South Landers: Wenna Part 7

"We men do have these thoughts, faced with sharing a bed." His expression turned indulgent as he tugged a curl of her hair that had somehow escaped.

She shifted away, trying to put sharing a bed out of her mind. Sharing a table had been awkward enough. Likely the bedding would be as quick as the meal last night, and a.s.suage his needs. "We women have more practical thoughts, like shopping, cooking, and cleaning."

"Forget your practical thoughts. We'll be celebrating tonight and eating out." He sounded miffed.

She adopted a languid "Miss Patricia" tone. "In that case, I'll lie on my bed reading your newspapers before I prettify myself for the most momentous day of my life. Do you mind if I use the mirror in your room this afternoon?"

"Do what you will," he said, already turning to leave. "I'll be back after four to dress."

"Have a pie before you leave. They're still warm."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up two and disappeared.

In the early afternoon, she unpicked the waist seam of her older black gown and took apart the bodice, giving herself the beginnings of a new skirt and a bodice pattern. The town hall clock struck three before she'd barely tidied the sc.r.a.ps of material and the broken threads. She had an hour and a half to ready herself.

Before she changed into the combination she'd decided on for her wedding, she took a laundered white shirt with a starched collar out of Devon's tallboy, brushed his dark suit, and cleaned his black shoes. Knowing he owned the correct attire for an afternoon wedding, she found the black silk cravat she'd placed with his other neckwear in the top drawer. The clock struck the half hour.

Now for herself. Being the prettiest of her outfits, she'd planned her cream skirt and the cream-based floral bodice for the wedding that might never have eventuated. For the first time, she pulled on the crinoline hoop and dropped the extravagant petticoat over her head. The skirt took almost no time to fasten, and the swish and sway of the material fascinated her for a few moments, but her clammy fingers slipped with her stays. Her bodice had been altered to emphasize her small waist and the back hooking took quite a bit of contortion. Finally, she walked as gracefully as any lady back into Devon's room to use his mirror for her hair.

For the second time, she formed the loose chignon that Devon had noted, but this time she added a pattern of thick strands to lightly decorate the spread. Using a hairclip, she separated a few curls to soften the edges around her face and neck. She stared at herself for a few moments, certain she looked as smart as any of her mistresses. When she heard him take the stairs at his usual rate, two at a time, she hurried back to her bedroom. Although he couldn't avoid seeing her before the ceremony, she somehow needed to prolong the moment.

Her palms sticky, she sat on her bed. She didn't have gloves. Her plain black pair would look appalling with her light outfit. And she didn't have a reticule to hold her handkerchief. No matter. She wouldn't cry. A bride didn't cry on her wedding day.

Too soon, Devon stood in the doorway, dressed for the wedding, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, silently staring at her. He said not a word. His face looked tight, tense. He tapped his black hat on this thigh and glanced at the gloves he held in the same hand. "Thank you for readying my clothes," he finally said.

She heard a crow outside calling, "How? How? How?" and her lips stretched into the shape of a smile. How foolish to expect a compliment. Better to be thanked for a good deed done than admired for the way she spent his money on decorating herself. He was only marrying her because... Why, why, why? A man with his looks and connections could choose from a long line of rich, beautiful young brides. Surely. Unless he was the wastrel she suspected he was, paid to stay away from England and hoping to be invited back if he sired a plump child to be fed sugarplums by his doting grandpa.

She glanced at Devon again. In black and white, the man looked like a lord: formal, remote, invulnerable, and the handsomest man in creation. Unable to suppress her shallow thoughts, she pushed past him through the doorway.

She held her posture during her entire wedding ceremony, keeping her eyes wide, refusing to blink, afraid that sentimental tears might gather. She wished her parents could see her today, standing tall beside a man who would provide strong, healthy children. Although she couldn't be any more to Devon than the breeder he wanted, she had the idea that he could too easily be more to her, but she would guard against that. A love not returned would be wasted.

His friend had organized the ceremony in a stark building beside the almost fully constructed town hall. Two witnesses, strangers whom Devon quite blatantly paid, stood staring while the man dressed in street clothes who had introduced himself as the registrar asked Wenna to take Devon for her husband.

Neither she nor Devon had given thought to a ring, and she accepted his green signet in lieu. She murmured "I will," and after the same phrases, Devon also said "I will." The whole procedure, including the signing, took no longer than ten minutes. She stepped out of the tall building and onto King William Street a married woman. "Mrs. Courtney," the registrar had p.r.o.nounced her.

"I'm afraid of losing your ring." She glanced at the town hall clock, whose minute hand had just pa.s.sed the quarter hour. "It's far too big. You'd best take it back."

"I'll get you another," Devon said indifferently, taking her by the elbow. "But a ring isn't an essential. We made our vows in front of witnesses, and no more than that is required. A church ceremony takes far longer to set up, and it would have meant nothing to me. I'm not a believer."

"I can't argue about religion. I've always gone to church on Sundays, and I've never seen the need to question."

"You've never hesitated to question me, or my motives."

"You're hardly a higher being."

"What? You don't admire me?"

"You have your good points."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

She stood stock-still and looked him over from head to toe. "You look well in a formal suit," she said drily.

He laughed. "I thought I was a rag of a man. Well, at least I own a block of land."

"Let's hope you'll be able to sell it before you leave."

He made a doubting mouth. "It's an investment."

His hat fashionably angled and, without speaking, he walked her back to The Pig and Whistle. Inside the noisy place, he took the same seat as before and told the same waitress he wanted a bottle of the best wine. The wine, which Wenna thought was extravagant, bearing in mind the state of his shaky finances, came with two thick-stemmed gla.s.ses. Since a celebration seemed to be in order, she sipped a little, too.

Devon's gentlemanly dress appeared to impress the waitress, who listened to his order with her eyelashes lowered and then rushed to do his bidding. Wenna didn't know what the waitress or the other patrons presumed about her. Not wearing a ring, she didn't look like Devon's wife, but since she knew she'd married him, she a.s.sumed an outward confidence.

Halfway through the meal, a little man with a curly fringe of white hair and an enormous nose came over to the table. "Everything in order, Mr. Courtney?"

"Sit and have wine with us, Snow. Milady has hardly taken a sip, and I don't want to quaff a full bottle by myself."

"Don't mind if I do." The little man dipped his head and appropriated a beer mug from one of the few empty tables. "Is tonight a special occasion?"

"I'd say so." Devon poured the wine into the mug. "This is my, ah, wife," he said, indicating Wenna. "Snow is the host here. I think he owns the place, too, although he won't admit it."

"Garn with you." Mr. Snow grinned at Devon. "You don't think a rough old miner like me 'ud get a job here if I didn't own the place, do you? Good t'meetcha, Mrs. Courtney. Thought it would only be a matter of time 'til this young buck settled down. A lotta ladies gonna be disappointed, though." He quaffed his wine as fast as most men drank ale.

Devon laughed. "You still don't have a taste for the good stuff."

"I'm a simple man. You two enjoy yourselves, and I'll get back to work. Jest wanted to inspect the lady. Everyone's interested, like." Mr. Snow took his empty mug and left.

"I'm surprised you eat in this place." Wenna watched the little man speak to the waitress, whose face fell as she glanced back at Devon. "The other patrons are working people and none would touch wine."

"Maybe they should."

"Wine is too expensive if we're wanting to get back to Cornwall."

"Are you enjoying the meal?" he asked politely.

She looked at the fine grain of her beef and the fluffy, b.u.t.tery vegetable mash on the thick white plate. "It's beautifully cooked."

"So, please leave me to decide how I spend my money."

She glanced at his face. Yet again she'd annoyed him when she was only trying to help. She'd never had a way with men, likely because she was too plain-speaking. Perhaps she needed to learn when to keep quiet. Finally, the half-empty bottle was re-corked. With Devon carrying the remains, she walked in the failing daylight across to the lodging with him, steeling herself for the night ahead.

She lit a lamp and waited in the study while he put the water on to boil for the baths. Though by rights, as his wife, she should do this, he said he had done the task for months and would continue. When she heard the rattle of the pan being dragged off the hob, she undressed down to her chemise, collected the fresh towels to hide her legs, and descended to the kitchen.

The stars outside the window began to emerge in the gray sky. After her bath, she lit up her bedroom, took out the sponge she had bought some years before, sprinkled on the vinegar she had poured into a jar from the kitchen, and inserted her womb guard. Then, she dropped her clean nightgown over her head and sat on her bed. She didn't cry. Brides did not.

Dev couldn't imagine being more tense. He'd planned to impregnate Wenna, breed a son or two and live his own life, but the look of her in her wedding gown had tempted him to call the whole thing off. She'd looked calm, beautiful, and full of hope. He'd expected her to look satisfied to be going ahead with their plan, like a business partner ready to sign the contract. Instead, she'd looked like a sweet young bride.

And now he planned to put his baby inside her. Fortunately, his body was a step ahead of his brain and didn't mind that they were almost strangers. His towel around his waist and already half-aroused, he walked into the light of his bedroom.

"What the devil?" he muttered.

She'd turned down the covers of the bed, but had made herself scarce. She couldn't be nervous. She'd been loved before, which any man would have expected given her age. Some women of the same age would have eight children by now. He reversed and followed the lamplight to her room.

"Changed your mind?" he asked the redhead who sat neatly on her single bed.

"I thought it would look a little gauche to be waiting for you in your bed."

"Gauche?" he said. "For a maid, you have quite an extensive vocabulary."

She gave him a smile full of cynicism. "I wasn't born a maid. I was trained to be a maid, and maids learn from their masters and mistresses. For example, my first mistress said to me, 'You look like a gauche country girl.' Then she had me hide my hair."

"I expect she couldn't stand the compet.i.tion. Now, would your ladyship join me in my bed?" He stood aside so she could walk before him, which she did.

He followed her night-braided hair, her squared shoulders, and her white cotton-tented body, his bare feet padding on the floorboards while he struggled to breathe evenly. This composed woman aroused him like no other. He watched while she neatly folded his suit into a lower drawer and paired his shoes into the bottom. Apparently, she would rather act the maid than share his bed.

He didn't b.l.o.o.d.y well care.

He would have her unless she left him right here and now. He would take her without emotional involvement. She needed no emotion, either. She wanted to leave this country, he wanted to stay, and neither needed to complicate matters. His hands clenched while she began to fold his shirt. "You're delaying, my dear."

"I'm tidying up after you."

He dropped his towel. His erection hit mid mast, jutting at right angles. Her eyes focused on his rod, and she backed a little.

"Then, I'll tidy up after you." He stepped forward, only slightly impeded by his now full erection banging on his belly, scooped up the hem of her nightgown, and lifted the pristine white cotton over her head, trying to roll the d.a.m.ned thing while the sight of her nakedness left him dry-mouthed.

She stood, lifting her chin, daring him to stare at a slender white body unmarred by a single mole or freckle. The palest of pink nipples, barely a skin tone darker than the rest of her, tipped her surprisingly lush b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Telling a beautiful woman how beautiful she looked was as pointless as complimenting a genius for his brain. He could see that she wanted to cover herself with her hands, and he appreciated her determination not to be coy.

"You should stay naked for the rest of your life," he said in a forced voice.

"I don't have a choice at the moment. You have appropriated my nightgown."

With that, she s.n.a.t.c.hed, and trickled the garment onto the floor. Her breath tingled on his shoulder while her palm brushed the underside of his rod, which jerked in antic.i.p.ation.

"Mm," she said.

"Mm?'

"You should leave this on display, too. Your social calendar would then be full."

He could barely breathe, which ended up not being a problem because she fastened her mouth across his. Just as he prepared to take her lovely bottom into his two palms and lift her onto his upright rod, she ended her kiss and moved back, eyeing the bed.

Accepting her clear invitation, he lifted her by the waist, threw her onto the bed, and dropped beside her. One roll, and he took her onto his chest. Her heart thundered against him and he arranged his c.o.c.k between her thighs. "This is a wildly inappropriate moment," he said, wishing his brain hadn't started functioning while his tool wanted to guide him. "But are you clean?"

"I had a bath just before you."

"I mean, disease-free."

She pushed up from him and stared right into his eyes. "I'm not a wh.o.r.e, and I suspect you've diddled quite few. Are you clean?"

He cleared his throat. "I haven't been with a wh.o.r.e. I, ah, would normally use a contraceptive sheath. With you, I'm not using anything because we want a baby. Now, lie on me while I fix your hair." His fingers slid to the back of her neck, and she let her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s compress against his chest while he removed her clips, which he tossed onto the floor. When he found the end of the braid, he pulled off the tie and combed his fingers through the heavy ma.s.s, freeing her locks. "That's better."

She shook her hair, letting the curls trickle across his chest. Her hand lifted to the top of his shoulder, and she tinkered over his skin for a moment, her mouth sulky. "Get on with it."

He lifted her hair out of the way, stroking the silky softness as he rolled on top of her. His thighs parted hers, and he angled his hips, desperate to begin the act that would end with the hot rush of his s.e.m.e.n into her.

Her unconfined hair spread across the pillow, and in place of Jenny's soft loving smile, Wenna's face wore an expression of wariness. He gently dropped his mouth across hers and she responded by lifting her knees. Other than that, she kept still.

This wouldn't work, and he didn't know how to proceed. He'd never had a woman who didn't want him, didn't grab his b.u.t.tocks and urge him on. Ridiculously, he'd thought she shared his desire. Why? She'd never been anything other than cool.

"I'll turn off the lamp," he said gruffly. He reached over and drowned the wick.

When he rolled onto his side again, he drew her into his arms, running the flat of his palm down her smooth back and delightful bottom. Eventually she did the same to him. With his mouth just under her ear, he put her hand onto his heavy erection. Breathing audibly, she explored. Her breath heated on his cheek and her palm found a frustrating rhythm, too slow, too gentle. He kissed her, took her hand in his, and settled it on his chest. She'd relaxed. For tonight, that would suffice.

A drawer squeaked. Surrept.i.tiously, Wenna cricked open her eyes and watched Devon drag his old trousers over his linen under-drawers and his even-older shirt over his head. He collected his soft-soled shoes and, without washing or shaving, left the room. She heard the downstairs door slam.

She yawned and stretched. Without a doubt, Devon slept on a better mattress than hers. His sheets were the finest cotton money could buy, but better than comfort and luxury was the fact that he hadn't pushed his huge oldjohn inside her. Last night, after he'd fallen asleep, she'd taken out her sponge, and then she'd worried that he might try to poke her some time during the night. She needed to learn his habits.

The town hall clock struck six. Lately, she'd been sleeping an extra hour, but since he appeared to be an earlier riser than she suspected, she clumped out of bed, washed quickly, and dressed in her black gown, a.s.suming he'd gone for his daily run. As a wife, she should take an interest. As a wife, she bundled down the stairs with his shaving mug and lit the stove.

While the wood crackled and smoked, she shot back to the bedroom and tidied. For a moment, she paused to examine her face in his shaving mirror. She didn't look any different for having spent a night in a man's bed-in her husband's bed. He'd had his hands all over her body and he'd kissed her. She wouldn't mind at all if he did both again.

And she'd caressed his silky-hard oldjohn. My. She hoped he didn't remember but she suspected he would. The man was a reprobate and had encouraged the touching. Her cheeks warmed. She was hardly a virgin, but no man's hands had smoothed her the way his did, and no man's eyes had seen her naked body. None had handled her hair so reverently.

She gathered together the sheets from her single bed and took them downstairs for the laundress. After she filled the kettle, she put the oats on to cook. While setting the small table, she examined the plates that sat boxed in the storage cupboard. Each plate she drew out was gold-edged with bouquets of flowers painted in the center-large plates, small plates, bread-and-b.u.t.ter plates, dessert plates, cake plates, lidded vegetable dishes, and serving platters. No two plates were exactly the same. Nonetheless, the set matched. His mother's plates, he'd said. His mother had died. Why did his father not use them?

Her mouth quirked into a rueful smile. He didn't use them because they were too beautiful, each a work of art. Wenna couldn't use them either-not in a set of rooms behind a shop front with no dining table, and no point in having one, not for two people like her and Devon, who had nothing in common, who wouldn't sit over candlelit dinners discussing their dreams. She shut the door of the cupboard and took out the thick plates and mugs she used for breakfast every day.

The door squeaked, light momentarily appeared in the foyer, and then the doorway darkened.

"Good morning," her husband said with the sort of smile that made her insides hum. Perspiration beaded his brow, and his shirt clung to his chest. "I thought you would sleep longer."

"If you're up and about early, I should be, too."

"I went for a run around the city perimeter. This morning I stopped off at the market and bought fruit for breakfast." He walked into the kitchen with a newspaper-wrapped bundle, which he pa.s.sed to her.

"I cooked porridge."

"We can have both."

"Just a moment, and I'll pour the hot water into your shaving jug."

He blinked at her. "I usually use the cold water. Wenna..." He took a deep breath. "Thank you."

He left with the jug. Her heart resumed a steady beat. That's what impressionable brides hoped would happen when they'd married a golden G.o.d. She sighed. Now a wife and with virtually nothing to do, no washing, no cooking, she was in a position to be a particularly supportive wife-if she found the courage to follow her plan.