by Ann Clement
Suddenly, strong yet gentle fingers closed around her clenched fist. Letitia blinked in surprise when Sir Percival lifted her hand to his lips.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings.” With a movement of his head, he indicated the view to the left of the carriage. “Welcome to my home. It is yours now too.”
Chapter Four
Letitia turned abruptly to follow Sir Percival’s gaze. Behind the trees lining the driveway sat a pretty Palladian house. Much smaller than the sprawling ruin of Wycombe Oaks, it seemed to be its opposite in every way. The pale-pink stucco contrasted pleasantly with the old gray of the stone columns supporting an elegant portico. Shrubs in tubs graced the front. A wide path branched off the driveway, circled the house on one side and disappeared behind the hedges demarcating the flower gardens. A few old trees on the other side of the house waved their tops to the sun with the serenity of wizened old women. A dozen or so servants of both sexes stood in a line on the driveway.
Letitia slowly pulled her hand free from Sir Percival’s. The horses changed pace, and the carriage came to a stop.
Sir Percival stepped down without waiting for a footman to open the door on his side. He was already waiting by her door when the butler himself swung it open. All remote politeness now, he bowed slightly and extended his hand to her.
She took it, stepped down and smiled at the servants.
To her great relief, once the introductions were over, Mrs. Waters, the housekeeper, led her inside. The entrance hall was awash with sunlight from the dome above it. Full-length portraits of Hanbury ancestors in all their armored finery flanked an ornate Boulle chest on each side, and a marble staircase graced the back of the hall. Lush Oriental carpets lent softness to the stone walls. Well proportioned, affluent yet not overbearing, the house seemed to be in tune with its owner’s elegance of this morning, not with his highwayman’s outfit from the day before.
Tucking this observation away, Letitia followed the housekeeper upstairs to her new bedchamber. She was anxious to see Josepha, whose safe arrival at Bromsholme was immediately confirmed by the already unpacked familiar objects. A change of clothes was laid out on the bed and Letitia’s things arranged on the dressing table and the escritoire.
A moment later, Josepha herself walked into the room, carrying an evening dress freshly pressed downstairs. Her honey-colored face broke into a grin that accentuated the almond shape of her gorgeous golden eyes.
Letitia returned a wan smile. “It is done, Josie,” she sighed. “Father already left for London. We are alone in this place.”
Josepha hung the dress over the back of an armchair, next to a delicate chemise, then walked up to Letitia. Gentle, long fingers touched Letitia’s cheek in a soothing motion.
“And so it is, my dove.”
Letitia closed her eyes and let her cheek sink into the safety of Josepha’s warm palm. The familiar feeling of comfort that never failed to follow this token of Josie’s unconditional love since she was three and Josie ten spread in her chest.
“How is your room?” she asked. “You do not have to share, do you? Because if you do, I’ll speak with Mrs. Waters immediately.”
“No, no.” Josepha tucked a loose strand of hair behind Letitia’s ear. “I have my own room, with a fireplace. Come later to see it.” Then a mischievous smile split her face. “Sir Percival is a handsome devil. Didn’t I tell you not to worry so much? You will be pleased, you will see.”
“Pleased, Josie? Surely you’re jesting now.”
“Not at all. Take my advice and try to make him happy. Your husband is a good man. He won’t abuse you.”
“How do you know that?” Letitia walked to the window. At least the view was lovely. She could like this place.
“It’s written on his face. He is sad inside. Something bothers him. Maybe he’s been without a woman for too long. A wife can fix that easily. But he respects people. He will respect you.”
Letitia bit her lip at this insight into the soul of Sir Percival Horrible. It brought forth the subject she had successfully kept at bay all day, but both Josepha’s words and her present surroundings made it impossible to avoid thinking about tonight any longer.
“You know this marriage is nothing more than a business transaction, Josie,” she said. “I am only an attachment to what my father gave him in order to get rid of me. And you know why I agreed to this scheme. I owe my husband nothing.”
“That may be so,” Josepha agreed. “But you have to live with him for the rest of your days. Think about that. Now, let me have that dress you’ve been wearing since the morning. And rest before I come back to help you dress and fix your hair.”
Letitia and Percy faced each other across the shortened dinner table they were going to share for years to come. Letitia watched her wedded husband of a few hours whenever he was not looking at her. Josepha’s comments were, unfortunately, on target. Sir Percival was a handsome man, though in dark ways. Maybe this was what had captivated her painter’s eye at the outcropping yesterday. In her imagination, she’d kept returning to that brooding expression and the tall, strong silhouette, wondering if she would ever meet him again. Ironically, the image of her future husband as an old man had entrenched itself so firmly in her head that not for a moment had she suspected she had been talking to him. And that coat! But unlike yesterday, today he was dressed with impeccable elegance.
He seemed preoccupied, to Letitia’s relief. Her mind was stuck, with a considerable dose of discomfort, on the first vow she had made earlier in the day—to obey him. And then the next one—to serve him. It did not escape her attention that all other vows gave precedence to those two, the ones to which her mother had adhered with the tenacity not worthy of the cause. In her experience, these were the only vows men ever wanted to see fulfilled, conveniently forgetting about the rest of them—and their own. The memory of Walter’s demands that she prove her feelings for him, followed by hard kisses bruising her lips and gropes making her squirm with discomfort, now caused a shudder.
“Is anything wrong with your fish?”
She raised her head sharply.
Sir Percival regarded her with interest.
“I beg your pardon? Fish? No. No, it’s excellent.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “The cook would be inconsolable if she failed to impress you tonight.”
Letitia forced herself to smile. “I’ll make sure to tell her tomorrow how good everything was.”
He returned her smile with a quick quirk of the corner of his mouth and returned to eating. But that small gesture relaxed for the briefest of moments his somber thoughtfulness, giving his features unexpected warmth, its tiny spark extinguished before it became the promise of a flame.
Slater, the butler, stood at attention a few feet away, reminding her of a kind, old hawk waiting to swoop down on the empty dishes. She finished the fish, since offending the cook was not a good idea, but refused the partridges. The vows to obey and serve the man she didn’t even know seemed to have shrunk her stomach. But a second glass of claret, though mixed with water, filled her with pleasant warmth.
“I trust your maid had enough time to make preparations for the night,” Sir Percival said, maneuvering her toward the stairs once they were out of the dining room.
“My maid knows her duties well, sir,” she replied, feeling a little shaky inside. Obey and serve. Clearly, he had no intention of wasting time on chatting with her in the drawing room.
“She has certainly captivated everyone’s attention,” Sir Percival remarked while they started up the stairs.
Letitia forgot about the vows. “Are you objecting to her complexion? I warn you, sir, tell your staff to treat her with all the respect due a companion.”
“A companion?” He seemed both surprised and amused. “Not your maid? I assumed your father brought a number of slaves to work in his household.”
<
br /> The tone of his voice held nothing but indifference. And he had said he would not have taken the plantations, even if her father had offered them. But she would never take Josie’s safety for granted.
“Miss Josepha Fourier is more than a maid. I had planned to talk to you about it tomorrow, but since you brought up the subject, let me explain. Firstly, she is a free woman,” Letitia said firmly. “She shall be treated with proper respect.”
“Certainly.”
The casual dismissal made her turn sharply in his direction. “Need I remind you, sir, that as my companion, Josepha is under your protection?”
He frowned. “You need not, ma’am. Your companion’s safety is part of my obligations. So is not favoring some of my employees above others.”
“She is not an employee to me. I am not asking for special favors,” she replied, still watching him. “Merely for a proper acknowledgment of her rank and position.”
“Let me put you at ease, then. Miss Fourier will not suffer any depravation in this household on account of her skin co—”
She should have paid attention to where she was going, instead of focusing on Sir Percival. Her foot became tangled in the hem of her dress, and Letitia nearly tripped over the last riser. But a strong arm snaked around her waist and pulled her up just when her nose came perilously close to making contact with the marble floor. Then a large hand pressed against her other side, helping her regain balance. The waves of pounding heartbeats and watered-down claret swooshed in her head. Nice show.
Sir Percival’s face loomed in front of hers. He stood one step below her.
“Are you hurt?” His eyes bore into her face.
Her big toe throbbed madly inside the slipper. “Not at all,” she said. “Thank you.”
His intense gaze slid to her mouth. Heat, apprehension and more swooshing, together with a flock of butterflies in her belly, amounted to a very uncomfortable reaction. She tried to move away, but his arm and hand still trapped her. Her attempt did not go unnoticed.
Sir Percival shook his head, and his gaze refocused, with the customary polite indifference, on her eyes. The hand holding her side slid down, brushing lightly against her dress. The arm that prevented her downfall dropped away.
“Good,” he said in a tone that might apply this sentiment to a large number of unimportant things. Then he offered her his arm as if nothing happened.
Letitia took it and let him lead her to the door of her bedchamber. The strange butterflies gave way to a growing dread. It reached her throat by the time they stopped in front of the door.
Sir Percival pressed down on the handle. “I believe you want to get ready for the night. It has been an eventful day.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, trying to decide whether pleading a headache might procure a delay in fulfilling her vows.
Meanwhile, he pushed the door open and indicated the room to her. “Allow me to wish you a very good night, then.” With a bow, he removed the arm on which her hand was resting.
What? Letitia dropped her hand when her fingers curled around empty air. “You…wish to forego your marital rights tonight?” she asked, certain her hearing was at fault.
“A marriage of convenience does not require consummation, ma’am,” Sir Percival informed her without one blink of an eye. “Tonight or any other night. You may sleep peacefully. I shall not interrupt your rest.”
He bowed, turned and walked farther down the hall to another door, leaving Letitia with her mouth open, gaping at his departing back.
Just before he turned to see her standing there like a pillar of salt, she hastily walked into her room and leaned with her back against the door once she shut it. Could he read her mind? Well, at least they were in agreement about the nature of their relationship. Maybe Josepha was correct. Maybe he wasn’t made of exactly the same stuff as her father. His unexpected acquiescence to her unspoken plea was a great relief. But not the fashion in which he did it, the politeness of his words bordering on mockery, the thinly veiled condescension in his countenance.
Josepha walked into the room, carrying the new nightgown generously decorated with lace and tiny ribbons. Her eyes danced with merriment.
“Get ready before that handsome devil comes in here and finds you still in your dress. Although,” she grinned, “he might not object to undressing you himself.”
“He is not going to do either, Josie.” The words came out on a tremulous note while Letitia swallowed unexpected tears. Walter’s merry laughter rang in her head again. “He is not coming here tonight or ever.”
“Why not?” Josepha’s tone lost its teasing edge. “What did he tell you?”
“That a marriage of convenience does not require consummation.”
“His lordship really said that?” Josepha blinked with disbelief.
“He really did.”
“And what did I tell you?” Josepha’s disbelief melted into another smile. “He is a good man. I never heard of a husband who would do such a thing on the wedding night. Or at any other time when he wished to claim his rights.”
“A paragon of goodness, Josie,” Letitia muttered sarcastically.
Josepha had it all wrong. Sir Percival Hanbury had married not her but the Earl of Stanville’s money.
“Bring me my old nightgown, please. I am tired, and I want to sleep.”
As soon as Josepha left, Letitia tiptoed to the door separating her room from her husband’s. The door seemed heavy and solid, yet she could hear muffled conversation on the other side. Apparently, Sir Percival was talking to his valet.
Then she heard another door open and close. The conversation stopped, but someone was still walking around the room. And then he left too.
She moved to the door to the hallway in time to hear light footsteps running down the stairs and the front door being open and shut.
He left.
He left?
She flew to the windows, but they looked out on the gardens. Her heart drumming, Letitia turned away from them. Her gaze slid around the room—the neatly turned bed, the flower arrangement in the cavity of a cold fireplace. The emptiness of her new life.
She let out a shaky breath. Josepha tried to see something good in everyone. But how wrong she was this time. Sir Percival just showed the entire household how little he cared about his new baronetess.
Outwardly, he was not old, ugly, fat or ill-mannered, as she had fully expected. Quite the opposite. Had she met him in London at some entertainment, she would have been immediately drawn to him, to the handsome features and thoughtful expression of his gaze. He did not make the impression of a man who could be bribed into marriage.
But he apparently could be. He had been.
Josepha came back with one of the old nightgowns, helped her change and brushed out her hair. All that time, Josie kept uncharacteristically silent. Judging by this subdued demeanor, the entire household already knew that Sir Percival Hanbury had jilted his bride on their wedding night.
“Good night, Josie.” Letitia yawned. “I’m so tired. You must rest too. My clothes can wait.”
On impulse, they embraced each other.
“Good night,” Josepha muttered, gently rocking from side to side, the way she used to whenever little Lettie needed consolation over a sick doll or a scraped knee. “Everything will turn out fine, you’ll see.”
Letitia patted Josepha’s back reassuringly.
“I have you, and that’s what counts,” she said softly and swallowed the lump filling her throat.
After Josepha left the room, Letitia lay down on the bed and turned to face the windows and the soft breeze of cooler night air. There was little chance she would fall asleep anytime soon.
Sir Percival ought to have had enough decency to stay in the house. He didn’t have to share her bed. She didn’t want to share it either. But now it struck her that he ha
d never intended to consummate their marriage and had planned all along to spend the night elsewhere.
And, of course, it wasn’t difficult to guess where that elsewhere was. Her husband had a mistress.
Chapter Five
Dressed in riding clothes, Percy left the house in the direction of the stables. As always at this late hour, he quietly saddled his horse himself.
The night was bright and the sky cloudless, but he would have no trouble finding his way to Wycombe Oaks, even in complete darkness.
He had gone that way countless times over the years. Although it was no longer necessary to sneak about unnoticed like a thief peeking in through the lowest windows, no one had to know how much he yearned to touch the walls that were once home to his family. He needed to do it alone, before officially entering the house on the morrow in the presence of its staff, few as they were at the moment. For the first time in nearly a quarter of a century, he again had the right to be there.
His father-in-law, who so easily relinquished the property, together with his daughter, would be surprised to find out how much Percy knew about the estate.
It had been common knowledge in the neighborhood that unlike the previous owners who had called Wycombe Oaks their home since the days of Edward IV, Stanville exploited the land, taking from it as much as he could and giving nothing in return. The outbuildings were in a dilapidated condition, having seen no investment in over two decades. There were no stables to speak of, except those that housed a few necessary workhorses. The roof of the carriage house suffered from numerous leaks that had ruined the vehicles left behind after Stanville removed the best ones to his other estates.
Even the land refused to give what it had given before. And as the income shrank, more neglect followed.
The old mansion, blended with the remnants of the castle that had preceded it, showed signs of abandonment. Several missing windowpanes had been covered with wooden boards, rather than filled with expensive glass. Trees and shrubs were overgrown. The courtyard had been hastily cleared of saplings and weeds to make it accessible for the brief visit of the uncaring previous owner.