Anita Mills (11 page)

“I could not stay.” She twisted her hands in his and looked away before daring again to meet his gaze. “I swear I could not.”

“I know.” His voice softened, and his blue eyes bore into hers. “But it won’t serve. A female alone cannot survive, Harry—certainly not a green girl such as you. You know that, do you not?”

“I… I came to live with Plimly, Richard, but she …”

“No.” His fingers massaged hers as he held them. “You are going to have to take me, Harry. I am the best choice you have.”

Her eyes widened, taking in the soberness of his, and her heart beat rapidly at the feel of his strong hands on hers. There was no questioning that he was right, or that he was the man she wanted. And her mind told her that if he had journeyed all the way to Bath after her, he must have some regard for her, after all.

“Well, Harry?”

And at that moment, in her foolish heart, she dared to dream that she could make him love her. This time, she nodded.

And if he did not look precisely overjoyed, neither did he appear unhappy. He released one of her hands to brush at a tendril of hair that had escaped to fall forward over her brow. “I shall try to be a good husband to you, Harry—I promise you that. We are in no worse case than full half the
ton,
after all.”

Agnes Plimly looked from one to the other of them, her old face confused. “I say …”

“Uh …” Reddening in embarrassment, Harriet moved self-consciously to his side. “Oh, you must be wondering …”

“Richard Standen—Sherborne, actually—Harriet’s betrothed,” he answered for her, extending his hand.

It was agreed, since she’d brought no maid or abigail, that the wisest course would be to marry immediately, return to Rowe’s Hill to collect whatever she required of her meager possessions, and then press on to Richlands. There she would remain, mastering the running of her new household whilst he took Two Harry to Doncaster. To Harriet it was as though she were in a dream from which she hoped she never wakened.

After sharing tea with Agnes Plimly, Richard propelled his betrothed to his carriage, saying they must hurry if they were to avail themselves of the special license he’d brought with him that day. Thus it was that Harriet found herself in the parlor of the rector of St. Michael’s and St. Paul’s Church in Bath, listening to Richard explain the need for speedy nuptials. The words were spoken, the ring he usually wore on his little finger was slipped on hers, and the marriage lines duly witnessed. By dusk she was lawfully Harriet Rowe Standen, Viscountess Sherborne.

“I had thought to break our journey at the Black Lion Inn some fifteen miles from here,” he told her as he handed her up into his carriage. “Unless, of course, you should wish otherwise.”

She had to blink back tears, for never in fourteen years and more had she been asked rather than told what she would do. “ ’Twill be fine,” she managed, settling into the seat across from him. “Oh, ’tis ever so much more comfortable here than in the mail coach.”

“I should hope so. What the devil were you thinking of, my dear? You could have been molested—or worse, you know.”

“So I discovered,” she admitted ruefully.

“Thing is, I don’t see how you managed to leave Rowe’s Hill without being detected. I mean, ’tis not as though it were in town.”

“Well… I do not suppose you would tell Hannah of it anyway, would you? No, of course you would not,” she decided. “ ’Twas Thomas. I persuaded him to hire his brother, who is in Squire March’s employ, for he often goes into the village in the cart. Thomas took my portmanteau when he rode over to engage him, and then I walked across the back fields to the next lane, where, for the princely sum of ten pounds, I was met the next morning. I caught the mail coach in Cambridge, transferred in Wallingford, and arrived here today. It was not, I fear, a very comfortable journey, for I could scarce sleep.”

“Well, you will never have to face such an ordeal again, Harry, for I mean to take care of you.”

He spoke as though he thought of her as a helpless child, she thought, and while his words were meant to comfort, they did not satisfy that in her which wished desperately for his love. But aloud she said, “ ’Tis to be hoped we shall take care of each other, isn’t it?”

He could not fail to note the wistfulness in her voice, and he leaned across, covering her folded hands with his. “Of course it is, my dear. And you must not think I am repining over this marriage.”

“Yes, well, I know I am not what you would have chosen for your viscountess, Richard, so there is no need to—”

“Harry … Harry … you must not think I had romantical notions about my marriage. If I have any regrets, ’tis only that I had not wanted to wed so soon.”

She wanted to believe him more than anything, but she could not resist asking, “But did you not wish for an Incomparable?”

“I suppose every man dreams of an Incomparable. But I daresay Incomparables may not in fact make the best wives, when all is said and done. I want a comfortable wife, Harry, a woman to listen to me, to rear my children.”

“Oh.”

“I do want children, Harry. My parents had but me, for I am told they did not rub together at all well, and I always felt the lack.” He leaned back then, stretching his long legs as best he could within the confines of the coach, and surveyed her lazily from beneath lashes so black they looked like coal smudges against his face. “You do not look twenty-four at all,” he decided.

She reached up self-consciously to smooth back the stray hairs that insisted on falling over her forehead and at her temples. “Well, I suppose if I wore it down I might look a trifle younger.”

“You mistake me. I meant you look much younger now.”

“I do?”

His gaze dropped lower, straying speculatively from her shoulders to her waist. With a start, she realized he’d never looked quite that way at her before.

“You know, Harry, you are trimmer than I thought.”

“Edwin said I was too thin by half.”

“Then he did not know what to appreciate in a female. He must surely view women like cattle if he thinks that.”

The laziness had crept into his voice, sending a very pleasant shiver through her. Nonplussed, she looked out the window into the darkening countryside. “Yes, well, I should like to forget Mr. Thornton.”

She had a very fine profile and very fine eyes. No, she was not a beauty, he admitted to himself, but she would show to advantage once he got her out of those awful dresses Hannah had bought her. But she would never be truly fashionable, he supposed, for she lacked the social ease so necessary for successful entry into the
ton.
And that did bother him. Before his Uncle John had insisted on this marriage, Richard had always thought that his wife would be elegant, witty, and accomplished. But Harriet had never had the chance to be anything other than a colorless, timid girl, and he could not quite bring himself to fault her for what she could not help. Besides, she was a very good sort of a girl, one usually devoid of feminine wiles, and she ought to make him a more-than-adequate wife. No, he meant to make the best of his unwanted marriage.

As it grew darker inside the carriage, they both lapsed into silence, each lost in his own assessment of what life with the other would bring. And neither spoke again until the coach rolled into the lighted yard of the Black Lion Inn.

“Well, my dear, it looks as though we have arrived,” he announced, straightening in his seat.

“Yes.”

“Wait here whilst I bespeak a chamber and a private parlor for us.”

With that, he’d jumped down, closing the carriage door behind him, leaving her with the realization he’d said “chamber.” She felt the lump of his ring through her glove and told herself she was a married lady. And she wondered if she were going to discover those mysteries Hannah only hinted darkly at whenever she mentioned the married state. Well, it could not be so very bad, Harriet reasoned to still her rising qualms, else how could it be that so many females wished to be wed?

“Do you wish to refresh yourself before supper?” Richard asked, wrenching open her door and reaching for her.

Light and shadow caught his face, transforming it, and his blue eyes reflected the gold of the lantern that hung above the door. For a moment she was scared, and then his strong hands clasped her waist, lifting her down. His coat sleeve brushed against the front of her pelisse as he reached for her hand. And she was so very conscious of how much bigger than she he was.

“Tired?”

“A little,” she lied. In truth, she was exhausted from a two-and-one-half-day ride in mail coaches and a long day in Bath.

“So am I. I feel as though I’ve lived in my carriage ever since Hannah told me you’d gone.” He slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Well, Harry, are you prepared for your bridal supper?”

She hesitated, hanging back a little. “I don’t feel like a viscountess, Richard.”

“Nonsense.” He patted his pocket, smiling down at her. “Lady Sherborne, you have the marriage lines to prove it. And if you’d change your dress before your food grows cold, you’d best hurry.”

Inside, she followed the innkeeper’s wife up the stairs to the chamber given them. It was, while not large, neatly furnished and clean, and fine porcelain lamps lit the room, giving it a cozy appearance. One of the servants brought up her worn and cracked leather portmanteau, setting it on a bench inside the door. And Richard’s driver carried in his traveling bag and a spare pair of boots.

After they left, she removed her gown and drew out her best dress, discovering it to be sadly creased, much more so than the travel-wrinkled one she’d worn. Taking the back of her hairbrush, she tried to smooth out the worst of it, but it really required the services of a good dresser or lady’s maid.

“Harry … ?”

Richard stepped in and stopped, his eyes drawn to the swell of her breasts against the thin, soft cotton camisole that stretched over her zona. For a moment his mouth went dry as unexpected desire flooded through him. She saw the change in his expression and instinctively backed away, her hands clutching her creased dress. He recognized her fear and, trying to keep his voice normal, moved closer.

“Do you need help with your gown, my dear? You’d best finish dressing that we may eat.”

There was only the wall behind her now, and he was so near she could feel the heat of his body. She brought the dress up higher.

“Afraid, Harry?” he asked softly. “You’ve no need to be, you know. ’Tis Richard—we have known each other for years, haven’t we?”

Telling himself that he had to go slowly with her and not rush his fences, he took the dress from her nerveless fingers and lifted it up, holding it over her head. It was, he reflected with a trace of irony, the first time he’d ever sought to seduce by dressing a woman. To her amazement, he slipped the gown onto her neck and pulled it down about her shoulders, straightening it over her back and hips, smoothing the slim skirt downward. She sucked in her breath and stood very still as his hands moved over her body. His touch was light, but it was as though his fingers were fire.

He could see her swallow, see the faint, purplish blood vessels pulse in her neck, and he could feel her body tense as she closed her eyes to hide from him. Slowly he turned her around and began hooking the back of her dress, tracing the edge of her neckline with his fingertips. Strands of hair straggled from the severely twisted coil at the back of her head. Lifting them, curling them around his knuckle, he bent to brush his lips there.

She’d expected nothing like what she felt. Even his breath rushing against her skin burned her. “Please,” she whispered weakly, shuddering as her skin turned to gooseflesh all over her body.

It delighted him that she was not going to be cold, that she was going to respond to his man’s touch with a woman’s desire. Tearing himself away while he yet had any appetite left for supper, he gently tugged the pins from her hair.

“Brush your hair and let us eat, Harry. I’d not tarry overlong at my food.” Then, realizing how eager he must sound, he added, “We’ve a long journey on the morrow.”

Grateful for the excuse to turn away, she faced the slanted mirror and began dragging the silver-handled brush through the tangled mass of hair that tumbled down her back. “I’d hoped to look more presentable on my wedding day, but I look like a farmer’s maid masquerading as a lady. Look at this dress, and … and look at this hair!” she wailed.

“I’d rather look at the rest of you, if the truth be known,” he teased wickedly. “Come on, Harry, your food grows cold. Besides, there’s none to see you but me.”

He was holding the door for her, waiting. She took one last tug at her hair and nodded. “I suppose ’tis foolish of me to want to be pretty,” she sighed, passing underneath his arm.

“Not at all. You would not be a female if you did not.” Smiling, he offered his arm. “Besides, I think you have succeeded.”

She would be hard-put later to describe any dish she’d eaten, but it was all good, as far as she could remember. Indeed, she supposed it must be the wine, for everything blurred but an overwhelming awareness of the man seated across from her. As the covers were removed, he leaned back against the wall, his blue eyes intent on her, his glass raised.

“To you, Harry.”

There was a warmth, an intimacy there that she’d never seen before, and it sent a thrill through her. Slowly she raised her own glass in acceptance, drinking to herself. Then, giggling self-consciously, she set it down. “I must surely be foxed, Richard.”

“No, but you have had enough, I think.” He reached across to take the glass, setting it down on the linen tablecloth. “Are you ready to retire?”

Sudden fear assailed her, and she panicked. What if she did not please him? What if she gave him a disgust of her ignorance? And what if she did not like what he would do to her? “Uh …”

“Harry, you are quaking like a schoolboy about to be birched,” he chided.

“I… I should like to go up first, I think.”

“All right.”

She climbed the stairs with her thoughts tumbling wildly, torn by what she feared would happen if she displeased him, afraid and yet intrigued by the change she’d seen in him earlier. She closed the door and leaned on the bedpost weakly, gaining courage.

“I changed my mind, Harry,” he whispered low, coming in behind her. “I’d rather undress you myself.”

“No!”

“Harry …” She clutched the bedpost as if it were some sort of life raft when he lifted her thick hair off her neck. “Harry, I’ve no intention of being a married monk.”

“Tomorrow—”

“Tonight.” His hand slid down to the hooks of her dress, separating the first one. “The sooner all is natural between us, the better ’twill be.” He felt her stiffen and tremble as the second one gave way. “Listen to me …” With one arm he turned her around to face him; with the other, he continued unhooking the dress. “I swear you that I shall do nothing you dislike.”

“You cannot know that!” she cried.

“I know. Unlike you, I know what I am about.”

“Please. ’Tis so sudden, and I—” Her words stopped abruptly as the last hook came loose and he slipped his hand under the released fabric, touching the bare skin of her back, kneading the tense muscles of her shoulder. “Richard, I—”

“Shhhh. Trust me, Harry.”

He leaned closer now, brushing his lips against her ear as his hand loosened her gown and bared her shoulder. He was warm, he was vital, and he was far too near to allow her to think rationally.

“Richard …” she tried desperately. And then his mouth silenced hers, blotting out fear and reason. And everything that had gone before was as child’s play, she thought as she gave herself up to that kiss.