A Bride Worth Taking (Arrangements, Book 6)

by Rebecca Connolly

  He fought a smile and inclined his head. “You are quite welcome. I don’t recommend you do it again, but at least you saw some of the estate. What was your favorite?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she carefully sipped some water. “The shoreline was quite lovely.”

  He jerked and looked at her in shock. “You went all the way to the shoreline?”

  She nodded, her eyes widening as if it should have been obvious.

  Now he was the one fighting to control his emotions. The shoreline of their estate was full of rocks and crags, and the ground was not entirely stable. She could have injured herself in so many ways, and he would never have known. He adored the shoreline, it was a breathtaking view, but he knew it well enough to know where to go and where to mind his footing. Marianne would know nothing of that.

  “I am glad you enjoyed it,” he managed, pleased by his calm tone. “I would advise you not to return there, however, until you know more of it. You could find yourself in danger.”

  “Oh, what, more than yesterday?” she asked sarcastically. “Nobody cared about it then, not until I was gone so long it drew comment.”

  He stiffened and set his fork down carefully. “And did you ask anyone to show you around?”

  She made a face. “No,” she admitted reluctantly.

  He didn’t smile, which was miraculous. “Any of the stable hands could have ridden out with you. The estate manager was even available.”

  “Surely the lord of the house could show the lady of the house the grounds of the house in which they reside…” Marianne suggested with so much derision that the room felt several degrees cooler.

  “And yet you did not ask me,” he said, magnanimously deciding not to comment on her blatant declaration of his apparent transgression.

  She tilted her head sharply. “And if I had, you would have shown me?”

  She had a point there. “I would have considered it,” he muttered, wrenching his gaze away as his neck began to heat a little.

  “I see.” There was a pause and he heard her fork scrape against her plate. “It is a wonder why you came riding after me at all. I am such a trial for you. To consider showing me the estate if I asked… How you managed to bring yourself to marry me at all is quite the mystery of our time.”

  Kit rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair hard. “Come off it, Marianne. Don’t do this now.”

  She looked back at him with fire in her eyes. “And when should I do it, Kit? When would be convenient for you? Shall we work it into your schedule? I cannot keep track of which days you like me and which you don’t.”

  “And I am not entirely certain to whom I am married,” he shot back. “Which version of you comes down to breakfast or comes home from a ball, it is all a surprise.”

  “You knew what you were getting into when you married me.” She shook her head and sniffed. “I am quite sure my brother, and your brother, had several things to say on the subject.”

  “They did, as did everyone else.”

  She sneered a little. “And do they know what horrible things I have done to you, Kit? Did you share all your secrets with them just to prove to them that you are the strongest person on earth and the only one who could possibly withstand being married to a creature as horrifying as me?”

  Something rather cold and desperately uncomfortable settled upon him and he stiffened. Carefully, he pressed his tongue to his teeth and watched his wife for a long moment, keeping his eyes steady, trained on her face. He noticed every blink, every twitch of an eyelash, every breath that passed her lips. He noticed the small lock of stray hairs that had escaped her tight chignon, curling against her will. Independent and willful, just as she was.

  She slowly raised a brow at him, daring him to answer her.

  He let himself exhale entirely, still fixed on her. When she shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with his silence and his gaze, he replied, “No.”

  Her brow furrowed slightly. “No?”

  “No,” he said again, measuring his breath again. “I did not tell anyone. I have never told anyone. That is a part of my past that I do not treat lightly, or use it as a reason to sway me from a course I have determined to be correct.” He cleared his throat and lowered his chin a little to stare more directly. “I have never called you any names. Nor have I permitted others in my presence to do so. Can you say the same?”

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted further.

  Now it was his turn to raise the questioning brow.

  “No,” she said faintly. “No, I have never spoken of it. And I did everything in my power to avoid any conversation concerning you at all. I will admit to not stopping the gossip, but anything truly vile I would not allow. No one could injure you in my presence. I believe I said as much in London.”

  That should have appeased him. It did, a little. He remembered her rage in his defense and that had touched him far more profoundly than anything had in years, but it did not change what lay between them.

  “So the only people who know the extent of our animosity is ourselves,” he said simply, ignoring the sudden warmth in the pit of his stomach. It would vanish soon enough. It always did.

  Marianne swallowed hastily. “So it would seem.” She closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing again, then she looked back at him. “You said you were forgiving me. That I deserved a second chance.”

  He tried not to be moved by the hoarseness of her voice. After all, this was Marianne. She was a consummate actress. Still, something stirred.

  He nodded slowly. “So I did, and so you do. But in doing so, it does not mean that I am going to revert back into the man I was before. It certainly does not mean that I am going to love you again.”

  She flinched as if he had struck her, and his stomach seemed to drop. It was harsh, but he could see that was what she had been expecting. And it was better that she know now than to continue anticipating that he would dote on her like one of her former lapdogs. He would never mistreat her, but it hardly meant he would go out of his way to treat her especially well. She would always be well cared for and respected under his care. If she deserved the respect.

  “I thought we could at least be friends again,” Marianne said carefully, averting her eyes.

  He could see the stubborn set of her jaw and felt himself wishing for the same.

  If only they could.

  “But apparently,” she continued in a much softer tone, “that is too much to ask of your pride.”

  That nettled him quite neatly, and his sympathy evaporated. “You don’t want friendship,” he said with a fairly icy smile.

  She looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and fury.

  His smile grew just a little, taunting her. “You want an admirer. A little pet to follow you around and make you feel better about yourself. Someone who falls at your feet and thinks you walk on gold dust and the clouds of heaven. That is not me, and it will never be me.”

  Her mouth dropped open in outrage, but no sound came out.

  No longer hungry, Kit rose and untucked his serviette, tossing it onto the table. “When you find a way to understand the proper definition, perhaps we will have a chance at friendship, but not before.”

  With the most perfect and polite bow he had ever given anyone in his life, he strode from the dining room, head held high, studiously avoiding looking at the frozen and slightly quaking form of his wife as she sat so rigidly proper in her chair.

  He needed to go for a hard ride, something to work off this rage that seemed to surround him, something that would drive his inexplicable pain at her distress out of him, something that would at the very least keep him from thinking about how soft her skin had been yesterday and what heaven it had been to touch it. And if there were any mercy at all in the world, something that would keep him from dreaming of her again.

  His obsession was going to kill him.

  Colin was right.

  And that was the most infuriating part of all.

  Chapter Fourteenr />
  The days following their breakfast spat were not comfortable ones, and Kit was fairly chafing with the desire to be away from the place. Marianne was everywhere and looked at him with coldness, if she looked at him at all. They spoke very little to each other, but when they did it was with forced politeness and with the same unaffected air he’d heard dozens of couples in London use with each other. Why that should perturb him, he could not have said, but so long as he and Marianne were not arguing, he supposed that was an improvement.

  She seemed to be taking up her responsibilities in the house with much more enthusiasm and energy, and Mrs. Dinstable was very keen on every project. Kit hadn’t thought it, but the house seemed to be in need of some change and repairs, though the exterior and the grounds, which were his responsibility, were well enough off. His tenants, on the other hand, had needed quite a bit of help, as he had expected from his solicitor. Much of the troubles had already been addressed, but there were still many to see to, and a firm relationship of trust to establish and maintain.

  For the moment, he could only pore over the accounts again, though his estate manager had not found anything out of the ordinary, and pray something would come to him. Mr. Jennings was very capable and highly thought of, but as he was not the landowner, very little power rested with him. He was gathering reports that would help them prepare for the harvest, and Kit was strangely glad to be alone today. There was far less pressure to be decisive and maintain authority when one was unobserved.

  He shook his head as he set aside the accounts and rubbed his hands over his face. There was nothing here, which meant there would be no quick and simple solution. He would have to do some unconventional thinking and planning with Jennings when next they met, or else they would struggle to have any sort of profit from the estate at all this year.

  And what would that say about the master of the estate?

  There was a firm rap against the door of his study and it opened before he could respond. Marianne entered, looking every bit the lady of the house in her pale blue day dress, and the dark pinstripes along the fabric made her seem taller and thinner than she was. Her hair was back to her usual elegance, which was strangely comforting to him, and he smiled as she absently fidgeted with the lace fichu at her modest neckline.

  “The post,” she said without preamble, looking at the letters in her hand and not at him. She shook her head and a ringlet near her ear hooked itself on the delicate lobe. “I cannot make out much on this one, so I must presume it is from Colin.”

  She came forward and handed it to him, still not meeting his eyes.

  What was this, he wondered. She’d been defiant and willful at every turn since they quarreled, and yet here she was being almost demure. Almost, because he could still see the muscles in her throat and neck tightening, so there was some spirit and resentment in her. That, too, was comforting, in a way.

  He took the letter, and could not help but to laugh a little. “Yes, this is Colin’s hand. He never did have patience for legible writing.”

  “I know,” she replied, setting another letter on his desk. “I remember trying to discern his attempts to write Duncan when you all were away with Aunt Agatha. I always just assumed he was drunk.”

  Kit looked up at her and raised a brow. “At thirteen?”

  Finally, her rich blue eyes met his and her full lips spread into a small smile. “Why not?” she said with a light shrug. “It’s Colin.”

  Somehow, he forgot to breathe, and when had he taken notice of the fullness of her lips or the richness of her eyes or how her figure looked in certain gowns? He must be more fatigued than he thought. Still, he had to smile back. “You have a point there.” He saw she held a letter herself and indicated it. “One for you as well?”

  She nodded and looked down at it. “I cannot think who it is from. I’ve already had letters from Lily and Gemma, and this is not in either of their hands.” She returned her gaze to his, tilting her head slightly. “Does Colin share London reports with you?”

  He broke the seal of his letter and opened it. “Sometimes. But in this case, he would have very little to say. They are in Hampshire at the moment, staying at Amberley House.”

  “They removed to Hampshire?” she asked in surprise, still standing before his desk.

  He nodded as he scanned the lines before him. “Susannah decided the remainder of her confinement would be better spent in the country. I understand several of the ladies have sworn to attend her at a moment’s notice, so they would not let her venture too far from London.”

  Marianne was quiet for a moment, though he could see her fingers toying with various items on his desk. How elegant her hands were, how long and fine her fingers. Her nails were always so perfectly manicured, and she never wore rings, which allowed anyone with an appreciation of hands to savor any glance they could of such a sight free from the concealment of gloves.

  “I would have thought she would go long before this,” Marianne was saying, drawing his thoughts away from her hands. What in heaven’s name was coming over him? He moved his gaze to her face, which surely would be safer territory. “She certainly ought to have, in her condition.”

  Kit frowned and readied a response, but as he looked into her face, he could see no malice in her words. Just an honest, forthright admission of her opinion.

  Well… in that case…

  “Susannah is not one to be persuaded one way or the other,” he heard himself reply in resignation. “I know Colin suggested it some time ago, but she was not of a mind to. Now that we are gone, and her time is closer, she found herself wanting to be away.”

  Marianne nodded, a bit of a furrow between her brows. “Did they take the children?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes widened. “All of them?”

  Kit offered her a curious hint of a smile. “You think they should have left some in London? With your aunt, perhaps?”

  She shuddered delicately. “Heaven forbid. No, I am only surprised. I cannot see how her confinement, or her recuperation, will be very restful with the house filled with children. Between Rosie and Freddie alone there will be chaos, and Bitty would want to know everything about the baby and will drive Colin mad with questions, and Ginny…” She frowned a little. “Ginny, I think, they could manage. She’s quiet enough.”

  Kit hid a smile at the mention of his youngest, and most mysterious, sister. “For you, perhaps.” He took in the sight of his wife with a new sort of appreciation. Her predictions were fairly aligned with his, and that she should be so intuitive about them, having never before taken an interest, was deeply surprising. Not troubling, just surprising.

  “They do have Mrs. Creighton,” he reminded her as he folded the letter back. “She is more than capable of handling them.”

  Marianne nodded again, seeming lost in thought. “Quite right. I’d forgotten about her.” She shook herself and looked back at him, her cheeks looking pale against the sable darkness of her hair. “Will you go to them when her time comes?”

  Kit sighed and nodded, rubbing his head. “Yes, it seems. Despite having four friends ready to ride at a moment’s notice, Colin has requested that I be there.” He shrugged a little, helplessly smiling. “And I must admit, I have a certain degree of interest in seeing how he handles the whole thing.”

  That drew a smile from Marianne, a true smile that brightened her countenance so it fairly took his breath away. “Now that is a sight I would pay a great deal to see.” She shook her head and tapped his desk once. “You shall have to tell me all about it,” she said a bit airily as she turned and exited the room, her attention now fixed on her own letter.

  For the briefest of moments, Kit considered asking her to stay. Why, he did not know. What he would have done if she had, he hadn’t even thought about. But seeing her, speaking with her, without the strain and tension of resentment between them, had been a breath of fresh air.

  And he hadn’t breathed that in such a long time.

  Mariann
e suddenly made an odd moaning sound of distress, keening as if in pain, and she gripped the wall.

  He was on his feet in a moment. “Marianne?”

  She held out a shaky hand to stop him and he heeded it, waiting on the balls of his feet in his study, watching her back carefully.

  Her head was bowed over the letter, but he could see a flush of distress rising on her neck and her shoulders were suddenly tense. He heard the letter crinkling in her hold.

  “What is it?” he asked in a low voice.

  She drew in a slow breath and half turned towards him. The color in her face was gone, but the pink flush continued to rise upwards. “It is a letter from Edward Hayes. Fanny’s brother.” She swallowed with great difficulty, wet her lips, and straightened a little. “Fanny has run away from home. With Mr. Marksby.”

  It was as if the floor had vanished beneath him. His breath suddenly felt hot, and burned his lungs and chest with every exhalation, and his pulse began to pound in his head.

  “He asks me to prevail upon you,” Marianne half whispered, still reading, “to aid him and his brother in finding her and stopping him. They are for Gretna, as is expected, and given my… history with the man, they assume they will take a less direct route. If you agree, they request that you meet them at the family home in North Oxford as soon as possible.”

  The letter, and the hand that held it, fell to her side. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “Damn you, Marksby,” she rasped.

  “My sentiments precisely,” Kit muttered in clipped tones, running a hand through his hair. He exhaled a short breath and shook his head. “The Hayes family will never recover from this.”

  Marianne looked at him, her eyes dull and flat. “Will you go?”

  He hid a shudder and shook his head again. “No.”

  The letter in her hand suddenly crumpled as she balled her hand into a fist. “Kit, they have asked for your help.”