The Westerfield Trilogy Page 6

  “You bastard!”

  “I know,” Lord Westerfield choked.

  “Stop it, Maury!” she shrieked, tugging at her brother’s arm. “Stop!”

  Lord Westerfield’s gaze locked on hers, revealing a depth of emotion she did not understand. Perhaps Maury saw it too, because he relaxed his hold, allowing Harry to take several deep breaths.

  “You will marry her, Westerfield, or I will challenge you to a duel.”

  His gaze was still fastened on her, hungry, desperate. “Only if she’ll have me,” he said in a low voice.

  She took a breath, trying not to show how relieved she felt. “I have little choice, do I? If I am to be seen in society again?”

  Maury released Lord Westerfield’s throat and sat back. “Then it’s settled. You’ll take her to Gretna Green at once,” he said, referring to the first changing post across the border in Scotland. It was where a couple could be married without the delay of posting of bans, or without parental consent if they were underage.

  She was dismayed to see that Lord Westerfield looked positively miserable as he nodded his assent.

  * * *

  Harry drove to his home to pack a travel case, then returned to fetch his bride-to-be. He felt as though a stone sat in the pit of his stomach. While he’d been happy to secure Kitty’s hand through a business contract, knowing he’d forced her to marry him with such an ungentlemanly deed made him miserable. The shame that permeated his entire being was sickly familiar to him—it was one he’d felt often as a boy.

  His father had been impossible to please, his endless criticisms were directed at everyone—the household staff, his mother, and particularly his only child. When the tirades came, Harry had kept silent, retreating to order—counting things, devising and solving math problems, organizing his world through the comforting solidity of numbers. Now he found himself calculating the number of miles they had to travel, translating it into hours and minutes and trying on varying options for stops or rests.

  When he collected Kitty, she seemed quite composed, and he marveled anew at her poise. He helped her into the carriage and observing her wince when she sat, offered the cushion from his seat. She flushed, but accepted it. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

  After a half hour her eyes began to slowly blink, and she fell asleep. She looked so fragile, her head lolling precariously against the back of the carriage, her lashes fanned out over darkened circles under her eyes. He moved quietly to sit beside her, drawing her head to rest on his shoulder. She opened her eyes and blinked at him in surprise, and he braced himself for her rejection, but instead she slowly replaced her head on his shoulder and closed her lids.

  It was not such an important gesture, but he reveled in it, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to provide a stable cushion, satisfied to offer her anything to ease her distress.

  They traveled straight through—stopping only for meals and to change horses, driving through the night and the entire next day before stopping at an inn to sleep.

  “Do you wish a separate room?” he asked Kitty, helping her out of the carriage. Though they were both weary of riding in silence in the cramped carriage, he was sorry not to spend another night with her sleeping against his shoulder.

  Kitty looked at the inn and then gave a small shake of her head. “No, thank you. Sharing a room with you for the night can’t be any worse than sharing a carriage.”

  He held out his arm for her. “Are you sure?” he asked sardonically.

  She made a show of looking for his traveling bag. “It depends on whether you packed that wretched strap!”

  He smiled, feeling a rush of affection for her and her ability to so gracefully ease the most tense of situations. She grasped his arm and sighed, looking more weary than she had the day before. He secured a room and they ate a cold meal.

  “My lord, my head is aching and I think a bit of fresh air might help,” she said uncertainly.

  “Of course, I shall escort you on a walk.”

  “Thank you.”

  He offered his arm and they walked slowly, down the small road of the village, taking in the smell of freshly cut hay, the sound of sheep bleating in the distance. When they turned a corner they came upon a large gathering of people—mostly men and boys, but some village women, too, all standing in a tight circle, calling and jeering.

  “What is it?” Kitty asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “Let’s go and see, shall we?”

  He would have obliged her any request, despite his misgivings, so he led her toward the gathering. When they drew closer, he realized it was a cock fight. Stopping short, he wrapped an arm around Kitty’s waist and pulled her back in the direction they’d come.

  “What? What was it?” she asked.

  “A cock fight.”

  “No!” she breathed. “Is it barbaric?”

  “Yes. It should be outlawed, though it probably never will be.”

  “Well, why not?”

  He shrugged. “There’s not enough support in Parliament to get it passed. Thomas St. John, an old friend of mine from school, heads the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and he’s tried to have it outlawed, along with bear-baiting, but it’s never gone anywhere.”

  Kitty was leaning on his arm more heavily now.

  “You’re exhausted, aren’t you? Come, let’s get you back to the inn.” In the room, Kitty looked at her traveling case uncertainly.

  “Shall I inquire whether there’s a maid to help you undress?”

  She hesitated, then swallowed. “No, you can unlace me,” she said, turning around to provide access to the laces on the back of her dress. She held her back stiffly and flinched when he touched her shoulder.

  “Kitty,” he said in a low voice in her ear. “I’m not going to force myself on you again. You have my word.”

  She darted a look over her shoulder. “Thank you,” was her nervous reply. Somehow, the more he tried to make it seem as though unlacing a lady’s dress was the most ordinary activity for him, the more he could not ignore the feel of his fingers brushing her bare flesh, nor the perfect shape of her narrow waist and flared hips. The sound of their breathing seemed overly loud in the quiet room. He opened the dress, breathing in the now-familiar smell of her as he loosened the laces of her corset. She clutched them both to her breast to keep them from falling. Then, to his amusement, she carried her nightdress behind the privacy screen for the chamber pot and completed her changing there. He removed his own clothing and put on a nightshirt.

  She emerged in a conservative white nightdress, with a lace collar and loose drape, but he could make out the shape of her wide hips and the way her bare breasts shifted and moved beneath it as she walked, their erect nipples tenting the thin fabric. Was she aroused by the thought of sharing a bed with him? The thought made him dizzy. But the fearful look she shot him as she approached immediately dampened his passion.

  Of course she feared him. He’d hurt her without giving even the smallest amount of pleasure. She probably dreaded the thought of having sex with him again. His stomach drew in with shame and he extinguished the lamp as soon as she reached the bed, lying perfectly still, listening to her breathe. The irony that she could be so close and yet so entirely unreachable was a cruel bone in his throat.

  * * *

  They set off again in the morning and Kitty studied him, trying once more to understand the taciturn man. Now that it was behind her, she found it quite thrilling that she had incited him to such passion—his jealousy and quickness to take her in hand making him even more attractive to her. He sat back now, looking weary, his eye swollen from the fight in the alley.

  He looked at her for a long moment, then he said, “Did you tell me that you were purposely trying to make me jealous at the ball?”

  She nibbled on her lower lip. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because you’d been ignoring me—ever since th
e night you—” She stopped, the words spanked me caught in her throat. “—kissed me,” she finished lamely.

  She saw a flicker of amusement, but then his face grew serious again.

  “You did not ask me to dance, you didn’t come to call…” She shrank when he frowned.

  He rubbed the growing stubble on his face. “I kept a distance because I had difficulty controlling my desire for you. I feared I would go too far before we married. And I did,” he added, self-condemnation evident in his tone.

  A flush of warmth flooded her entire being at that admission and she smoothed her skirt over her knees to hide her pleasure.

  “Do I need to warn you not to play such games with me again?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in stern admonishment. Her stomach fluttered at the memory of his punishment.

  “No, my lord.”

  A very faint smile appeared on his lips at the haste in which she answered.

  “You do believe me that there’s nothing between Teddy and me, save a familiarity from being childhood friends?”

  He nodded and rubbed his face again, exhaling slowly. “Lady Dunning hinted at an attachment.”

  She gasped, “That little cow! She couldn’t stand that Teddy wouldn’t have her again so she’s jealous of every lady with whom he dances!”

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

  They drove the entire day and half of the night, and she fell into the bed that night without even changing into nightclothes. Her head ached 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 leaned 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 jacket 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. Harry led her across the street to the blacksmith shop.

  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 they walked. 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 beside him. 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 be
gan 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 dozed, 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.