been quite dismayed when he had said so. She had expected that perhaps he would stay outside in the carriage or would hover somewhere just inside the door. But no—he had come right into the parlor, seated himself beside her, and proceeded to tell her exactly what clothes she needed and how they should be designed and what color they should be and what fabrics would best suit her figure. No, he had not told her. He had told Madame Pichot while she had sat, a silent and obedient child in their midst.

  She must not be seen in any heavy fabric, it seemed. Not velvet and not brocade. Her gowns were to be adorned with the minimum of frills and flounces. And there were to be no wide sashes. Stripes could be allowed to go downward, apparently, but not across. As well as white and pastel shades, she was permitted to wear bright greens and yellows, but definitely not reds or dark blues. These colors were much too heavy, for some reason. Her sleeves were not to be too puffy.

  Madame had agreed with all of Lord Astor's suggestions and had even added some of her own. In fact, the two of them had had a most comfortable coze about her, the silent third. She had wanted to suggest to him quietly, when Madame turned her attention to Lady Berry and Frances at one point, that perhaps he would be wasting his money to outfit her so lavishly. She could never look more than barely presentable anyway. She was far too small and plump. But he had forbidden her that morning to belittle herself, so she had kept her lips closed and folded her hands in her lap.

  He wanted her to have all these new clothes. All of us have to make the best of the assets we have, he had said at breakfast, though it was easy for him to talk when he had nothing but assets. He wanted to make the best of her. And if that was what he wanted, Arabella thought, standing still while Madame busied herself with a measuring tape at the back of her waist, then she would stand here for five hours if necessary so that the dressmaker could get the measurements right. She could not be beautiful for him, but she could at least allow him to do his best for her.

  He had approved with a nod all the plans for Frances that his aunt had described, though he was paying for all of those clothes too. Obviously Frances did not need to be dressed with such care. He would realize that she would look lovely in any fabric, color, or design. How he must have wished that he could have changed places with Lady Berry and allowed her to worry about Arabella. He would not have had to worry about her if Frances were his bride and she a mere sister-in-law.

  Arabella sighed. But she cheered up almost immediately as she caught sight of herself in a looking glass across the room. She really did like her hair. In fact, she loved it. She did not look nearly so top-heavy any longer with all the heavy masses shorn away. She had felt a little sick and not a little panic-stricken that morning when she had heard Monsieur Pierre's scissors chop through the thick locks. Perhaps his lordship had taken her at her word and ordered the man to cut it all off.

  But Monsieur had stopped short of doing quite that. He had left a short covering all over her head, and longer tendrils to adorn her neck and temples. And he had done something with her hair to make it curl all over her head. It felt as if there was almost no hair there, but she loved it.

  Frances had shrieked, remembered how Papa had always loved long hair on his girls, wept for five minutes, and then hugged her and assured her that it was quite delightful and that dear Bella looked positively pretty.

  Arabella thought she agreed, but she had been almost sick with apprehension as luncheon time approached. What if his lordship laughed or disapproved? She supposed she looked even more of a child now with her hair short and curly. And there was Frances with her long, very feminine blond locks!

  He had looked at her for a long time before saying anything while she stood mutely in the hallway where she had had the misfortune to be as he stepped through the door.

  "I knew it would do wonders," he had said. "Do you like it, Arabella?"

  "If you do, my lord," she had said, blushing and not knowing what she was expected to say. It did not occur to her that perhaps he expected a simple yes or no.

  "Then you like it," he had said, handing his hat and cane to a footman and unbuttoning his greatcoat. "It makes you look very pretty."

  "Oh, I am net pretty," she had said one moment before her hand flew to her mouth. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I thank you for the compliment."

  And he had asked her that morning to call him Geoffrey, she had thought. But oh, she could not. It seemed far too presumptuous, far too familiar to call him by his given name. Her tongue would tie itself in knots if she tried to call him that to his face, though the name had come out of her mouth quite articulately when she had tried it in her dressing room. She would rather call him nothing at all than have to face the embarrassment of calling him Geoffrey out loud.

  "Oh, Bella, is not all this unimaginably wonderful?" Frances said now, hugging her sister as she was finally released from the tyranny of the measuring tape. "And Lady Berry has specifically asked that one evening gown each be delivered two days from now so that we may attend her soiree. If only Mama and Jemima could somehow share in our joy."

  Her eyes were suspiciously bright.

  "We will go home and write them each a long letter," Arabella said briskly. "That way they can feel that they are somehow with us here. And it will be much better than merely crying because we miss them and wish they were here."

  She wished she had not added that last sentence. Two tears glistened in Frances' lower lashes for a moment and trickled prettily down her cheeks. But she smiled and linked her arm through her sister's as they turned to reenter the parlor, where Lady Berry and Lord Astor were in conversation together.

  "Ah, a task well-accomplished," Lady Berry said. "You are both going to look quite splendid in my drawing room two evenings hence. Arabella, my dear, Geoffrey is going to spoil us all and take us for ices before we go home. Miss Wilson, are you very tired, my dear? I know that all this business of fittings can be quite tedious."

  Lord Astor waited while his wife put on her bonnet, then offered his arm to escort her to the carriage.

  "Will they order me out of the shop if I merely sit with you and do not have an ice?" she asked him anxiously as he handed her into the carriage.

  He laughed. "Order Lady Astor from the shop?" he said. "Not unless they wish to close their doors tomorrow, Arabella. Do you not like ices?"

  "Not greatly," she lied, wishing that she would not have to watch the other three eat theirs. "Will you be offended, my lord?"

  "But, Bella," Frances began until she caught sight of her sister's pleading face. Frances had been told about the dieting scheme, though she had cried and protested that she would suffer dreadfully if she had to watch her sister starve herself to death. And anyway, where had Arabella got the ridiculous notion that she was fat?

  5

  THE following afternoon, Lord Astor was lying on his back in his favorite position, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet crossed at the ankles. He was feeling sleepy and contented. Ginny's hand was slowly circling his naked chest. Her tangled curls and her warm breath were tickling his side. He wriggled his toes and sighed. It seemed an age since these visits to his mistress had been a regular afternoon or nigh
ttime occurrence. It was nearly six weeks.

  "I had almost forgotten how good you are, Ginny," he said, lowering one hand to fondle the back of her neck for a moment. "You have quite worn me out."

  She raised her head and smiled in that slow, sensual manner that usually succeeded in making his temperature rise. "I take it that the bride is not thoroughly satisfactory if you have come back to me so soon, Geoffrey," she said. "And so very full of energy! I am only thankful that the bruises I am bound to carry around with me for the next several days are in places where they will not be seen in public."

  "I would apologize," he said, grinning and returning his hand to the back of his head. "But we both know that you like it rough, don't we, Ginny?"

  She pouted. "Sometimes I think you have no respect for me at all, Geoffrey," she said. "I have sung at the homes of no fewer than three titled persons since you have been away, you know, not to mention other establishments quite as respectable. And everywhere I have been treated with marked respect and praised for my voice. And I have been called Virginia and even Miss Cox. Sir Harvey Hamilton called me Miss Cox. Why will not you?"

  "Call you Miss Cox?" he said. "Will you please remove your clothes now, Miss Cox? Will you please come to bed now, Miss Cox? Come on now, Ginny. Those people have not seen you as I have—at least, I hope for your sake they have not. And which would you prefer to have—respect or pleasure?"

  She ran her finger over his lips and tapped them sharply. "I would like both," she said.

  "Go to sleep, Gin," he said, turning his head and shaking off her finger. "Three times has quite tired me. I am not in the mood for conversation."

  "Of course you have to perform for someone else at night too now," she said, wriggling closer to his warm, relaxed body. "You have to save yourself. Poor Geoffrey."

  "Enough of that," he said. "I will have my wife left right out of any conversation between you and me, Ginny. Now, go to sleep, there's a good girl."