The Bodyguard Read Free

Penthia in her father’s drawing room at the town house on Berkeley Square, he did so knowing that he had her father’s delighted approval for the match. Alastair felt certain Lady Penthia must love him as much as heloved her. Why else—after refusing all those other offers—had she chosen him?
    She was seated on the sofa when he entered the room to tell her he had her father’s permission to wed her. She looked up at him, a smile on her lips, her eyes shining with … It was not precisely love, but rather … jubilation. And why not? He felt joyful himself.
    He dropped to one knee, a flamboyant gesture more appropriate to his brother, but an indication of the depth of his feelings for the woman to whom he was about to propose marriage. To his consternation, his hand, when he reached for hers, was shaking. Her hand was surprisingly cool and dry and calm, with none of the signs of anxiety he found in himself. He hurried to speak, for fear his legs would give out under him.
    “I … I love you, Lady Penthia. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he blurted.
    “Yes, Your Grace, I will.”
    His throat tightened with emotion, and he blinked to keep his vision clear. “I will do my best to make you happy.”
    “I am counting on it, Your Grace,” she said with a pleased smile.
    It was not quite the answer he had expected. He had been hoping for a declaration of her love in return, but he attributed the lack of one to maidenly modesty. After all, they hardly knew each other. Her declaration would come with time. They had their whole lives to spend together.
    He leaned forward to touch her lips with his, butshe turned aside so he brushed her cheek instead. That surprised him, but he could understand her shyness at being kissed in her father’s drawing room.
    “Until later,” he murmured.
    “Later,” she agreed.
    But he never had her alone in the month that followed before they were wed in June at St. George’s.
    It was not until his wedding night that Alastair realized his bride was not quite so pure as she had led him to believe. He would never have known, except that he had swallowed his pride and gone to the widow in Comarty and asked her what he could do to make the wedding night easier for his bride. Mrs. Jensen had explained in great detail what he must do, and he had followed her instructions explicitly.
    Except, there had been no barrier.
    His pride had kept him from asking his lady wife who had come before him. But he began to look askance at her when she flirted with other men. And he noticed how often she teased his brother, who returned jibe for jibe, but who was obviously infatuated with her.
    The real trouble began when they left London and returned to Blackthorne Abbey, his estate in Kent. There was little in the country to interest Penthia, yet that was where he felt most comfortable. He trusted his neighbors not to steal his wife. And he was not so sure she could not be stolen by another man. It became plain she was dissatisfied with him, that she had none of the feelings for him that he held for her, and that she tolerated his attentions at night because it was her duty.
    He rejoiced at learning his wife was expecting a happy event within a year of their nuptials. But the partnership he had envisioned marriage to be was nothing like the actual estrangement from his wife he lived with from day to day.
    “There is no need for you to come any longer to my bed,” she said at the same time she announced she was with child.
    He had been more than willing to return to the widow. She, at least, seemed to enjoy his touch.
    He consoled himself with the thought of having a child to love in Penthia’s place. He spent time with his brother and his friends and gave his wife the public courtesy that concealed his personal discontent with their relationship. And in fact, his life found new meaning the night his wife was delivered of twin girls, Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca.
    Penthia was furious she