Chapter Ten
Staring out the window into the dark, pelting rain, Rosie thought, Did I make a mistake?
It wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her decision during the last three days. She’d had her share of misgivings since embarking on the wild elopement with Daltry… and now it was too late.
The firelight glinted off the gold band on her ring finger. Its selection, like everything about her marriage—from the travel arrangements to the ceremony over the anvil to the obtaining of present lodgings—had been conducted in a rush. The adage about marrying in haste entered her head; she shoved it out.
What’s done is done. The bargain is sealed… or very nearly.
As her gaze went to the door adjoining her and her new husband’s rooms, her apprehension surged higher. She missed her family with an acute ache, her price to pay for eloping. She’d never felt more alone than right now, in this room at a strange inn, waiting for her bridegroom to arrive. The way other debutantes talked about it, consummation was a necessary evil. Like tight-lacing a corset, one had to endure the pain in order to get the desired results.
She knew, of course, that what went on the marital bower after the first time wouldn’t be all bad. In her family, she was surrounded by couples who clearly didn’t mind retiring together. And there were her own recent experiences of passion… her reckless interludes with Andrew butted into her thoughts. The way he’d kissed her, that shocking, ravishing pleasure she’d known in his arms… try as she might, she couldn’t forget those memories.
So she used them to bolster her present resolve.
Despite all the travails she’d endured—being a bastard, being dallied with and labelled a trollop, even being immortalized in that poem—nothing had hurt the way Andrew’s rejection had. His refusal to be with her had cut into a place so tender and deep that she knew she’d forever bear the scar. It made no sense why he could wound her so… but he had.
Trust me, Primrose, he’d said.
Her heart clenched. Andrew was like all the beaux in her past, only he’d treated her far worse. He’d raised her hopes, made her trust him, and for the first time, she’d wanted … oh, how she’d wanted…
The one thing you’ll never have.
Because she was a shameless wicked girl. And she deserved to be tossed aside.
In short, Andrew had proved what she’d known all along: love wasn’t for her.
Her vision blurred, but she refused to let the tears fall. Having reached the lowest rung of her existence, she had nothing left to lose. To hell with Andrew and his ilk. Though Daltry might not be the man of her dreams, his position meant that she could spit on men like Andrew from her new perch at the top of the social ladder.
I’m a countess now, she thought fiercely.
Why didn’t she find any consolation in the fact?
After the rough journey—she and Daltry had driven straight through, pausing only to change horses at coaching stops—they’d arrived in Gretna in the afternoon. After the blacksmith had married them, they’d ended up at the present inn. She’d promptly fallen into an exhausted sleep and awakened to find Daltry gone. Knowing her reprieve would be temporary, she’d stiffened her spine and forged ahead.
She’d had a bath brought in. Without the assistance of a maid, she’d performed all twelve steps of her ablutions with the meticulousness of a warrior preparing for battle. Then she’d donned a night rail edged in lace and brushed her hair the requisite one hundred strokes before winding it into a single plait. The looking glass had reflected her crisply perfect ensemble, her porcelain-smooth countenance, her lifeless eyes.
That had been two hours ago, and her groom still had not shown. Boisterous rumbling came from the tavern below. Was Daltry amongst the merry crowd? The innkeep had claimed that it was a local tradition for the bridegroom to purchase rounds for local revelers. The more drinks he bought, the more luck he’d supposedly bring to his new marriage—and the more he’d line the proprietor’s pockets, Rosie thought dryly. What fustian. Unfortunately, she couldn’t go downstairs unaccompanied to check if Daltry had fallen prey to such silly superstitions.
With nothing better to do, she went over to the table by the fire. A cold collation had been laid out, yet her stomach was too knotted to eat. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine… which tasted surprisingly good. So good, in fact, that she refilled her glass. A third glass settled her nerves, and she curled up on a chair, tucking her feet beneath her.
Lightheaded, she raised her glass to the crackling fire. “Cheers to me: the new Lady Daltry.”
The words echoed hollowly in the room. Time slowed as she sipped the wine and brooded into the flames. The door opened sometime later, startling her from her stupor.
“You’re awake, m’dear,” Daltry said.
From his slurred accents and the way he fumbled to close the door behind him, she guessed that he had, indeed, been cavorting in the tavern below. She rose—and had to steady herself against the table when she swayed.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
“Eager for the proceedings, eh?” he leered. “What a good wife you are.”
She decided not to disabuse him of the notion, especially since uncharitable thoughts had begun to play in her head again. She’d managed to keep them in check during their long journey—no easy feat. For one, the earl wasn’t renowned for his wit or conversation. While his mind stayed well within the boundaries of convention, one couldn’t say the same of his hands. It had taken no small amount of maneuvering on her part to finish the journey in the same intact state with which she’d started it.
Experience had given her insight into the workings of the male mind. As the saying went, no man would buy the cow when he could have the milk for free. (See? She had learned from her mistakes.) Ergo, she’d remained firm in her stance that there would be no preview before their wedding night.
Now that she was legally bound him, however, he had husbandly rights. Tipsy as she was, she saw her situation with sudden clarity. It was… disheartening. Daltry had never been the most prepossessing of men. Around her height, thinning on top, and protruding in the middle, he looked every day of his two-and-fifty years.
She told herself that his physical characteristics mattered not: his title was his redeeming attribute. Yet she couldn’t help but wish that he would take a tad more care with his personal appearance. That he’d try to, well, do better with what Nature had seen fit to give him.
Instead, he seemed to have some aversion to personal hygiene. What hair he had lay in limp strands across his bald pate. His complexion was both florid and greasy, his light blue gaze bloodshot. His cravat was splotched with stains, and several buttons had popped off his waistcoat. As he closed in on her, it became obvious that he hadn’t bothered to wash since their arrival. He reeked of sweat, dirt… and, Dear Lord, vomit?
Her stomach lurched.
His hand shot out, his stubby fingers grabbing her braid. “Always had a liking for blondes.”
To avoid smelling him, she tried breathing through her mouth. “Thank you. I managed best as I could without a maid.”
“Good thing you didn’t bring one. Only get in the way, eh?”
Tamping down nausea, she said, “I had a nice bath after my nap. Perhaps you’d care to—”
“No need.” He let go of her hair, began shrugging out of his coat. “Not when I’m ’bout to get dirty again.”
Her belly quivered at his coarseness. Daltry had never been a refined man; now that they were married, he was apparently going to drop any pretense of being a gentleman.
“Perhaps we ought to have a glass of wine first,” she said faintly.
“Don’t play coy with me, young lady.” He fumbled with buttons, managing to divest himself of his waistcoat. “The fact that you’re a shameless doxy is why I married you in the first place.”
Her cheeks flamed. “I’m not—”
“I ain’t deaf; I’ve heard the rumors about you. And you approached me, brazen as can be, making me an offer I couldn’t refuse. What does that make you, if not a trollop?” He smirked, his hands on his waistband. “But worry not: I like a hot-blooded wench in bed. And it’ll amuse me to watch those uppity relations of mine swallow their spleen when I parade you in front of them.”
He’d married her to annoy his family? The revelation was unsettling, to say the least. Especially given the social influence wielded by the dowager countess, Lady Charlotte Daltry, and Mrs. Antonia James, Daltry’s formidable aunt. The ladies hosted a salon so exclusive that it made getting vouchers to Almack’s seem easy by comparison. If Rosie wished to have the ton at her feet, she would need the dowager and Mrs. James as allies not enemies.
Tentatively, she said, “Perhaps our marriage will help mend fences—”
“To hell with those bleeding hypocrites!” Daltry’s words boomed with drunken belligerence. “Treated me like dirt ’til I got the title. The smell of trade offends them, but that don’t stop ’em from asking for handouts. Well, they ain’t as lily-white as they seem. Got mud on their shoes like everyone else, and I know that first-hand. Know all their dirty secrets.” His lips stretched into a satisfied smile. “Now they’ll have to kowtow not only to a merchant—but to his trollopy bastard of a bride as well. Hah!”
Rosie cringed—and that was before Daltry shed the rest of his clothing.
Dear God. Even the hazy focus of wine didn’t improve her first view of a naked male body. Then he turned, giving her a full view of his backside. Eww. She’d had no idea that a man was that hirsute… all over.
With shaking hands, she reached for her wine glass and polished it off.
“Enough delay. Time to pay up, young lady.”
“Could we… dim the lights?” she whispered.
“I told you to dispense with those virginal sensibilities—”
“I am a virgin,” she burst out.
“We’ll find out if that’s true soon enough. Not that I’m particular—as long as you’re a fine breeder, eh? But all right,” he muttered, “just this once. Off with those clothes and into the bed, you hear?”
He went to douse the lamps, stumbling along the way. The moment darkness blanketed the room, Rosie disrobed with unsteady hands and rushed to the bed, jumping under the covers. She lay against the cold sheets, her heart thumping.
You made this bed, the unsympathetic voice in her head said. Now you have to lie in it.
The bed creaked in protest, the mattress sagging beside her.
~~~
Near dawn, Andrew strode into the inn, removing his hat and shaking off the rain. Vicious storms had delayed his journey by half a day, forcing him to take shelter at inns on the way to Gretna Green. He’d barely slept the past three days, catching a few minutes here and there in the carriage, always awakened by a sense of pounding urgency.
Where the devil are you, Primrose?
He’d arrived at Gretna three hours ago—after the closing of the blacksmith shops. He could only hope that the inclement weather had delayed Primrose and Daltry’s journey, and they hadn’t yet had their anvil wedding. He’d gone through the inns one by one, knowing that if the pair had arrived, they would need a place to stay the night. His gut tightened, his boots taking him to the innkeep’s desk, where he rang the bell.
A few minutes later, a bleary-eyed man shuffled to the desk, wearing a dressing gown and sleeping cap. Taking quick stock of Andrew’s garb and bearing, he perked up. “Coming in a bit late, are you, sir? Never fear, I ’appen to ’ave a braw set o’ the rooms suited to a gentleman such as yourself. The name’s Alfred McCready, owner and proprietor o’ the Galloway Arms, where we offer the finest in Scottish ’ospitality—”
“I’m looking for a couple,” Andrew said impatiently. “An older man and a young lady. Have you seen them?”
McCready’s wary expression betrayed that he’d likely been confronted with this scenario before—no surprise since eloping couples formed the backbone of Gretna’s economy. “’Fraid I won’t be much help, sir. It’s been a busy few days on account o’ the weather—”
“Perhaps this will jog your memory.” Andrew dropped a coin purse on the counter. “His name is Daltry; the lady is Miss Kent.”
The innkeep weighed the purse, which quickly disappeared into a drawer. He opened his registry, running a finger down the lines of ink. “No, sir. I don’t see those names.”
“He’s in his fifties, short, balding. She’s blonde—beautiful,” he said tightly.
“Come to think o’ it, that does fit the description of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, sir. They arrived just after noon today and booked the newlywed suite.”
The knot in Andrew’s chest tightened. “Show me to their rooms.”
“Now ye ken I don’t want any trouble—”
“If you do not show me the way immediately, I will bring a wrath down upon this place such as you’ve never seen nor will you see again,” Andrew vowed grimly.
“Yes, sir.” McCready grabbed a metal ring of keys and a lamp and scurried from behind the counter. “Right this way, sir.”
Andrew followed the proprietor up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, the latter’s candle casting ghostly shadows over the dark wood interior.
“Their suite is at the end of the hall—” McCready began.
A scream shattered the night.