Ruined by Rumor

by Alyssa Everett

  Though Ayersley looked and sounded as mild-mannered as ever, the air between her and George fairly crackled with the tension of a shared secret. George stole a furtive glance in her direction. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing.”

  “And you drove all the way out here to do it.” Ayersley sat tall and straight in the saddle, regarding George with unblinking civility, an odd gleam smoldering in his eyes. “How uncommonly thoughtful of you.”

  George’s lips tightened to a thin line. “I was just about to leave.”

  “In that case, don’t let us keep you, Major.”

  George threw a last speaking glance at Roxana, then turned his phaeton about and started back the way he had come.

  Ayersley sat motionless upon his horse, silently watching George’s carriage make its way up the road until it topped a rise and disappeared from view. “Shall we go back to the house?”

  Without a word, Roxana urged her filly into motion. If only her heart would stop thumping so traitorously. Though Ayersley showed no sign of anger, his very stillness made her uneasy. Even if they had agreed to a marriage of convenience, surely he must find something unsavory in her carrying on a furtive conversation with an old flame, and on the very day after their wedding. Wasn’t he going to ask what George had been doing in the road? Didn’t he want to know what they’d been talking about?

  “Ayersley,” she said into the silence between them, “I happened on him quite by accident. I didn’t arrange to meet him.”

  Ayersley kept his eyes trained on the path ahead. “I never said you did.”

  “I saw you crossing the park earlier and decided to ride out and join you. I had no notion George would be on the same road.” Why did that sound so defensive? Anyone might think she really had arranged to meet George.

  “Perhaps in future you should take a groom with you when you go riding.”

  She wished he weren’t so difficult to read. What did he mean, suggesting she take a groom? Did he believe she needed protection, or was he implying she couldn’t be trusted without a servant watching her every move? She was afraid to ask, all too aware she should never have permitted George to speak to her as he had.

  They rode on. Roxana tried not to think about everything George had said, but found it impossible. George still loved her. It had all been a mistake, calling off their engagement. He’d driven back and forth for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. And the most frightening part was, she couldn’t sort out her feelings for him. While she’d known how wrong it was for him to make romantic declarations to her, his passionate outburst had made her pulse quicken, especially when Ayersley was always so…

  She stole a glance at the man riding beside her. Ayersley was always so…what? So civilized? So patient? Since when had those qualities become failings? He was her husband now. Only a day ago, she’d vowed to forsake all others.

  But then, she’d never expected to hear such fervent declarations from George again. However much her head might insist she was a married woman, apparently the rest of her had not quite grasped the reality.

  “Roxana,” Ayersley said after they’d ridden for several minutes without a word, “may I ask you a question?”

  Her hands tightened on the reins. Now he was going to demand to know what George had been saying to her, and she was going to blush guiltily. “Of course.”

  But he only said, “Why is it you never call Major Wyatt anything but ‘George,’ yet I’m still ‘Ayersley’?”

  “But that’s your title,” she said in surprise. “It’s what everyone calls you.”

  “Yes, but you’re my wi—” He broke off with an impatient shake of his head.

  “You’d prefer I use your Christian name.” Why hadn’t she thought of that herself? “I’d be happy to—though you will understand if ‘Ayersley’ slips out now and then through sheer force of habit, won’t you?”

  He sighed, and a muscle worked in his jaw. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Call me Ayersley.”

  And that was all he said until they reached the house, and a groom came running out from the stables to take their horses.

  * * *

  Alex did his best to put seeing Roxana with Wyatt out of his head. At least they hadn’t been in each other’s arms this time. And perhaps she really had met him by accident. He had never known Roxana to lie to him, and it was possible Wyatt had contrived the meeting without her knowledge. Besides, he wanted to believe her.

  When dinner arrived, she seemed as determined as he was to forget the encounter in the road. She told him about her talks with the upper servants, her tour of the house and her visit to his mother. “And what about your day?”

  Alex shrugged. “I spent the morning answering letters from the Whig leadership. The general congress is set to convene soon in Vienna, and we hope to bring pressure to bear on Castlereagh to deal leniently with France.”

  “The Foreign Secretary?” The smile Roxana had been wearing faded. “And here I was, pleased to have tackled the housekeeper.”

  They shared a subdued meal before removing to the drawing room. Alex racked his brain to think of something to talk about with her, but he’d exhausted his small store of conversation over dinner. After a few minutes of stilted effort he caught her hiding a yawn.

  “I’m sorry.” She threw him a look of apology. “I’m a little sleepy. Perhaps it’s time I retire.”

  In an instant, the strain of laboring not to disappoint was gone, replaced by leaping anticipation. He stood as she rose to go.

  He waited a tactful ten minutes before heading upstairs. Changing for bed and dismissing Hobbes, he knocked on the door that connected his room to Roxana’s.

  “Come in.”

  Was that a note of uncertainty in her voice? He entered and closed the door softly behind him. She was standing beside the bed, her long blond hair loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look half so nervous as she’d looked the night before, though she was every bit as beautiful.

  Mastering the urge to leap on her like an overheated schoolboy, he set his candle on the table by the bed. With all the restraint he could muster, he said, “I’d like to speak with you about something, if I may.”

  She tensed. “Of course.”

  “It’s about our…” He stopped, and started over. “I’d like to discuss how often I’ll be coming to your room this way.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her eyes.

  It wasn’t easy broaching the subject with her when she looked the picture of maidenly modesty. “I’m—I’m not sure what your expectations are on the matter.”

  She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I really have no expectations. My mother never told me—that is, I’m not sure what’s customary.”

  “If you’ve no objections, then, I should like to come to your room every night.”

  Her eyes widened. “Every night?”

  “Provided you have no objections.” It was more than they’d bargained for when he proposed, especially after his earlier less-than-satisfying performance. “Any night you would prefer to be left alone, you have only to say so.”

  “Oh. That’s very good of you, Ayersley.”

  “I realize it will be an imposition.” Talking about it seemed easier if he kept to the same polite, impersonal tone he’d use to ask a simple favor—whether she would mind reading to a sick relative, perhaps, or adding a name to a list of dinner guests. “But, you see, I do need an heir.”

  “Of course,” she replied in the same stiff way.

  He felt like a lecher—but, at the same time, he couldn’t help himself. He’d spent all day thinking of her, and only half that time had been jealousy over her meeting with Wyatt. The other half, he’d been battling the overwhelming urge to drag her off to bed. “It’s critical to the future of the estate. If I should die without a son, the title and lands pass to a distant cousin. I’ve provided for you as far as I’m able, but I can’t be sure—”

  “I understand.”

  After the way he
r first time had turned out, he owed her an explanation, if not an outright apology. He cleared his throat. “About last night, Roxana—you were clearly nervous, and you’d been pushed and hurried so much in the past three weeks, the last thing I wanted was to ask even more of you.”

  She regarded him blankly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—” he gestured at the bed, “—this was all new to you, and it’s common for first times to be something of a disappointment.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize…I thought…” She looked down at the rug, her hands twisting in a nervous gesture that had become all too familiar in the past month. “At least, you did say it should get better.”

  “Yes.” It had been an even greater letdown than he’d supposed, then.

  “Well…”

  An awkward silence fell.

  He took a deep breath and sought shelter again in the safety of a detached approach. “At any rate, I don’t wish to place undue demands on you, but I have to think of the succession.”

  She, too, made a perceptible effort to shake off her nervous air. “Yes, I know.”

  “Our marriage has a public dimension as well as a private one, and I have an obligation to those who rely on the support and patronage of the estate.”

  She nodded.

  “If I were to die without an heir, any number of people would suffer—my tenants, my employees, the village laborers, to say nothing of my mother and—”

  She had gone on nodding, politely attentive, but as his speech continued, her expression changed and she bit her lip in a transparent struggle to stifle a giggle.

  His brows flew together. “What are you laughing at?”

  “It’s just—” She raised a hand to her mouth. “I do believe that’s the least romantic thing any husband has ever said to a wife—that lying with her amounts to an act of Christian charity.”

  He stared at her in consternation. “What?”

  “You sound as if we’re discussing making a donation to the workhouse, or giving alms to the poor.” She giggled. “I had a sudden vision of a list of chores lying on your desk, a tick mark beside my name to show you’d done your husbandly duty—confer with bailiff, answer letters, get Roxana with child.”

  “I really sound that bad?”

  She dissolved into a fit of mirth. “More or less.”

  He couldn’t think what to say.

  “Honestly, Ayersley, you’re either the most virtuous gentleman I’ve ever met, or you’re the slyest.” Mastering her giggles, she held out her arms to him with a teasing look. “Very well, then. I’m willing to do my part—for the benefit of my fellow man.”

  He stepped closer, smiling uncertainly, and took her in his arms. “For the benefit of your fellow man.”

  She clung to him, leaning her forehead on his shoulder. “Honestly, you can be the most ridiculous creature.”

  When she burst into fresh laughter, all the tension went out of him, and he chuckled in her ear.

  Chapter Fourteen

  But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

  The pretty follies that themselves commit.

  —William Shakespeare

  The second morning of Roxana’s marriage began just as the first. She woke alone, though she’d spent very little of the night that way. After their brief talk, she and Ayersley had made two more tries at conceiving the heir he wanted. She still had no notion what she’d done to disappoint him, but he’d seemed ready to give her a second chance—and a third, too, for that matter. Rumpled and barefoot, Ayersley had returned to his own room just before daylight.

  At breakfast, however, all was as sedate and respectable as a church service. He was once again dressed in his usual buttoned-up fashion, once again reading the newspaper. The only difference that second morning was that Ayersley’s secretary was likewise present at the table.

  “Good morning, Lady Ayersley,” Mr. Dean said, rising to his feet along with Ayersley as she entered.

  “Good morning.” She smiled at both men as she took a seat, though Ayersley didn’t appear to notice. He’d no sooner sat down again than he’d gone back to reading his paper.

  “You’re looking well, your ladyship,” Mr. Dean said.

  “Thank you, so are you. I understand you were a trifle under the weather yesterday.”

  “Just a trifle.” He grinned ruefully. “Too much celebrating at your wedding breakfast, I fear.”

  Ayersley reached for his teacup without taking his eyes from his paper. “He managed to put in a good day’s work nonetheless.”

  “Though you must have been wishing me at Jericho all the while,” Mr. Dean said. “I do apologize, Lady Ayersley. No doubt you were expecting to spend more time with his lordship, and I made the error of consulting him on estate questions. I won’t make the same mistake today.”

  “As to that, Lady Ayersley has matters of her own to attend to,” Ayersley said. “It will be business as usual for us.”

  Mr. Dean’s expression betrayed a flash of surprise, his eyes darting quickly from Ayersley’s face to hers. Whatever his thoughts, he merely inclined his head. “Of course.”

  “I’m having the north fields limed,” Ayersley said by way of explanation, “and I’d like to ride out and see firsthand how the work is progressing.”

  “I remember my father complaining of the expense when he had our fields limed,” Roxana said, striving not to show her disappointment that Ayersley again meant to spend the day at work. She helped herself to a piece of toast from the rack. “It’s this wretched clay soil. Papa said if only a man could grow crockery in the same fashion as one grew oats and barley, we’d be sitting on a gold mine.”

  “I could check on the progress myself, Lord Ayersley, and report back to you,” Mr. Dean said.

  Ayersley shook his head. “Thank you, but when it comes to estate management, the appearance of involvement is often as important as the involvement itself. It’s a matter of cultivating public confidence. Besides, I’d like to have a word with the Harvest Lord.”

  Roxana had been spreading peach jam on her toast, but at this she looked up. “Is it really time for Harvest Home again?” The Harvest Lord was the head reaper, the local man named by the villagers to negotiate the harvesters’ wages, organize the labor crews and keep the work pace on schedule—and to preside over the harvest celebration once the crop was in. “I can’t believe how quickly the year has passed.”

  “I can hardly believe it myself,” Ayersley said. “This Harvest Home will be the first I’ve attended in some time. It was always one of my favorite days when I was a boy.”

  After their hard work in the fields, the villagers inevitably made Harvest Home one of the liveliest, merriest days of the year. In addition to the feast, there would be songs and dancing, games and bonfires, and a great deal of ale. As the landowner, Ayersley would host the celebration to thank the laborers for their hard work.

  “You have extra cause for celebration this year, my lord,” Mr. Dean said with a significant glance in Roxana’s direction.

  “So I do,” Ayersley said, but he had gone back to reading his paper, and no longer seemed to be attending.

  After breakfast, he and Mr. Dean disappeared to his study to resume their work. Once again, Roxana found herself at a loss for how best to occupy her time. She spent the morning calling on Ayersley’s tenants, then paid a visit to Riddlefield.

  On this last stop, she and her mother hugged each other as if they’d been apart for months. As soon as they sat down together in the drawing room, Lady Langley searched her face. “You look tired.”

  “I haven’t been getting much sleep,” Roxana said without stopping to consider that in a new bride, such an admission implied certain other activities.

  Her mother had to bite her lip to hide the knowing smile that threatened to break forth. “I didn’t think so.”

  It would have felt good to gossip with her mother about married life and perhaps even to ask a few questions, foremost among them what she
must have done to make Ayersley so disappointed in their first time together. Unfortunately, crippling embarrassment assailed her. “I—Ayersley has been very kind,” she said, looking away with flaming cheeks.

  From the way her mother smirked, guilt must have been written on her face. So much for sparing her husband’s dignity. Her mother knew exactly why she hadn’t been sleeping.

  Later, on the carriage ride back to Broadslieve, Roxana recalled her mother’s knowing look. The more she thought about her own discomposure, the funnier it seemed, until before long she dissolved into giggles. Clearly she lacked the wherewithal to pass herself off as a sophisticated woman of mystery. Would Ayersley find it as amusing as she did? Probably not, but she was eager to tell him anyway.

  When she arrived home, however, he was still shut up in his study. Disappointed, she sat down at the drawing room escritoire to work on thank-yous to the wedding guests.

  As she dipped her pen in the inkwell, a vision of George’s face popped unbidden into her head. She wondered what he was doing at that moment. Not that it mattered—she was a married woman. But try as she might to keep her mind on the notes she was writing, she kept hearing his voice from the day before, when he’d told her he still loved her. He said he’d even driven back and forth on the road that ran past Broadslieve, just hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Roxana leaned her chin on her hand. It was probably the last time in her life a man would ever make such lovelorn, romantic gestures for her sake.

  When dinner arrived at last, she was grateful she would finally see Ayersley. Concentrating on her marriage seemed the best way to keep thoughts of George at bay.

  But even over dinner, she had no opportunity to spend time alone with her new husband. Mr. Dean not only joined them for the meal, but also accompanied them to the drawing room afterward.

  “I confess I feel rather in the way, Lady Ayersley,” he said in an aside to her as they left the dinner table. “His lordship took me by surprise when he asked me to stay.”

  “The two of you have more work to discuss?”

  Mr. Dean’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “No, ma’am. He said you would appreciate the company.”