“No.” He paused. “They stayed at Bonhomie.”
She caught the note of hesitation. She grasped on to it in an attempt to redirect her thoughts from the prickly uneasiness she seemed to be experiencing to something, anything, else. In a flash of intuition, she hazarded a question, “Do they know you are married?”
Roman debated lying. Then decided against it.
“I posted a letter to them several days ago,” he said.
“Oh,” was her response.
He didn’t know if hers was a good “oh” or a bad one. “They will be happy for us.”
“Or their feelings might be hurt.”
Roman could tell her about his stepfather, David, but why? The news wouldn’t mean anything to her and David would not thank him for his honesty. He would prefer to make his own impressions.
Leonie considered him with her solemn brown eyes. “You don’t believe they will wish us happy?”
“They know that years ago I fought a duel over a woman. They are . . . protective. I wanted them to meet you first and then they can put together the story of how we first met.”
“Oh,” she said again, the word with more awareness. “I think I see.”
And then, because he might as well have it all out, because surely someone in his family might mention it to her, he said, “They know I was demoted because of the duel.”
Leonie sat quietly as if digesting his words. A small line of worry appeared between her brows. “I did not know about the demotion.”
“Didn’t you wonder what had become of me after you left?” He tried to keep his voice light. He wasn’t entirely successful.
She pushed herself back into her corner of the coach. “I assume my father took care of smoothing matters.”
“Just a snap of his fingers, eh?”
“No, of his purse.” She turned away from him, staring out the window as if she could imagine him gone, and he wanted to laugh at the cruel jest of his life.
He’d married her because he wanted her, plain and simple. His stepfather had always warned him against thinking with his little head instead of his big one. Only a fool would do such a thing.
Well, Roman Gilchrist was a fool. But a rich one now. He didn’t mention that his family would be upset that he had married for money. They believed in love. His mother had married twice for love. Beth and her husband, Lawrence, had been a love match, and Dora was still looking.
However, love could not have paid the old Rochdale’s gambling debts to Erzy and Malcolm or make the repairs necessary to build Bonhomie into the estate he had described to Leonie.
Furthermore, he had the woman who had haunted his dreams. She sat next to him in these close quarters, the faint scent to her perfume on her skin in danger of driving him to madness . . . because she was his wife. This woman he’d sacrificed so much for was finally his.
And then she surprised him.
She looked to him, her expressive eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I should not have let you be blamed for what I did. I believe we must tell the truth.” Her face had gone very pale.
“Tell the truth?” Roman didn’t exactly understand what she was saying.
“Yes, we should tell people you were innocent of Arthur’s death. We should go to your commanding officer or the officers at the Company”—she referred to the East India Company—“and explain that I killed him.”
“We will not do any such a thing,” Roman assured her, astounded she’d even offered.
“Why not? It isn’t right that they believe a lie about you.” She looked down at her hands. They seemed to tremble slightly. She clasped them tightly.
Roman placed his hand over hers. It had not been his imagination. Her hands did tremble. However, at his touch, her fingers curled tightly as if resisting him.
He could have pulled away. He did not.
Instead, he spoke words that, during the ruin of his military career, he had never believed he would say. “It doesn’t matter. We both made choices that night. What’s done is done and the two of us have managed fairly well, have we not?”
Her brows came together. “You can forgive me for all that happened to you?”
“I have.” He forced a smile at the lie. It wasn’t until this moment that he realized how deeply his resentments had run toward her. He truly had believed she had known of his fate, of what he’d done for her, and had not cared.
“I don’t know if I can forgive myself. I don’t know why I eloped with Arthur. He was insistent,” she added as if that explained something.
However, Roman was all too aware of what had driven Paccard—he’d considered Roman a rival for Leonie’s attention. He’d believed that since Roman had joined the brigade, she’d lost interest in him. Jealousy could drive a man to insanity.
God help him, Roman wanted to ask her if it was true.
But he didn’t. She was his wife. And yet they were perfect strangers.
“Tell me about your family,” she said, changing the subject.
“My stepfather was an Oxford fellow and tutor,” he said. “My mother is a bit of a rooster.”
“Rooster?” Leonie’s eyes widened at the thought and then she laughed. “Your mother can’t be a rooster.”
“Peacock, then. Catherine Gilchrist is a proud woman who does not like to be crossed.” He didn’t tell Leonie his mother was also a very worried woman.
“I will keep that in mind.”
“My sisters are very much like her.”
“I shall keep that in mind as well. Any brothers?”
“I am the only son and I’m the youngest, which means I am accustomed to being bullied about by my sisters.”
She laughed at the thought, the sound soft and light—and he wanted to kiss her. She was all but inviting him to do it.
If they had celebrated their marriage with a normal wedding night, or if their circumstances had been different, he’d be making love to her in this coach right now.
Roman had never been one to be shy around women. He usually knew exactly what they wanted from him, but Leonie was different.
No, the stakes were different. He was in love. Yes, he had fallen under her spell and he barely knew her—but what he was learning about her, he liked very much. Besides, he had a soft heart for the vulnerable.
The question was, could she love him?
And that was one that could torture a man’s soul.
He really hadn’t given her a choice about marriage, had he? He’d thought he’d known her secrets. Instead, he was learning her scars and he wanted to do everything in his power to make her happy with this marriage.
Bonhomie was the lynchpin in his plans. It would be safe ground between them.
So, he told her of Bonhomie as he saw it. He described the fields, the livestock, the mill with its rushing stream. She listened as if he was telling the grandest story in the world.
And he was.
What would she think when they arrived? Well, he’d have to convince her to see it as he did.
Chapter 12
They stopped for the night at an inn not far from the Post Road, the Hound’s Breath. It was a busy house with travelers from all ranks of life.
Leonie was exhausted, hungry, and not feeling particularly herself.
While her husband arranged with the innkeeper for their rooms and hiring a vehicle for the morrow, she sat on a bench in the reception room and watched people coming and going in and out of the open doorway of a large taproom. Most were genteel folk but there was a group of soldiers who were well into their cups. They were drinking tankards of ale but they also had a bottle that they passed freely amongst themselves.
She caught herself watching that bottle as it was shared.
A gnawing discomfort grew in her. She’d noticed her hands trembling slightly earlier in the coach and she felt them tremble again now. She folded them in her lap. She didn’t think Roman had noticed. She wondered if the trembling would stop if she could have a wee sip of the bottle the soldie
rs shared.
The bottle had stopped its movement. She lifted her gaze to the solider holding it.
He’d noticed her staring. He was a ragged sort, with several days’ growth of beard along a pudgy jawline. He grinned, showing alarmingly yellowed teeth.
The whole table now turned and ogled her in the boldest way possible.
Leonie dropped her gaze to her folded hands, heat burning her cheeks. She had been indiscreet.
“Hey there, lovely,” one of them called. “Come join us.” He had an Irish accent.
Leonie studied the bench as if she could conjure a wall between herself and them. Where was Roman? He had stepped outside with the innkeeper.
“Don’t be embarrassed, miss. There’s room at this table for you.” The jibe was met with laughing agreement—until Roman’s boots stepped into Leonie’s line of vision. He had returned and placed himself in front of her.
Silence fell.
Indeed, the whole taproom had gone quiet. Leonie feared she would succumb to the mortification. She knew better than to give any attention to soldiers. For some reason, male vanity took it as an open invitation—as if she would look twice at the likes of them at that table.
However, Roman’s solid presence shut them up quick enough.
She was both relieved and furious.
Roman offered her his hand. “The innkeeper has a private room for our supper.”
“Yes, please,” Leonie murmured, and took his hand. She did not glance at the soldiers as he led her through the taproom. She prayed they would be gone by the time she and Roman finished their meal.
The good-sized private room overlooked an evening garden and a small pond. Several ducks were nestled in the reeds around its bank. Leonie spent time watching them, conscious of Roman’s strong presence as the maid quickly set the table with pewter plates.
Another knock on the door and the innkeeper’s wife, who introduced herself to Leonie as Mrs. Stoddard, carried in a huge tray of food. While the maid dutifully placed the dishes on the table, Mrs. Stoddard said, “We hope you enjoy your stay, my lord. If you or your lady need anything, you have only to say the word and Michael and I will come hopping.”
“Thank you,” Roman said. “We appreciate your service.” He pressed coins in her hands.
Leonie waited for the door to close to untie her hat. Even though she had sworn off wine, she noted there was not a bottle of it on the table. Nor a pitcher of ale. Instead, the inn had served them tea.
Two pots of it.
She hated the disappointment she experienced at not seeing a bottle. It shamed her.
“I’m hungry,” she said, her voice bright. A Charnock learned the best way to move forward was to do so smartly. She set her bonnet on a side table and unbuttoned her pelisse. “Are you?”
He smiled, the expression cautious as if he’d watched to tell her mood. “Actually, I am.”
“Hard to believe when all we did was sit in a coach.” She kept her voice light, friendly, warm. Leonie knew what was expected and she always performed.
Roman sat with his wife for their first meal together. It had been a long day. However, the trip had released a great weight from his shoulders.
When he’d met with her father earlier at the bank, he’d thought to ask about the drinking. However, at the time, Charnock, who had left the night before and had not come home, was obviously intoxicated. The banker hadn’t raised an eyebrow at Charnock’s condition.
Charnock had rambled drunkenly about how pleased he was to have an earl, but he had made no apology to Roman about his daughter passing out drunk during her own wedding ceremony. He also did not ask how she fared.
Roman was no fool. Either the man knew and didn’t care, or didn’t know because, apparently, he and his wife suffered the same affliction.
And yet, Roman and Leonie had meshed together well in the coach. At the table, she served him. She poured them both cups of the rich, black tea and then placed pieces of the ham on his plate. She gave him several spoons of peas and also of carrots.
He noticed she served herself generously as well. Good. He liked women with an appetite. He remembered one of the things that had attracted him to Leonie was her lack of pretense. Amongst all the young women at the Colonial Balls, she had been the most herself.
Over the dinner table, Leonie laughed easily and asked him questions about his likes and dislikes. This was the stuff of his dreams. All afternoon, she had been engaged in his talk about Bonhomie. She’d even been interested in his family.
And now here they were, man and wife, sharing a meal.
Of course, he did feel awkwardness from her about touching. They were a marriage of convenience but he wanted it to be much more. The way she was now, her ease around him, her willingness to serve as his hostess, to discuss matters that meant something to him, was all he’d hoped.
Years ago, he’d been infatuated with her. Now that bond strengthened as he found himself eager for her approval and her smiles.
They talked more about Bonhomie.
The meal came to an end.
They fell into silence. Roman had been watching her, waiting for a sign that she was ready for bed.
Of course, ever since he had paid for the room he’d been more than ready to find the bed, and not because he was tired.
He wanted his wife in all ways. And yet he was acutely sensitive to the emotional turmoil in her confession the night before about Paccard’s rape.
How did another man release her from that terror?
Roman considered himself a good and capable lover, but Leonie had suffered greatly, more from the guilt of her own secrets than what Paccard had done. It was possible that Roman hadn’t done her a favor by taking the blame for Paccard’s death. He’d killed men in combat, and even when their deaths were justified, it was never easy. Only those with no conscience or who had never pulled a trigger could walk away unscathed.
Was it any wonder she had turned to brandy? However, she’d not had a drink all day. She’d also not made a fuss this evening . . . so perhaps her drinking was an anomaly? Perhaps, because they truly had not known each other well, she’d tried to medicate her fear of the marriage bed and the wifely duties it entailed?
He prayed that he’d eased those fears.
Leonie yawned, the gesture purely feminine.
“Shall we go to our room?” Roman asked, keeping his voice neutral.
“Yes, I suppose we should.”
He could have shouted hosanna, but then a line he was beginning to recognize as a sign of her doubts formed between her brows.
“Is something the matter?” He invited her to confess any fears.
Instead, she looked at him with guileless eyes and shook her head.
Did that mean she had no doubts about sharing his bed?
Or—and this idea was forming slowly in his mind—was she one of those people who wore a mask well? There had been times when she’d let him glimpse the real her. Last night was a good example. That woman was a far cry from the polished creature who sat at the table and was everything a wife should be over dinner.
Some men might want the easier woman.
Roman was not one of them. However, he was not above a test. All the way through dinner and even during the coach ride there seemed to be an invisible barrier around her. He now leaned toward her and covered her hand on the table with his own. His movement broke that sense of space.
She startled. It was the slightest of gestures, one she quickly hid.
“I want you to know that I value you,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
“I know that.”
“You are safe with me,” he reiterated.
“I assumed so.”
Her answers were a bit too rote. Roman decided the time had come for directness. “I want to make love to you.”
Her eyes widened and then shifted away from him to focus on the teapot nearest her. He couldn’t help but wonder if she wished it could change into something else.
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Then, visibly gathering herself, she smiled like the perfect gentlewoman and said, “I thought you might.”
But there was no warmth behind the words.
Roman wanted warmth. He wanted passion.
And he was not going to give up.
“Come,” he said, helping her rise. “Our bags will be in our room. They have one of those water closets. We’ll stop there before we go upstairs.”
When he opened the door, Leonie moved past him obediently. The innkeeper had kept an eye on them. He hurried up to Roman. “How was your dinner, my lord?”
“Very fine, Mr. Stoddard.”
“Here is the key to your room. It is the first door at the top of the stairs. I started the fire in the hearth myself. It may be spring but we will have a cold night.”
“Thank you,” Roman said, and directed Leonie by the elbow toward the back of the inn where the stairs took guests up to their rooms. The main taproom was crowded and noisy. The table of soldiers Roman had noted earlier was still there. They watched Leonie with hungry eyes.
He pulled her close. She was his and a wise man would keep his eyes to himself.
The water closet was a room added on to the inn where at one time there had been an outside entrance. Stoddard had told him, when he’d taken Roman to check out the room, that this new convenience was not only for his guests, but to make the rooms more comfortable. Nothing was more annoying than a chamber pot left overnight.
Roman let Leonie use the water closet while he stood guard against any wanderers from the taproom. He then escorted her safely to their room, his boots echoing on the wood floor. The Hound’s Breath had come highly recommended and he was pleased. The bed was a four-poster in the middle of the room with the sheets turned down. A candle was lit on a side night table and there was a cheery, warm glow from the hearth.
Of course, he anticipated that he and Leonie would make their own heat.
He looked to his wife. “Is all to your liking?”
She nodded but he didn’t think she heard him. Instead, she studied the bed as if she had never seen one before.
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