by Mary Balogh
He hated the thought of meeting her face-to-face this morning.
She had had an early breakfast, he discovered when he had dressed and went downstairs. She had eaten just toast and coffee—she had been unwilling to wait for anything to be cooked. They just had not expected her ladyship to be down so early this morning, the butler said, sounding almost aggrieved. And was he looking reproachfully at his master? Lord Francis wondered, hoping that he was not blushing. As if to ask what on earth a bride was doing up early on the morning after her wedding night.
The whole thing seemed about to become a public as well as a private disaster.
She had spoken with the housekeeper and made arrangements to consult with her and to examine the household accounts later in the morning. She had appeared in the kitchen—a domain on which he had never trespassed since he knew it to be ruled by a somewhat tyrannical cook—in order to bid everyone a sunny good morning and ask Alice how her cold was healing. Alice had been unfortunate enough to sneeze while standing in line for inspection in the hall yesterday afternoon. Cora had suggested coming back later to discuss the day’s menu since Cook was busy getting his lordship’s breakfast.
The devil. Cook would not like that, Lord Francis thought, almost nervously.
And then she had taken herself outside to enjoy the morning air and to explore the gardens. That was what she had told the butler, anyway. She was nowhere to be seen by the time Lord Francis went out there, breakfast-less.
He found her in the stables, bent over the raised hoof of one of his carriage horses with his head groom. She was wearing a simple cotton morning gown. Her hair was up but dressed loosely and simply. He guessed that she had dressed without benefit of her maid. She wore neither shawl nor bonnet.
She turned her head and smiled brightly when he appeared. No blushes at the sight of him—and no grimace of distaste either.
“You suspected yesterday that one of the horses was not quite fit, did you not, Francis?” she said. “It is this one. I mentioned it to Mr. Latterly and he looked and sure enough there was a stone and it has chafed the poor horse’s hoof. It is a good thing we do not plan to travel today.”
She had mentioned it to Latterly. Not either he or his coachman. Lady Francis Kneller, he thought, was going to take some careful handling. But he could not stop himself from seeing the humor of the situation. His bride had been out and busy while the exhausted bridegroom had kept to his bed in order to sleep off the effects of his wedding night. He grinned.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “Good morning, Latterly.” He too bent over the horse’s hoof attentively in order to confirm with his own eyes what he had already been told.
A few minutes later he was leading his wife from the stables, her arm linked through his. She was chattering to him about horses. She had learned to ride as a child, but there had not been nearly enough opportunity to practice her skills until the move to Mobley Abbey. She loved riding. There was no exercise quite so exhilarating. She was talking very brightly, he noticed. Too brightly? She was looking ahead instead of at him.
“I hear that you have a busy morning planned,” he said. “Can you spare half an hour for a mere husband, my dear?” It would have been easier to have gone inside for breakfast and to have allowed her to disappear with the housekeeper. But he had the feeling that if he did not talk to her now, they might never talk again. Not really talk, that was. And he might turn forever craven.
“Of course.” She smiled quickly at him, turning her head and lifting her eyes to his chin before looking ahead again. “What a foolish question, Francis. I will always have time for you. You are my husband.”
“There is a scenic walk,” he said, pointing to the trees at the far side of the terrace. “A planned route that circles up behind the house and comes out close to the stables again. It was created for maximum picturesque effect and to give the illusion of peace and seclusion. The whole park has been very carefully designed.”
“And yet you have spent little of your time here,” she said. “Perhaps things will change, Francis, now that you have me as a companion.”
A companion. Not a wife. She even seemed to throw special emphasis on the word. The subject had to be dealt with.
“Cora.” He covered her hand on his arm and patted it. “I must apologize for last night. It must have been a less than pleasant experience for you.”
“It was not unpleasant,” she said briskly, “and I thank you for it. It was extremely kind of you. But it is over now. We can put it behind us. It was not necessary, but I was and am grateful.”
Had he understood her correctly? Was she saying that the sexual aspect of their marriage was unnecessary? Had he been that bad? He winced inwardly.
“What was extremely kind of me?” he asked. “Hurting you and then leaving you wanting, Cora? It was unpardonable.”
Her cheeks were rosy, he saw. She walked onto the path between rhododendron trees without looking to the right or to the left.
“You knew,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “that it was something I wished to experience at least once in my life, and so you made an effort for my sake. I am very grateful to you. My curiosity has been satisfied and it was—well, really it was pleasant even though it ended sooner than I hoped. It is something I will always remember. But it is not something you need feel duty-bound to repeat. I understand. I truly do. And it will never make me think any the less of you. I like you and I respect you just as you are.”
He felt the insane urge to laugh. Her voice had become so very earnest as she had proceeded in her speech. They were approaching a marble statute of Pan blowing his pipes, but she had not even glanced at it. She was staring determinedly into the middle distance.
“Cora.” He drew her to a halt with a hand over hers. They had been moving along almost at a run. “I am relieved to hear that I did not utterly shock you last night. But are you assuming that I have no wish to repeat what we did together? Do you not think I would wish to redeem myself by doing better tonight and in the coming nights? Do you not think perhaps it will be a matter of pride with me to see to it that it does not end sooner than you hoped tonight?”
“Oh, Francis.” She caught at his hands and leaned toward him, looking so directly into his eyes that he felt robbed of breath. “No. No, really you must not. I understood even before we married, before I agreed to marry you. I accepted it then. It is all right. I will find plenty with which to fill my life and give it happiness. I want you to relax now and find happiness in your own way. You owe me nothing—except perhaps a little companionship. But that will not be difficult, will it? I think you like me.” She smiled at him.
She kept saying that. She had said it last night. He frowned, feeling as if she were privy to some secret that had been withheld from him.
“Cora,” he said, “what is it that you understand, pray? I must confess myself mystified.”
Her face, which had recovered its normal color a few minutes before, flushed crimson again. Even her ears were red-tipped. “You know,” she said.
“No.” Even her neck was red. “I am afraid I do not, dear. Why do you believe so earnestly that I do not wish to make love to my own wife?”
“Because,” she said.
“Which is a marvelously eloquent reason,” he said, “to someone who can read minds.”
But she would say no more. She stared at him, clinging to his hands, as though it were impossible to look away or to move at all. She had said nothing intelligible to give him an inkling of her meaning. But it flashed on him suddenly anyway. He stared back.
“Cora,” he said, “do you believe that I prefer—men to women?”
Her continued silence gave him his answer.
Good Lord! Whatever had given her …? What the deuce?
He should have felt anger, outrage. It was not a tolerant age in which they lived. What she suggested was a capital offense. He should have been white with fury.
Only Cora could possibly have come
up with such a preposterous theory. And she had married him believing it.
The thought saved him. Only Cora!
He threw back his head and shouted with laughter. He roared with it. He dropped her hands, turned away from her, and doubled over with it, clutching an aching side.
“Oops,” she said from behind him at just the moment he had decided to turn to find out why she was not laughing with him, as she usually was. She sounded quite sober. “Have I been mistaken? Have I made an utter cake of myself?”
He turned to look at her. She was standing very still, one hand over her mouth. Her eyes were as wide as saucers and were filled with dismay.
“One might say that,” he said, “if one wished to be unkind. Cora, whatever gave you that ridiculous idea?
Why would I have married you? Why would I have—consummated our marriage?”
“I thought you were being kind,” she said. “You said yourself that I was in something of a scrape.”
“Kind indeed,” he said, tipping back his head and laughing again. “But what made you think it?”
“Well, your coa— Your app—” She bit her upper lip. She was looking very unhappy. That fact only added to his amusement. “Papa and Edgar and all the men with whom they associate always dress in the soberest of dark colors. They never wear lace or fancy knots in their neckcloths or a great deal of jewels, even in their quizzing glasses. Edgar always says that men who wear bright colors are … Well, Francis, you do wear turquoise coats, you must confess. And lavender ones. And pink. I do not mind at all. I like to see you dressed that way. Fashions for men are becoming all too sober. But …” Her voice trailed away.
“Cora.” He set his head to one side and looked at her. He was still brimming with laughter. “I wear pink coats and you think. Merely because your brother said. It is my experience that people are not so easily classified. A man who prefers men is just as likely to be large and brawny and dressed all in sober black as to wear pink coats and lace. More so. Most men would not be eager to advertise such a preference. It would be dangerous. And you have thought this of me from the start? But why did you marry me? Your father and brother, I remember, were quite willing to take you home with them and look after you. They were exerting no pressure on you to have me. Why did you?”
Unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears and he felt sorry for his laughter. “Because,” she whispered. Then she caught at her skirts with both hands. “I have never been so mortified in my life. I wish I could die. I will never ever be able to look you in the eye again. Excuse me. I have appointments I must keep at the house. I must be busy. I have a home to run.”
And she was gone, flying down the path the way they had come, all pretty ankles and shapely derrière and hair falling out of its loose knot.
He did not try to stop her or go after her. He stayed where he was, feeling sorry that he had laughed so hard and humiliated her so deeply. And yet he continued to feel amused. He had been teased mercilessly enough over the years about his preference for bright colors and pastel shades in his clothing. But he had always felt secure enough in his masculinity to follow his own inclination. He had even done so deliberately to amuse others. He could remember choosing his pink coat with the conscious thought that it would amuse Samantha.
But Cora came from a middle-class world, where men were perhaps not so free to display their individuality. Not if they wanted to rise in the world, anyway. She had seen him through middle-class eyes and had judged him accordingly. And yet she had liked him. And she had married him.
That last thought sobered him finally. Why had she married him, thinking what she had thought? She had not really needed to do so. Although there had been scandal and doubtless it would have clung to her for a long time if she were really a lady of ton, her father had not seemed to feel that it was imperative for her to marry. She was part of a close and loving family, and they had been quite prepared to take her home with them. The compulsion on her to accept him had not been as strong as it had been on him to offer.
Why had she married him, then? He thought now of the impression he had once had that she loved him. It was an amusing memory, considering what she had believed of him, or would have been amusing if he were still in the mood to be amused. Obviously that had not been the reason.
There could be only one. She had wanted a home of her own, a world of her own in which she was mistress. She had wanted companionship with him, some conversation, some laughter. She had been content to enter a marriage that she had expected not to be a marriage at all.
She did not really want him. Not in that way. And yet she had thanked him for what had happened last night, fumbling and gauche a performance as it had been. He wondered if she wanted it again. Perhaps not. Perhaps her assurances that she really did not mind the situation as it was—or as she had perceived it to be—also expressed her preference.
But it was out of the question. He did not love her and she was not the bride of his choice. But she was his wife and he had discovered last night the full power of his sexual attraction to her. He had not wanted to marry her, but the fact was that he was married to her. She would have to grow accustomed to a marriage far different from the one she had expected. Even if she did not like it.
It was a chilling thought to have less than twenty-four hours after they had been irrevocably bound together for life.
IT WAS AN extremely busy day. She had scarcely a moment to herself. After coming back into the house from her walk with Francis, she went down to the kitchen and chatted with the cook. Her first impression that Cook was not pleased to see her quickly dissolved as she listened to the woman’s plans for the day’s menu and showed admiring interest in the recipes for various dishes and told Cook about some of her favorite recipes and offered to write them out and bring them down one day. She found herself within half an hour seated at the large wooden work table, eating a hearty cooked breakfast merely because she had breathed in deeply and made appreciative comments on the appetizing smells.
By the time she left the kitchen, having discussed at satisfying length all the various herbs known to man and all the familiar and unfamiliar remedies for every ailment either of them had ever encountered or treated, Cora had the impression that she had won the approval of her cook.
And then she spent several hours with the housekeeper, looking at every room in the house, commenting on how neat and clean everything appeared even though Lord Francis was not a great deal at home. She pored over the household accounts and commended the housekeeper on her management and bookkeeping skills. She gave her approval of the purchase of new bed linens, which was apparently long overdue. She checked carefully first in the books to see that the housekeeping budget would stretch to such an expense.
Then she went walking with her maid into the village of Sidley Bank, having discovered with some relief that her husband was busy with his steward. She went to look at the church and there met the rector, who bowed and rubbed his hands together as if washing them and murmured about the honor her ladyship was doing him and his humble church. He took her into the rectory to meet his wife and she stayed to take tea with the two of them. Then the rector’s wife took her to call on the late rector’s widow and on two spinster sisters, who were clearly gentlewomen living on limited means. She took more tea at each visit.
It was only at a late dinner that she was finally forced to be with Francis again. She recounted at tedious length every minute detail of her day for his entertainment and was quite prepared to begin all over again if necessary. She did not allow even the smallest moment of silence. She did not once look him in the eye.
She looked regretfully at the pianoforte when they retired to the drawing room, but even Miss Graham, who had been the most patient and persistent governess ever to be born, had been forced to admit many years ago that Cora had been gifted with ten thumbs instead of only the usual two and eight nimble fingers. It seemed that conversation must be engaged in again. But she made the amazing discovery that Franc
is played. He played very well. He played all evening at her request and sang too with a very pleasing tenor voice. She joined him in a few songs since the musical ineptness of her fingers did not extend to her voice as well.
Finally the day was over. She had lived through it without having to do any thinking at all. Though that was a lie, she thought as she got into bed and raised the bedclothes up over her head and hoped that she could be alone with her shame until tomorrow. Of course it was a lie. The truth was she had done nothing but think all day.
She wished she could die.
How could she possibly have made such a ghastly, ghastly error? And how could she have let him know what she suspected? She admitted, now that it was far too late, that she had had no evidence at all—none whatsoever—for thinking what she had thought except for the pathetically unconvincing fact that he wore pretty coats. There had been nothing in his behavior, nothing in the behavior of anyone else toward him. Only that silly fact that she had seen him at her first ball dressed in turquoise and had immediately thought of peacocks. Her mind had been made up and firmly closed from that moment on.
Oh, the humiliation was too much to bear. She burrowed farther beneath the bedclothes.
She cringed into total immobility when she heard the same tap on the door she had heard last night and the door opened.
And now to cap everything she had been caught hiding beneath the bedclothes. She was too mortified to come out. She listened to the silence until she felt a weight depress the mattress close to her head and felt a hand come to rest on her rump.
“Cora,” he said quietly, “it is just me, dear.”
Which was an extremely foolish thing for an intelligent man to say. Did he not realize that that was the whole trouble?
“There is no need to hide from me,” he said. “I am not going to ridicule you or tell anyone else about your error. It really does not matter. I am sorry I laughed. It struck me as funny, but I know it was humiliating for you.”