But the spindly legs held, and there was nothing left to do but face their mother and smile.
She didn’t smile back.
“I was staying at Riverton,” Trent began.
“Because he didn’t want to stay at his own house while the construction was going on.” Griffith settled farther into his corner of the sofa, trying to look as confident as a large man on a delicate piece of furniture could.
Trent glared at his older brother. “The entire bedchamber wing was in shambles. I’d have been sleeping on the drawing room sofa.”
“But you wouldn’t be married.”
Trent couldn’t think of a single remark cutting enough to be a proper response to that low blow.
“Boys.” The quiet word brought them both to a halt the way it always had. Trent and Griffith never came to actual blows, but when the matter was personal, they could verbally spar with the best of them. It didn’t happen often, but when it did the only one with the nerve to come between them was their mother.
Trent turned back to face her. “I was cutting across the west fields by the ruins—the small keep built into the hill beside the old watchtower—and I heard singing and saw a lone horse. I climbed in to investigate.”
Mother closed her eyes and sighed. “The mushrooms.”
Trent looked at Griffith, who appeared as surprised as he was. “How did you know?”
“She walked out there with me ages ago and asked if she could collect them. It must be nearly ten years ago now. She walked across that old wooden floor, confident as you please, and then climbed down the holes from the old stair supports. But she was a child then. Surely she wasn’t still scampering up and down the wall as a grown woman.”
Mother had always kept strict rules for her girls on what ladylike behavior consisted of. Trent couldn’t imagine her ever letting Miranda or Georgina climb into ruins to collect mushrooms, even when they were children.
Trent shifted in his seat, wondering if he should feel embarrassed on Adelaide’s behalf. “Er . . . yes. She was.”
“But that floor could give way any day now.”
Griffith coughed. “Not anymore.”
Trent frowned at Griffith. “And you wouldn’t have allowed curiosity to trump your good sense for a few moments? I’ll have you know—”
“Boys.” Mother cleared her throat. “I surmise you were the reason the floor finally fell?”
Trent nodded his head. “And it took all night to cut through the vines and find another way out.”
He left off the story there, deciding it was best to keep to as many cold facts as possible. No one else needed to know how scared he’d been or how the miserable pain in his ankle and hands had prevented him from finding a moment’s sleep. It wasn’t necessary to share the despair he’d felt when the moon broke through the clouds, sealing his gentlemanly fate.
“And then he proposed,” Griffith muttered.
“You proposed?” Mother asked with clear surprise. She hadn’t been surprised by the rest of it, knowing that something outrageous had to have happened to force Trent’s unexpected nuptials. But his unforced proposal seemed to knock her off guard.
Trent really didn’t understand why that was the part of the story that seemed to shock everyone instead of the ridiculousness of falling through an obviously rotten floor.
“Yes, I proposed. It seemed the thing to do since we were spending the night together—alone.” How could he explain to them how despondent he’d felt when Adelaide’s ruination became a done thing? When her reputation was lost to the stars and lack of proper chaperone? Within miles of their respective homes, they’d been condemned by circumstances. He knew at that moment he would never get the chance to propose to anyone else. And it had bothered him. Looking back, part of him had wanted to feel like he wasn’t just a victim in the whole mess.
He’d pulled up one of the early blooming violets and twined it into a circle before offering it to Adelaide and asking her to marry him. It was a moment that had been just for the two of them. A moment they’d claimed before the world condemned them. That way, when they finally climbed out of that stone prison, they would be able to declare their fate instead of having it declared for them.
But he didn’t know how to explain that to his mother.
So he didn’t.
Mother’s brow creased. “And in all that time, no one came looking for her? No one came by? I can’t believe no one knew she was going out there.”
“There was a wagon of some sort, or we thought we heard one. We shouted as loud as we could but no one answered.” Trent rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Her mother knew she was headed to the ruins, but Adelaide said it wouldn’t be the first time the countess had forgotten about her.”
Griffith shifted in his seat. “And you believe her?”
Trent and Mother both frowned at Griffith, but it was Mother who finally spoke. “Why shouldn’t he? You’ve met Lady Crampton.”
Trent wanted to jump to his wife’s defense, but he couldn’t. Griffith had always been able to see the bigger picture, to know what was going on beyond the portrait’s frame. What was he seeing now?
“Consider for a moment if you did actually hear a wagon. How often does one of us ride through there alone? What if she wasn’t simply down there for mushrooms? It’s an incredibly risky gamble and highly unlikely to pay off, but did it really cost them anything? I can’t put it past Lady Crampton to leave her daughter there as potential bait and then come back to help her out of the ruins later. Only this time she kept driving because she’d actually been successful.”
They all sat in silence for a moment until Mother broke it with a rough laugh. “That’s rather farfetched. Even for one of those Minerva Press novels.”
But Trent couldn’t completely shake the idea. They’d been so certain they heard someone drive by. And if someone had, Trent knew they’d heard the shouting. Trent had been able to hear Adelaide’s singing clearly as he approached.
Not that it mattered. Trap or not, he was married, and no amount of plot discovery now would change that fact. “The deed is done. This is the last time we speak of how it came about. Adelaide is now my wife, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” He bit his tongue before he could spout the rest of his bitter thoughts. Things like telling the rest of them to go on and enjoy their love-filled marriages, or chance at a love-filled marriage in Griffith’s case. For whatever reason, God had chosen this trial for Trent to bear, and it didn’t matter how much he’d wanted to court a woman and fall in love, this was his life and that was all there was to it.
He didn’t say any of those things because he didn’t know how. There wasn’t a way to phrase them that didn’t sound pitiful and pathetic. And he already felt plenty of that for being forced into marriage in the first place.
He stood and looked at his brother and then his mother. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go dress for whatever event you’ve arranged for me tonight.”
“A card party at Lady Lyndley’s,” Mother said quietly.
“Very good, then. An evening of whist awaits. I will see you all there.” Trent left the room without looking back and tried very hard not to think about the discussion they’d just had. Because if he didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t hurt.
Chapter 21
Rebecca finished dressing Adelaide’s hair, tsking over the strands that insisted on nearly falling into her eyes but refused to lie in a reasonable-length curl. Tonight she’d tried pinning them straight back off Adelaide’s forehead. It looked a bit odd to Adelaide, who’d gotten used to not seeing her forehead, but it was considerably closer to the modern hairstyles.
As the lady’s maid hooked a simple gold chain around Adelaide’s neck so that the small stone cross dangled just above the edge of her dress, Adelaide looked at the maid in the mirror. “Are you settling in well enough, Rebecca?”
“Er, yes, my lady. I believe I am.” The maid looked a bit startled by the question. Understandable giv
en the fact that such a question would never have entered their conversation before coming to live in this house. What a difference a few weeks could make.
What a difference a day could make, for that matter. This morning, she’d arisen alone and confused by her husband’s departure, but now she felt as if she had friends, or at least the beginnings of what could become friendships, and she was actually excited for her husband to arrive. It was sweet of him, really, to try to give her what she’d lost. Miranda had pointed out that all he was doing was giving their marriage the foundation that most normal marriages got, although they had the added benefit of being allowed to wander off by themselves if they wished.
Adelaide had flushed bright red at that comment, as it brought forth the memory of his sweet, gentle kiss the night before as well as inspiring the hope that he might give her another one tonight.
“I believe that should hold, my lady.”
Which was the maid’s way of saying she’d done her best to put together an ensemble that could withstand Adelaide’s unique way of, well, living. She never knew how she managed to get so disheveled, but it never seemed to fail. Rebecca had been working for her since Adelaide’s eighteenth birthday, and in those three years the maid had never once admitted defeat, constantly trying to find new ways to ensure Adelaide remained presentable.
“Thank you, Rebecca.” Adelaide rose from the dressing table bench and then stopped. What was she supposed to do now? Georgina had made her promise not to be waiting in the drawing room when Trent arrived, assuring her that descending down the staircase provided the most impactful entrance a woman could make. “I’ll wait here. Have someone come get me when my husband arrives.”
“Very well, my lady.” The momentary twist of Rebecca’s lips let Adelaide know the maid thought this entire scenario was a bit silly, but she didn’t say a word as she left the room.
And now Adelaide had nothing to do but wait. She paced the room, wondering how long it would be, wishing she could go downstairs even though the only difference would be that her pacing had an audience. She’d promised Georgina, though, and since the younger lady had been the talk of the Town during her Season, she probably knew what she was talking about.
It was difficult, though, as the view from her room did not include the front of the house, and so she couldn’t see when Trent arrived. The anticipation was threatening to make her start sweating, something she did not want to do in the bright blue evening gown. If she wanted to preserve her sanity she was going to have to change rooms. The house was very narrow, meaning only one room on each floor faced the road. That left Trent’s study, Trent’s bedchamber, or the nursery.
Her eyes strayed to the door leading to Trent’s bedroom. Of all the rooms she could go to, it was the most logical. Whoever came for her would be coming to this floor and she’d be able to hear them, and who did she think she was fooling? Ever since she saw the study she’d been looking for an excuse to enter Trent’s bedchamber. If any room in the house could tell her more about her husband it would be that one, wouldn’t it?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she threw open the connecting door and barreled through it, stumbling into a room that mirrored hers in layout, but boasted much more masculine decor, with clean lines and the most beautiful bed she’d ever seen. The wooden headboard reached to the ceiling before curving out and forming a half-tester wooden canopy over the top portion of the bed. The vertical portion of the headboard boasted an elaborate carving of a hunting party. It was an exquisite piece of art, so detailed she expected to feel the wind that whipped through the horses’ manes or hear the cacophonous bark of the dogs mingling with the melody of the horns. The base of the bed was simpler, squared off below the mattress and covered with elaborate carved vines and flowers.
The bedding was a rich swirl of blue cut velvet, the darker blue giving way to the light blue base. It looked so inviting she couldn’t resist running her hand along the edge of the fabric.
What kind of man chose a bed like this? For it was obvious he’d chosen it. Nothing else in the house was like this. She stood in the middle of the room, turning circles on the golden-edged Persian rug that took up most of the floor space in the room. Unlike the house she’d grown up in, the room wasn’t crammed with as many expensive things as possible. Every item in the room was splendid and placed in a way that proved it had been chosen with care. Each piece was there because Trent liked it, wanted to see it when he awoke each day. The art on the walls wasn’t chosen because it was expensive, though a glance at the signatures proved the paintings hadn’t been chosen for economical reasons.
A collection of antique swords hung from one wall, with an oversized bergère wingback chair underneath them. The chair was old and well-worn. More worn than Trent alone could have made it. Next to the elegant chair sat an old military drum instead of a matching side table. A Bible lay on the drum along with a pocket watch and a pair of emerald-jeweled shirt-cuff studs.
Somehow it was the jeweled studs that made her realize what she was doing.
Trent had gone so far as to move out of the house in an attempt to give their marriage a semblance of normalcy and she was repaying him by invading his most personal of spaces.
She rushed back to her own room, pulling the door closed with a quiet click. In comparison to the handpicked beauty behind her, the room in front of her looked cold and uninviting. It looked like an Ackermann print, with coordinating furniture and bed linens. A beautiful room, but containing not a lick of the charm and warmth of Trent’s room.
They were going to have to find time to discuss a redecorating budget. Any man who put that much thought into his bedchamber deserved an equally thought-out house.
In the meantime she’d give him what she could. She resumed her pacing, this time with a book in hand. Something in this extensive tome on bridge building had to be interesting enough to share.
Trent covered Adelaide’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as they walked into the drawing room, where a scattering of tables and chairs held groups of men and women and piles of fish-shaped tokens. The shuffling of cards meshed with the murmur of voices, broken by an occasional laugh and accompanied by a young woman softly playing on the pianoforte in the corner.
In return she hugged his elbow tighter, bringing her body closer to his side. He liked her there. Niggling doubts from Griffith’s theory had plagued Trent all afternoon, but now, looking at Adelaide’s wide-eyed wonder at everything that surrounded her, he felt absolute confidence that she was as much a victim of coincidental fate as he had been.
Wide doors stood open on all sides of the drawing room, inviting the guests to wander through the library, another smaller drawing room, and the dining room. Trent led Adelaide on a casual stroll through the rooms. “Let’s see who’s here, shall we, before we settle down to a game?”
Adelaide nodded. “I’ve no strong desire to play, my lord. If you’ve a group you wish to make a game with, I’m happy to sit by and watch as those young ladies are doing.”
She leaned her head to the side to indicate a table with four gentlemen deep in play. Two young ladies sat at the table watching the card play and occasionally joining in the conversation. It looked supremely boring to Trent. “Nonsense. I’d much rather you enjoy the game.”
“I’m not very good.” She reached up and adjusted her spectacles. In the carriage, she’d confessed to having considered leaving them at home, but worried she wouldn’t be able to see the cards clearly if she did that. Trent had made a mental note to have an extra pair made and keep them in the coach in case she ever followed through on the foolish notion. He would rather she be able to see than conform to some silly inclination of fashion that required women deprive themselves in order to look a certain way. Even Georgina had briefly worn spectacles at the end of last Season, and the world hadn’t ended. Fashions were entirely nebulous anyway, changing on the whim of who even knew.
He, for one, was supremely grateful that heavily boned corse
ts had gone the way of the powdered wig. Some of the ladies had worn the contraptions to a masquerade ball last year, and he’d felt as if he were dancing with a chair. He dearly hoped that whoever was in charge of naming the next fashionable affectation wouldn’t return to those monstrosities.
As they moved through the rooms, it was clear his mother hadn’t been jesting about sending support for Adelaide in force. Family friends who normally only attended smaller, more intimate gatherings stopped them to exchange pleasantries and offer congratulations. By the time they made it to the dining room he was fighting to keep his grin at an acceptable size. Their poor hostess had likely been overrun with considerably more attendees than she’d anticipated after his mother finished convincing people to accept the invitation or even talk their way into the party without one.
In the dining room, however, he lost the fight for decorum and laughed out loud. Standing disgruntled in the corner was Miranda’s husband. Since their marriage, the Duke of Marshington only went out socially when his wife forced him to. After spending a decade as a spy for the English Crown, he found the constraints of social gatherings exhausting. Yet here he was.
Trent had never felt so blessed. He didn’t know why God had plunked him down in the middle of such a family, but he was ever so grateful for it.
He smiled down at his wife, who didn’t seem to be sharing his enjoyment of the surrounding cohorts. If anything, she looked overwhelmed. She’d already met Miranda, though, so perhaps a moment in discussion with her husband would calm Adelaide’s nerves. He patted the hand trying to press permanent wrinkles into his coat sleeve. “Come. Meet Miranda’s husband. I’m sure she talked about him while you were shopping today. She’s annoyingly obsessed with the man.”
Trent led the way, but for the first time all evening Adelaide pulled against his arm. He turned to her with an inquiring look.
An Uncommon Courtship Page 18