Adrian belatedly remembered himself. “And how was your first day at Longbridge?”
She smiled prettily. “Quite informative. Max took me on a tour of the house. It is quite grand. The southern rooms get wonderful light.”
“Yes,” he said simply, and sipped his whiskey, his thoughts having returned to where he had seen the latest report on Longbridge. In London, that much he remembered. But what had he done with it?
From the corner of his eye he noticed Lilliana fidgeting with the seam of her gown. “I hope you don’t mind, my lord, but I have set up a studio of sorts in the orangery. It does not appear to have been used in many years, and Max said—”
“Whatever you would like,” he said, cutting her off. Had he actually opened the packet?
“Oh. Thank you,” she muttered. “I … I, uh, also thought to make some changes in your study. The drapes are too heavy, I think, for the oak paneling. And the gold salon could use some new sofas.”
“Whatever you would like to do, Lilliana, you have my leave,” he repeated absently. He had seen the packet on the desk in his London study, clearly labeled. He had intended to read it … but then Julian and Phillip had come. Ah yes, he thought, and frowned lightly. Yes, yes, he had been working late that evening and had every intention of reviewing the packet when Max had announced Lords Rothembow and Kettering. The two rogues had come staggering into his study, already a bit in their cups, and had enticed him to join them at Madam Farantino’s. It had been easy enough—they had claimed a great beauty had joined the madam’s ranks, which had piqued his interest greatly. Indeed, the lass was a great beauty, and extremely skilled in pleasuring a man.
“Are you feeling well?”
Lilliana’s voice jolted him back to the present. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you feeling well?” she asked again, and nervously cleared her throat. He couldn’t help noticing that her hands were now clutching her gown on either side.
“Of course! I’m rather famished, that’s all. Where do you suppose Max is?”
“I shall go fetch him,” she said, and came quickly to her feet. He thought to tell her that the footman would do it, but his stomach was protesting the lack of food, and she was already at the door. By the time she returned and mumbled something about supper being served, he had finished his drink and was pacing in front of a bank of pane-glass windows, feeling faint from hunger.
In the dining room, he ate as if he had not tasted food in days. “I don’t know where he found the cook, but I shall have to thank Max for his efforts. This soup is extraordinarily good,” he remarked.
“Mr. Deavers comes to us from Keswick,” Lilliana replied. “Max happened upon him quite by accident.”
Adrian shot her a curious look as he fit another spoonful of soup into his mouth. “Indeed? I take it then you have had the opportunity to review the staff?”
She looked puzzled. “Review them? I went to the kitchens for a cup of tea, if that is what you mean.”
Country lass. Adrian smiled indulgently as he reached for his wine. “You need not serve yourself tea, Lilliana. There are more than enough servants here to do that for you. Just call when you want something,” he said, and motioned apathetically at the bellpull.
Lilliana blinked her large green eyes, and Adrian experienced a fleeting image of them half closed, the golden lashes fluttering in the throes of passion. “I am not helpless,” she said, and laughed tautly. “I should be able to fetch a cup of tea.”
“Not helpless, but a countess. You should feel free to act the part.” The Grange Princess looked positively perplexed by that, and he grinned at how uncomfortable she was in assuming her rightful role. Extremely uncomfortable, judging by the way she now bowed her head and looked at her hands. Ah well, Adrian thought, and returned his attention to his soup. She would grow accustomed to it—all women grew accustomed to leisure. Now, Albright, he silently reminded himself. What exactly did you do with that packet after a night of whoring with Julian and Phillip?
Occupied with his thoughts, he hardly noticed when Lilliana launched into a little monologue having something to do with her many trunks and paintings. He nodded at what seemed appropriate moments as he devoured the leek soup. When he had at last cleaned the bowl, he looked expectantly at one of two footmen who were serving them.
“I rather suspect they have more in common than they would ever admit,” Lilliana said.
“What?” he asked absently, and glanced impatiently at her before turning a menacing gaze to the footman.
“Polly and Max. I think they have quite a lot in common.”
Adrian looked fully at her then—what on earth was she talking about? “Max and who?” he heard himself ask, and looked at her soup bowl. She had barely touched it. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, casting another frown at the footman. He was ravenous, but the damned footman would not remove his plate until Lilliana had finished. Blasted rules of etiquette!
“Oh! I … not really, but it is delicious! I should very much like to send my mother the recipe. Papa is wild about leek soup.”
“Are you quite finished, then?” he asked sharply. She nodded uncertainly. He threw a quick glance at the footman that the man could not possibly misinterpret. And Bertram did not—he moved very quickly to remove the soup bowls. As he waited for the main course to be served, Adrian drummed his fingers restlessly on the table.
“Max had all my things unpacked and put away. I thought that was very grand of him, because I had no notion what to do with it all. Except the paintings, of course. He has placed them in a sitting room upstairs, which he said he believed would be the mistress’s sitting room—assuming, of course, you agree.”
“That’s nice,” Adrian mumbled.
She sighed softly and began to turn her fork over, onto its back, then to its front, then back again. “And he said the orangery could be converted into a little studio. But he thinks it might be rather drafty in the winter, and said there is a seldom-used drawing room on the ground floor where I might be allowed to paint if the orangery is not to my liking,” she continued.
“Mmm.” At the moment, Adrian was far more intent on the trout Bertram placed in front of him than where she might paint.
“Would that meet with your approval?”
“I beg your pardon?” Adrian asked, momentarily distracted from the fine piece of fish in front of him.
“Painting,” she said hesitantly. “In the orangery. Or the little drawing room.”
Now what was she talking about? Something to do with her painting, as if she hadn’t done enough of that already. As if he cared a whit where she painted—she could paint in the foyer for all he cared. She could paint the foyer for that matter. Was he to expect that she would ask his permission for every little thing? “Lilliana,” he said impatiently, “whatever you would like, you may have. You may do as you please at Longbridge, and you need not bother yourself with seeking my permission,” he said flatly, and flashed her a brief smile just before he attacked the trout.
“Thank you,” she muttered. She did not speak after that, which was just fine with him. He could hardly be counted on to think of where she might do her sewing, or her correspondence, or any of the other little things women did with their time. When the meal was finished—which he could not help noticing Lilliana hardly even tasted—he relaxed with a glass of his favorite port.
Ah, but Max had done an excellent job of stocking the larder and sideboard. And he would have to compliment the old chap on his choice of cooks—that was some of the finest trout he had ever tasted. He glanced at his pocket watch; it was just ten o’clock. It would serve him well to get an early start the next morning, he thought absently. There was much to plan—a few statues around the place, perhaps some fountains in the gardens. And new gutters. He would replace them all, and the spot on the roof that appeared to be damaged. But first he would repair the cottages and bring in the latest farming technology. Yes, reconstructing Longbridge would provide him th
e diversion from his life that he so desperately needed at the moment, the perfect thing to occupy his thoughts and his days. He sipped his port, quite satisfied with his little stroke of brilliance.
The clink of china snapped him from his ruminations, and he slid his gaze to Lilliana. She was sitting quietly, gazing demurely at her hands in her lap. The candlelight caught the darker gold sprinkled in her blond hair, and the memory of that hair in his mouth, on her skin, came flooding back to him. Funny how a little port and a fine meal had made him much more disposed to do his duty. In fact, the idea did not give him the least bit of pause.
He placed his port on the table. “Lilliana, perhaps you would like to go and prepare for bed.” She started, blinking those wide green eyes. He smiled. “Why don’t you go on up? I shall be along directly.” Her gaze flicked to the footman, then back to him. “To … to my, ah, room?” she asked hesitantly. Conscious of the footman, he merely nodded. Her cheeks flamed. “Yes. Well, I suppose it is rather, ah … late. Very late,” she muttered, and came unsteadily to her feet. Glancing uneasily at the footman, she looked as if she might speak, but chose instead to make a hasty departure from the dining room. Adrian shrugged to himself as he motioned for more port to be poured. If the Princess kept looking at him like that, he really was going to start feeling like a bit of an ogre.
But after another glass of port Adrian was suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion. At last, he thought desperately, at last he could sleep, and went directly to bed, only to be awakened a scant two hours later, perspiring and breathless. It was the same dream he had had several times now, the one in which he realized that Phillip had fired over his head and never even cocked the second barrel. Phillip had not intended to kill him. He had purposely missed, had no intention of firing a second time, and Adrian had shot him through the heart.
He rose from the bed, pacing restlessly as the blinding headache of his doubts came crashing down on his skull. Phillip had never intended to harm him. He had reacted in fear and had shot down his cousin for no reason. He was, as Archie had so succinctly put it, a murderer.
Exhausted and desolate, Adrian’s mood was hardly improved the next morning when a messenger delivered the reply to the letter he had written Phillip’s father. His first instinct was to leave it unopened, but guilt pushed him. With his thumb, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the heavy vellum. Scanning the page, words leapt out at him: reckless, dangerous, shameful. Lord Rothembow had taken his son’s death as any man but Archie would do—hard and personally. Adrian blinked as he read the last thing Lord Rothembow had written: May God have mercy on your soul. He folded the vellum and placed it in his pocket, then practically bit a footman’s head off when he lingered a shade too long in the foyer after being told to have Thunder saddled. He stalked to the breakfast room from there and was greeted by the Princess of the Grange. “Good morning,” he forced himself to say.
“Good morning,” she squeaked.
He landed heavily in a chair, scowling at the footman who placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Shall I prepare a plate for you?” Lilliana asked softly.
He sliced an impatient glance across her. Dressed in brown, she looked drab and ordinary. “Have the footman do it,” he said curtly.
“I should be happy to do it,” she insisted. He watched her spring to her feet and walk quickly to the sideboard. Her hair was fixed in an unappealing bun at her nape—good God, she looked like a country spinster dressed like that. He turned his attention back to his coffee, barely acknowledging the plate of steaming eggs and ham she placed in front of him.
“W-what have you planned for today?” she asked nervously when she resumed her seat across from him.
“Work,” he informed her through a mouthful of eggs.
“Is there something I could do for you? Perhaps I could help.”
The last thing he needed was a plain little country mouse following him about. “No,” he said hastily. “I intend to be in the fields most of the day. You had best occupy your time here.” Her shoulders sagged slightly, and he realized he sounded harsh. He put his fork down. “There is much work to be done around the mansion, Lilliana. Wouldn’t you like to rearrange a room or two to your liking?”
Funny, but he would have sworn her eyes narrowed. It must have been his imagination, because when she blinked, they were as wide and innocent as ever. “Perhaps I shall paint,” she muttered.
“A splendid idea,” he responded, and quickly finished his breakfast.
She painted all right, alone in the orangery for days that turned into weeks. At least there, amid her canvases, she felt some measure of comfort. Honestly, Longbridge felt more of a prison than Blackfield Grange ever had, she thought grimly as she dabbed a bit of paint on her brush. At Longbridge she felt hemmed in, so terribly out of place, without purpose. At least at the Grange she had been surrounded by her family. What she wouldn’t give to be in Bath with them now! Terrible pity, that, Lady Albright. You created this folly.
And it was sheer folly. She could hardly complain that Adrian was cruel to her, because nothing could be further from the truth. He gave her leave to do what she wanted, to have anything she wanted. He never spoke a harsh word to her, and was politely civil at all times.
That was precisely the problem.
He never said much of anything except how was your day, the answer to which he never heard, and whatever you would like. Her attempts to converse with him left her feeling simple. Everything she said was met with a polite nod or a look of decided indifference. It created a crushing insecurity in her—she felt herself becoming increasingly inhibited and terribly ill at ease. She worried constantly that her conversation bored him, and if something was on his mind, well, she likely would never know. The man was exceedingly civil to her, but he never allowed her to know what he was feeling.
Except at night, in bed.
Lilliana inadvertently dropped her brush as a peculiar warmth filled her. When he came to her at night, he would whisper Lillie in her ear and take her to new heights of physical liberation each and every time. His lovemaking was magical; when he was deep inside her, she felt desirable and vibrantly alive.
Which was why his leaving her each night made it so much harder to bear. She longed for him to hold her for just a little while, but he never lingered. He would kiss her good night, wish her sweet dreams, and disappear through the door that adjoined their rooms. Oh, Lord, how she yearned to be held by him, to feel the power of him surround and protect her!
“What a foolish dream,” she mumbled to herself. Adrian Spence had no use for such intimacy. At least not with her. He apparently did not even want the companionship he had claimed when he had offered for her. Adrian spent his days out on the estate somewhere. From Max she had learned that he planned to renovate the estate with the latest agricultural technology and to embellish the mansion to rival any other. Naturally he had not said a word to her of such plans—when she tried to ask what he did during the day, he was politely evasive. “A number of business dealings, Lilliana,” he would say with a charming smile. “You would not be interested.” Naturally she never disputed him—the nagging voice of her mother reminded her it was terribly unladylike to be disagreeable. But damn it all, she would very much like to have listened to his plans for Longbridge!
Even if she did summon the courage to ask, she rarely saw him long enough to discuss something so important. He worked from sunup to sundown and was often in his study until the early hours of the morning. She knew this from Max, too, who proudly told her how hard he was working, how impressed the tenants were with his willingness to toil alongside them in resurrecting what had once been such a grand estate. And the little man almost suffered a bout of worshipful apoplexy when he told her that her husband’s generosity was unparalleled. He had set up a school for their children, demanded that abundant food stores be purchased, and even went so far as to help several of them erect a new barn. With his bare hands.
Would t
hat she could work alongside him, Lilliana thought miserably, and dabbed paint on her brush. At least make herself useful! As it was, she spent her days wandering aimlessly about the house and spending far too much time chatting with Max. There was nothing much for her to do; the staff was efficient and everywhere. She would have given everything she owned to have escaped her chores at the Grange, but now she would give anything to have a single chore. The idleness was suffocating her.
So there it was. Three weeks at Longbridge and she was the useless mistress of a household that did not need her and an inept wife to a husband who did not notice her. And to think she had thought she would soar here. Honestly, what pathetic folly! What shameful naivete! With no thought to reality or consequence, she had married a man she hardly knew, all because of some silly, romantic, and terribly childish notion of life!
And as if to make things bloody impossible for her, she recognized that she was falling in love with him.
Oh yes, she certainly was, and she actually snorted out loud at the very idea. Only silly Lilliana Dashell would love a man who did not seem to notice she existed. But she had loved the image of him for as long as she could remember, and the stories Max filled her head with excited her on a level she could hardly fathom. He was an adventurer, a man who was not afraid of hard work, and generous to a fault. And he was a scoundrel, too. The things he did to her in bed were absolutely wicked. But he was also a gentleman. Unerringly polite, he never raised his voice, yet commanded respect among all those around him, including herself. If only she could command the same respect from him. If only she could be the sort of wife he deserved. A man like Adrian Spence deserved far better, a woman of great connection and sophistication and bearing, not a dormouse like her! She should be thankful he spoke to her at all. Perhaps she should be thankful he didn’t notice her—or else he might very well see how bloody insignificant she was.
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