In for a Penny (7 page)

In the fifth plate the bride knelt beside her dying husband as her lover escaped out the window, leaving his bloody sword behind him. In Plate 6—Penelope felt sick—in Plate 6 the widow, back in her father’s house, had taken an overdose of laudanum on hearing of her lover’s execution. A nurse held her syphilitic child as the merchant himself slipped the gold ring off his dying daughter’s finger with an appraising eye.

Penelope picked up the neatly written note in the bottom of the crate and read it.
Lady Bedlow—I hope you will accept this small token of my esteem on the occasion of your marriage. I saw them and thought of you at once. I hope you will be very happy as a countess. Fondest regards, Edward Macaulay
.

The door opened, and Penelope crumpled the paper in her fist.

“Penny, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Brown asked in dismay.

Penelope straightened. “It’s nothing, Mama.” Her voice quavered. “Only a tasteless joke. A wedding present, you see.”

Mrs. Brown came closer. “Hogarth!” Then she saw which engravings they were. Her smile faded. “Who sent those to you?”

“I don’t know,” Penelope lied. “There was no note.”

“What kind of devil would
do
such a thing? It’s bad luck! And on your wedding day too.”

“Don’t be superstitious, Mama.”

Mrs. Brown knotted her fingers together. “But—but who could hate you so much?”

Penelope would not cry. “It’s just someone’s idea of a joke,” she repeated mechanically.

Mrs. Brown’s gaze lingered on the crate, clearly marked PARIS. Her eyes narrowed, but she made no comment. “Here, come help me choose my pelisse. I bought some new ones.”

“Won’t we be late?”

Mrs. Brown looked at the clock. “We have time. Come
on. After today, there will be no one to laugh and tell me they become me abominably.”

Penelope smiled around the lump in her throat. “All right, Mama. You go on. I’ll be there in a moment.”

The minister’s voice droned on and on. Nev looked at his bride. She looked adorable—her shining brown hair was braided and curled and adorned with about fifty silk forget-me-nots that fluttered and bobbed with every movement of her head. Her light-blue muslin dress was embroidered with more of the small flowers. Yes, she looked adorable—but she had been crying. Nev was sure of it. He had not the faintest idea what to do.

This was not how he had imagined his wedding. Not that he sat around dreaming of it like a
girl
; but yes, he’d thought of it once or twice, and he’d always planned a last glorious night of bachelor debauchery, a bride with an indistinct but joyful countenance, and—and Percy or Thirkell at his side, or the two of them grinning at him from the front row and miming toasts and the key turning in a leg shackle.

Instead, he had spent his last night of freedom sitting in his rooms, sober as a judge, gazing at the empty decanter and thinking about Amy. He had gone to bed early. Now, his friends weren’t in the church at all, his mother was sobbing brokenheartedly, and his sister was sitting furiously straight and refusing to look at him. And his bride had been crying.

He couldn’t blame her. Tomorrow night they would be at Loweston.
Loweston doesn’t look quite the same anymore.

Trapped in the country on a run-down estate. Far away from London and the comfortable life she knew. Without her friends. About to bed a stranger. Nev gulped.

Poor Miss Brown must be terrified.

“Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now or
forever hold his peace,” the minister finally intoned. Nev felt a flash of panic. He glanced suspiciously at his mother, but she showed no signs of emerging from her handkerchief with an impediment.

Nev was so relieved that when the minister said “forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her,” he winked at Miss Brown.
No mistresses
, he mouthed. Preoccupied with the sudden blossoming of a smile on her face, he almost missed his cue to say, “I will.”

“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Miss Brown turned to look at him, her smile still in her eyes. Her clear voice reached effortlessly to the far corners of the church. “I will.”

Nev couldn’t explain why he suddenly felt a thousand times better. He just did.

But when it came time for the ring, the unthinkable happened. He took it carefully from his pocket. It wasn’t the Ambrey ring—his mother had refused to take that off—but it was another of the entailed family heirlooms. In fact, the ring he was giving Miss Brown was bigger than the Ambrey ring, because he knew that would annoy his mother, and besides, he had always liked women in heavy jewelry. It was a square agate intaglio face, ringed with—well, he was fairly sure the large clear stones were paste, but they were pretty. The thick band was gold, at any rate. It had been cleaned and fitted to Miss Brown’s finger the week before.

She had made no demur when he showed it to her, but he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he had never seen her wear anything but a tiny gold locket or, once, an amber cross on a chain. Was she eying the ring with distaste?

He took her hand and began, “With this ring I thee wed,
with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow—”

Someone, somewhere in the church, laughed. “Rather the other way round, isn’t it?”

Nev dropped the ring.

It hit the stone floor with a heavy thunk. Mrs. Brown’s shocked gasp was probably audible all over the church. She muttered something in which the words “bad luck” were clearly discernible.

Frozen in horror, Nev stared at Miss Brown. The girl gave a minatory glance to the congregation, then knelt and retrieved the ring. “I don’t believe in bad luck.” She smiled encouragingly and handed it back to him.

This time he got it on.

It was done, then. By her own hand and with her own voice Penelope had given herself to Lord Bedlow, to obey and serve him, as long as they both should live.

For the rest of her life was a long time.

Her father drew her aside. “Penny—I wish you very happy, but I want you to know—your mother and I discussed this, and if he’s not good to you, we’ll get you a divorce. Never mind the scandal.”

Penelope laughed. So much for
as long as you both shall live
. “Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

Mr. Brown scowled. “Never mind that. For twelve thousand pounds Parliament will sunder you well enough. We want our little ha’penny to be happy.”

Penelope felt tears pricking again. Her Nonconformist father was strictly opposed to divorce. “I won’t need a divorce, Papa,” she said, and kissed him.

Six hours later, a divorce sounded pretty tempting. Her new husband did nothing but fidget, stare out the window, and complain about how slowly they traveled. “Loweston is only a day’s journey from London by post,” he said for perhaps the twentieth time.

“How much extra is it to hire post-horses? Surely we might have afforded it.”

Lord Bedlow waved a hand airily. “Oh, post-horses are no good. My father used to keep our own horses at every coaching inn on the Norwich Road…” He trailed off.

“What does an extra day matter?” Penelope asked gently, although a moment before she had felt like snapping at him. After all, she would have liked to lessen their journey too. She was tired and jostled, the relentless rhythm of hoofbeats and carriage wheels was giving her a headache, and Lord Bedlow had already eaten most of the food her mother had packed for them—but
she
wasn’t complaining.

He slumped back against the seat cushions. “It doesn’t, I suppose.”

“Are you very eager to be home?”

It was painfully easy to tell when Lord Bedlow was being evasive. He fidgeted like a guilty schoolboy.

She hid a smile. “Not very eager, then?”

He shook his head. “I—I suppose I ought to warn you. I haven’t been there in over a year. I don’t quite know what to expect. My father’s solicitor assured me it could be put to rights with a little money.”

“But you’re worried?”

“My sister told me it wouldn’t look like I remembered. She didn’t think the harvests had been very good.” He looked at her. “But—it couldn’t have got too bad, could it? In a few years?”

Penelope had no idea how bad it could have got. She had never been out of the city for more than a few days before. “I don’t know anything about farming.”

Lord Bedlow sighed and resumed staring moodily out the window. She wanted to ask more, to ask if he trusted his father’s solicitor and what kind of accounting system the steward used and if he’d looked at the books. But she doubted he would have useful answers to any of her questions, and she didn’t want to make him feel worse.

She wondered what it would have been like to make her wedding journey with Edward. There would have been no uncomfortable silences, of that she was sure.

She watched her husband surreptitiously. It was getting dark. In a few hours they would have to stop and take rooms for the night.

Would Lord Bedlow find it tiresome to have to tutor a virgin? Would he expect her to know things she didn’t? What if she turned out to be a poor study?

And yet, he had seemed happy with her response, the one time he had kissed her. She closed her eyes and replayed the moment for the thousandth time—his lips descending on hers, his body warm and close. Again, that uncomfortably tantalizing ache started in her—well,
down there
—and moved throughout her body. His hand on her breast had burned through her dress, her corset, and her shift. What would it feel like on her skin?

It was getting too dark for Nev to see much out the window. He turned his gaze to Miss Brown, who was leaning back in her seat with her eyes closed. Since she couldn’t see him, he let himself ogle the swell of her bosom above the black muslin of her gown. He remembered the feel of her breast in his hand. Soon Miss Brown wouldn’t be obliged to wrench herself away when he touched her.

He recalled abruptly that she wasn’t Miss Brown any longer; she was Lady Bedlow now. That sounded deuced odd. Lady Bedlow was his
mother
. “Can I call you Penelope?”

Her eyes flew open. She flushed and shifted in her seat. Was there something improper about his request? “Um—yes, of course.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she repeated quickly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Nev could think of only too many reasons.

“What shall I call you? Bedlow?”

“I suppose so.” He grimaced. “I haven’t got used to it yet.”

“Your friend called you Nev at Lady Ambersleigh’s.”

“You remember that?”

She smiled. “It isn’t every day the heir to an earldom offers to choose my hors d’oeuvres,” she teased.

“Really? Even with a hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds?”

Her face fell.

“Oh, Lord, how tactless of me! I didn’t find out about your dowry until later, truly.”

She shrugged. “It’s quite all right. It is irrational to object to the truth. I should rather thank you for not feeding me Spanish coin.”

She really had a way of making him feel small. “I never feed anyone Spanish coin. I’m not clever enough.”

One of her brows arched in delicate skepticism, but she smiled. “I don’t know quite how these titles work. Would it be improper for me to call you Nev, still?”

Nev had been determined to leave every scrap of his old life behind and start anew, but—his nickname sounded so right on her lips. It sounded comfortable, and intimate. “I don’t see why. No one new will be Lord Nevinstoke until—until we have a son.”

“Nev it is, then.” She sighed. “I’m ashamed of being so frivolous, but—there is something about a title, isn’t there?”

He felt faintly self-conscious. “In my experience, girls prefer a scarlet coat.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It would put you in your place if I agreed with you.”

Nev smiled. “It would, but I suspect you would rather die than be suspected of being officer-mad.”

“I hope I am not so immoderate. However, I have always felt that choosing a pleasing form, easy address, or an attractive costume over sense and character is unpardonably foolish.”

“But can’t one choose both?”

“Surely a good, sensible man must always be pleasing.”

Nev was opening his mouth to scoff when he realized he could not do so without sounding like the worst kind of cad. The full extent of her innocence crashed down on him. It really had never occurred to her that there might be a good and sensible man whom she did not wish to take to her bed. Apparently she never thought of taking men to her bed at all.

And tonight he had planned to deflower her. He had never been with any woman who did not know exactly what she was doing. How painful was it, the first time? He knew there was often blood, but how much? What if he hurt her? What if she found the whole business unsanitary and repulsive? What if she cried?

Worse yet, what if she endured his lovemaking with the same expression of patient forbearance she sometimes wore when he talked? What if she said,
Never mind, I expect it will not be so very bad when I am used to it
?

Nev wished that he were a man of good sense and character. Then he would know what the devil to do.

When they finally pulled into an inn yard for the night, Penelope was starving and exhausted. And there was another whole day of this to endure on the morrow! Her remark that a good, sensible man must always be pleasing had effectively silenced her husband. He had looked very doubtful, but refrained from contradicting her. How did he contrive to make
her feel a puritanical schoolgirl, when she knew that it was he whose too-lively mind had been led astray by bad company and worldliness?

She sighed. She could hardly give herself airs of superiority when she herself had chosen a pleasing form over every dictate of reason.

Feeling penitent, she said nothing when he left her standing in the hall while he saw to the stabling of his horses. By the time he came back, she had fallen half-asleep leaning against the wall.

She opened her eyes to find her husband regarding her with an unreadable expression. “How much did you sleep last night?”

“Not very much,” she admitted, then realized that might not be politic.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Come along, I’ve engaged a room and a private parlor. Supper should be along at any moment.”

Supper! She gazed at him gratefully.

Supper was a silent affair. The food was good, but as the meal drew to a close, Penelope’s nervousness increased. She could hear her abigail in the next room, laying out her night things. In an hour, or perhaps two, she would no longer be a maiden.

She glanced at her husband, but he was not looking at her. He hadn’t been looking at her any of the admittedly hundreds of times she had glanced at him throughout the last half hour. That didn’t seem to bode well. Several times he’d been eying the decanter of wine with a peculiar expression on his face, but he drank only tea, as he had done at her parents’ home. Was it for her benefit, or had he really given up drinking since his father’s death? Penelope was not sure whether to approve or to think the gesture theatrical. She didn’t let herself look at him again until she had finished the last of her apple tart.

This time, his eyes were on her face. She was reminded, somehow, of the way he had looked at the wine.

“I—I think I’ll get ready for bed,” she said, and went into the next room.

Molly was waiting, looking distressingly energetic. Penelope was sore and tired, but she let Molly help her into her nightdress. Then she got her copy of
Mansfield Park
out of her trunk and sat down in bed to read.

This would be the way to Fanny’s heart. She was not to be won by all that gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least, she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects…

But she must not have been as absorbed in her reading as she thought, because when her husband put his hand on the doorknob, she heard it immediately.

Nev looked her over. Penelope felt her soreness and weariness fading. Now—now, he would—

“You look tired out,” he said.

“Not too tired.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

For some reason Penelope really, really didn’t like the sound of that.

“Do—do you know what goes on between a husband and wife?”

Penelope’s lips went dry. “My mother explained it to me.”

He nodded. “What did she say it was like?”

“She said it could be uncomfortable and awkward the first time, but that it got better with practice.”

He blanched.

“Was—was that not right?”

He seemed at a loss for words.

“Surely it cannot be so very bad. I had hoped it might even
be—pleasant. When you kissed me—” She stopped, blushing. A lady did not speak of such things.

“When it’s done properly, it’s very pleasant.”

“For women too?” she blurted out.

He nodded. “For women too. Only—perhaps not the first time, as your mother said.” He licked his lips. Penelope’s gaze was riveted on his tongue. “I think we ought to wait until we know each other a little better. Then perhaps you will be more comfortable helping me find out what you like.”

Penelope could not tell if she was disappointed or relieved. It hardly mattered; such decisions naturally belonged to him. “If you think it best.” Her voice sounded small.

She had not realized how tense he was, until he relaxed. “I do think it best.” He looked at her for a moment, and then he came and sat on the edge of the bed, grinning at her. “This is deuced awkward, isn’t it?”

Some of her own tension eased. She nodded.

“That is why it will be better to wait. Now turn around like a good girl while I put my nightshirt on.”

It was a little chilly; she didn’t want to get out from under the blankets. Instead she snuggled down on her side of the bed, facing the wall and closing her eyes. She heard one boot hit the floor, then the other. Then a chair rattled—she conjectured that he had thrown his jacket over it. After that there was nothing definitive, only a series of rustlings and footsteps.

She tried not to think about it, but her imagination was out of her control. Candlelight would glint on his naked shoulders, his torso, his—but here her mind skittered away. She had seen paintings and statues of naked men before, of course—Greek athletes and etchings of Michelangelo’s David. But a wide gulf lay between that and what she would see if she turned around, and she was not capable of bridging it.

The bed bounced as he jumped into it. The darkness behind her eyelids became darker; he had extinguished the
candle. There was silence for a moment. “Good night, Penelope.”

“Good night, Nev.”

The mattress shifted as he lay down and pulled the blankets over him. Penelope lay perfectly still, not daring to move. But soon enough everything faded into exhausted sleep.

Now that Nev had done the generous—or was it cowardly?—thing and given his bride time to accustom herself to him, he couldn’t think about anything but bedding her. She sat across from him in the carriage, not a shining brown hair out of place, turning the pages of some appallingly proper novel—and he was imagining ripping the book from her hands, getting her out of that depressing black, and exercising his conjugal rights in all the deliciously improper ways the cramped confines of the carriage would necessitate.