Page 8 of To Swoon and to Spar
“The fact that, as mentioned, I’m a viscount means that I’m going to need an heir. Eventually.”
“I’m aware,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “And I am willing enough to be your broodmare, I suppose, if that’s what is required of me.” She spoke as bluntly as she could, attempting to shock him in order to stave off the embarrassment that was causing warmth to prickle at the back of her neck. The physical aspects of marriage had been something of a mystery to her for years, until she had finally lost patience with her own ignorance the year before and bribed Hastey—who had three married sisters and had apparently been entertaining the competing affections of two of the stable hands herself—to explain matters to her. She had also discovered an exceptionally educational, highly inappropriate collection of books hidden away in the library at Trethwick Abbey that had filled in many of the blanks left from her conversation with Hastey.
“I—you—” He appeared to be at a loss for words, and Jane mentally congratulated herself on having managed to fluster a man whose experience presumably far outstripped her own. “I intended to tell you that I wouldn’t press my advances on you,” he said after a moment, apparently recovering enough to speak in complete sentences. “In light of the fact that this marriage is more or less being forced upon us both.” For the first time, there was the faintest note of bitterness in his voice,a reminder that, deep down, he didn’t want to marry her, either. “And I don’t see any need for you to immediately become mybroodmare,as you so charmingly put it. I’ve no interest in hearing the pitter-patter of small feet around the house anytime soon, which means we needn’t trouble each other in that way until such a time as we decide we’re ready.”
This was unexpected—Jane had been given to understand that men were exceedingly eager to get beneath a woman’s skirts, regardless of how the woman in question might feel about the matter—but naturally, it suited her.
“Should we agree on it?” she asked briskly. “When we intend to consummate the marriage, I mean, if it is not to be immediate?”
Penvale regarded her for a moment, a hint of a smile twitching at his mouth. “I don’t suppose ‘whenever the mood strikes us’ would be an acceptable response, given the circumstances.”
Jane cast a fleeting glare in his direction before redirecting her gaze to her lap. “Not if you ever wish to produce that heir, since I’m not certainthatparticular circumstance will ever arise.”
“Shall we revisit the matter on a quarterly basis, then?” he asked, his manner businesslike, though an edge of amusement lurking in his voice made Jane wonder uncomfortably if he was making fun of her.
“That seems reasonable,” she said cautiously.
“All right, then.” A pause. “If we’ve nothing else to discuss—” He broke off. “Would you just—just look at me for a moment?”
She lifted her head and met his eyes. They were a clear hazel, the flecks of green more visible in this light than they had been indoors, and the look in them was… steady, somehow. Serious.
“If you’re certain about this, then I’m prepared to go back indoors and tell my uncle that we’ve come to an agreement. But if you areuncertain, speak up now, because once we are betrothed, I mean to see us married in efficient fashion.” Determination was written in every word he uttered, and Jane had a suspicion that he would be quite annoyed if she got cold feet the night before the wedding. He had the air of a man who had resigned himself to a task and was ready to see it through.
“I’m certain.” She thrust out her hand abruptly. “Shall we shake on it?”
He looked at her hand, appearing a bit startled. “I must confess, I’ve never had a young lady offer to shake my hand before.”
“I assure you, I’m nothing like the young ladies you have experience with,” Jane said, and Penvale offered a crooked grin as he reached out to shake her hand.
“Of that, Miss Spencer, I am already well aware.”
Chapter Three
“I do believe, Penvale, thatyou’re about to claim the honor of undertaking the most ill-advised marriage of the year.”
The words were mild, pleasant, even, but the green gaze that pierced Penvale from the other side of the table was sharp.
It was the night before his wedding; the banns had been called for the third and final time at church that morning, and Penvale and Miss Spencer were to marry the following day.
Penvale had invited his friends to dinner: Jeremy and Diana, as well as Lord James Audley and his wife, Violet; and Violet and Diana’s friend Emily and her new husband, Lord Julian Belfry. Once the meal had been cleared away, the ladies had retreated to the library, leaving the gentlemen to their port and conversation. This was a practice that Penvale and his close friends did not often observe—the ladies tended to remain with the gentlemen for their after-dinner drinks, and the fact that they had not done so tonight left Penvale with a feeling of dark foreboding regarding whatever his sister was so eager to discuss with her friends out of their husbands’ hearing.
“Audley, bugger off,” Penvale said without heat. “Besides, it’s only January—I’ve no doubt someone will make a much more disastrous match by March or so.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Audley’s tone lost a bit of its easiness. “You’re marrying a girl you’ve spent all of five minutes with, just so you can get your hands on a crumbling pile of stones in bloody Cornwall.”
Audley, Penvale knew, was being deliberately provoking; he was perfectly well aware that, to Penvale, Trethwick Abbey was a good deal more than a crumbling pile on the coast. To Penvale, it was everything. Which meant he would do anything to get it back, even marry.
“Audley does have a point, old chap,” Jeremy said from where he was reclining in his chair halfway down the table. He and Diana had been seated directly opposite each other at dinner, and Penvale was almost certain there had been something inappropriate occurring underneath the table during the soup course.
“Though I should note,” Jeremy added, “that I’ve met the lady in question, and whilst she can’t carry on a polite conversation to save her life, she is certainly not lacking in a strictly aesthetic sense.”
“Jeremy, are you feeling well?” Penvale asked a bit peevishly. “?‘Aesthetic’ seems advanced for your vocabulary.”
“Willingham, your wife has to be one of the bluntest women I’ve ever met,” Belfry added lazily, taking a sip of port. “I hardly think you’re in a position to judge a lady for not being polite.” Although he had just criticized Diana to both her husband and her brother, Belfry did not look remotely concerned as he leaned back in his chair, cravat loosened—perhaps because this was less of an insult and more of an honest statement of fact.
“Fair, Belfry,” Jeremy said. “But that is largely a matter of choice on her part. She can be nice when she wishes to be.” He gave a wide, satisfied smile. “Verynice.”
“I would give you every penny I possess to never hear you speak of my sister in such a way ever again,” Penvale said in pained tones.He hadn’t kicked up too much of a fuss when Jeremy and Diana had decided to wed—the role of domineering elder brother was never one that had interested him, and his general philosophy was to avoid butting into the affairs of those around him as much as possible (as the rest of the group did that all too well), but he was approximately three bits of innuendo away from demanding that Jeremy meet him with pistols at dawn. (Which would be rather unfortunate, considering Penvale was a terrible shot.)
