The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (5 page)

Even in the dim, flickering light, it was impossible to miss the twin spots of color that flamed in Bellowes’ cheeks.

“This way,”
Derek said, reaching for Calla’s overnight bag. He lifted a table lamp and strode off is one direction, leaving Bellowes, Mrs. Singh, and their driver, who carried Mrs. Singh’s bag, to move off in another.

Calla followed him up a
broad curving staircase, past spacious rooms, ornate galleries, and long hallways. Lord Keating’s home was handsome in the effortless style of those to whom money is of no concern. Everything tasteful and elegant. Yet it was utterly devoid of any semblance of Derek’s childhood in Bengal. Nothing within his home contained even a suggestion of India. Almost as though he wanted to blot that part of his existence out completely. Even the walls of the grand foyer, which might normally serve as a showcase for ancestral portraits, displayed nothing but tepid pastoral landscapes.

She would have loved to study it all
in greater detail, but Lord Keating moved too quickly. As it was, she nearly had to trot to keep pace with him. At length they reached a set of broad double doors. He threw them open, allowing her a glimpse of an exquisitely furnished chamber done in shades of rich aqua and bold cobalt. In the center of the room stood a mahogany four-poster bed. Calla noted a dainty vanity, feminine desk, richly appointed reading alcove, and various chairs and settees. The scale and materials of each piece had clearly been designed to suit a woman’s smaller frame and more delicate sensibilities.

She took that all in with one sweeping glance, then froze at th
e sight of a connecting doorway, beyond which was a large, distinctly masculine bedchamber.

The significance of the Blue Room was immediately clear. The master suite.
Derek had preemptively announced to Bellowes, without any fanfare whatsoever, that Calla was the future Lady Keating. No wonder Bellowes had looked so…appalled, particularly given her tired, travel-weary appearance.

She looked up to find
Derek watching her. His expression unfathomable, he inclined his dark head, indicating for her to enter. "As we are not yet married, I believe we can dispense with the customary carrying of the bride over the threshold."

The implication that she had been
waiting for him to do exactly that was clear. Biting back a stab of annoyance, she matched his cool tone. "I would be exceedingly grateful."

"In that case, shall we?"

Calla lifted her damp skirts and wordlessly preceded him into the room. Exhausted as she was, her attention was immediately drawn to the intricately carved, mahogany bed which dominated the center of the room. Appointed with thick silk coverlets, soft blankets, and down pillows, it should have looked snug and inviting. Instead, just the opposite was true.

She didn’t want this magnificent bed at all.
She wanted the crowded, lumpy mattress she shared with her sisters back in Calcutta. She wanted thin cotton sheets and mosquito netting, personalized pillow shams with their individual name and the flower they were named after neatly embroidered on the soft linen. She wanted nightly squabbles over who would do the dishes and who would sweep the floor, and whose turn it was to read aloud from whatever romantic, fanciful novel they’d selected to share.

A stark realization hit her: by doing anything she could to save her sisters, she’d lost them completely. It would be months, perhaps
years
, before she saw them again. A lump filled her throat and her eyes suddenly stung. A shudder of abject misery ran down her spine.

“Are you cold?”

She looked up to find Derek’s stormy gray eyes once again leveled on her, watching her intently. “Yes,” she lied, mortified to be caught indulging in an emotion as maudlin as homesickness.

He nodded
. He slipped off his overcoat and jacket and draped them over a chair, then rolled up his crisp white shirtsleeves. Before she could guess what he was about, he hunkered down before the hearth, where logs and kindling had been dutifully stacked by some unknown servant. He lit the tinder, then steadily blew on it to coax a flame.

The gesture took her by surprise.
Lord Keating had not struck her as the sort of man who would willingly perform such a menial task. Pushing aside her misery, she discreetly studied her future husband. She watched him shift the logs, her attention caught by the snug pull of his black serge trousers against his rock-solid thighs. Then she shifted her gaze, her attention focused on the thickly corded muscles of his back, watching as they rippled and flexed beneath the sheer linen of his shirt.

An odd little flutter filled
her belly, a combination of nerves and something else. She was suddenly overcome by a desire to lay her hand on his back, to feel those muscles tense beneath her touch. She pushed the astonishing thought away and drew in a low, steady breath. She was overly fatigued, that was all. That explained why her emotions were swaying back and forth like a ship in rough water.

H
e finished the task with brisk efficiency and rose. He stood before her in just his shirtsleeves, his impossibly tall and broad-shouldered form silhouetted by the warm glow of the firelight. Dear God, she’d seen granite carvings that looked softer and more yielding than this man.

“That should warm the room soon enough.”

“Yes.” She swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”

Unable to come up with anything
else to say, she turned away, running her hand along the top of a sleek maple chest of drawers. She lifted a delicate porcelain carving of a mother bird protecting its nest, studying it unseeingly before setting it back down.

“Your home is lovely,” she said
at last, turning her gaze to him. “Was the estate part of the barony?”

“No. The barony conveyed nothing but a title, a mass of debt, and the dubious privilege
of entrée among the peerage.” He leaned one broad shoulder against the mantle ledge, studying her coolly. “I built this estate and paid for everything within it.”

Calla stiffened, not missing his obvious implication.
“You did not buy me.”

“Not precisely, no.”

“No more than your father purchased your mother when he paid a bridal price for her.”

She h
ad the satisfaction of seeing her words hit their mark. He inclined his head, awarding her the point. The tradition of arranged marriages was an archaic one, but its roots were broad and deep, particularly in India. There was no shame in giving oneself in marriage in order to strengthen bonds between families, or achieve some similar end. Lord Keating might enjoy playing the part of an English lord, but as someone who’d been raised in Calcutta, he knew that as well as she did.

“Mrs. Singh has copies of the betrothal contracts,” she informed him. “I’ll see to it that you
have an opportunity to review them before the wedding ceremony.”

“
Very good.”

Another thought suddenly occurred to
her. “How does one go about finding someone in London?”

“That depends on who
m you’re trying to find.”

“A young boy—just sixteen, and recently arrived from
Calcutta. He came over as a crewman aboard the
Ariel
. It was his first voyage. His mother is a family friend, and I promised I’d see to his welfare.”

Derek nodded. “I’d start by writing a note to the ship’s
bosun. Bellowes will see that it’s delivered.”

They stood for a moment in awkward silence. Calla
searched her mind for something to say, then she remembered the gift Derek’s mother had entrusted her to deliver. She strode to her valise and reached inside. “I almost forgot. Your mother asked me to give this to you. She had it specially made for our wedding.”

She passed him a
kurta,
traditional formal garb for men in India. The knee-length jacket, obviously very dear, was constructed of gray silk and embroidered in tones of rich, deep blue. It was beautiful, and would doubtless be striking on Derek. She looked at him, waiting for him to express his appreciation for the workmanship. Instead, the line of his jaw hardened as he gave a curt nod.

“Thank you. I shall convey the garment to my valet.”

She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she cast a pointed look in the direction of his rooms, none-too-subtly inviting him to take his leave. “It’s late,” she said. “Perhaps we should both retire.”

A
sardonic smile curved his lips. "What a lovely martyr you are. Resolved to make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of your family. How very brave."

“I’m no martyr,” Calla
corrected firmly. “This is what I want.”

“
Really? A loveless marriage to a total stranger? That’s what you want?”

He
stepped toward her, bridging the distance between them with two long strides. He lightly traced his knuckles along her jawbone, unerringly finding the long, thin scar the tiger cub had left on her so many years ago.

An icy shiver shot down her spine, an involuntary reaction that was part tension, part fear, and part something else—something that made her lean into his touch, rather than away from it
, as common sense would have dictated. But the emotion, whatever it was, evaporated the moment he dropped his hand.

“
Very well,” he said. “Assuming everything’s in order, I’ll direct my solicitor to procure the marriage license tomorrow.” He strode toward the doorway that connected their rooms. Turning back, he said, “Unless, of course, you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

For a moment she thought she saw something other than indifference in his eyes. But the expression, whatever it was, vanished too quickly for her to be certain.

“
Then know this,
jaanu
. Once we are wed, it will not be so easy to dismiss me from your rooms.”

With those parting words, he s
tepped into his bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him.

Chapter F
ive

Her hand was trembling.
Calla tried to control her reaction, but it seemed the more she focused on that quivering appendage, the more it seemed to shake. Lord Keating had to be aware of her reaction—he was holding her hand, after all—but his expression indicated little interest or concern for the precarious state of her emotions.

"With this ring I thee wed," he said. His voice con
veyed the same level of emotional intensity one might hear if reading aloud from a bill of lading.

At the minister's nod
, he lifted her hand. She watched his eyes widen. Surprise flashed across his previously imperturbable features. His gaze flew to hers. Until that instant, Calla hadn’t been sure whether he could see the henna tattoo on her finger in the dim, candlelit church. Now she knew. She sent him a small, private smile. The moment lasted no more than a second or two, nothing more than a brief pause in the rhythm of minister’s recitation of the marital rites, but it mattered.

In a ceremony in which they’d both performed their parts almost entirely by rote, a subtle shift now
took place. Calla suddenly felt
present
, consciously aware of her choice in a way she hadn’t been before. She sensed the same was true for Lord Keating as he slid a thick gold band onto her finger, connecting them as man and wife.

Her
mind reeled with disbelief. It was all happening so quickly. Less than three days had passed since her arrival in London, yet in that time Derek had operated with brisk efficiency, sending letters to their families in Calcutta, securing a special license for their betrothal, locating a church in which the ceremony could be performed, and making arrangements with a minister to officiate.

Despite the discretion with which
Derek had moved, rumors had nevertheless flown throughout London. The Tiger of the Thames was about to take a mate. Not a
bride
, Calla noted, but a
mate
. As though the act of taking a wife—even when performed in no less an august sanctuary than St. Paul’s Cathedral—was somehow primal and dangerous. The pews were packed with gossips, reporters, and curiosity-seekers, all of whom had come to witness for themselves an event that was being touted as the spectacle of the year.

"With all my worldly goods I thee endow," he contin
ued evenly. "With my body I thee worship."

His words echoed off the church walls, rebounding all around them.

Calla's hand shook even harder. Derek Arindam Jeffords, Lord Keating.

Was it true what people said about him?
Was he as ruthless and dangerous as the newssheets claimed? She gazed at the dark male hands that held her in his grip. They were large, powerful, calloused from work and bronzed by the sun. Did the rest of his body look the same? A shudder tore through her at the thought. For a moment the urge to run was so overpowering, she almost succumbed to the impulse to flee the church.

Calla
became dimly aware that the minister was asking her a question. She tore her attention away from Derek to focus on the words being spoken. Would she take him for her lawfully wedded husband? Her silence lasted perhaps only a second or two, yet as she held Derek's gaze, it seemed to stretch out between them into infinity.

She took a deep breath, and then answered in a soft voice that sounded completely unlike her own, "I will."

The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur, then it was over. The minister placed their hands together and declared them man and wife. Derek signed his name on the register; she did the same.

It was customary for a new bride and groom to be received with cheers, applause, greetings of goodwill, and perhaps even a bawdy joke or two when first presented to a congregation.
Calla had attended enough weddings to know that. But as she and Derek turned and faced their audience, nothing but rapt silence greeted them, punctuated occasionally by an indiscreet whisper or a soft cough.

With an air of total disregard for their reception,
Derek wordlessly took her arm and ushered her down the candlelit aisle. They exited the church and stepped out into the cold evening air. His coach and driver awaited them. Derek handed her into the vehicle and immediately followed, pulling the door closed behind him.

The driver
gave the reins a quick snap. As they pulled into traffic, Calla protested, "Shouldn't we wait for Mrs. Singh—"

"
I’ve hired a fleet of coaches. Our guests will follow us."

The words were spoken in a clipped, no-nonsense manner that left little room for argument.
Calla would have pressed her point nonetheless, had the issue mattered to her. But as their destination was a wedding supper—an event she looked upon with nervousness rather than anticipation—she let it go.

She turned
her attention to smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirts. She’d removed her gloves for the wedding ceremony, and hadn’t yet pulled them on again. As she glanced at her hands, her attention was caught by the twinkle of her wedding band. Even in the dim light of the coach, the square-cut ruby, wreathed by a band of glittering diamonds, flashed and sparkled.

"The ring is beautiful," she said. "Thank you."

For a moment it appeared he hadn't heard her, so total was his absorption of the view outside the carriage. But after a minute he slowly turned to face her. "I don't blame you."

She regarded him in blank confusion. "I beg your—"

“Were I in your position, I would have wanted to run as well."

“It was a cowardly impulse, nothing more.”
Calla stiffened her spine, primly reminding him, “Besides, I didn’t run.”

“No. But you considered it.”

“Thinking about doing something and actually doing it are very different things.”

A small, cynical smile curved his lips.
“How keenly observed.” Assuming a posture of indolent ease, he leaned back against the plush velvet seat and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. His eyes traveled over the modest gown of rose silk she wore. Arching one dark brow, he said, “Which brings us to our current state of wedded bliss. Is it everything you hoped?”

She
shrugged. “As yet, I have no cause to regret my actions.”

“True.
But then, the evening is young.”

His
reference to the physical consummation of their wedding vows, which would doubtless occur later that night, was unmistakable. It was also unfathomable. How were they to perform such an intimate act when they barely knew one another? Lord Keating had been a polite, if somewhat distant, host. Absent during the days, he had seen to it that his servants were attentive to her needs. He joined her for a late night supper, and then only briefly.

Calla wondered if that was his way of tacitly
informing her of what she could expect from their marriage: brief encounters at supper and in bed, a beautiful home, her financial needs generously met, but nothing more. The thought caused a tight knot to form in her stomach. How…awful.

Aware he was watching her, she
adopted an expression of cool certainty, refusing to display any of the doubts and fears that suddenly overwhelmed her. “My mother and sisters with be amply provided for. I am delighted to have achieved that end.”

“Of course.” He stifled a yawn. “
I nearly forgot your selfless familial devotion. The remarkable closeness you and your sisters share.”

Calla shrugged.
Naturally she and her sisters had endured their share of squabbles, but those were minor skirmishes, nothing that had undermined their deep affection for one another.

“Were the roles reversed,” he continued, “d
oubtless your sisters would have done the same for you.”

The suggestion caused a startled laugh to tumble unbidden from Calla’s lips.
“Actually,” she countered, “I’m quite certain they wouldn’t have.”

A spark of interest
—the first she’d seen in days—lit his eyes. “Why not?”

Because her demure, proper sisters would hardly have been able to conceive of her plan, let alone have the gumption to carry it out. Because, as much as she adored
them, they were maddeningly willing to place their fates in the hands of the men around them. They were content to don the mantle of female helplessness, and that was something Calla simply couldn’t abide. She was simply too headstrong, too capable, too
intelligent
, to subject herself to the whims and caprices of a mere male. Particularly when most men were far more concerned with discovering what was beneath a woman’s skirts than the thoughts and feelings that weighed on her mind. But that sentiment was hardly likely to be appreciated by her new husband.

She hesitated, not certain how much of herself to reveal.
But something about the intimacy of the darkened, softly swaying coach encouraged her to speak her mind. If nothing else, perhaps now that they were married, she could set a precedent of sharing their thoughts and feelings.

“
You never had siblings, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Well, if you had, you would know that siblings tend to define themselves by the roles they have in the family. My sister Rose was by far the most outgoing, and kept our calendar of social events. Daisy liked to bake, Violet enjoyed marketing and cooking. Hyacinth adored fashion, and was clever enough with a needle to keep us all in the latest style. Jasmine, when she wasn’t curled up with a book, kept our home neat and organized.”

“And
you? What was your role in this thriving little domestic enterprise?”

“I…
took care of things,” Calla replied, careful to select the right words. “I made certain our home was safe and secure. If an undesirable suitor appeared at the door, I shooed him away. I appeased bill collectors and tax revenuers. I patched leaks that sprang in the roof, found physicians when someone was ill, bartered vegetables for fabric when someone needed a new gown.”

Derek
’s dark brows knit together. “I would think the duties you just described belonged to your father.”

“Perhaps.”
She affected what she hoped was a light, indifferent shrug. “My father desperately wanted sons. Instead, my mother gave him girls. Six of us, one right after the other.
Her beautiful bouquet
, she called us.” She shook her head and forced a sophisticated laugh. “I think my father felt out of place in his own house. He traveled extensively in the winter, and sent us to Calcutta in the summer.”

“
Leaving you to keep your home afloat, as it were.”

“I didn’t mind.”

Derek made a small, contemplative sound. She could almost feel his curious appraisal from across the sheltered confines of the dimly lit coach. “And what of your mother? She had no objection to your leaving the continent to enter into an arranged marriage?”

“
Quite the opposite. She encouraged it.”

“
Oh? Why is that?”

“Well, foremost was her affection for your mother
, of course. They were both keen on the prospect of joining our families. Then there is the fact that this marriage would substantially solve our financial difficulties.” Calla though for a moment, finishing with a shrug, “The prospect of marrying a virtual stranger was not unknown to my mother. She came to India on a fishing fleet.”

Derek gave
a gruff laugh. “Did she?”

“
She did.”

A soft smile drifted across Calla’s face. She leaned bac
k in her seat, absently twisting her wedding ring around her finger. The
fishing fleets
, as they were known, were boats that ferried English women in search of a husband to India, where men were hungry for brides and the scarcity of marriageable women was pronounced.

“My father was a dashing cavalry officer at the time. While my mother had no money or title, her beauty secured
his immediate interest. They wed within a week of their initial meeting.”

“And they were happy together?”

Calla hesitated. Initially, she supposed they were. But it didn’t last. Particularly when a series of daughters was born, rather than the sons her father thought he deserved. She remembered how her mother seemed to shrink in size, growing increasingly helpless, while her father became a large, dominate presence. Little, inconsequential things began to bother him. The more desperately Calla’s mother and her sisters tried to please him, the more he withheld his approval. Finally he rarely graced them with his company at all, choosing instead to send a meager monthly stipend that never quite covered the household necessities.

Misinterpreting her silence for assent,
Derek shrugged and answered his own question. “Happy enough to bear six children together, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she mused.
She pushed aside the specter of her parents’ unhappy marriage, refusing to allow it to shadow her thoughts. That had been her mother’s destiny; but that did not mean it was hers. She would not make the same mistakes. She would not turn herself inside-out to please a man. She would hold on to her dignity, maintain her pride.