by Elisa Braden
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter mentioning marriage for the first time.
They had crossed the River Tweed an hour after sunrise. Wisps of mist still swirled on the banks. Sun glinted off the windowpanes of the little stone tollhouse on the north end of the bridge.
Viola had chattered away with her own recollections, filling Hannah’s ears with tales about the funny Scottish tailor in the very white waistcoat who had performed Lord and Lady Tannenbrook’s marriage at the same tollhouse years earlier. “How determined I was,” Viola sighed. “He is grateful now, but at the time, my James was more than a trifle vexed with me.”
Too nervous to speak, Hannah had listened as the coach she rode in—one of four carrying far too many of Lady Wallingham’s guests—had traveled north from Grimsgate to Coldstream.
“It may not have been the wedding a lady dreams of,” Viola had continued, her voice fond and wistful. “No church or rector. No flowers or music. Not even any family present. But our marriage hasn’t suffered a jot for all the haste and simplicity of its start. No, the life we built together is what matters. And that has been wondrous.”
More than a dozen people—Lord and Lady Wallingham, the dowager Lady Wallingham, Phineas and Eugenia, Viola and Lord Tannenbrook, Colin and Sarah Lacey, Reaver and Augusta, Maureen and Dunston—crowded inside the tiny room in the Coldstream Toll House to witness Hannah’s marriage to Jonas.
He’d worn a steel-gray coat borrowed from Lord Wallingham. She’d worn her favorite pink gauze gown with the puffed sleeves and white rosettes. Phineas had given her a bouquet he’d selected himself—lily of the valley, deep-pink roses, and fragrant sprigs of lavender. Eugenia had decorated her hair with pearls, white rosebuds, and silk ribbon. When she’d drawn back to admire her handiwork, she’d beamed her Eugenia smile then hugged Hannah fiercely, whispering, “Never doubt you are strong, dearest. Today is proof. Brave and beautiful and strong.”
Hannah had scarcely dared breathe while a bespectacled Scottish “parson” performed the ceremony. In part, it had been Jonas. His handsomeness had fairly melted her bones. Several times—particularly when he’d gazed down at her with flashing eyes and spoken his vows—she’d felt her head lifting away. But she’d used the trick of digging one of the flower stems into her palm, which had kept her feet on the ground.
Afterward, they’d all returned to Grimsgate for the wedding breakfast, a feast that began with thyme-seasoned, ham-dotted omelets and ended with a spiced cake topped with sliced peaches and sugared flowers. Now, Hannah gazed across the drawing room at Jonas—her husband. Tall and strong and capable. She examined his shoulders, his backside. She imagined having the freedom to touch him as she pleased.
His lips. His hair. His chest.
He was surrounded by other gentlemen, all of whom appeared to be giving him advice. He drank tea and wore his usual wry expression. But she could see his impatience building.
It sent a queer thrill through her belly.
He wanted her. Perhaps even as much as she wanted him, which was a very great deal, indeed.
Their kiss had stunned every part of her—from her lips to the tips of her hair. She’d found it explosive. Maddening. She’d never experienced anything as heated or sweet. She’d never imagined such desire existed.
If he hadn’t pulled back, if he hadn’t asked her to look at him … well, it didn’t matter now. Now, they were married.
She glanced down at her ring—the one Jonas had seemingly pulled from nowhere. He hadn’t had time to purchase it, certainly. Nonetheless, it was extraordinary. The band was gold, the setting silver. In the center was a crescent-shaped series of pearls, a glowing moon set in polished silver. Within its embrace was the darkest sapphire she’d ever seen, faceted and shimmering blue. Surrounding the celestial duet were five tiny, star-like diamonds. Delicate, whimsical, and beautiful, the ring was an entire sky upon her hand. Merely looking at it made her smile.
“Hmmph. After he locates my trunk, you must insist he visit a tailor, my dear.” Lady Wallingham came to stand beside her, examining Jonas through her quizzing glass. “His is a form best suited to properly fitted coats.”
Hannah’s heart swelled with unaccustomed heat. “He is most handsome.”
“Yes. Proficient, too, if I don’t miss my guess. Once you’ve tested the extent of his skills, I suspect you’ll be jealous of his time. Only natural. Still, I cannot allow him to leave Grimsgate without first completing his task. Apologies in advance.”
Hannah hadn’t the faintest notion of what the old woman was on about, so she studied her new husband and listened with half an ear.
“I suggest pacing yourself, my dear. With a man like this, you’d be surprised how swiftly gluttony becomes a habit. Before you know it, you’re spending your precious free hours outside the bedchamber finding new ways to please him—rearranging his desk to better suit a left-handed man. Wearing green because he mentioned it flatters your eyes. Secretly purchasing sandalwood soaps that remind you of his scent when he must be away. Desperate, foolish things only a desperately besotted girl would do. That is no way to manage a husband.”
Too busy admiring Jonas’s backside to pay much attention, it took Hannah a moment to digest the old woman’s ramblings. “Left-handed?” she murmured in confusion, but Lady Wallingham and her purple plumes had already drifted away toward her son and daughter-in-law.
Lady Berne approached with all five Huxley daughters. The group of brown-haired ladies circled her, offering their felicitations and advice.
“Have you asked him about his favorite dish, dear?” asked Lady Berne. She pressed a hand to her ample bosom when Hannah shook her head. “You must ascertain this at once. Also, his least favorite dish. These tools work best together. Oh, and ask whether cats cause him to sneeze. Do you like cats?”
“Never mind that, Mama,” Eugenia said. “The proper question is: Can she persuade him to move to Dorsetshire? Weymouth is lovely, you know. Do you recall the Martin-Mace property I mentioned?” Eugenia sniffed and raised a brow. “Still for sale.”
“What would a Bow Street runner do in Weymouth?” asked Annabelle. “Chase down windblown hats for a fee?”
“I can think of worse occupations,” Eugenia replied.
Annabelle snorted. “Not many.” She nodded toward her husband, the broad-shouldered Lord Robert Conrad, who stood with his cane propped beside his boot, listening to the other gentlemen give Jonas advice. Lord Robert frowned as though he’d heard a lot of rubbish but hadn’t decided whether to intervene. “Asking a Bow Street man to leave London would be like asking Robert to abandon Rivermore Abbey. How would he provide for a wife and children?”
“Perhaps he could become a consultant,” Jane suggested. “An investigator for hire.” She pushed her spectacles until they brushed the fringe of hair covering her forehead. “Maureen, weren’t you telling me Dunston regularly employs such men?”
Maureen nodded, nibbling her lower lip. “From time to time. Little projects here and there.”
Kate, two years younger than Hannah and Eugenia, rolled her eyes in classic Huxley fashion. “Little projects. I doubt the Home Secretary regards them as ‘little.’”
Jane continued, “My point is, he might work anywhere, given proper connections. And, with recommendations from Dunston, Holstoke, Blackmore, and Wallingham, not to mention Mr. Reaver, Atherbourne, and Tannenbrook, surely there will be ‘little projects’ aplenty.”
“A clever suggestion, Jane,” approved Lady Berne. “Now, then, about meal planning.”
Kate groaned. “Not this again, Mama.”
“It has worked on your father longer than you’ve been alive, Katherine Ann Huxley.”
Hannah frowned. She recalled Eugenia laughing about this once. Her mother liked to serve Lord Berne’s least favorite dishes when she was vexed with him, and his favorites when she was pleased. Eugenia preferred a more direct approach—when she was displeased with Phi
neas, she told him so.
“Have you read Pride and Prejudice, dear?” Jane asked. “I should be glad to lend you a copy. Superb wit and insights into the complexities between men and—”
Kate spun in place in her customary theatrical way. “It should be a play, Jane. Perhaps you could write it.”
“It has already been written. Just because you haven’t the patience to read a novel does not mean—”
“Let us not argue,” Maureen begged. “This is Hannah’s day.” She smiled sweetly. “We are so very happy for you, dearest.”
She opened her mouth to thank them, only to be regaled by further arguments between Jane and Kate about whether Sir Walter Scott’s earlier works were better than his more recent efforts. After performing a dramatic reading of Macbeth during her last season, Kate had grown enchanted with Scottish adventures, and she’d demanded Jane send her copies of every Scottish story she had. Sir Walter’s more recent works had not been set in Scotland, and so had been deemed “worthless and tedious.”
Annabelle and Maureen continued offering advice on selecting a house with proper piping and purchasing a new range for one’s kitchen. Both recommended Nottinghamshire as an ideal location, close to Lord and Lady Berne as well as Annabelle and Robert. Eugenia continued insisting Dorsetshire had a superior climate to Nottinghamshire, and that Hannah must certainly settle there, as she would miss the sea far too much.
Hannah grew dizzy after another quarter-hour of advice on cookery, Scottish history, fictional men with large fortunes, the “barren, ice-shrouded moors” of Nottinghamshire winters, and the importance of an organized larder in proper meal planning. So, she begged their pardon and left the group to find tea—and perhaps a bit of peace in which she might gather the strength she would need for the night to come.
*~*~*
“A pleasant home begins with a pleased wife, Mr. Hawthorn.” Lord Berne raised his cup of tea as though to toast his own wisdom. Hazel eyes twinkled. “Please her well.”
The other men surrounding Jonas chuckled and murmured their agreement.
“Aye,” said Reaver, clapping a giant hand on Jonas’s shoulder. “You’ll find it serves ye, most days. Though, I’ve found a little disagreement now and then to be a fine bit of pepper for the sauce, eh?”
More laughter and knowing smirks.
“As soon as you’ve settled into a house, give her a room of her own,” advised Lucien Wyatt, Viscount Atherbourne. The black-haired lord was another escapee from a painting—this one depicting a fallen angel or a dark, mythical god.
Many of the men agreed to his point—the tall, golden-haired Duke of Blackmore; the duke’s brother, Lord Colin; Lord Wallingham; Lord Berne; Holstoke.
“Wives adore having a sanctuary for their pursuits,” Atherbourne continued. “Mine is a painter. The finest portraitist I know.”
Tannenbrook nodded agreement. “No doubt of it. She is exceptional.” The blond giant warmed with affection. “My Viola has taken up the harp again. She turned one of the parlors into a music room and is teaching our daughters to play.” His smile took on the glow of a besotted male. “Their laughter is all the music I require.”
Dunston grinned and ran a hand over his bright-gold waistcoat. “I’ve turned the kitchens over to Maureen entirely. My only complaint is that I must triple my exercise to keep from overburdening my mount.”
“I’ve placed all of Steadwick Hall in Julia’s hands,” remarked Lord Wallingham. “No man’s home is so well ordered, I assure you. She rearranged the spices last week, first by name then by color. Remarkable woman.”
“Whenever she’s with child,” added Lord Colin, “Sarah produces quilts at a prodigious rate. Half of my music room is presently stacked with them.”
“Jane and I share two libraries,” offered Blackmore. “She prefers the old library, and I find I do agree. Whenever I wonder where she’s gone, it is the first place I search.” The man’s patrician features relaxed. Softened. “It is her favorite reading spot.” The duke pulled out his watch then glanced across the room toward his wife.
“Harrison, put that thing away,” ordered Dunston as though he’d said it to Blackmore a thousand times.
“Eugenia has two hat workshops,” remarked Holstoke. “She hasn’t said why she needs two, precisely. But it causes her to glow like a lantern. Sufficient reason to give her ten more, in my estimation.”
All this talk of houses and rooms and glowing wives chafed Jonas’s neck like the cravat Wallingham’s valet had wrapped too tightly. Bloody hell, he was choking.
It was also possible that he wanted to bed his wife. More than possible. He’d been careful not to look at her too much since they’d returned to Grimsgate.
But he felt her in his skin. He wanted her with every breath. He’d waited too damn long.
When could they leave, he wondered. Was now too soon?
“Another half-hour at most,” said a deep, quiet voice beside him. It was Lord Robert Conrad, a dark-haired man with a cane—some sort of accident in his youth, or so Jonas had heard. “Wait for Lady Wallingham to declare it is time to play battledore and shuttlecock. Should be coming shortly.”
Jonas’s mouth quirked. “Attended that many of her parties, have you?”
Conrad nodded then eyed Jonas with a penetrating gaze. “You were a soldier.”
Jonas took a drink of cold tea before answering. “Aye. Thirty-Ninth Regiment of Foot.”
“Dorsetshire?”
He nodded.
“Is that where you’re from?”
He gave the other man his usual grin and his usual reply. “I’m from lots of places.”
Conrad, a quiet, stolid sort, appeared to accept his answer. “Were you sent to the Continent?”
Jonas preferred not to discuss the wars. Nothing good came of remembering. But, he’d learned it was best to satisfy curiosity and move on. “Aye,” he replied. “Spain and Portugal. Then, Canada for a year or so.”
Conrad gestured toward Atherbourne. “He was at Waterloo. My grandfather fought at Belle Isle. Never leaves a man, once he’s seen what other men are capable of. What we’re all capable of becoming.”
Damn and blast, this was the last thing he wished to discuss on his wedding day. “I survived,” he said, ignoring the rattling hollow to take another drink. “All that matters, really.”
“Annabelle tells me you and Hannah haven’t yet decided where you might settle.”
His neck itched at the question. “We haven’t discussed it.” There was a lot they hadn’t discussed, and one of the topics burned in his chest. She owed him answers, and he meant to have them.
“My wife favors Nottinghamshire, of course,” Conrad continued. “She is fond of Hannah and would enjoy having her live nearby.” The blue-eyed son of a marquis leveled a stare upon Jonas that reminded him of his commanders in the army—hard, steady, and deeply rooted. “A place you and Hannah have in common might suit best. Dorsetshire, perhaps?”
Lady Wallingham’s trumpeting voice intruded. “Come, come, everyone. Let us journey to the south lawn for a rousing contest of battledore and shuttlecock.” She turned to her son. “Charles, fetch Bain at once. He must learn to master the shuttlecock if he hopes to hold his head high with Rutherford’s boy.”
Conrad angled closer, leaning upon his cane. “Now’s your chance, Hawthorn,” he muttered, nodding toward the windowed corner where an ethereal woman in pink gauze sat alone. “Appears your bride could use some company.”
Dear God. His bride. She was his. His.
He’d spent the past twelve hours starving for this moment.
Conrad’s hand patted his shoulder. “Go on, then,” the man murmured as though he could read Jonas’s thoughts. “She’s yours now. Take good care of her.”
Jonas’s heart nearly knocked his ribcage loose. She was so beautiful, his gut ached with the tension of holding still.
The other men slapped his shoulders and shot him amused glances as they passed by. Meanwhile, he wo
ndered what in bloody hell he’d done.
He wasn’t a husband, for Christ’s sake. At best, he could offer her his name, which meant nothing. No family. No connections. No fortune. Just him—Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn—on his knees before a Snow Queen. Little wonder she’d taken so long to decide she’d have him.
Her delicate shoulders shuddered on a breath. Ice-green eyes gazed out the window. Soft, white hands lay folded upon pink gauze skirts.
He gathered his senses. Made his way forward through the emptied room. When he came before her, he lowered into a crouch.
She sighed and swallowed. After a hesitation, she lifted her eyes to his. “Jonas,” she whispered.
“Hullo, love,” he whispered back. “Would you come with me?”
She blinked, looking both poised and nervous at once. “Y-yes.”
He held out his hand. She slid hers into his grasp. And together, they walked from the drawing room, a husband who should not have been a husband and a wife who shouldn’t have married him.
They found their way to his chamber. Neither spoke as they traversed the grand gallery to the grand staircase and down the long corridor.
It was only once he led her inside the room with the brown velvet and blue silk that he thought of asking whether she wanted her maid. Or a bath. Or any of the dozen other questions a considerate husband should ask.
He ran a hand over his face. At least Wallingham’s valet had shaved his damned whiskers. He wouldn’t mark up her skin.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he tried to rein in wild visions of Hannah wearing signs of his whiskers on her white throat, her white breasts, her white thighs.
“Jonas,” she said with a tremble and a squeeze. “I don’t wish to—to talk just yet. Not on this day. Is that all right?”
He stilled. “You promised you would explain.”
Her gaze fell to the blue carpet. “I know. But, for now, I’d rather kiss you again. And … touch you.”
And just like that, he was in her thrall.
