by Mary Balogh
When Ralph and Lloyd began to discuss what needed to be done to prepare the house for the arrival of family members and close friends for the funeral, Chloe looked up from the letter she was writing and told them quite firmly that they need not concern themselves with domestic matters. That was her domain, and she would confer with Mrs. Loftus. Ralph exchanged a straight-faced stare with the secretary before saying that in that case he would start jotting down ideas for the funeral to discuss with the vicar.
Somewhat later, just before the Reverend Marlowe returned, Ralph mentioned the necessity of acquiring some mourning clothes, especially for Chloe, who apparently had nothing black. He would send to London for some ready-made garments and hope they would fit well enough. But again Chloe looked up from what she was doing and told him he need not worry. She had considered sending home for the old mourning clothes she had had for her mother, but there was a better solution. A skilled dressmaker lived no more than eight miles away. Chloe would ask her to come and to bring an assistant and fabrics and all her sewing needs with her so that she could stay for a few days. Ralph’s grandmother would perhaps wish to avail herself of her services too.
Ralph found himself growing increasingly irritated. He was accustomed to command, though he had not done a great deal of it in the last seven years, it was true. But he was certainly accustomed to independence, to making his own decisions, to having servants follow his orders without question or interference. Chloe, of course, was not a servant. What irritated him most about her, perhaps, was that she really was a help—an invaluable help, in fact. And that she did it all cheerfully and efficiently. And that she could—and did—think and act independently.
It fairly set his teeth on edge—until he remembered how unabashedly happy his grandfather had been yesterday. And his grandmother too. And how his grandmother had been leaning into Chloe earlier on in the drawing room after he had seen the doctor and the vicar on their way. And how he himself needed a wife, and how now more than ever he needed an heir.
And what type of wife would he prefer? Someone helpless and timid and vaporish? Someone he could bed at night and ignore by day? Or someone . . . like Chloe?
His irritation, he admitted to himself, was unreasonable.
And then suddenly, out of the blue, he thought of someone else who had always had a similar effect upon him—someone for whom he had felt respect and annoyance in equal measure. Someone he could never either dominate or quite dismiss from his notice.
Graham Muirhead. Her brother, for the love of God.
They were nothing alike. They looked as different as night and day. Of course, it was possible, even probable, that they were only half siblings, was it not?
He was relieved when Weller appeared at the study door to inform him that the vicar awaited his pleasure in the small salon. Chloe’s red head with its bright coronet of braids was bent over a letter when he left. She was gone when he returned. Her Grace, the dowager duchess, had awoken and asked for her, the secretary informed him.
Ralph was tired and dispirited when she appeared at the door sometime later. There were still letters to write, but his mind was addled and a certain numbness he had held within since last night was beginning to give place to the full realization that his grandfather was gone forever. Yesterday they had walked out to the chapel and back together. They had spent the evening together, reminiscing about Ralph’s boyhood. Today he was gone.
“It is time to change for dinner,” Chloe told him.
He frowned at her with undisguised annoyance.
“I have no appetite,” he said. “I will have something later on a tray if I am hungry.” And he bent his head to continue writing.
“Neither is your grandmother hungry,” she said. “But it is of the utmost importance that she eat and keep up her strength. I have no appetite either. It is up to you and me, though, especially you, to set the example. And you had no luncheon.”
He dropped his pen and spattered small blots across his half-written letter, ruining it. He could feel irritation escalate to anger. He opened his mouth to give her some sort of blistering setdown, but he paused and shut his mouth again while he passed a hand over his eyes. She was quite right, damn it.
“I will go up now,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll escort you.”
She must be just as tired as he. And it must be as difficult for her to adjust to his ways as it was for him to adjust to hers. More so. She was not frowning and scowling at him at every turn. She was just quietly going about her business.
Ralph was forced to admit to himself over the next few days that he did not know how he would have managed without her help. Though even that admission was an irritant. He had spent three years at Penderris Hall and four years since learning to live alone, learning to be dependent upon no one—especially not emotionally dependent.
Not that he was growing emotionally dependent upon his wife. Sex, after all, was not an emotion. Which was a very good thing. For he came near to becoming dependent upon it during those days leading up to the funeral, or, rather, during the nights. Tired though he was each night, he went to her bed and found some relief from the stresses of the day in her body. It was never an overly erotic experience. She always wore her nightgown to bed, and he never tried to remove it. She always wore a nightcap too, the glory of her hair all but hidden beneath it.
But he took her twice each night, three times on one occasion, and he did not even pretend to himself that it was all out of duty and the need to beget an heir, though that was his justification for taking pleasure when his grandfather’s body was still in the house, laid out downstairs in the state rooms.
He had no idea if it was a pleasure for her too. She always lay quietly beneath him, her body warm and relaxed and moist within, prepared to welcome him. But her arms almost always came about him when he was on her, the fingers of one hand running lightly over the worst of his scars, the saber cut that had almost severed both his arm and his shoulder after first opening up his face. She never commented on the ugliness of it, though she had seen it in the mornings when he got up from her bed, naked, as he always slept. His body was not a pretty sight, he knew. She never flinched from it, though.
He had the feeling she was going to be a good wife. She would probably be a good mother too. He was not sure if he was more pleased than annoyed. His whole life felt . . . invaded.
And his very identity had changed yet again. Earl of Berwick five years ago when his father died suddenly while Ralph was still at Penderris; now Duke of Worthingham. And a married man.
He sometimes wondered where Ralph Stockwood had gone, if anywhere. Perhaps he was still there, lurking and lowering somewhere deep inside. But he was not sure he wanted to search for him. Sometimes sleeping dogs really were best left lying.
9
Chloe was kept very busy during the days following the old duke’s passing and had little time to reflect upon the trials that were facing her, though they were many. Even the original situation had been daunting enough, when she was merely the new Countess of Berwick and had only to face her own relatives and in-laws with the fact of her sudden marriage.
Merely. And only.
Now, in addition, she was the Duchess of Worthingham and must welcome to her home—and yes, that really was Manville Court, no longer the far more modest Elmwood Manor—as many relatives and as many of the crème de la crème of society as cared to make the journey into Sussex for the funeral. Ralph and his grandmother believed that a large number of people would wish to pay their last respects.
These were the same people who had turned their collective back upon Chloe six years ago after Lucy had run away with Mr. Nelson and again last year when it had become painfully apparent that she, Chloe Muirhead, bore a striking resemblance to the daughter of a man once a beau of her mother’s.
She had little time during those days to reflect upon the state of her marr
iage, which was, admittedly, in its very early stages and was progressing under very different circumstances from what either of them had anticipated. She did not know if her husband liked her or not. She did not know whether she liked him. She supposed it did not matter much either way, though. They were married and would just have to make the best of it. It was not as though either of them had any romantic illusions.
The days were difficult. She threw herself into her new role because she knew she was needed and because she knew too she must begin as she meant to go on—a false step now might forever alienate her servants and mar future relations with her neighbors. But she felt like a usurper, especially as the dowager duchess was still very much in residence. And Ralph seemed to resent her energy and efficiency because, she suspected, he had never had to share leadership with anyone. Not that he ever complained. On the contrary, he frequently thanked her and even complimented her, but he did so in a stiff, cool manner that suggested what he would really like to do was snarl at her at the very least. And she resented his resentment, for she believed he would despise her if she settled into being the timid mouse of a wife he had probably expected.
The whole point of her wishing to be married had been that she would never again have to efface herself and pretend to be placid and bland. Provided she did not have to face the beau monde again, that was. Yet that was precisely what was about to happen, albeit in a limited way. Oh, life was not easy. And what an earth-shatteringly original observation that was.
But she had to admit to herself that the nights made up for the trials of the days. She liked his regular, dispassionate lovemaking, for want of a more appropriate word. She liked it very much indeed and tried her very best not to want more—fond words and tender touches, for example, and . . . Well, and a great deal more to which she could not even put a name because of her lamentable inexperience. But none of that, whatever it was, was a part of their bargain. Indeed, their very absence was a part of it.
No emotional ties.
The Dowager Countess of Berwick, Ralph’s mother, arrived two days before the funeral in company with Viscount Keilly and his wife, Nora, Ralph’s youngest sister. Ralph went downstairs to meet the carriage as soon as he was made aware of its approach, and Chloe proceeded more slowly behind, his grandmother leaning heavily on her arm. The travelers were out of the carriage and standing on the terrace by the time the two of them emerged from the house and descended the steps. The younger lady was in Ralph’s arms, sobbing against his shoulder. The older lady came hurrying across the terrace to hug the dowager and express her sorrow.
Chloe took a step back and clasped her hands at her waist—like the perfect companion, she thought, fading into the background—and wished fervently that that was just what she was.
The gentleman was shaking hands with Ralph and offering words of sympathy.
And then they all seemed to be finished at the same time with that first outpouring of grief and mutual condolences. Everyone turned in a body to look at her. Her first foolish thought was that she was very thankful Miss Rush really was a skilled seamstress and that she worked fast and efficiently. Chloe was wearing a simply designed but well-fitting black dress that covered her from the neck to the wrists to the ankles. She had brushed her hair smooth over her head and dressed it in a tight coil of braids at her neck. It was the best she could do to subdue the inappropriate brightness of its color. She probably looked even more like someone’s governess than she did a duchess’s companion.
“Mama,” Ralph said. “Nora and Keilly, may I have the pleasure of presenting my wife? My mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law, Chloe.”
At least he had not called her his duchess.
The dowager countess was a handsome lady and looked much younger than Chloe had expected. Her daughter was a younger version of her. Ralph resembled them both.
The dowager looked at her with colder eyes even than her son’s and inclined her head with almost exaggerated graciousness. Viscount Keilly made her a graceful bow, and Lady Keilly looked her over from head to foot before raising her eyebrows and looking away.
Chloe was the only one of them to curtsy, and she was left with the feeling that she had somehow committed a social blunder. Of course, she did outrank them all, a thought that caused her an inward grimace. And she could not think of a thing to say. How could she welcome them to her home, after all, when they must know it so well as the home of the late duke and the dowager duchess? How could they not see her as the most obnoxious of gold diggers and intruders, especially at this time of family sorrow?
“Ah, there is the housekeeper,” her mother-in-law said, glancing up to the open doors of the house and reaching out a hand to take Ralph’s arm. “You may show us to our rooms, Mrs. Loftus. The usual ones, it is to be hoped? And Weller will see to it that our bags are brought up. We will join you shortly for tea in the drawing room, Mother.”
The dowager duchess had taken Lady Keilly’s offered arm.
“I am quite sure dear Chloe will have made all the arrangements to everyone’s satisfaction,” Her Grace said. “I absolutely do not know how either Ralph or I would have coped with the trials of the past few days without her.”
Lord Keilly was following his wife up the steps into the house, his hands clasped at his back.
Chloe trailed along in their wake. Asserting herself with the servants had been the easy part of her new role, she realized. They had made it easy. This was not an auspicious start to her acquaintance with her in-laws. But at least it had begun. Sometimes waiting and imagining were far worse than actually doing.
The situation improved with the next arrival a mere half hour later.
Lady Ormsby, Her Grace’s widowed sister, came in a carriage so old and so ornate that it would not have looked out of place in a museum. It was so hedged about with servants—a maid, liveried footmen, stout outriders, an ancient coachman—and so loaded down with baggage that Chloe fully expected six persons to emerge from the interior, not one.
“Emily,” the lady said after looking sharply about the terrace, and she folded Her Grace to her ample bosom. “Emily, my sweet one. And so ends one of the great love stories of the century—this century and the last. I cannot begin to imagine what your life will be like without Edward. How did he die? Peacefully, I hope, which is more than I can say for my poor Hubert. You must ply me with tea, which Ralph will lace with a drop of brandy, and tell me all about it. There, there. I suppose you have not had a good weep. You never were a watering pot, unlike Caroline, God rest her soul, who used to drown us as well as Mama and Papa with floods of tears at the merest provocation. Even the sight of a dead field mouse would set her off. Do you remember that mouse and the burial she insisted upon arranging for it? You look very somber and very delicious in black, I must say, Ralph. And quite like a pirate with that scar. And what is this about your marrying without inviting a soul? I would be as cross as a bear with you if your poor grandpapa had not turned up his toes the very next day and ensured that all my sensibilities must be devoted to my poor dear sister. Is this the bride?”
And she raised a long-handled lorgnette to her eyes and turned them, hugely magnified, upon Chloe.
“Great-aunt Mary,” Ralph said, making her a bow, “may I present my wife? Lady Ormsby, Chloe, Grandmama’s elder sister.”
“My lady.” Chloe decided to curtsy again, whether it was the correct thing to do or not, and the lorgnette remained trained upon her for a few moments before being snapped downward.
“Your grandmama was Clementine West,” Lady Ormsby told her, “or at least she was after her marriage. I cannot remember who she was before that. She was Emmy’s bosom bow, however. She was a great beauty, a fact I would have resented to the point of tantrums if I had not already been married to Ormsby. But her beauty did not outdo yours, girl, though where you got your coloring from the Lord only knows unless the gossips have the right of it, which they ve
ry rarely do. You may thumb your nose at the lot of them now, however. No one is going to give the cut direct to a duchess with fiery red hair, especially when she looks so dramatic in black and has married a pirate. You may kiss my cheek, but be careful not to smear my rouge or my maid will sulk for a week.”
She declined the offer to be shown to her room. She linked her arm through her sister’s instead and led the way to the drawing room, instructing the housekeeper as she passed to send up a large pot of tea without delay.
“If you will pardon me for the familiarity, Duchess,” she threw over her shoulder at Chloe.
Ralph looked sidelong at Chloe as they followed behind.
“Most families seem to have at least one eccentric among their number,” he murmured. “Usually someone’s aunt.”
Chloe smiled. It was the closest he had come to joking with her.
* * *
The next morning brought some neighbors, as the previous days had done, come to pay their respects. Chloe welcomed each one, for though all regarded her with open curiosity, none appeared hostile. And of course they had not come primarily to meet her. They had, after all, seen her in church with the duchess on a number of occasions. They had come to commiserate with Ralph’s grandmother and with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
The day also brought word of posting inns for miles around filling up with persons of high rank come to attend tomorrow’s solemn rituals.
The afternoon brought more travelers. Lady Ormsby, who insisted that Chloe call her Great-Aunt Mary, spotted the carriage approaching along the drive and drew Ralph’s attention to it.