The Harem Bride (24 page)

Speaking?
The
characters were speaking, instead of singing? Had they come on the
wrong night? Gently, Penny tugged on her husband’s arm.

The earl promptly bent his head to
hers, his words whispered through inexplicably tight lips.
“
Singspiel
,” he said. “Much
of the story is in dialogue, like a play. The songs are simply for
pleasure.”

Smiling her thanks, Penny returned her
attention to the stage. Caught up in the beauty of the first song,
she did not immediately notice the costumes and the setting. But as
the applause died away and the next unintelligible bit of guttural
German dialogue rang out, her attention wandered to the painted
backdrop, reversed with startled intensity to one of the main
characters who was wearing
shalwar
and a turban, and then, with growing horror, back to the
domes, minarets, and latticed balconies of the colorful stage
set.

Heaven forfend!
And then, although her German was not as competent as her
French, Italian, and Spanish, the meaning of one oft-repeated
phrase finally became clear
. “Is this the
Pasha Selim’s house?”

Penny gasped, pushing so far back into
her delicate gilt chair that Lord Brawley was forced to reach out a
strong arm to keep it from tipping over. Jason seized her hand,
leaning over to speak directly into her ear. “I am most sincerely
sorry,” he said. “I had no idea the opera was to be
Abduction from the Seraglio
. More of
the infinitely bad luck that seems to dog our
footsteps.”

“
But the
same
name
,” Penny choked out.

“
Kindly remember Mozart wrote
about
his
Pasha Selim before
you were born,” Jason told her, a tad sternly. “I assure you he did
not have you in mind when he penned this supposed
comedy.”

Comedy
. This
travesty on her experience was a comedy? Penny clutched her fan so
tightly the ivory sticks snapped.

“
Do you wish to leave?” her husband
asked.

The old Penny—the girl who had risen
from the remains of the starry-eyed Penelope Blayne, the girl who
had shriveled and died on the voyage from Constantinople to Lisbon
as reality replaced her foolish girlish fantasies—would have said
yes. The new Penny, who had taken her fate in her hands and set out
to dazzle her husband, lifted her eyes to the earl’s and shook her
head with vigor. She was here at her own personal hero’s side, in
full view of the
ton
, and
here she would stay, and brazen it out. And, in truth, when in the
third act the hero raised a ladder to the harem window in order to
rescue his beloved, the absurdity struck her full force.
Abduction from the Seraglio
was
indeed a comedy, with no relation to the true heroics that had
effected her own rescue from the harem of Selim the Third. She
could laugh, and applaud Belmonte’s rescue of his Constanze, and
still hold her head high.

She was here, in this box at the Royal Opera
House, instead of sitting forlornly behind a lattice in the Topkapi
Palace, because of Jason, a man who had dared everything for her.
And never, ever, must she forget it, no matter how difficult
matters might become.

During the two intervals, Penny noted,
no one was admitted to their box except those whose understandable
curiosity was mellowed by long-time friendship. Mrs. Daphne
Coleraine was not among them, for which Penny gave hearty thanks.
And just before the end of the second interval, Lord Brawley leaned
forward and whispered in her ear. “You have done well tonight, my
lady. You have faced them all under the most trying conditions,
and, shallow as they are, there’s none so blind they cannot see you
for the fine lady you truly are. They are a strange lot, the
ton
. Give them time to grow
accustomed to the fact they have made a mistake, and they will come
around. Mercifully, their memories are short.”

Penny offered a grateful smile before turning
her attention back to the stage, her glow of pleasure shortly
turning to a frown. In all the tension of the evening, she had
nearly forgotten the earl’s ominous promise as she exited the
carriage.

Later
tonight
.

And, inevitably,
later
arrived.

Noreen O’Donnell, sensing an
atmosphere
, blithely laid out her
mistress’s most elaborate nightwear, a garment whose only relief
from transparency came from elaborate white embroidery on the
bodice and a panel of white embroidery down the front, which, Penny
was certain, tended to draw the eyes
to
her private places rather than cover them up.
Over this doubtful garment—the countess could not now imagine why
she had selected it—O’Donnell wrapped Penny in a dressing gown of
the same white lawn, but this garment featured an abundance of
flounces on the sleeves and from knees to hemline. Perhaps that is
why she had chosen it, Penny thought frantically. The robe was made
of so much fabric, it was like an all-encompassing protective tent,
right out of the seraglio. There were even two layers of flounces
that came right up under her chin and those on the sleeves fell to
the tips of her fingers.

Tent, indeed! She looked like Haymarket ware.
A veritable trollop. Good God, she had chosen something Mrs. Daphne
Coleraine might wear!

But was that not what men liked?

Penny slumped down onto the edge of the bed,
her back to the fateful dressing room door. She still had no idea
what Jason wanted in a wife. Every time she thought she had reached
a conclusion, something happened to make her wonder. For long years
she had convinced herself Jason had taken Gulbeyaz in disgust. Now,
he called that naive but well-trained odalisque enchanting. Yet, at
the very same time, he was so reluctant to declare her his wife, he
had roistered right up to the moment of her arrival. Even after the
formal renewal of their vows, he had failed to bed her. He had run
off to London. She suspected he was continuing to drink more than
was good for him. And yet, he had given in—if reluctantly—to her
desire to view London. He had been kind—yes, that was the correct
word.

He had gifted her with diamonds.

He had kissed her.

And now he was coming to her. For more than
conversation. Surely she had not mistaken his intention. A vivid
flash of the powerful emotion that had swept her at Jason’s kiss
suffused her body, causing her to blush fiery red, in startling
contrast to the multiple white flounces. What if she made a mull of
it?

As she had that night in Shropshire?

What if he didn’t come at all?

Penny firmed her lips, straightened her
shoulders. She was no longer a child, no longer bound to Cassandra
Pemberton’s will. No longer the exhausted caretaker seeking a place
of respite. She had already set foot on the road to re-making her
life. Somehow, whatever happened tonight, she would find a way out
of this coil.

The dressing room door opened so softly she
almost did not hear it. Penny simply felt his presence, knew she
was no longer alone. She sat up straighter, then recalled the stiff
little figure who had told her husband she was perfectly reconciled
to doing her duty. And the woman earlier tonight who had fought off
her husband with her fists. Truthfully, it was a wonder he had come
to her at all. Struggling against years of burying all memories of
those weeks in the harem, Penny made a determined effort to
resurrect Gulbeyaz, that terrified, yet eager child, who had
embraced her husband with enthusiasm and wonder.

Penny stood perfectly still, allowing him to
look his fill.

“
You were expecting me, I believe,” her
husband inquired, sounding so sure of himself her stomach
churned.

She could not look at him, she would be lost.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the flounced hem of her robe, she offered
an infinitesimal nod, while clamping her teeth over a fierce urge
to tell Jason Lisbourne that she had been expecting him for close
on to ten years.

Theirs was a marriage of convenience, after
all. Both then and now. She must be realistic. Willing to give
Jason the children he wanted, yet never letting him see how much
more she wanted for herself.

Alas, as seemed to be the usual case between
the earl and his countess, the results of what Penny considered a
blatant invitation were not as expected. Her smile, her seductive
posture, her expensive and alluring déshabille seemed to inspire
nothing more than a scowl. The earl’s cobalt eyes darkened to
mysterious depths in the dim light of one flickering candle. He
stood a full ten feet from the bed, enveloped in a banyan of dark
blue silk that clung to his lithe form like a second skin, looking
very much as if he were reviewing every last rancorous word he and
his countess had exchanged since they renewed their vows.

Or perhaps, Penny wondered, he thinking
of the delightful and excruciatingly embarrassing moments as she
demonstrated her skills before the watching eyes at the Topkapi.
Those moments when she had been so full of wonder at the sight of
her husband’s young and muscular body. So . . . so
proud
of being able to please him.
Those moments when, at last, they had both forgotten the voyeurs
peeping at them and had . . .

Penny’s thoughts plummeted back to the here
and now. Jason was still glowering, and she was still standing
there, like an overly decorated sweetmeat, hidden behind a mountain
of flounces, a bland smile so fixed to her face she feared she must
spend the rest of her life behind the same false façade.

Remove the
flounces
. Yes, that was it. But if she did, the
transparent linen beneath made her
shalwar
and tunic look positively
modest.

Was this, her third attempt at a wedding
night, a time for modesty?

Ridiculous!

At a speed so laggard Jason was ready to
throttle his countess, the multitude of flounces fell to the floor.
With the candle on the nightstand directly behind her, little was
left to the earl’s imagination. His mouth went dry, his body came
to attention. Rancor faded to a dim dark recess where he might
retrieve it at a more propitious moment.

Penelope, moving with the sensuous grace of
the odalisque Gulbeyaz, threw back the bedcovers and arrayed
herself against the pillows. The earl, with considerable interest,
noted that she did not pull the covers up to her chin. Indeed, she
did not pull them up at all.

And then she stretched her arm to the far
side of the bed—displaying, as she did so, a remarkably enticing
view into the depths of her exceedingly low neckline—and flicked
aside the covers. The earl was not so far gone in lust that he did
not recognize that the look his wife cast him at this point was
more challenging than seductive. Oh, he granted her a good deal of
credit for trying, but at the sticking point she had failed. That
enchanting creature, Gulbeyaz, had gone back into hiding, leaving
only the Penelope of five and twenty, visibly making an effort to
be the wife he wanted her to be. And nearly as grimly determined to
lose her virginity as he was to take it.

Hell and the devil!
At least now he would know the truth. In a few short minutes
he would know if his wife’s bed skills had come from training or
from practice.

And if from practice, hissed the mind of the
reasoning man behind the earl’s rakish façade, did it truly matter?
For the child had had no control over her life in the harem.
Whatever had happened there should be buried forever, not to be
touched upon again.

Lose Gulbeyaz?
The joy of his life, for whom he had searched through so many
women he had long ago lost count?

Dropping his robe as unceremoniously as
his wife had dropped hers, the earl stalked toward the bed. Penny’s
eyes widened. He was more . . . ah–
developed
than she recalled. As was she, of
course. She should not be surprised. Goosebumps broke out,
including some in very strange places. And then the bed seemed to
be engulfed in flames. She was so hot she could not breathe. She
clutched a handful of silk sheet and hung on, even after her
husband’s body loomed over her, one of his powerful arms entrapping
her shoulder, while the other stripped down one side of her gown so
he could suckle on her breast.

They had waited too long for finesse, for the
gentle maneuverings of a considerate bridegroom on his wedding
night. They plunged into passion with that extra intensity, not
only of lovers long denied, but of lovers who had known hurt,
resentment, guilt, desire. Later, they would be sane. But not
tonight. This moment was theirs.

~ * ~

It was gone eleven before the Countess of
Rocksley descended to the breakfast room, wearing a delicious
morning gown of pale green muslin sprigged in lavender. She did not
look at all like a woman packed and ready to leave for Shropshire.
Nor did her husband—who had, in fact, arrived in the breakfast room
only minutes before his wife—appear to be a man hastening through a
meal so he might be off on a lengthy journey. Dressed in the height
of town fashion, from his artfully arranged dark locks, fresh from
Kirby’s ministrations, to the tips of his glossily polished boots,
the Earl of Rocksley slouched back into his chair after his wife’s
entrance, looking very much like a man who might be content to stay
rooted to that spot all day, so long as he might be entertained by
the beguiling sight of his no longer virginal bride.