Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  “What do you think, Sadie?”

  “I think the escritoire should be in the sitting room. This room has too many furnishings.”

  Gwen swiped her hand across the polished wood of the desk. It was smooth under her fingers. As soon as she stocked the desk with writing materials, she would pen a letter to Miranda, thanking her and the earl for their generosity in sending the furniture.

  Her bed had come from Longley as well. She’d tested the mattress prior to putting clean linens and a coverlet on, and found it comfortable.

  John’s bed was another matter. She strolled into the sitting room, looking for a good location for another piece of furniture, and continued into John’s room. The snakes carved into the bedposts and headboard were off-putting to say the least, and the bed was hard. She’d have to find new straw to stuff in the mattress tick to make it more comfortable.

  Perhaps he’d like to sleep with me.

  The thought made heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered the breathless kisses they’d shared this morning. She turned quickly away before Sadie could remark on her blush.

  “I’ve put away your clothes, madam.” Sadie scowled. “The armoire is too small. You’ll need another one when you begin entertaining. Your wardrobe is becoming outdated, if you’ll allow me to say so.”

  “Oh posh. It is quite adequate. I shall not be entertaining for a while. The dining room still needs a sideboard, and there are only two chairs and a sofa in the withdrawing room. We still must choose pictures for these bare walls. I daresay, by the time we complete our improvements, I could be increasing and need an entirely different wardrobe.”

  Sadie’s cast her eyes downward. “Yes, madam.”

  Her softened voice told Gwen she knew there had been no consummation.

  “Why don’t you go down and have a cup of tea. I’m going to go out with my sketch pad and try to decide on plantings for the garden.”

  Sadie curtsied and left, closing the door behind her. Gwen strolled over to the window looking out over the grounds. A few trees, some flower beds, and perhaps a hedge to mark the walkway circling the house would do for now. She wanted her home to be inviting, and she loved the idea of flowers in spring and summer.

  John came into view, leading his horse. He walked his horse when he pondered problems. She left her sketchbook on the bed and hurried down the stairs. Meeting her near the front door, John looked up and smiled. “How is the house coming?”

  “All ready for our first night in our new home. Sadie and your valet have everything in order in our rooms, and as you saw, two large chairs from the dower house have been moved to our private sitting room.”

  “Excellent.” He tethered the horse and took Gwen’s hands, bringing her attention to his face. “You’ve done a good job, Gwennie. I think we can truthfully say our marriage has finally begun.”

  Was he saying what she thought? Was she ready?

  Breathless excitement made her weak. She gazed back into his eyes and squeezed his hands. “I do believe you are right.”

  He seemed to study her face. “Shall we dine in our private sitting room tonight?”

  “I think that would be lovely.”

  “The new footman can bring in a table if the one between the two chairs is too small. We should have plenty of room. We do not dine lavishly.”

  “Lamb is on the menu tonight, and I believe a blanc mange for dessert.”

  “I dearly love Mary, but her talents are in housekeeping rather than cooking. But lamb? Nobody can ruin that.”

  She dropped his hands. “Will you be coming in now?”

  “Not yet. I have one more errand to run. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  A quick smile hid her disappointment. No need to bother him with questions about his plans after dinner. She would have to be surprised.

  She returned to the house and made her way to the kitchen. Mary was there with Sadie, sharing tea. A leg of lamb cooked on a spit over a fire, and a pot of soup bubbled on the hob.

  “Would you care for a cup, milady?” Mary asked.

  “I believe I would.” She sat in a vacant chair. “No need to take it to the drawing room. I’ll have it here.”

  Sadie and Mary smiled.

  “If I do say so, milady. You are quite unusual. Mr. Montague’s mother would have died of thirst rather than have tea with servants in the kitchens.”

  Gwen lifted her brows. “Oh? She is a bit high in the instep, is she? If snobbery is the only thing wrong with her, we shall deal together quite well.”

  The empty teacup in Mary’s hand fell to the floor and shattered. “I do apologize. I am clumsy these days.” She bent down to pick up the broken pieces. “The dowager countess is indeed a unique lady, in many ways.”

  “La, I hope to meet her one day soon. Did you know she missed our wedding? Too ill to travel to London. And Mr. Montague was eager to begin his work here, so we didn’t stop to visit on our way.” She sipped hot tea from the new cup placed in front of her. “I do hope she hasn’t formed a poor opinion of her newest daughter-in-law. I dare say I will have to convince her I am worthy.”

  Mary exchanged a look with Lionel who hovered in the doorway and shook his head slightly. Gwen frowned. Was something amiss? If so, she would pry it out of Sadie later.

  Mary cocked her head. “Did you need something in particular, my lady?”

  “My mind is running in too many directions. Mr. Montague and I will be dining in our sitting room tonight. The dining room is still impractical with its lack of sideboard.”

  “Will you be dining at the usual time?”

  “We’ll put it back an hour. I’d like a bath before dinner, and Mr. Montague had one more piece of business to conclude and probably won’t be back until then. Can you send the footmen up with hot water for my new tub, Lionel? It looks glorious.”

  Sadie gulped down the rest of her tea. “I’ll take care of it, madam. And I’ll be up to help you prepare right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  She drained her cup and headed back upstairs. Should she wear the gown with the yellow shawl? It seemed to be a favorite of John’s. No, she’d wear the pink muslin in the Empire style, the one with three ruffles on the hem and tiny cap sleeves. The gown had matching gloves and slippers. She’d worn it only once, but not since her engagement.

  Every nerve ending in her body was standing at attention. She’d waited a long time for this moment, dreamed of it, and awakened aching in parts she was too proper to name. Would John kiss her again? Would he kiss her in places other than her lips? Oh la, the anticipation was going to kill her.

  When she was sixteen, she’d eavesdropped on a conversation between two maids in her father’s house. What they’d talked about had made her blush, but she stayed hidden behind the stillroom door, eager to know what happened between a man and a woman. Tiny ribbons of heat had warmed her as they described their experiences. She’d finally tiptoed away, more curious than disgusted at some of their descriptions, and impatient to learn more. Fortunately, her father’s library was well stocked with books on a number of subjects, and after a careful search of higher shelves, she found Ovid’s Art of Love in the original Latin. She purloined the volumes and kept them hidden to be read late at night.

  Mama would have fainted had she found it.

  Perhaps she’d finally have the experiences described.

  Not all of them of course.

  She snorted at the memory of one of the descriptions, of a temptress riding her lover astride like a horse. Why would one do that? It made no sense.

  If only she had Miranda close by. Of all her friends, Miranda was the one she could talk to about intimate matters.

  A commotion in the hall told her the footman had arrived with the tub. He placed it in front of the fireplace, the warmest
part of the room, and returned belowstairs to fetch buckets of water.

  What scent should she add? Perhaps the lavender. It had a light, pleasant smell that soothed ruffled nerves, and by God, her nerves were already squirming in anticipation of what the night would bring.

  “There you are, Sadie.” She turned as Sadie directed the filling of the tub. When the footman left and the temperature was deemed to be perfect, Gwen disrobed and sank into the water. Heavenly clouds warmed by the sun could not have felt better. She sighed as she reached for a ball of lavender soap. The hot water seeped into her tired bones as she breathed deeply and let her thoughts roam down paths she’d explored before.

  Her imagination at work, she wondered how the evening would progress. First, they would dine and converse about their day. When the dishes were removed, they might play a hand or two of whist. Then John would look into her eyes and tell her it was time to retire.

  They’d rise. He’d touch her cheek and pull her into his arms. His kisses would grow in intensity until they were both panting and pulling at their clothes.

  Gwen slid deeper into the tub, trying to remember bits of the conversations she’d overheard, so she could dream about what happened next. But the water was getting tepid, and soon she’d be shivering with cold.

  She sat up and splashed a bit of water. Sadie brought her a warm towel to dry off. “I’d like to wash my hair. I’m sure I have enough time for it to dry before dinner.”

  “Do you need more hot water?”

  “Not if we hurry.”

  Sadie leaned over and worked the soap into Gwen’s hair. Sadie’s hands sent relaxing tingles along Gwen’s scalp. When her hair was rinsed, Gwen stood, toweled herself off, and put on a soft robe. The fire heated the room, and with Sadie’s help, Gwen’s tangled hair was tamed into a fragrant shining mass falling over her shoulders as she dried it in front of the fireplace.

  “You have beautiful hair, milady.”

  Warm, clean and happy, Gwen donned the pink frock and went into the sitting room with a book to await John.

  La, would he be overlong? And there was dinner to get through.

  Quivering with anticipation, she opened the book, then set it aside and hugged herself. This was the real beginning of her marriage and if she was very lucky, she might soon become a mother.

  She sighed and prepared herself for the coming night.

  Chapter 13

  Gwen was nervous. John could tell by the way she fidgeted with her napkin and avoided his gaze.

  They ate their dinner and talked of estate matters—the arrival of the new cook, new markets for wool, and furniture needing to be ordered. A footman came in and removed their plates. He returned to take the small dining table back downstairs and to move their chairs back in front of the fireplace. John bade him to leave the wine.

  Conversation at a lull, Gwen opened a small book she’d left on the hearth. John thrummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He picked up the bottle of claret and refilled Gwen’s glass, and then his own. Draining his glass, he rolled his neck. The points of his shirt collar were too stiff. He must have a word with his valet.

  His gaze swept over his wife while she turned the pages of her book. He swore it was upside down but couldn’t tell with it partially hidden in the folds of her gown. The dress was a stylish one with a high waist and low bodice displaying the tops of her gorgeous breasts.

  He looked away.

  The windows were firmly closed. Perhaps he should get up and open one.

  “Do you find it warm in here, my dear?”

  Her eyes rose to meet his. Her spectacles were off. Could she read in the dim room without her glasses? “No. I find it quite pleasant,” she said.

  He stood and took off his coat. Damned thing was too heavy. He laid it across the empty chair near the window, the chair Gwen would use when writing letters on Mother’s spindly escritoire.

  Seeing it reminded him to be cautious. He sat back in his chair, aware of Gwen’s crossed leg moving nervously under her pink skirt. Her hair was down and tied back with a pink bow. God’s knees, she looked as innocent as the debutantes making their first come-out at Almack’s.

  Except for her body, which was lush and enticing.

  “You know, I think I shall open the window after all. Get a breath of air in here. This is an old building, and some of its age still lingers in the air.” He strode toward the bank of windows and opened one. A blast of cold blew into the room.

  Gwen cocked her head toward him, her brows raised. “Are you sure? We may need to stoke the fire if the window is open overlong.”

  “You’re right.” He closed it again. “It is nearly time to retire, and we don’t want the fire to be fresh.”

  He removed his waistcoat, laying it over the topcoat, and sat down opposite Gwen. “Gwen . . .”

  “John.”

  They both laughed, and it was a good feeling. He drained his wine glass. “Drink up. I want to talk to you before we retire.”

  Her eyes widened, and her breath seemed to catch. Was she feeling faint? He certainly was. Why had he left this so long? Most people consummated their marriage the first night.

  She picked up her glass and took a hefty swallow. Her cheeks were as pink as her dress, and she looked as good as an iced sweet in a bakery window, something he’d like to swirl his tongue around and gently taste.

  Get on with it.

  He took a deep breath, scooted his chair closer to hers until their knees touched, and took one of her hands in his. Her fingers were long and well-shaped. He wondered what they would feel like on his . . .

  “Gwen . . .”

  “John.”

  They laughed again, and their merriment gave him an opening. He placed his hand behind her head, leaned in, and took her bottom lip in his mouth, nibbling as he watched her face. She was as wide-eyed as he was, not even trying to move away. Then her lashes fluttered, and her eyes closed as she moved closer, inviting him to deepen the kiss. She moaned as his lips closed over hers, and he was totally undone.

  He hauled her up and over onto his lap, his arms going around her as their tongues twined. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, and her eager fingers teased his neck, pulling his cravat loose. His fingers tugged free the ribbon holding her hair, and he filled his hands with those silky strands. God, her hair was soft, and as his lips moved from her mouth to her neck, he was enchanted by the faint scent of lavender. His lips moved to her shoulder and down to the tops of her breasts. She whimpered against his shoulder.

  You’re moving too fast. You’re going to scare her.

  He drew back and studied her mouth, plump from his kisses. She peered at him through sultry lowered lashes. He was on fire, but he had to remember he was dealing with a maiden.

  Take it slow.

  After setting her on her feet, he guided her back to her chair. She seemed surprised. Perhaps she thought their encounter was at an end.

  He leaned forward. “Gwen, do you know what happens between a man and a woman in the marriage bed?”

  Her cheeks flushed even more, the blush spreading downward all the way to the tops of her breasts as she looked down at her hands. “Not entirely. But I’ve heard. And I’ve read.”

  “What have you read?”

  “Ovid.”

  “In Latin?”

  “Yes.”

  “All three volumes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Papa believed in education. My governess was quite accomplished, but not in Latin. I was able to share Reggie’s tutor until he went away to Eton. It was then I learned to read Latin and a little Greek.”

  She smiled and seemed calmer. Despite the wild thumping of his heart, he was sure he could have the civil conversation they neede
d before he bedded her. She’d come into the marriage willingly. He’d promised her independence and respect.

  And time to get to know him.

  “I think it’s time we consummated our marriage. Do you agree?”

  She twisted her hands together in her lap. “Yes.”

  He cleared his throat. “I know you are a woman who is interested in having new experiences, and I want you to think of it exactly like that, a new experience. I promise you it will be over with as quickly as possible. All you have to do is lie still. There may be some discomfort the first time. But not after. Perhaps, in time, as we get even more comfortable with one another, and if you find you can tolerate it, we can do it again. But I shall never force you.”

  Her hands were tightly wound together again, but she nodded.

  “Gwen, do you know what a French letter is?”

  Her brows furrowed. “I’m not sure. Obviously, it is not a missive written by someone from France, or you wouldn’t be asking me.”

  “No, my dear. It is not. It is a thin covering that fits over a man’s, er, member . . . to prevent conception while mating.”

  “What is it made of?”

  “The ones I have are made of sheep intestines, fastened with strings.”

  She grimaced. “And?”

  “I plan to use one.”

  Was that shock on her face? Or merely distaste at being subjected to an indelicate conversation. Because it was highly indelicate, even for a woman as broad-minded and intelligent as his wife.

  He leaned forward and took her hands in his.

  “It sounds disgusting, and it is scandalous for us to even have this conversation. But I respect your intelligence, and I know how you value your independence. If you conceived, you would be tied down caring for a babe. We’ve just begun our life together. Now that we have the house in reasonable order, we can have guests. Maybe you can find enough interesting people to start another salon.”