Adam cleared his throat. “I understand several of your servants have already settled in.” He’d seen the hulking blond footman transporting boxes and portmanteaus into his house only this morning.
“Yes, my lord.” Her compliant words matched her submissive look.
Adam was skilled at reading people’s faces, part of what made him such an excellent card player. His new wife had several small, but telling looks. Like the one she had just given him. Whenever she widened her eyes and followed it with an innocent lowering of her gaze, he knew she was attempting to divert her listener away from something she wished to conceal. Was she trying to hide something about the footman?
“I have not brought many servants with me, my lord. LaValle, my maid, and Paley and Gamble, the footmen who served me at my father’s house.”
Adam remained silent, a tactic that rarely failed to bear results.
“I believe your butler has already found room for them.”
“Hill is very efficient.”
A long pause inserted itself.
“You keep quite a large staff at Exley House, my lord?”
“Yes.” He was amused by her attempt to draw the conversation away from her handsome servant, but he would not aid her in the effort. He could see she waited for him to expand his one-word answer. When he didn’t, she filled the brittle silence.
“Will that change now that we are going to the country?”
“All but a few of my servants will remain in London to keep the house prepared for my return.” Adam would swear she was pleased by his words. That was interesting, not to mention somewhat humbling. So, she was eager for him to leave her at Exham and return to London. He supposed it was no less than he deserved.
Adam watched her silent profile, aware that he should be speaking to her, telling her about her new home, talking about the weather, anything but sitting here and brooding. He was behaving even more disobligingly than usual but he could not seem to stop himself. He knew the reason why, too, even though he’d spent the last ten days first denying it and then fighting it. He was obsessed by her—at least by the thought of bedding her—and it scared him. More than anything had scared him in a long, long time.
He had hoped—foolishly, it now seemed—that time away from her before their wedding would help to cool his ardor. When that had not been enough to drive her from his thoughts, he’d gone to Susannah, a decision that had been ill-conceived, to say the least. The only thing to come out of that evening, other than a rather large gash on his forehead from the vase Susannah had hurled at him, was the realization their union was over.
He’d not planned to end his association with the tempestuous actress after he’d married. Why should he? The marriage he and his wife had planned was nothing more than a business arrangement. But kissing Susannah had been like eating sawdust and Adam knew it would be the same with any woman but one. At least until he’d bedded the green-eyed witch.
Adam studied the diminutive enigma seated across from him and was seized by a ferocious desire to lift her skirts and take her before they even reached Exley House. It was his legal right to do so. She was his, body and soul. And he was so bloody hard for her it was torture. He could pull her onto his lap and put an end to the quasi-erect state he’d been in for days.
His body ached with the primitive desire to possess her but his mind was appalled at the chaos of his emotions. He needed to rein in the rampaging lust, not to mention the ridiculous jealousy that assailed him like a hail of arrows every time another man even looked at her. He’d even wanted to hurt Ramsay when he’d seen how familiarly he’d treated Mia earlier. Adam frowned. And just what the hell had the two of them been talking about so intently?
And then there was that bloody footman. Adam bit back a groan. He was in danger of making himself mad about his wife’s relationship—real or imagined—with her lummox of a footman.
Adam set his jaw. This interminable carriage ride would be the last time he permitted such mental disorder. He would bed the woman and they would leave for Exham in a few days. He would deposit her in the country, as she clearly wished for him to do, and visit her every four or five weeks until she was breeding. The sooner he got her with child, the sooner he could stay away from her and the unnerving effect she had on him and resume his quiet, predictable existence.
* * *
Mia gazed out the darkened window, her mind on the man across from her. She was not accustomed to spending so much time with a man and certainly not with one who was so quiet and inscrutable.
The sultan had been simple in his wants if not always easy with his demands. She’d pleasured him or submitted to him and then returned to the comfort of the harem. Baba Hassan did not expect or desire conversation from a woman, quite the reverse. He had usually become displeased when faced with a garrulous woman.
Perhaps her new husband was the same. He seemed to have no wish to talk to her. She studied him through the gloom. His head was tipped back against the luxurious gray leather, his eyes closed, his sooty lashes fanned against his pale skin. Was he taking a nap? She seized the opportunity to look at him unobserved, beginning with the fine bones of his face. His lips were fuller at rest, made for kissing rather than sneering. Her breathing roughened as she recalled her single contact with them. His mouth had been so sweet, so firm, so . . .
She stopped and forced her eyes to resume their inspection. Who knew when she’d next get such a chance to stare at him?
His chest rose and fell gently and her body ached to explore the tantalizing expanse of his broad, sleek shoulders. She’d never touched a man in prime condition and she could not wait to slide her fingers beneath his coat and waistcoat and pull up his shirt to explore his skin.
Her eyelids became heavy, forcing her gaze down to the tantalizing gap between the bottom of his coat and the top of his snug breeches, the place where only a thin line of waistcoat was visible. That small slice of fabric taunted her—designed to draw a woman’s eye to the front of a man’s hips, forcing her to imagine what was above ... and below.
She stared at the intriguing spot, her eyes drawn downward to the fall of his breeches. His muscular thighs were slightly spread, their chiseled hardness a sharp contrast to the soft leather seat that cushioned them. Something about the sight reminded her of the delicious chocolates she’d received from one of her suitors. She swallowed hard as she considered the similarities between the marquess’s delectable body and a velvet-lined box of delicacies.
A slight cough caused her head to jerk up. Mia swallowed; her husband was looking at her from beneath hooded eyes. How long had he been watching?
“We are at Exley House.”
The wheels of the carriage drew to a halt, an ironic counterpoint to Mia’s racing pulse.
The door opened and the marquess kicked down the steps and exited. Once outside, he turned and said something to the two grooms, who’d leapt from the box. They moved to hold back the noisy horde who’d gathered around the carriage. It seemed she would have a collection of nosy onlookers at her new home, as well. Exley handed her down and Mia glanced toward the surging throng, many of whom had begun to yell bawdy suggestions.
The crowd here was louder and more raucous than the one that had held sway outside Carlisle House the first weeks after she’d returned. It would be impossible for her to execute any of her escape plans until she was in the country.
“Do you think they are dangerous, my lord?”
His cold gaze flickered over the mob, which was mostly comprised of men but also held a fair number of females—mainly women whose dress proclaimed their profession. Most of those gathered exhibited the exaggerated motions and overly loud voices of drunks.
“No, but you should never step out of the house alone, nor even just with your maid.” His lips twisted. “Always take your footman with you.” He took her arm and led her up the steps to the imposing stone structure that was her new home.
Two rows of servants stood lined up in the large mar
ble entry hall. The marquess approached the imposing older man at the head of the line and began the introductions.
“This is Hill, the man responsible for the smooth operation of the house.”
“My lady.” The older man bowed.
Mia smiled and nodded at him before moving to the forty odd servants who stood behind him, from Hill all the way down to the lowliest boot boy.
When she finished meeting the last of her new staff, Exley nodded to his dour housekeeper. “Mrs. Jenkins will show you to your chambers. There are a few matters that require my attention. I shall see you at dinner.” He gave her a perfunctory bow and Mia watched him ascend the curving set of marble stairs that swept up the left side of the hall. He disappeared and she turned, trying not to feel alone as she stood among the crowd of strangers in her new home.
“If you would follow me, Lady Exley,” Mrs. Jenkins asked, gesturing toward the other side of the hall, to the staircase that mirrored the one her husband had just taken.
Mia’s chambers were on the third floor at the end of the hall.
The housekeeper opened one of the double doors, stood aside, and waited until Mia had entered.
The first things Mia saw were an enormous four-poster bed and her maid’s pinched face. The haughty Frenchwoman was, for once, a welcome sight and Mia gave her an overly bright smile.
“Ah, LaValle. You are settling in, I see. Please have a bath sent up.”
“Yes, my lady,” LaValle murmured, her hard brown eyes dismissing the housekeeper as if she did not exist.
The older woman’s flushed cheeks told Mia this was not the first time she’d endured the French dresser’s scorn.
“Please have tea sent up as soon as my bath is prepared.”
The older woman frowned, as if taking tea in one’s bath was not done, but nodded and said, “Yes, my lady.”
“That is all, Mrs. Jenkins.”
The housekeeper left and Mia prowled through her new chambers. They were even more spacious than those she’d occupied at Carlisle House.
Mia examined the dressing room first. LaValle had already hung most of her clothing and her shoes and other finery had been put away, making the room look as though it had been occupied for years. She stopped in front of a closed door: the door to her husband’s chambers. She pressed her ear against the smoothly polished wood but could hear nothing. She twisted the handle. It was not locked. Mia released the knob and turned away. He’d said he had business. What manner of business would intrude on his wedding day? She shrugged. What did it matter? They were engaged in a marriage of name only, not cooing lovebirds. The fact that he’d already left her alone boded well for the future.
She inspected the rest of her new living quarters. An enormous copper tub took pride of place on a pedestal in the center of her bathing room. The tub looked large enough for several people and Mia shivered with anticipation. It was the first tub she’d seen in England that even remotely resembled the lavish bathing areas in the sultan’s palace. The English did not view bathing as a leisure activity.
A collection of cut-glass bottles covered the vanity in front of a massive, wood-framed mirror. Mia took one and pulled the stopper: lavender, her favorite. She replaced the bottle and studied the rest of the room. The floor was an alabaster marble shot through with gray veins. If Mia were to stay here for long she would see that carpets were brought in to warm the beautiful, but cold-looking, floor. The walls were covered in ice blue silk, a color that was elegant but not particularly restful.
The bedchamber walls were a darker blue and a large four-poster bed with a damask canopy dominated the room. Plush rugs of silver, blue, and cream covered the polished wood floor. The only other furniture was a gilt settee and two spindly chairs clustered in front of a large, dormant fireplace. Mia briefly considered having a fire built. Summer in London was far colder than winter in Oran.
She was still wondering if a fire would make the room too hot for her new husband when LaValle returned, followed by a line of servants bearing steaming buckets.
Mia went to stand before the large mirror in her dressing room. “You may undress me.”
The Frenchwoman hurriedly closed the doors that separated the rooms. The woman had a prudish mania when it came to Mia’s naked person and thought her mistress’s comfort with her own nudity disturbing.
LaValle worked in silence on the various buttons, tapes, and hooks that contributed to an Englishwoman’s full battle armor. After years of wearing either nothing at all or a loose caftan, Mia found the restrictive clothing unbearable and wore only a dressing gown whenever possible.
LaValle removed her gown and draped it over the dress stand before she began unlacing the corset that was the misery of Mia’s existence. She was almost boyishly skinny but she could not go without a corset. The only good she could see in the evil garment was that it pushed up her small breasts and made them look twice as large as they were, which was still not saying very much.
She exhaled a gusty sigh of relief when her maid removed the stiff garment and finally lifted off her chemise. Mia examined her naked body in the mirror as LaValle removed her slippers and stockings. She thrust out her small breasts and frowned at the result. What would her new husband think of her? She was no longer young, but her body was still firm and supple. She did not think the marquess favored young girls. He’d looked displeased when he’d heard how early she’d lost her maidenhead. Perhaps he found mature women desirable.
She caught LaValle’s disapproving stare in the mirror. The woman was looking at the small emerald that nestled in Mia’s navel, her lips pursed. This wasn’t the first time Mia had noticed her servant’s disapproval.
Piercing had been common among the sultan’s people, who traced their history to a Kabyle tribe that had long ago migrated down from the Atlas Mountains to the sea. Most of Babba Hassan’s guards had had pierced ears and many of the eunuchs and women pierced noses, navels, and even nipples.
She leaned closer to the mirror and peered at the side of her nose. Only the smallest of dimples was still visible. Mia had removed the nose stud she’d worn for years before leaving Oran. At first she’d done so because the sight of a large diamond stud in the souk would have been too tempting a target for thieves. She’d had to sell it later and had never replaced it because she knew Englishwomen did not go about with piercings. The marquess would never know her nose had once borne a diamond stud.
Mia looked down past her disappointing breasts to her navel and the small gold ring set with a beautiful emerald. It was one of the first gifts she’d received from the sultan when he’d had her pierced. She fingered the gem and it glinted a rich green in the well-lighted dressing room. Should she remove the jewelry?
Judging by the Frenchwoman’s reaction, perhaps it would be better.
She looked from the emerald to her servant’s critical face. She would leave the piece of jewelry. If her husband did not like it, he could tell her himself.
Chapter Ten
Adam submitted to Sayer’s ministrations in silence, the two men conducting the business of master and servant with their usual lack of conversation. Sayer was the only servant Adam had retained after the death of his first wife, Veronica. He’d either pensioned off or found new positions for the others. Especially those at Exham Castle, many of whom had witnessed far more than was comfortable for either Adam or his family. His daughters were already burdened with their father’s reputation; the last thing they needed was to grow up with scandalous tales of their mother.
But Adam hadn’t been able to part with Sayer, who’d been with him since Oxford. Not only was he an excellent valet, but his taciturn manner suited Adam to perfection. He would have been hard-pressed to recall the man’s speaking more than ten full sentences in the past year. He was so in tune with Adam’s tastes, it was no longer necessary for him to even enter a shop. Sayer took care of every aspect of his clothing except actually wearing the garments.
The last thing Adam would countena
nce was an emotional or high-strung servant—like his friend Danforth’s valet, Creel, who was given to bouts of near-hysteria whenever his master came home with a wine-stained cravat or scuffed Hessian.
Adam considered his closest friend’s reaction to the news of his impending nuptials while Sayer undressed him. The two had been sitting at their club, relaxing after a successful night at the tables.
“I have asked Euphemia Marlington to marry me and she has agreed. I would like you to attend me at our wedding ceremony.”
Danforth had choked and spilled half a glass of port down the front of his erstwhile snowy white cravat. Adam had imagined he could hear the anguished screams of Danforth’s valet as the crimson liquid discolored the fine linen.
“You’re . . . I beg your pardon?” Danforth said, as uncaring of his ruined cravat as he was his valet’s sanity. There was scarcely a night when Danforth did not return home looking as if he’d been rolled by highwaymen.
“I am betrothed to Lady Euphemia Marlington.”
Danforth’s deceptively angelic eyes had opened even wider than usual as he digested the news, a grin growing on his boyish face. “Well, congratulations, old man. A toast!” He’d mashed his glass so hard against Adam’s he’d almost covered him with the remainder of its contents.
“She’s a lovely woman, Exley.” The younger man’s warm, speculative look had caused Adam’s hand to tighten around his glass. Part of his mind—the part not urging him to call out his friend—had been disgusted by his rampant jealousy.
Adam realized his mind had dragged him back to the same tedious topic: his obsession for his new wife.
“Fetch me a brandy, Sayer.” He left his small clothes on the floor and headed toward his bathing chamber, where a steaming tub awaited. He dipped one foot into the almost scalding bathwater and flinched back. It took him several minutes before he could ease himself into the tub.
He believed baths were one of life’s great indulgences and always had the servants heat the water beyond what was comfortable so he could soak longer. Once he was submerged in the steaming water, he lay against the sloped back and pondered his obsession. He was more upset that he was capable of being obsessed than he was at the subject of his obsession.
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