Not Quite Married (4 page)

With everything already arranged, would he truly have cast it all aside if she had said no? Why hadn’t she spoken up? Revealed her early opposition to the marriage, or at least her uncertainty about it?

She stole a glance at his profile as they walked and felt a guilty trill of pleasure at the way her lips tingled with memory. That was why she hadn’t spoken up: that handsome face, those penetrating eyes, the startling discovery of herself as a woman in relation to a man. She wanted to know what it was like to be a bride, a wife, a beloved. She had read too much poetry and too many stories of love and intrigue not to be enticed by the prospect of such things occurring in her own life.

When they reentered the ballroom and sought out her father, he eagerly halted the musicians to announce that his daughter soon would be wedded to Monsieur Trechaud of Paris. And she looked up to find Raoul smiling down at her with what she hoped was genuine pleasure.

Four

THERE WERE ONLY THREE HOURS until dawn when Brien parted from her father and Raoul and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Now that the ordeals of the ball and meeting Raoul were finished, exhaustion weighted her limbs but her mind was still whirring with shape, color, and sound. All she could think about was the storm of interest unleashed by the announcement at the ball of her impending marriage and of the man who stood with her in the center of it.

Raoul. After their tryst in the garden, he had been a perfect gentleman. Escorting her, smiling at her, and respectfully touching her hand as it rested on his arm. He was every inch the attentive groom-to-be.

Ella sprang up from a stool by the fire at the sound of Brien’s entrance, and rubbed sleep from her eyes.

“I saw ’im from th’ stairs—oooh, ’e’s ’andsome as can be!” The little maid took her mistress’s wrap and gloves, then pulled Brien to the wardrobe to begin untying her laces. “Got some mighty peculiar servants, though. They ate in th’ servants’ ’all wi’ us.

One’s big as a ’ouse an’ don’t say a word. Dumb, they say.” She gave a massive shiver. “Not a ’air on ’is ’ead an’ eyes shinin’ like black glass. Give me th’ willies.” Another shiver and she was back to her mistress’s adventure. “What’s ’e like . . . yer Frenchie? What was th’ ball like? Was it grand an’ thrillin’?”

“Well, Raoul is very handsome. Mannerly and attentive. Very . . .

very . . .”

“Good enough t’ eat?” Ella prompted with a grin.

“Ella!”

“Naughty an’ excitin’? Quick with ’is ’ands in th’ dark?”

“No! He’s . . . he’s . . .” As she struggled to put her impressions into words, she realized that there was something in Raoul’s perfect manner that she found unsettling.

“Then, tell me what ’e
said.
”

When she tried, Brien could scarcely recall a thing he had said . .

. could only remember the low, compelling tones in which he spoke. “His voice is so deep that every word sounds velvety and soothing. When he speaks, you just lose all ability to think straight.” The sense of her own thoughts came clear to her. “His voice is like . . . like a cradlesong . . . as if every word is lulling you to . . .”

Ella paused with a wicked laugh in the midst of removing her bodice. “T’ open yer thighs, most likely. Not that ’e’d need much

’elp there, what wi’ that ’andsome face of ’is. Did ’e kiss ye?”

Brien blushed from her breasts up and the little maid laughed.

“I knew it!” Ella crowed. “I knew when I saw ’im that ’e’d waste no time samplin’ th’ wares.” She shoved her face near Brien’s.

“And ye loved it.”

“I did not,” Brien declared with emphatic hauteur. “I found it . .

.
interesting.
”

“And?”

“And rather pleasant.”

“Come on, my lady, ye loved it!” Ella chided, demanding the truth behind Brien’s veiled eyes and furious blushing. “An’ ye want more.”

“His kisses were enjoyable,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t be adverse to another.”

“I’ll bet ye wouldn’t.” Ella beamed. “Yer
mon-sieur
must be some bloke. One night an’ ’e’s got ye looking forward t’ th’

weddin’, instead o’ dreadin’ it.”

Ella’s words circled again and again in Brien’s mind as she climbed into the crisp sheets and watched Ella snuff the candles and withdraw. After one night, a few short hours, he had her not only reconciled to the marriage but anticipating it?

As she lay in the darkness, staring through the dimness at the canopy spread above her, a barrage of impressions and sensations came rushing back: Raoul’s handsome face, the feel of his lips moving on hers, and the shivers that went through her every time Raoul trained that penetrating gaze on her or poured his deep, lulling tones into her ear.

He was trying to win her, she realized. That was the reason for the attentive elegance of his manners and the silky persuasion of his voice. But it only made sense, from his perspective. A bit of courtship seemed prudent to get things off on the right foot, considering that they would be living together for the rest of their lives.

But she couldn’t help feeling that he was a bit too eager to please, that his charm was a bit too polished . . . even calculated.

. . .

Don’t be ridiculous,
her pragmatic inner self demanded.
Be
flattered that he takes the time and trouble to seek your good
favor.

Don’t be flattered,
another insightful part of her declared,
be
cautious. If something seems too good to be true, then it
generally is.

And therein lay the root of her discontent. She was charmed by everything he did, but it was all too clear that he intended everything he did to charm her.

She slipped from the bed, donned her dressing gown, and began to pace.

Everything she had seen of him was what he wanted her to see.

What was his true nature? What were his true feelings about the marriage? About
her
? What sort of deal had her father struck with the marquis and his handsome son?

She had asked to see the betrothal documents and learn the terms of her marriage settlement, but her father had dismissed her curiosity as unwomanly and declared that the language of the legal documents was convoluted and would mean nothing to her.

Then he had stared at her in a way that shamed and dismissed her once again for displaying unfeminine interests. Now, however, that curiosity had a foothold in reason and an urgency that would not be denied.

Snatching up a candlestick, she stirred the banked coals in the hearth and lighted the wick. The hall outside her door was dark and quiet. She slipped out and tiptoed down the corridor to the top of the great stairs, where she was stopped by a dim glow coming from the salon and the sight of a single candle burning on the center-hall table. It was customary for the butler to leave a candle burning for her father to use to see his way to his chambers after working late in his study. She bent over the railing and scowled, searching the rear of the center hall for light coming down the corridor from her father’s study. It seemed dark and she looked back to the light coming from the salon. Perhaps he and Raoul were having a final drink before retiring . . .

celebrating the success of the evening. If so, the study would be empty and she would have time to search her father’s desk for the marriage documents.

Gathering her courage, she extinguished her candle, clasped her dressing gown a bit tighter around her, and tiptoed down the stairs. Her heart beat faster as she rounded the newel post at the bottom of the steps and hurried toward the rear of the entry hall and the corridor leading to the study. The door was pushed together but not fully closed. Just as she was reaching for the handle, she heard the sound of the terrace door opening and closing inside the study. A gust of wind pushed the door open half an inch and she was horrified to find herself standing in a small slice of light.

She darted to the side and flattened herself against the wall beside the open door. Light and voices—the study wasn’t empty!

She glanced down the corridor toward the darkened stairs, hoping she could get back to her rooms without being detected. But the sound of male voices kept her from moving . . . one higher but clearly male, the other deep and resonant, instantly familiar.

Raoul. With his brother Louis? Surely not; the thin male voice sounded English as it wafted through the opening at the edge of the door.

“Raoul, you dog, I don’t know how you do it. You’re a cat—always landing on your feet. Give you a disaster and you turn it into a triumph. Great brandy, by the way.”

Raoul’s baritone was easily understandable. “I do my best.”

There was arrogance in his tone, unleashed by her father’s potent brandy. “What do you think of the place?”

“It suits you.”

“Don’t be an ass, Cornelius. It’s a heap. Refurbishing it would cost a fortune, and in the end all I would have is a refurbished heap. I intend to pull it down and begin again.”

The other man gave a low whistle. “That’ll cost a pretty penny.”

Raoul laughed. “Have you not heard? I am now an extremely wealthy man.”

His companion gave a grunt of amusement. “So, the terms were generous.”

“The old man is desperate for a grandchild. By the time my dear father was through with him, he’d promised me everything but his wigs and gout-plasters.”

“Well, he’s chosen the right man for the job. Lord knows you’ve left offspring in your wake wherever you’ve gone. Still, I never thought to see the stud of Paris married and settled in the country with a pack of squalling brats.”

“Producing offspring only requires that I be present for the planting . . . not the harvest.” When Brien put her eye to the slit at the edge of the door, there was a vile grin on Raoul’s face.

“Speaking of ‘harvests,’ how fares
la belle Devereaux
?”

“Packed off to relations in Austria, I believe. Your son is now in the care of a gardener’s family or some such. Can’t say I blame you there—a fair piece of goods, that one. Even used, she’d make a prize bedwarmer.” Their laughter grew louder and more humorless.

Shock immobilized Brien. He had already made a child with some young woman? With
several
young women? She clamped her hand over her mouth to contain her gasp.

“A bloody pot of jam, you’ve got here. Out of the stew and into a pot of jam.” A clink of glass betrayed their toast. “Your father . .

. how does he take it?”

“He is overjoyed that I have at last realized my responsibilities to the family.” Raoul’s tone was mocking. “For a paltry investment he rids himself of an infamously fertile son and gains a financial alliance. Southwold is far wealthier than
mon père
supposed, and so deliciously eager to have a grandchild. I have already paid my gaming debts at Madame Fontaine’s. And as soon as the first child is born, he will put half of Weston Trading Company into my hands. With the birth of a second child, I will control the rest and he will retire to the country.”

“Then you’d best plow your bride well. The sooner she’s with child, the sooner you’ll control the old man’s fortune.” The stranger rose and shuffled across the room to replenish his drink.

“And what of this bride of yours?”

Raoul’s next words seared into Brien’s mind.

“A plump partridge. Docile. I’ll have her breeding by Michaelmas. She’ll be no trouble.”

“‘Plump,’ you say? In fact?” The stranger belched. “Always favored them that way myself. Makes for a softer ride. Have bigger tits as well. Has she?” He laughed at Raoul’s silent gesture, whatever it was. “If you find yourself detained on your wedding night, I’d be pleased to stand in for you. My”—another belch—“pleas-sure.”

Raoul’s answer came on an ugly laugh. “Give me time to get my hands on Southwold’s fortune, and I may let you have her for a few nights.”

“It’s a deal.” His friend laughed wickedly and there was a pause.

“I must get to the inn whi-ilst I can still ride.” There was a scraping sound and their voices faded as they moved toward the library doors that led onto the terrace.

“You will arrive a week before the wedding and stay here with me.” She heard Raoul clearly. “
Mon Dieu,
it will be good to have your wit to relieve the boredom. Louis is driving me mad with his whining and hand-wringing.” Then the terrace door closed.

Brien flattened back against the wall as Raoul doused the candles and the light dimmed in the library. Soon the glow of a single candelabra edged into the darkness of the hall and the door swung back, stopping just short of hitting her. She bit her lip and covered her mouth tighter, panic rising. But the light moved steadily on, ascending the stairs and turning along the balustrade toward the guest rooms.

It was several minutes before she could force herself to move. In the darkness of the hall, she searched for familiar objects to act as guideposts. Her only thought was of the safety of her own chambers. Each step seemed to take an eternity. When the latch of the door clicked softly behind her, she groped for the key and turned it before staggering to the hearth and crumpling into a heap on the rug before the wheezing embers of the fire.

The sun was filtering around the curtains the next morning before she could bring herself to move. She dragged herself to her bed and wrapped her arms around her middle, holding herself together.

No exercise of will or logic could dismiss the horror of what she had heard or its devastating effects on her. She had been sold. To a man who had no regard for her or for marriage. A profligate who had disgraced his family with infamous and immoral behavior. How could her father have struck a marriage bargain with such a man? Did he bother to check anything besides the marquis’s balance sheets?

That afternoon a soft tapping came at her chamber door. By the time she roused, rubbed her swollen eyes and slid from the bed, the tapping had become an earnest pounding. When she reached the door and turned the key, Ella burst into the chamber.

“My lady! What’s ’appened?” Ella searched Brien’s tear-reddened face. “Whatever it was; it stilled yer tongue. Back into bed wi’ ye.” She tucked Brien back into the covers and wetted a cloth to comfort her swollen eyes. “Now, don’t ye move.”