Unsuitable Wife

by Kruger, Mary

  Justin looked skeptical. “Regardless. You had no right.”

  “No right! But I am mistress here.”

  “I don’t believe I gave you that authority.”

  “Oh, yes, you did, when you married me.”

  Justin was about to retort to that, but at that moment there was a soft knock on the door. He wheeled abruptly around, crossing back to the window, while Phelps brought in the tea tray, and only when he and Melissa were again alone did he turn back. “Why didn’t you tell me about your family?” he asked. One of the more uncomfortable moments of his life had come when Augusta had tartly informed him of his wife’s background, something he should already have known. The worst part was that he had known, and respected, her father.

  Melissa, pouring out a cup of tea, looked up at him, standing near the fireplace, his foot upon the fender. Her earlier anger had simmered down; Papa had always warned her to put a guard on her temper, no matter the provocation. And this time, the provocation was great, indeed. “As I recall, my lord, I tried.”

  “Well, it made me feel like a fool.”

  “I don’t imagine that would be too difficult,” she muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am so sorry, my lord, but I would rather feel foolish than have my entire life disrupted!” She set down the teapot with a thump.

  “Don’t expect me to pity you,” he retorted. “You’ve done well enough for yourself, got yourself a title.”

  Two spots of color appeared on Melissa’s cheeks. “Really! For all the good it’s done me.” Her voice was bitter. “All this marriage has brought me is loneliness and scandal.”

  “Ha! You got what you wanted. The granddaughter of a man in trade, marrying an earl?”

  “Oh, so we’re back to that again, are we, how I trapped you? Well, my lord, if you hadn’t been so willing to step into the trap we wouldn’t be here today!”

  “No, but you’ve made the most of it, haven’t you?” His gaze went around the room, avoiding, and then finally settling on, the portrait of his mother. “I want that painting removed immediately.”

  “Why?” Melissa asked in surprise. To her, the portrait was much more suited to this room than the hunting scene that had hung there before. Painted by Gainsborough, it depicted a beauty dressed in the style of the last century, in a gown of pale blue brocade. Clouds of dark hair, unpowdered, were piled upon her head, and around her throat was a magnificent diamond necklace. But her eyes were what compelled one’s attention. The painter had caught a variety of expressions in her gaze, sensuality, curiosity, and more than a hint of mischievousness. They were her husband’s eyes, she realized with a jolt. “I think it’s a charming picture.”

  “Regardless. I want it taken down. And in future, madam, you will consult me about any changes.”

  “But you’re never here! How can you tell what is needed? The house is practically falling down, and as for the farms! And if you look at the books you’ll see that the Jenkinses—”

  “Enough.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it. To her own surprise, Melissa subsided. “I will not argue with you on this. The estate is not your responsibility.”

  “Then whose is it? No one’s overseen anything here in years, and everything is falling apart—”

  “I have an agent.”

  “But he doesn’t seem to do anything! At least, I think he would, if he had the money and the direction, but he’s been held back all this time. Somebody’s got to take the reins.”

  “Not you, madam.”

  “Who, then, you? And what do you know about it?” she said, her voice sarcastic. “Who are you but just another member of the ton? Oh, I’ve heard about people like you, my father told me. Living only for your own enjoyment, bleeding your estate dry and never accomplishing anything—”

  “Madam, enough!” Justin roared, and Melissa blinked in surprise. My God, I sound like my father, he thought, the last thing in the world he wanted. Still, she had to be told. This was his estate, his responsibility, not hers. “You’ll not deal with estate matters.”

  Melissa sat down with a thump. “So what am I to do?” she said, bitterly. “I thought I could at least run this house. I don’t feel like a countess, and God knows I’m not a wife.”

  Justin raised his head. “Ah, now we come to it,” he said, softly. “And is that what you want, madam?”

  Their eyes met, and Melissa’s were the first to drop. “I -don’t know. I hardly know you.” She looked up at him, unaware of how appealing she looked, her brow slightly furrowed in a frown, her eyes confused. “But I don’t want to go on like this, not knowing who I am, where I belong.”

  Justin made a motion with his hand. “God knows I’m not happy about this, either.” He looked down into the fire and then turned to face her. “It appears, madam, that we have no choice.”

  Melissa licked lips gone suddenly dry. “What does that mean?” she whispered.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me that way,” Justin snapped. “If the prospect of being my wife is so distasteful to you, then I won’t touch you.”

  Relief surged through Melissa, mingled with another emotion that felt oddly like disappointment. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Call me Chatleigh, at least. And don’t thank me.” His eyes bored into hers. “I shall want heirs someday.”

  Melissa shivered, but she forced herself not to look away. “Yes, of course. I would like children, too.”

  Justin returned the look, and let out a bark of laughter. “We’ll see,” he said, cryptically, and moved away from the mantel. “My apologies, madam. Got things to do. Still keep country hours for dinner?”

  “Yes, of course,” Melissa said, and watched him go, frowning. For the past few weeks she had had the Hall very much to herself, and she had grown accustomed to being in command. Now her husband had returned, and intended to take up the reins. It galled her that he hadn’t said one word of praise or gratitude for all the work she had done. After all, hadn’t it she done it for him?

  Melissa went very still. Oh, Lord, she thought, sinking down onto the sofa, her hands to her cheeks. If that were true, what did she do now?

  The great house was quiet and all was in darkness, save for one room. In the room that had been his father’s study and now, he supposed, was his, Justin sat in a tattered leather armchair, his long legs stretched to the fireplace. An occasional flame from the dying fire lit his face, tense with strain, and glinted off the bottle of burgundy that stood on the table near his elbow. The low level of wine that remained testified to the fact that Justin had been sitting there for a very long time.

  A log in the fireplace suddenly cracked in two and fell with a pop, sending sparks up the chimney. As if awakened by the sound, Justin stirred. Stretching, he reached for the bottle and poured the dregs into his goblet. Time for bed, he thought, and the corner of his lips twitched. Aye, time to go to an empty bed, and the thought of his wife’s sweetly rounded, soft body lying asleep in the next room. He had remembered that she was a shrew, a schemer, but he had conveniently forgotten her beauty, her large, expressive eyes, her sweet smile, her very feminine form. Now he could not forget any of it. How he would sleep tonight, he didn’t know.

  Outside the wind, presaging the storms of winter, howled around the house; inside, Melissa instinctively huddled deeper in her bed, the quilts tucked around her. It had been an odd evening. Dinner had passed in silence, and when it was over she had withdrawn, leaving her husband to his port and cigars. She hadn’t seen him since, and surely she wasn’t disappointed. Attractive though he was, tall and strong and far more handsome than she’d remembered, he had not proven to be the best of company. She would do very well without his presence.

  And so she had gone to bed, alone, telling herself she was glad of it, cold though her bed was on this blustery night. Her sleep was dreamless and undisturbed. Until, that is, her door suddenly crashed open.

  Melissa sat up with a start, her hand t
o her heart, which was pounding alarmingly. The room was dark, except for the glow of a candle in the doorway. Disoriented as she was, it took her a few moments to realize that the door led to the earl’s suite, adjoining her own. A figure moved through the opening and into her room. Her heart stopped, and then started again, pounding even louder. It was her husband. In spite of his assurances to her, he had come to claim his rights.

  Chapter Eight

  For a moment Justin stood in the doorway, unable to see beyond the glow of his candle, but knowing that his wife was awake, and aware of him. With careful steps he walked farther into the room, and at last his eyes fell on Melissa, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide and dark, a mobcap set askew on her tumbled curls. He did not stop until he had reached the side of the bed.

  So this was it, Melissa thought, staring up at him. His eyes glinted in the candlelight and so she was unable to assess his mood, but she suspected that he would deal with any opposition she might make easily and ruthlessly. His shirt was open at the neck to disclose the dark mat of hair, and his hair was disordered. Most telling of all, however, was the scent of wine. Her husband had been drinking. Did he want her only when he was foxed?

  “My lord?” she said, when the silence had gone on for too long. Justin started, like a sleepwalker awakened from a dream, and slowly reached out his hand. Melissa did not flinch, but watched it as it came close, expecting at any moment to feel its touch upon her cheek. She felt oddly suspended and expectant, and not at all afraid. If it were going to happen, then it would happen. “Justin.”

  Justin’s hand suddenly jerked back. He stared down at her for a moment and then, abruptly, turned on his heel and walked away. A moment later the door closed behind him, and Melissa was again alone in the darkness, startled and bewildered.

  “Has his lordship risen yet?” Melissa asked as she sat down at the table for her breakfast.

  “Yes, my lady, he breakfasted some time ago,” Phelps said, placing a cup of coffee before her.

  “Really.” Melissa stared ahead for a moment, not seeing the rather dingy paint of the breakfast room’s walls. She had forgotten that Chatleigh was not an idle aristocrat. After last night, she would have thought he’d sleep in, but he apparently had a very hard head. “Is he still in the house, do you know?”

  “No, ma’am. Said he was going to check on the boy and then ride over the estate.”

  Melissa’s head came up at that. “Really! Well. I must check on Georgie myself, poor boy.” She took a sip of coffee. “Thank you, Phelps, that will be all. Oh, and would you please let me know when the earl does return?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Phelps said, and withdrew, leaving Melissa alone with her thoughts. She felt restless and unsettled this morning, and annoyed with her husband. Because he had come to her room, she told herself hastily. Not because he had left.

  It was mid-morning when Justin, by way of Phelps, requested to see her. “Oh, bother!” she exclaimed, climbing down from the ladder upon which she had perched to dust the picture frames in the morning room. “And just look at me—tell him I’ll be there presently, Phelps.” Grumbling to herself, she dashed up to her room, pulling off the mobcap and running her fingers through her short curls. He couldn’t have caught her at a worse time, and she would have to change.

  No. She paused in the act of unbuttoning her dress. Better that he see how hard she had been working. Hastily washing her face and dragging a comb through her hair, she turned away with a defiant sniff. Let him think what he would.

  If Justin thought anything of her attire, after she had entered his study, he didn’t show it, except, perhaps, for the slight quirk of his mouth. “Well?” Melissa said, and Justin’s mouth quirked again. She looked like a child expecting to be punished and determined not to show any fear. “You wished to see me?”

  “Sit down.” Justin gestured to a chair near the desk, and she sank into it, her head erect and her hands folded in her lap. Defiance and pride were so written into every line of her body that Justin found himself smothering a smile. He was feeling more kindly disposed towards her today, though he had a confused memory of going into her room last evening. He was quite certain that nothing had happened, however, and that was just as well. Better to avoid any entanglements with her, even if she was not quite what he expected. Yesterday she had shown amazing kindness and fortitude for a woman, in dealing with young Georgie Turner, and last evening she had looked quite alluring, in spite of her prim nightrail and cap—

  Which was something he would not think about, he told himself firmly, setting his mind on other topics. He was much more at ease this morning, well-rested and well-fed, and Mrs. Barnes had fussed over him as she should, making him feel welcome, at last, in his own house. For there was no question that the house did feel like a home again. The level of service was such as it had not been since his mother’s time, and everything was clean. If the furniture were shabby and scarred, still not a speck of dust was allowed to mar it, and the windows sparkled in the sunshine. His wife’s hard work was evident everywhere. Perhaps he had made a mistake yesterday, forbidding her to do more.

  “Well?” Melissa said, breaking into his thoughts, and in her voice he heard just a touch of fear. “What did you wish to see me about?”

  Justin straightened. “Been looking over the account books,” he said, tapping the books that lay on his desk with his finger.

  “Oh? Oh.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong. The Jenkinses were stealing?”

  Melissa hesitated, and then, slowly, nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why the devil wasn’t I told? No, don’t answer that,” he said, getting to his feet and waving his hand. “That why you dismissed them?”

  “I had to.” Melissa looked up at him, standing by the window. “I’ve found out since that they had arrangements with the local shopkeepers, to pay more for inferior goods, and to split the profits. And they would dismiss staff on their own authority, and then pocket that money. And—well, I could go on, but it was clear they were bleeding the estate, and we couldn’t have that! Besides,” she added, “they wouldn’t listen to anything I said.”

  Justin thrust his hands into his coat pocket. “Didn’t think of bringing charges against them?”

  “Well, I did, of course, but you know Sir Percival. I met him at church and I’m afraid he thinks I’m dreadfully empty-headed.” Justin smiled. Sir Percival Dutton, the local magistrate, believed every woman was empty-headed. “I didn’t feel I could go ahead without support, my—Chatleigh, and so I dealt with it best I could. If I could have reached you—”

  “Pray do not reproach me anymore on that score,” he said, his voice icy, and Melissa sat back, her spirits sinking. When he spoke again, however, his tone had moderated. “You did the best you could.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “But in the future you won’t make such decisions alone.”

  “Oh, good.” She smiled at him as he sat down again, which was not at all the reaction he had expected. “I must confess I had my doubts, but we are so much better off without them. They really were difficult to work with.”

  “I see. So, madam?” He looked at her hard. “What did you plan to do next?”

  Melissa’s spirits rose. It seemed she would have some influence in the running of this house, after all. “Hire more staff. I have the money—”

  Justin crashed his hand on the desk and stood up again, very fast. “Damn, I wondered how long it would take you to bring that up.”

  “But it’s foolish to ignore it! I do have it, there’s nothing I can do about that, but as your wife surely I can use it to help you with the estate? I know you didn’t want to marry me,” she went on. “Perhaps this will make it easier.”

  Justin’s back was to her, and so she couldn’t tell his reaction. “I cannot be bought,” he said, coolly.

  “I didn’t think you could,” she retorted, her tone matching his. “But it’s obvious the estate needs money.”

 
“Damn it, I am not a damned fortune hunter.”

  “No, just a seducer of innocent young girls,” she said, and he turned to stare at her. “That’s what you said.”

  Justin just looked at her for a moment, and then, to her surprise, let out a bark of laughter. “So, madam,” he said, sitting down, “what do you propose to do?”

  “Well, I really would like to hire more staff.” She leaned forward, baffled and encouraged by his sudden affability. “We certainly need it! Heavens, this house hasn’t been cleaned for years.”

  “I know,” Justin murmured. “M’father preferred to spend his time in London, and m’brother and I were always away.”

  “Yes. Well, whatever the reason, it does need a lot of work, and I was hoping to redecorate.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “If I could.”

  Justin let out another laugh. If she were using her wiles to influence him, he didn’t mind. It was oddly pleasant. “Very well,” he said, and leaned back, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. “What have you in mind?”

  “Nothing drastic, I assure you. But there are so many repairs that are needed, and so much painting, if nothing else. There’s damp in the music room, I’m afraid, and some of the windows need repairs, and as for my own rooms—”

  “Spare me, madam.” Justin held up his hand and Melissa subsided, looking up at him with such hope in her eyes that he found, to his great surprise, that he could not disappoint her. “Very well. I’ll give you carte blanche for the house. But,” he said, at her exclamation of surprise, “no gilt.” He ticked on his fingers as he spoke. “No Chinese things, no Egyptian, no gothicky stuff. Understand?”

  Melissa nearly bounced in her chair in excitement. “Yes, my lord!”

  Justin gave her a look at that. “And I want the portrait of my mother removed from the drawing room.”

  “But,” she began, and then stopped. “Oh, very well. But I will not put that hideous hunting painting back up.”

  “What, don’t you like it?” he said, in so even a tone that she had to look at him twice to realize, by the glint in his eyes, that he was teasing her.