Chapter Seven
Diplomacy was not Fred’s strong suit. It was why the army had suited him so well. By the time a battle arrived, there was no need for discussion. If his superiors had doubts, they kept them to themselves. And they never had to contend with the damaged sensibilities of their men on the morning after.
That might explain the absence of women in the military. But it was not just women that were Fred’s problem. He had never been any good at dealing with the excesses of his father and brother, either. While Pater deserved respect for age and rank alone, there was no way he could cede it easily to his idiot brother Francis because of one year’s superiority and a direct line to an earldom.
Fred had chafed, argued, and evaded when dealing with people he did not like, even when his friends had hinted that subtlety might rule the day. And though he’d bought his commission to run away from his problems, in Portugal he’d had no choice but to meet challenges head-on and conquer them.
But nothing had prepared him for Georgiana Knight. He had sown the wind with an impromptu marriage. He should not be surprised that the proverbial whirlwind had arrived on the wedding night. After she had crowned him with her bouquet, she had run upstairs and disappeared into her room with a slam of the door that must have been heard all the way to the basement. He had been left alone, picking flower petals out of his hair, sure in the knowledge that the household staff knew their master had been banned from the marital bed.
Not that he’d actually planned to bed her. Not immediately, at least. He had promised her that he would not impose himself upon her. But some part of him had assumed that the situation would change with time. When two people were alone in the same house, things sometimes happened. Why should they not? Congress between a man and a woman was an enjoyable activity. In their case, it was even sanctioned by the church. When the opportunity presented itself, desire would not be a problem. She was not unattractive.
If he was honest, she was more than that. She was really quite lovely. When he had rejected her on their first meeting, he had done so with regret. His taste already ran to tall blondes and only a fool did not like big, blue eyes and full, pink lips.
But it had not been her face he’d remembered, as they stood together at the altar. A stray beam of light had shone through the muslin of her gown and the briefest outline of her shoulder had sent him down a moonlit path of fantasy, remembering how she had looked when he’d rescued her at Vitium et Virtus and what might have happened between them.
Breasts. Not too large, not too small. Firm handfuls of flesh cresting over a skimpy bodice. Pert nipples outlined under gauze that clung so tight to her flat belly her navel made a dark hollow in the fabric.
Legs. Not just a titillating glimpse of ankle. He had seen shapely calves, round hips and thighs that begged to be parted. When her skirt had shifted, he’d had a brief view of the sweet place where they met. Damn Jake and his talk of undiscovered countries. What man would not want to experience la petite mort after that particular journey?
He’d felt the same warning stirring in church that was taking him now. The male body’s primordial rebellion against common sense at inappropriate times was understandable, if one was a schoolboy. But for a grown man who prided himself on iron control, it was worse than embarrassing. It bordered on the ridiculous.
So he had focused his mind on anything but the woman at his side. He had brooded on his family’s behaviour. He’d enumerated the bride’s faults. For the first time in his life, he had listened intently to a sermon. By the time the bishop had made the final pronouncement that would bind him to Georgiana Knight for ever, Fred’s blood was as cold as the champagne waiting at the breakfast.
Then, he had turned to kiss her.
His calm shattered. She had looked up into his eyes with an expression of such naked longing that his mouth had gone bone dry. He wanted her every bit as much as he had the night at the club. He wanted to seize her and kiss her as he should have then, to explain in a single action the advantages of a physical union between them.
But one did not do such things in public, much less in church. Even in private, he must remember that the girl was a virgin and deserved patience and understanding before intimacy. Most important, she had made it quite clear that she did not want him, no matter what her feelings were at the moment. He would kiss her, of course. He had to. But it must be a proper kiss. A kiss as innocent as she was. And that kiss must make it seem that he did not care as much as he did.
He kissed her. And it was awful. No. He was awful. It had been as if, as soon as the knot was tied, he had forgotten everything he’d ever learned about taking and giving pleasure. He had given her a virgin’s first kiss, in fact. A male virgin. A thin-lipped, bone-dry peck that had landed half on her lips and half off, as if he had been afraid to make full contact lest she laugh in his face.
It did not take an experienced woman to recognise such blatant romantic failure. Georgiana had pulled away from him after, red with fury. Even his friends had smiled and shaken their heads in pity, then muttered about wedding-night nerves.
He owed her an apology. He’d even intended to make one. Then he’d planned to explain the need to share a bedroom in the most innocent possible way to prevent household gossip. He would sleep on the floor while she took the bed. A quick rumpling of the sheets in the morning, and perhaps a spot of blood to reinforce the maid’s assumptions about what had happened. In a day or two, he would return to his own room. No one would dare question his comings and goings after.
He had reconciled himself to the fact that the marriage need never be consummated. While it would be embarrassing to admit that he had never bedded his own wife, he was not required to tell anyone the fact. Nor was he so enraptured with tradition that he felt the need to mark her as a possession if they felt no attraction to each other.
But before he could get a word in she had asked about separate living arrangements and he had taken to hectoring her and trying to regain control. In response, she’d continued to goad him until he had lost his temper and his mind.
At least, when he had stopped thinking, the kissing had improved. Their mouths had fit together perfectly, as had their clothed bodies. His manhood had immediately wondered how well they might fit when naked. Virginity was nothing more than a uniquely female sort of ignorance. It was easily solved. And by the sway of her body against his, the slight sighs at the friction of clothing against her body, she seemed like an apt pupil ready for vigorous education.
Then she had hit him with her flowers and locked him out of her bedroom. Who would have thought such a small creature could have so much anger in her? In certain circumstances, it might have been admirable. Women who were passionate in public often carried such emotion to the bedroom with them. He’d been with women who had started arguments just for the opportunity to make up afterwards. Perhaps Georgiana would be the same.
He blinked in surprise. The woman was his wife. The last thing he needed to be speculating about was the nature of her passions. While some might think that such things were exactly the purview of a spouse, one had only to look at his brother to see what happened when men followed their hearts, or, worse yet, their loins, into a lifelong union. The fire Francis had felt for his wife had cooled in less than a year, but the scorn they felt for each other would linger for a lifetime.
He would not make the same mistake in his marriage. Georgiana Knight had been a virtual stranger to him when he’d wed her and so she would remain. Of course, she’d also been a stranger who made no bones about her loathing for him. Unless he wanted the ton to find a fresh embarrassment to add to the family scandal sheet, he needed to convince her to pretend affection towards him.
And here was the woman now, entering the breakfast room with the hesitance of one still so unfamiliar with her surroundings that she was unsure what awaited her on the opposite side of each closed door. He felt another pang of embarrassment. Or was it shame? It did not matter how she felt about him or how he felt about her. He would not have treated any other visitor to his home so shabbily that they woke unable to find their breakfast.
He let proper manners take hold of him, rising and turning to greet her. Even if he could not manage to smile, he owed her the same courtesy and civility he’d have given any other lady. ‘Georgiana.’ He bowed.
‘Mr Challenger,’ she responded with a cautious inclination of her head.
‘Please, come in, sit down.’ He pulled out her chair for her, saw her properly seated, and arranged the chocolate pot and toast rack at a convenient distance from her plate before returning to his seat at the head of the table. ‘I trust you slept well?’
The silent look she gave him in return spoke volumes. Since she had gone to her room in a rage and quite possibly hungry, he had no reason to make optimistic assumptions about the quality of her rest.
‘Was the bed to your liking?’ he asked. A brief image of a sleep-tousled Georgiana rising naked from white sheets flashed through his mind and he kicked himself for mentioning bed at all.
‘The mattress was satisfactory,’ she said, her voice brittle.
‘And the room? You may decorate it to your preferences, of course. But is the size and arrangement of it sufficient for your needs?’ And what were her needs, or those of any other woman, for that matter? He had no idea.
Her frown deepened to remind him that the bed would be better if it were miles away from whereever he resided. ‘It is more space than I require.’
He nodded. This was as good an introduction as any to yesterday’s argument. ‘Because you have no desire to remain here for long. You wish your own rooms. Or a house, perhaps.’
‘But not a large one,’ she replied. ‘The settlement from my father is generous, but I do not intend to squander it.’
‘Of course not,’ he said, somewhat mollified. Her frugality might be common ground between them. ‘Despite my behaviour yesterday, I have no desire to see you unhappy.’ Now he should apologise, but the words stuck in his throat. Since the argument had been from her unwillingness to cede control of the marriage, she should be the sorry one. It was the natural order of things that she follow his lead.
But he had known that she was an unnatural creature from the first. Proper women did not turn up half-naked in sporting clubs. Nor did they trick unsuspecting men into marrying them. Could he really fault her for being consistently inconsistent? ‘I am sorry that we argued,’ he said at last. That truth did not require him to give any ground.
‘And I am sorry if you find me difficult,’ she said, giving him an equally weak contrition.
It would do. He let out a small sigh of relief. ‘Then we agree that we wish to make our way through this awkward situation as pleasantly as possible.’
‘You speak of our marriage as if it is a bog,’ she said, focusing her full attention on the toast in front of her, slathering it with marmalade to the very edges and licking a drip from her finger with the tip of her tongue.
He stared at it and felt his own mouth water. He was giving her table manners far too much attention. Probably because he was not used to being distracted by an attractive female at breakfast. Perhaps tomorrow, he could eat alone, in silence, reading his mail, just as he always did. But today, he needed to speak to her, if he could manage to remember what it was that he’d meant to say.
She was cleaning her other fingers now, with catlike dabs of her tongue. They were almost like small, wet kisses. They would be sweet kisses, because of the jam...
She looked up at him, returning his stare.
He looked quickly back to his own plate which was already empty. He put another kipper on it, not because he was hungry, but because it seemed foolish to be lingering at table with her when he was so obviously finished with his meal.
‘Do you view our union as an obstacle?’ she said, reminding him of the discussion in progress.
‘I view our marriage as a challenge,’ he said. There was no point in avoiding the truth. ‘But not an insurmountable one. If we work together, we can solve it,’ he added.
‘What sort of challenge? And why must we do anything together? You made it quite plain that you wanted nothing to do with me.’ Did she sound hurt? ‘And I want nothing to do with you, either.’ She’d added that so quickly he wondered if it was meant to disguise a tender heart.
‘Living separate lives is not quite the same thing as having nothing to do with each other,’ he said, patiently. ‘There will be questions enough about our marriage without making the world think we are enemies.’
‘But why should it matter what the world thinks?’ she said, her annoyance returning.
He and his friends had said something similar when they’d started the club. But Fred had come to realise that, no matter what he said, he’d felt something quite different when he had watched his family’s behaviour. ‘It matters to me what the world thinks of us. Since I am your husband, it should matter to you as well.’
It was a simple enough explanation for even a child to understand. He knew what was best and she should abide by his rules. Instead, she looked at him not just with doubt, but with rebellion. ‘You think because we have been forced into a union, that your opinion, which did not matter at all to me a week ago, should be the mark upon which I measure all future behaviour.’
‘I do.’ But why did she make unquestioning obedience sound so unreasonable? ‘Since I am not asking for anything more outlandish than a truce between us, perhaps you can enumerate the problems you see with agreeing.’
Perhaps he was learning to be subtle. By the puzzled look on her face, it was clear that she had no good response. Then she said, carefully, ‘Just what might such a truce entail?’
‘Nothing too terribly onerous,’ he assured her. ‘We both want to live separately. But I would like to do so without adding to the gossip that is already swirling about our sudden wedding. Interest in us will wane if we attempt to seem like a happy couple, at least long enough for a honeymoon.’
‘A month,’ she said, taking said moon as a literal measure of time.
He nodded. ‘We should be seen in public together over the next few weeks. The Season is almost over. By the end of June, most of the gossips will have gone to Bath or Brighton. At such time, we can adjourn to the country...’
‘Or to separate homes,’ she finished.
‘By next Season, our marriage will be old news. If we maintain multiple dwellings and do not spend all our evenings in each other’s pocket, we will be no different from most other couples in London.’
She stared at him for a moment as though weighing advantages and disadvantages before answering, ‘Very well. How do you suggest we begin?
‘A ride this afternoon, I think. Everyone who is anyone will be in Hyde Park. I suggest we join them.’