Lords of Scandal: The Beleaguered Lord Bourne / The Enterprising Lord Edward

If her heart beat faster, it was with the frantic flutterings of a trapped animal, and not the accelerated rhythm all romantic heroines experienced at the very sight of their beloved. If her breathing was swift and shallow, it was panic, not passion, that set her young breast to heaving rapidly up and down. And if her milky English complexion was very prettily set off by a sudden blush of dusky rose suffusing her cheeks, it should be remembered that agitation should not automatically be construed as excitement.

Jennie looked searchingly into Kit’s blue eyes, searching in vain for some carefully concealed humorous glint that would assure her he had spoken in jest. She found none. He was serious, she concluded at last, deadly serious. Earls may not steal kisses from baronets’ daughters, even if they thought they were merely indulging in a bit of a lark with some little nobody of no consequence. Violators, this unwritten law decreed, will forfeit either their honor or their freedom.

Lord Bourne had made his choice. He would marry her to satisfy the conventions. And to save her good name, she reminded herself nastily, she shouldn’t forget that little favor—not that Bundy would ever let her.

“Well,” she said at last, just when Kit was beginning to think she would turn him down flat and wildly wondering just why this particular notion should distress him as much as it did, “you aren’t fat. There’s that at least.”

Kit smiled broadly, clasping her hands in his as something tightly coiled deep inside his chest obligingly relaxed. “I’m not bad either,” he pointed out cheerfully, amused by her youthful bluntness.

Jennie returned his smile, shyly at first, and then expanding the smile into a wide grin. “Or ancient, full of prickles and complaints, and suffering with the gout.”

“Or foul-smelling, or afflicted with warts, or widowed with six bawling brats for you to mother, or hard of hearing, or missing half my teeth.”

“Or a dedicated gamester?”

“Not even on nodding acquaintance with the cent-per-centers, playing for sport but never too deep.”

“Or overfond of spirits?”

“Moderation—moderation in all things—that’s my motto!” he averred, conveniently dismissing his truly dedicated drinking of the night just past.

“Well then, a girl would be foolish beyond permission to turn her back on such an obvious catch as you, my lord, wouldn’t she?” Jennie declared, her smile faltering a bit before shining as before.

At last she could see the humor lurking in Lord Bourne’s twinkling eyes. “Foolish indeed, Miss Maitland,” he assured her, lightly squeezing her hands.

‘Then…then I accept your kind proposal, sir, and I thank you.” The fateful words spoken, Jennie allowed her smile to fade and dipped her head, no longer able to meet Kit’s all-seeing gaze.

As she stood there, doing her utmost not to tremble and thus betray her nervousness, Kit slipped his crooked index finger beneath her chin and lifted her face toward his descending head. “A betrothal must be sealed with a kiss,” he whispered solemnly before laying claim to Jennie’s lips with the velvet warmth of his mouth.

Remembering their first kiss—the way he had captured her in his embrace and exercised his considerable aptitude in the fine art of seduction—Kit deliberately kept this kiss gentle, undemanding; a tentative exploration rather than an attempt at conquest, and Jennie responded by allowing her lips to soften, molding themselves to fit against his in a highly pleasing manner.

He did not wish to wed Jennie. He did not wish to be married at all until at least a half-dozen more years of bachelor-oriented indulgence and high living were behind him. He resented being pushed into matrimony at, figuratively at least, the point of a gun, and to a mere child just out of the nursery, no less.

Jennie Maitland was the exact opposite of the sort of female he had hoped to surround himself with in London. She was much too young, for one thing, besides being woefully inexperienced—possessing none of the brittle sophistication required to survive in the haut ton—and to top it all, he decided glumly, the outside world would consider him responsible for her well-being and behavior.

Kit had just completed two grueling years of volunteer duty in Spain, and he was sick to death of responsibility—responsibility for the men who fought and died under him, and responsibility for the constant daily decisions of command. His wound and his lengthy convalescence had sorely tried his patience, with only the prospect of the gaiety promised in the coming London Season serving to keep a rein on his impatience until he was free to join his friends in an orgy of hell-raking and carousing that would set the metropolis on its heels.

A wife could only be viewed as a serious impediment to his plans. Husbands lacked the freedom of bachelors, especially brand-new, supposedly honeymooning husbands. He would marry the chit and leave her at Bourne Manor for the Season if he could, but his conscience overrode him on that score. Besides, he felt sure, Sir Cedric was not beneath another theatrical display of ill health just to force his son-in-law’s hand, and Kit didn’t think his constitution could bear another such performance. But going around London with a wife in train was going to be like trying to run with an anchor—or should he say “mantrap”—chained to his ankle, deuced difficult.

And yet…and yet, he thought as Jennie allowed him to take her more fully into his arms, the child wasn’t totally lacking in appeal. With proper tutoring, his tutoring, he could almost believe she’d eventually make a more than tolerable bed partner.

Suddenly Kit’s appetite for romance evaporated. Of course Jennie was a kissable wench—that’s how he had come to be in this damnable coil in the first place! Too much of this sort of thing and he’d not only be saddled with an unwanted wife, but he’d find himself a papa into the bargain.

Jennie looked up at him, puzzlement clouding her eyes. What was wrong? Didn’t he like kissing her? She had enjoyed it quite a little bit herself, although she’d rather swallow nails than admit any such thing, but from the pained look on Kit’s face he had found the entire experience distasteful. Well, she thought angrily, he had certainly taken his good sweet time making up his mind, seeing as how he had been kissing her for more than a full minute—she had counted to sixty-four, as a matter of fact, just to keep from doing something silly like throwing herself into his arms like some love-starved ninnyhammer.

“If everything is official now?” Jennie prompted, angry to hear a trace of huskiness in her voice.

“Hmm?” the earl murmured, still lost in his own depressing thoughts. “Yes, you insolent infant, everything is all right and tight,” he assured her much like a parent shushing a bothersome child. “You may go inside now and wait for your luncheon and I will return at the dinner hour to speak with your father about the final arrangements—if he has recovered from his indisposition of last evening, which I am somehow convinced he has.”

“Kit,” Jennie called rather sharply, as Lord Bourne had already turned and begun walking toward his horse.

“What?” he questioned rudely, eager to be gone.

“You may not be fat or bald, your lordship,” she trilled, spurred by a sudden need to strike back at the man who had so carelessly dismissed her, “but you neglected to mention that you possess all the charm and personality of a turnip.”

Kit stood stock-still as Jennie flounced off with her head held high, obviously believing herself to have come off the victor in their little sparring match, before muttering as he stomped off toward his waiting mount: “Leading strings. I’ll be the only husband in London who has a wife in leading strings. Impertinent infant!”

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS A WET WEDDING. Goldie’s never-ending stream of tears, accompanied by sighs, gulps, hiccups, and several ear-shattering recourses to her oversized red handkerchief were depressing enough without nature echoing the maid’s sentiments by sending dull gray skies and a drenching downpour just as the bride was leaving for the church.

Nothing is quite so inelegant as a limp lace veil unless it is a wilted, water-spotted silk gown with a muddy hem, both of which Jennie wore as she trailed reluctantly down the short aisle with Sir Cedric hauling her toward the altar with unseemly haste.

The ceremony itself was mercifully brief, with Ernestine Bundy poker-faced as the maid of honor and Leon, Kit’s valet, preening pompously in his role of groomsman.

With clumps of baby rose petals clinging damply to their bodies, the bride and groom made short work of climbing into the traveling coach that stood ready to embark on the day-long trip to London, with two other smaller, less elegant coaches holding their belongings and personal servants set to follow along behind.

After handing his bride into the coach, Kit ordered his driver to head for Bourne Manor, deciding a change of clothes was necessary if their journey was to be accomplished in any degree of comfort.

Bride and groom allowed the short journey to pass in silence and parted from each other’s company without regret to enter separate bedrooms and await the arrival of the servants bearing dry clothing.

A scant half hour later—the earl noting the new Lady Bourne’s promptness with a pleasure he saw no need to convey to her—they were finally on their way, with Kit already bored with the confinement of the coach and wishing himself astride the spirited black stallion tied to the back of the coach and Jennie idly stroking a strange wooden carving she held lovingly in her gloved hands.

His own thoughts holding no real appeal, Kit reluctantly turned his attention to the girl perched so stiffly beside him, and his gaze alighted on the carving. “And do you plan to plummet me with that maltreated tree branch if my baser instincts surface and I attempt to ravish you here in this coach?”

Jennie gave the carving a considering look before turning her head to stare at her husband as if weighing her chances of success if she was forced to defend herself before slowly shaking her head and confessing, “I saw the carving as I passed by the main saloon and couldn’t resist taking it with me as a remembrance of home.”

“You consider Bourne Manor to be your home?” Kit questioned, raising his brows so that furrows formed on his smooth forehead.

Jennie shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, replying, “The late earl encouraged me to think of Bourne Manor that way, and I was accustomed to being welcomed almost as a member of the family. He had no children, you know, and he was frightfully lonely when his wife died five years ago.”

Noticing the way Jennie’s tightly controlled features relaxed as she spoke of his uncle, Kit pressed on with his questions, not overly interested but conceding that a pleasant conversation was as good a time-passer as anything else he could think of at the moment. “But why that truly homely carving? You could have had your pick of the manor rather than settling for one of the scores of carvings—all looking very much like misshapen turtles with udders, by the way—that litter the place.”

Jennie’s shoulders straightened as she took exception to Kit’s insulting remark. “I’ll have you know that this carving—indeed, all the carvings—are very creditable renditions of Amy Belinda, your uncle’s favorite model. He took great pride in his work, and I’ll not sit idly by and let you malign his efforts.”

“Amy Belinda?” Kit nudged.

“His pet cow,” Jennie informed him matter-of-factly.

“Of course,” her husband responded in a choked voice. “His pet cow.” His face mirroring his astonishment, Kit prized the carving from Jennie’s grasp and raised his quizzing glass to study Amy Belinda from various angles—none of which provided a clue as to which end depicted the cow’s front end. “M’uncle carved this?” he puzzled. “Good God—he must have been lonely!”

“He was not!” Jennie protested angrily. “At least he wasn’t once I introduced him to Will Plum. Poor man,” she mused reflectively. “Will lost his wife about the same time as the earl, and as he was too old to work as a carpenter anymore he felt he had nothing left to live for.

“Well,” she went on, heedless of her husband’s in credulous expression, “any fool could see the two men needed each other, and once I put Will in the earl’s way the two of them became the best of good friends. Will taught the earl woodcarving and your uncle thought it was just grand to capture his dearest Amy Belinda in all of her many moods.”

“Cows have moods?” Kit interrupted, not that Jennie noticed.

“Their friendship lasted for five years, until old Will finally died, your uncle surviving him by only a month. Amy Belinda didn’t last much longer, poor dear,” she added thoughtfully, “but I imagine that was only to be expected.”