South Landers: Wenna Part 12

Dev arrived back from his run hot and sweaty. He emptied Wenna's bathwater onto the scruffy garden outside, while she stood over the stove stirring the oats. "What do you plan to do today?" He grabbed his pot of bath water from the stove.

Despite denying himself an opportunity to pleasure himself with his tipsy wife the night before, he was glad he'd stood his ground. Glad, but h.o.r.n.y as all h.e.l.l. Wenna had practically kicked him to death during the night, moaning and thrashing around until he'd held her. She'd calmed, showing that she appreciated his presence.

She looked pale and tired, but nonetheless still appealing. "Perhaps I'll start making a new gown. I'll need something else for Cornwall."

He poured the hot water into the bath and topped up the level with a pot of cold, realizing that his wife had no life. Perhaps that's why she'd drunk to excess, to ease her boredom. He'd married her and settled her into his bachelor lodgings, then he disappeared each day except Sunday to work on his new house. On Sunday, he dropped her off at church and went to play cricket with his friends. Every night he ate with her and took her home to bed. She'd rarely refused his attentions. He could say with complete truth that to date she had been the perfect wife, and he had been a rat.

Clean and dressed in his dusty work clothes, he sat down to breakfast with his clean and impeccably dressed wife. He eyed her as he ate. "What would you want to do if I took a day off work?"

She jerked up straighter in her chair. "If you took a day off work, you'd miss a day's wages."

"Would you like to go to an art show?"

"I want us to have enough money to get to Cornwall."

"I have enough. You could buy yourself a new hat and take a stroll with me along the river."

"Why would I want to stroll along the river?"

He shrugged. "Fresh air. Sunshine. Why not?"

"I shop for food every day. That's enough for me. And you take me out every night."

He drew a deep breath. "I've put off my regular engagements for the past few weeks, but I can't ignore my friends' invitations any longer. Tonight I plan to have dinner with them at The Castle, and later a few hours upstairs. I might be late but I won't disturb...." He stopped when her face froze. "I can't take you. No other women will be there."

"Do as you wish. And I'll do as I wish. A cold collation here would suit me nicely. The small bedroom would also suit me nicely."

"Are you telling me I will lose my husbandly rights if I go out with my friends?"

She crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed. "I won't be sharing a bed with a man who ruts with prost.i.tutes."

He drew his eyebrows together. "How on earth did me going out with friends change into me rutting with prost.i.tutes?"

"I know you'll take another woman as soon as blink."

He examined her expression of disdain. "And would that matter to you?"

"Certainly not." Her chin lifted.

"Why, then, are we discussing the subject?"

She moistened her lips. "You are married to me."

"I have no intention of being unfaithful."

She lowered her gaze, taking a long breath. "I'd believe that if I knew you weren't going to the upstairs rooms in The Castle," she said to her plate.

"I don't imagine I'll spend more than five pounds."

She stood so quickly that she b.u.mped the table. The dishes clattered and his teacup tilted dangerously. The furious expression on her face warned him, but since he didn't know what she would do, he didn't think to move his foot away before she stamped down hard on his toes. "Don't even think of it!"

He grabbed her upper arms and jerked her onto his knee. Her hand clenched, but before she could punch him, he covered her fist with his palm.

"I can't believe you'd spend so much on a wh.o.r.e." Her bottom lip trembled.

Discussions of money had a powerful effect on her. He pondered for a moment. "Gambling." Wincing, he wriggled his toes. "I don't buy favors."

"Upstairs at The Castle," she said in a precise voice, "is where men buy favors."

"The rooms are for hire, but we hire ours for card-playing and smoking."

"I wish I could believe that."

He leaned back. "You seem to think I'm inexhaustible. A man who is satisfied at home has no need to go elsewhere."

Her lips pursed, and she tried to rise from his knee, but now he had her so close, he didn't want to let her go. He gazed into her eyes, and she lifted her hand to the side of his neck, giving him a light and rather insincere smile. Her body tensed as if to leave. Before she could, he tightened his arms around her waist and lifted his mouth to hers. From there, he took the tasty delight of her tongue as he would take her nipple, drawing it into his mouth and rolling it around. Her breath eased out and she arched, rubbing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s on his chest. What with that and her b.u.t.tocks on his thighs, he was more than ready to unb.u.t.ton his trousers, daylight be d.a.m.ned.

He brushed the backs of his hands against the side of her breast as he played in her mouth, drawing away and returning. Her fingers left the nape of his neck, moving his hand to the underside of her breast. She lifted her head. "Will you be very late?"

"What?"

Her lips wandered along his jaw line, her breath a soft whisper on his neck. "Tonight. Will you be back at a reasonable hour?"

"No later than midnight," he said huskily, gently positioning her face so that he could again kiss her soft and willing lips. His hand shifted to the hooks at the neckline of her bodice.

Her breath eased out as he began the unhooking, and her fingers sifted through the hair around his ear, sifting, sifting, caressing his ear and his jaw. "Midnight seems a long time to wait to have you in bed with me."

"We won't wait." Breathing hurt. "I can take you now, here."

Leaning back, her eyes half-hooded, she let him undo her bodice to the waist, her face a picture of sensuality with her lips pouty and moist. Then she slowly opened his shirt, concentrating far too long on each b.u.t.ton. The antic.i.p.ation left him dry-mouthed until she finally bared his chest. While waiting, he had done nothing except frame the sides of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and when she began to run her hands over his skin, his own nipples hardened. She bent her head and licked one. His heart pounded against her face.

"You can't imagine how you tempt me," she said onto his skin, and the whole of him vibrated with her words.

Then, she sighed and pushed herself upright, closing his shirt and shrugging his hands off her.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed back her hands and held them in his, against the wall of his chest. "Wenna, you can't stop now. You want me, and I want you," he said, the desperation in his voice surprising him.

"I do. But I don't want a quick tupping on the table. I want to spend hours in bed making love to you." She heaved a long sigh.

"Then, I could take the day off."

She shook her head slowly. "I need the daylight hours for my sewing. And you must make a living." Her expression regretful, she stood, staring down at him. "And tonight...I might be asleep when you get home."

He nodded slowly, finally understanding. "And you won't be in the mood if I wake you?"

"As to that...." Her shoulders lifted in a shrug.

His mouth tilted on one side. Lord help him. She would use s.e.x to manipulate him and, starved fool that he was, he would let her. "As I see my choice, I can stay home tonight or I can take you to The Castle with me?"

Her head tilted slightly to the side as she stared at him, considering. "Yes."

Despite an arousal harder than the willow on his cricket bat, he laughed, raising his palms in surrender. "So, I'll take you to The Castle. Whatever we do, we need to eat." He stood, b.u.t.toning his shirt. "I'll be home at the usual time, and I'll see you then. Dress is formal."

Chapter 11.

With six ladies booked for styling that morning, Wenna walked to the hat shop soon after she'd made tea for Ernie and Mr. Finn. Despite having to deprive herself, she had put a halt to a surprisingly exciting interlude, all to change her husband's mind. She couldn't think of a single incidence in her previous life when she had lowered herself to manipulation.

Half-ashamed, but only half, she would now meet his upper-crust friends on her own terms. She tugged open the hat-shop door. The unashamed half of her knew that meeting the males first would put her in a better position when she had to be confronted with their various sisters and wives, and that time would surely come. Devon would do himself no good by hiding away his hastily married wife.

She and Maisie managed the complicated styles requested before Maisie sat Wenna down in front of the mirror. "So, where might you be going tonight with that handsome husband of yours?"

"The Castle. I know it's known for the food and not for the other entertainments, but it's the other entertainments I'll be trying. Before you look too scandalized, I'm going to attend a card evening."

Maisie put on a mock prissy face. "I wasn't about to be scandalized. Your husband is a gent. He wouldn't be hiring fancy women. Do you play cards often?"

"No." Wenna didn't expand. She had played Slapjack with the other servants until she'd been elevated to the position of lady's maid five years ago, but she'd never gambled. "Do you remember that big looped plait I showed you? That's how I want my hair styled for tonight."

Maisie's lips pulled to the side while she thought. "The one where I loop strands over and over? I don't know if I can remember the whole thing."

"Try." Wenna explained the braiding with a mirror at her back, but the looping needed to be practiced and Maisie hadn't had the hours. Eventually Wenna settled for a figure-eight braid along the back of her head. She pulled out a few curls to soften her face, knowing she couldn't have managed even this uncomplicated braid on herself. "You've done a very good job, Maisie. We'll practice all the other styles I've shown you when you have the time, but it's almost midday now."

Taking a break of her own, Wenna strode to King William Street with the money she had earned at the hat shop wrapped tightly in her handkerchief. Every three months she sent off a bank draft to her grandparents. After a short wait, her bank deposited the cash and made out the notification, which she marched off to the General Post Office.

As she watched the clerk slide her envelope down the chute, she said, "Do you have any mail for Miss Wenna Chenoweth, formerly of Dutton Terrace, Medindie?"

The clerk sighed, searched for the Walkerville box, and found a dog-eared letter from England, most likely a message dictated by her grandparents who, born in the eighteenth century, couldn't write. "Returned a month ago. You should always leave a forwarding address."

"I'll write one for you now." Naturally, because she had a hair appointment pending, she had to fill in a long and complicated form under the eye of the clerk. "I've had a change of name, too. Courtney."

The clerk glanced up at her. "Courtney of Rundle Street? Wait, then. I have mail for Mr. Courtney, too." He rummaged around in a cabinet behind him while she tapped her foot. "Ah, yes. The Honorable Mr. Courtney."

Amused by Devon being called "honorable," which he usually was, or at least in his dealings with her, she put his letters with hers and hurried off, with so much to do and so little time that she plotted tasks as she walked. First she had the four heads of hair to style, and then she would modify a skirt and bodice to wear tonight, lacking an evening gown.

After finally arriving home, pushed for time, she still had the envelopes in her hand when she opened the door to the store cupboard. In one of Devon's mother's boxes, she had seen a tablecloth trimmed with elaborate lace, which she thought she could use on her gown tonight. Knowing she would be back to tidy up, she left the letters with the fabrics she had scooped out in her search.

She had barely an hour to work before Devon's homecoming. Sitting on the carpet in the study, she cut into the lace tablecloth. With a modic.u.m of guilt and a silent apology, she carefully removed the long corner, which she repurposed as a shawl collar for her cream bodice, after removing the black braid. The lace softened the rigid neckline and draped to a point near the waist in front. The exquisite pattern would disguise her outfit's plebeian origins.

She undressed quickly and even more quickly stepped into her cream skirt, adding her newest refurbishment. A careful examination of her appearance in the cheval mirror quite satisfied her. The elaborate lace against the plainness of the cream ensemble looked restrained and tasteful. She would pa.s.s as a lady.

Experimenting with a carefully p.r.o.nounced "How do you do?" she hurried her lace sc.r.a.ps down the stairs and replaced various tablecloths, pillowcases, table napkins, and embroidered doilies back into the box, grabbing up the letters she'd left. Her own sat on the top. Her mouth curved into an expectant smile as she lifted the seal.

It is my sad duty to inform you that your grandmother died on the 20th of October and your grandfather followed her to the grave a week later. United in life, and united in death.

Formal words. Her smile died, and her eyes misted. Neither shocked nor grieved, for she had never met either, she experienced a huge well of disappointment. She would never meet her only surviving relatives.

Sighing as she gathered up Devon's mail, she trailed back upstairs. She now had no one of her own but her husband, the man who had married her because she wanted to go to her grandparents in Cornwall. Despondent, she left his mail on his desk before putting out his evening suit. She had no need to leave the colony now.

Trying to shake off her new loss of direction, she took out Devon's shirt. Her honorable husband looked wonderful no matter what he wore, but he looked especially handsome in formal clothes. Any woman would be proud to be with him. She'd barely cleaned his shoes when she heard his quick footsteps on the stairs. Soon she would be faced with a pack of young irresponsible gentlemen who would surely look down their noses at her.

Instead of working up a case to despise the over-privileged, she stood, racked with nerves, facing her husband in the doorway.

He stopped and his gaze swept over her gown. "Very elegant."

"Thank you. Let's hope I pa.s.s muster with your snooty friends." She couldn't make herself tell him that her grandparents had died. If she no longer had a reason to go to Cornwall, he had married her for naught. She had married him because she had yen for this particular irresponsible young gentleman.

"Since they're all male and unmarried, I don't imagine you will have any problem pa.s.sing muster." He began to remove his shirt. "One of my friends married recently, though, but he dropped out of the card-playing group. I expect he would rather be with his new wife than with a pack of bachelors."

Trying to ignore the fact that he saw himself as a bachelor, she squared her shoulders. "He must be very much in love."

He shrugged. "You shall be able to judge for yourself when they return to town." Turning, he soaped his washcloth and began to wash his face and chest.

She stayed, fascinated by the play of the muscles in his back. Were she confident of him or of herself, she would run her hands over his bare skin and lift her mouth for a kiss. Despite knowing where that would lead, her urge to have him inside her quickened her pulse. However, she couldn't be impulsive when she needed to protect herself from pregnancy. Her womanly places tingling with need, she turned her back and left for the sitting room.

For the next quarter hour, she occupied herself by worrying about the ramifications of her grandparents' deaths. A good wife would go to Cornwall with her husband, and she would bear his baby. Devon's situation hadn't changed, only hers had. She now had a moneymaking business, which would be hard to leave when she could see how easily she could expand. Her not-so-successful husband had nothing here except a seasonal job. In England, their positions would reverse.

She picked at her fingernails until he appeared in the doorway. In the severity of his evening suit, he looked remote and untouchable. Tall and good-looking, chiseled from ivory, topped with gold-flecked amber, even the way he inclined his head spoke of innate cla.s.s. If he had said he was a prince rather than the son of a farmer, she would have had no difficulty believing him. She rose, ready to leave, hoping not to put a foot out of place.

His mouth relaxed into a smile. "You look lovely. I'll be a proud man tonight."

Her heart almost stopped. Lord, she wanted to make him proud. She had wanted to make her father proud, too, but he had told her that as a female, her best option was to be a good wife. That appeared to depend on a husband's requirements, and her husband had expressed no need of her except in the bedroom.

She wanted more, much more, always had. Her business was small, and would remain so or her husband would look foolish to his friends. She couldn't do that to a man who had thus far done the right thing by her.

Half an hour later, Dev strode with his new wife past a suit of polished armor to the reception desk at The Castle. The matre d'htel approached, looking mildly ridiculous in a medieval tunic and hose. "Mr. Courtney. Good evening. Your room is ready."

The man turned and led the way past the dining room, where the well-heeled patrons sat at long tables in high-backed medieval-style chairs. In a way, the place reminded him of home, drafty and stark, but this aspect was much admired by the homesick colonials. The studied antiquity clearly implied cla.s.s. Gla.s.ses clinked and the smell of roasting meat wafted from the kitchens.

Dev indicated precedence to Wenna, who followed the man past the old tapestries to a reserved back room. Inside was more of the same: a long table, uncomfortable chairs, and paneled walls. "My wife and I will drink barley water. Will that suit you, my love?" He raised his eyebrows at Wenna.

"Oh dear. You're martyring yourself for me. You may have barley water if you insist. I'll have watered wine." She smiled firmly at the matre d'htel, who blinked at Dev.

"In that case, I'll share your wine," Dev said, enjoying her mock reproof.

The door opened. "Thought I saw your back, Dev. Didn't know you would have a lovely lady with you." The newcomer, a short man with a cherubic face, was Hubert Grace, the son of Sir Patrick and Lady Grace. He smiled at Wenna.

"Let me intro-"

"Move along." Luke Worthing, a lawyer who'd studied at Cambridge, too, pushed Hubert into the room. "We'll have two bottles of that French claret you showed me last week, Mason," he said to the matre d'htel. His severe brown-eyed gaze turned to Wenna. "Good Lord. Another redhead. Welcome to the club." Wry lines formed beside his thin-lipped mouth. He'd always been overly conscious of his own red hair.