Barely a Bride (Free Fellows League 1)

“Is it?” Griff demanded. “Do you think they really understand? Do their mamas explain that this is all business?” He swept his hand out in a gesture that encompassed the whole of the assembly room’s female population. “Or do these young ladies believe, no matter what their mamas tell them, that their marriages will be different. That their future husbands will love, honor, and cherish them? And if they believe in romance, what are the odds that I will find a young woman who won’t be brokenhearted when she learns I’m never going to love her. Or one that won’t mind being left all alone while I go off to war?”

Colin chuckled. “You might be surprised.”

Griff lifted an eyebrow.

“Virginal young ladies of good family are generally thought to find the marriage bed messy, uncomfortable, and shockingly distasteful—especially on their wedding night,” Colin elaborated.

“How many virginal young ladies have you bedded?” Griff demanded.

“None,” Colin admitted cheerfully. “I try to steer clear of marriageable young ladies and virgins. But I’m told—”

Griff snorted.

“Ask any of your newly married friends,” Colin insisted. “They’ll tell you.”

“Not if they’re gentlemen,” Griff protested. “Besides,” Jarrod added, joining the discussion, “we don’t have any newly married gentleman friends. We’re Free Fellows. Remember? And Abernathy’s right. No gentleman is going to discuss his bride’s reaction to the pleasures of the marriage bed.”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make,” Colin reiterated. “Gentlemen don’t discuss it. But Abernathy’s bride might be very happy to see him ride away, because most young ladies view the marriage bed as a chore that must be endured. According to everything I’ve heard, young ladies seldom find pleasure in the marriage bed.”

“Then their husbands are ignorant fools,” Griff pronounced. “I’m neither.”

“Right you are,” Jarrod clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re an unlucky devil, at the moment, because you’re forced to marry, but you’ve never been accused of being a fool or of being ignorant in the ways of pleasuring a woman.” Jarrod took Griff and Colin’s punch cups out of their hands, then turned and set them beneath the drooping fronds of a potted palm. “Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the hunt, “let’s go find your viscountess-to-be.”

None of them noticed the slightly red-faced young lady emerge from behind the potted palms and hurry to the refreshment table in search of orgeat and Lady Cowper.

* * *

“There you are!” Lady Tressingham exclaimed as her youngest daughter reappeared with two cups of orgeat. “I thought you might have gotten lost on your way to the refreshment tables or…” she added in a sarcastic drawl, “decided to redo all the floral arrangements.”

Alyssa bit her bottom lip, then turned a speculative eye on the jumble of vases packed with poorly arranged flowers and greenery. “Of course not.”

“Well, you could have done so,” her mother accused. “It took you so long.”

“There was a crush around the punch bowl and I—”

“Never mind.” Lady Tressingham took the cup of orgeat. “You’re here now. I was afraid that you would miss all the excitement.”

What excitement? Alyssa studied the mass of men and women crowded into the assembly rooms. The only exciting thing that had happened so far was that she’d accidentally overheard a fascinating conversation between three gentlemen who called themselves the Free Fellows.

A secret League fighting against Bonaparte. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but she had had no choice in the matter, except to embarrass them by making her presence known. Not that Alyssa would ever breathe a word of what she’d overheard to her mother…especially since the conversation she’d heard was private and clearly unlit for her innocent ears. Her virginal ears… virginal ears that couldn’t help wondering, all of a sudden, what pleasures the marriage bed held and how many young brides were cursed with fools for husbands—

“Ouch!” Alyssa frowned as her mother elbowed her in the ribs once again.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Now, pay attention,” Lady Tressingham ordered. “And smile. He’s looking straight at us.”

Alyssa frowned. It seemed nearly everyone in attendance at Almack’s Assembly Rooms had been looking at them all evening. At least, that’s the way her mother made it feel, for she had elbowed Alyssa in the ribs and whispered the same order over a dozen times. Alyssa was certain she’d have a black and blue mark there tomorrow. “Who is it this time?”

“Him.” Lady Tressingham pointed discreetly with her fan.

Alyssa followed her mother’s direction and saw a lone figure standing in front of the potted palms. She wondered if he was the one the other men had addressed as Abernathy. “Who is he?”

“The Duke of Sussex,” her mother answered.

She was disappointed, but Alyssa paid closer attention to the rest of what her mother was saying. “The Sussex House gardens duke?” She hadn’t seen him since they were children, but Alyssa had had the privilege of touring his gardens on several occasions. They were, in a word, magnificent, despite the fact that she found the formal design and the statuary a tad too old-fashioned and perfect, a tad too predictable for her taste. Still, the gardens and grounds redesigned and planted by Capability Brown were a model for every budding gardener to strive toward.

Lady Tressingham frowned. “Of course the Sussex House gardens duke. He owns Sussex House. It’s been in his family for generations and you could be part of that family.” Sometimes she genuinely despaired of her daughter. How she could have given birth to a creature who was always digging in the dirt and puttering about was beyond her. One would almost think Alyssa was born of yeoman stock instead of some of the bluest blood in all of England. “Honestly, Alyssa! Trust you to think of his gardens instead of his property and title. Everyone is buzzing about their appearance here tonight, and all you think about is the duke’s gardens.” She elbowed Alyssa in the ribs once again. “First the duke and now them. It’s so exciting! Keep smiling!”

“Who?”