Margaret Moore - A Marriage Of Rogues

She took a step backward and hit the door. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“It would have been the proper thing to do.”

Proper? The word was like a dash of cold water, but it helped settle her rattled nerves. “Yes, I daresay it would have. But no matter. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs. I’m rather hungry.”

“Need I remind you that we’re supposed to be newly married? We should go together, or it might cause unwanted speculation.”

He did have a point. There was going to be enough gossip among the ton when word got out about their marriage. She should avoid causing more.

“Very well,” she replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady and her features expressionless in spite of the tumultuous feelings that made her feel like she was on a runaway horse. The desire to be with him as a wife should be and the hope that he would like her tangled with the fear of looking foolish, of doing something wrong, of seeming ignorant or silly.

“Good. Now I’m going to have a bath,” he said, walking around the screen.

Thea perched on the edge of the chair and tried to ignore the sound of Sir Develin removing the rest of his clothes: the dull thud of his boots landing on the floor, the softer sound of his stockings and trousers following.

No doubt he was used to having his valet pick up his discarded clothing.

She was not his valet and she was not about to go around that screen, not for anything.

And yet, when she heard the water sloshing in the tub, she couldn’t resist the urge to peek through the nearest opening where the screen folded. His muscular back was to her and she watched as he washed his broad shoulders, dampening the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck.

And then he stood up.

Blushing like a thief caught red-handed, she averted her gaze while also wondering—fearing—he had looked through the same opening at her. Which way had she been facing?

“Will you be so kind as to fetch my valise?” he asked serenely, as if he bathed in the company of women all the time.

Perhaps he did. After all, this wouldn’t be his first night with a woman. He’d probably been seen naked by several, and more than once.

Although she was a virgin, he might not be pleased if she acted like a skittish horse, and she did want him to want her.

She walked over to the bed, picked up his valise and went behind the screen.

Sir Develin stood beside the tub with a towel wrapped around his narrow waist, riding low on his hips. With his dark hair brushing his shoulders, he looked like a wild young god, or Alexander the Great come to life.

Her heart racing, forgetting that she wanted to appear worldly-wise, she handed him the valise and hurried back to the chair, where she did her best to regain her composure. She would not look through that gap again, in spite of how tempted she was.

At last he came around the screen, fully dressed and looking as polished as he had seemed primitive and uncivilized before.

While she suddenly felt like a beggar made a guest at a feast.

Nevertheless, she rose, straightened her slender shoulders and said, “I would like to dine now.”

With a regal nod, her husband held out his arm and together they made their way to the taproom.

* * *

“Here you are, my lady and gentleman,” the innkeeper exclaimed, hurrying toward Dev and his bride and grinning like a benevolent uncle.

He led them past several other couples to a table close to the brightly flickering fire in the hearth. A majority of customers were young, some looked very young and one or two were clearly past middle age.

Obviously Dev and Thea were not the only people who’d come to Gretna Green to be married that day, although Dev was fairly certain theirs was the only marriage where the bride had proposed to the groom.

He suspected more than one of the young couples had come to Gretna Green to marry over their families’ objections, too. One or two—like the middle-aged couple near the door—seemed oblivious of anything except each other.

He, too, was very aware of his wife, but for a different reason. Her conduct in the bedroom had not been at all what he’d expected. Based on the kiss they’d shared, he’d believed she felt some degree of desire for him, and when they were alone, he’d done everything he could short of taking her into his arms to encourage her to make the first move toward intimacy. Instead she’d acted as if he were some kind of barbarian who’d abducted a virtuous maiden with the sole intent of ravishing her.

“The wife’s outdone herself for you!” the boisterous innkeeper, who was as bald as an egg, continued. “A fine savory beef stew, we have, and the best bread to be found between Liverpool and Glasgow, if I do say so! And cake, o’ course. We’ve got some cake. Wouldn’t be a proper wedding dinner without cake!”

Dev nodded his appreciation as he waited for Lady Theodora to take her seat, her expression as calm and unreadable as ever.

Perhaps the passion and desire in Lady Theodora’s kiss had been feigned, intended only to get him in the marital noose. Once she’d succeeded, she would do only what was necessary in the bedroom, with as much joy and delight as shoveling out a stable.

He had seen firsthand what happened when desire died, and he had no wish to repeat his mother’s sad existence.

And could a marriage based on the groom’s winning some games of chance, his subsequent guilt and remorse, his pity and lust for the bride, really stand a chance of succeeding?

He should suggest they end this charade of a marriage right now, before it was time to retire. If they didn’t make love, his solicitor could seek an annulment and likely get it.

He would forgive her father’s debts and she would be free to go her own way. He would be free, too, as he’d been before. Alone and lonely, but free.

The innkeeper and his wife appeared bearing two steaming bowls of stew, a basket of warm bread and a tray with a bottle of wine and two glasses. For the next little while and although he didn’t have much of an appetite, he tried to eat while ignoring everyone else in the taproom.

Lady Theodora, on the other hand, ate like one who had been starving, albeit with good table manners.

Perhaps she hadn’t had much to eat in the past several days, thanks to her father’s gambling losses. Pity, however, was no better a basis for marriage than lust or guilt.

“And now the cake!”

They both turned to see the grinning innkeeper carrying a platter toward them, followed by an equally plump and jolly older woman who must be his wife.

“Can’t be a proper wedding dinner without the cake!” the innkeeper repeated as he set down the platter bearing two slices of what appeared to be fruitcake. Petrified, dried fruitcake.

Dev struggled to keep his expression placid. “Alas, I’m unable to contemplate another morsel after that excellent dinner.”

“Oh, surely you can manage a bite!” the innkeeper’s wife insisted. “Just a wee one.”

Feeling like a minor martyr, Dev picked up the cake and took a bite. Sawdust would have tasted better. He managed to swallow, then immediately reached for his wine.

“Good, eh?” the innkeeper suggested.

“Never tasted anything quite like it,” he replied honestly.

“Now you, my lady,” the innkeeper’s wife prompted.

He must not have been as subtle as he thought, for his bride quickly and emphatically shook her head. “I’m sorry. I fear I really couldn’t eat another bite.”

When both the innkeeper and his wife looked about to insist, Dev rose. “It’s time my wife and I retired,” he said in a way that would brook no protest. “Please call us first thing in the morning. We want to be on our way as soon as possible.”