* * *
At least Alex could count on his secretary not to make Roxana yawn. Oliver had an easy, agreeable manner, and he kept the after-dinner conversation flowing without apparent effort. He was also a good listener, with a way of nodding and smiling that suggested even when he did not agree with what a person was saying, he approved of the way the person was saying it. Roxana seemed to take an instant liking to him.
Alex wasn’t going to make her sit through any more long, largely silent evenings alone with him, trying to hide her boredom. Not if he could help it. He’d known when he married her where he stood in her affections. Lately he’d let his heart rule his head, imagining Roxana might see him in a different light once they were married. And perhaps she would—someday. In the meantime, work had always provided a reliable refuge from trouble and frustration. He would simply have to keep busy and take care not to make a nuisance of himself.
They played a three-handed game of whist while Roxana told them about her visit to Riddlefield. “Life goes on without me, it appears. My brother Tom is already on fire to return to Town, while my little brother is struggling mightily to learn his catechism.”
Oliver grinned. “When I was a boy, I learned to say my catechism so fast, it was completely incomprehensible.”
“I don’t think I could forget mine if I tried,” Alex said, studying his cards.
Roxana smiled her quick, bright smile. “Harry’s needs a little work. We keep telling him it should be ‘I heartily thank our heavenly Father, that He hath called me to this state of salvation,’ but he insists on saying ‘I hardly thank.’”
Oliver chuckled, and soon the two of them were trading droll stories of minor heresies. Alex spent most of the game silent, wishing he had the knack for talking to Roxana the way other men did. He still had not lost the sense he was never more than a speech away from damning himself irrevocably in her eyes.
He wondered if he would ever lose that sense, and was grateful he had work enough to keep him out of her way until he did.
* * *
One bright afternoon not quite two weeks after her wedding, Roxana called on Mrs. Gamble, a young tenant farmer’s wife who had just given birth. It was Mrs. Gamble’s second child and her first boy, so Roxana took a pot of beef stew from Broadslieve’s kitchens, a basket of apples and a set of spare bed linens and set out to see the new arrival for herself.
The baby was asleep in his cradle when she arrived. By now he was a week old, and Mrs. Gamble was sitting up in bed. Her first child, a little girl about two years old, stood in a corner of the room, gazing at Roxana with the fearful stare small children reserve for unfamiliar sights.
“Katie, make your curtsey,” Mrs. Gamble told the girl.
With one finger in her mouth and her eyes as big as saucers, Katie bobbed up and down.
Roxana beamed at the little girl. “What a very pretty curtsey. Might she have an apple, Mrs. Gamble?”
“Yes, my lady. Do you want an apple, Katie?”
The little girl nodded. Roxana chose one from the basket and held it out to her.
“I don’t know if she’ll take it from you, my lady,” Mrs. Gamble said. “She’s a shy one. I can never get a peep out of her when there are strangers about.”
“But I’m hardly a stranger.” Roxana smiled encouragingly at Katie. “You know me, don’t you? I’m Harry Langley’s sister.”
Katie removed her finger from her mouth. Slowly, she approached and took the apple from Roxana’s hand—then climbed into her lap and leaned her head against Roxana’s shoulder.
“Katie!” her mother said, aghast. “You mustn’t climb on her ladyship that way!”
“I don’t mind.” Roxana enjoyed the feel of the warm little body curled up against her.
“But she’ll get you all mussed, my lady.”
“Oh, that doesn’t signify. I like having her here.”
The young mother gave a bemused shake of her head. “I’m surprised she went to you. It takes her a day or two to warm up to my sister whenever she pays us a visit, and that’s Katie’s own aunt.”
“Well, she sees me in church every Sunday.”
Mrs. Gamble watched Roxana with her daughter, a thoughtful look on her face. “If you don’t mind my saying, my lady, Mr. Gamble and I were that pleased when we first heard you were to marry his lordship. Even back when you were promised t’another, we used to say what a shame it would be if his lordship wed some hoity-toity lady from London when he had such a great beauty living right under his nose.”
It was amazing what goodwill a little beef stew and bed linens could buy. Not only was the compliment extravagant, but Roxana couldn’t help smiling at the tactful way Mrs. Gamble had refrained from mentioning the rumors that had pushed Ayersley to the altar. “You’re being too kind.”
“Oh, no, my lady. You’ve always had the common touch, and that’s just what a quiet sort like his lordship needs. And such a fine-looking couple the two of you make. We couldn’t be more proud of him if he belonged to us. Happen he does, in a way—and so do you.”
Just then the new baby woke and began to fuss. Mrs. Gamble lifted him carefully out of the cradle beside her bed and turned him to face Roxana.
Her breath caught. “Oh my goodness. He’s darling!”
It was not mere politeness. He was a beautiful baby, with auburn hair like his mother’s already growing in a little tuft. He had a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion and a round, chubby face.
The young mother grinned. “He is a right one, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Almost as darling as Katie was, is he not, Katie? You must be a very proud big sister.”
Her head still on Roxana’s shoulder, the little girl nodded.
“You’ll be having one of your own before too long, my lady,” Mrs. Gamble said.
“Oh, I hope so.” There was a snug, homey feeling in the little room, which brought a lump to Roxana’s throat. The new baby in his mother’s arms, Katie’s warm weight settled trustingly against her—it all added up to a rush of longing.
“Of course you will,” Mrs. Gamble said. “You’ll have a bonny dark-haired little lord, and he’ll be the very image of his father.”
* * *
For Roxana, the next day was like the one before, and with the exception of church on Sunday, so was the next, and the next. Each morning began with a businesslike breakfast, after which she and Ayersley parted company, never setting eyes on one another again until dinner. Sometimes Mr. Dean would appear at the breakfast table with them, and sometimes he would join them in the evening. Either way, the workday remained inviolate.
There seemed no end to Ayersley’s responsibilities. He had just had a threshing machine installed on the home farm, a miraculous steam-powered innovation designed to separate the corn from the chaff much faster than a team of men could do the job. Ayersley devoted countless hours to getting the machine up and running—corresponding with the engineer who’d designed it, discussing every aspect of its operation with his bailiff, proudly watching over its inaugural run.
Roxana ventured out to see it that first day, expecting from Ayersley’s enthusiastic descriptions of the machine that it would be a gleaming clockwork wonder. Instead, she was alarmed to discover a huge, hissing, thumping monstrosity that took up two floors of the threshing barn and filled the air with dirt and dust. It smelled of soot and looked dangerous. Ayersley adored it. He was practically giddy with excitement.
The advent of this wondrous machine, however, meant he had to find employment for the laborers who would otherwise have spent the coming weeks threshing and winnowing. Even a miracle like steam power, he explained over dinner, was doomed to meet with opposition if the workers it displaced were simply cast aside. Of course he would dismiss his sense of responsibility as mere practicality.
Eventually he decided to erect a pottery works that would use the local clay to produce earthenware. Bricklayers were already at work on the new building.
“What an
excellent idea, Ayersley!” Roxana said when he told her about it. “The coal you bring in for the threshing machine can fuel the kilns as well.”
“It’s a good solution for all concerned. If it succeeds, I should recover my investment in short order, and the workers will have a reliable source of income. Real progress comes when everyone benefits.”
Each day, Ayersley conferred with his steward, met with parish officials, administered his business interests and pored over documents with Mr. Dean. Though Parliament was in recess, he kept in close touch with the Whig leadership, too, taking part in the endless rounds of debate and discussion that swirled in that circle. He read every newspaper that crossed his desk, and never allowed a letter to go unanswered. And all of it seemed so important, not like her trifling calls on tenants and settling of servants’ squabbles.
Sunday was the one exception to this routine. At least she could count on their attending church together. On the first Sunday of her marriage Roxana felt strangely exhilarated, sitting in Ayersley’s pew with him. A little flutter ran through her every time he spoke the responses. She wished it were a fitting awareness of the sacred that made her heart beat more strongly, but it was rather that she felt every inch a new bride that day, conscious all the time of the tall, strong body of her husband next to hers. The newlywed excitement lasted throughout the drive back to Broadslieve—until they returned home to a house so quiet, her spirits came crashing back to earth.
Not that she had any right to complain. Perhaps Ayersley was not dashing or romantic, and perhaps theirs was not a love match, but he was unfailingly considerate. Besides, she could still look forward to the nights.
She loved everything about sharing a bed with him—well, nearly everything. Inevitably, as the excitement built, that frightening sensation would take hold of her, the feeling something powerful and unfamiliar was about to happen, and she would have to tense and hold her breath until it passed. Ayersley would always slow, searching her face with a puzzled look, but after she’d stared back at him in taut anxiety for the space of several seconds, eventually he would give a sigh and reapply himself to the business of begetting an heir.
One night when the weather was uncommonly warm, Ayersley stripped off his nightshirt before climbing into bed. It was how he usually slept in the summer, he explained when her eyes grew round. Did she mind? Too startled to object, she told him no, of course not. From that night on, he was as apt to shed his nightclothes as he was to wear them.
By then Roxana felt bold enough to really look at him when he disrobed—though she was glad she’d waited, since if she’d taken a good look at him on their wedding night, she might have been even more chicken-hearted. The only male she’d ever seen in a state of complete undress was her little brother Harry, and it turned out grown men differed considerably from little boys. But besides being proportioned very differently from the way she’d imagined a man must be, Ayersley looked—well, beautiful. She was sure that wasn’t the proper word to use for the male physique, but his body fascinated her with its planes and muscles, its scattered hairiness and long, strong limbs.
He must have known she was looking at him, but oddly enough, he didn’t seem at all shy about it. In fact, when they were in bed together he rarely showed any shyness at all. Roxana found it curious that a man who went about in such a conservatively buttoned-up fashion should be so comfortable with the physical side of marriage, but nevertheless he was. It was almost as if there were another Ayersley walled up behind the reserved exterior—a happier, less cautious version of the man she knew, ready to break forth if only he would let down his guard.
Chapter Fifteen
A mighty pain to love it is,
And ’tis a pain that pain to miss.
—Abraham Cowley
Alex was finishing his tea when Roxana breezed into the breakfast room, dressed smartly in a slim-fitting gown of Turkey red.
He lowered his newspaper to admire the view. “You’re looking well this morning.”
She broke into one of those happy grins that brought out her dimples. “Thank you. I feel well! Don’t you love the color of this gown? I was almost tempted to buy the matching turban, though I decided I wasn’t ready to cut quite that much of a dash.”
“I like the color very much, and the decision not to buy the turban even more.”
She laughed. “You don’t approve of turbans, then?”
He folded his paper and set it aside. “On Eastern potentates, yes. On young ladies, no.”
“I feel the same way. Turbans seem rather matronly to me, and I don’t feel at all matronly this morning.”
“You don’t look at all matronly, either.”
She looked radiantly pretty, her glorious silver-blond hair tamed into a loose knot. He doubted he would ever get his fill of looking at her or lose the hunger for her that hadn’t lessened in the slightest since their wedding. He spent most of his days looking forward to the nights.
And the nights were almost perfect, the time when talk became unnecessary. Almost perfect. But while Roxana never refused him or made excuses, he had yet to leave her sighing with satisfaction. Alex had never thought of himself as particularly selfish or lacking in patience, but they’d been married three weeks now, and—nothing. Sometimes in the heat of the moment he had the sense she was actively resisting. Was it a conscious effort to keep some part of herself separate and unreachable? He couldn’t bring himself to ask, afraid it was loyalty to Wyatt that kept her proof against his attempts to please her.
Now he ran his eyes over her, more thoughtfully than lightly. “Is there some occasion that’s brought out the new dress and the happy smiles?”
“Well, that depends.” Her tone was bright, flirtatious. “Do you expect to be busy all day?”
He enjoyed the tone, even if he didn’t quite understand it. “I do have some work to attend to. Why do you ask?”
“I was hoping to go riding later today, and wondered if you might be free.”
He blinked at her in surprise. “You want me to join you?”
“Well, yes. If you’re busy today, I completely understand, but perhaps later in the week?”
“I’m sure I could find the time.” He sat forward.
“Name the day, then. Tomorrow? The day after? I don’t wish to push, but if I know exactly when it is to be, I can plan around it.”
“Shall we say tomorrow, then?”
“That would be lovely.” She gave him another of her brilliant smiles.
He smiled back—until he remembered he was supposed to meet with his solicitor the next morning to sign copyhold papers. “No, wait. I have an appointment. Wednesday?”
“Very well, Wednesday it is.”
“Except,” he said with an apologetic glance, “I’m interviewing the prospective foreman for the new pottery works on Wednesday.”
“What time do you plan to see him?”
“He’s coming in the morning, but after that I’m meeting with my steward and the Harvest Lord about the celebration Friday.” Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You seem unusually interested in my schedule. Any particular reason?”
“I’d like to go riding with you, of course. Perhaps you could keep it in mind, and clear some time later in the week? Just give me a day’s notice, so I can cancel any appointments I may have.”
“Very well,” he said, stealing a doubtful glance in her direction.
They finished their breakfast talking of the weather, while Alex wondered about the new dress and the equally new interest in his comings and goings.
* * *
Roxana sighed. Well, that had been a dismal failure. Tired of the polite distance in her marriage that only seemed to be growing, she’d formed the novel plan of flirting with her own husband—a plan that had got her precisely nowhere. But at least she had issued an invitation. Perhaps Ayersley would find time for her soon.
Unfortunately, her morning remained disappointingly free, and it seemed a shame to let a new gown go to waste. Sh
e decided to call on Fanny and then spend the afternoon shopping in the village. Ordering the barouche, she donned her most dashing red-and-black-plumed bonnet and set out.
Despite her determination to keep her spirits up, Roxana couldn’t help wishing her invitation to Ayersley had turned out differently. She’d dreamed for years of being a new bride, and after three weeks of marriage, the reality was not at all as she’d imagined. Though she tried to keep as busy as possible, no amount of calls and errands could dispel the growing sense something was lacking in her life. Living such a tame, polite existence, she missed romance and excitement and anticipation.
She missed George.
Whenever such a dangerous notion crossed her mind, she would remind herself she and Ayersley had not bargained for anything beyond fidelity and a shared effort to conceive a child, and he was certainly living up to his end of that agreement. She should stop mooning after a life she would never have and appreciate her blessings.
Even so, she wondered how different life might be if she were the London girl Ayersley had hoped to court. I love her, he’d said when she’d asked him about the girl as they’d waltzed on the night George had jilted her. I’ve never loved anyone else.
No wonder he spent so little time with her.
The thought left Roxana thoroughly dejected, but her carriage was already pulling up before Sherbourne Park, and it wouldn’t do to let Fanny catch her sighing. Stepping down onto the graveled drive, she lifted her chin and pasted on a smile.
Soon she was sitting with Fanny in the Sherbournes’ comfortable drawing room. After a few polite preliminaries and some very kind oohing and aahing over Roxana’s new gown, Fanny latched on to the topic currently nearest her heart—Ayersley’s secretary. Mr. Dean had been absent from the dinner table at Broadslieve the night before, and Fanny lost no time in confiding he’d dined at Sherbourne Park with her family.
“And, oh, Roxana, I like him so much!” Fanny’s eyes shone. “Isn’t he wonderful? He doesn’t frighten me like some men, the sort who are bold and say clever things I can’t possibly answer, but he isn’t at all stuffy or proud either.”
Ruined by Rumor Page 18