I’ll have to make her smile more often. The thought caught him off guard, and Gregory wondered why he’d never noticed Libby’s smile before. He’d known her for months, shared countless meals with her. It was hard to believe she’d never smiled in front of him even once in all that time. He must have been distracted by Tabitha.
The thought brought him crashing back to the reality of his disappointment. Clearing his throat, Gregory excused himself from the room.
“I’ll freshen up and see you at supper.” The question came out sounding more like an order than a polite request.
“I look forward to it.” Libby had raised her chin as though answering a challenge. “Though it will be served in the breakfast room tonight, as we began renovating the dining room yesterday afternoon.”
“Very well.” He strode past her, boots clicking smartly on the new marble tile as he made his way to the staircase. The sound almost seemed to echo in the large space of the house.
When he reached the second floor he turned left by habit, only to be brought up short. The master bedroom was where Libby slept now. If he went there, it would be tantamount to announcing his intent to share the room—and its bed—with her. He made a sharp turn to the right, unwilling to make such a weighty decision before spending more time with his unexpected bride.
Libby stood in the parlor, trying, as she had many times before, to see it as Gregory would. As Gregory had.
When the housekeeper informed her the master of the house had returned, Libby hastily made her way downstairs to greet him. He’d already left the entryway, robbing her of his reaction to the new floor. She’d headed for the library, since that’s where he’d disappeared on their wedding night, only to see him standing in the doorway of the parlor.
The light from the windows shone on his dark hair and illuminated the breadth of his shoulders beneath his jacket. His hands clasped behind him, legs spread for balance, he could easily have been on board one of his ships, surveying his domain. Which seemed to be precisely what he was doing here.
Libby opened her mouth but found herself reluctant to speak as her husband moved farther into the room as though drawn to its warmth. She bit her lip as his gaze swept the room, taking in the drapes, the newly refurbished settees, and even the carpet now beneath one of his black boots.
Still silent, Libby took in his every motion—the inquisitive tilt of his head, the measuring way he swept a hand along the back of the settee, and the way he compared the time displayed on the porcelain mantel clock to his own watch, nodding as he returned it to his pocket. When it seemed he’d fully assessed the room and would turn to find her gauging his reaction, Libby hurriedly said the first thing she could think of before he caught her watching him.
“Welcome home,” she’d told him, as though it were her place to do so. And, strange though it felt, it was.
“Thank you. It’s good to be home.” His words sounded sincere, if awkward, before heavy silence fell between them. Gregory glanced around the room once more as though weighing his words before he gave his opinion. Still he remained quiet.
He hates it. Suddenly, she questioned her choices. Soft primrose and eggshell? What had possessed her? I should have chosen what Tabitha would have—deep jewel tones vibrant enough to enhance her own beauty. The bitter tang of failure clawed its way up Libby’s stomach while she awaited his verdict, spilling out in a rush of blurted, desperate words.
“What do you think?” She winced as she heard herself demand that he share his thoughts with her. But she had to know.
When he praised her efforts, Libby locked her suddenly shaky knees, putting a hand to the door frame to steady herself. She could feel herself smile, practically from ear to ear, knowing that ladies gave tiny, polite, demure smiles, but unable to reign in her joy at the first hint of approval from her husband.
When he told her he’d go freshen up and see her later, at supper, she saw another opportunity to win his admiration. As he headed up the steps of the grand staircase, Libby rushed to the large kitchen hidden behind. She bypassed the cook for the moment, flinging open the door to the pantry and eyeing its contents. What would Gregory enjoy the most?
“I’d like to change tonight’s menu,” she informed Mrs. Rowins, who merely nodded. “As the captain is home now, we’ll have more than a simple supper. Instead, we’ll need to serve multiple courses. Not seven,” she hastily amended as the cook blanched, “but certainly a soup course and a main course and dessert.”
“Oh, yes.” The cook nodded, obviously relieved not to be called upon to prepare a feast at the eleventh hour.
Libby had taken to a bit of soup and some cold cuts with biscuits on a tray for her supper. Since the dining room wasn’t useable and the master wasn’t home, it had been a sensible arrangement. Now that Gregory was back, meal plans needed to change. She and the cook put their heads together, planning a simple but robust meal of his favorites.
When all was settled, Libby headed to the breakfast room with one of the maids, issuing last-minute instructions that it be dusted, scrubbed, polished, and set for supper. As she left another room in a flurry of activity, she smiled. She would pull off this mistress-of-a-grand-house thing yet. Gregory would have no cause to complain of her ability to manage Cranberry Hill.
Libby turned to the master suite, coming up short when she realized Gregory might well be using the water closet. After all, he was the master of the house, and this was his room. He didn’t forfeit his rights because he had elected not to share it with her on their wedding night. Now that the shock of it all was further behind them, would he come to her?
Libby tentatively stepped into the room, both relieved and crestfallen to find the door to the restroom wide open, the room beyond completely empty. He’d chosen to use a different room for now, perhaps out of consideration for her. Perhaps out of his own discomfort. Libby firmly pushed the troubling thoughts away. Now was her time to prepare, not wallow in doubt.
She freshened up, repinned her hair into her customary chignon, and stood before the enormous armoire. She flicked through her dresses, suddenly wishing she had taken Sarah up on her offer to “make Libby over” or had, at least, ordered a few more stylish items.
No. I’ll not become a pale imitation of Tabitha. When Gregory comes to accept me, it will be for who I am without any furbelows or gewgaws to mask me. Her decision made, Libby changed into her best dress, a pale mauve with lace edging, and slid her feet into delicate leather slippers in a slightly darker shade. She may not look as though she’d stepped from the pages of Peterson’s Magazine, but it was a vast improvement over the dowdy gray dress and walking boots she’d worn earlier.
So Libby went downstairs to meet her husband, a prayer on her lips and hope in her heart.
Chapter 7
Gregory came back to find the feminine touches that would make Cranberry Hill a home—furnishings and decorations and whatnot. Even better, he’d discovered a delightful supper companion for what might just be the best meal he’d eaten in the past year.
Beef and barley soup was made warmer still by Libby’s earnest inquiries about the Riverrider and her crew. No idle conversation here. He got the impression she really wanted to know about his day-to-day life.
Thick-cut pork chops and buttered baked potatoes served alongside her generous smile went down a treat. Amazing the way her smile transformed her face from somewhat ordinary to riveting. Gregory almost found himself regretting his much-prized electricity as he imagined what the soft flicker of candlelight would bring to their table.
Just when he was sure he couldn’t swallow another bite, the maids brought out his favorite dessert—rhubarb pie.
“This is my favorite!” He accepted a large slice and tucked it in with relish.
“I know.” Libby’s soft whisper had him putting down his fork to concentrate on her words. “I remembered from when you ate at my family home.”
“It’s wonderful.” He realized he didn’t just mean the delicious
sweet—there was something touching about having a wife who remembered his favorite dish and arranged to serve it to him on his first night home. He savored the dark coffee as she shyly mentioned plans for Cranberry Hill, seeking his opinions about what he wanted their home to be. Incredible how her ideas so nearly matched his own.
For the first time, he’d felt the faint stirring of hope that this marriage could work. Despite Tabitha’s betrayal and the destruction of his carefully laid plans, Gregory saw that his mother might be right—he was fortunate in his bride. A new confidence replaced his earlier misgiving, and it seemed only natural to take the next step when darkness fell.
Gregory awoke the next morning with a navy blue canopy over his head and his wife by his side. Her head cushioned in the nook between his arm and chest, her glorious hair brushing over both their pillows.
He looked down to see the dark sweep of her lashes against the rosy bloom of her cheek, a faint smile toying at the corner of her mouth. The warmth of her breath fanned against his side while he remained still, loath to waken her. In sleep, Libby was all sweet vulnerability and softness.
My bride. Strange how the thought no longer shot arrows of remorse through the center of his chest.
Now he cautiously slid his arm from beneath her neck, fingering the silken strands of her hair as he withdrew. Angling himself on one elbow, Gregory pressed a gentle kiss on Libby’s brow before leaving the warmth of their bed.
Lord, he prayed as he dressed quietly and slipped out the door and down the staircase, thank You for watching over me. It could easily have been the end of everything when I chose my bride rather than listening to Your will. Libby may never be the bride I wanted, but I begin to wonder whether she’s the bride You knew I needed. Bless us as we seek to make this marriage work, Lord. Amen.
Gregory strode into the library, which doubled as his study, intent on getting to work. There was business to be done, after all. He banged his knees as he sat at the too-short desk, setting it to a dangerous wobble. Gregory had to move fast to keep the day’s mail from sliding to the floor in an undignified heap.
He began to go through the pile, divvying the letters into categories as he went. Bill, invitation, invoice, bill, shipment request, accounting information for last quarter, invitation … He stopped as he came across a thick vellum envelope, which bore only the Cranberry Hill address. No return address, no name of sender, nothing to indicate whether the message was for him or Libby. Something about the looping curls of the writing tickled the edges of his memory….
Tabitha. His throat seemed to close at the realization. What could she possibly say to him after she’d left him standing at the altar, humiliated and betrayed before the entire city? How dare she write now! But it must be important or, at the very least, the heartfelt apology she owed him.
Gregory slashed open the missive with such force the letter opener jabbed him in the thumb. A drop of blood welled on the pad of the injured finger, smearing onto the envelope as he withdrew the paper inside.
I’m so sorry, the first line read. No introduction, no use of his name whatsoever. Gregory crushed his hand into a fist, ignoring the sharp pain from his thumb. He unfolded the rest of the paper to read the note in its entirety.
I’m so sorry. Please believe that I never intended things to happen as they did. I truly love Donald and know he adores me just the same. We’re wed now, on a trip to Boston to meet some of his old friends from university. It will be weeks before I come back to see you. I’ve heard the news … how the wedding went on without me. Such a thing was beyond my imagination. Please, please, please forgive me, Libby.
Libby? The name pulled Gregory’s attention away from the remainder of the letter. Tabitha’s letter was to Libby? And she was asking her sister to forgive her for forcing Libby to marry him? Had she really thought he’d be such an awful husband? Where’s my apology? Where does she seek my forgiveness for forcing me into marriage with her sister? Surely it must be further in …
But I know you’ll make the best of the situation—you always were the strong one. Besides, I’ve always secretly thought you might have feelings for Gregory. Don’t worry. You’ve hidden it well, but a sister knows … perhaps this marriage will turn out to be the best thing for you both. You’ll make him happier than I ever could, I’m sure of that much, at least.
All my love, Tabitha
Gregory read the letter three more times, turning the paper over and staring at the blank back side of it as though expecting a secret message to appear. None did. That being the case, he pawed through the other mail on his desk, seeking a twin letter meant for him. He found no such thing. Burying his head in his hands, he groaned aloud.
Libby has feelings for me? The notion knocked him off-kilter. Is it better to have the sister I do not love but who cares for me than the one I do love but who cares not for me? And now that I’ve consummated our marriage, will Libby come downstairs with stars in her eyes and the expectation of storybook romance?
The thoughts swirled around his brain, pounding in his temples, until Gregory could take no more. Stalking into the entryway, he shouted for Jenson to fetch his coat. With that, he strode through the door and headed for the docks.
Libby snuggled in the warmth of the bed, unwilling to open her eyes and lose the memory of Gregory’s tenderness to the challenge of a new day. Taking a deep breath, she peeked through her lashes to find an empty space on her husband’s side of the bed.
He had awoken and been careful not to wake her as well. Libby smiled as she pressed her hand into the indentation of her husband’s pillow. Today they’d truly begin their life together as man and wife. In the eyes of God, they were joined forever.
Filled with sudden energy, Libby hopped from the bed, wincing only slightly at the soreness in her muscles as she made her way to the restroom. She hummed as she washed and readied herself for the day, eager to spend time with Gregory and seek his opinion on all the plans she had for Cranberry Hill.
She glided down the stairs, peeking into the study to see whether her husband had begun work for the day. Seeing only a stack of opened mail, she headed for the breakfast room. How wonderful it would be if they could start the day with a meal together.
But he wasn’t in the breakfast room. Or the parlor, the music room, the dining room, any of the spare bedrooms, or the widow’s walk atop the house. Libby felt the tension in her brow as she sought the housekeeper, thinking perhaps Gregory had left a message with Mrs. Farley.
She found the housekeeper enjoying some toast in the kitchen. “Excuse me, but did my husband go out this morning?”
“Yes, he did.” The woman swiftly rose to her feet and dusted crumbs from her apron. “Left less than a quarter hour ago.”
“And did he leave notice of where he was going?” At the woman’s silent head-shake, Libby tried again. “Did he say when he’d be returning? If there was anything in particular he’d like for dinner this afternoon?”
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.” The woman pulled a folded piece of paper from an apron pocket. “He did direct Jenson to see that you received this.”
Libby turned away from the woman’s curious gaze and unfolded the note to find a single line.
Gone on business. Will return.
Gregory Alan Royce
“Very well.” Libby straightened her shoulders, determined not to show her discomfort. She addressed the cook. “We’ll have ham sandwiches with egg salad and fresh fruit for dinner this afternoon. Please have things ready at twelve thirty sharp. We will, of course, be dining in the breakfast room again.”
With that, Libby swept out of the kitchen and made her way into the dining room. Today the workers would begin installing the chestnut wall paneling she’d selected for the lower half of the walls. She’d also selected a decorative chair rail in matching wood to add polish and ease the transition from paneling to paint.
The workers had already painted the walls a deep shade of burgundy. The color would have been to
o dark, save for the electric lights unique to Cranberry Hill. Until Gregory returned, she would throw herself into remodeling the house. That should occupy her mind and make the time pass quickly.
The morning flew by in a whirl of hammering and noise. Dinner came and went—Gregory had yet to return. Libby oversaw the installment of the furniture she’d purchased. The china cupboard stood at one end of the room, the buffet at the other, and the matching table with seating for twenty stretched between. The hours plodded more ominously as suppertime arrived but her husband had not.
As Libby sat at one end of her new dining room, her only companion an empty place serving, her appetite fled. After an entire day had passed, she could no longer deny the truth. Their night together hadn’t meant to him what it had to her.
Gregory had left her. Again.
Chapter 8
A week passed, then another. Libby found constant reminders of her husband’s desertion in almost every corner of Cranberry Hill. His half of the bed obviously had not been slept in, his clothing untouched in the armoire. No scratching of pens came from his study, no shared meals in the breakfast room or conversations enjoyed in the newly refurbished parlor.
Libby directed the cook to make simple trays once again. The dining room sat in darkness, never showcasing its new luxuries. Her footsteps echoed on the marble tile of the main entry. The staircases stretched to reach empty rooms, not the least of which was the nursery.
Lord, her heart cried as she stood in the doorway of the barren room, I thought Gregory realized we could build a marriage together. He came to my bed, filled my heart with hope, and snatched away the dream once again with scarcely a word. I don’t know where he is now or when he’ll return. Even after he left, I prayed that You would bless me as You blessed Leah. But she bore her husband a son, and I carry no child beneath my heart. Will I have no family to love—no husband, no daughters, no sons—no laughter and joy?
Bartered Bride Romance Collection Page 54