The Bargain Bride by Bárbara Metzger

to smile and coo and pretend to be thrilled with her good fortune. Her pride demanded no less.
    They left the chapel in a hired coach, festooned with ribbons and flowers, leading a merry procession back to her grandfather’s house. Everyone in the surrounding villages was invited, it seemed, from Baron Whitstan ley to the butcher’s boy. Trestle tables were arranged on the terrace, filled with a roast, a ham, the wedding cake, and kegs of ale. Champagne was served to the family and closest friends in the parlor. Two fiddlers were set up in the cleared carriage house for dancing. Songs and laughter spread throughout the gardens as people moved from one area to the next, delighted with the unexpected treat.
    Everyone insisted the newlyweds lead off the first dance.
    West was an excellent dancer, of course. Penny expected no less. What did surprise her was that the viscount was not half as high in the instep as she feared, dancing with Cook and the village seamstress as well as the baroness. He even applauded the Sunday school children when the vicar led them in a hymn of celebration; then he handed them each a coin, winning the hearts of the locals, if not his wife.
    After an hour or so Penny was used to being called Lady Westfield, instead of looking around for some dowager to curtsy to. After another hour, she was sick of hearing her new husband’s praises sung by every man who shook his hand and talked about horses or asked about his regiment. She was thoroughly tired of watching the women ooh and ogle. For heaven’s sake, hadn’t they ever met a god come down from Olympus? She sighed. No, no one had, not around here. Not around anywhere, Penny feared.
    He was just a man, she told the awestruck admirers, lying through her teeth.
    The party went on until dark, with more toasts, more food, more noise and laughter. Penny was trying to appear so merry, so gay, she thought her face had frozen in a false smile. Her toes ached from the blacksmith’s dance and her throat burned from trying to speak over the music. Her favorite gown was stained with someone’s wine, her hair was falling out of its careful top-knot, and beads of perspiration dripped down her back. She had not slept last night, and had not been able to eat since yesterday. Her grandfather looked pale and weary, and the magistrate was looking at Marcel with hostility. Her father was looking at the baroness, the blacksmith’s wife, and the barrister’s daughter. And this was supposed to be the happiest day of Penny’s life?
    What made it worse, Penny decided, was Westfield. There he was, as poised and polished as he had been this morning, a few tousled curls the only sign that he had stood up for the last country reel. His neckcloth was still starched and spotless, and his smile never wavered. He was eating and drinking and dancing and flirting. The worm was enjoying himself!
    If he could, she could.
    Penny threw herself back into the party, dragging her father into the carriage house for a waltz. He huffed and puffed, but beamed with pride.
    â€œMy daughter, Viscountess Westfield.”
    At least no one would call her Penny Gold or the Golden Penny anymore. Now she was more than the banker’s daughter.
    â€œAnd you are happy, aren’t you? I can see you are. I knew I did the right thing for you, my girl.”
    Happy? Penny thought she might cry, but it was too late for tears. She had another glass of champagne.
    The guests finally started to leave when the sun started to go down. Many had distances to travel; most had work and chores early in the morning; some were already passed out from the revelries. Carriages and carts were organized to get everyone home, parcels of food and wedding cake sent with them.
    Sir Gaspar was the last to leave. Penny’s father would spend one more night at the inn, then head out for London the next day without stopping at Littleton’s.
    â€œWouldn’t want to disturb the