Free The Bargain Bride by Bárbara Metzger

back and smiled.
    Oh no, she would never have chosen to wed such a man. Attractive, charming, titled, educated, he was a fairy-tale prince without the happy ending. Westfield would break her heart, over and over again, if she let him. She would have high rank and a fine address and, thanks to her father, a fancy wardrobe—she would get him to buy a new carriage, too, before the day was over—but she would not have what every woman wanted: a loving marriage to a good man. Westfield was neither loving nor good. Why, as soon as he had his heir, the rogue was liable to forget about Penny’s existence for another thirteen years.
    And he brought out the worst in her, all the bitter resentment, all the anger. That could not be a good sign of things to come. In less than two days she had committed violence and blasphemy and lies. Even now she wanted to strangle the vicar with his own clerical collar. Furthermore, she had resorted to blackmailing her own father.
    Penny had agreed to the wedding, but at a price. There had never been a choice—everyone knew that—but her father had bargained to avoid another scene. Now he was not just financing the refurbishing expenses for the London town house and the trousseau, but he was going to keep paying Penny’s allowance, and Lady Bainbridge’s salary as her companion. He could not expect Penny to bring out his stepdaughters on her own, could he, while she was a stranger to the ton herself?
    Her father would have acquiesced to anything—except Marcel in a gown tossing orange blossoms and rose petals—when Penny started crying. Maybe he was assuaging his own guilt with his gold, but Penny was not going to turn down his conscience money. She had pride, but she had some recompense coming, too, she decided, with interest. She was her father’s daughter, after all.
    West had proved right: Tears worked better than screams and shouts. Penny had not even had to threaten to disrupt the ceremony with cries of how she was being coerced, of how Sir Gaspar was an unnatural parent, or how he’d bedded the innkeeper’s wife. No, a few tears—honest ones, too—and he had agreed to her demands. She had to remember that for the future.
    Mr. Smithers was turning pages in his prayer book, ready to begin this addition to his Sunday service. Penny’s future was now, waiting at the altar, smiling at her. West had been decent about the whole mess, she supposed, kinder than she might have expected or deserved, after her rant. Hadn’t he given her the pearls at her throat, saying they were the best he could find in Upper Falls? There were heirlooms aplenty in the family vault in London, but he wanted her to have something new, all her own, as a wedding present. Hadn’t he sent the bouquet she carried and the roses for her hair? Probably he was the one who thought of decorating the chapel and bringing the children from the orphanage, knowing how much they meant to her.
    He’d also been reasonable about her conditions, without adding impossible demands of his own. Later, he had agreed that they could stay on in Little Falls for a few days, rather than traveling back to London right after the wedding party, as her father was going to do. Penny needed time to pack, to settle her accounts, and to help her grandfather with the move. The house had to be closed, instructions left for caretakers and gardeners. She had to find willing hands to take over her responsibilities at the orphanage.
    She thought—she hoped—that West would go on ahead without her. He could busy himself with sending the marriage notices to the newspapers and readying his own home for additional guests. Instead he said that her father would see to the notices, gladly, and notify West’s staff at Westmoreland House. He would not let them make any changes until she approved them, anyway. Besides, they would stir the scandal broth worse by not appearing together in Town. He