The Westerfield Affair (8 page)

He gave a wry grin. “I’m sorry. I should have guessed something like that.”

After driving the entire day and half of the night, she fell into the bed without even changing into nightclothes. Her head was aching and she had a chill. She woke with her head still pounding and the strange feeling of being watched. Opening her eyes, she blinked at her groom, who was leaning on an elbow, staring down at her with his swollen eye. He rolled to one side and stood up in one motion.

“Good morning,” she groaned.

“Good morning,” he clipped, sounding pained and giving her his back as he dressed.

“When do we marry?”

“Just as soon as you’re ready. The innkeeper said there are any number of blacksmiths prepared to marry us over their anvil.” Irregular marriages were allowed in Scotland, so long as a declaration was made before two witnesses. With all the eloping couples arriving across the border from England, the blacksmiths, who were easily recognized as Scottish citizens, had become known as “anvil priests” in Gretna Green.

“How terribly romantic,” she said drily. The thought of donning her wedding dress now just seemed silly. She was exhausted and dusty and there was no one to see her in it but Harry, who she was none too keen to impress at the moment. “I’m glad I demanded
you
pay for the wedding dress that no one will see.”

She expected his customary silence from the snipe, but he looked sympathetic. “I’ll tell you what, kitten—before season’s end, we’ll host a grand ball to announce our marriage and present you as the new Lady Westerfield.”

She felt a flutter of interest in that and lifted her eyes to his face. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Yes. Would you like that?”

She imagined the sort of ball she might put on if she were the hostess—the advantage she’d have to hear all secrets, make connections, and generally enjoy the ridiculous game of society. “Yes, I should.” Then she remembered the scene of leaving her last ball unchaperoned, breasts falling out of her gown, dragged by a furious fiancé and her heart sank. “Do you think—do you imagine—they’ll accept me again?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too firmly. “They’ll have no choice but to accept you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How will you make sure of it?”

“I just will,” he said stubbornly, which she feared meant he had no idea.

“You don’t have to wear the dress today if you don’t want to,” he added gently.

She put her hands on her hips and considered him, nibbling her lower lip. It seemed ridiculous to even bother, especially now that he’d made it clear it made no difference to him. But no, it was her wedding, and she wanted to be in a white dress. “I’m wearing it,” she declared.

“All right. Shall we breakfast first, and then I can have a maid sent to dress you?”

“Yes. May I meet you downstairs?” She felt uncomfortable performing her morning ablutions with him in the room.

“Of course.” He pulled on his waistcoat and coat and left the room, closing the door softly.

Her real anxiety was an intimate problem—a terrible burning sensation when she used the chamber pot. At first she’d thought she was still sore from Westerfield’s plundering, but now it seemed something was wrong, though she couldn’t be sure. She desperately needed a woman to confide in and offer her advice.

She made it through the morning, breakfasting and dressing in her wedding gown to be led across the street to the blacksmith shop.

She was sweating and feeling slightly dizzy. She pulled at her corset. Harry looked down at her with concern. “Are you swooning?”

“A bit,” she panted. “I think I need to loosen my corset.”

“It’s just nerves, kitten.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side, his solid frame providing a wall for her to lean against. “I won’t let you fall.”

The ceremony was mercifully short, with each of them swearing their oaths before the blacksmith and his wife.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the blacksmith said.

Though she felt dizzy and hot and not the slightest bit interested in being kissed, she dutifully lifted her face. Westerfield bent to give her a quick peck, but then furrowed his brows, cupping her cheek with one hand. “Are you feeling well?”

She shook her head. “Not so well.”

He touched her forehead. “You’re burning up, Kitty. Why did you not tell me you were ill?’

The room swooped a little and she found herself in his arms, drawn up against his hard chest, one hand still cradling her head protectively. “Come, we’ll go back to the room and I’ll send for a doctor.”

“No doctor,” she said immediately. She was far too embarrassed to tell a doctor her ailment, not to mention be examined by one.

He began walking, holding her up as he led her. “It’s not your decision,” he said firmly.

Her heart rate increased, but she didn’t have the energy to argue whilst she was walking. In the room, she had to use the privy closet again, though she would have preferred to do it without Harry in the room, she was beyond trying to arrange matters to her satisfaction. She sat on the stool over the chamber pot and drew in her breath at the seemingly endless burn. When she emerged, Harry was looking at her sharply.

“Did it hurt? To use the chamber pot?”

Ridiculously, she burst into tears, embarrassed, exhausted, and completely unable to navigate the situation.

In a flash she was in his arms again, her feet lifted from the floor as he carried her the few feet to the bed and settled her there in his arms. He pressed a handkerchief into her hand, and she hid her foolish tears in it. “I’m sorry—I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not usually such a baby,” she sniffed.

“Shh, it’s all right,” he said. She felt his hands working to open her wedding gown in the back and she sank lower and settled her head on his lap, providing him access to her back. He finished opening the dress, then her corset, then he stroked her hair while she continued to sniffle.

When she settled, he said, “I’m going to call for a doctor.”

She sat up immediately, catching her dress in the front to keep it from completely falling off. “You can’t!”

He gave her a frown. “Kitty, you are ill and you require a doctor’s attention.”

“Harry, no!”

“Why not?” He lifted her chin and peered into her eyes.

“How will I explain it?” she said, hearing the hysteria in her voice. “And what if he wants to look?”

“You need not explain a thing,” he said firmly. “And I won’t allow him to look.”

Chapter Five

Kitty began crying again, twisting his guilty heart into knots. She appeared to be embarrassed by her tears, waving her hand in front of her face and gulping, “Forgive me!”

He cupped her face in his hands and thumbed away the tears. “Kitty,” he croaked, “I did this to you, and I’m so sorry. I won’t let you be humiliated by it, I promise.”

He had no idea how he would deliver on that promise, but he owed it to her. Her breath calmed and she pressed her forehead against his shoulder. He ran his fingers lightly up and down her bare back, feeling goosebumps raise and her body soften until she relaxed and laid her head into his lap again. If he were not so anguished by her evident infection, he would have relished the moment. But all he heard was the voice in his head, berating him:
you did this
.

He gently moved her head to the pillow. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, kitten,” he said and she nodded, closing her eyes. Making his way downstairs, he took the innkeeper’s wife into confidence, and she sent for a Romany midwife and promised to make barley water for Kitty. Back in the room, Kitty was dozing, her cheeks still flushed with fever. He found her nightdress in her trunk and then began to gently ease the wedding gown down. She opened one eye and shifted her weight for him to remove it, the satin fabric gliding down her shapely hips and legs. He untied the petticoats and slid them off, his hands running along the sides of her hips and down her thighs, making him feel too hot in his waistcoat. The chemise and corset were next, and though he was firmly denying all thoughts of arousal, his body did not receive the message. His hands trembled as he slid them over her head, his cock hardening in his trousers at the sight of her apple-sized breasts bouncing out of the whalebone stays. Though he kept his face a mask to prevent her discomfort, he found her looking up at him, lying there in nothing but her drawers, garters, and stockings, the flush of fever only increasing her loveliness. His breath quickened and he swallowed.

“This is just my way of denying you your conjugal rights,” she said, her cracked lips twisting wryly.

His chest tightened at her attempt at humor, and he leaned over to kiss her forehead, trying to ignore the movement of her breasts as she rolled to her back. A knock came on the door and he started, thrusting the nightdress at her and leaping off the bed like a guilty child. It was the Romany midwife, who came in with a confident bustling. She felt Kitty’s forehead, and asked her questions, nodding knowingly at the answers.

“It happens to a lot of new wives, my dear,” the midwife said, patting her hand. “It’s the introduction of something—or should I say someone—new to the area. Or it can happen if you don’t empty the bladder often enough, as we see in small children.”

She turned to him. “The barley water is good.” She produced an herb and handed it to him. “Also, make a tea of this tansy and have her drink three cups a day until she is restored,” she directed. “In addition, she should drink at least 10 more cups of fresh spring water—not tea, not coffee, not ale.” She fixed him with a stern look. “And she should not leave the bed until her fever is gone.”

He nodded his agreement. “How much for the herbs?”

She named her price, which was rather high. “I have a very nice unguent for her lips, too,” she said with a glint in her eye.

Harry enjoyed driving a good bargain almost as much as the Romany, but he wasn’t going to do it in front of Kitty, lest she think he wasn’t willing to pay for her treatment. He produced the necessary coins, accepted the unguent and requested she bring the herb to the innkeeper’s wife to brew the draught.

“Was that all right?” he asked, handing her the little jar of unguent.

“Yes, thank you.” She smoothed the wax on her peeling lips, rubbing them together in a way that made his heart skip a beat. “I want to go back to London.”

“Yes, of course. Just as soon as you’re well.”

“No, I mean now. No, wait—” she held up her hand when he began to speak. “It’s a long, miserable carriage ride, and if I’m to remain resting until the fever’s gone anyway, I might as well just do it in the carriage, and then we’ll be home by the time I’m well.”

He shook his head. “It was the carriage ride that made you sick—” he began, stopping when guilt over the other cause of it choked him.

She looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Please, Harry? I’ll lean my head on your shoulder and rest the entire journey. I’ll drink the 10 cups of water, and take the tansy and put the unguent on my lips.”

He laughed. All she lacked was interlaced fingers to look like a child in full supplication. He sighed. “I can see I’m going to have a very difficult time denying you anything.”

Her face lit up with her magnificent smile, marred only by the cracked lips.

“But,” he cut in before she could speak, “if you worsen at all, we will stop until you’re better.”

“I won’t worsen,” she promised and he chuckled.

“All right, we’ll leave in the morning.”

She laid her head back down on the pillow. “Thank you.”

He settled Kitty in the carriage the following morning, her cheeks still burning with fever. He had a jug of the draught from the innkeeper’s wife, as well as a jug of spring water. He settled into the seat across from her. She leaned her head against the back of the carriage. “Have you grown weary of being my cushion?” she asked in a teasing tone, though her eyes were still sunken and bleak.

He smiled. “Never. Do you want for a pillow?”

“Yes,” she murmured. He slipped into the seat next to her, holding his breath as she sank against his side. He angled his back against his corner of the carriage and pulled her against his chest, her head resting just below his chin. The air was charged between them, as if they were both edgy from the closeness. He reveled in the silky feel of her red-brown hair brushing his neck. Running a finger up and down the sleeve of her traveling dress, he felt an answering shiver in her neck. His cock hardened and he shifted, hoping she could not feel it. When her breathing slowed and her eyes drifted closed, he wrapped his arms around her, absorbing the feel of her small form entrusted to his care, deceiving himself, for just that moment, that her heart belonged to him and she was wholly his.

* * *

“My lord?”

“Harry,” he corrected her.

“Harry,” she said, wondering at the way her voice naturally lowered, as if saying his name were a private intimacy. “Why can the cock fighting and bear-baiting not be outlawed? Who opposes such a bill?”

It was their second day of travel and her fever had broken during the night. Harry had been more than attentive to her on the journey, though there was a sadness or wistfulness about him that she couldn’t understand. She sat across from him in the rocking carriage, contemplating his ongoing silence.

“It’s not so much that it is opposed, it’s more that no one pays it mind. Lord Goren introduced it, and he is considered to be bit of an odd fish.”

“Well, you could speak out about it.”

“Me?” he asked, looking incredulous. “No.”

“Why not? Why have you never spoken out on the Parliament floor for anything?”

His brow wrinkled. “How do you know that?”

“Maury tells me.”

Harry gave her an odd look.

“I know, it’s unconventional for a lady to discuss politics in mixed company, but I find it fascinating.” She lowered her lashes and gave him her best puppy-dog eyes. “Are you going to forbid it?”

He chuckled at her pleading expression. “Certainly not. I should be very interested in hearing your opinions on politics and Parliament, considering your lively ones on society, fashion, and the love lives of the
ton
. Though I suppose I should forbid it if we have company.”