The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Page 4

  He hesitated, eyeing her curiously. Folding his arms across his chest, he studied her with a look of undisguised amusement. “Having second thoughts already, are we, jaanu?”

  Jaanu. Sweetheart. The word fell from his lips like a silky caress. It hung in the air between them, half teasing endearment, half outright challenge.

  If his purpose was to bait her into finding her spine, it worked. She brought up her chin and coolly met his gaze. “I merely meant to ascertain our destination so I could make arrangements for my trunks.”

  “Of course.” His expression excessively polite, he gave a grave nod. “I’ll see to it.” He spoke in rapid-fire Hindi to the footman, conveying the necessary instructions to retrieve her belongings, as well as those of Mrs. Singh. Then he quirked one dark brow at Calla. “Anything else?”

  “No. That’s quite satisfactory, thank you.”

  “Very good.”

  He guided her through the doorway. It was the lightest of touches—a courtesy, really. Just the soft pressure of his palm against the small of her back to gently propel her forward. Yet even that slight contact had the power to set her knees shaking.

  Absurd. She brushed off her unprecedented reaction to the strain of their meeting, the lateness of the hour, and her general fatigue following her long journey. She was three and twenty. Not a young girl given to fits of giddiness over something as inconsequential as a touch. Or even a kiss. Even she, as overshadowed as she’d been by the beauty of her sisters, had been kissed before.

  But not like that, she reminded herself. Not with such mastery, such practiced ease. The speed at which she’d yielded, no, melted, into his embrace was more than a little unnerving.

  She cut a quick glance at Lord Keating as they moved through the crowded foyer, taking solace in the fact that she was not the only one affected by his presence. The man was a baron. Surely there were many in attendance who outranked him socially. Yet none were shown the deference he received. He strode through the assemblage like a large, predatory beast out for an evening stroll through a warren of rabbits. The fawning crowds wordlessly parted before him to ease his way through.

  He retrieved their cloaks and ushered her and Mrs. Singh outside. Feeling flushed and uneasy, Calla welcomed the blast of frosty air that greeted her. Despite the lateness of the hour, a long queue of phantoms, cabriolets, carriages, and coaches continued to arrive and offload passengers. She tilted her chin to survey the bustling street. As she did, icy droplets pelted her skin and stung her cheeks. She blinked in surprise, drawing back to allow Derek to assist Mrs. Singh into the coach before her.

  “Is this snow?” she asked, holding up her palm. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  He frowned and drew up his collar, hunching deeper into his coat. “Sleet,” he corrected, his curt reply indicating he wasn’t enjoying the turn of the weather nearly as much as she was.

  He handed her into the coach, then stepped in behind her and swung the door shut. Calla settled herself beside Mrs. Singh, wholly unprepared for the intimate prospect of sharing a bench with her future groom. The driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. The team of matching chestnut geldings pulled into traffic.

  With little else to occupy her thoughts, she cast a discreet glance at the stranger sitting across from her.

  Derek Arindam Jeffords. Lord Keating. Her future husband.

  His presence seemed all-engulfing, far too large for the modest confines of the coach in which they traveled. He’d tucked his legs to one side after they’d boarded the vehicle, but that didn’t prevent their knees from brushing with each rut in the road and sway of the coach. The scent of his damp, masculine skin drifted around her, setting her nerves even further on edge. No matter how she tried to divert her thoughts, he was all she was aware of.

  She clenched her hands in her lap, reminding herself that her goal would soon be realized. Once they were married, the looming threat of debt and servitude—both for herself, and for her mother and sisters—would be avoided. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that she would spend the rest of her days as Lord Keating’s wife sent a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous apprehension.

  Conscious of the heavy silence that resonated between them, she decided a little polite banter might be just the thing to ease her nerves. After all, they’d known each other as children. Their mothers had enjoyed the bonds of friendship for decades. Surely the gulf that separated them was not so broad it could not be breeched with minimal effort. Gathering her courage, she ventured, "You mentioned you remembered my family’s visits?”

  “Vividly.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his unflattering tone, but continued with dogged brightness, “I don’t suppose you remember me.” It was only natural that her light had been dimmed by the radiant glow of her more attractive sisters.

  But Lord Keating surprised her by saying, “Actually, you are the only one I do remember.”

  “Oh?”

  “The last time you and your female tribe descended upon my home, I have the distinct memory of you charging a hornet’s nest with a torch, battling a cobra with a stick, and befriending a male tiger cub.”

  Surprise and pleasure flitted through Calla. Well. So he did remember her. Certainly that was a step in the right direction. Still, something in his tone suggested explanations were in order. “I smoked the hornets out because their nest was near the river where the children bathed and they were being stung. The cobra had curled up in the washerwoman’s basket—I was merely defending her. As to the tiger cub, its mother had been shot by hunters. It would have starved to death without my help.”

  “I see.”

  A soft, pleased smile curved her lips as she regarded him across the swaying coach. “I take it you admire courage.”

  “Certainly.” He lifted his ankle and crossed it over his knee. “However, I have little tolerance for reckless stupidity.” His tone made it abundantly clear on which side of the ledger he thought her actions fell.

  So much for attempting to bridge the distance between them. Calla opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, swallowing the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. Shrewish retaliation was hardly the right note on which to begin a marriage, even if she had been provoked. She turned her attention to the passing streetscape.

  Within minutes the coach slowed before a large tract of land that was markedly different from the homes surrounding it. There was no elegant facade, no neatly manicured lawn, no smoothly paved drive. No sign of welcome anywhere. Instead, all that could be seen was a tall iron gate spanning an imposing brick wall which encircled the property. Thick, thorny vines had woven their way around the iron bars, obliterating any view of what was contained within.

  Calla went cold at the sight. Her mother and sisters had fretted over money for as long as she could remember. Yet their small home had not been without a certain warmth and charm. The same could not be said of Lord Keating’s estate. The coach skirted past shadowy gardens, barren trees, and silent fountains, then drew to a shuddering stop before a dark, imposing estate. Calla’s breath caught in her throat and her heart thundered at twice its normal tempo.

  Like the man himself, the first thing she noticed about Lord Keating’s home was its size. The overwhelming scale of the mansion dwarfed every neighbor. It was classic in style, built of pale gray marble that looked unbearably slick and cold. Even so, it was tastefully done, with tall Corinthian columns, arched windows, and broad, semicircular steps leading to an ornate oak door. Calla studied the sprawling estate, wondering whether it had been designed to impress or intimidate. Likely both, she concluded. A slew of misgivings swamped her. This step—entering what was to be her home for the remainder of her days—seemed far more final than any she had taken to date, including embarking on the voyage from India.

  Their driver leapt from his perch and pulled open the coach
door. Derek stepped out, then turned and assisted Calla and Mrs. Singh. Together they dashed through the driving sleet toward the front door, which Derek himself threw open. They rushed inside and stood huddled together in a grand, cavernous foyer, surrounded by shadows and silence.

  Calla heard Derek mutter a curse, then he reached for a lamp and turned up the wick.

  “Bellowes!” he thundered. Turning to her, he said, “My apologies. I am not in the habit of requiring my servants to await my arrival at night.”

  The obvious implication being, of course, neither he nor his staff was prepared for the intrusion of guests. Before she could respond, an elderly man attired in a dressing robe, cap, and slippers came toward them. The candle lantern he carried gave him an almost spectral glow. Despite the fact that he’d obviously just been roused from his bed, he moved with regal dignity, displaying not the smallest hint of surprise at the late-night summons, or the presence of two strange women dripping all over his sleek marble floor.

  “Good evening, Lord Keating,” he intoned. “How may I be of service?”

  “Miss Staunton and Mrs. Singh will be staying. You may awaken the staff and have them see to it that our guests are made comfortable.” He gave a vague wave in their direction. “Hot baths, fresh linens, tea, supper…whatever they require.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Bellowes turned to comply with the order, but Calla stopped him. “Wait,” she said. She looked at Derek. “I’m sure we don’t need to wake the entire household.” That would hardly endear her to the servants in her new home. “I’m certain we can manage on our own, if you’ll just point us in the right direction.”

  Derek considered her request, then shrugged. Looking at Bellowes, he said, “Very well. The west wing, I would think. You may show Mrs. Singh to the Gold Room. I’ll take Miss Staunton to the Blue Room.”

  Bellowes, who had been utterly imperturbable until that moment, allowed shock to crack his previously stoic mask. His gaze shot to Calla, taking in her sodden traveling costume and worn valise, then swung back to Derek. “The Blue Room, my lord?”

  Derek arched one dark brow and looked at his butler. “Problem, Bellowes?”

  Bellowes recovered himself immediately. “Of course not, my lord. Very good, my lord.”

  “I’m relieved beyond words to have received your approval.”

  Even in the dim, flickering light, it was impossible to miss the twin spots of color that flamed in Bellowes’ cheeks.

  “This way,” Derek said, reaching for Calla’s overnight bag. He lifted a table lamp and strode off is one direction, leaving Bellowes, Mrs. Singh, and their driver, who carried Mrs. Singh’s bag, to move off in another.

  Calla followed him up a broad curving staircase, past spacious rooms, ornate galleries, and long hallways. Lord Keating’s home was handsome in the effortless style of those to whom money is of no concern. Everything tasteful and elegant. Yet it was utterly devoid of any semblance of Derek’s childhood in Bengal. Nothing within his home contained even a suggestion of India. Almost as though he wanted to blot that part of his existence out completely. Even the walls of the grand foyer, which might normally serve as a showcase for ancestral portraits, displayed nothing but tepid pastoral landscapes.

  She would have loved to study it all in greater detail, but Lord Keating moved too quickly. As it was, she nearly had to trot to keep pace with him. At length they reached a set of broad double doors. He threw them open, allowing her a glimpse of an exquisitely furnished chamber done in shades of rich aqua and bold cobalt. In the center of the room stood a mahogany four-poster bed. Calla noted a dainty vanity, feminine desk, richly appointed reading alcove, and various chairs and settees. The scale and materials of each piece had clearly been designed to suit a woman’s smaller frame and more delicate sensibilities.

  She took that all in with one sweeping glance, then froze at the sight of a connecting doorway, beyond which was a large, distinctly masculine bedchamber.

  The significance of the Blue Room was immediately clear. The master suite. Derek had preemptively announced to Bellowes, without any fanfare whatsoever, that Calla was the future Lady Keating. No wonder Bellowes had looked so…appalled, particularly given her tired, travel-weary appearance.

  She looked up to find Derek watching her. His expression unfathomable, he inclined his dark head, indicating for her to enter. "As we are not yet married, I believe we can dispense with the customary carrying of the bride over the threshold."

  The implication that she had been waiting for him to do exactly that was clear. Biting back a stab of annoyance, she matched his cool tone. "I would be exceedingly grateful."

  "In that case, shall we?"

  Calla lifted her damp skirts and wordlessly preceded him into the room. Exhausted as she was, her attention was immediately drawn to the intricately carved, mahogany bed which dominated the center of the room. Appointed with thick silk coverlets, soft blankets, and down pillows, it should have looked snug and inviting. Instead, just the opposite was true.

  She didn’t want this magnificent bed at all. She wanted the crowded, lumpy mattress she shared with her sisters back in Calcutta. She wanted thin cotton sheets and mosquito netting, personalized pillow shams with their individual name and the flower they were named after neatly embroidered on the soft linen. She wanted nightly squabbles over who would do the dishes and who would sweep the floor, and whose turn it was to read aloud from whatever romantic, fanciful novel they’d selected to share.

  A stark realization hit her: by doing anything she could to save her sisters, she’d lost them completely. It would be months, perhaps years, before she saw them again. A lump filled her throat and her eyes suddenly stung. A shudder of abject misery ran down her spine.

  “Are you cold?”

  She looked up to find Derek’s stormy gray eyes once again leveled on her, watching her intently. “Yes,” she lied, mortified to be caught indulging in an emotion as maudlin as homesickness.

  He nodded. He slipped off his overcoat and jacket and draped them over a chair, then rolled up his crisp white shirtsleeves. Before she could guess what he was about, he hunkered down before the hearth, where logs and kindling had been dutifully stacked by some unknown servant. He lit the tinder, then steadily blew on it to coax a flame.

  The gesture took her by surprise. Lord Keating had not struck her as the sort of man who would willingly perform such a menial task. Pushing aside her misery, she discreetly studied her future husband. She watched him shift the logs, her attention caught by the snug pull of his black serge trousers against his rock-solid thighs. Then she shifted her gaze, her attention focused on the thickly corded muscles of his back, watching as they rippled and flexed beneath the sheer linen of his shirt.

  An odd little flutter filled her belly, a combination of nerves and something else. She was suddenly overcome by a desire to lay her hand on his back, to feel those muscles tense beneath her touch. She pushed the astonishing thought away and drew in a low, steady breath. She was overly fatigued, that was all. That explained why her emotions were swaying back and forth like a ship in rough water.

  He finished the task with brisk efficiency and rose. He stood before her in just his shirtsleeves, his impossibly tall and broad-shouldered form silhouetted by the warm glow of the firelight. Dear God, she’d seen granite carvings that looked softer and more yielding than this man.

  “That should warm the room soon enough.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”

  Unable to come up with anything else to say, she turned away, running her hand along the top of a sleek maple chest of drawers. She lifted a delicate porcelain carving of a mother bird protecting its nest, studying it unseeingly before setting it back down.

  “Your home is lovely,” she said at last, turning her gaze to him. “Was the estate part of the barony?”

  “No. The barony conveyed nothing but a title, a mass of debt, and the dubious privilege of entr
ée among the peerage.” He leaned one broad shoulder against the mantle ledge, studying her coolly. “I built this estate and paid for everything within it.”

  Calla stiffened, not missing his obvious implication. “You did not buy me.”

  “Not precisely, no.”

  “No more than your father purchased your mother when he paid a bridal price for her.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing her words hit their mark. He inclined his head, awarding her the point. The tradition of arranged marriages was an archaic one, but its roots were broad and deep, particularly in India. There was no shame in giving oneself in marriage in order to strengthen bonds between families, or achieve some similar end. Lord Keating might enjoy playing the part of an English lord, but as someone who’d been raised in Calcutta, he knew that as well as she did.

  “Mrs. Singh has copies of the betrothal contracts,” she informed him. “I’ll see to it that you have an opportunity to review them before the wedding ceremony.”

  “Very good.”

  Another thought suddenly occurred to her. “How does one go about finding someone in London?”

  “That depends on whom you’re trying to find.”

  “A young boy—just sixteen, and recently arrived from Calcutta. He came over as a crewman aboard the Ariel. It was his first voyage. His mother is a family friend, and I promised I’d see to his welfare.”

  Derek nodded. “I’d start by writing a note to the ship’s bosun. Bellowes will see that it’s delivered.”

  They stood for a moment in awkward silence. Calla searched her mind for something to say, then she remembered the gift Derek’s mother had entrusted her to deliver. She strode to her valise and reached inside. “I almost forgot. Your mother asked me to give this to you. She had it specially made for our wedding.”

  She passed him a kurta, traditional formal garb for men in India. The knee-length jacket, obviously very dear, was constructed of gray silk and embroidered in tones of rich, deep blue. It was beautiful, and would doubtless be striking on Derek. She looked at him, waiting for him to express his appreciation for the workmanship. Instead, the line of his jaw hardened as he gave a curt nod.