“Ever. Promise it, or Bertram will be in hell before I greet him again.”
Again that curious, speculative gaze. “If it is what you want, I promise.”
She had little memory of Greenlay Park’s appearance, other than it was an intimidating house of ancient grandeur and old-fashioned furnishings. She had been too sad and worried when she was here for her wedding to notice much else. As they approached this time she took its measure, however.
It dominated its low hillside, and no forest obscured the view for miles around. The massive main block of the house faced the lane that led to it. The stones alone were big, and of a deep creamy hue, and the long windows marching up its facade spoke of many levels and high ceilings and a complexity of chambers that had made her feel tiny and perpetually lost two years ago.
Other blocks attached to the first, like a series of additions cobbled into wings spreading right and left. Classical, but in the old French style, Nancy had said on seeing this house. She meant the style of the old monarchy. The style of the aristocrats who lost their heads less than thirty years ago, to her father’s approval.
She noticed that the landscaping surrounding the house for a quarter mile was in bad condition. At some point Mr. Repton’s influence had been employed, and she could tell where ground had been moved to create artificial rises and falls, and a canal dug to wind picturesquely through banks of wildflowers and shrubbery. Lack of maintenance meant the banks had now returned to wilderness and the trees so artfully placed had lost good form.
She wondered, as the coach came to a stop and Hawkeswell opened the door, what her father would say if he knew his daughter was expected to live in such a place.
An old man and a woman of middle years emerged through the massive entry doors. The man hurried to the coach, buttoning his coat on the way.
“My lord. We did not expect—The messenger did not say that—”
“It is a long story, Krippin, and for another day, perhaps. This is Lord Sebastian Summerhays’s coach, and it must begin its return to Essex tomorrow. Have the coachman and horses dealt with for the night.”
“Of course, my lord. Mrs. Bradley, please see to my lord’s guest.”
Mrs. Bradley came forward just as Verity stepped from the coach.
“You remember Mr. Krippin and Mrs. Bradley, don’t you, darling?” Hawkeswell drew her toward them. “The countess has returned home, Krippin. Please inform the servants.”
Mrs. Bradley hid her shock, but Krippin’s mouth gaped for an instant. Then the training of a lifetime summoned his formal demeanor again. “I will of course give them the good news, sir. Welcome home, Madam.”
They all walked to the door as if she had been gone a mere fortnight in London. Inside, two footmen were summoned and sent to carry baggage.
“I would like to go to my chambers, Mrs. Bradley,” Verity said before anyone could suggest something else. “I would like to rest from my journey.”
“Certainly, Madam.”
Mrs. Bradley mounted the stairs by her side. Both of them pretended ignorance of the fact that Verity had no idea how to get to her chambers, or to anywhere else in this house except the gardens.
Chapter Eleven
The Earl of Hawkeswell needed money.
Verity had not seen the evidence of that so clearly two years ago. Absorbed in her own worries, submissive in her decision, she had not paid attention.
Now a hundred little indications added to the ones she had already noticed in the farms and the landscaping.
There were few servants in this big house. Not nearly as many as at Airymont. Mrs. Bradley promised to send up a girl but it was doubtful the girl would be a proper lady’s maid.
The furnishings showed wear too. The drapes should be replaced on the tall southern windows where the sun had done its worst to their fabric. There had been little effort to improve conveniences here either. At Airymont, there were water closets and even a new bathing chamber. It was apparent that this household still made do with pots and portable tubs.
Each observation discouraged her more. They served as so many nails in the coffin holding her plan. The money denied him thus far from her settlement would continue to be out of reach during any petition, she suspected.
A huge sum was to come to him upon their wedding. It had not, he said. Perhaps she should promise to wait on any petitions until he received it. She would have to ask Mr. Thornapple if that would make a difference.
Mrs. Bradley brought her to the same apartment that she had been given when she came for the wedding. She realized now that someone had invested in these chambers at least. Recently. These drapes were new, as were the bed hangings in Prussian blue. The chairs featured unblemished upholstery and the fireplace sported scrubbed stones.
She pictured the earl ordering this done two years ago, so that his bride would not have to suffer the consequences of his finances. She wondered how he had paid for it all. Perhaps he had taken on debt.
He could have left it all as it had been and she would not have noticed that either. It would have made no difference to her. When one was in a sacrificial state of mind, one did not care if the stake on which she would be martyred was new and of good quality.
“All of your things are here, of course,” Mrs. Bradley said. She led the way into the dressing room, and opened three wardrobes and two trunks.
Verity fingered the fine fabrics. She had all but forgotten this wardrobe, purchased in London during the months before the wedding. Nancy had dragged her to modiste after modiste, demanding the best lace and silks. They had ordered enough dresses to wear four a day and still not repeat one for two weeks. Nancy had enjoyed the spree far more than Verity herself.
She pulled out several dresses and held them to her body and looked down. She had dressed very plainly at The Rarest Blooms, but not because she preferred humble garments. One did not garden in the best muslin or silk. Nor could she allow Daphne to lay out much money for her fabrics.
She found herself smiling at a lemon yellow sarcenet promenade dress as it flowed over her legs. It would be nice to wear pretty clothes. That was a feminine interest that she had never much indulged, but here was an entire wardrobe waiting to be explored.
“I will have water brought up,” Mrs. Bradley said, after unpacking the valise of its few items. “Then we will leave you to rest, Madam. Normally we keep country hours here, but the cook will be surprised that my lord is in residence today, and will be a bit later than normal with dinner as a result. I will send the girl up in two hours, to help you dress.”
Verity decided a rest before dinner would be wise. Resurrection had proven to be exhausting, and she needed to be in top form if she were going to spar with Hawkeswell at dinner.
He tapped at the door. When no one responded, he eased the latch down.
Verity’s little sitting room was empty. No sounds came from the dressing room either. He entered her bedchamber. An artificial twilight shrouded it because the drapes were closed.
She lay asleep there, in her chemise and stockings. The vaguest frown marred her peace. Perhaps she dreamed of something distressing. Her legs, drawn up as she rested on her side, caused the chemise to rise high enough that her left thigh and hip were uncovered.
The lovely line of that hip and thigh, the gentle curve made by her body in this position, captivated him. Another day, soon, he would give in to the urge to join her and caress that soft, graceful form. Today he kept his arousal from having its way, much the way he had learned to control his temper.
He set a small box on the bed beside her, near her face, and opened it. The pearls within glowed in the dim light on their bed of blue velvet.
He had come close to selling them several times during the last two years, even though they were family heirlooms. A countess of Hawkeswell had received them as a gift two centuries ago from a royal lover, the legend went. Perfect and priceless, they would have gone far to delaying the decline of this house.
He was very
sure it had not been sentiment that stayed his hand. Rather, he had not been sure the pearls were his to sell anymore. He had given them to Verity as a wedding gift.
He looked at the note he had written, decided against it, and slipped out the door.
Her nose hit something as she turned. The sensation nudged her awake. She rose out of a delicious weightlessness, and grew aware of herself and her surroundings.
She opened her eyes. Something odd blocked her view. She rose up on one arm and examined it.
A pretty wooden box, perfectly crafted and lined in velvet, rested on the bed. It was open, and strands of little creamy orbs lay within, contrasting in texture and color with their home.
The pearls.
A servant had delivered them while she dressed for the wedding two years ago. Nancy had been enraptured by their beauty and value, and insisted that Verity wear them for the ceremony. And she had worn them, just as she had done everything else demanded of her that day. But their beauty and rarity had done nothing to alter her mood, or make her any happier.
They had also been the first thing she removed after the wedding breakfast, because she feared breaking a strand. A clear memory came to her, one of the clearest of that day, of Nancy approaching her while she dropped those pearls onto the dressing table in the next chamber.
There are some things I must tell you now. That was how Nancy began that conversation that had provoked her rage and flight.
She lifted the pearls. No servant would leave them like this, on her pillow. Hawkeswell had been here.
He had returned her wedding gift to her, so she would have them as if she never left this house and this property that day. He expected her to wear them tonight, she was very sure. He would be insulted if she did not.
The strands fell over her hand and down her arm. Pearls felt like nothing else in the world, in their weight and surface and discreet luxury. These were probably worth a fortune.
She would indulge herself in their beauty for one dinner. They were not hers to keep, however.
Verity came down to dinner, as a vision transformed. Hawkeswell could not take his eyes off her when she entered the drawing room.
He had never seen her in anything except those simple dresses these last days. Even the memory of her wedding dress had been obliterated by unembellished, serviceable muslin.
Now the most interesting rosy brown silk encased her in a long, narrow, liquid shaft of elegance. The lace decorating its sleeves and hem and low neckline contrasted nicely with the unusual color and made the ensemble appear crisply fresh.
A sumptuous shawl in a paler version of the same color draped her arms and dipped low in the back. Multiple strands of pearls circled her neck and emphasized the elegance of her appearance, and of that particular way she had of tilting her head in silent query.
It tilted now, when she joined him. She noticed his glance at the pearls, and her hand rose and touched them for an instant. Her gaze carried an acknowledgment of what they were and how they had reappeared.
“The evening is fair. We are going to dine informally, on the terrace,” he said.
“That would please me.”
And him as well. There would be time enough for the crushing formalities of her new station. They did not have to spend this meal in a chamber that could seat forty.
They went out to the terrace where a table had been set. Candles flickered in the faint breeze, reflecting off silver and china still visible in the gathering dusk. The meal began arriving, more elaborate in courses and flavors than normally served here. Mrs. Bradley and the cook must have decided that the return of their countess required a bit of celebration and that frugality could be set aside tonight.
She peered through the dusk at the garden. “I remember it being bigger. Deeper.”
“Wilderness has reclaimed the back half. It was the gardener’s solution when most of his staff were let go. The grasses and saplings took over with astonishing speed. It is somewhat unsightly.”
“The maintenance of such an estate must be costly.”
“I have learned how little is essential. When necessary, one can sacrifice pretty vistas.”
“That back garden could still be reclaimed. Or you could allow the wilderness free rein. In a few years it would be complete, and no longer unsightly.”
She had drunk all her wine, and a servant poured her more. Hawkeswell watched the crystal rise to her lips. Last light had passed, and her mouth appeared very dark in the candlelight. Dark and erotic.
“There are not any trees of size in this garden,” he said. “The light is good year-round. Perhaps, instead of rebuilding flower beds or leaving nature to do its work, a greenhouse would be in order back there.”
“Their maintenance requires a great deal of work. If you have let the staff go—”
“The lack of servants on this property will be a problem soon solved.”
“Then a greenhouse would be an enhancement. It would provide fresh flowers to the house year-round. If you reside here much of the year, a hothouse would be good too. Then the more exotic fruits could be grown for your table.”
“How big do you think they should be?”
They debated the size, and she described the types available. She knew a good deal about greenhouses, and warmed to the conversation. She even laughed, which he thought unlikely tonight. She did not notice the servants drift away when the meal was done, so that the master and mistress might talk alone into the night.
“I do not think our old gardener is an expert at growing in greenhouses,” he said. “You would have to instruct him if we do this. It would be your domain, if you choose.”
The light made her blue eyes almost black, and caught the most subtle expression dramatically. Now he saw hesitation, and surprise at how they suddenly did not discuss his home alone, but both of theirs.
“There is room for one at the London house as well,” he said. “You can continue your experiments, no matter where you reside.”
She met his gaze for a long spell. Then she looked anywhere but at him. Her gaze roamed to the candle flames, the garden, the wall, as if in ignoring him, she could ignore the inevitable.
Finally she looked at the table’s top. “I would prefer to continue them at The Rarest Blooms, until all is settled between you and me.”
“No.”
“Then allow me to stay with Audrianna. Lord Sebastian’s coach will return to Essex tomorrow, you said. I implore you to allow me to go with it.”
“No.”
She did not ask why. It was in her eyes that she knew. She was not immune to the intimacy of this night, and the tightening, stimulating mood surrounding them now, full of compelling anticipation.
She finally looked at him. “And if I go anyway, without your agreement?”
“Since I am your husband, it is not my agreement that you need, but my permission.”
“You know that I do not accept that.”
He reached across the table for her hand. “You keep daring me to be harsher with you than I want to be, or need to be.” He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
“This marriage has taken place, and it is time for it to begin in truth.”
She gently freed her hand, and stood. He did as well, not only due to etiquette, but also out of respect. She was not a big woman, and one would not think her to be strong. Yet she had proven more determined and tenacious in her odd quest than he ever knew a woman could be.
She faced him in the night. Her head tilted in that memorable way. “When do you intend for this marriage to begin in truth?”
“Soon.”
“I assume that you will at least give me fair warning first?”
He reached out and touched the pearls. “I have already done so.” He skimmed the surface of the pearls, then let his fingertips slowly do the same to the skin right below the strand.
She closed her eyes to that stroking touch. She was too ignorant to know how much she revealed in that reaction, or in the
way her body flexed with a tremble.
“And if . . .” She licked her lips. She had no idea how suggestive that looked. “And if I refuse?”
He had not decided how soon, but he’d be damned if he would give her time to open that front in her little war.
In a matter of seconds, soon became very soon, and very soon became now.
Chapter Twelve
He did not answer her question. He just stood there, too close, too tall, too dark. One might think that all his concentration rested on the slow, soft way he caressed her skin below the necklace.
She braced against the sensations. It was insidious how such a small touch could create rivulets of pleasure that diverted her attention from anything else.
Except him. His mere presence created a shocking intimacy. Her own essence responded as if she had no choice. A thrilling shiver of heat flowed through her.
Her body betrayed her horribly. The sensations from the hilltop returned even though he barely touched her. Indulging them became a compelling desire that obscured all the solid reasons why she should not allow this at all.
Outright denial proved impossible, but she managed to move back, away from him and that touch. There was enough fear within the thrill to allow that.
He followed, pace for pace. He did not menace her. He merely stayed close, and prevented her from escaping his silent power.
Her rump hit the terrace wall, and she could back up no farther.
She placed her hand against his chest. Her palm pressed the silk of his waistcoat and her fingers the fine linen of his cravat. She did not do it to touch him, but to hold him at bay. Surely her gesture intended nothing besides that.
She thought she saw him smile in the dark. His hand came to rest atop hers and he pressed it down even more, so it turned into something of a caress. His heart beat under her palm and she felt his very life thrumming into her through her hand, and felt his body’s warmth and the muscles of his chest.
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