by Allison Lane
“Thank you. There is nothing in it I need right now.” Her voice came out in a squeaking croak that brought a blush to her cheeks. Did she have to sound like the veriest ninnyhammer? They had already spent two nights together, after all.
He flashed his most seductive smile and disappeared into the dressing room. She determinedly returned her eyes to her book, though no words registered on her brain. The more she tried to relax, the tenser she became.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when soft hands suddenly caressed her shoulders. “Relax, my dear,” he murmured, gently massaging away some of the stiffness. Chills and prickles tumbled down her spine. His lips brushed lightly against the back of her neck, his warm breath and sensual voice wrapping her in the silkiest velvet.
“May I undo this braid? I love long hair.” His hands were already untying the ribbon. As his fingers combed through her waist-length tresses, she shivered, her book sliding unnoticed to the floor.
Noting the effect he was having on his wife, Thomas smiled. His instinct was confirmed. This was a woman who could be wildly passionate if she would allow herself that freedom. Hopefully she was not one of those raised to believe that enjoyment of her marriage bed was unladylike. He must take great care to make her first time pleasurable for her. Pulling her gently into his arms, he smoothed his hands over her back, then lowered his lips to hers.
Caroline froze for an instant before relaxing into his embrace. He was now her husband. Undue missishness could doom their marriage. His warm lips moved lightly over her own, sending a new regiment of chills marching down her spine. She experimentally moved her lips in response and felt his arms tighten, pulling her closer. The pressure of his mouth increased and his tongue gently requested entrance.
Caroline stopped thinking and allowed instinct to take over. Her lips parted and he slipped his tongue inside, teasing and cajoling, inviting her to participate in an erotic dance that was already swirling her emotions into the misty realms of ecstasy. The kiss deepened, with her arms now tightly wound around his head, her hands combing through his hair, drawing him closer. His hands traced the lines of her back, her sides, her hips. The tightness of his embrace made breathing difficult.
Her height was perfect, he decided, allowing her body to fit comfortably against his own. He lifted her into his arms and set her gently on the bed, his mouth tracing her cheeks, her neck, nipping at her ears. She moaned.
“One moment, dear wife,” he whispered hoarsely, the velvety voice now reduced to something elemental and even more stimulating. He pulled away long enough to extinguish the lamp and divest himself of his dressing gown. He had not bothered with a nightshirt. Easy, he admonished himself. Don’t frighten her. Grasping the frayed edges of his control, he forced his breathing slower. The last thing he wanted was to instill an aversion to intimacy.
She flushed at a fleeting glimpse of his nakedness, but forgot embarrassment as he once more wedded his lips to her own. Resuming her exploration of his shoulders, she reveled in their muscularity despite his admitted history of dissipation. He must have spent time on something more than debauchery in recent months.
His lips again drifted down her cheek and onto her neck, this time continuing along her shoulder. At some point during this mindless embrace he had unbuttoned her nightrail. One hand caressed her breast, thumb rubbing enticingly across the stiffened tip. She moaned again, arching against that wicked hand, in search of she knew not what.
He groaned in his own right, pushing her gown from her shoulder and shifting his lips to that rigid peak. He was moving far faster than he had planned, but he could no longer contain himself. She was incredibly responsive, more than he had hoped in his wildest dreams. He could not recall when he had last been so urgently aroused. Her fingers dug into his back, fiery against his bare skin. He shifted his attentions to her other breast and fought for control. He must calm down, draw things out, not chance scaring her. But oh, how he needed this. Her breasts were even more enticing than he remembered from that hazy awakening four days ago – firm, generous, and delightfully erotic. One hand slid down her thigh, inching up the hem of her gown until he could reach underneath, sending her into writhing delight, her breath gasping as raggedly as his own.
He could no longer wait. There was no doubt she was ready for him. By sheer will, he forced himself to go slowly, but she showed no signs of discomfort or distress. In fact, she instinctively drew him deeper, propelling him over the edge until he could not think at all. His mouth crushed onto hers as he drove them into ever higher spirals of dizziness until together they burst into a thousand pieces and crashed back to earth, practically unconscious.
“Dear Lord,” he gasped, shifting so she could breathe.
“Mmm...”
With his last ounce of energy, he drew the sheet over their still-entwined bodies and was instantly asleep.
Chapter 4
Caroline retrieved some stationery from the library for making notes and tried not to dwell on her first night as a wife. It would take time to fit the evening into proper perspective, but her impressions were encouraging, confirming several of her previous suspicions.
That Thomas was an established rake seemed probable. He was so obviously adept at the art of seduction. And the strength of his passion was equally clear. Despite their incredible initial encounter, he had awakened her twice during the night. Thankfully, she had enjoyed herself as much as he so obviously did, and she blessed her sisters for their encouragement. Society held that ladies were expected to barely tolerate the duty of the marriage bed, and her mother had seemed not to know how to broach the subject given the suddenness of her marriage and the lack of any pretense of affection.
But how did such mutual satisfaction fit with separate bedrooms? More than ever she resolved to guard her heart. Any rapport was purely physical. It was dangerous to read more into the night than actually existed. A rake rarely cared who the partner of the moment was. All he required was a woman who willingly accepted his advances.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Peters as Caroline reached the hall.
“Mrs. Peters.” She nodded. “Shall we begin? I want to see every room today, so Mr. Mannering can decide where to start.”
“I must apologize for the state of–” the housekeeper began.
“No apologies are necessary,” interrupted Caroline, loathe to endure a day of such sentiments. “I am aware of the estate’s history, but the past is over. We are now concerned with the future, starting with a top to bottom cleaning. How many temporary workers can be located by tomorrow?”
“Quite a few, I am sure. There is little to do in the fields this time of year, though farm laborers are not trained for indoor duties.”
“We will manage quite well. I spoke at length with Sarah last night. She described the domestic servant apprenticeships you have offered.” She was surprised to see a flush spread across the housekeeper’s face at this change of subject and noted a flash of trepidation in her eyes. “I approve of your efforts and have every intention of continuing such a worthwhile policy,” she assured her. “Why would anyone expect otherwise?”
“Well” —Mrs. Peters hesitated, then succumbed to temptation— “the previous owner was a regular nipfarthing, never willing to spend a groat on the estate, even if that meant poor service and decaying surroundings. Mr. Tibbins had been ordered to extract all possible profits, especially after the old gent moved on to stay with a sister in London. He would not have countenanced even the room and board I supply to the girls.”
“But Mr. Mannering has never expressed such sentiments,” she riposted before catching the housekeeper’s unbelieving eye and forcing herself to think. “Of course, he has not previously spent much time or thought on Crawley,” she conceded.
“There you have it,” agreed Mrs. Peters. “And he left Mr. Tibbins in charge with no change in his instructions.”
“There will be changes now,” she promised, “for he cannot have known what those instruc
tions were.”
No more was said about the past for the rest of a long morning. Sarah, Polly, and Peters had already removed the Holland covers in the drawing room, dining room, and library, and were busy making the rooms usable. She skipped them, resolving to examine them closely after lunch. Now she wanted a broad overview of the manor, and she especially wanted to make note of any furnishings that might prove useful. It seemed unlikely that anything in the main rooms would be in very good shape.
The house was even larger than it had appeared the evening before. Thomas had pointed out the rooms now under assault by the limited staff. Most were located in the west wing, and the terrace flanking that wing led to the delightful overlook of lake and valley. What she had not detected in the fading sunset was that this wing represented but a portion of Crawley Manor.
Beyond a large central block was a more extensive wing, the whole cupping a south-facing courtyard that caught and held the sun’s rays even on this chilly January day. It promised a delightful retreat in the years ahead. But the immediate future was daunting. To eyes accustomed to the Sheldridge Corners vicarage, the manor was enormous. Swallowing a wave of terror at the magnitude of her task, she began making notes.
Neglect was visible everywhere, though some areas did show less wear than others. She sketched quick plans of each floor, using a simple code of numbers to indicate her superficial impression of each room’s condition before jotting down specific problems and noting the presence of anything useful. She discovered several carpets that should clean up well, although she could only guess at their color; bedroom furniture that needed but minimal repair; and even draperies on northern windows which had escaped the sun’s damaging rays. And the attics proved a virtual treasure trove of discarded but usable items. Much of the furniture dated from earlier eras, but the house would look better old-fashioned than run-down.
On the negative side, dirt lay thick in every room, and January was not the ideal month for a massive turnout. Washing only the Holland covers that would be immediately redeployed would be a Herculean undertaking. To say nothing of cleaning the draperies, bedhangings, and carpets. The Augean stables seemed trivial in comparison. The carpets alone could require an army of field hands. Please, Lord, she prayed silently, can you send us a week of unseasonably warm, sunny weather?
And the roof definitely leaked.
* * * *
By lunch Thomas was almost as overwhelmed as Caroline.
He had awakened in a burst of enthusiasm. The physical side of his unexpected marriage was proving to be everything he could have wanted. How had Caroline managed to extricate herself without disturbing his slumbers? He grinned. Her face might be plain, but her body was as voluptuously enticing as any he had encountered. And her response to his overtures was certainly not what he had feared once the words vicar’s daughter fell from her disapproving lips. So his forced rustication offered certain attractions.
The estate would not be among them, he conceded by noon. He spent a quick hour skimming the ledgers, then the rest of the morning in the saddle. His impression of Tibbins slipped steadily until by midmorning he could no longer deny that the man was both lazy and incompetent. Why had he not noticed these problems on his previous visits?
And why did that question surface now? he cursed moments later, for his mind refused to let it go unanswered. The ensuing reflections were far from comfortable. To his chagrin, he discovered that the Honourable Thomas Mannering was a useless fribble.
Had he accomplished anything in five-and-twenty years?
Unfortunately not. A third of his lifetime gone for nought. He had put in the expected time at Eton and Oxford, enjoying his studies enormously but reluctant to admit to such an unfashionable pleasure, producing adequate but unexceptional work lest he be singled out by the tutors. Why was he hesitant to appear different? Such cowardice did not uphold the honor his ancestry demanded.
From school he had embarked upon life in the ton, sowing his oats with wild abandon, rapidly acquiring a reputation as one of London’s more charming rakehells, but as he never seduced innocent maidens, society smiled indulgently on his rumored prowess and welcomed him with open arms. Espousing both the dandy and Corinthian sets, he sparred, fenced, and tested his marksmanship at Manton’s. He lounged at his clubs, gamed, and attended innumerable sporting events. He wasted uncounted hours on dressing, driving through the park, exchanging endless on-dits, and doing the pretty to society’s denizens.
And none of it was worth a damn. He deliberately ignored the months of Alicia, and shuddered at the abysmal aftermath of her rejection. But how had he allowed himself to drift so aimlessly? Unlike most of his friends, he was not heir to a title and fortune, so he had nothing to wait for. Why was he wasting his life?
He could no longer postpone addressing the problem. It was true that he had often considered raising horses, but he had never taken the idea beyond the dreaming stage. Nor, in spite of inheriting Crawley five years since, had he spent even a minute assessing its condition, discussing its problems, or planning its future. He had left all decisions in the hands of a bailiff he did not know and a man of business he did not supervise. He shuddered at his own negligence. If the two were robbing him blind, it was no more than he deserved. And he knew next to nothing about agriculture. Yet in twelve months’ time, Crawley would represent his entire fortune.
He tried to honestly evaluate what he saw, rapidly discovering that there was no point in making mental notes of urgent problems. Everything constituted an urgent problem. He would require a week to obtain even the broadest overview. Instead, he sought any sign of good news. That the stables were marginally acceptable was due to the estate’s sole groom. Two of the tenants seemed knowledgeable and willing to try modern innovations. And several cottage industries flourished in the village.
But bad news predominated. The farms were in deplorable condition, with families housed in hovels, walls and outbuildings derelict, and little noticeable attempt to improve crop yields or livestock. His own acres were in worse shape. And the sight of the grounds in full daylight was enough to make the sturdiest heart quake. Without a gamekeeper, vermin abounded. The drive was all but washed out. The gardens formed impenetrable thickets capable of hiding follies. Even the lake was choked with deadwood and weeds. In low spirits, he returned to the house for luncheon. Would Caroline be speaking to him after viewing the devastation that was now their only home?
But lunch proved a milestone in their developing relationship. Both weary after a long morning, they exchanged formal greetings and concentrated on food. Yet once Peters retired, Thomas turned his attention to his wife.
“What think you of the house?”
“It will be quite delightful,” she responded diplomatically.
“But not for a long while.” He grinned. “Be honest.”
“If we are being frank, it is deplorable,” she agreed. “You must join me in praying for sunshine – lots of sunshine.”
“And why is that?”
“January is hardly suited for spring cleaning, sir. What did Tibbins say about the roof?”
“The damage occurred in last week’s storm.” He frowned as he recalled the bailiff’s hesitation at the question.
“Is he generally reliable?” she probed. Tibbins was clearly not carrying out his duties, yet Thomas had employed him for five years.
But she needn’t have worried. He laughed. “Do not ever fear the truth, wife,” he admonished. “I have never really talked with Tibbins, but after half a day in his company viewing the estate he has supervised, I judge him lazy and inept. I will keep him on only until I learn enough to take charge myself. How bad is the roof?”
“Critical,” she rejoined with relief. His words indicated a trust in her judgment that established the beginnings of a partnership. “Judging from the water damage on all floors in the east wing, the leak is large and has been growing for at least a year. Perhaps longer. I did not examine anything in detail so cannot begin to gu
ess how extensive the rot is.”
He groaned. “At least three tenant cottages must be replaced, with significant repairs necessary to the rest. I cannot in good conscience allow those people to spend even one more year in such squalor.”
“I suppose Tibbins has not gotten around to planning the spring planting,” she commented dryly.
“He would undoubtedly follow the same plan as he has for each of the last ten years. I wonder that he still coaxes forth any yields. As near as I can tell, the man never heard of crop rotation. Even the tenants complain of his inflexibility.”
“There was an interesting book published last spring, titled Improved Field Cultivation Techniques. Have you perchance read it?”
Guilty at the reminder of his not-so-youthful follies, he grimaced. “I have not been myself this past year, remember? Who wrote it?”
“Unfortunately, I do not recall, though the squire has a copy and could certainly tell us. I merely skimmed it, so I cannot trust my memory for details. But it might make a good starting point for planning.”
“I must ride in to Banbury tomorrow and will check the booksellers. If they don’t know, then you can write the squire. I would take you along, but my carriage and horses will not arrive until the end of the week. Have you any commissions?”
“Several. I will put together a list.” She paused. “I have made other discoveries since we arrived. It seems the maids Sarah and Polly are not officially employed here. Tibbins refused to authorize indoor staff beyond Peters, Mrs. Peters, and Mrs. James.”
He glanced up in surprise. “Then why are they here? Without notice, they could hardly have been brought in for our benefit.”
“True. But Peters and his wife long ago took upon themselves – I suspect to relieve boredom – the task of training area girls and boys to be domestic servants and helping them find suitable positions. Tibbins is unaware of the practice. But I like the idea and wish to continue it.”