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