The Plain Bride by Chasity Bowlin
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Althea awoke not only to new stays but to a lovely dress in a rich and vibrant shade of plum. They were draped over the chair in place of the ugly gray gown she’d worn for the first few days of their journey. The stays which had prompted their disagreement the night before were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d made good on the threat to burn them.
Rising from the bed, she crossed to the chair and examined the pieces. Both garments were terribly fine, the fabrics luxurious and the stitching on each one a work of art. She’d never, not in the entirety of her life, owned something that was actually beautiful. Until now.
“Good morning.”
Althea’s head whipped around, and she found him seated before the fire in a straight-backed chair. He was already dressed, or mostly so. There was a small table there, laid with breakfast, and she hadn’t even heard him enter.
“I must have slept like the dead,” she mused.
“You did. And you snore. Not terribly loudly, but soft, little snuffling sounds,” he teased. “Rather like a puppy.”
Her eyebrow arched as she eyed him skeptically. “You are unnaturally cheerful today.”
“I’ve had coffee. It’s remarkable what that will do to improve one’s mood. Would you like some? Or are you a tea drinker?”
“Tea,” she admitted. “I’ve never had coffee.”
“It can be an acquired taste,” he admitted, pouring tea into one of the waiting cups for her. “Sit down and eat. Neither of us had supper last night, and I can only think that had something to do with my foul temper and your…emotional state.”
“I had rather thought my emotional state was a direct result of your foul temper,” she remarked. Recalling her own feelings of deep insecurity as she’d stood in the tap room and waited for him to get their room sorted, she sighed. “Though, that might be a slightly unfair assessment.”
“Well, no more. I shall curb my temper, you shall refrain from throwing boots at me, and we shall attempt to get to London in one piece, with your wardrobe slightly improved in the process.”
She glanced back at the traveling gown. “Where on earth did you find it?”
“Let’s just break our fast and not focus too much on the previous owner of that garment. She’s been fairly compensated for it, and that is all that should concern you about her.”
A doxy. It was the only explanation. But another glance at the rich fabric and the beautiful color and she didn’t care what the previous owner’s occupation had been. She wanted to wear it. She wanted, even if only for the day, to not feel like the dowdy spinster she’d been forced to play throughout her adult life.
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter,” she said.
She was wearing onlyher chemise and a bodiced petticoat. In truth, the garments were heavy enough that she was far more adequately covered than many ladies of the Ton were when they attended various balls. But the absence of the offending stays, which hid any hint of femininity in her figure, had created something he had not expected. It had created an awareness in him of what lurked beneath her dull, drab and utterly serviceable clothing. Recalling the way she’d felt beneath him, a familiar rush washed through him, making his blood surge.
Contrary to what her father might have said, her figure was anything but vulgar. It was, however, surprisingly lush and voluptuous in a way that he had not anticipated—ways that made their current situation even more difficult. He had not reached a decision about her proposition, about siring a child for her followed by seeking their own separate lives. He didn’t want this unforeseen desire for her to cloud his judgement on the matter.
Her hair, pulled into a single braid, was mussed from sleep. No longer scraped back into a tight and unforgiving chignon, the effect softened her features, revealing that same prettiness he’d spied in her when she’d been flushed with temper. Coupled with his newly discovered awareness of her other charms, he found himself doing the very last thing he’d ever wanted—lusting after his own wife.
She walked toward the small table where he was seated. He caught the faintest whiff of the simple scent she wore. It was only rosewater, but on her, the scent of it was far too tempting. He suddenly found himself wondering precisely where that scent was applied. It was a dangerous preoccupation.
There were scones on the table, glazed with sugar. She took a bite of one, and he could see the sugar glistening on her lip. The urge to taste it was so overwhelming, he gripped the table edge to keep from acting on it. Shaking his head to clear it of such thoughts, he knew he had to escape their chamber.
“Well, I’m going to the check with the coachman to be certain everything is prepared for the day. We should make London by the afternoon.” Rising from his chair, he quickly made his way toward the door. It had been a noticeably hasty departure, but it was safer than the alternative.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mayville paused. It was very early morning, far too early for any respectable man to asking for hard liquor. And, yet, he was tempted. He was tempted to step into the taproom and ask the innkeeper for his finest whiskey. It had been easier to numb himself to everything, to ignore the young woman who was suddenly so entangled in his life, when he’d had the pleasant buzzing of heady spirits flowing through him. But, for three days, he’d not had a drink, save for wine with their dinner. And, for three days, he’d felt himself losing the apathy that he’d cultivated for nearly a decade and a half.
In the end, he did not step into the taproom. Instead, he stepped outside into the crisp air and made for the stables, where his coachman was preparing the carriage. There was naught for him to do; the man knew his job and did it well. It had simply been the only excuse for an escape that he could come up with in that moment.
“Women are the devil, Fredricks,” he said as the man looked up.
The coachman grinned. “Aye. They are that, m’lord. But a finer road to hell, you’ll never find.”
