A June Bride (14 page)

“We are married. We can dance together all night, if we choose,” he tried to make amends. He looked to her, seeing no softening.

So, increasingly piqued by all of womankind, he grew contrary and made good on his words: Alessandra danced with no others for the rest of the night, not even when her mother tried to suggest otherwise. Eventually her father, looking a bit annoyed, called a halt to the music and suggested cards.

Even then, Alessandra was his partner, upon Geoffrey’s insistence. She looked at him with a crease on her brow, but she did not demur.

He saw with approval that Jacqueline had been seated at a table with Lord Aldford. Don’t think you may dictate to me, my dear, he thought, sitting with his back to her.

Alessandra was slow to dismiss her upset, casting him a curious look now and again, but the stiffness eventually went out of her. By the time they were well into playing whist, she’d found her smile again, even casting one his way at some chatter he’d shared with the two others at their table.

He didn’t miss, though, that her glances also took in Miss Bremcott, nor the uncertain speculation in her eyes. It made him feel oddly guilty, and made it difficult to retain a light and easy manner. He’d much rather be at his club, or an inn he knew with excellent porter—anywhere but where women and their needs disturbed his peace of mind.

Four weeks. They had been married a month. Geoffrey had been virtuous for four long weeks. Really, longer, having had no one of interest in view some weeks before that. So not weeks, but months, the more he considered.

Ever since the night of the smaller dinner party, Alessandra had taken to going to bed either very early or very late. She was either asleep when he came to the room, or she came in once he was asleep. Her message could not have been clearer: touch me not.

She was cordial. She was polite when they met or dined. But there was no evening conversation, no more late night card games. In truth, he scarce saw her these past couple of weeks.

The only part of Geoffrey that had been active in their mutual bed was his imagination, and that seemed to be working to the point of exhaustion. His body was restless, hungry. His mind knew no fewer cravings.

He had every right to her body. He was her husband. She, his wife. It was far more unnatural not to come together…

But…those eyes. When they looked at him with a question, with a shadow of hurt… Another night slid past, unconsummated, and each subsequent night built the invisible wall between them higher yet.

Then her father had come to him—presumably a move created by servants’ tattle, damn their observant eyes—and offered to pay him to consummate the marriage.

It had been all Geoffrey could do not to strike the man. He’d had to settle for a snarl and slamming the salon door when he’d stomped away from the blackguard.

And then, just when they really, truly needed to move away from Lord Warring’s home, Mama had sent a note that her town house’s roof was leaking, and she would have it repaired before they could move in. The delay would be at least two weeks.

Geoffrey had put his head in his hands, and left the note where Alessandra could find it for her own edification.

Damn it all. He wasn’t a beast. He wasn’t a man led only by his hungers. But, honestly, this marriage was all inconvenience and punishment, and nothing of reward or satisfaction.

Oh, he knew easily enough how to seek out a cure, if he was to give in to the pull of simple lust. Even though Jacqueline was still a week away from marrying, Geoffrey knew himself too well, and that he was loath to seek out some opera dancer or member of the demimonde. Damn it, it wasn’t honorable to take a mistress or seek out a doxy...so soon.

Yet it was entirely imaginable, so very easy to picture.

It did not help at all that he was surrounded by the trappings of a woman: a corset laid over a chair, a hint of perfume on the pillows he chose for the night, a ribbon that had fallen into his boot. Unforeseen little things that set his imagination dancing, his senses reeling unexpectedly.

And not just any woman… He must be honest with himself. A woman. Alessandra. She was Jacqueline’s opposite: subtle, not forward, not self-centered. She was clever, and kind-hearted—and increasingly elusive of his touch, physical or mental.

Once or twice he had opened Alessandra’s chest of drawers, just to see, just to touch lightly the things that made up her world. He had opened her wardrobe, looked at her gowns, her slippers, her half boots, her hats, just to marvel at the daintiness and foreignness of having them in his chambers.

It was almost funny, really, that no other woman had spent an entire night with him before.

Why did Alessandra’s all-night presence make any difference?

He only knew that, somehow, it did.

A litany of simple things filled his eyes, his ears, his days and nights. At meals, he noted the way she tilted her head when she was thinking. When he found her with her sister in the front salon, he saw the way she sometimes stuck out the tip of her tongue while she stitched. He had seen the little frown that meant she was really listening. He recalled the dimple that appeared at the right corner of her mouth when she smiled or laughed. He watched her hands, moving so delicately as she talked, and noted the clarity of her speaking voice, with no hint of a lisp as was often conceived as fashionable, but which affectation he could not abide.

Yesterday Geoffrey had found the small reticule in which Alessandra kept her pin money, and a simple glance at the bulk beneath the fabric told him she had not spent much, if any. He had frowned to himself, thinking she either meant to snub him, or that perhaps she did not know what to make of their strange arrangement, did not want to spend his money when they remained so unsure of one another. He would have to mention again to Alessandra, obliquely, he supposed, thinking of the stubborn light that he had noted once or twice in her eyes, that he truly had no objection to the one who bore his name spending his ready. Jacqueline would have spent it, on hats or gloves or fripperies to make her look her best as she strolled arm in arm with him.

Three days ago he had taken Alessandra to the British Museum and to St. Paul’s, finally. He’d had to push a bit, to get her to agree, to be alone with him.

She had not brought forth her reticule to buy any of the souvenirs or sketches available. But whereas her monies had not flowed freely, once they’d entered the museum, she herself had burst with commentary, an erstwhile tour guide full of facts and interesting tales as they looked at ancient manuscripts, jewels, and mummies. He had teased her lightly about being a bluestocking, only to apologize profusely when she had colored up and instantly held her tongue. Some more gentle teasing had eventually led her back to another torrent of erudition, during which he had smiled quietly to himself, as they were joined by others of their acquaintance who had doubtless not had so fine a school lesson in most of their collective lives.

Today he had taken her driving in the park, a well-stocked picnic basket at their feet. When she had first demurred, he had airily assured her it was “not the thing” to be driving as early as one in the afternoon in Green Park, let alone stopping to spread a picnic blanket—and that they would be joined there by acquaintances. Despite the numbers who frequented the park, she had finally agreed to go only when she’d heard they would not spend much time alone together.

He ought to have been annoyed, but his main sense was one of relief that she’d agreed to a plan, any plan, of his.

Some persons who went by in carriages had raised eyebrows, but Mr. Kittle and his sister, Miss Antonia, had arrived, and their jolly party had soon been joined by other strollers. The luncheon had been spread thin, but not the company, and Alessandra had brightened at their chatter.

Geoffrey had looked up, laughing from some jest, from his reclining posture on the grass, and saw her hat tugged away by a sudden, errant wind. Strands of her long hair came loose from their pins to be caught and tumbled in the breeze. He watched her run after the hat, her skirts pressed tight to her form by the same wind, then caught and lifted to reveal two delicate ankles as she finally captured one of the errant hat’s ribbons. She was breathless, laughing and curtsying as her efforts were applauded, and he found himself coming to his feet and crossing to her side.

He settled the hat on her head, tying the ribbons for her under her chin. For a moment she remained still, only her strands of dark hair swimming around her in the breeze, her face raised to his. Then she stepped away from him, reaching up to move some of the wind-wild hair out of her eyes, laughing again, in a way that he suddenly found as melodic as her singing.

The only blight on the day came when they packed to go home. It was five in the afternoon by then, and all the fashionables were out and about. Geoffrey looked up from where he had been emptying out a glass of wine, directly into the eyes of Jacqueline Bremcott. The bride-to-be was upon the high seat of Viscount Aldford’s phaeton, fetching in the palest blue gown, with a poke bonnet and matching blue parasol.

Geoffrey watched as Alessandra looked up and saw the woman a moment later. He made an effort and tried to think what Alessandra, who instantly paled a little, saw. Jacqueline was sitting high on the phaeton, the westering sun backlighting her blond beauty, making it seem almost that she was the source of the day’s warmth. Her parasol turned ever so slowly in her gloved hand, her smile white as pearls, her gown of ethereal blue lace was the latest mode, and surely almost anyone would argue she was the embodiment of everything fine and feminine. And the bulk of her smile was directed at him.

Yes, Geoffrey could understand why Alessandra’s face tightened, and no smile rose to her lips.

Jacqueline and Aldford both offered their greetings, to which Geoffrey responded, choosing to sound jovial. Alessandra said nothing, but gave a tiny nod in greeting.

Jacqueline spoke, her eyes yet for Geoffrey alone. “What manner of festivity have we just missed, as it appears we have arrived too late?”

Geoffrey explained the picnic to them, his tale receiving cordial smiles and comments from those who yet remained. The conversation petered out, though, and soon everyone made their good-byes. Alessandra smiled when she ought, but she did not speak.

Perhaps she would have taken more pleasure in the day if she had been privy to Geoffrey’s thoughts. For although Jacqueline’s appearance today had been absolutely striking, her beauty had only led his mind back to an enumeration of all the womanly attributes that living with Alessandra had brought forward into the sphere of his existence. There was no denying her presence in his life, nor that it was the nights in the bed that were the most difficult to endure. There she was, warm and feminine, usually making small sleeping noises that sent his heart’s blood thundering a tattoo against his eardrums. She was as near as she could be, and yet a hundred miles away from his touch. He knew, in one part of him, that these hungers were not his fault, and that he ought not to torment himself because he felt them; there was another part wherein he chided himself for being so base that he could not be comfortably celibate for what was really not such a long time. And there was yet another side that was secretly amused at how well Lord Warring had understood the yearnings of a man.

As he handed Alessandra up into their carriage, he thought with a deep sigh that, Jacqueline and Lord Warring and anyone else be damned, it was time to see the marriage was either ended, or that it was begun anew. It was time to, in earnest, start wooing his wife.

***

“I’m worried about Geoffrey and Alessandra, sharing that room night after night, the way they’re going about things,” Malcolm, Lord Warring grumbled to his wife. They were in the conservatory, where Malcolm had brought all his pistols and rifles for their monthly cleaning. Amelia was stitching a new cover for another one of the dining room’s chairs.

Amelia’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Really, Malcolm, you’ve compelled them to do it. They weren’t ready—”

“Piffle! Any young couple is ready enough. They just need to get on with what needs getting on,” Malcolm said, his voice now a growl. There was nothing about his daughter’s haunted face that said that had happened, and the truth had been confirmed. Besides servants’ whispers, Alessandra had told Emmeline, who’d told Amelia, who’d let it slip to her husband.

What was this doing to Alessandra? Was she innocent enough to walk away from such rejection without harm? Could this foolishness truly end in…he didn’t even like to think the word. He reamed out the barrels of his guns with unaccustomed and absent-minded energy.

“I,” he began, glancing at his wife from under his eyebrows, not quite able to meet her eyes. “I did something…unfortunate.”

Amelia closed her eyes, took a rallying breath, then opened her eyes again to glare at him. “What did you do?”

Malcolm looked away. “Offered Huntingsley money. More to add to Alessandra’s dowry. If he…if he got her in the family way soon.”

She tossed aside her stitchery, one hand going to her breast. “I’m certain he was insulted.”

Malcolm had the grace to flush. “Rather. If Lady Chenmarth’s house was repaired, I’m sure they’d have been gone this morning.” He scowled. “Suppose I’ll have to apologize. Hope he doesn’t tell Lessie.”

“Do nothing,” Amelia said, sitting up straight. “I’ll do whatever needs doing. I’ll talk with Alessandra.”

“As you wish, m’dear,” Malcolm muttered.

***

“Right this way, lovey. Mine’s the first on the left.”

Geoffrey followed the woman down a dim and unclean hallway, into a room that the resident had taken time and trouble to make considerably more pleasant.

She was small in size, and dark haired. Her eyes were brown, perhaps, hard to say in the dim candlelight. Her clothes, if such they could be called, were flimsy draperies.

“Yer like anything special, m’love?”

He looked about the room. Too overdone in pinks and reds. “Wine?” he said in a rough voice that didn’t sound very like his own.

“O’course. Very good, too. I likes a good wine.”

She kicked off a shoe, then the other, giving him a hungry look he did not doubt she’d practiced many times. She poured him a goblet, and brought it to him, pressing her body along his as an equal offering.

He took the wine, and drank it fast. He had paid his money upfront, as this house required and which people paid because the girls were certified clean by doctors. The room was warm. He took off his coat, sat in a chair before the fire, and stared into the disquiet flames.