South Landers: Wenna Part 6

In the light of the lamp, he turned the pages of a landscaping journal he found under a pile of old newspapers. Normally, he kept his papers filed on the floor, but since she didn't like untidiness, perhaps he should review his habits. He frowned. True, he desired her, and they would please each other in bed, but he didn't plan to start behaving like her lap dog.

He tossed the magazine back onto the floor and sat leaning forward with his forearms loosely over his knees. His fingers meshed as thoughts of her undressing pa.s.sed through his mind. He could imagine her concise movements as she unb.u.t.toned her gown and let the skirts drop to the floor. No. A fastidious woman like her would catch the garment and carefully drape the folds over the boxes. Next she would step out of her petticoats, or maybe her shoes, and they too would be neatly dealt with. He leaned back, imagining her in a corset and stockings. His c.o.c.k hardened.

He could see those efficient fingers of hers unhook her corset, leaving the chemise beneath clinging to her warm skin. Her nipples would unfold in the fresh air while she pulled her chemise over her head, slowly, letting her beautiful, imagined, white b.r.e.a.s.t.s free. Would she cup them as he longed to do? Would she watch her nipples harden and smile with pleasure?

He stood, shaking out the muscles in his thighs. He didn't know what she would do, but he knew what he would see. Her hair would be tightly braided and she would be wearing a pristine white cotton nightgown that hid the shape he'd noticed beneath the towel. He'd seen the mouth-watering movement of her unconfined b.r.e.a.s.t.s and he'd made a.s.sumptions based on his needs. No longer could he do that. He could make a.s.sumptions based only on their plan. They would breed together. But by h.e.l.l, no rule stated that neither could find enjoyment at the same time. She would, if he made certain of it- and he thought he could-but clearly she wouldn't let him tonight. Not until he had married her.

He snuffed out the lamp and let the moonlight guide him to his bedroom. In a state of full arousal, he undressed, for once ignoring his need. As he took off his clothes, he hung each garment on a hook behind the door. For some reason, tonight he couldn't leave his clothes where they dropped, nor could he put them away as neatly as she had. Fifty push-ups took care of his problem, and he eased into bed with a sheen of sweat on his body and slightly aching shoulders.

With one arm under his head, he stared at his ceiling. During the past six years, he had learned to live with his grief over losing the woman he loved. Now he had the means to force his father to accept a redheaded servant as the mother of the legitimate heir, something he'd been powerless to do all those years ago.

If the thought of natural justice didn't give him a peaceful sleep, nothing would.

Wenna woke at dawn as usual, blinking and stretching while she acclimatized to her new surroundings. Planning her day, she shut her eyes again, just for a wee moment. The next time she saw the daylight, she threw herself out of bed and into her black gown, not knowing how much time she had lost by dozing off. After she tightly braided her hair, she tidied the room, and walked out into the pa.s.sage.

As she pa.s.sed Devon's room, she glanced in, but his bed lay empty. A pinkish gray light filtered through his red velvet curtains. She imagined him in repose, looking younger and gentler with his thick lashes resting on his cheeks, lying with his covers to his waist, showing the broad shoulders and hard chest that had so impressed her yesterday. With a rueful clamp of her mouth, she went down the stairs to visit the privy and wash. When she'd finished, she made herself a cup of tea.

"h.e.l.lo," said a light husky voice behind her. "I thought I heard someone. Mr. Courtney didn't say that he had a woman here. Not that he does, usually. Sorry. I shouldn't oughter have said that." The young man, sixteen or seventeen years old she guessed by his downy upper lip, blushed and glanced at his shoes.

She wanted to blush and glance at her shoes, too, but if she did, she would look guilty. "Where did you come from?" she asked, keeping her tone polite.

"Let me introduce Ernie, the surveyor's a.s.sistant, Wenna." Devon appeared, wearing light trousers and old shoes, the magnificence of his upper body highlighted by a cotton s.h.i.+rt made transparent by sweat. He blotted his forehead with his s.h.i.+rttails. "He works in the office at the front. Wenna is my wife."

The young man glanced at him and back at Wenna, his face filled with embarra.s.sment. "Nice to meetcha, Mrs. Courtney," he said awkwardly. "Guess I'll get back to work." He practically scuttled out of the room and through the doorway to the front of the building.

One side of Devon's mouth lifted. "He and the surveyor use this kitchen for occasional cups of tea. Now that you're here, I suppose they'll have to make other arrangements."

"I don't see why," she said, strangely pleased about being introduced as his wife. He hadn't left her hung out to dry as his doxy, which either showed natural courtesy or a good upbringing. "It's not as if I expect to live in the kitchen."

"Well, for now, if you're making tea, make enough for four."

"Should I make porridge for four as well?" She concentrated on the teapot, not trusting herself to look at him again. Although she had seen sweaty men before, with his thin unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt stuck to the perspiration on his skin, he looked too blatantly male.

"Porridge? Every day?" He sounded surprised.

"That's what I eat every day."

"I take a run every day. I'm just back. When I'm out in the morning, I can buy whatever you want."

She shot another quick glance at him. Near the waistband of his trousers, his s.h.i.+rt had parted, showing his hard abdominal flesh. She cleared her throat, trying to ignore her quick and impure interest. "That would be a waste of time and money when you have oats here."

"Porridge for two, then," he said, sounding as if he'd made a concession.

"After we've eaten, I can go out and buy whatever you want."

He pushed one hand into his pocket and came out with a creased five-pound note. After frowning at the money, he pa.s.sed the bill to her. "Here. You might as well buy a wedding gown too. I imagine it's enough. Is it enough?"

"For a wedding gown?" Her heart thumped. She shared the money with both her hands, staring with bemus.e.m.e.nt at his largesse. "With five pounds I could buy a trousseau. And a pair of carriage horses."

He relaxed his mouth. "Were that possible, my treasure, I would marry you twice over. I know it's not much, but later on you'll have all the money you want."

"I plan to keep two pounds of this," she said, facing him. Not even for more money than she had ever seen in her own two hands would she melt under his generosity like a pat of b.u.t.ter in the sun. "Which is the money I lost in wages when you had me dismissed." She nodded her head for emphasis.

He laughed. "I wouldn't hire you as my accountant. You've got five, woman, and what's mine is yours, literally, for the rest of your life, if we go through with this marriage. You haven't changed your mind?"

"I don't recall agreeing to your proposal in the first place," she said, using a precise tone, determined not to succ.u.mb to his charm. No matter what she said or how she acted, the man remained courteously patient, a virtue she completely lacked. She would not let him make her feel like an ungracious wretch.

"No 'no' is a 'yes.' Don't you know that a double negative is the same as a positive?" He gave her a wide grin, spun on his heel, and left.

She thought of three things she could have said, like "I'm not going to marry you because I would far rather work as a scullery maid," or "I know you only want to get me naked," but the first was untrue and the second didn't seem at all dreadful. Clearly she had lost her mind.

Nevertheless, despite his fine words, she remained skeptical, unable to believe that even a poor gentleman would concede to marrying a maid. He would fool around with her for a while, trying to get her into his bed, and when she wouldn't concede, or after she had, she would be tossed out on her ear. Prepared for whatever might eventuate, she cooked porridge for two and ate alone while the kettle boiled again. When he returned, he ate his porridge and she filled the teapot, which he took through the green door to the surveyor's office along with three empty mugs. Apparently he didn't need companionable breakfasts with her.

The lure of spending five pounds beckoned. For the first time in her life, she had an opportunity to buy a stylish gown. Her steps light, she went back upstairs, tied on her straw hat, and walked out into the suns.h.i.+ne. Many a time she'd collected hats and gowns for Mrs. Brook from the street's exclusive shops. For Devon to give her such a large sum meant that he wanted her to look very much like a lady for her supposed wedding.

Adelaide's most coveted dressmaker sold her designs in a shop two blocks away. The sun had just reached the top of the buildings and the early autumn weather was perfect, not too hot, but not shawl-weather either. Ducking and weaving past footpath conversations and hawkers with loud voices, Wenna set her mind on a cotton gown, perhaps in a blue or yellow pattern.

She arrived at the front of the shop and hesitated. The money in her pocket would let her choose whatever she wanted, but Mrs. Miller took measurements and rarely finished a gown in under a week. Wenna might need her gown tomorrow, or the day after, that was, if Devon truly meant to marry her. She stood, indecisive, staring in the window, noting the draped fabrics, the feather and bead accessories, and the elegant full-length evening gloves.

Farther inside the interior, she could see three customers, all acquaintances of Mrs. Brook. Wenna's chest deflated. If she bought a modish gown in full view of these society matrons, they would speculate about where a maid would find the money for an exclusive design. If Mr. Courtney didn't marry her, then stories about her leaving the Brooks' country house with him would spread and be added to, and she would be painted indelibly scarlet. Her chances of respectability would be dashed.

Swallowing her disappointment, she turned on her heel and hurried back in the direction from which she came, her heart pounding loud enough to make her eardrums echo. When she reached Seymour's Emporium, a more fitting place for a lady's maid, she strode in, her a.s.sumed confidence recovered.

On the ground floor, she bought herself a pair of brown fabric shoes with elevated heels. Upstairs, she bought a layered crinoline hoop and a full, gathered petticoat, arranging to have all her purchases delivered. Next, she skimmed through the racks.

Finally she chose one skirt in a deep russet brown and another in cream, and one cream and one floral Basque bodice. Next, she travelled to the fabric department and bought various lengths of cotton fabric and a length of black braid. She also bought a pair of scissors and a packet of pins, threads, and needles. Back in the haberdashery downstairs, she looked at hat shapes and turned up her nose. She could do better than stock shapes disguised by cheap artificial flowers, but not today. First, she needed a plan. Having spent just over two pounds, she pocketed the two Devon owed her and took the smaller parcels back to his lodgings.

After drinking a large gla.s.s of water, she took the basket from the kitchen and strolled down to the East End market, where she took her time choosing suitable foodstuffs. Back home-was it home?-she thought about making a meal for Devon, who had disappeared. In lieu, she ate an apple and a hunk of cheese. Her parcels arrived, and she sat in an armchair in his upstairs study to alter the first of the bodices she had purchased, a cream cotton patterned with flowers of pink, blue, and russet.

As neither of the bodices had been small enough in the waist, she had eight seams to unpick and redo. Left alone, she finished the first quickly. She tried this on with the russet skirt. Although she couldn't see her full reflection in Devon's shaving mirror, she could feel the fit. The skirt swished with a pleasing fullness now that she owned a satisfactory crinoline. Wis.h.i.+ng she had bought netting snoods, she pondered over her hair. The new combinations called for a far more sophisticated hairstyle than the braid she had worn that morning and the night before.

She tried four different styles before she settled for the first. Her arms ached as she made a loose chignon on the nape of her neck. After narrowing her eyes at her appearance for two or three minutes, she changed back into her black gown and made her way to the kitchen. With an old towel tied around her waist, she put a roast on to cook. With the leftovers, she could make pies tomorrow.

She could barely breathe in the heat of the kitchen. In most of the houses she'd worked, the stoves ran all day, but she'd worked for wealthy people who had large homes with many other rooms. The heat of the one room didn't impact on anyone's comfort, other than the kitchen staff.

The shadows lengthened while she prepared vegetables and set the tiny table. She might have used the plates from the box Devon had brought downstairs, but she'd noticed a raised gold patterned edging and didn't dare. The thick white plates in the kitchen looked good enough with a daintily embroidered tablecloth from one of his boxes in her room.

As she pondered, trying to find something alive in the garden to put in a mug as a table decoration, she heard the lobby door open. She lifted her head and watched Devon walk toward her, trying not to care that he was the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

"My, something smells appetizing. And what do we have here?"

She stood back, thinking he wanted to look at the table setting, but he was looking at her hair.

"Turn around," he said, a strange look on his face.

She did, nervously smoothing her black skirts.

He let air through his teeth. "That's more like it. At last your beautiful hair is visible."

She swallowed. He approved. She wished she didn't care. "I bought four different outfits with the money you gave me. And a pair of shoes."

"With five pounds? Ah, no doubt your cooking will be a credit to my budget, too. While the stove is going, I'll put on the bath water. Are you interested?"

"In taking another bath? Yes, of course. I'd never thought to have one daily. Is that what you do?"

"When the stove is hot, that's what I do. Now, what have you been cooking?" He lifted the lid off the carrots, beans, and peas. "Will I carve the meat for you?"

She nodded, removed the roast from the oven, and sat down to a normal family meal, the first she'd had since her mother had died. His legs didn't fit under the small table as well as hers, and when he sat, the flatware b.u.mped.

She rearranged her skewed fork. "What should I do with the laundry? You don't appear to have a washhouse outside."

"I leave the items I want washed in the foyer, and the woman who does my was.h.i.+ng collects it from there, weekly." He moved a little to the side, and his foot cracked against the table leg. "Add yours."

She put her feet beneath her chair, knowing she ought to do the was.h.i.+ng to save him money and occupy her time, but the thought of someone else performing the mindless task was too good to withstand.

"And meals," she said, noting that he'd stretched one leg out from under the table. "Morning and midday. Should I make those for you?"

He finished his mouthful and moved his chair back a little. "I would be satisfied to start each day with breakfast, but I'm not often around during the day. I'll leave money for you to buy whatever you want. And, you really don't need to cook the evening meal."

She nodded, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. Despite his polite enjoyment of her cooking, she couldn't expect a man his size to sit at a table that trembled with fear whenever he moved. "And I've been thinking about the men in the office. I could make them a cup of tea while the stove is hot in the morning, around ten. And another in the afternoon when I might want one myself."

"That's a very good plan. They'll be delighted to have two cups of tea a day, and it will keep them out of here." He smiled.

Unable to prevent herself, she smiled back, wondering. In Seymour's Emporium, the hat shapes had given her a yen to work further on her sketches. If Devon didn't marry her, she would either have to find work as a maid or support herself another way. While she was idle, she could work on her idea. If she didn't try, she didn't deserve to succeed.

Chapter 6.

After a spa.r.s.e, hurried breakfast with Devon, Wenna made pastry, which she filled with the leftovers from last night's roast. While the pies baked in the oven, she meandered upstairs, knowing Devon kept pencils and paper in his desk. She sat on his scuffed leather chair and pulled open a side drawer, finding not only lead pencils but also a ruler. In the next drawer down, she found notepaper and a finer page likely meant for letters. Beneath both, she saw foolscap, which was her preferred size. Since he owned a full package, she decided not to worry about the cost. Apparently, he didn't.

Hesitantly, she began to draw the back and side view of a hairstyle she had designed in her mind last night. Gaining confidence, she filled the next page with another, both with and without the hat she decided would be the perfect foil for the shape.

The little filigreed carriage clock on Devon's desk said she had taken half an hour. Barely in time to save her pastries, she scooted down the stairs and put the kettle on to boil. The staff in the shop-front office would expect a cup of tea now, if Devon had informed them of her plan. After making two mugs of tea, she pasted a polite smile on her face and opened the green connecting door to the room, a s.p.a.ce that dwarfed the study above due to the position of the stairwell.

Ernie sat at a desk strewn with paper, tapping a pencil on his lips. His head turned toward her and he gave a sound of surprise. His scrubbed young face creased with a smile. "Morning, Mrs. Courtney."

"Good morning," she said, glancing around the area. The view of Rundle Street was partially blocked by a pair of green brocade curtains, fringed and tied back to let in the early morning light. An older man in a dark suit, seated at a large map-covered desk on the other side of the room, stood when he saw her. Shelves stacked with folders and papers ranged behind him.

"Where are your manners, lad?" he asked Ernie.

Ernie's chair sc.r.a.ped back and he said, "This here is Mrs. Courtney."

"So I surmised. How do you do, ma'am? I'm Tom Finn, surveyor." Mr. Finn inclined his balding head courteously. To compensate for the lack on his pate, he grew a magnificent set of side-whiskers down his cheeks.

"Wenna Courtney," she said without a quaver, stepping over to him to shake his hand. "So, you do the surveying?"

He nodded. "A never-ending job in a new colony."

"Are you the only two working here?"

"How much more staff did you expect?" His eyes narrowed with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I had no expectations, Mr. Finn," she said, smiling back. "Enjoy your tea. I'll bring another at about three in the afternoon."

Ernie gallantly opened the door for her as she left. She took a deep breath. Without being married, she was now Devon's wife. With the rest of the day to herself, she sat down again to alter her cream bodice and add the black braid, military-style, around the collar and cuffs. Pleased with her efforts, she ate a pie for her midday meal and plotted her next hat and hairdo designs.

She had barely finished her first drawing when the lobby door swung open, and Devon appeared.

"Nick's done it." His smooth-skinned face lit with one of his devastating smiles, and he waved a sheet of stiff paper at her. "We can be married this afternoon. I knew he would come through."

"Who is Nick?"

"A friend from long ago," he said, evading her gaze.

She didn't note his answer. "Married." Her thoughts sped too fast to catch, and she stared in horror at her black gown. "What time this afternoon?"

"Five o'clock. Not only did Nick organize a special license, but he organized the venue, too." He grabbed Wenna into his arms and whirled her about.

When her head began to spin, she spiked both elbows into his chest to force him to put her back on her own two feet. He let her slide down his hard body, but he didn't let her go. He stood with his hands lightly on her hips, his blue eyes triumphant.

"Finally married," he said in a satisfied voice. His mouth curved into a smile she saw as deliberately lascivious. "Now we'll be able to share a bed."

Knowing what he meant, she tightened her face. She hadn't even kissed the man. She certainly didn't want him grunting over her. Perhaps he didn't know that a woman needed courting before she wanted to open her legs for him. A small amount of courting. Or, perhaps more companionability than a quick breakfast together and a glance or two over a rustle of newspapers in his study at night.

She'd been able to put the thought of him poking her to the back of her mind while she'd had everything her way. His way wouldn't be so comfortable. Now she had to be what he wanted: a convenient wife who knew her role as a breeder. Naturally, a woman with her background and looks expected no better; in fact, not half as much, if truth be told. She'd had no expectation of marrying a tall, handsome tradesman, and even less of marrying a gentleman.

Somehow, she'd landed on her feet in more ways than one. Devon, a gentleman with impeccable social contacts, would be a great catch for a woman with funds of her own. For a woman who had no foreseeable way to earn an income, an irresponsible, entirely-too-careless wastrel was an impediment. However, he was also even-tempered, good-natured, and-she breathed out-unbearably attractive. Whenever he touched her, her skin tingled. Possibly, she could make something of him.

In fact, he might even be the perfect man for her, one who could be molded and pushed by the right wife, and end up successful with her prodding.

If she added a little more money to her savings, she could contribute to his coffers. Although he would return to Cornwall as a son hoping for a handout, if his wife looked confident and prosperous, his father would be more inclined to be generous. In Cornwall, she could bring up healthy, happy children, though she didn't intend to breed until Devon could show himself well able to support a family. She couldn't place much importance in his story about her having as much money as she wanted when she lived abroad. He'd seen that as a lure, but the lure was going home to the place she was meant to be.

Married! Something inside her opened up and warmed. He honestly meant to marry her. No female could not be impressed by his manly body or his chiseled face, or the way his eyes gleamed bright blue when he smiled.

She kept her expression nonchalant. "I will share your bed if you wed me," she said, using her gracious tone.

"If?" He glanced away. "I've been planning to wed you for days. I've been hoping to bed you for even longer, as you know." He nuzzled his nose into her hair, and his breath blew a whisper on her skin. "You're so fresh and clean, and thoughts of you naked drive me wild with l.u.s.t."

She swallowed. "Now you're being fanciful." Her face and neck suffused with heat, and she pushed him away, her heart tumbling around in her chest. While trying to breathe, she had thoughts of him naked, too, and wondered about the size of his oldjohn. He was a large man. Her hands shook.