The Westerfield Trilogy Page 7
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.”
“Oh, I’m not that unconventional!” She grinned at him, more pleased at his praise than she should be. “Thank you. My mother died in childbirth with me, and my father often forgot that I was female. He talked about business and politics at the dinner table, schooling me along with my brothers.”
“Your father,” he mused, “was considered a great leader in Parliament. I’d forgotten until now. It’s a shame that you seem to be the one who inherited his talent and interest, rather than Maury.”
“You could be a great leader in Parliament, if you chose,” she dared. “Maury says that often the sight of your hand raised will sway men who’d abstained or meant to vote the other side, simply because you’re known for your intelligent, thoughtful decisions.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Harry said, frowning.
“Why do you remain silent so often, Harry? It’s not arrogance, as some have said about you.”
“Are you sure?” he asked sardonically.
“Yes, I’m sure. Nor is it cowardice.”
He sat staring at her, as if both fascinated and uneasy at once.
“So what is it?”
“I was waiting to hear your assessment. You seem to have all the answers about me.”
She bit her tongue to keep from a clever retort, hoping to lure him into a genuine answer. After a moment of silence, he spoke.
“Habit, perhaps. A long-standing habit from childhood.”
“Were you a child to be seen and not heard?”
He gave a wry smile. “Seen, not heard, and intently scrutinized for mistakes.”
“And then punished?”
He nodded, once, the twisted smile still on his lips, his eyes dancing over her face as if he were pleased she understood. This expression was so different from the shuttered mask he normally wore and she silently congratulated herself on having drawn him out.
“Habits could be broken,” she suggested softly. “With me.” Her heart surged into a rapid pace and she rushed on, adding, “And in Parliament. The Cruelty Against Animals Act could gain momentum with you behind it.”
The notch between his brows deepened, and he characteristically remained silent.
“Well, I hope you’ll consider it,” she ended lamely.
She nodded, oddly let down. “Yes, my lord.”
When they arrived at his home she was fully recovered in health, though her nerves were suffering at the thought of starting a new life as Lady Westerfield. He led her into his home for the second time, and she tried to absorb what she had missed the last. The furnishings were expensive, and old—she doubted if he had made any changes to it since he became the lord. It had a masculine look with wood paneling, and shades of burgundy and brown.
The household staff hovered nearby and Kitty worked hard to keep her chin up. She had no doubt that every one of them knew exactly what had transpired—from Lord Westerfield bringing her there the horrible night of the ball, to his abrupt departure for Gretna Green. Of course they showed nothing in their polite demeanor, curtsying and bowing when Harry introduced her as his wife.
“Shall I give you a tour, my lady?” the housekeeper who was introduced as Mrs. Croft asked.
She glanced at Harry, who seemed closed and distant. “Yes, thank you.”
She could feel Mrs. Croft’s curiosity in her as she led her through the house, pausing politely when Kitty stopped to examine a portrait in the hallway or look through the bookshelves in the study. When she’d finished showing her around the main floor, she led her upstairs.
“Several of your trunks were sent ahead for you, and Violet, your maid, has unpacked them.”
When they reached the top level, however, she saw her trunks being carried out of Lord Westerfield’s room and into a smaller room adjoining it, presumably at Lord Westerfield’s orders.
Lord Westerfield emerged from his chamber after them. “I’m going out,” he said.
* * *
Harry escaped the house, climbing back into the carriage he’d been so glad to leave only a half hour earlier. He hadn’t been prepared for the discomfort of bringing Kitty to the house and introducing her to the staff, who all knew exactly what he’d done to her.
When he’d reached his bedroom to wash and change his clothes, the memory of Kitty bent over his bed, so compliant with her punishment, so genuinely remorseful that she’d upset him, had flooded his senses and shame crawled across his skin like an infection. He couldn’t ask her to sleep in that bed—couldn’t demand she offer herself to him, as she’d done that night.
Why hadn’t she fought him? The question had plagued him since that night. His wife was no mouse—she had a healthy sense of justice and protested vociferously when she’d been wronged. Nor did she hesitate to call a spade a spade. Yet she had allowed him to compromise her honor, ceding to his authority with a meekness that did not fit her personality. It was a quirk that made her appeal even more intoxicating and also made his mistake all the worse. She’d placed her trust in him and he’d failed her.
Well, he would make it up to her. She’d been forced to marry him, but he would not force himself on her again. He would treat her with respect. He would provide her with the things that might make her happy. With that thought, he gave instructions to the carriage driver to take him to Bond Street, where the most fashionable shopping could be found. There, he set up accounts for Kitty at a well-respected dressmaker’s, book store and shoemaker’s.
Then he departed for his original destination: Spencer’s Gentleman’s club. He needed his numbers that night.
In the morning he found Kitty at the dining table, sipping chocolate.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Her eyes searched his face as if for an explanation. He blinked and averted his gaze, walking to the sideboard to serve himself from the covered dishes there.
“Have you eaten?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
“That isn’t necessary,” he said, sounding colder than he meant to. To temper it, he set the plate he’d filled in front of her, serving her like a footman.
She looked up in surprise. “Thank you, my lord.”
He filled another plate and sat down opposite her. “I opened accounts for you on Bond Street,” he offered.
She arched her delicate eyebrows. “You did?” she asked with interest. “How thoughtful. Does that mean I may order the stationery for our ball?”
He smiled, enjoying the eagerness that crept through, despite her attempts to conceal it. “Yes, you may order whatever you please,” he said.
“Take care, my lord,” she warned, her expression turning impish. “I’m the sort of young lady to put that offer to the test.”
He grinned. “When you’ve spent too much, I’ll tell you.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to give me a limit? Because I’m not sure you’re the sort to tell me much of anything, and from what I’ve experienced, you bite before you bark.”
Discomfited by her pointed assessment of his most marked character flaw, he stood up abruptly.
“I will tell you when it’s too much,” he snapped and her cheeks colored, turning him even surlier at having hurt her. “I won’t be home for supper,” he said tersely, walking out of the room. At the doorway, he turned back. “The carriage is available for your use.”
He wished he hadn’t seen the lost look on her face before he turned away.
The next few days, he continued to avoid her, spending his hours in Parliament, then in recreation with the other peers, dining or gambling. On the fourth morning after their return, she looked at him across the breakfast table with a calculating gleam.
“I’ve invited Lord and Lady Goren and the St. Johns to dine with us tonight.”
He stared at her, his mind racing to catch up with her scheming.
She had planned a political dinner, asking the important players in the Cruelty Against Animals Act to join them.
A tight coil of irritation twisted in his center core at her manipulation. “You what?” he hissed.
She cocked an eyebrow in challenge, setting her fork down. Her slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I thought it might be an opportunity for you to get more involved.”
“Get more involved?” he repeated, raising his voice.
She gave him a look of feigned innocence. “You know, become the political leader that you want to become.”
A rushing in his ears blocked out all sound. “I do not want to become a political leader!” he spluttered, banging his hand on the table. “You want it.” Clearly she found him to be an inadequate mate and the implied criticism stung. “And I do not need you to interfere—”
A maid entered the room to clear their plates and he bit back his words. Kitty’s expression remained pleasant, though the pink on her cheeks belied her humiliation at being shouted at in front of a servant. Still, she did not look chastened. When the maid had left the room, he gave her a dark look. “Come here, Kitty.”
The command disconcerted her. Confidence fading from her expression, she stood hesitatingly as he pushed his chair back from the table. She crossed the room to stand before him, and swallowed when he gave her a hard look.
“Do not—ever—send out invitations to my dinner table without asking my permission first.”
A muscle in her face twitched, though she masked all emotion. “Yes, my lord,” she said coolly.
“I will not be the object of your manipulations. Do you not remember how badly your last game ended?”
Color rose to her cheeks and her lips twitched at the reminder. He waited, but she did not apologize.
“Go and lock the door.”
Her jaw slid to one side and returned. He raised an eyebrow in warning and she turned to obey, locking the door and leaning against it, her hands behind her back.
“Come here, Kitty.”
“Maybe—maybe you should just see how it goes first? The dinner party? You might actually like it.�
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His annoyance started to slip away—she was truly adorable—but he kept his face impassive. “The ends do not justify the means. Now come here.”
She returned to stand before him. He patted his knee. Her eyes turned pleading, but when he frowned, she hastened to fold her body over his lap for punishment. He lifted her skirts and petticoats over her back and remembered to reach inside her chemise to free the laces of her corset so she wouldn’t swoon. The slit in her drawers gaped open, and he was able to simply part the two sides to bare her pretty cheeks.
It was utterly intoxicating to have his wife bent over his lap this way. The feel of her soft small form pressing on his legs, her most intimate parts exposed for his chastisement, imparted a heady mixture of power and arousal.
He brought his hand down upon her pert bottom. She jumped and adjusted her hips. He slapped each cheek, alternating one, then the other, enjoying the sight of the way they flattened and sprang back under his hand. The open drawers made a perfect window to frame his target. Kitty wiggled and occasionally kicked, gasped, and hissed as he began to lay down a burn that colored her creamy flesh.
“All right!” she cried.
“All right?”
“Stop! Enough!”
He smothered a laugh and pulled the drawers closed, lifting her up to sit on his lap. “Do you decide when a spanking is over?” he asked.
Her eyes lowered. “No, my lord.” The lashes snapped back open. “Is it over?” she asked hopefully.
He almost smiled. “I don’t know, is it? What have you learned?”
“I learned never to invite anyone to dinner without your permission,” she said with the sound of someone repeating a lesson learned by rote memory.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “But is that why I’m spanking you?”
Her lower lip protruded. “Yes!”
He shook his head. “No. No, it’s not. I’m spanking you for your manipulation, Kitty,” he said, removing all trace of humor from his countenance. “It was not the act of inviting guests; it was your idea of goading me into some action you desire that I resent.”