The Prince's Bride (9 page)

“He thinks I made an excellent choice.”

“And what do you think?” She whirled to face him. “Do you think you made an excellent choice?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

He winced. He’d never been stupid enough to actually tell a woman what he really thought before. Why on earth did he choose now to reform? It was her accusation about not saying what he thought that no doubt did it. He held up his hands helplessly. “Probably. I meant probably.”

“What you meant is that in spite of how nicely we’ve been getting along or how hard I’ve been trying or the fact that you scarcely know me at all—in spite of well,
everything
you’re still convinced I’m shallow, spoiled, selfish, and stupid.”

“I never actually said stupid.” And wasn’t that a point in his favor?

“It was implied,” she snapped.

Apparently not.

“In the interest of saying what we think”—Jocelyn crossed her arms over her chest—“I don’t believe Lord Worthington is quite as wise as I had originally thought.”

“Why not?” he asked cautiously, knowing he would not like the answer.

“Because his assessment of you is unrealistic. He sees what he wants to see. He’s convinced I’ve married a prince. Obviously he’s never met a real prince.” Her gaze traveled over him with disdain. “Since, in reality, what I wed was a toad. Good day, my lord.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

“A toad?” he called indignantly. “I am hardly a toad.”

He stared after her. He’d never lived with a woman before, and apparently there were things he was going to have to learn about the temperamental creatures. Like when to say what he really thought and when to keep his mouth shut.

Her charges weren’t at all fair. He did realize he’d been wrong about her. Pity he hadn’t managed to convey that. Well, he had the rest of their lives to straighten everything out between them. And he’d start today.

She was rather magnificent when she was angry. Like a golden avenging angel. All that passionate fury wrapped in a delectable package. How magnificent would she be when her passion was directed in a much more enjoyable manner?

He smiled slowly. He’d always rather relished making up with women. Usually it required the presentation of a little bauble, much champagne, and a sincere apology. Making up with Jocelyn might be more of a challenge. She was his wife, after all, and that no doubt changed a woman’s perception of what was forgivable and what wasn’t.

Still, he’d faced far greater challenges in his life.

He ignored the voice in the back of his head that pointed out this wasn’t merely a challenge.

This was his wife.

“Now then, my boy.” Nigel sat behind his desk and studied his nephew over the rim of the spectacles he used for reading. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me everything?”

“I thought you wanted to discuss your memoirs?” Rand resisted the urge to squirm as he had as a boy when confronted by that same look in his uncle’s eye and that same tone in his voice.

“I know all about my life. I want to know about yours.”

“There really isn’t anything to tell,” Rand said cautiously.

Nigel snorted. “Don’t bam me, boy. It’s been less than a fortnight since you were last here and there was no talk of a wife when you left.”

“Admittedly, the wedding was rather sudden.”

Nigel narrowed his eyes. “Is she increasing?”

“No,” Rand said quickly. “Of course not.”

“Don’t look at me like that. You can’t blame me for asking. It’s the usual reason for a hasty wedding.”

“Well, it’s not the reason for this one.”

“Then what is?”

“There’s nothing out of the ordinary here, Uncle.”

“No?” Nigel raised a white brow. “You arrive here in the middle of the night, on horseback, with a bride in tow. I’d scarcely call that ordinary.”

“I couldn’t wait for you to meet her,” Rand said staunchly.

“You can do better than that.” Nigel scoffed. “Few women of quality I know would agree to travel all the way from London on horseback.”

“Jocelyn is an accomplished rider.” The lie rolled smoothly off Rand’s tongue. Jocelyn sat a horse with all the confidence of a mouse clinging to the back of a tiger.

“Hah. She’s not the type.” Nigel shook his head. “The best horsewomen I’ve known tend to look a bit like their steeds. Your lady doesn’t bear even a faint resemblance to a horse. And in that, my boy”—Nigel grinned—“I congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” Rand grinned back. “I must admit she is indeed—”

“Why’d you bring her here?” Nigel’s eyes were as sharp as his voice. “Why didn’t you bring her to the Abbey?”

“I told you I wanted you to meet her.”

“I don’t know how you’ve managed to survive this long, Rand. I do hope you lie better to other people than you do to me.”

“I’m not—”

“Stuff and nonsense, my boy. I’ve known when you were lying since you were old enough to get into mischief. And I suspect mischief is exactly what you’re into now.” Nigel leaned back and studied him. “No one in their right mind would bypass the Abbey with its excellent staff and comfortable surroundings for a crumbling castle with a bare minimum number of servants.”

“It doesn’t have to be quite as crumbling, you know,” Rand said pointedly and not for the first time.

“When it’s yours, you can bring it back up to snuff. I see no reason to waste the funds necessary to do so now. I like it this way. It suits me.” Nigel narrowed his eyes. “But you’ve changed the subject. Why did you marry this girl? Why the haste? And why are you here?”

His uncle was right. Rand never could lie to him. At least not well. Rand considered the questions for a long, silent moment. This was Nigel’s home, and simply by bringing Jocelyn here he had more or less involved his uncle in the situation. Besides, he could trust Nigel with his life. Or Jocelyn’s.

“Very well, Uncle.” Rand drew a deep breath and quickly outlined the story.

“Better than I thought.” Nigel chuckled then sobered. “I gather you don’t believe she’s in any real danger here?”

“I don’t know. Probably not, but”—Rand shook his head—“I have men stationed on the property as a precaution. I suspect those involved in this conspiracy have better things to do than chase Jocelyn across the country. I doubt they’ll take the time or make the effort to find her. However, as I cannot be sure of that, I refuse to take any chances.”

“I can see why my talk of princes annoyed you, eh? Didn’t want her dwelling on thoughts of what she lost? Or considering what she might have gained?”

“Something like that,” Rand murmured.

“Who knows you’re here?”

“The man I was working for, of course, and Thomas. We both thought it best if we kept it from Jocelyn’s sisters. The fewer who know the better.

“With luck, I’m out of it now. Unless, of course, Jocelyn is able at some point to give us a description. She says she didn’t see the men involved but I suspect she’s simply put it out of her mind. Fear and all that. Not that I blame her. But for the moment, I’ve nothing further to do with it all. Jocelyn is my only responsibility.”

Nigel studied him silently, and once more Rand felt as if he were a child again. “So what are you going to do about her?”

“I’m not going to
do
anything about her.” In truth, Rand had very specific ideas about what he hoped to do about Jocelyn, beginning with an apology that was totally out of proportion to his crime but an excellent idea nonetheless.

“Come now, she’s a beautiful woman. And your wife. More than likely for the rest of your life.”

“I did think I would try to get to know her better.”

“Get to know her better.” Nigel chuckled. “Never heard it put quite that way before.”

“Thomas suggested I seduce her.” Rand grinned. “It seemed like a good idea.”

“Damned if I don’t agree with him. Smart man. I know his grandmother. Fine-looking woman in her day ...” Nigel’s face took on a familiar far-off expression. For the moment, his uncle was looking at sights and memories only he could see. Nigel’s memoirs would be fascinating reading and more than likely quite scandalous.

“Uncle?” Rand prompted.

“Quite a beauty if I recall.” Nigel sighed. “Now then, where was I?”

“Seduction?”

“Ah yes. Excellent idea but, in this case, seduction alone is not enough.”

Rand snorted in disbelief.

“Think what you want, but I know what I’m talking about.” Nigel tapped his pen thoughtfully on the desk. “Seduction is all well and good but it’s, at best, an intermediate step. Sharing your bed is one thing, sharing your life is entirely different.”

“I don’t understand,” Rand said slowly.

“Sometimes you’re thicker than a newel post. Pay attention, boy.” Nigel leaned forward. “You’re, no doubt, in this arrangement for as long as you live. But passion alone doesn’t last. By itself, it’s not enough.”

“What are you saying?”

Nigel blew a frustrated breath. “I’m saying you can’t merely seduce her; you have to court her with an eye toward more than her bed.” Nigel aimed an accusing finger at him. “Blast it, Rand, you have to make her love you.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” Rand shook his head.

“Of course you can. Unless ... she isn’t in love with that prince, is she?”

“I don’t think so.” No, he was fairly certain, if love was involved between Jocelyn and Alexei it was her love of his title and his wealth and his love of her beauty.

“Good.” Nigel nodded with satisfaction. “She does already like you, you know. I can see it in her eyes.”

“Then you see more than I do.”

“I see that you like her as well. It’s a damned good start. Some couples don’t have that. Have you kissed her yet?”

“Yes.” Rand drew the word out slowly.

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “And did she kiss you back?”

“Yes.” Rand grinned. “And with a fair amount of enthusiasm as well.”

“Then you’re halfway there.” Nigel settled back in his chair. “Women are odd creatures, Rand. For them, desire more often than not goes hand in hand with love. That’s where they differ from us. Win her heart first, Rand. And be patient. It will be worth the wait. There’s nothing more loyal, more delightful, and more passionate than a woman in love. And nothing better for a woman than the love of a good man.” He considered his nephew for a moment. “How do you feel about her? Deep down. In your gut. Where it counts.”

“I don’t know,” Rand said simply. “At first I thought she was no different from many other young women I see during the season. Not a thought in her head beyond snaring the most eligible husband available. I thought she was self-centered and spoiled and stubborn.”

“And now?”

“Now I
know
she’s stubborn.” Rand grinned, then sobered. “Marrying me meant her life would not turn out as she’d planned. And she did it more to keep her sisters safe than out of any concern for her own life. That was scarcely the act of a spoiled nature. In that I was wrong.

“She’s taken everything else in stride with remarkably few complaints and relatively good humor. I do think I’ve misjudged her.”

“That’s all very well and good but how do you
feel
about her?”

“I like her. Quite a bit actually.” Rand considered the question for a moment. What were his feelings for Jocelyn? He wanted her, he was certain of that. And wasn’t there something more? Something in the pit of his stomach when he gazed into the amber depths of her eyes? “Beyond that, Uncle”—Rand shrugged—“I don’t really know.”

“Excellent. That’s a good place to begin. By George, I’d be worried if you did know at this point.” Nigel smiled with satisfaction. “I daresay the two of you will suit well together. She’ll make you a fine wife eventually.” Nigel raised a brow. “And will you do as well as a husband?”

Rand started. “I hope so.”

“Hope ain’t enough, boy. If you want loyalty, respect, and affection you have to return it in kind. In spite of whatever misadventures I may have had in my younger days, I never dallied with a married woman. Considered it a point of honor. If you want fidelity from her, you have to be prepared to offer it in return.”

“I fully intend to be faithful for as long as this marriage lasts. Forever if need be.” Rand meant every word. Nigel was right. It was a point of honor, and Rand had never been especially impressed by men who kept mistresses or had affairs outside the marriage bed. His father hadn’t been such a man and neither was Rand. “In that, I have had excellent examples to follow. My father and...” Rand met the older man’s gaze firmly. “You.”

For a long moment neither man said a word, but then words were not necessary. It was an unspoken vow between them that this one subject would not be discussed aloud. Never discussed aloud. If someday Nigel chose to discuss the one true love of his life, Rand would be there to listen. Until then, the privacy of Nigel’s past would remain unbroken.

“I envy you, boy. You’re just at the beginning of a new life. I suspect with the fair Jocelyn, it will be a journey with any number of intriguing twists and unexpected turns and, no doubt, one hell of a trip. No, on further consideration”—he chuckled—“I wouldn’t be you for anything in the world. I couldn’t stand the turmoil.”

“I’ll try to survive,” Rand said wryly.

“You’ll have a damned fine time too. There’s a lot to be said for turmoil.” Nigel’s eyes twinkled wickedly. “And nothing better than a woman with long legs.”

“Good evening, my lord.” Jocelyn nodded stiffly, then stepped to the opposite end of the long table in the immense dining hall, ignoring the place set next to her husband. She seated herself and glanced around. “Isn’t Lord Worthington joining us?”

“Since his illness he tires rather easily. He’s already retired for the evening.” Rand smiled and gestured to the chair beside him. “Wouldn’t you prefer to sit here? Where we can talk?”

“No thank you, my lord,” she said coolly. “I prefer to sit right here and I’d rather not talk.”

“Very well.” He gestured to a maid, Ivy if Jocelyn remembered correctly. She and Rose were Flora’s sisters. Rose was a widow and Ivy was married to a man who served as stable master for the handful of Worthington horses as well as farmed a portion of the castle’s land.

In addition to the maids, Jocelyn had also met the cook, Mrs. Dudley. And that, together with Flora and Nick, was the extent of the castle’s minimal staff.

Ivy collected the dishes and silver, brought it to Jocelyn’s place, and set it before her. The look on the older woman’s face was clearly disapproving but she didn’t say a word. The staff there might be meager but it was well trained. Ivy arranged the setting, fetched a glass of wine from the sideboard, then left for the kitchen.

“How was your day?” Rand called.

“Very nice, thank you.”

She’d spent much of the day exploring the building, spectacles in hand, and avoiding Rand. She simply didn’t know what to say to him. What to expect. And what would happen next between them. It hadn’t been particularly difficult to avoid her husband. He’d occupied much of his day ensconced with his uncle in the library. Not that his lack of attention bothered her. Or perhaps it did, but only a little.

The castle was an adventure in itself. Even when, now and then, she’d take the wrong turn and lose her way, it was still quite exciting. After all, she’d never lived in a castle before. She found any number of rooms not in use, with massive pieces of furniture hidden under dusty covers. There was evidence of renovation and remodeling, but somewhere in the distant past. Much of the building was in need of repair.

She’d paused for a few minutes in the chapel and noted with unexpected pleasure the air of serenity in the obviously little-used room. She’d discovered a relatively new billiard table in a chamber near the library and wondered if Rand played. And if, during their exile here, he’d teach her to play. She rather liked the idea. Besides, one didn’t need to see far to be able to master the game.

She’d also gotten over her anger at Rand, and surprisingly quickly. Grudgingly she’d admitted to herself she couldn’t really blame the man for thinking the worst of her. First impressions were lasting and she hadn’t been especially gracious during their initial encounters. Still, she was trying and it wasn’t at all fair of him not to give her a chance.

“And your day, my lord?”

Even at this distance, she could see the muscles in his jaw clench at her repeated use of the formal address. Good. There was something quite lovely about irritating him.

“It would have been much improved by the presence of my wife.”

Ivy returned to the hall with a large soup tureen. She ladled a healthy serving into Jocelyn’s bowl, then headed toward Rand’s end of the table.

“I
was remarkably easy to find should anyone have attempted to do so.
I
was not hiding behind closed doors all day”—she paused for emphasis—“my lord.”

“Blast it all, Jocelyn.” Rand got to his feet. “This is absurd.” He strode the length of the table and sank into the chair next to hers. Jocelyn stifled a smile at the indignant look on Ivy’s face. “This is much better. Now we can talk.”

Jocelyn sipped her soup and watched Ivy bring Rand’s utensils and place them in front of him, then return for his glass, and once again for the tureen.

Jocelyn had realized earlier in the day she might have been somewhat oversensitive. And, on reflection, had decided Rand hadn’t meant his words in an unkind manner. Still, she did want an apology. The thoughtless nature of his comments called for at least that. And if she’d learned nothing else about men in recent months, she’d learned that it was best to keep them off-balance and, if at all possible, confused. It gave women a certain amount of power and control in a world in which so much of their fate was not in their own hands.

“I told you, I do not wish to talk.” Jocelyn stood, picked up her bowl and her wine, strode to the other end of the table, and seated herself.

“Well I do.” Rand got to his feet and started after her.

“My lord.” Ivy’s voice rang with exasperation. She thrust his bowl and his glass at him. “Would you be so kind as to take these with you?”

“Of course,” he muttered, accepted the offerings, and returned to his original chair. Ivy scurried after him, filled his bowl the moment he sat down, then nodded with satisfaction.

Jocelyn rose again.

Rand stood once more.

Ivy looked warily from one to the other.

“I am prepared to follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to,” Rand declared.

“Lord help us all,” Ivy muttered, setting the tureen on the table with a sharp thump and stalking from the room.

“With soup in hand if need be.” Determination rang in his voice and Jocelyn had no doubt he would do just that.

For a moment, in the dining hall with its stone walls and echoing spaces, she saw him as he might have appeared in this very place centuries ago. Standing strong and tall, a knight of old, bold and resolute, courageous and unwavering. Handsome and noble and... hers. Something deep inside her warmed at the thought.

She planted her hands on her hips and tried not to smile. “And would you be so determined, my lord, if it wasn’t soup but oh, say, a piece of bread or a slice of cheese?”

His brows pulled together. “Of course.”

“Oh? What if it was a bit of quail or a fruit tart?”

He stared at her suspiciously, then the corners of his lips curved upward. His words were measured. “I would follow you through the streets of London itself waving a joint of beef in one hand and a jug of ale in the other if I had to.”

“Very well then.” She sat down primly. “We can talk.”

“Good.” He grinned with satisfaction and settled back into his chair.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Well what?” He downed half his wine in one long swallow.

“What did you wish to say?”

“Well.” He sat his glass on the table in a deliberate manner and drew a deep breath. “First of all, I am sorry if I offended you this morning. It was not my intention and I—”

“You’re forgiven,” she said blithely.

“I am?” Confusion crossed his face. “That’s it? That’s all I have to do?”

“Unless”—she fluttered her lashes in an exaggerated manner—“you brought me flowers.”

“No.”

“Flowers would have been customary for an apology or, between a husband and wife, expensive jewelry.” She paused. “I gather you don’t have some exquisite bauble either?”

“No,” he shook his head but his lips twitched as if he resisted a smile.

“Never forget my mercenary nature, Rand. However, as you have neither jewels nor flowers”—she waved a hand in a dismissive manner—“it’s of no real consequence.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “But next time, I shall expect, at the very least, flowers.”

“I’ll remember that.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. His gaze meshed with hers. “I promise the next time, my apology will be accompanied, at the very least, by flowers.” His breath was warm on the back of her hand. His lips rested on her skin for less than an instant but heat spread from his touch.

“You do that so well,” she murmured.

“I wish I could swear there would not be a next time.” His eyes simmered with an entirely different kind of pledge. “Vow to you there will never be a need for my apologies but...”

She could lose herself in those eyes.

“That’s, no doubt, too much to hope for,” she said, her voice annoyingly breathless.

Drown in their dark depths without struggle, without regret.

“Ah, but sometimes hope is all we have.”

Rand’s words lingered in the air. Shimmering with promise. Fraught with unspoken meaning. Silence stretched between them.

“We should probably...” Jocelyn withdrew her hand and gestured at her bowl. The moment had at once become strained and awkward and Jocelyn gratefully turned her attention to the meal.

“Ivy will be quite indignant if we don’t eat.”

Jocelyn sipped at her soup. Rand did the same. For long moments the only sounds in the room were the discreet noises of a meal being dutifully consumed. There were a dozen things Jocelyn wanted to say but the words were difficult to find.

Finally Jocelyn set down her spoon and squared her shoulders. “I have been doing a great deal of thinking about our situation.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“No, it’s nothing untoward. Or at least I don’t think it is.” Jocelyn pulled a breath for courage. “It seems to me that as we are married now, and will more than likely be married for a very long time, the first thing we need to do is to become better acquainted with one another.”

“Excellent idea.” Rand’s voice was serious but laughter lurked in his eyes. “How do you propose we begin?”

“To start with I think you need to understand a few things about me. About my life.” She paused to pull her thoughts together. “If indeed I am spoiled—”

“And shallow,” he added, obviously holding back a grin.

She ignored him. “I haven’t been spoiled for very long. That is, we, my sisters and I, didn’t grow up at all pampered. My father—”

“Yes, I know,” Rand said quietly.

“I should have realized you would.” She sighed. “No doubt my father’s reputation was well known.”

“Not at all. Thomas told me of your background.”

“Oh.” That was something at any rate. She’d always hated the thought that when people looked at Jocelyn, her father’s failings came to mind. “Then you know it has only been in the past year, since Richard married Thomas’s sister and they inherited an impressive fortune, that we have had any money to speak of. And I must confess”—she leaned forward eagerly—“it’s been wonderful.”

“Has it?”

She brushed aside his amusement. “It has indeed. For the first time in our lives we had new clothes and a fine carriage and trips to London and a roof that didn’t leak.”

“All that,” he murmured.

“I know you think this is quite humorous—”

“Not at all.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “I want to hear more.”

“You’re teasing me now but I forgive you.” She thought for a moment. “Do you have sisters?”

“No,” he said cautiously. “Why?”

“If you had sisters you’d understand.” She pushed aside her soup bowl, clasped her hands, and rested them on the table. “For the most part, women are dependent upon men for their survival. There’s little we can do to earn our own way. That’s simply the way life is and it’s never particularly bothered me.”

She pulled her brows together. “Of course, I do have a sister, Emma, who paints and sells her work, but she’s in Paris and the French are so much different than we are about things like art. Besides, she’s married as well, so she has no real need to support herself. And there is Marianne, who writes and actually earns money from it. But Emma and Marianne are rather rare exceptions. The only real way—the only acceptable way—for a woman to do well in this world is to marry well. You can’t fault me for wanting to make a good match.”

“I see,” he said slowly.

“Do you?”

“I do indeed. You had your heart set on a prince and got a viscount instead.”

“I knew you’d understand.” She cast him her brightest smile. “So you do realize it wasn’t so much that I am, or rather was, shallow but simply disappointed. Which was only natural under the circumstances.”

“The circumstances being that you ended up with a viscount instead of a prince.” His manner was matter-of-fact.

“Exactly.” She beamed at him.

“You know, Jocelyn,” Rand said slowly, “I have been considered, on occasion, quite a good catch.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” she said quickly. “Your title, while not overly impressive, is still quite respectable. You’re really rather dashing and ever so attractive with a wonderfully mysterious air about you. All that spy nonsense no doubt. In addition, you laugh easily and I do like that.”

“I shall probably need to keep a sense of humor about me,” he said under his breath.

“Indeed you shall. We both shall. Otherwise our circumstances would be quite dire.” She sat back and studied him carefully. “I do hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Not at all,” he said wryly. “One quite enjoys hearing one’s failings balanced against one’s attributes.”

“I was simply being honest. In truth, I was only doing what your uncle suggested. You remember. He said there shouldn’t be secrets between husbands and wives. Besides, you of all people should understand my feelings about money.”