Love with the Proper Husband Page 12

  Suspicion shone in the older girl’s face. “Do you?”

  Gwen nodded. “I do.”

  “Swear it.” Charity’s gaze was unflinching, and Gwen realized how important this was if they were to have any sort of future together.

  “I swear it.”

  “Then you must do the blood oath,” Patience said firmly. “It’s the bond that ties us together, and should anyone break it”—her voice lowered dramatically—“there will be hell to pay.”

  Madame raised a brow.

  “Well, there will.” Patience huffed.

  “A blood oath?” Gwen grimaced. “I’m not sure I’m up to a blood oath.”

  “Oh, we don’t use blood.” Hope rolled her eyes as if no one would be so silly as to think blood was actually involved in a blood oath. “That would hurt rather a lot.”

  “Then what do we use?” Gwen was almost afraid of the answer.

  “Spit. It’s the next best thing to blood.” Patience spit on her index finger and held it up. Her sisters followed suit. All three held up their fingers. “See.”

  “One can scarcely avoid seeing,” Colette murmured.

  “Your turn.” The challenge in Charity’s voice echoed the challenge in her eye.

  “Very well.” Without pause Gwen spit on the index finger of her free hand and held it up. “Now what?”

  “Now we all rub our fingers together.” Hope cast Colette a pointed look. “All of us.”

  Madame bit back a smile, promptly spit on her finger, and held it up.

  “I am not making any sworn promises here.” Colette folded her arms over her chest. “I see no reason why I should have to spit on anything.”

  Hope leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Colette sighed. “Very well then.” She spit and showed her finger. “I hope you are all quite happy now.”

  “Now we have to each touch our finger to someone else’s.” Patience touched Gwen’s, then turned to Colette. “Until everyone has touched everyone else and all our blood has mingled. And repeat after me.” Patience lowered her voice dramatically. “I promise by all the blood in my veins that I shall never break this oath or suffer the dire, horrible, consequences. Forever.”

  The gathering repeated the vow and continued the ceremony in an appropriately solemn manner until everyone had shared her “blood” with everyone else.

  Colette promptly whipped out a kerchief, wiped her hand, and passed it to Madame. “Well, that was indeed an unusual experience.”

  “And calls for a celebration,” Madame said thoughtfully. “I believe Cook is baking something delightful, and I daresay it might be ready for sampling.”

  At once, Patience and Hope slid off the bed and headed toward the door.

  Charity started after them, then stopped. “I didn’t think you would do it. I thought you were too…stiff to be any fun.”

  “To be quite honest, neither did I. I have always been exceedingly stiff.” Gwen grinned. “But I suspect we shall all be doing any number of things in the future we do not anticipate.”

  Charity cast Gwen a grudging smile and followed after her sisters.

  “That was a most auspicious beginning.” Madame cast a smile at her former student. “You have said what a bad governess you were, yet seeing you with them I am hard-pressed to believe it.”

  “It’s different with them.” Gwen thought for a moment. “Charity was right, I have always been extremely stiff with the children in my charge. I have never been able to understand them. But with these three, I feel as if we are somehow bound together.”

  “It’s the blood.” Colette stared at her finger with disgust. “Blood is always the tie that binds.”

  “And love,” Madame added.

  “Love?” Could Gwen indeed love these girls? She wasn’t sure she could love anyone and wasn’t sure she wanted to. Love was a frightening proposition and was not a guarantee of faithfulness or security. It would not prevent abandonment by choice or fate or death.

  “And speaking of love,” Colette adopted a brisk tone, “we must get back to serious matters. You are to be married tomorrow and it will not do if you are not thoroughly prepared, as it were.”

  Gwen downed the remaining champagne, acknowledging that while the wine did indeed make her feel better, the topic of discussion left her almost as queasy as the brandy. Still, it could not be avoided. And it was probably a good idea to know not only what she should expect from him but what he might expect from her.

  What he might like from her.

  Abruptly she remembered the altogether remarkable sensation of his lips on hers. The amazing warmth of his body against hers. The way her own seemed to melt against him of its own accord. The delightful ache that rose from somewhere deep inside her and washed away all rational thought and urged her to cling to him. And demand more.

  At once she understood exactly what Colette and Madame had been trying to explain about intimacies and the pleasure one could find. And understood as well she wanted to know more.

  “Gwendolyn, are you listening?”

  “Yes.” Gwen nodded slowly. “And I believe I have a number of questions.” She smiled with the memory of how lovely his touch had been and the realization that it was just a taste. “And a great deal to learn.”

  Chapter 7

  No matter how clever or sophisticated a man may appear, he is merely clay waiting to be shaped by the hand of a superior woman. It is, however, best not to let him know this.

  Helena Pennington

  “You look lovely, my dear.” Lady Pennington beamed at her new daughter-in-law. “I must tell you again how delighted I am to welcome you to the family.”

  “Thank you, Lady Pennington,” Gwen murmured, struggling against the dreamlike sensation of being caught in an irresistible current of events and people.

  It had been a scant few hours since the late-morning ceremony at Pennington House had forever transformed Gwen from Miss Townsend to Lady Pennington. Marcus had seemed almost as nervous as she for the most part until she had been officially pronounced his wife. Then his gaze had met hers, he’d smiled wryly and brushed a kiss across her cheek, pausing to whisper into her ear, “There is no turning back now…Miss Townsend.”

  He’d said her name as if it were a term of endearment, and an odd excitement skipped down her spine.

  She’d scarcely exchanged more than a word or two with him since. While the wedding itself was private, with only Madames Freneau and de Chabot, Lady Pennington, and Lord Berkley present, shortly after the ceremony an endless stream of callers had begun, flitting through the grand hall and gracious rooms of Pennington House. They’d come alone or in couples, at first staying only long enough to wish the newlyweds well, but now the visitors lingered and the large parlor would soon overflow. Even Marcus looked surprised at their number. Many were apparently friends of Lady Pennington’s, and Gwen suspected the lady had discreetly encouraged them to meet and welcome Marcus’s new wife. Most she had met thus far were quite nice. She had been introduced to Lord Berkley’s mother as well as the Duchess of Roxborough and Lord and Lady Helmsley. Others were equally pleasant but made no effort to hide their curiosity.

  And why should they? The Earl of Pennington was an outstanding match, and it was only natural that there would be a great deal of speculation about the virtual stranger who had ended the career of this most eligible bachelor.

  “Oh no, that won’t do at all. You mustn’t call me Lady Pennington. It’s far too formal and there are two of us now. Two Lady Penningtons that is.” Marcus’s mother thought for a moment. “You could use my given name, Helena, although that doesn’t seem quite right either, does it? Or you could always call me”—she paused and seemed to hold her breath—“Mama.”

  “Mama,” Gwen said carefully, placing the emphasis on the second syllable in the French manner as Lady Pennington had. She’d been so young when her own mother had died she had no real memory of her. “I should like that.”

  “Wonderful.” Reli
ef flooded the lady’s face, and she beamed. “I never had a daughter, you know, and I am quite looking forward to having one now. I think we shall get on famously together.” She hooked her arm through Gwen’s and led her toward a small group standing near the windows on the far wall. “Granddaughters would be lovely as well.”

  “Lord Pennington does not seem overly fond of the idea of daughters.” Gwen grimaced. “However, he is quite enthused by the prospect of sons.”

  “Of course he would be, my dear. All men in his position are. Still, I do suspect he would like daughters as well. He was my only child, and I’ve always thought it a great pity. He’s quite delightful on those family occasions when he’s around children. Nothing more than an overlarge child himself now and then.”

  Gwen stared. “Are we speaking of the same Lord Pennington?”

  The older woman laughed. “It is hard to believe, I know. For whatever reason, my son has developed an overly cool, too droll, and rather aloof way of looking at the world that, while entertaining, serves to put a bit of distance between him and others.” She paused thoughtfully. “His public demeanor is distinctly different from his private manner. I do hope he will share that part of himself with you. Lord knows, he doesn’t share with me.”

  Perhaps he already had. Gwen remembered his impassioned address on the night he’d proposed and his confession that his friends thought him unemotional and too collected. But there were those moments, in the brief time they’d shared thus far, when he retreated behind an amused and remote façade. Of course, Gwen too had a public manner far different from her private self.

  “I should warn you, Gwendolyn, sons grow up and go their own way, disregarding your wishes or advice. However, I have heard daughters are daughters all of their days.” She squeezed Gwen’s arm affectionately. “And I am so pleased to have one now.”

  “I am pleased as well, my lady.” Gwen forced a pleasant smile and wished she didn’t feel quite so awkward. But aside from Madame and Colette, she’d never been freely offered affection from anyone before. Affection that asked nothing in return. It was most disconcerting.

  Marcus’s mother studied her for a moment, then smiled her son’s wry smile. “Oh dear. I see you have a great deal in common with my son. This is indeed an interesting match.”

  “I have no idea what you are telling her, Mother, but I am certain I would not like it.” Marcus appeared at Gwen’s side. “However, I would like to steal my bride”—he said the word smoothly, as if he had practiced—“for a few moments, if you have no objections.”

  “Marcus.” Lady Pennington’s brow furrowed in admonishment. “There are any number of people here who would like to meet her. She is, after all is said and done, the new Countess of Pennington.”

  “She is, after all is said and done, my wife,” Marcus said firmly, and took Gwen by the arm. “I’ve been told the garden is in bloom, and I should like you to see it.” He steered her toward the door.

  “It is lovely but you have never been especially interested in the gardens. I don’t see…” His mother’s exasperated sigh lingered behind them. “Do try not to keep her too long.”

  A muscle in Marcus’s jaw ticked and his voice was low. “Wouldn’t want to do that.”

  He led her out of the parlor, along a grand corridor, and through a gallery lined with portraits of what she assumed were previous Earls of Pennington and their assorted progeny, and into what was apparently a conservatory, although she had no idea precisely where she was in the grand house. And he did so at a speed that precluded any attempt she might make at conversation.

  “Do you really want me to see the gardens?” Gwen struggled to keep up with him.

  “Yes, of course,” he said absently, practically pulling her along behind him. “They’re lovely.”

  “Or so you’ve been told.” She tried, and failed, to match her pace to his. “You certainly don’t strike me as the type of man who is especially given to the appreciation of nature.”

  “I have a great appreciation of nature.” His tone was as brisk as his stride. “I quite like the out-of-doors.”

  “As do I.” She gasped.

  “I find it easier to breathe freely with the skies overhead and the earth beneath my feet. In point of fact, while I do spend a great deal of my time in town, it is, in truth, the countryside I prefer. Do you—” He glanced down at her and stopped so abruptly she nearly smacked into him. “I say, are you all right?”

  “Quite, no thanks to you.” She glared up at him. “I realize your need to breathe freely might well overcome all other considerations, but you cannot drag me along at breakneck speed and expect me not to feel a bit of a strain. You are considerably taller and considerably faster and—”

  Without warning he laughed.

  “What on earth is so funny?” She planted her hands on her hips. “I see nothing amusing about being hauled through your house—”

  “Your house as well now,” he said with a grin.

  “Even worse,” she snapped.

  “I do apologize if I have been overly eager to escape the crowd we have found ourselves besieged by.”

  A footman she hadn’t noticed stepped forward from the shadows to pull open a door Gwen hadn’t noted either.

  Marcus directed her toward the exit. “I simply assumed you too needed a respite.”

  She stepped past him and onto a broad flagstone terrace. It was thoughtful of him to consider her, even if, for whatever reason, she wasn’t ready to acknowledge such thoughtfulness at the moment. It was just so blasted nice of him. “It was something of a crush, wasn’t it? I admit, I was rather surprised and indeed somewhat—”

  “Overwhelmed?” He smiled in a too knowing manner and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “Perhaps.” She gazed up at him coolly. “A bit.”

  “Well, I admit I was more than a bit overwhelmed myself. I suspect the inundation here was my mother’s doing. Most of those who have so coincidentally descended on us this afternoon are friends of hers.” He guided Gwen toward the edge of the terrace and steps leading down into a formal garden. “Don’t look behind you.”

  “Why? Is someone following us?”

  “Only with their eyes.” He glanced back at the house. “There are any number of people, my mother prime among them, discreetly peering at us from the parlor windows.”

  “Really?” She resisted the urge to check. “Why?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked upward, and at once she knew the answer. Heat flushed up her face. “Oh my.”

  “However”—his hand slipped down her arm to firmly grasp her hand—“while this garden is not especially large, it is designed so that those seeking privacy from observation need simply descend the stair and follow the path along the wall of the terrace to a secluded niche protected by marble guardians. It comes in quite handy at balls and soirées and the like for intimate assignations.”

  “And you have firsthand knowledge of this?”

  His grin said more than mere words and was most annoying.

  “So are we seeking privacy, my lord?” There was a slight flirtatious lilt to her voice, and she wondered where on earth that had come from.

  “We are,” he said without hesitation and started down the steps, his fingers firmly entwined with hers. She had no choice but to accompany him. And no desire to do otherwise. “We have a great deal to talk about.”

  “I see. So the privacy you seek in the gardens is for nothing more than discussion?”

  He ignored the question. “Have you noticed how few of our callers have expressed surprise at the news of our nuptials?”

  She nodded. “And those who have do not seem especially sincere.”

  “They are dreadful actors, one and all.” His brows pulled together thoughtfully. “It is probably of no significance, but as it has been less than a week since the need to marry surfaced and no more than two days since you agreed to do so, it strikes me as exceedingly odd that the majority of my mother’s acq
uaintances are not so much as mildly surprised by our abrupt and unexpected wedding.”

  They reached the foot of the stairs and started down the walkway. “Does it matter?”

  “Probably not.” He continued on until the path curved away from the wall, then abruptly widened to a circular alcove sheltered by high, clipped hedges.

  A stone bench sat positioned toward the back of the alcove, concealed behind a life-sized marble statue of three women with arms entwined. They stood on an oval-shaped base rising a good three feet above the ground. It was an extremely large piece overall, carved in the classic Greek style and quite lovely. She gazed up at the towering figures whose own eyes were cast modestly downward and couldn’t help but wonder what the mythical trio of Muses or Graces or something equally as whimsical thought of the activities that apparently took place here right beneath their noses.

  “My, this is private,” she murmured, peering around the statue. Two people could easily remain hidden behind it, lingering on the bench unobserved.

  “Do you mind?” A wry half smile lifted his lips. “Being alone here? With me?”

  “Not at all.” She pulled her hand from his and stepped toward the statue as if there was nothing more in the world she wished to do than study the work. As if she hadn’t the slightest desire to put a bit of distance between them. As if she was not aware of every breath he took. “I suspect we shall spend a great deal of our time alone together in the future.” Her voice remained aloof, remote, but there was the oddest fluttering deep in her midsection.

  “No doubt.” He too stepped closer, as if he too wished to study the ladies in their classical poses and marble gowns. Was his interest as feigned as hers? “Do you like it?”

  She started. “Being alone with you?”

  “I was talking about the statue,” he said lightly.

  He had the decency not to look at her or crack so much as the slightest smile. Her cheeks burned, and she was grateful for his courtesy. He studied the figures before him, his brow furrowed in a considering manner. “What do you think?”