The Borrowed Bride Read online

  The Borrowed Bride

  By

  Jaye Peaches

  Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Jaye Peaches

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Peaches, Jaye

  The Borrowed Bride

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Period Images and Shutterstock/Andrew Roland

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  More Stormy Night Books by Jaye Peaches

  Jaye Peaches Links

  Chapter One

  1757, England

  Dara dressed herself in the nightgown of a virgin bride. As she pulled the white shift down over her head, she succumbed to a fit of unfortunate shaking. The cotton slip had a slight opening at the front that exposed her inner thighs, and the very nature of the garment instilled within her both a modicum of dread and a slither of excitement. The balance was in danger of tipping one way or the other without warning. However, regardless of her state of nerves, she was resigned to her duty as a newlywed wife. It would not do to harbour doubts on the first night. Her maid helped her onto the bed, where Dara sank into the luxurious mattress with its thick layers of feathers.

  “Best lie still and wait, milady. He’ll come presently. If he’s ready,” the maid added, then blushed.

  Why would Dara’s husband not be ready to accomplish the final act of their wedding day? Dara’s limited knowledge was exactly why she needed him to dispel her fears and visit her room. Naturally, she was curious to how he might overcome her lack of experience and build upon her innate desire to please her husband, a man who was little more than a stranger to her. What young bride would not be inquisitive?

  “Off with you, then.” She waved away the girl.

  She waited until the moon rose and the candle burnt through. She yawned, tapped her fingers on her generous bosom, and huffed. What was keeping him? Even though stricken by anxieties, she preferred to have the matter dealt with as swiftly as possible. The wait grew tiresome. She fiddled with her lacy cuffs and sighed some more, this time with frustration, and a small amount of hurt at his tardiness. The long day caught up with her and eventually, she fell asleep. When she woke, it was to the sound of the drapes being shaken out and a window opened. Birdsong heralded the morning.

  “Lovely spring day, milady.” The girl was back; the night over in a flash.

  “His lordship?” Dara asked, astounded by his night-long absence. Had he crept in, found her asleep, and removed himself? She’d expected him to wake her. Was it not his prerogative to conquer her concerns and show her his passionate nature, which she believed lay beneath his sombre features? She’d read the romantic poetries, her only source of education on such matters.

  “Gone riding. It’s past nine. He likes to break his fast early. So should you if you want to see your husband.” The girl grinned and hurried over with a basin of water.

  Dara sighed. She wasn’t sure if they were husband and wife, but the pastor had said they were and made no mention of the necessity of a bedroom visit. She washed her face, took the clothes handed to her, and dressed methodically, allowing the girl to pull her bodice tight around her waist. She needed to try harder to attract his attention, if that was what was amiss.

  In the afternoon, he hunted. She watched for his return using the drawing room window. He cantered up to the door with his gamekeeper, who carried the brace of pheasants and a musket, and dismounted. Her husband’s breeches were muddy and his grey-flecked hair was whipped to one side, probably due to the blustery wind. She had not decided on his degree of handsomeness, because his maturing years had given his features a slightly saggy appearance around his jowls, but only slight. The warmth she felt toward him was entirely down to his deep pockets and extravagant lifestyle, something that was pointed out numerous times by her sisters. He tossed the reins to the stable hand and walked into the house. Dara hurried to greet him in the marble-clad entrance hall.

  “Husband,” she said pointedly.

  “Milady,” he said, nearly colliding with her. “There is no need to wait for me. I shall be hunting every day.” He slumped into an armchair by the fireplace.

  She lingered as a footman pulled off the filthy boots and pressed two slippers onto his feet.

  “Ah,” sighed her husband. “I shall enjoy a slice of beef tonight.”

  “Cook has picked a prime joint for you, my lord.” The man rose from his knees and bowed.

  “Still here?” he snorted at his wife. “You should change for dinner. So should I.” He trotted upstairs, followed by his manservant, leaving Dara alone in the vast hallway with the yapping, stinking dogs. She sighed heavily, the lingering sense of hurt augmented by his abrupt dismissal.

  Dinner was not the occasion for speeches, her mother had taught her. Be seen and not heard was the motto of her childhood. Raised as the sixth of six, the least likely to marry well and therefore not worthy of much education, she suffered under the tutelage of Miss Bramhall, who rumour had it had been a nun until some fall from grace. Miss Bramhall was not lenient with the rod upon Dara’s palm, nor the stool upon which she had to stand for hours. However, away from the nursery and schoolroom, Dara would not deny to anyone that she was accustomed to having her way. After all, she was the sixth child of an earl.

  Her mother had despaired of her mischievous ways. Dara would rather spend frivolous hours playing in the haystacks or damming a stream than studying her books or needlework. Often hauled in by the ear and dressed down in front of her well-behaved siblings, Dara had cared little for her weaknesses. It never crossed her mind that her childhood would come to a crashing end on her eighteenth birthday.

  “You’re to marry,” boomed her father. “Lord Coleman seeks a young wife. Somebody to look after his household and tend upon his arm. You should be grateful, daughter. He’s rich and cares not that you have a meagre dowry. I have not invested in you, I grant, like your sisters, but then I didn’t expect five of them.”

  Her brother was the apple of her father’s eye.

  “What if I say no?” She stomped her foot on the carpet.

  Her father’s bloodshot eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Say that again,” he growled.

  “I shan’t—”

  “Miss Bramhall!” he bellowed.

  Her governess hastened to his call and curtsied.

  “What have you been teaching her about obedience and respect?”

  “That my lord God will not tolerate a child who defies her beloved parents.” She curtsied deeper. “But the girl is wicked at heart sometimes, and the rod will not mend her ways. A husband is what she needs.”

  The decision was out of Dara’s hands. Three months later, after four brief visits to Lord Coleman’s house at Willowby, she had been successfully cajoled by her sisters, bullied by her father, and pleaded with by her
mother. The wedding was witnessed by her parents and her eldest sister, who wolfed down the banquet, then hastily retreated into the carriage with the earl. The wedding disappointed Dara, but not as much as her husband’s frequent absences. Another night of loneliness followed the wedding night and the white shift remained untouched by him. The third night, she could not be bothered to wear it.

  A week after the wedding, Dara was still a virgin.

  Lord Coleman called upon her in the morning room. “I am away for a week. Business in London.” He frowned. “Make yourself useful about the house. The ledgers are dire. The housekeeper cannot do numbers.”

  Neither could Dara, but she kept quiet. Her forte was words, but it seemed Lord Coleman was not interested in hearing her speak or read to him. A man her father would greatly, and probably did, admire.

  She cried into a cushion. Her maid, Estelle, handed her a handkerchief. “He’s having a difficult time with tenants, I believe.”

  “And with me, it seems. He hates me. He can’t bear to touch me. One kiss on the cheek at bedtime. He didn’t even grace me with a kiss on my lips in the church.”

  “Romantic twaddle,” Estelle said. “No man kisses a woman in a church.”

  Dara hurried out of the room and threw her slender weight on the bed. Was she ugly? Her hair suffered with knots and was not happy being tamed. Her legs were perhaps too long. As for her nose, she was blessed with a straight one with an end fashioned like a button. Her ears were even and tucked out of sight by the bonnets she wore. Her stomach was flat, as her mother once noted with envy. Her ankles dainty. What was wrong with her?

  His servants were unhelpful with her questions. His lordship was the only son of the first Lord Coleman, a brilliant statesman and soldier, who lived most of his life abroad and died suddenly of the ague. Coleman’s mother had remarried and vanished from her son’s life. Left to his own devices, his lordship had adopted a solitary style of living with a minimal household. As well as the butler and housekeeper, there were five manservants, two maids, a cook and kitchen help, the stable hands, and a gamekeeper. Everyone had their place and allotted tasks and had little time to gossip with his lordship’s new wife.

  She embroidered. It was very boring.

  A week later, he returned. She greeted him with a curtsy, and he pecked her cheek.

  “I have made some purchases for you.” He waved over his travelling companion, a man who said nothing. The servant carried a box, which he placed on a table.

  Dara unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a silk dress woven into a colourful floral pattern.

  “The latest fashion,” Lord Coleman said with a smile. “The queen wears cloth like this.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Oh, and these too.” He removed a small pouch of velvet from his pocket. He tipped the contents onto his gloved palm. The little stones twinkled in the candlelight. “Gems, a mixture. I thought you could have them made into a necklace of your choosing. My dear,” he added, as if the endearment came late to his mind. “I know I’ve not been much company, and I must confess I might have to leave soon, but it is not my intention to ignore you. I wish you to know that I care about you, and that when the time is right, we will make fine children, and raise them together. But not yet. I fear my travels will increase in the coming months.”

  She took the colourful gems from him. They were beautiful and valuable. She clutched them to her chest. For now, it seemed this was all he could give her. It was not enough, and he must know it was unsatisfactory. However, she smiled, and thanked him again in her sweetest voice.

  He did not come to her bed that night. But at least she knew why. Miss Bramhall had warned Dara about making of babies and how it might happen as a consequence of one night with a man. She could not hide her disappointment from him at breakfast. He frowned at her scowl.

  “Patience. Was that not a virtue your mother taught you, Dara?” he asked.

  “Sadly, her measure of it is too great for me. I would ask when you will be ready to visit me at night, husband,” she said with greater emphasis.

  He put down his fork. “When the matters of my business affairs are complete. Do not cause a rift between us. The habits of the night are only one aspect of marriage. You must learn the others too. Obedience. Respect.”

  “And love?”

  “Is for lovers. As you will come to appreciate, there is more than one way to be a lover. I shall be away for three months—”

  “What!”

  He glowered. “Three months in Europe. In that time, I expect you to have mastered the accounts of this house, arranged for new carpets in the drawing room and library, had the silver polished, the chandeliers cleaned...” The list was comprehensive, and she listened with her mouth hung open.

  “And if I refuse to do any of this?”

  “You, my dear, won’t be doing any of it, as the servants shall. But you will be responsible for ensuring they do so in a timely and thorough way, or I can assure you, I shall deal with your failures thoroughly.” The stern tone in his voice was a mirror of her father’s.

  Dara snapped her mouth shut.

  The carriage was laden with boxes. He took his faithful manservant and chief mastiff with him. The kiss he offered her was perfunctory, it lasted no more than the briefest second. She shivered in the cold air. The horses neighed, pulling on their harnesses. When the carriage disappeared at the end of the drive, she spun on her heel and ran indoors, weeping hot tears.

  For three days, she moped around the house, dragging her heels and with no care for his damn list. The servants kept out of her way. As usual they offered no explanation as to her husband’s strange habits. They were almost coy with her, tiptoeing in and out of rooms. Eventually, she gave up crying and made a decision.

  Upstairs, she summoned Estelle. “Pack a bag, one that can be slung over a horse’s shoulders.”

  “Milady?”

  “Just do it,” she snapped.

  She retrieved the pouch of gems from the drawer of her dresser and stuffed it into a small saddlebag. Together, clothes and jewels, she had all she needed.

  “I’m going to visit my cousin. She lives twenty leagues to the north. I shall write when I return.”

  “I should go with you,” pleaded Estelle.

  “I go alone.”

  “But the robbers—”

  “I shall keep to the quietest roads. The robbers go for the stagecoaches. With my drab clothes, I shall look humble enough.” She had picked the least fine of her dresses and a plain black cloak.

  “The weather—” Estelle chased after her.

  “It’s summer.”

  “But they say a storm is coming, milady.” Estelle tugged on Dara’s sleeve. “What shall I say to his lordship?”

  “Nothing. I shall be back long before he returns. My cousin’s address,” Dara scrawled it down on a piece of paper and thrust it into Estelle’s trembling hands. There was no reason not to give it as they would not think to ride out there without permission from their lord. “Bring around the mare, the one that I rode the other day. She’s the least frisky.”

  Mounted sideways upon the dapple mare, Mary, Dara pulled the hood over her bonnet.

  “Gee up, Mary.” She shook the rein and the mare started to trot.

  The route she took was to the north, but the road she chose would not take her to her cousin. What use was it to go to her father’s niece? Within days, Dara’s father would know she had left her husband’s house and abandoned her duties. Her cousin blabbered about everything. Instead, Dara decided the best plan was to make for the nearest city, one that had a good silversmith or jewellers, and sell the gems. The proceeds she would use to hire a room and a maid. Happily ensconced, she would wait out the three months while enjoying the pleasures of city life. She would visit the assembly rooms, make new friends, and dance until midnight. She would tell everyone she was a widow fresh out of mourning. Her name was not known in those parts. The risk was worth taking. Then, when i
t was necessary, she would return to Willowby Hall. She was sure than even in her absence, the servants would carry out his lordship’s orders regarding the long list. To keep up the illusion, she would write letters to Estelle in which she would make up stories about her visit to her cousin’s house in the north. As she was a newcomer to the household, the servants at Willowby would have no inkling whether the details were correct or not.

  She left the estate through the wilderness of the meadows, where the sheep grazed, passed the gatehouse, and entered the large wood that formed the boundary. The path was muddy and the trees heavy with leaves and blossom. She was happy to be out. The humid air stuck fast, bringing with it heat and dampness. As she emerged from the other side of the wood, she came to a halt. Before her were the sweeping, gentle hills of the countryside and as far as the eye could see was nothing but farmland, copses, and the occasional barn. Above were the dark grey skies and ominous clouds waiting to deliver their load.

  The wind whipped up her skirts and cloak. Mary was increasingly skittish and unhappy. She had to cajole the mare along the lane, which was little more than a track and unsuitable for a wheeled vehicle. The first flash of lightning caught her by surprise. It lit up the landscape, sweeping aside for the briefest second the greyness. A few moments later, the thunder rumbled.

  “Far away,” she hoped.

  Mary refused to trot.

  The path forked into two even narrower tracks. She wasn’t sure anymore which way was north. There was no signs or milestones. She looked around. Not a soul was out in the fields. She picked the path to the right. It offered less mud and puddles.

  The clouds burst open, releasing a deluge of rain that landed in heavy drops. The wind was cold and the heavens filled with lightning and thunder. She fought to keep control of Mary, who rose up on her hind legs.

  Dara cried out and lost balance. She slid off the side-saddle, landed on her feet, her skirts in a heap with the mud oozing around her boots. She reached up to grab the rein, but it was too late. Mary cantered away, leaving Dara with her saddlebag, which had fallen off, but not the larger one containing her clothes.