He shook his head and leaned forward to brace his forearms on the tables, clasping his hands loosely together, hoping he looked sincere and earnest instead of desperate. “I would like to court you.”
She froze, the precise square of ham dangling from her fork halfway between the plate and her lips. Her head lifted and she blinked at him. Blinks that were as slow and steady as her knife had been moments before. Blinks that seemed to cut through his simple statement to the fear beneath. Fear that this plan wouldn’t work. Because if it didn’t, he was out of ideas.
“If that is how you wish to do it.” She gave a slight nod and turned back to her breakfast.
Trent stared at her, watching her eat until his eyes began to burn. That was it? That was all she was going to say? What did she think of the idea? Had she already given up hope that they could have a good marriage? Had she ever had that hope in the first place?
“How—” He snapped his teeth shut. If he asked her how she felt about it, he would look insecure. And he didn’t want to. As much as he wanted to fall in love with his wife, he needed her to fall in love with him as well. Part of him was more concerned about her feelings than his. If she loved him, she’d care more about the marriage than their social standing and she wouldn’t push him to try to be more than the happy-go-lucky man everyone thought him to be.
Whereas if he loved her more than she loved him, what would that drive him to do? Take a greater interest in his estates? Apply himself to improving their standing? Would he do things that were better suited to a duke than a second son? Would he prove himself capable and put Griffith in danger?
Not that there was much danger of Trent being a better duke than his brother, given that God had chosen Griffith to take over the dukedom at the tender age of ten, but Trent knew God saw things men did not, and if He saw greater potential in Trent, what would happen to Griffith?
No, it was more important that Adelaide become at least infatuated quickly, before Trent became too emotionally invested and hatched more foolish plans in order to win her heart.
She was watching him. How long had she been watching him? Had she said anything?
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Trent winced. Ignoring her at the breakfast table was not a good beginning to their courtship.
Her face remained stoic. “I said if you aren’t sure of the how, you could borrow my deportment book. It was Helena’s, but mother gave it to me when Helena married. Left it on my bed one night, actually.”
“Your deportment book?”
She shrugged and looked down at her plate. “The instructions would be from the female’s perspective obviously, but it would stand to reason that you could deduce the male side of the interactions from the descriptions.”
They wrote books telling women how to be courted? “I’ll remember your offer. Thank you.”
The words came out stilted, but what else could he say? One side of her mouth tilted up a bit and he felt considerably less regret over the awkward exchange. Much better to leave her with a smile, even a minuscule one, than a perplexed frown.
“I’ll pick you up this afternoon to go riding then, shall I?” Trent could make this romantic. He would sweep her off her feet and give her the experiences and attention she would have gotten if she’d had a Season. Should have gotten many years before now, given the standing of her family.
She nodded but didn’t look up from her plate. “If you wish.”
Trent stood and adjusted his coat sleeves, wishing there was something he could do now, but courtship rules didn’t include breakfast for very obvious reasons. “Yes. Well, then. I’ll just . . . be off. I suppose.”
The walk through the house felt strange. He hadn’t thought the shabby rooms felt like home before, but now he was second-guessing his decision to move his residence, even temporarily. Mrs. Harris was standing by his trunk, frowning.
Her disapproval strengthened his weakening resolve. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“See that you are.”
“You will support me in this, Mrs. Harris.”
Her eyes widened, and one hand went to her throat before falling to her side. Her posture straightened and she looked more like a servant than he’d ever seen her. “Yes, my lord.”
Trent had never felt the need or desire to exert his position in this house, and the fact that he’d done so now surprised him. He’d taken comfort in his unconventional servants, knowing that any man who ran his house thusly wasn’t fit to be a duke.
He didn’t want to lose that comfort now, so he stepped forward and wrapped the thin housekeeper in a hug, leaving her openmouthed in shock as he fled out the door. His plan was going to work. It had to.
Chapter 12
Six hours later, Trent was practically shaking as he stared at his front door. He hadn’t been this nervous on his wedding day. Somehow that hadn’t felt quite as life changing as this moment standing before his own front door.
Trent smoothed his cravat and glanced back at the curricle he’d had Griffith’s grooms polish to a high gleam. The horses were brushed until every hair shone in the sun. Even the harness buckles twinkled in the afternoon light. This courtship was a guaranteed success—he was already married to the woman, after all—but right now it didn’t feel like a sure thing.
The normal goal of a courtship was to win the lady’s hand in marriage, but Trent needed to win her heart and, in some weird way, try to give away his own. Neither of those things was a foregone conclusion. All of the ways this endeavor could fail suddenly punched their way into his mind. She’d seemed to be in agreement when he left this morning, even if it was a resigned sort of agreement. What would he do if she rejected him? Move back into the house? By living at Hawthorne House he hoped to give this courtship as authentic a feel as possible, but did that leave too much room for failure?
He knocked on the door.
It swung open to reveal Fenton looking as unsure as Trent felt. Was that because Adelaide had some sudden hesitation or because Trent was visiting his own house?
“Er, please come in, my lord. My lady has bid you await her in the drawing room as she’s not quite ready yet.” Fenton opened the door wide and gestured Trent in with a sweep of his hand.
Relief sagged Trent’s shoulders as he crossed the threshold. She was coming. That was good.
He walked into the drawing room as if he owned the place—which he did, but that wasn’t how he’d intended to play this game. Not that it mattered unless Adelaide was in the room.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?” Fenton asked from the doorway.
Trent declined without much thought. His focus was on the pile of fabric that looked like his drapes and the warped metal rod that had once held them on the wall. What had happened? When had it happened? He’d been avoiding his wife with such diligence that he hadn’t stepped foot in this room all week. He’d heard that some women went into frenzies when they were upset, hitting people, throwing things, destroying furniture. Had she done this in a fit of pique? If so, why start in the front rooms, where any visitor would see the damage right off? He had to admit that the room was better off for the loss of the old and faded drapes, but there had to have been a simpler way to remove them.
The click of the door latch opening distracted him from the window dressings, and he whirled around to see Adelaide standing in the door, her hair swept up into a simple knot on her head, those thick locks still hanging over her forehead, curling against the tops of her spectacles and framing her eyes. Trent knew it was highly out of fashion, but he rather hoped she kept the look. It suited her. Her dress was light blue with darker blue embroidery across the bodice. The skirt was sheer over a dark blue underskirt. Her eyes looked wide behind their lenses, brightened by the matching blue of her unbuttoned spencer.
Trent tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. Why hadn’t he asked Fenton for some tea? He could certainly use it now. It took a bit of work, but eventually his tongue freed itself and he blurted out,
“You’re lovely.”
The inelegance of the compliment made him wince, but the light blush that ran up her neck to her cheeks proved she found nothing wrong with his delivery. Maybe the lack of charm had leant it a note of sincerity. Still, he was going to endeavor to show a bit more sophistication.
“Would you care to go for a ride?”
Her brows drew together, and she blinked at him. “Isn’t that the purpose of this . . . visit? Are you visiting?”
“Yes, I rather thought I was. I mean, I suppose I could court you from the next room over, but that loses a bit of the intent, I would think.” Trent shifted his weight and adjusted his hold on his hat. Last night he’d thought his plan brilliant. This morning he’d still been convinced of its cleverness. Now, faced with the actual execution of his plan, it looked like the plot of a mad man. He’d be lucky if she didn’t try to have him committed.
“I know you said you’ve never courted anyone, but is this how it’s truly done? I’ve never heard of such a thing. We’re already married. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” Adelaide settled her bonnet on her head, knocking her spectacles slightly askew. She fixed them, but not before the earpiece pulled a lock of hair out of her bun and left it curling against her shoulder.
The errant curl made him smile and returned to him a modicum of confidence. “I . . . well, frankly I’ve never heard of such a thing either, but it seemed the thing to do since we missed it the first time around.”
Dear God, please let her find the entire concept the slightest bit romantic or at least appealing. He couldn’t live with Griffith forever, and he really wanted to return home as the husband and leader of the house. Even if it meant he had to actually take charge of something. He hated to think of having to slink back in simply because his plan had failed.
“I see.” Adelaide seemed to consider his words for a while, and then a slow smile spread across her face.
That smile hit Trent in the gut, stealing his ability to speak all over again—along with his ability to breathe. Her smile was wide, her teeth just peeking out from between slightly parted lips, one of the front ones just the slightest bit crooked. And for the first time he was grateful she was his wife. He would never have considered courting someone related to Lady Crampton on his own, but God had allowed the decision to be taken out of his hands, and now this gorgeous creature before him was going to be his for the rest of his life. And if he could make that smile appear more often, it’d be a sign that he was succeeding in his ultimate goal of having a happy wife.
It was a good goal to have in life. One worthy of a husband who hadn’t another care in the world other than seeing to the well-being of his family. He offered her his arm. “Shall we go for a ride, then?”
Adelaide slid her small hand into the crook of his elbow. “Yes, I believe we shall.”
Adelaide felt a little absurd as Trent handed her up into the shiny yellow curricle. In all the time spent in the same house they hadn’t even managed a good-morning greeting, and now they were going to spend upwards of an hour within the confines of a small vehicle. What were they going to say to each other?
She’d been in his curricle before, on their two trips to church. Her focus, then, had been on her husband and all the people she was soon to meet. Those worries had distracted her from the strangeness of riding in something so high and open. Before coming to London she’d never ridden in anything other than a coach or a landau, safely tucked away with cushioned seats and closed doors. Now she could reach out and touch the wheel while they rolled down the street if she were so inclined.
Not that she could imagine a single scenario in which she’d feel the need to deliberately stick her hand on a moving wheel. The fact that she could, though, made her a little nervous, and she took a moment to make sure her dress was securely tucked underneath her leg. It was the best she could do, though it didn’t make her trust the safety of the shiny yellow wheel. With her luck she’d somehow catch her bonnet ribbon in the spokes.
The vehicle dipped and swayed as Trent climbed in on the other side. Adelaide clenched her fingers together to keep from grabbing the side and launching herself out to the pavement.
“Are you comfortable? There’s a lap blanket under the seat, if you’d like it.” Trent picked up the reins and smoothly directed the horses down the road behind a high-perched phaeton.
Adelaide was suddenly thankful for Trent’s more sedate curricle. The wheels on the phaeton were nearly as tall as her head while seated in the curricle. And then to be seated on top of that would be unthinkable.
“No, this is pleasant.” And it was. Once the curricle was moving it wasn’t so scary. Trent kept the horses at a slow trot, enough to create a soft breeze but not so much to make her uncomfortable.
At least not physically.
The painful silence was another thing altogether, though. The steady clop of the horse hooves was worse than a ticking clock, counting off the moments until one of them broke the silence. The longer it lasted, the more desperate she was to say something but the more profound she felt it needed to be. Breaking such a long silence with a mundane comment on the weather would only draw attention to the fact that they had nothing to talk about.
“Have you ever eaten a tomato?” Trent’s words pulled Adelaide’s attention from the various buildings they were passing.
She blinked at him. Did the man start every conversation with food? That night in the ruins they’d discussed their least favorite dishes. He declared favorite dishes too common a conversation choice. On the way to London their only conversation of any significant length had debated the merits of the different meat pies and pastries they’d gotten from an inn along the way. Once again he was turning to food to start a conversation.
He glanced at her with a small smile. “Ryland sent Griffith a few, and I had one with breakfast this morning. Mrs. Harris refuses to touch the things, but I’ll bring one over if you’d like to try it.”
Adelaide ducked her head to hide her silent laughter. She’d read once that the way to an Englishman’s heart was through his stomach, but she’d never seen evidence to support that notion before. Her father was certainly more interested in the land that grew the food than the food itself, whereas Trent seemed nearly obsessed with it. At least he seemed obsessed with anything eaten before noon. He’d yet to discuss a single brace of roasted pheasant or bowl of turtle soup. “Why haven’t you hired a cook?”
The shifting of his shoulders could have been a shrug or an adjustment of his coat, but there was no question that the rush of red appearing over his cravat was the beginnings of a blush. “Mrs. Harris has been cooking in that house for years. She suits my needs well enough. I brought in a chef to help with a small dinner party I had last year.”
Given what little Adelaide knew of the protective housekeeper, another cook in her kitchen might not have gone over well. “How did that go?”
Trent grinned. “He quit before the end of the soup.”
They fell into silence, and Adelaide went back to watching London slide by. She recognized some things from her sister’s frequent descriptions, but it was soon obvious that Helena had left out many of the more interesting aspects of London architecture. If it didn’t have to do with social interactions, it hadn’t been worth discussing. A wide, tree-lined dirt path angled off the road in front of them, and Adelaide’s heart beat faster, though she wasn’t sure if it was trying to hurry the horses along or run in the other direction. This was Rotten Row. Even if she hadn’t seen a drawing in a magazine last year she’d have known it from her mother and Helena’s excited discussions of who they’d seen and talked to while riding along the popular path.
Tension broke into the easy silence. Even though London wasn’t packed for the Season yet, there were still enough of the ton in town that the path was scattered with carriages and riders. People were going to see her. They were going to see that while she and Trent were riding together, they weren’t having much to do with each other. It was
bad enough that the outing didn’t feel like one between a husband and wife. She didn’t need everyone else knowing it too.
She turned her head and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had nothing to say. They could talk about food again. Now that she thought about it, it was a fairly genius contingency topic. After all, everyone ate. “They had tomatoes at the fair last year, but Mother wouldn’t let me eat one. She said they were poisonous.”
Trent tilted his head to the side, appearing deep in thought. His hair slid out of its slicked-back style to flop boyishly against his temple. As his wife she should feel free to reach up and brush the lock of hair back into place. But there were quite a few things she should feel free to do as his wife that she hadn’t been able to do yet.
He turned his face back toward her with a self-assured grin that made her fidget in her seat. “If they are, they’re rather slow acting. I had my first one at least ten months ago and haven’t felt an adverse effect yet.” He pursed his lips together, looking to the sky for answers to the deep questions he appeared to be pondering. “Although I did have a nasty head cold this winter. Do you think I could blame that on the tomatoes?”
Her smile arrived before she realized it was coming. “I’m afraid not. While some scientists believe that the stomach essentially ferments what we eat, I don’t think anyone believes the process takes months. We eat too often for that.”
Trent’s laughter drew the attention of what few people weren’t already looking their way. “Do I even want to know why you know about the fermenting theory of digestion?”
Unfortunately her bonnet did not have a very wide brim on the sides, leaving nothing to hide the blush she was very afraid was encroaching. She knew better than to share her collection of strange facts with anyone other than her brother. He found them fascinating, while her mother despaired of the amount of intellectual reading Adelaide had to do to collect them. Her father simply shook his head, knowing he’d started her off on the bizarre hobby and regretting it ever since. Now Trent would know her mind was full of useless information instead of social niceties.
An Uncommon Courtship Page 10