A Gamble on Love (11 page)

Dragonslayer. Knight
Errant
. The temptation had been too great.

And just now . . . if he had not moved so
fast out on the terrace, she might be dead. And Pevensey Park and
all its enterprises would have been added to his other
acquisitions. All of which would have turned to dust. For the
arrogant little minx attracted his interest as no woman ever had
before.

Thomas strode across the room, yanking the
bell pull so hard it nearly came off the wall. He had a few words
with Tilly before the two women retired to his wife’s bedchamber so
she could change into the garments he had dictated.

Relia made straight for the chest on which
rested a delicately painted porcelain pitcher and bowl, lavender
soap, and a stack of embroidered linen towels provided by The
Swan.

The water, deliciously cool, brought sudden
relief to her oddly heated body. As she dried her face, Relia sank
onto her bed, wondering that such an incident, however close to
disaster it might have been, should have overset her nerves so
badly. She was not cowardly, never inclined toward fits of the
vapors. So why . . . ?

She did not care for the answer that popped
into her mind, although, in all fairness, she could not reject the
notion out of hand. The flush of heat that had wracked her body was
not so much due to her near fall as to her shocking proximity to
Mr. Lanning. Her husband.

Thomas. Who did not choose to exercise his
husbandly rights.

For which she should be heartily
thankful.

“
Come now, Miss. You’ll feel ever so
much better when you’re out of your stays.”

Intent as Relia had been on washing
away the strange sensations that had somehow taken over the
emotions of the sensible, pragmatical young woman she had thought
herself to be, she had failed to notice the clothing Tilly was
laying out for her. Her steel blue eyes opened wide. “I cannot
wear
that
. ‘Tis scarcely past
tea time.”

“
M’lord ordered it, Miss—ah,
Ma’am.”

“
He is not a m’lord!”

“
Yes, ma’am.” Tilly bobbed a curtsey,
adding irrepressibly, if somewhat softly, “But he sure acts like
one, don’t he?”

Indeed he did. Relia was uncertain if
she wanted to smile or continue the good cry she had almost begun
in the sitting room. For close to the thousandth time she wondered
what she had done to herself. Who
was
Thomas Lanning? She now bore his name, yet
she knew almost nothing about him.

And why was that, pray tell? Quite simply,
because she had not demanded that Sir Gilbert tell her. Because it
had not seemed to matter. Because she had been so arrogant she had
thought to hire Mr. Lanning’s services, like a steward or a butler,
based solely on the recommendation of others and on a brief
personal interview. He met her list of qualifications; she was
desperate. What else mattered?

Forcefully, Relia reminded herself that many
woman had made far worse bargains. No. Most women had this kind of
bargain made for them. They could always have the satisfaction of
railing against father, brother, or guardian, while she had no one
to blame but herself.

With some deliberation Relia laid the damp
towel over the top of the pitcher, then stared at the garments
Tilly had placed over the coverlet at the end of the bed. The
beautifully embroidered, though nearly transparent, linen bedgown
and midnight blue velvet dressing gown were among the many items of
elaborate nightwear Gussie had insisted she purchase while they in
London. Since Relia had not wished to think about this aspect of
her marriage, she had simply allowed Miss Aldershot to do as she
pleased. And, naturally, Tilly had packed her newest and best for
this short journey to Tunbridge Wells.

Beneath her breath Relia muttered a word
overheard in the stables. “Miss!” Tilly declared, much shocked.

But she wasn’t a miss, she was a wife,
Relia thought glumly. Though like to be a virgin . . . for
months
. Maybe years, maybe
forever.

Wasn’t that what she had wanted? An itinerant
dragonslayer, who would do his job and ride on, leaving her exactly
where she had said she wanted to be?

Relia’s eyes took on a calculating
gleam. Very well, she would do as her new husband ordered. After
all, the fine linen bedgown would be completely hidden beneath the
heavy velvet dressing gown . . . and it
would
be infinitely more comfortable. Surely one
of the more unexpected advantages of being married.

And perhaps, just perhaps, she might
once again jog Mr. Lanning’s amused tolerance of her. For there
could be little doubt that her near accident had torn through his
indifference. If only for a short time, he had
cared
what happened to her.

Stoo-pid
.
Thomas Lanning would have felt the same for any female under his
escort.

The former Aurelia Trevor, every inch
the daughter of Pevensey Park, turned and presented the row of tiny
buttons down her back to her maid. “Very well,” she pronounced with
regal indifference, “we will do as commanded.
For now
.” Relia lifted her chin another notch,
while Tilly failed to stifle a giggle.

Thomas sat slumped in a wingchair set before
a crackling fire, idly twirling a brandy glass and wondering about
what was beginning to seem like an ominous silence from his wife’s
room. Was she going to hide in there all night? With the demmed
maid as chaperon?

What a fool he was. Had he actually thought
he could carry this off like any other business contract? Just sign
his name and acquire yet another vast holding? If he had, he’d been
disabused of the notion when he saw his new wife about to be taken
from him. Of course, no one and no thing, once acquired, was ever
allowed to escape Thomas Lanning’s control, yet . . . this had been
different. As difficult as she could be, the new Mrs. Lanning had
some rather remarkable qualities. Besides being an all-too-tempting
morsel—

A soft snick of the door . . . and
there she was, turning scarlet the moment she saw him looking at
her.
Virgins!

Lord, what else could he expect? Her
only contact with men was likely her father, the dastardly Trevors,
and that son of the squire, who was likely so backward he hadn’t
even tried to steal a kiss. And her mother may well have died
before having time to impart the necessary female information. Not
that she would need it tonight, of course. But Thomas began to
realize that his body had failed to get the necessary message from
the more rational part of him.
Devil
it!
Bridegrooms should be granted immunity from
fashionable tightly knit trousers. He could only hope his wife was
too innocent to notice. Thomas Lanning, rock hard man of business,
brought low by the sight of a female—
his
female—enveloped from neck to toe in a cocoon
of dark velvet. Thomas Lanning—Prince of the Exchange, the man who
prided himself on never being at a loss for words—rose to his feet,
cleared his throat, and held out his hand. “Do join me, Aurelia.”
Somehow he could not call her Mrs. Lanning, in spite of the vicar’s
words, the music, the avid congregation, and his signature on so
many official documents. The reality of it would not settle in his
mind. “You will find the fire . . . warming,” he added with little
of his usual glibness of tongue.

Relia fixed her gaze on his hand. He
was adept at holding out a hand, was he not? Both literally and
figuratively. But—
dear
Lord!
—what was he wearing? Or not wearing.

“
I trust you have no objection to
dining
en déshabillé
?” her
husband ventured, as he waved her toward a tall upholstered chair
next to his.

Relia had strong objections. No
gentleman would think of dining with a female with his jacket off
and his waistcoat quite shockingly unbuttoned, revealing so much of
his fine lawn shirt that she could see the shadow of something dark
beneath.
Merciful heavens
! She
had occasionally seen shirtless workers in the field and knew many
men had hair on their chests, but surely not
here
in her very own room!

Their
room.
This very morning she had married this man.

But, of course, Thomas Lanning was not
a gentleman, so how could she expect gentlemanly manners? Relia
rather suspected he had . . . had
stripped
quite deliberately—

“
Come, come, my dear, no need to look
so wary. How could I tell you to dress comfortably and not do the
same myself? I would have looked quite foolish in coat and cravat
when you were . . .” Thomas sketched a graceful wave toward her
garments, his voice trailing away, to be replaced by what Relia
could only characterize as a salacious grin. She remained immobile,
her lower lip jutting into something that might, in a lesser
female, be called a pugnacious pout.

“
Aurelia,” her husband said, still
holding out his hand, “may I remind you we are married? We are
about to enjoy our wedding supper. Think of it as
en famille
rather than
en déshabillé
.”

Relia stared at the solid reality of Thomas
Lanning. Husband. The strongly handsome face, the warm brown hair
and piercing gray eyes. So very far from the vulgar Cit with
mediocre education she had once feared. The man who had saved her
life in more ways than one.

Yet her feet refused to move toward his
outstretched hand.

With easy grace, he strode toward her, as
inexorable as the change from day to night. He clasped her hand,
then paused, his gaze shifting to someone behind her. “Tilly, is
it?” Thomas said. “You may have the remainder of the evening off.”
The maid bobbed a respectful curtsey and left, carefully closing
the door behind her. “She cannot stay to attend you later,” Thomas
added quietly. “Indeed, she does not expect it, and we must
maintain the façade. You would not, I think, wish everyone to know
that I have not demanded my husbandly rights. Such news would
reflect badly on both of us. There might even be legal
repercussions from Lord Hubert, alleging that we are not truly
married, and although I do not enjoy the reputation of being a man
in the petticoat line, I would not care to have anyone question my
manhood.”

Relia, who had gotten rather a good
look at his manhood in the past few moments, did not doubt the
sincerity of his statement. She did, however, have grave
reservations about the sincerity of his promise to maintain
a
mariage blanc
. Five months
until the end of her year of mourning. Did he have a mistress in
London? Very likely. Yet his reasoning was not unsound. They needed
the time he had so graciously offered. But somewhere deep inside,
she was sorry for it. A bride was entitled to a true wedding night,
was she not?

A foolish female fantasy. An air-castle
constructed from too many Minerva novels and too little attention
to the tragic romances of the classics. For Thomas Lanning, she was
a means to an end. As he was for her. Now that he had acquired what
he wanted, he had little use for her. He would go back to his
London life and his London women, while enjoying all the luxuries
the income from Pevensey Park could offer.

How appallingly fortunate to be born
male!

By the time the bridal couple had enjoyed the
fine supper provided by The Swan and downed a good many glasses of
wine to go with it, they had worn the rough edges off some of the
awkwardness of their situation. How could any man object to so
lovely a bride, even if she did occasionally display the tongue of
an adder? And the bride ceased to have heart palpitations every
time her husband moved so much as a finger. By Relia’s second glass
of wine she was even able to swallow a bite of beef without feeling
that it was going to choke her. By the moment she found herself
nibbling daintily on a meringue while watching Mr.
Lanning—Thomas—finish a compote of peaches and the rest of the
meringues, Relia had nearly forgotten her pique with him.

At least it could be said she had postponed
it for another day.

It might have been a good moment for Mr.
Lanning to forget his solemn promise. Unfortunately, he had made
his considerable fortune and sterling reputation by always keeping
his word. He was not about to shatter a lifetime of principles,
however calculated and conniving they sometimes might be, in regard
to the woman he was destined to live with for the remainder of his
life. She had to trust him, did she not?

And how long would trust last after she
discovered the
real
reasons
why he had married her?

Mr. and Mrs. Lanning lingered in front of the
fire, the small round table set between them now cleared of all but
the requisite bottle of port. Thomas poured a glass for his bride.
She shook her head, then changed her mind. Tonight it seemed she
could not deny her husband—Thomas, her rescuer—anything.

They talked desultorily of places she had
visited in London and Bath, of Aurelia’s father and mother, while
somehow avoiding all talk of Pevensey Park and the Trevor
relatives. It never occurred to Relia to ask about Thomas’s family.
By the time they realized the hour had grown late, the newly
married couple was in considerable more charity with each other.
But when Thomas Lanning walked his bride to her bedchamber, he left
her at the door, with no more of a kiss than the one he had
bestowed on her at the altar.