Barbara Metzger (12 page)

“Oh, that wasn’t Digby, that was George. I never knew him.” Hearing his name, the cat jumped into Martine’s lap. “Good George,” she crooned. George purred, the officer stared.

He got up and brought the other wineglass over to Martine, along with the bottle. “I think you need this. The shock and all.”

She shook her head, blinking away a tear. “No, it does make sense. And like you, I should have known better than to think Digby was suddenly so caring and thoughtful. Digby Hines was the man who ruined me. We were eloping, but my father caught up with us halfway to Gretna. Digby let him, I think. I was an heiress, you see. Papa told Digby he’d never see a brass farthing of his blunt, if we married. So Digby let my father buy him off. I haven’t seen him since.”

“The bastard ought to be drawn and quartered.”

Martine shrugged. “George Barrett was a dead soldier my father chose from the casualty lists to give me some respectability—and a name that wasn’t his—when he established me here.”

Before taking his seat again the officer looked around at the skimpy furnishings, the meager fire. “In grand style, too. You haven’t been very fortunate in your men folk, have you, Mrs.…Miss…?”

“Miss Penbarton, I was. Martine.” She chuckled. “Anything but Rosalyn.”

He smiled back, flashing even, white teeth. “You’re a regular trump, Miss Martine Penbarton Barrett. Any other female would be swooning or weeping or throwing things at me.”

“Oh no, I’m made of sterner stuff.”

Now that his shock was wearing off, the officer was taking note of precisely what she was made of. Martine could feel his eyes travel from her head to her toes, with a long stop at the gold heart between her breasts. They were very nice eyes, a soft brown, with laugh lines at the corners. Still, Martine blushed and made to remove the necklace.

“No, no. You must keep it for your trouble. Besides, I could never give it to anyone else. But that’s a minor point. Miss, ah, Martine, we have to decide what we’re going to do.”

“Do? There is nothing to do. I’ll go fetch your ribbons—you really should be wearing them with pride—and you’ll go off to find your cozy nest in the country. Hopeful mamas will be trotting their daughters past your gates before the cat can lick his ear.”

He frowned at the prospect. “But what about you? I’ve seen how you live.” He waved his hand at the room, the house.

“Oh, I’ll get by. Perhaps I’ll start getting out more.”

“And perhaps you’ll be ruined.”

She had to laugh. “I am already ruined.”

“Not here in Chelmstead, you’re not. Everyone admires you. But what if someone saw me come in? I was careful, but you never know. What if some late-night reveler sees me leaving? Or if your dragon wakes before I’m gone? What would your fond parent do then?”

Martine gasped and clutched the gold heart in her hand. “He’d cast me off without a shilling. Oh dear, please leave now. Take your gifts lest someone find them. Here—” She pulled the combs out of her hair, letting the silky curls fall to her shoulders.

He drew a deep breath at the sight of the reddish tresses in the fire’s glow. “No, there is another way. We could get married.”

“Married?” she squawked, then clamped her hand over her mouth. “I…I don’t even know your name!”

“Damn and blast,” he muttered. “Cursed barracks manners. My apologies.” He stood and snapped to attention. “Captain Aden Kirkendale of His Majesty’s Cavalry, ma’am, at your service.” He bowed, then dropped to his knees next to her chair and reached for one of her hands. “Martine, hear me out. I realize we don’t know each other very well.” At her raised eyebrows he corrected himself: “All right, we know each other hardly at all, but arranged marriages are made all
the time between strangers, strangers with less in common than we have. We’ve both been disappointed, and we’ve both been alone too long. I know you share my dreams. Your painting—”

“Was a mess, a childish effort.”

Aden patted his jacket pocket. “A masterpiece which I wear next to my heart. Don’t you see? I fell in love all over again, but with the woman the villagers talked about, the one who was honest and loyal and kind, everything a woman should be, everything the mother of my children should be.”

“No, no, you are just being honorable, in case my reputation is destroyed.” Martine tried to reclaim her hand, but he held fast and stroked it, still kneeling at her side, sending shivers up her arm.

“Silly puss, have you looked in the mirror? Any man would be thrilled to have you across the breakfast table for the rest of his life. I would count myself the most fortunate of men if you accepted my offer, and I’d spend eternity trying to make you happy. I’d understand, of course, if you don’t feel that you could come to care for me.”

Now Martine patted his hand and laughed softly. “I have to admit that I fell halfway in love with your letters. You were so noble and so gentle, someone to trust and lean on.”

“So lean on me, Martine. The rest will come, I swear.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers, then the palm. “You felt that kiss when we first met, I know you did. It was perfect.”

“The earth shook.”

“No, I’d stepped on the cat. But there was a spark. We can build on that, too. Trust me, Martine. We’ll make each other happy. And if not, if we find we don’t suit after all, I’ll just go back to the army. There’s always a war going on somewhere. You’d be provided for no matter what.”

This was insane! And very, very tempting. “But…how?”

Aden grinned. He could tell she was weakening. He touched his pocket again. “I have a special license right here. We can call on your vicar first thing in the morning and be on our way by noon unless you have a lot to pack.”

Martine shook her head no. “I don’t have much, and most of my clothes are for mourning, not a honeymoon.”

“Good, then we’ll stop off in London and buy us both new wardrobes, since I have only my uniforms. We could take in the theater and the opera while we consult some land agents about property and I arrange with the War Office to resign my commission. Would you like that?”

“I love the opera.”

“Me, too,” he lied with his fingers crossed behind his back. “See how well we’re matched? Are you convinced?”

“You’re sure this is what you want?”

For answer Captain Kirkendale reached inside his uniform and brought out a small box. He opened it to reveal a gold ring with a square-cut diamond in the center, surrounded by a cluster of rubies in a heart shape. He put it on her finger. “Will you make me the happiest of men, dear Martine, and be my valentine, now and forever?”

“Now and forever,” she repeated, then met his lips in a kiss that seared their souls together. “Just don’t step on the cat.”

Love and Tenderness

Chapter One

A girl expected some degree of anxiety on her wedding night. Senta Tarlowe, abruptly and henceforth Senta Morville, Viscountess Maitland, had anticipated the butterflies in her stomach spawned by awkwardness and inexperience. After all, she hardly knew this stranger who now held her future and the hem of her first lacy nightgown in his large hands. Senta was even prepared for the pain her scarlet-faced mama had stammered about, before disappearing into the carriage on her way home this afternoon. What the new Lady Maitland hadn’t expected, not in her most vivid imagination or most horrific bad dream, was the sight, over her husband’s shoulder, of a specter at the foot of the bed.

Senta knew the figure wasn’t real flesh and blood because she could see the flickering flames of the fireplace behind him, right through his cloth-of-gold suit, wide belt, and high boots. Whereas she’d convinced herself to suffer silently through the indignities and uncertainties of the marriage bed, ghosts, ghouls, or heavenly visitations did not count.

Since her husband, Henley, Viscount Maitland, had been pleasantly absorbed in nibbling at his young
bride’s tender earlobe, nuzzling at her silky neck, nudging her neckline lower, his ear was in close proximity to Senta’s open mouth. Just as he was murmuring, “Oh, Senta, how I want you. I need you. I—” she shrieked.

The sound could have shattered the crystal chandelier at the Royal Opera, much less the eardrums of one slightly befuddled bridegroom. Henley, Lee to his friends, clamped his hands over his ears. “What the deuce—”

The apparition also clamped his hands over his ears. “What the hell—”

He was no angel, then, which was less than reassuring to Senta. “Wh-what do you want?” she managed to gasp out.

The glimmering figure merely shook his head in a confused manner, but Viscount Maitland was either less rattled or more aggrieved. “What do I want? That should be obvious even to a blasted vir—gently bred female. I want to make love to my wife!”

Senta had taken the moment of Maitland’s distraction to pull the covers back up to her chin, both for modesty’s sake and the sudden chill in the room. Now she stared from the viscount’s scowl to the phantasm’s befuddlement, back to Maitland’s expectant “Senta?”

Maitland didn’t see the ghost. He was right beside her, and he didn’t see a flickery gold-suited gentleman with rings on his fingers and a huge diamond in his belt buckle. Somehow that made Senta’s panic worse, that she was alone in this nightmare. She pulled the covers over her head and cried, “Go away!”

Lee pried the sheets out of his wife’s trembling fingers and drew them away from her face. “You’ll suffocate, goose. Now listen, Senta, I know you aren’t used to any of this, and it’s natural to be frightened.”

Frightened? She was staring at him in abject terror, her eyes so round she looked like his aunt’s pug. “Come on, Senta, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.” Lee knew he was. “We’ll go nice and slow.” Any
slower and he’d embarrass himself for the first time since he was sixteen. The viscount gritted his teeth, reminding himself for the thousandth time that night that she was young and innocent. “And tomorrow we’ll laugh about the whole thing.”

He might laugh, Senta was thinking, but by tomorrow she could be an empty corpse, her soul sucked out of her by this demon who was staring around the room. Too scared to speak now, she could only shake her head, no. Oh, great heaven, no.

“Then you really want me to leave? I’ll go if you want me to, Senta, for I would never force any woman, especially not my wife. But you are my wife, and you’ll have to face this sooner or later. You know I want an heir.”

Her husband might be a near stranger, but he was big and strong and alive. Oh Lord, don’t let him leave! All she could croak, though, was, “Not you. Him.”

“Him?” The viscount jerked himself upright, pulling Senta’s covers every which way. While she scrabbled to shield herself from the fiend’s now-interested view and the cold draft, Lord Maitland tore at his hair. “I knew there had to be another man! I just knew it! Why would such a beautiful young woman still be unmarried after two Seasons in Town? And why would she give herself to a man twelve years her senior? I should have known it was too good to be true.” The viscount got out of the high bed and reached for his robe on the floor. “What, was he unacceptable to your family, or was I simply the bigger prize with the title and Maitland fortune? Lud, don’t tell me they forced you into the marriage. No, I don’t think I could face that tonight. Hysterics are bad enough.”

Lee crammed his arms into the robe without looking back at his gasping bride, whose own arms were held out beseeching him not to leave. He wrestled the sash at his waist into a knot. “You’re in no state to discuss this tonight, and I’m afraid I’m not either. We’ll have to
straighten it all out in the morning. Until then, my lady, my sincerest regrets.” And he slammed out of the room, barefoot, stomping right through the dark-haired, broad-shouldered wraith.

Senta passed out.

*

When Senta awoke, the room was in darkness, the fire having burned down to a few embers. What a terrible dream she’d had! As she lay there, though, shaking her head to clear it, Senta recalled that it hadn’t all been just a bad dream. She’d actually made a shambles of her wedding night, sending her bridegroom fleeing in high dudgeon and disgust, all on account of her foolish wedding jitters. Bridal nerves, that was it, and too many toasts at the small wedding breakfast, with too little food in her stomach.

She’d made a proper mull of it, Senta reflected, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Now Lord Maitland—she really had to start thinking of him as Lee—must think she was a ninnyhammer or, worse, an unwilling bride. Of course he was insulted, although how he could think her dear parents would force her to marry a man of their choice was beyond her. Mama and Papa loved her. They would have given her another Season if she hadn’t settled on the viscount this year, and even another, if it meant a happy marriage for their only child. They had never even pressured Senta to accept the viscount, despite Lord Maitland’s standing as one of the premier prizes in the Marriage Mart. They didn’t have to. Senta had fallen top over trees for the quiet gentleman, as soon as she got over her awe that Lord Maitland had singled her out for his attentions.

The viscount was rich and titled, yes, and handsome enough that when they danced she was the envy of every female in the room. The other gentlemen—those not already wearing corsets—tried to hold in their stomachs, such a fine figure did he present. But none of that would have mattered to Senta. Lord Maitland was a favorite of the ladies without being a dissolute rakehell, a favorite of the gentlemen without being a profligate wastrel. He was a Nonpareil in her eyes. And he was kind.