The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Read online

  "In that case, may I say that I appreciate your excruciating honesty."

  This was not going well. Not well at all. Nonetheless, as there was no direction for her to go but forward, she doggedly continued, “Which brings us directly to the matter of our betrothal.”

  Derek blinked. “Did I miss something? That seems a rather extraordinary leap.”

  “On the contrary,” she returned. “As I mentioned, my family was financially devastated by the scandal. My eldest sisters, Rose and Violet, had already married. But the rest of us lost our home, our dowries, my mother’s pension, everything. So when your mother offered a bride price for me, you can imagine how difficult it would have been to refuse.”

  A bride price.

  The words sent a chill down Derek’s spine as an awful understanding set in.

  Rarely was the confluence of Eastern and Western traditions a smooth one, but that was particularly true when it came to the matter of matrimony. British brides brought dowries with them into marriage. Just the reverse was customary for upper-caste Hindu woman from the south, like his mother. Their tradition demanded the groom’s family pay for the privilege of taking a woman in marriage. It was considered an essential sign of respect to the bride’s family for their willingness to part with a beloved daughter, as well as demonstrated proof of sufficient financial means to care for a wife and children.

  “How much?” he asked baldly.

  She named the sum, and it was only with concerted effort that Derek was able to keep his jaw from dropping open. Still, his shock must have been visible, for Miss Staunton arched a delicate brow in a look of wry acknowledgement. “Apparently you’ve been very generous in the funds you’ve been supplying your mother.”

  “Too generous, it would seem.”

  Derek set down his untouched teacup and stood, dragging his fingers through his hair. Bloody hell. While he had relegated the whole business of marriage to an unpleasant event that would occur in some vague, distant future, his mother obviously saw it as a sacred duty that demanded her immediate attention.

  As marriage in India was treated as an alliance between families, rather than a union between individuals, it did not take a great deal of intelligence or foresight to imagine that his mother (whose friendship with Mrs. Charles Staunton had only deepened with time), might hope to one day link their families. In other words, he’d been an idiot not to have seen this coming sooner and taken pains to stop it.

  But now? The timing couldn’t possibly be worse.

  The throbbing headache he had experienced earlier became a piercing spike through his skull. He could send the Staunton girl away, of course. Refuse her. But that action, while relieving him of his obligation, would bring nothing but shame and humiliation to his family.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  A soft metallic tinkling sound caught his attention. He turned to see a cluster of thin silver bangles, each studded with an assortment of tiny cabochon stones, wrapped around Miss Staunton’s right wrist. The bracelets, traditionally worn by the women of Delhi, jangled softly together as she fussed with the tea service, creating a juxtaposition that was oddly disconcerting—formal British porcelain and common Indian trinkets.

  “You would do this?” he demanded curtly.

  Miss Staunton, who had obviously been engrossed in thoughts of her own, flinched as though suddenly startled. She drew in a deep breath to compose herself, then slowly let it out. Turning to face him, she said, “I understand you don’t wish to marry me. Nor, frankly, do I wish to marry you.”

  “You’ve traveled halfway around the world to deliver that edifying piece of information?”

  "May I speak plainly, Lord Keating?"

  He arched his brows in an expression of mock astonishment. "Do you mean to say you haven’t been?”

  Her small, lopsided smile returned, but it was clear by her distracted manner that her thoughts had taken another direction. “I’ve watched my sisters turn themselves into empty-headed nitwits, intellect and pride forgotten, dissolving into tears if a particular man didn’t compliment their gown or ask them to dance.” She gave a light shudder, followed by a wistful sigh. “Yet they’re all so eager to marry, to fall in love and assume the role of wife and mother. It would be horrible of me to deny them that opportunity if it was within my reach.” She lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “If I enter this arrangement, the bride price will provide a generous dowry for each of them. My mother will spend her remaining years in some degree of comfort, and my sisters will marry men of their choosing.”

  “Surely you have other options. Women marry without dowries all the time.”

  Her smile faltered. “Yes, they do.”

  But not gently bred young women of a certain station, Derek finished for her. Bereft of funds and burdened by debt, Miss Staunton and her sisters would be relegated to living out their lives on the barest fringes of society, working as governesses and chaperones, or playing some other menial role just to survive.

  “And you?” he said. “You would settle for marriage to a complete stranger?”

  “I’m quite prepared to make that sacrifice.”

  “How very flattering.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t you.” He paused, letting the silence stretch out as he regarded her curiously. “You don’t long for a love match of your own?”

  “No,” she replied, with far more vigor than the question warranted. Then, perhaps conscious of his curious stare, she forced a light note of laughter. “Even if I did, I’m certain it wouldn’t happen. I’m too outspoken, too brash, too assertive, too tall, too plain, too Indian.”

  “Indian?” He released a harsh bark of laughter. “Ridiculous. I’ve never seen a more English-looking woman in my life.”

  “Ah. But not in my heart.”

  Her words were softly spoken, no more than a husky whisper, yet they seemed to convey a wealth of lost joy and shattered promises. Then she caught herself. Clearly embarrassed she’d revealed more than she’d wanted to, she stood abruptly and spun away from him. She toyed with the folds in her skirt. Once satisfied she’d adequately composed herself, she lifted her eyes to his and continued briskly, "But that’s neither here nor there, is it? I've given the matter considerable thought, and I fear this is my only solution."

  “And if I say no?”

  To her credit, the woman didn’t falter. Instead she managed a light, almost disinterested shrug. “I have other business to see to in London. I will attend to it, after which Mrs. Singh and I will return home, content in the knowledge that I have done all I could to rectify my family’s financial difficulties. I may have failed, but at least I tried.”

  Her little speech had the stilted ring of too much rehearsal. Despite that, Derek couldn’t help but admire her bold initiative and family loyalty. Miss Calla Lily Staunton had not meekly surrendered to her fate, but bravely strove to change it.

  The wild one.

  The troublemaker.

  He had thought her plain when she first entered the room, having judged her by the severity of her hairstyle and the drabness of her gown. Now he allowed himself a moment to reassess that initial impression.

  She was attractive, but not in a way that was fashionable. The current darlings of London society were petite, simpering blondes. Miss Staunton was dark-haired, tall and slim. Unlike his latest string of mistresses, with their pretty pouts and vapid eyes, clinging to his arm as though he were a life raft at sea, she radiated cool intelligence and confidant grace. Furthermore, there was an athletic fluidity to her movements that he liked, a supple strength nicely coupled with natural elegance.

  There remained, however, the problem of Miss Staunton herself. His preferred condition when dealing with women—sexually aroused but emotionally distant—had been thoroughly trampled upon her arrival. In the short time they’d been together, he found himself directly challenged, irritated, and reluctantly intrigued. Furthermore, he couldn’t entirely dismiss his admirati
on for her determination to confront her family’s problems head-on, rather than shrink back and play the victim.

  He watched as she wandered the room, tilting back her chin to take in an enormous canvas that encompassed nearly the entire southern wall. As she did, a strand of her dark hair loosened from the thick knot at the nape of her neck and fell forward, brushing against her cheek like a silken caress. Derek found himself wondering what that hair would feel like tumbling against his chest, how that rich chestnut would look against the pale linen of his sheets. Before he could pursue that fantasy further, she glanced up and softly said, “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The painting.”

  She gestured toward the canvas. Britannia Receiving the Riches of the East. The painting depicted two naked, dark-skinned women—representing India and China—on their knees. They offered up platters of precious gems, pearls, and baskets of assorted goods to a majestic male figure representing England. The prize possession of the Board of Directors, it had cost the Company a small fortune.

  Derek nodded. “You like it.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Calla corrected. “I said I was impressed. I thought nothing could be more offensive than that screeching monkey in the ballroom. Apparently I was wrong. This painting is every bit as insulting, isn’t it? That’s quite a feat.”

  As their gazes locked and held, understanding passed between them, an understanding that surpassed the need for words. The moment was intensely private, conspiratorial, even. Time shifted, stretched. He searched her face. Reflected within her expression was none of the quiet rage he so often found himself suppressing. No shame at her circumstances, no need to defend the country she’d left behind. Instead, her lips quirked and undisguised merriment danced in her gaze. In that instant, her eyes reminded him of the sea. Not the dull gray of the Atlantic, but the rich, deep blue waters of the Bay of Bengal. How…remarkable.

  Her ability to mock the blind arrogance of the Board of Directors evoked a response in him that was primal, purely physical. An unanticipated rush of desire surged through him, nearly knocking him off-balance with its intensity. He wanted to take her. Right then, right there. On the rich Persian carpet of the East India Company’s finest reception room, with all of London’s preening, parading sycophants just one room away.

  He wanted to undo each tiny, prim little button that ran from her chin to her waist, shed her god-awful traveling costume, and discover what lay beneath. He wanted to unpin her hair and drag his fingers through the thick, chestnut masses. He wanted the brush of her tongue against his teeth, the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest. He wanted to be serenaded by the soft jangle of her bracelets as her hands moved over his skin.

  And he wanted it now.

  Apparently misreading his expression, irritation flashed across her face. "This entire episode has been demeaning enough. If you intend to say no, I would appreciate your doing so without dragging this out any further."

  “And if I say yes?”

  Her eyes flew open wide.

  "Oh. I hadn't considered… that is . . ." Her voice faltered and came to a stumbling stop. A wild range of emotions, veering from astonishment and apprehension, from thrilling victory to abject dismay, flashed across her expressive face. “Oh.”

  Derek certainly hadn’t been looking for a bride. But now that one had been deposited on his doorstep, the practical merits of her proposal slowly became clear. He knew he would marry eventually. She offered an expedient solution to the chore. And getting the task accomplished with a minimum of effort on his part was not without appeal. No tedious courtship or emotional drudgery required. The woman needed no false promises of undying love and devotion. It was, in nearly all respects, a business proposition. That was a realm in which he was entirely comfortable.

  Besides, he could do worse. From what he could tell, she was passably attractive. Moreover, she displayed intelligence, dry wit, and familial loyalty, all commendable assets. She had shown an abundance of courage and daring—perhaps too much, but not so much that a firm hand could not lead her in the right direction. And as a final incentive, their families approved the match. The timing of her arrival in London was deplorable, but he could hardly fault her for that.

  There was only one additional matter that needed addressing.

  “You will share my bed.”

  She gave a sharp gasp and her hand flew to her throat. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. She looked like a delicate, exotic bird that had mistakenly flown into a cage and was startled to find itself trapped. But she quickly rallied and boldly returned her gaze to his. "We would need to make some…arrangement for that, wouldn't we?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest, studying her coolly. "Yes."

  To his considerable surprise, she met his challenge with cool aplomb. "I am familiar with the ways of intimacy between a man and a woman," she replied, with barely a blush marring her skin. “I understand what the marital act entails.”

  So she wasn't entirely unschooled. That was helpful.

  “However,” she continued, “I suppose you should know all of it.” She worried her bottom lip for a moment, and then, as though she were about to leap into an icy stream, plunged on, “I will do my wifely duty, but you will not ignite a fire within me. I am not that kind of woman. My nature is simply not of that bent.”

  If she hadn’t looked so earnest, Derek might have laughed at her prim little speech. Instead, he simply arched one dark brow and looked at her. “Most men would take that as a challenge.”

  “I can assure you, it was not meant to be.”

  “Oh?”

  “Certainly not.”

  He let her words hang between them for one long, awful minute. Then he slowly moved toward her.

  Panic flashed through her eyes. She backed away until she bumped against a table, leaving herself no further room to retreat. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”

  His lips slanted over hers, swallowing her protest. He locked one arm around the small of her waist and drew her to him, preventing her escape. In the brief time they’d spoken, Derek had seen too much heat in Miss Staunton to believe her assertions of frigidity. He required only some small reassurance of sexual compatibility to prove his instincts correct.

  He brushed his mouth against hers, subtly increasing the pressure of his kiss until he gently forced her lips apart. Then he swept his tongue into her mouth. Her spine stiffened as her body went rigid in his arms. But her maidenly demonstration of dismay was so brief as to be nonexistent. She gave a soft gasp that conveyed her shock…followed less than a second later by an almost inaudible, throaty purr. A purr that was full of wonder and curiosity. She softened her jaw to accept his kiss and melted against him, eliminating the tiny gap that had separated their bodies.

  It was enough to prove him correct—she’d do well in his bed. Having satisfied that point, he could have ended the kiss and drawn back. But damned if he was going to. Not yet. Not when she drew her delicate hands up to rest on his shoulders, her bracelets jangling softly in his ears and her pert breasts pressed seductively against his chest. Not when he could taste the hint of cinnamon tea on her lips. Not when the scent of her skin, a provocative blend of jasmine and spice, swirled around him like an intoxicant.

  A simple kiss wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  But without warning, she broke their embrace and turned her head away. Derek dropped his arms and stepped back, watching in rapt fascination as her fingers moved to her mouth. She lightly brushed them across her lower lip as though expecting to find an imprint of his kiss still lingering there.

  Abruptly recovering herself, she brought up her chin. The women Derek knew had long ago learned the feminine art of schooling their emotions. It was a skill Miss Staunton had yet to acquire. Therefore he had the pleasure of watching as righteous indignation filled her face and sparks of accusation shot from her eyes. Her lovely lips parted.

  “That is no
t the way a man kisses a lady.”

  Perhaps not. “But it’s the only way a man should kiss his wife.”

  Chapter Four

  Calla felt her heart give an odd little lurch, then it begin beating at triple its normal tempo. Wife. She tried to marshal an appropriate response, but her mind began spinning in dizzying circles. She was simply too close to the man to think properly. The parlor, which had seemed so large when she first stepped inside, shrank to the size of a china cupboard. Either that, or Lord Keating—enormous, hulking man that he was—was using up all the air.

  She took a shaky breath, stepped back a pace, and collected her thoughts. “Do you mean…”

  “You’ll do.”

  You’ll do.

  Not exactly the most promising words upon which to build a marriage. Then again, what had she expected? The old adage about being careful what you wish for flitted through her mind, but she chased it away with a flicker of irritation. She’d traveled halfway around the world to reach this agreement. It was all working out exactly as she’d hoped. She should be delighted. She was delighted.

  She swallowed hard and arranged her lips into something she desperately hoped resembled a smile. “Mrs. Singh will be delighted.”

  His mouth quirked. But his smile, if it had been there at all, vanished into an expression of grave solemnity. He gave a somber nod. “Excellent. I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Singh.”

  A knock sounded on the door, saving her from the duty of finding an appropriate response. At Derek’s call to enter, a footman stepped inside. “Pardon, sahib. Your coach is ready.”

  “Very good.” Turning to her, he said, “Shall we?”

  Calla’s brows knit together. “But, where are we going?”

  “Home.”

  “Yours?”

  A brief pause, then, “Ours, apparently.”

  Oh. She gave what she hoped was a sophisticated nod. She tried to move, but her feet seemed to have rooted themselves to the floor. When she spoke, her voice sounded small and breathless. “Of course. Yes. Ours.”