The Harem Bride (16 page)

Turning, he offered his arm to his wife. “My
lady, if you will come with me . . .”

As they walked, Penny’s thoughts once again
whirled back to the Topkapi, to Sultan Selim the Third, a man of
more kindness than she had appreciated at the time. A man who had
since been assassinated by his own janissaries, and all because he
had become too modern, too westernized by his Francophile ways.
Indeed, Penny would forever believe it was Aimée de Rivery who had
influenced the sultan on her behalf.

Oddly enough, the French schoolgirl had
triumphed in the end. The janissaries’ revolt had been short-lived,
and Aimée de Rivery’s son now ruled the Ottoman Empire and was
proving to be the most enlightened sultan yet.

As for herself . . . it was past time to
admit she was not renewing her vows solely because she owed Jason
for being able to live the life of a privileged Englishwoman in her
own land. She would repeat the ancient vows because she did not
truly wish to live out her life alone. Because she fervently wished
to have some of those wonderful children who had run through the
rooms and gardens of the seraglio, shrieking with joy and laughter,
whose tears she had dried on occasion. Those charming, wilful,
loving little creatures, wide-eyed over their limited world and too
young to understand the severe confinement to come, for even royal
princes could not run free after a certain age. In a world where
sultans enjoyed multiple wives and primogeniture was not the norm,
the life of princes was almost as hazardous as the life of
princesses was boring.

So now she would allow Noreen and Mrs. Wilton
to fuss over her while the household assembled in the drawing room.
The oddity of it struck her. The guests at her first wedding had
been the highest authorities in the Ottoman Empire. This time,
everyone except Lord Brawley was a servant. But she had Noreen at
her side, and Mr. Stanmore appeared considerably less formidable
than Mr. Hunt, who had said the words of her first marriage service
in the sultan’s throne room as if he were committing an act of
blasphemy.

In an unusual attack of feminine vanity,
Penny glanced down at her gown. A relic from the years before Miss
Pemberton’s illness and no longer in the first stare of elegance,
its soft blush silk was, nonetheless, the perfect foil for Penny’s
golden brown hair, from whose modest coil Noreen had tweaked soft
curls to frame her mistress’s pale but lovely face. Mrs. Wilton
offered a Book of Common Prayer with white leather cover, to which
she had added long white ribbons that trailed nearly to the floor.
Tears sprang to Penny’s eyes as she accepted the housekeeper’s
gift. And then she gasped as a veil dropped over her head.

“
Not a word,” Noreen hissed in her ear.
“I’ve kept that piece of silk tucked away all these years. Why not
make use of it?”

But Noreen did not understand. Could
not understand what that transparent white silk meant to her. It
was her shroud. A manacle binding her to that horrible time. A
symbol of all that had gone wrong in her life. She could not
be
married
in it!

How exceedingly foolish. She
had been
married in it. She had
repeated her vows from under its silken folds once before, and she
would now do so again. Marriage or loneliness forever. Which did
she prefer?

Clutching her prayer book, Penelope Blayne
Lisbourne took her place at her husband’s side. Noreen stood to her
left, Gant Deveny to Jason Lisbourne’s right. Mr. Adrian Stanmore
regarded them all with a benign smile, and began the service.

That night, Penny regarded, with considerable
resignation, the serviceable cotton nightdress Noreen was holding
up. “I wish I might have had some inkling of the earl’s
intentions,” she grumbled, “so I might at least have acquired a few
brideclothes.”

“’
Tis the best I could find, m’lady. I
fear you’ve had little thought for yourself these past few
years.”

Penny allowed Noreen to slip the plain cotton
garment over her head. There was, at least, a bit of lace trim
around the high neck and on the edges of the long sleeves. Not that
it mattered in the dark. Ignoring Noreen’s protest, Penny ordered
her to extinguish all candles before she left the room.

And then she waited . . . her mind
inevitably filling with visions of her first wedding night. Her joy
that rescue was at hand. Her eagerness to show Jason how well she
had learned her lessons. The transparency of the azure
shalwar
and tunic. Heat stained
Penny’s cheeks. She could not have been that foolish child who
actually thought Jason loved her. She could not have been Gulbeyaz,
who crawled up from the foot of her lord and master’s bed and . .
.

O-o-o-h!
In
anguish, Penny groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Now, in
her wisdom, she knew she had thoroughly shocked him. He had turned
away from her in revulsion, running back to the safety of his
friends as soon as he could. And staying away for nine and a half
years . . . until, driven by the necessity for an heir, he had
finally acknowledged her existence.

Heirs were good, Penny conceded, shutting out
those mortifying images from the seraglio. She could give love to
children, and receive it in return. And, if she were very careful
not to further offend Jason, they might go on very well. Certainly
as well as the many other couples who had marriages of convenience.
Yes, she would be exactly what he wanted, a proper English wife who
would bear his children, ignore his occasional peccadillos . .
.

Well, possibly not. She would consider that
another day. For the moment she must remember to be everything she
was not on her first wedding night. Cool, calm, resigned to her
fate. A true Englishwoman of noble birth.

Men of thirty did not approach their brides
with pounding hearts. It was absurd. He had quite happily dragged
his feet for ten years. He had fallen into the habit of addressing
all thoughts of his wife with reluctance. But now, memories of that
first wedding night surged across Jason’s vision, sending his blood
pulsing in a way he had forgotten was possible. And tonight . . .
tonight he was no longer under restraints. Tonight he could enjoy
his bride to the fullest. Ah, he hoped . . . surely she had not
forgotten all those delicious things she had learned in the
seraglio. No, of course she had not. Together, they would
rediscover each and every one of them.

Jason fumbled as he tied his soft wool robe
about his waist. Why knot it at all? He would not be wearing it
long. Just a few steps through the adjoining dressing rooms, and
then . . . Lord, he was practically salivating, though his bride
wasn’t half the beauty Gulbeyaz had been. Perhaps he might procure
some kohl, some of the exotic scents that had wafted from his harem
bride’s skin and clothing. Yes, Penelope would like that, he
thought. What harm in indulging their fantasy with a few items from
the East?

As he started toward his wife’s bedchamber,
Jason’s knees were weak. The flood of memories! His first wedding
night had been the most agonizing moment of his life. And the most
glorious. Truthfully, he could hardly wait to repeat it. With a
more satisfying ending.

His wife was sitting straight up in her bed,
the covers clutched beneath her chin. Only slightly taken aback,
Jason accepted that it was a chilly night, the fire already
beginning to turn to embers. In spite of his eagerness, he took the
time to add more logs, using the bellows to encourage them to burn.
Then he turned back to his bride.

As Jason approached the bed, he succumbed to
his unexpected eagerness, allowing his robe to drop to the floor.
His wife’s eyes went wide, then instantly shifted away.

“
I want you to know,” she announced in
clipped tones, “that I am perfectly reconciled to doing my duty.”
Chin up, eyes fixed on the heavy draperies at the foot of the bed
rather than on the sight of her naked husband, she more closely
resembled a Christian martyr about to be thrown to the lions than
Gulbeyaz welcoming her long-lost husband.

“
You are
reconciled
,” Jason repeated, standing with his
backside roasting from the newly stoked fire and his once eager
front side wilting in the fullness of his disappointment. “That is
how you approach our marriage bed?”

“
Is that not what you wish?” Penny
asked, thoroughly confused.

“
Hell and damnation, woman,” the Earl
of Rocksley roared. “I want a flesh and blood woman, not a
sacrificial virgin!” And with that he swept up his robe and
stalked, naked, from the room, trailing the green wool behind him.
When it caught in the slamming door to the dressing room, he left
it there. Let the redoubtable Noreen O’Donnell puzzle that one
out!

Behind him, Penny slid down and buried
herself beneath the covers. What had she done? What went wrong?
Just when . . .

What had happened to that glorious hero she
once knew?

What had happened to her dreams of loving,
bright-eyed children?

And where did their lives go from here?

~ * ~

Lord Brawley, graciously pleading his lack of
desire to play gooseberry to newlyweds, fled Rockbourne Crest
directly after nuncheon. No one could blame him, for the atmosphere
inside the early seventeenth century seat of the Earls of Rocksley
vied with the windswept chill of winter without. And, of course,
good manners dictated that no matter how bleak Lord Rocksley might
look . . . no matter how pale and bristling his wife, it was time
for friends to take themselves off, even when it meant leaving the
unhappy pair to find their way out of whatever quagmire they had
stumbled into.

But the pit between them had had nearly ten
years to grow into a well of despond, the depth of their
misunderstandings far beyond any single misconception or overly
sensitive reaction. The earl, in the fullness of his pride, would
not chance his manhood again to his wife’s obvious distaste. Penny,
now certain that her behavior on their first wedding night had
given her husband a revulsion of her from which he could never
recover, threw herself into her household duties. Only in the dark
loneliness of her bed did she allow herself to wonder about a
solution to their impasse. Jason wanted children, he had told her
so. So why his abrupt departure on their wedding night? Why had he
not come to her since? She had told him she was willing, had she
not?

Yet now she questioned even her memories.
What was real? What a mere fantasy she had indulged in during her
long days in the harem and in the years to come? Even now, reality
was elusive. Jason had said he wanted a true wife. Then he had
taken one look, turned on his heel, and stalked out. It was as if
she had been transported to a moor and set down in the midst of a
quaking bog. The ground trembled beneath her feet, and she could
see no way out. She was being pulled under and would surely drown,
while Jason stood, unmoving, on the bank and watched, this time
lifting not so much as a finger to help.

The days dragged on, the earl and his
countess meeting occasionally in the breakfast room, dining each
evening in stiff and solitary formality at a table designed for
twenty. Penny did her duty, as she had for so many years at
Pemberton Priory. She continued to confer with Mrs. Wilton about
the menus. She inspected every room, making notes where
refurbishment was necessary. She began an inventory of the linens.
Each evening she played the piano (with modest skill) while the
earl listened with some attention, thanking her each time with
words so stiff and formal that further conversation died unborn.
Until one evening, more than a fortnight after their wedding, when
the icicles had disappeared from the eaves, the snow had melted
into a sea of mud, and the spike-like leaves of snowdrops and
crocuses could be seen poking through the earth.

Perhaps it was this tiny waft of spring,
Penny thought, but certainly some imp of change spurred her on. She
might not have the courage to initiate a discussion of their
obvious problem, for if she did, it seemed most likely Jason would
reveal his change of mind by sending her away. But she recalled she
had a legitimate topic of conversation, one which might elicit more
response than the state of the weather, the roads, or even the
state of the realm.

After playing a group of English country
songs, mostly in a minor key, Penny embarked on a Scarlatti piece,
equally sad and soulful. She did not sing, but echoed the words in
her head as the song begged an unknown lover to cease to torment
and wound. And if he could not, then the singer begged him to kill
her. Penny found comfort in this mute protest, though she doubted
the earl had the slightest idea of the song’s lyrics.

“
O, lasciate me
morir!
” The last vibrating strings died away. Penny’s
hands rested on the pianoforte’s keys. Head bent, she remained
silent, summoning her courage to speak to her husband.

“
Good God, woman, don’t you know
anything lively?” the earl barked. “
Oh,
let me die
, indeed! Oh, yes, I daresay I am as
familiar with Italian songs as you. Did we not both make the Grand
Tour?” he taunted.

How much more could he hurt her? Penny
wondered, as her stomach churned. Yet anger was good, for it
loosened her tongue, which had been woefully stuck to the roof of
her mouth these past few weeks. She stood, with dignity, and
crossed the room to sit across from him in an elegant giltwood
armchair upholstered in gold brocade. The warmth of the fire was
welcome, after the chill of the air around the piano, which was
situated on the far side of the room. “I promise I shall not stay
exclusively in the minor key, my lord,” Penny said carefully.
“Tonight, I was perhaps influenced by something I wished to discuss
with you.”