Frances turned without another word and bolted toward the door. She didn’t stop bolting until she reached her small bedchamber on the third floor of the inn.
She was huddled in the soft bed within five minutes, the bedchamber door bolted securely from the inside.
Hawk toyed with his brandy. She was nervous about sex, something to be expected from one’s bride, he supposed. Well, he would be kind to her, get it over with quickly, not embarrass her more than was inherent in the act. He’d spoken to enough married gentlemen, and all of them agreed that wives, the wives who were true ladies, that is, were meant to be breached gently, not plowed with enthusiasm. They were to be treated with thoughtful decorum until they conceived, then left alone. He would give her another day to accustom herself to the idea. He would not embarrass her by speaking of it again. He would simply do it. He downed the rest of his brandy. He simply couldn’t imagine making love to Frances in a lighted room. The thought of her squinting up at him made him shudder.
He did wonder, though, what she looked like naked, from the neck down.
Ruthven pulled Sophia closer and she felt the rumbling laughter in his deep chest.
“What is it?” she asked, tugging on the hair on his chest.
“I was just wondering how long it would take my Frances to show her true colors. Lord, to see the look on Hawk’s face when she does. I find myself pitying the poor fellow.”
“You believe her so impervious, so strong?”
Ruthven was silent for a moment, no longer laughing. Sophia always had the knack of cutting through his bravado. “Yes,” he said finally. “She must be.”
“But you are worried now, aren’t you, Alex? All your plotting—oh yes, I know that you’ve written to the marquess about Frances and how you hoped she would be the one his son selected. But that young man doesn’t care for her, not at all, Alex. Your Frances had made quite certain that he doesn’t. It is possible that he will be cruel to her.”
“No! Dammit, Sophie, he won’t. The boy’s a gentleman.”
“Frances,” Sophia said dryly, “is known to enrage you, my dear, and you are also a gentleman.”
“I am her father. That is much different.”
Sophia could practically hear him thinking, worrying, shoring up flaws in his logic. She hugged him. “Why don’t you try to sleep now, Alex.”
“You don’t think that he will really hurt her, do you, Sophie?”
“No,” she said truthfully, “I don’t. If she maintains her pose, there would be no reason. Who would want to strike down a timid mouse?”
“Hmmm,” said Ruthven. “Tonight is their wedding night.”
“If I know Frances,” said Sophia in a dry voice, “she will somehow have convinced him that lovemaking with his bride is the last thing he desires.”
“I heard him say he wants to breed an heir quickly.”
“Not tonight, he won’t.”
But Frances’ father didn’t manage to ease himself into sleep for quite a long time.
At least it wasn’t raining, Frances thought as she stared out the carriage window at the countryside. She’d give anything if she could ride and not be a prisoner in this wretched carriage. She could already feel a headache beginning.
Curse him! He could have at least inquired what she wished to do. But he hadn’t, of course. She supposed that in his vast experience—and she never doubted for a moment that all his experience was vast—a lady was to be protected from the elements, even if the elements were pleasant and sunny.
Hawk had said over breakfast, “I wish to continue until it’s dark today. Grunyon tells me we have a good chance of reaching Peebles if we suffer no mishap.”
How many hours would that mean closed in this dreadful carriage?
Her headache came on in earnest.
It was dark when the weary horses trudged into Peebles and came to a halt in front of the Flying Duck Inn.
Frances felt so ill that she wanted to vomit. The only thing that saved her from that ignominy was her husband’s curt voice coming from the innyard.
She felt dizzy and befuddled when Grunyon assisted her from the carriage.
“My lady?” he asked, seeing her pallor.