The Wagered Wife (3 page)

When the minister pronounced them man and wife, her new husband leaned to kiss her on the cheek. She smelled a mixture of shaving soap and spirits on him. Had he had to fortify himself for the ordeal? Was he as willing a party to this affair as she?

The necessary documents signed, he took her by the elbow and propelled her toward the door and a waiting carriage that would take them to his estate in Suffolk. Her aunt and uncle stood beside the carriage as she was handed in.

“Do let us hear from you, dear,” her Aunt Sylvia said with a great show of affectionate cheer.

Caitlyn stared at them, marveling inwardly at the hypocrisy. The previous day she had gone to the library to try once more to persuade her uncle to change his mind. The door was ajar and her aunt was with him. Aware that they were discussing her, she did not knock. Instead, she deliberately listened. She remembered later her mother's oft-repeated adage about eavesdroppers never hearing good of themselves.

“—never would have taken her in in the first place,” her uncle had been saying.

“It was our
duty
to do so. Caitlyn is family.”

“Not really. There are no blood ties with a
step
sister
.”

“Well, then, there was a moral obligation, and we have fulfilled it—thanks to you, my clever love.” Aunt Sylvia was doing it a bit brown, Caitlyn thought.

“It cost me a bundle, but we shall be free of her.”

“ 'Tis not like it was money out of hand, though, love,” his wife replied.

“No. And it ended by being much less than it would have cost to sponsor her for a season. Don't know why you insisted on a season for her.”

“My dear sir,” her aunt said playfully, “you know very well it would have taken that and more to find that girl a husband. I truly dreaded the prospect.”

“But I saved you the trouble.”

“Yes. Not to mention saving yourself the expense.”

“Wyndham will not be thanking me, I'm thinking.”

“What can he do?” Sylvia Fiske asked, her scorn sounding clearly in her voice. “The boy is of age, after all.”

“Yes, he is. But Wyndham and his heir are said to be rather high sticklers. I cannot think they will welcome a little country nobody into their family.”

“Unfortunate, but not our concern after tomorrow.”

Caitlyn had turned away, knowing there was, indeed, no hope now.

She did not have even the comfort of running to the stables here in town, for her uncle kept no carriage or cattle here, preferring to save himself that expense. In the country she had had the freedom of the stables. That freedom and access to his rather limited library had been her only comforts after losing her father and being taken in by Baron and Baroness Fiske nearly two years ago.

That is, until she had made the acquaintance of the shy, sensitive son of the neighboring viscount. She and Hubert had been immediately drawn to each other. Hubert seemed as neglected by the adults in his household as she was, for the two of them spent hours together riding across the countryside.

Often dear Bertie would bring a book of poetry to read to her. Once, he wrote a poem of his own praising her eyes and rosebud lips. She knew her mouth was far too wide to be described so, but the thought was so sweet. . . . There were even a few chaste, but awkward, kisses.

She stared out the carriage window and refused to look at her relatives. Her aunt gave a haughty sniff and turned away. Caitlyn's husband—his name was Trevor, was it not?—took the opposite seat, and they were off.

Reluctant to look at the man across from her, and panicked at being alone with him, she continued to stare out the window. A movement caught her attention. Bertie! Bertie had come to bid her a silent farewell. There he stood, looking so woebegone her heart fairly ached for him. She raised her hand briefly as the tears threatened to well over. She caught herself and glanced at her husband.

He gave her a tentative smile. “A friend?” he asked.

She nodded and looked away. She heard him heave a sigh.

 

 

It was going to be a long journey to Suffolk, Trevor thought. Well, at least she was not a chatterbox. He leaned back and feigned sleep as he studied his wife through half-closed eyelids.

She was a dumpy little thing. Pretty hair, though—the sunlight picked out red and gold highlights. Tied back with a pink ribbon to match her dress, it hung loose around her shoulders; she looked like the schoolgirl she probably was. He found himself wondering how she would look in a dress that matched the aquamarine of her eyes.

He felt distinctly sorry for her. That clutch-fisted uncle of hers did not even provide her a proper wedding breakfast. He wondered briefly why her family was so eager to be free of her. What if she were a bit mad—not playing with a full deck—or possessed of an unstable disposition? This was a fine time to think of
that,
he told himself.

The Atherton estate to which Trevor was taking his bride was located in East Anglia. He remembered visiting his grandmother there and being disappointed that, in the heart of England's horse country, the various farms associated with the property dealt largely in sheep and the production of wool.

Well, that suited him just fine now. He knew little of sheep, but surely there was a competent steward and Trevor considered himself a “quick learn.”

Soon, the swaying carriage and his sleepless night combined to make his dozing off no longer feigned.

 

 

When they stopped for a change of horses and the midday meal, Caitlyn shook herself out of the sense of melancholy that had settled on her after that brief glimpse of Bertie.

She had always been a cheerful child, accepting what fate sent her way, dealing with it, and getting on with her life. Had she not lived in relative harmony with the Fiskes? She could surely deal with one young man.

The innkeeper had shown her to a room where she could freshen up. When she came into the parlor, Trevor stood to assist her to the table where a modest meal was laid out.

“How is it that you travel without a maid to assist you?” Trevor asked. His tone indicated only conversational curiosity.

“A maid?” She was surprised. “I have never had a maid, sir. My father had only the housekeeper and a handyman. My aunt and uncle have their own dressers, but I could hardly expect to have a maid assigned to me.”

“Hmm. That will have to be remedied. I shall not have my wife going about unattended.” He poured himself another glass of wine.

She was pleased that he wanted her to have the privileges of any young matron. She was emboldened to ask, “May I . . . uh . . . may I know where we are going, sir? And when we expect to arrive?”

“Oh, I am sorry. I just assumed you knew—though why you should is a mystery.” He smiled, and it occurred to her that that smile had probably caused many a heart to flutter in London drawing rooms. Why, look what it was doing to hers already. “We shall arrive at our destination sometime late tomorrow afternoon, I hope.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Atherton. Near Lavenham and Newmarket.” He explained how he had come by the estate and told her as much as he remembered of it.

“It sounds wonderful, sir,” said she who had lived in a modest vicarage most of her life.

“Do not allow your expectations to get too high,” he warned. Then he added, “You must call me Trevor, for that is my name. And I shall call you Caitlyn. I believe first names are customary between married people.” His tone had a teasing note.

“Trevor. Trevor. . . . Yes, I like it.” She smiled. “It seems to suit you.”

“Thank you, kind lady.” He gave her a mocking little bow, and they continued the rest of the meal talking of innocuous subjects and generally getting to know each other.

Caitlyn noticed that Trevor drank rather more wine with the meal than she had ever seen her father imbibe in the middle of the day. But he seemed in control of himself, and, after all, what did
she
know of the habits of a gentleman?

Back in the carriage, they continued to chat amiably until each lapsed into silence. Caitlyn thought he might have dozed off again.

She tried to keep her mind on other matters, but she could not help wondering what this night would bring. In truth, she had no idea what to expect.

She recalled overhearing her father's housekeeper and her friend talking one time. What was it they had said? Something about the marriage bed being the price women had to pay for a roof over their heads.

That sounded a bit coarse to Caitlyn. Slightly sordid, actually. But with fewer than seventeen years to her credit, what could
she
say?

Aunt Sylvia had called Caitlyn in the day before to discuss her duties as a married woman. Caitlyn had actually anticipated this discussion—eager to know what she should expect. In the event, however, Aunt Sylvia had been so imprecise that Caitlyn had been more confused than enlightened.

As a girl who had spent so much of her time in the stables, she felt she had
some
idea of what to expect. However, it surely would have been nice to be better informed than her aunt's vague “You must strive to please your husband.”

That evening they stopped at an inn where Trevor arranged for a bedroom, a small dressing room, and a private parlor for himself and his bride.

During dinner Caitlyn seemed extremely nervous. Her tenseness increased, though he tried to keep up a patter of conversation. She seemed to be trying gamely to match his efforts. He had asked for a bottle of champagne as well as a bottle of brandy to accompany their meal, and now urged a second glass of champagne on her as a toast to their future. She had downed the first glass like a desert nomad at an oasis. With a giggle, she raised her glass to his.

Trevor's more intimate experiences with women had been with members of the demimonde, women far more experienced than he. Actually, there had been rather few of those encounters. He had never bedded a woman with whom he would be required to spend the following day. And he certainly had never taken a virgin to his bed before. He had some idea of the situation, but, in truth, he knew himself to be sadly limited in both knowledge and experience.

Moreover, his previous encounters had been with women he found distinctly more enticing than this shy little frump who was his wife. Still, she was not repulsive in any way, and he found his body responding to the mere idea of having sex. He moved over to the settee to sit next to her and slid his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened.

“Relax,” he said softly as he kissed her on the neck just beneath her ear.

She turned toward him slightly. “I . . . I . . . uh . . . you will have to teach me what to do,” she said shyly.

No man could resist such a request, Trevor thought, his chest fairly expanding in male pride. He touched his lips to hers, and she returned the pressure. He showered little kisses on her closed eyes, her nose, the base of her throat He returned his mouth to hers and flicked his tongue against her lips. Which remained firmly sealed.

“Open for me, Caitlyn,” he whispered, his hand caressing her breast.

She drew back. “My mouth? You want me to open my mouth? Whatever for?” It was sheer curiosity in her tone.

“I want to taste you. All of you,” he said in what he fancied to be a seductive whisper.

“Really? Well—all right.” Her tone was doubtful, but she settled back into his arms. The kiss was deep, exploring. At first she was passive, apparently absorbing the idea of such a kiss. Then, very tentatively, she began to explore on her own.

Trevor was amazed at his response to this. He pulled back and took a deep breath. “Oh, Lord,” he moaned softly.

“Did I not do it correctly?” she asked, worried.

“No . . . I mean, yes. You were fine,” he reassured her. He took a large gulp from his glass and handed hers to her.

“The bubbles tickle my nose.” She giggled again. “I never had champagne before. I like it.”

He grinned and gave her a light kiss, which she willingly—eagerly?—returned. “You go on and prepare for bed,” he whispered. “I shall join you when you are ready.”

As she retreated into the bedroom, he reached for the brandy bottle. Downing a quick glass, he savored the warmth of the alcohol—along with a sense of well-being—men removed his coat and his cravat. He cursed himself for having dismissed Robbins before he removed his boots, but finally managed to get them off.

He waited for her to call, but there was no sound from the other room. He sipped at another glass of brandy and waited some more, increasingly impatient. Finally, he went to the bedroom door and gently pushed it open. She sat on the edge of the bed staring blindly at the floor. She was dressed in a cotton nightrail more suitable to a schoolgirl than a bride. Strangely enough, he found her garb appealing.

“Caitlyn? Are you all right?”

“Y-yes.” She turned large questioning eyes toward him.

He sat beside her and put his arm around her. “It will be all right. I promise.”

“I-I'm sorry to be so henwitted. It is just that I . . .” She buried her face in her hands.

He gently pulled them away. “I know. Neither of us has been married before.” He stood, pulling her up with him. He kissed her, hugging her to him, aroused by the pressure of firm young breasts against his chest. He caressed her back and deepened the kiss. She put her arms around his neck and responded warmly.

Part of him knew he should be taking this much more slowly, but another part of him—a throbbingly eager part—wanted her now—right now. Still holding her with one arm, he reached over to toss back the covers on the bed and nudged her into it.

He quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing and crawled in beside her, sliding his arm under her to pull her close. He groped for the edge of her nightrail and pushed it up, caressing her thigh as he did so.

“T-Trevor? What are you doing?”

“Ssh. It's all right,” he whispered as he felt for the most intimate part of her body.

“I do not think so,” she said aloud, her doubt quite clear. She pushed at his hand and tried to pull the hem of her gown back down.

“You are my wife. And I want you,” he said. Oh, Lord,
how
he wanted this. He knew he could not wait much longer. “Relax, sweetheart. Let me in.”

“I do not understand. What is it you want me to do?”

He told her, and she did as he said, but she did so mechanically. The shy warmth she had shown earlier was gone, but he was beyond thinking of anything but his own desperate need.

“Ow!” she cried. “You're hurting me.”

He put a hand over her mouth. “Be quiet. Do you want the whole inn in here?”

“No,” she whispered, “but that hurts.”

“It always does the first time,” he said, sounding at least to his own ears as though he knew what he was talking about. “It will get better.”

He tried to kiss away her fear. She lay quietly for a few moments.

“It is not getting better,” she announced. She pushed at him. “I want you to get off me.”

“I . . . I can't,” he gasped as his body seemed to be acting independently of any conscious direction. She pummeled his back with her fists.

Finally, when he rolled off her body, she tossed the blanket aside and leaped from the bed.

“Oh, my heavens! There's blood!” she cried. “You have injured me something dreadful.”

“Keep your voice down,” he said fiercely. “That is perfectly normal. Good God. Did that aunt of yours tell you nothing of the marriage bed? Can you truly be so ignorant?”

She sniffed, looking down at him. “Can you truly be so selfish and unfeeling?” She ran into the dressing room, and he heard water splashing.

He rose and put his trousers and shirt back on. He went to the other room to retrieve his boots. He had to get out of here. Take a walk. Or something.

He suspected he had not handled this well.

Caitlyn heard her husband moving around in the bedroom. She also heard the bedroom door and then the outer door open and close.
Good riddance,
she thought petulantly. Then she had a moment of panic. What if he drove off and just left her to fend for herself among strangers?

When she had determined that she was not going to bleed to death—that, in fact, there had been very little blood—Caitlyn calmed down enough to consider the situation rationally. So
that
was the big secret of the marriage bed. No wonder women hated it so.

Still, she had rather enjoyed the kissing and cuddling. She blushed to think how she had responded to Trevor's kiss and pressed her own body so close to his. She had even felt the beginning of something wonderful when he touched her—there. But then suddenly he was
in
her and there was the pain—and, good grief, would
this
be a nightly occurrence for the rest of her life?

Perhaps not. She knew many married people had separate bedchambers. Surely they had
some
totally peaceful nights. In any event, what choice did she have? She knew very well that a wife was her husband's property to do with as he wished. Discovering what gentlemen wished had been a revelation.

Perhaps there
were
compensations. She would have a home of her own. Eventually there would be children—not soon, though, she hoped. By the time she had cleaned herself and removed the soiled sheet from the bed, she had talked herself into a modicum of complacency about the whole matter. Surely he would come back. Would he not?

She had just settled herself back into bed when she heard the outer door open and close. There was some slight movement in the other room, the clink of glass, then—nothing. She waited. Still, nothing. She rose quietly and opened the door a crack. Trevor sat staring into the dying fire, a glass of brandy in his hand.

Well, if he wished to drink himself into a stupor, that was just fine with her. She flounced back to the bed.

 

 

Trevor spent what was left of the night on the uncomfortable settee. He woke in the morning with a stiff neck, a rotten taste in his mouth, and in a foul mood. The very thought of food made him feel queasy, so he sipped coffee and watched, faintly resentful, as his bride devoured a hearty breakfast.

“Are you sure you will not have something?” she asked yet again.

“No. No, thank you.” He took another sip of coffee and lowered the cup carefully. “Uh . . . Caitlyn?”

“Yes?”

“I want to apologize for last night. I . . . I am sorry it did not go well.”

“Well, I supposed it did not,” she said matter-of-factly, “but as I have no experience by which to judge . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blushed.

Trevor was not about to admit that his own experience was nearly as limited as hers. Instead he said lamely, “It will go better next time.”

“Oh?” She sounded rather doubtful. Then she shrugged and looked away. “All right.”

And that night it did go better.

They had traveled all day and arrived rather late to find the household understaffed and not fully prepared for them. However, the master's bedchamber had been aired and a fire laid. A light supper was brought up, and Trevor deliberately exercised greater self-discipline on the wine this night.

He made a concerted effort to engage his wife in entertaining conversation, much of it involving childhood adventures he and Terrence had engaged in. For the first time since Terrence's death, he was able to recall amusing incidents without choking up.

“It must be wonderful to grow up with brothers and sisters,” Caitlyn said longingly.

“Usually,” he agreed. “With Terrence and Melanie anyway. You have no brother or sister?”

“None that survived. There were four babies after me, but I remember only the last two. One of those—a baby boy—lived for only a week. The other was stillborn, and Mama died the next day. It was very sad. I was nine.”

“But you still had your father,” Trevor noted.

“Not really. Oh, he tried. Truly he did. But I think he simply could not go on without Mama. I am convinced that he died of a broken heart, not influenza.”

She told him of her father's losing his parish and being sent as a curate in a poorer district. Trevor, who had never in his life had to deal firsthand with deprivation, was astonished at her simple acceptance of the reduced circumstances she had endured. When her father died, she had gone to live as the proverbial “poor relation” in her uncle's household.

He expressed sympathy for her.

“Oh, you must not feel sorry for me,” she assured him. “I have not been trained to run a fine household, but I promise I can learn. I shall try to be a good wife to you.”

Was this what had occupied her mind most of the day? She had been remarkably quiet during the journey.

“I am sure it will work out fine,” he said with far more confidence than he felt.

She was apparently determined to start her “good wife” project that very evening. She made no demur at sharing his bed—and in the next few days she willingly let him “have his way with her.” However, despite the release he found in her body, he came away from their encounters with a vague feeling of disappointment.

Perhaps if he loved her, it would be different. But he knew he would never love her. He felt sorry for her and rather liked her, but, after all, she was not his type.

 

 

The day after their arrival at Atherton, Trevor planned to spend the morning examining the property with the steward, Mr. Felkins. After he left the breakfast table, Caitlyn asked the footman who had served them to send the housekeeper to her. It took some time, but eventually the woman, whom Caitlyn had met only briefly the night before, arrived.

The housekeeper was a very plump female of indeterminate years with iron gray hair and dark eyes. She wore a dark dress and had a ring of keys hanging conspicuously at her belt.