Chapter Twelve
The wedding breakfast, such as it was, over, the guests, few as they were, departed, Verity found herself at last alone with her husband.
The man who thought he’d been forced into marriage with an adventuress, a woman of low morals, and possibly also a fortune hunter, this latter one she’d added for herself.
The man who no doubt assumed she would be an easy conquest.
They were sitting in the parlor where she’d first encountered him just over a week ago.
At least she was. He was standing by the hearth, his masculine presence dominating the room, just as he’d done on that fateful morning.
How long ago that seemed now. So much had happened.
She wasn’t the same young lady who’d come here prepared to give herself to him if it meant keeping Papa from the debtors’ prison and if he refused to take her on as a servant.
And she was most definitely not at all prepared to give anything to him.
The door opened and his butler, Trubshawe, entered. “Dinner is served, Your Lordship. Your Ladyship.” His expression gave nothing away: not surprise at his master’s now married state, nor shock that he’d married a nobody, which he probably thought she was. The most exemplary of butlers.
Dinner. Of course, they had to eat dinner.
One more protective barrier between her and having to face the what the rapidly approaching evening would bring.
Dinner with her husband. Not that she felt as though a morsel could pass her lips.
However, she smiled as politely as possible at Jonathan and rose to her feet as he held out his arm for her to take.
Beneath his coat sleeve she became aware yet again of the size and tautness of his muscles.
This was a very strong man who could, if he so wished, take what she didn’t want to give and was accustomed to a lack of opposition.
She would have to be clever and plan ahead.
No doubt, with his supreme sense of entitlement, it would not have crossed his mind that she was about to refuse him.
That anyone would refuse him. Well, he was about to find out that such a thing could indeed occur.
Not every woman could be called putty in his hands.
They proceeded into a splendid dining room where the table had been laid for two in a far too intimate arrangement, his seat at the head of the table, hers to his right.
She would have rather sat as far away as possible at the foot of the long table, but she wasn’t about to let him know that.
Instead, she took her seat as an impassive liveried footman held it out for her and Jonathan settled into his presumably customary place.
Dinner arrived, and Verity applied her attention to the food.
The first course was red mullet and fricandeau veal with a sorrel sauce, as well as white soup. None of which she fancied.
She picked at her food but it all tasted the same.
Of sawdust. The cook would not be amused that she could not eat.
She was not amused herself because she’d never seen such fine food, not even at Aunt Josephine’s, and never when living with Papa.
And before that, with Grandmama, her meals had been of the plain and simple nursery variety.
“Are you not hungry?” Jonathan asked, although, in truth, he also did not appear to possess much of an appetite. He must be anticipating their wedding night in a slightly different way to her.
She raised her eyes from her rapidly cooling soup and wished she hadn’t.
His eyes, which on close inspection were really a very dark brown, not black, could be described in no other way than smoldering.
She didn’t need to guess what he was thinking about.
She swallowed. This would make her planned revenge even more humiliating for him.
Well, let him be humiliated, because that was how he’d made her feel and she was not about to forget it.
Papa could have verified, had Jonathan thought to ask him, that Verity was not a girl who forgot an insult.
She stiffened her spine, determined to resist those eyes.
“I indulged myself with the wedding breakfast.” Something that wasn’t at all true as she’d barely nibbled at it.
She had to remain calm and collected, but the only thing that occupied her mind was the possibility of the angry scene to come when she turned him away from her bedroom.
Thinking about doing so was easy enough, but succeeding might not be nearly so.
Her heart beat a rapid tattoo beneath her stays, and not just because she feared the coming altercation.
No, she wouldn’t like to admit it, but a very small part of her was hoping he might insist on his conjugal rights.
Dislike, no, hatred, was a strange thing, especially when it involved someone of such personal magnetism as His Lordship, who could, with a mere look, turn her stomach to a quivering jelly.
Oh my goodness. Was she that shallow? Did she want him to take her in his arms and bruise her lips with passionate kisses? Was she just like the other women in his life?
No. She was not. She dragged her eyes away and regarded her soup once more, leaving him visible only out of the corner of her eye.
He inclined his head. What a profile. She’d met handsome gentlemen before, of course. She’d moved within circles where a plethora of young men existed, although none of them of the sort she would ever have considered worthy of marriage. But he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
No. She must not think of him like that. He was just a spoiled schoolboy who needed taking down a peg or two. Or three. Or maybe twenty.
“Your aunt has told me you are an accomplished horsewoman.” He took a sip of his wine. “I must admit, some of the things she was able to tell me about your life on the Continent are quite hair raising.”
An easy topic of conversation and one to which she turned in relief. “That was most kind of her. I would not be so bold as to describe myself thus.” She must keep it formal and polite.
His eyes crinkled in the most attractive way as he smiled. “I believe she had this from your esteemed papa.”
Of course. Papa was inclined to sing her praises to anyone who would listen. But was his tone mocking?
“I like horses and I like to ride.” She eyed him aslant, considering her words.
“I also like to drive horses and would very much like the opportunity to drive your curricle with your splendid pair of bays.” Not that he was ever likely to allow this once she’d humiliated him.
It was just another easy comment to make, and, after all, it was true.
He raised his elegant brows. “A veritable whip?”
“Hardly, but I am considered competent.” She’d driven a pair of far lesser breeding across the Pyrenees, on occasion along rough tracks on the edges of precipices, with Papa lying addled in the back, unaware of their danger.
“Merely competent? I had heard otherwise directly from your papa.” His smile held promise. Of what, she had a good idea. The thought was a little intoxicating. Being so close to him was a disadvantage, and she could feel her resolve wavering.
No, she must not allow herself to fall victim to his notable charms. Difficult.
This was a man from whom something almost tangible emanated in waves.
Almost hypnotic in its strength. No wonder women flocked to him and threw themselves at his feet.
In another age people might have called it magic. She was not about to join their number.
She gave him a sweet smile. “Others are quick to bestow praise where praise is not deserved.”
Was he too convinced of his own charms to realize she meant him? Probably.
“But praise should be accepted where praise is due.”
Perhaps he wasn’t so dense as she’d thought. “If so, it should not be allowed to go to one’s head.”
He let out a guffaw of laughter so spontaneous that it took her by surprise. “Touché, madam. Or, now that we are officially married, might I call you Verity?”
She bowed her head in mock humility, desperate not to fall under his hypnosis. “You may.” The temptation had been to say no, but that would have been silly on her part, sinking to the pettiness he stood accused of.
“Such a beautiful name,” he said, his voice lowering to a seductive purr. “For such a beautiful woman.”
Of course, she’d had people, men, tell her she was beautiful before, usually when they were after something. But none in so alluring a fashion as His Lordship. She gave another little bow of her head, her eyes fixed on her soup bowl. “Thank you, Lord Dunster.”
His hand slid across the table and covered hers before she had chance to withdraw it, in an unexpected move that had her heart hammering even faster. Hopefully he couldn’t feel her pulse. “Please, let us cease these formalities. I am your husband now, and all who know me well call me Jonnie.”
His hand was hot on hers and, for several moments, Verity could think of nothing to say as she fought with the twin contradictory inclinations to both snatch her hand away and relish the feel of his touch, which could not be accomplished in concert.
But no, she must remember he was just exercising his well-known powers of seduction.
Powers he must have used on so many ladies in the past. For him, she was just to be another notch on the bedpost and she refused to acquiesce.
If she was to be married to him, as she now inescapably was, he must either leave her well alone and continue his lifestyle, or he must come to value her as she felt she should be valued, and abandon his old way of life.
She was a person, not a toy for him to play with and then throw aside.
And his first lesson in this was soon to come.
She removed her hand from beneath his and set it in her lap, where he could no longer reach it.