The Obedient Bride

by Mary Balogh

  She loved to feel him move in her. She relaxed and hoped that tonight it would last a long time, as it had on several occasions recently. But while her eyes were still shut fast, his rhythm slowed and he lifted himself on his elbows and forearms so that she knew he was looking down at her. It had happened before, but the candles had never been lit before. She opened her eyes unwillingly.

  He was looking down at her, his eyes heavy-lidded. They were a mere few inches from her own.

  "Arabella," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "You are so very tiny. Do I hurt you with my weight?"

  She shook her head. She could feel herself blushing. He was still stroking into her and withdrawing very slowly. His eyes had strayed to her mouth. Arabella ran her tongue nervously along her upper lip. And felt her breath catch in her throat when he lowered his head and kissed her with parted lips very gently and very warmly on the mouth.

  "It is a hard fate to be married to a stranger and taken from your home and expected to serve him cheerfully, is it not?" he said softly, moving his head down so that he kissed her lightly on her cheek close to her ear. "I am sorry, Arabella."

  "But I have not complained," she said, bewildered. "I try to do my duty, my lord."

  " 'My lord,' " he repeated, raising his head to look into her eyes again. His mouth smiled, though his eyes did not change. "You do your duty very sweetly, Arabella. I am a fortunate man."

  He laid his cheek against her hair and the rhythm of his body penetrated her own again in the final act of union. But Arabella no longer relaxed to enjoy it. She lay bewildered and unhappy beneath her husband, wondering what he had meant. He had let the candles burn for the first time. He had kissed her for the first time. He had talked to her for the first time while in her bed. But there had been an edge of something to his voice—bitterness, anger, sarcasm: she did not know what—that had taken away from the totally unexpected tenderness of his kiss. What was he trying to tell her?

  He turned his face into her hair, sighed, and relaxed his weight on her. Arabella lay still and anxious. She watched him a minute later as he lifted himself away from her, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached down to the floor for his dressing gown.

  He looked closely into her face for what seemed like a long time. "Thank you, Arabella," he said at last. "Perhaps soon I will get you with child and your duty will be done for a year or more."

  His smile looked somewhat twisted as he got to his feet. "Good night," he said.

  "Good night, my lord." Arabella's throat hurt, and she realized that she was very close to tears. She was bewildered. And hurt. What was the matter? What had she done? She had never seen his lordship like this before.

  It was a long time before she slept, troubled, her happy day in ruins, though she did not know quite in what way or why.

  Lord Astor's party made their planned visit to Kew the following afternoon despite the fact that a brisk wind and heavy clouds made the day chilly and gloomy.

  Frances looked about her at the flowers and the temples, all very lovely and very impressive when one considered that they had been planned and built by the royal family. She shivered inside her pelisse and lowered her parasol before the wind could blow it inside out. She had not taken Theodore's arm.

  "You are not happy to see me, Fran," he said. He spoke quietly. They were walking a little way ahead of Lord and Lady Astor.

  "Not happy?" she said, darting him a conscious glance. "Of course I am happy to see you, Theodore."

  "I thought you might be homesick," he said. "You were so upset the day of your sister's wedding that I thought you might be unhappy here. It is a relief to find that you are neither. I have always wanted to be here for the Season, you know. Now I will be able to relax and enjoy myself without worrying about you."

  Frances darted him another look. "And you could not enjoy yourself if I had been unhappy?" she said.

  "I hate to see you miserable, as you know," he said. "We have always been friends, have we not, Fran? I would have felt obliged to stay close to you all the time if you had been homesick. After all, your sister cannot do so, as she has a husband to attend to. But I am happy to know that you will not need me every moment."

  "Are you?" Frances said. "I am very pleased to know that I will not be holding you back from your own enjoyment, I am sure, Theodore. I would never wish to be a burden to anyone."

  "Oh, no, no," he said, "you are never a burden, Fran. You may call on me anytime you need me, you know. That is what friends are for."

  "I will not trouble you, you may be sure," Frances said with a toss of the head.

  "Well, as long as you know that you can if you must," Theodore said cheerfully. "I do believe that must be the famous pagoda ahead of us. It is rather splendid, is it not?"

  "Quite magnificent, sir," Frances agreed.

  "I say," he said, looking down at her in apparent surprise, "I have not said anything to offend you, have I?"

  "Me, sir?" she asked, her eyes widening as she looked up at him. "Offended? What could possibly have offended me?"

  "Quite so," he said. "Would you care to take my arm?"

  Frances took it but walked as far from him as their linked arms would allow.

  Arabella was also impressed by the pagoda, which was ten stories high and elaborately ornamented. But she had been far more pleased with the Temple of Bellona and several other temples because his lordship had told her that the present king had helped design some of them when he was a very young man. She had gazed at the first one, speechless with wonder.

  "How very clever he was," she had breathed at last, clinging to her husband's arm.

  He had smiled. "The buildings are not generally admired," he had said. "But they do have a certain charm, do they not?"

  And when they finally glimpsed the Dutch Palace, where the king and queen sometimes lived, she was quite ecstatic.

  "Oh," she said, "is his majesty there now? Am I gazing with my very own eyes at the palace where he is now? Is he well-tended, do you think? He is not treated cruelly?"

  "I am sure he has the very best physicians attending him, Arabella," he said. "You must not worry. He has a devoted family, I believe. But he is said to be at Windsor, not here."

  They talked all the time as they walked through the gardens. Arabella made a special effort, determined to overcome her shyness with her husband, eager to make him her friend. But she could not feel easy. Her attempts at conversation sounded forced and stilted to her own ears, and his responses were labored. And there was something between them—she had no idea what. They had never been close. Indeed, she had always felt uncomfortable with him. But this was different. There was something!

  Lord Astor was attempting to make the afternoon a happy one for his wife. At the same time, he was wishing that he were a hundred miles away. Their marriage had been a mistake, he was beginning to realize. That was the plain truth stated quite baldly.

  It had been a mistake for both of them. For him it had brought restlessness and uncertainty. His life had been a remarkably contented one before Arabella came into it. He had enjoyed spending his days engaged in manly pursuits with his male friends. And he had been thoroughly satisfied with his liaison with Ginny. That old life was still open to him, of course. He still had his friends and he still had Ginny.

  But there was also Arabella. And why she should have upset the pattern of his life so much he could not understand. Really their marriage was much as he had expected and hoped. She was undemanding. She had made friends and was able to occupy her days quite easily without depending upon him. She was dutiful, obedient. Bedding her was not an unpleasant experience.

  What was it, then, that made him spend more time with her than he needed to do? Why had he planned to take her to the theater the evening before, and why was he walking with her now at Kew? Why did he worry about her when he was away from her, even when he knew she was occupied? Why could he never quite forget about her, even when he was with Ginny? Why did he always feel guilty when enjo
ying—or not quite enjoying—his mistress? He was never able to go to Arabella's bed on the nights when he had been with Ginny. And he was always driven to buy her gifts the next day.

  "Aunt Hermione is to take you and Frances up in her carriage this evening on her way to Mrs. Pottier's soiree?" he asked now.

  "Yes, my lord." Arabella looked politely up at him. "Will you be coming too? You said you might."

  "No," he said. "I have a dinner engagement, Arabella. I shall see you when you return."

  "Yes," she said. And then she blurted, "My lord?" She was blushing quite hotly. Her eyes slid to his cravat.

  "What is it, Arabella?" he asked.

  "That will not be possible," she said in a rush, glancing nervously ahead to her sister and Theodore. "I will not be able to see you after the soiree. I mean, I will be able to see you, but... I cannot... That is..."

  "I understand." He covered her hand gently with his own. "You are having your period, Arabella. It is the most natural occurrence in the world, you know. There is no need for such embarrassment. I see we are approaching the orangery. After we have walked through it, perhaps we should take tea and think of returning home. It is not a very pleasant afternoon for a prolonged stroll, is it? And perhaps you are not feeling quite the thing?"

  "It has been a lovely outing, though," she said brightly, "has it not, my lord? I am so glad we came."

  He patted her hand before standing aside so that she might precede him into the long, low building that was the orangery. "The gardens are certainly worth a visit," he said.

  "The warmth feels very good, does it not", Bella?" Frances said, looking back over her shoulder.

  Their marriage had been a mistake for Arabella too, Lord Astor thought. She was not happy. He had no complaint against her, of course. He could not ask for a more obedient and less troublesome bride. But he knew she was not happy.

  And why should she be? She was eighteen years old, very naive and innocent, very new to the world. In many ways she was childlike. To her he must appear old. Seven-and-twenty would seem a very advanced age to an eighteen-year-old. And of course, she had not known him before their betrothal. Why was it that at the time his only anxiety had been lest his bride turn out to be ugly or uncouth? What must she have suffered? She had had no chance to enjoy life, no time to look about her at what life had to offer. She had had to prepare herself for a bridegroom she had never seen.

  And she had expected his father. She had been willing to marry a man in his late fifties. And he was sure that she had been willing. He knew her well enough, and Frances well enough, to imagine just how that situation had developed. One daughter must marry the new Lord Astor for the sake of the rest of the family. Frances was the obvious choice. She was the eldest and of marriageable age. But of course Frances would have shed many a tear over the prospect of marrying an elderly man. Arabella would have stepped in and offered to make the sacrifice herself. It was just like her. She had very little confidence in her own beauty and charm.

  And she was unhappy when she deserved nothing but happiness. Perhaps it was his awareness of that fact that had made him worry about her and try to entertain her himself. He felt protective of her, tender almost. He had grown to like her far more than he had intended to or expected to.

  But she did not like him. That was perhaps the hardest fact of his marriage to accept. She could not be easy with him or talk easily with him. At first he had thought she was merely showing the natural shyness of a new bride to the husband who performed such unaccustomed intimacies with her. But she had still not changed after three weeks. Unless he could call the evening before and this afternoon a change. She had been making a noticeable effort to talk to him, but her efforts were painful and only accentuated her basic dislike of him.

  She had made friends since coming to London, several of them male. He had watched at first with satisfaction, then with amusement, and finally with something like annoyance as she chattered long and easily with Farraday and Hubbard, with Perrot and the gangly youth. And Lincoln. Why could she be so easy with them and not with him? Had he been unkind to her? Cruel?

  And so he continued to try to ingratiate himself with her. Though whether he had been trying to do that the night before, he was not sure. He had known that light would embarrass her, as would his looking into her face and talking to her while he was being intimate with her. He had felt frustrated, angry, hurt—he was not quite sure how he had felt.

  No, it was not a good marriage. It was bringing neither of them joy. Or contentment. Or even indifference. They were aware of each other and uncomfortable with each other. Unhappy with each other.

  He would spend the evening with Ginny, he decided. He would tell himself quite firmly that Arabella was enjoying the soiree with one or more of her female friends and male companions, and he would soak up the sensual gratification that Ginny was so skilled at giving him.

  Arabella was busily admiring the orange trees and other exotic plants with Frances and Perrot, he realized suddenly. He smiled down at his wife as she turned back to him and took his arm again.

  "Shall I bring you back here one day when the weather is kinder, Arabella?" he asked.

  "That would be very nice, my lord," she said politely. "Though it has been very pleasant even today. It was kind of you to bring us. Thank you."

  10

  Frances prepared for the Pottier soiree with particular care. She wore a deep midnight-blue gown that she had been saving for the next ball. She wished to appear at her best for Sir John Charlton and the group of somewhat lesser admirers who showed interest in her wherever she went. More important, she wished to show Sir Theodore Perrot that she was indeed enjoying her stay in London and felt no homesickness whatsoever.

  She was somewhat chagrined to find that Theodore was already there before them and in conversation with the Marquess and Marchioness of Ravenscourt and Lady Harriet Meeker. He looked quite as if he belonged in the drawing room. He did not look at all rustic, as she had rather expected him to look.

  Frances smiled at Mr. Browning, who had approached them in order to talk with Arabella. She flirted her fan at him, and the young man looked somewhat taken aback, and blushed.

  "Oh, la," Frances said, "what a splendid drawing room. What story from mythology is depicted in the painting on the ceiling, do you suppose?" She smiled dazzlingly.

  "The b-birth of Venus, I believe, ma'am," Mr. Browning said.

  "Did you succeed in buying the pair of matched grays that you were going to bid on at Tattersall's this morning?" Arabella asked him. "You must tell me all about the auction, sir. I think it very provoking that ladies may not attend."

  Frances felt Theodore looking their way. She smiled even more brightly at a clearly uncomfortable Mr. Browning, and fanned herself vigorously.

  Theodore, viewing her from across the room, smiled and turned his attention back to what the marchioness was saying.

  Frances was rescued at that moment by Sir John Charlton, who made his bows to both ladies and began to engage her in conversation.

  "It was a great pity you were not able to drive with me in the park this afternoon, Miss Wilson," he said. "The company there was quite distinguished. Lady Morton was kind enough to remark that my new high-perch phaeton is quite the most fashionable conveyance in town."

  "I really hated to miss the chance to drive with you, sir," Frances said. "I am longing to see your new phaeton."

  "You would grace it with your beauty," Sir John said, removing a pearl-encrusted snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and flicking the lid open with one elegant thumb. "You were at Kew this afternoon?"

  "Yes," she said. "The gardens are quite splendid. Have you seen the pagoda, sir?"

  "Once, as a boy," he said with a sigh. "A strange affectation of our royal family, is it not? But not in quite such bad taste as those other unspeakable edifices in the gardens. I suppose Sir Theodore Perrot was awed by their splendor? Visitors from the country generally are."

  "Oh," Fr
ances said. "Yes, Theodore liked the pagoda. Of course, it is somewhat out of place in an English setting. But an amusing curiosity, would you not say?"

  He bowed and proceeded to inhale a pinch of snuff from the back of his hand. He withdrew a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket.

  "It is always amusing," he said, his task completed, "to pick out those people who are freshly arrived from the country each Season. They do tend to be rather noticeable. Of course, in some cases"—he bowed in Frances' direction—"one would assume a person had spent all her life in town under the influence of the most impeccable of fashion makers. You, for example, ma'am, must have a natural sense of style and elegance."

  "I have always hated an unfashionable gown," Frances said with a blush.

  "I am sure you have the very best of modistes," Sir John said. "I, of course, will patronize no other tailor than Weston. I would wager I could look around this room and point out to you all the gentlemen who do not."

  "Oh, could you really?" Frances gazed in some admiration at the young man beside her.

  A little later in the evening, Arabella was gratified to see that Frances was at the center of a group of young people. Guests at the soiree had tended to divide themselves into young and more mature. The young people were content to converse in the drawing room; the older people drifted toward the music room, where several talented performers were entertaining them. Frances was with some of her lady friends, though her group also included Sir John Charlton and two others of her regular admirers.

  Frances had told Arabella when they had returned from Kew that she was not going to have Theodore hanging around her skirts all evening, even though Lady Berry had secured an invitation for him. And she seemed to have succeeded. Theodore was not part of the group. In fact, Arabella noted, looking around the room until she saw him, he was seated in one corner of the drawing room with Lady Harriet Meeker. They were talking to each other and smiling as if there were no one else in the room.