The Bargain Bride by Bárbara Metzger

still watching the pug. “He does not go off frequently. It must have been the excitement of the day.”
    Or being knocked to flinders by a trespasser in his bed. West lit the oil lamp and put another log on the fire. “I do not think he should stay here.”
    â€œWhy not? Now you know what to do.”
    â€œYes, I need to find another room. I do not suppose I can share yours for the rest of the night?”
    Penny looked at him, in his brocade robe, bare feet, bare chest, a loose sash keeping him decent, a sultry smile on his lips. A sensible woman did not invite the devil into her chamber. “George will be fine,” she said.
    â€œHe snores.”
    â€œMost of his breed does.”
    Since she was showing no pity, West said, “You snore, too.”
    â€œI do not!”
    â€œI just heard you with my own ears. But do not fret. I find it attractive.”
    â€œI could not care less what you find attractive.” But she did care, because she turned seven shades of scarlet when her stomach let out a loud rumble.
    â€œYou are hungry! It’s no wonder, for you hardly eat anything at all. You are not one of those foolish women starving themselves to be stylish, are you?”
    â€œDo not be absurd. I have been too busy, is all. I suppose I could have a piece of wedding cake now that I am awake.”
    West ignored the reproach in her voice as he led the way down to the kitchen and raided the pantry. He filled plates with the cold ham and cake, while she heated water for tea and set places at the worn wooden table in the center of the room.
    They were too busy eating to argue, for once.
    West liked the companionship. He’d eaten many a solitary midnight meal, but this was far more pleasant. Mistresses demanded dining in style and conversation, while the young women of the polite world giggled and simpered their way through supper, under their duen nas’ watchful eyes. Penny simply ate, and enjoyed the meal.
    She reached for a second slice of wedding cake.“I suppose I no longer have to put a piece under my pillow.”
    He eyed the icing. “Good grief, why would you want to do that?”
    â€œYoung girls do, you know. That’s why we sent so many pieces along with the guests, carefully wrapped, of course. If you lay your head on the pillow, atop the cake, you are supposed to dream of your future husband.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œPut cake under my pillow? A few times.”
    â€œBut did you dream of me?”
    â€œI dreamed of cake and woke up hungry.” But she smiled. And she did not shy away when he used his finger to wipe a dab of icing from the corner of her mouth. That was progress.
    When they were done, she was yawning again, this time for real. Her eyes were heavy, her movements less graceful. West held the candle on the way up the stairs. She made no resistance when he set the candle down outside her door, raised her hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. That was more progress. So he turned her hand over and kissed the palm, and the wrist, and—progress ended with the door in his face again.
    â€œWell, George, it’s just the two of us. And only one of us gets the bed.”

Chapter Ten
    Lord and Lady M. were promised at birth. They wed at eighteen, and died within days of each other, decades later. They were best friends and lovers from the cradle to the grave.
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—By Arrangement, a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber
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    I f Penny Goldwaite, now Lady Westfield, had been with Wellington’s army, the war would have ended years sooner. She had her whole household fed, organized, and in action by nine in the morning.
    Except for the viscount, who slept until ten. Someone had come at dawn to retrieve George for his morning constitutional, so West had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. He worried that his wife had less, since she already had her lists in hand when he entered the dining