“It’s wash day,” Ian said now, “so after breakfast I’ll bring out the tub to the side yard.”
“Thank you, Ian.” Nicole had managed to employ only one chambermaid, a young girl named Lorelei, but she had enough to do keeping the huge house in order, so Nicole had taken on the wash chore herself. Abby liked to help, though this was a limited endeavor. Nicole hadn’t the heart to tell the old woman that she truly only slowed down the work, as she supposed that Abby liked the private company of Nicole for those few hours. She would talk endlessly of her family, of her previous life, when she was young and living in the village herself, when her children were home, when her husband lived still. She had become, Nicole was not above admitting, a true friend, whom Nicole loved dearly. “And don’t forget,” she thought to remind Ian now, “that Mr. Adams is due from Langley house to give us some ideas for the upgrades of the tenant homes.”
“I remember,” Ian said, “though I have to say—again—that I think your money can be put to better use.”
“Ian, you’ve seen the roofs and the poor quality of the thatch,” she argued. “It needs to be addressed. Haven’t the abbey’s tenants been forgotten long enough?”
Ian shrugged, still of a good nature. He and Nicole never argued outright, seeming to agree on most everything. “We’ll see what your Mr. Adams has to say about it,” he allowed and pulled the cart up at the house, squinting and frowning at the lone horse waiting in the drive. “Mr. Adams is early?”
Nicole stared at the horse as well but gave it not much thought. “Tis unlikely, Ian, that Mr. Adams would be paying his calls so shortly after the sun had risen.” She hopped down from the cart and received her basket from Ian, who drove the wagon around to the back of the house. Franklin pulled open the door as Nicole neared. He seemed straighter than normal, though still his head and neck and shoulders were bent in the question mark form of his.
“Good morning, Franklin,” she called cheerily, and happily tucked a daffodil into his lapel, having to bend quite low because of his stooped form. The old man smiled at such charming foolishness.
“Aye, g’ morning, miss. We’ve a visitor,” he reported unnecessarily. “I’ve put him in the blue salon, though I’d have chosen the dungeon, had we one of those.” This last was rather mumbled, though Nicole heard it still, and giggled at dear Franklin’s absurdities. It must be Squire Acton, Nicole decided, knowing that Franklin and the squire had a mutual dislike of each other. Nicole stuffed her basket into Franklin’s hands, and doffed her small gloves and kerchief, playfully tucking the headpiece atop Franklin’s balding crown.
“Truly, Franklin, you should at least try to like the squire,” she advised. “Squire Acton is a very valuable member of the community as are we—equally valued, I should say. This puts a great deal of responsibility onto us....” she went on, failing to notice, because his eyes always faced the ground, that they rolled back in his head as he happily tuned her out.
Trevor Wentworth stood near the door to the blue salon inside Hyndman Abbey, remaining in the shadows while he absorbed with shocked pleasure the sight of his wife. My God, he thought, time had truly transformed her. He’d not expected this. He’d thought to come back and find the same girl he’d left almost a year ago, beautiful to be sure, but girlish still, he’d imagined. This was not the case. He watched her strip the work gloves from her hands and remove the silly kerchief from her hair, and he drew in a sharp breath at the changes a year had wrought. She seemed taller, but then he supposed it was only that the complete remains of coltishness were gone, replaced by a womanly grace she assumed well. She was suntanned, her once creamy skin now darkened to a golden brown, her cheeks more delicately carved and less full. Her hair, that rich mahogany, was longer, swaying in natural waves down her back, shiny, attesting to her good health. His eyes traced the figure of her body, his body reacting instantly, annoyingly, to the new womanly curves he perceived. She was no longer simply beautiful, he decided, she was absolutely breathtaking.
She was certainly out early this morning, he mused, but even more disconcerting was her clear affinity for the old man, her butler. She teased him and toyed with him, which the man indulgently allowed. Just as she might have turned to find the blue parlor and her visitor, which she seemed to mistakenly think was a squire, Trevor watched as a tall man appeared from the back hall. He was obviously familiar with the house and its occupants, removing his hat as he addressed Nicki. Trevor’s frown was instantaneous and ominous, recognizing admiration when he saw it.
“Is Mr. Adams here then?” The man asked.
“Tis not Mr. Adams after all, Ian,” he heard Nicki say. “But that reminds me, we should find any ledgers or documents that pertain to any previous renovations of the crofters’ homes. Perhaps they would be in some of those boxes we’ve yet to get through in the study.” She turned once again, and Trevor assumed she was coming now to the blue salon.
“Your hair, miss,” that man said.
“Oh, gosh,” she said and stepped in front of a long, narrow mirror above a side table just inside the door, taking pains to govern her hair into some semblance of neatness. Amazed, Trevor watched as she quickly braided the unruly mass right in front of the two men. Seething now, his eyes returned to this Ian fellow, discerning his reaction, finding it to be as his own—provoked and desirous. She held the braid in one hand and half-turned, extending her free hand to Franklin, palm up. He nodded quickly at her silent request, searching through three different pockets of his faded livery before presenting her with a small band, which she used to tie the mass of her braid.
Trevor was dumbstruck as he watched. And then that Ian said, “If that is not Mr. Adams, then who waits for you, Miss?”
“Oh, yes,” Franklin said, from his stooped position, “I forgot to tell you, Miss—“
“The squire, I fear,” Nicki whispered dramatically. “Ian, you know how Franklin feels about the man. I cannot imagine what he must want so early in the morning.”
“Miss, “Franklin tried again to enlighten her. “Tis not the—“
Ian even took a turn at teasing poor Franklin. “Really, old man, she has a point. What’s not to like about the man? He’s nasty and overbearing and has a terrible habit of looking down his nose at a person, even at our miss here.”
Why, Trevor wondered with gritted teeth, did they refer to her as ‘miss’? She was a married woman, for Christ’s sake! Lady Leven! There was absolutely nothing about this little scene that pleased Trevor. As he listened and watched, he grew angrier and angrier, and decided now a good time to announce his presence, as Franklin seemed so incapable of doing.
He stepped forward just as Nicki began to come to him, throwing over her shoulder one last teasing remark. “If you hear me scream,” she said in a low conspirator’s voice, “come running.” And then she saw him.
Her step faltered. She stopped so swiftly the top half of her body tipped forward a bit.
While she stared at him, her eyes suddenly panicked, Franklin said lamely behind her, “I tried to tell ye, Miss.”
“Who is this?” Ian asked immediately while Nicki moved or spoke not at all.
While Trevor might, at another time, find the young man’s watchfulness and protective bent towards Nicki gratifying, at the moment he did not. With his eyes still trained upon Nicki—as she seemed to struggle to breathe—he ground out viciously to the young man, “This is her husband.” And even as he answered, apparently the very sound of his voice caused his wife’s shoulders to fall forward in something of a defeated or weakened slump.
“She hasn’t a husband,” the man challenged, a similar snarl in his own words. He moved to Nicki’s side, and raised his hand to steady her. “Oh, she does, we all have heard,” this Ian dared further, his stance defending and defiant. “But we’ve yet to see any evidence of this, so we assume the man knows he isn’t welcome here.”
Trevor hated him straight away, and then even more so as his little wife lifted her hand to her side,
her small palm finding Ian’s chest in a staying motion, even as she still faced Trevor.
“What do you want, Trevor?” Her tone was cool now, gone the friendly and bantering voice she’d so pleasantly employed with the other two men.
“I want him,” Trevor answered hotly, pointing angrily at Ian, “out of my house, gone for good.”
Nicki released a short and angry bark of laughter. “Your house? The abbey is no more your house than I am your wife,” she informed him derisively. Nicki all but dismissed him then, turning and talking closely with Ian, her hand still familiarly at that man’s chest, while he watched Trevor with ill-concealed disdain over the top of her head. She must have said something that he disagreed with, for the man looked sharply down at Nicki and pursed his lips angrily. Her head tilted in a pleading fashion and after a short second, he must have given in to her plea, for he slapped his hat back upon his head and strode irately from the house, slamming the door behind him, even as Franklin’s slow hand made to grab at the handle.
Nicki once again faced Trevor now, having recovered from her initial shock, her expression now seemingly carved of ice. With squared shoulders and a haughty formality, she walked right by him. “I will receive you in the blue salon.”
Angry strides of his own carried him there. Intentionally, he closed the door once inside the room.
“What do you want, Trevor?” She asked again, her voice steady now. She stood with her hands on the back of a pretty striped armchair, the piece creating quite a distance between them.
Ah, there was a question, Trevor thought. Why had he come? His intent seemed to have been lost in the last few minutes, having been exposed to the life she lived here, and with whom. When he’d decided yesterday to ride to the abbey, his reasons had been quite ambiguous —despite the unprecedented visit of her grandmother several weeks ago. He’d stayed at a nearby hostel, unwilling to arrive so late as he might have if he’d ridden directly here. But today, he supposed it was an attempt to put indecision to rest that had him upon her doorstep so early in the morning.
“Are you sleeping with him?” It was foremost in his mind, having so recently pushed out other matters. Before her words answered him, her expression did, and Trevor breathed easier.
Nicki’s face showed first her confusion, and then her mighty anger. “I am not!” White- knuckling the back of the chair, she added, “And how dare you! Let me make something perfectly clear,” she went on in a thoroughly outraged voice. “You forfeited all claims to me the minute you rode away from here upon our wedding day. I haven’t any clue what brings you ‘round today, but you should know, you are not welcome. I will hear whatever it is that you have to say, and then I want you gone.”
Yes, she was definitely not the same girl he’d married, not the girl who’d begged him not to leave her, who’d maintained that she’d not betrayed him, who had at one time stared at him with eyes so bright with love. Jesus! What have I done?
“I am still your husband, and this is still my house,” he finally responded, controlling himself from grounding out the words.
She jumped greedily upon these words. “A fact you tried to forget or chose to ignore for almost a year. You’ll pardon me if I disagree. In any case, it will not be true for much longer.”
With the utmost energy employed to rein in his dangerous temper, he asked tightly, “Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
“An annulment, sir. It should be very easy to procure, given the state of our union.”
“I will not allow it.”
She seemed quite happy to inform him, “You will not have anything to say about it. I do not need your permission to seek an annulment. In your own words, Trevor, you’ve made your bed, now lie in it.”
A small muscle began to tic in his jaw line, and one again at his temple.
“We will remain married,” he clipped, his hands nearly fisted at his sides.
“To what purpose? To live as complete strangers for the next forty or fifty years? With our... huge dislike of each other?”
“That can be remedied.”
She shook her head sadly. “I might have agreed had we at least luck enough to have respect and trust between us—many a marriage has been based on less. But you and I... we’ve nothing at all. Nothing, save our mutual dislike and distrust and disrespect.” Her voice quavered a little bit as she spouted this.
“Can you read my mind so well then? Can you know what is in my heart?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Can I doubt it? Your actions on our wedding day, and over the course of the past year speak volumes.”
“Nicki, I was angry,” he thought to remind her. “I thought—"
She tossed her head. “Enter dislike and distrust. And a host of other unmarriageable feelings.”
“That is not how I feel,” he insisted angrily.
Bitterly, she said, “But it is how I feel.” She met his dark gaze steadily, unwaveringly.
With a fresh surge of annoyance, Trevor enlightened her. “Be that as it may, an annulment will not happen.”
His wife only shrugged. “You’re an intelligent person, Trevor. Surely you understand how these things work. You haven’t a say in the matter.”
He stared hard at her now, nearly slack-jawed. Did she hate him so much? Where had all that starry-eyed infatuation gone? Had he killed it so completely, never to be resurrected?
“You will not leave, ever.”
“You cannot keep me.” And she stalked away, out of the salon, and through the house.
To the empty room, he said, “Oh, but I will, little Nicki. I will.”
Chapter Nine
It was very difficult indeed for Nicole to pretend that Trevor, the man she had wed with so much hope in her heart, the same man who had squashed that hope with so little effort, was here now at Lesser House.
He’d chosen to ignore their marriage—indeed her very existence—for almost a year, she mused, anger still burning her insides. Oh, she’d been perfectly shocked to discover his presence this morning, but that shock had immediately turned to pain, recalling his treatment of her, and the truth that he had, for certain, destroyed any chance they might have had at happiness. Never mind that he was as handsome as ever, if not more so—or perhaps only more so because she’d been so starved for just a glimpse of him. She recalled with great anxiety how she’d cried for weeks and weeks when he’d left her here and had prayed for just one more opportunity to explain her part to him.
Struggling now with the long bed linens, trying to force them over the line Ian had strung for her outside the wash house, Nicole cursed volubly, as the wind had other plans for these linens. And then suddenly the linens and the wind were compliant, and the sheets seemed to find their own way over the line. But no, she saw a pair of strong hands coming from the other side. The rope was lowered, and Ian’s head and kind eyes appeared.
“Are you all right, miss?”
Nicole’s hands still hung on the sheets. She nodded but felt instantly the welling of tears. Gloomily, she dropped her head into her forearm. But she was nodding. “I will be all right as soon as he leaves,” she decided, drawing a deep breath to steady her still-shaken nerves.
Ian squinted down at her. “I know it’s not my business, miss, but what’s he doing here?”
Nicole shrugged, as she had no idea. “Being nosy, maybe. I haven’t a clue. He won’t stay, I vow. He’ll bore quickly with Lesser House and its bland lifestyle and he’ll return to London.”
“I only know about him through Franklin and Abby,” Ian admitted. “How long have you been married?”
“Almost a year, I guess,” she answered vaguely, reaching into the basket at her feet for the next piece of laundry. “Almost a year too long, I imagine.”
Her steward looked as if he might say or ask more, but he did not. He helped with the rest of the laundry, making easy work of it. They worked in silence, not quite uncomfortably, until it was done.
“Thank you, Ian,” she sa
id then and heard a carriage approach. “Must be our Mr. Adams.”
“Like as not,” Ian answered as they walked back to the house. “Unless you’ve other husbands due to arrive.”
An unexpected giggle fell from Nicole’s lips—Ian had a very dry wit about him which she’d come to enjoy very much. She glanced up at him and his handsome grin and shook her head, smiling at his impertinence. When she faced the house again, she saw Trevor watching them from a second story window, and even from this distance, she could make out his frank displeasure.
As they entered the house, Abby called out to them that she had put Mr. Adams in the study, knowing not what else to do with him.
“We should rather meet with him in the steward’s office, Miss,” Ian said thoughtfully. “I’ll bring him there while you freshen up.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll return quickly.” And she made to dash up the stairs, having left the empty basket near the back of the house and the kitchens, but slowed her climb when she sensed she was being watched. She lifted her eyes.
Trevor stood at the top of the stairs, glaring at her with unconcealed animosity.
“If you are cuckolding me in my own home, I’ll have his life and your hide.” His voice was dangerously low and menacing.
She’d had just about enough of Trevor’s assumptions, enough to last her a lifetime. “Keep assuming things that aren’t true, Trevor.” She mounted the stairs, not even flinching as she passed him, their arms touching. “I suppose eventually you might hit upon something with some truth to it.”
In her own chambers—not the master’s suite, not even the lady’s—Nicole threw off her wash apron and splashed water on her face from an ewer and basin sitting on a small table. She fussed for a moment with her hair, tying the long and thick braid up at her nape, and gave herself only a cursory glance in her mirror as she passed it.
When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1) Page 11