The Lord Next Door

by Gayle Callen

With his elbow on the arm of the chair, he propped his chin on his fist. “Did your mother tell you what usually happens on a wedding night?”

  She felt heat rise up her face. “Some, my lord. Mrs. Wayneflete helped as well.”

  “Your housekeeper?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “She has always been more than that to me. You’ll never know how much I appreciate that you’ve employed her.”

  “Smith says she is an excellent worker, and already the household seems to be running smoothly.” He leaned forward. “You don’t need to keep calling me by my title.”

  She frowned. “How would you wish me to address you?”

  “My name is David.”

  And suddenly, it was as if he’d brought up the memories of another time, when he’d called himself by another name. The deception hung between them, and bitterness made her worry about what kind of life they could have together. How was she supposed to forget such a betrayal?

  Yet he’d saved her family. And now she was the one doing the lying.

  He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “But I shall call you Victoria.”

  Because I never lied about my name, she thought with heavy sadness.

  “Is your hair dry?” he asked.

  She wet her lips and nodded. He took the brush from her hand and set it down, then encouraged her to take another drink of wine.

  He twirled his own glass between his fingers and watched it. “I know why you asked that I should take my time with you. This is truly awkward between us, since we did know each other once upon a time. Now we’re newly married, yet…with so little time for you to grow used to the reality of being alone with a man.”

  “Is it the same for you, my lord?”

  “Pardon me?” His heavy brows lowered in obvious confusion.

  “Are new husbands…nervous?”

  He opened his mouth as if astonished, but nothing came out, and he finally refilled his glass and took another drink before speaking. “No, I’m not nervous, but then husbands tend to already know what’s involved in a wedding night.”

  “Why?”

  Was he blushing?

  “Victoria, unlike women, most men have already—” He stopped and frowned. “I have already…participated in the act.”

  The act? she wanted to repeat incredulously. That’s what he called the most intimate part of marriage between a husband and wife?

  “You had a mistress?” she asked. Her sisters had told her that men did not have to wait for the sanctity of marriage, that no one assumed they would. Victoria had always thought that seemed rather unfair.

  “Yes, but rest assured, I have one no longer. I would never dishonor our marriage like that.”

  She wondered why that didn’t reassure her. Perhaps because it sounded as if he was more worried about how the “marriage” appeared than about hurting her feelings? But he was a man, and she knew men did not think of emotions as women did.

  “So you have…” She waved vaguely toward the bed. “…done that before.”

  He tilted his head, his eyelids lowered as he studied her. “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Wayneflete said that I might enjoy it, though perhaps not the first time.”

  “I would make sure you enjoyed it.”

  His voice had deepened, roughened, losing some of the civilized, so-in-control sound. It did something to the inside of her, sent a strange, hot feeling shooting down into her stomach, down even lower, where it lingered with a heat that was almost…moist.

  How could he make her feel this way?

  Lord Thurlow put his glass down, and she gave a little start.

  “But I don’t want you to be frightened when I touch you,” he said briskly, “so I have an idea of a way to introduce you to the intimacy of marriage.”

  “Besides taking our time?”

  He gave a small smile. “Besides that. Being that we don’t know each other as adults, and have not had much time for actual courtship, I propose that each night we go one step further in our intimacy.”

  Was he trying to alter their bargain? “My lord, I don’t understand what you want of me.”

  “I don’t want much, Victoria, but I’ll be grateful if you learn not to flinch when I touch you.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She remained silent then, knowing he was right. He held out his hand, and she stared at it.

  “Hold my hand, Victoria. I am a man, not some monster you need fear.”

  She bit her lip. Was that how she made him feel? Inside her, something softened. Gingerly, she reached out and put her hand in his.

  She had only once felt a man’s bare skin, when he’d kissed her hand several weeks ago. She’d been too flustered to think about anything but his lips. Now she realized that his flesh was warm and dry, rougher than hers across his palm. His hand was so much bigger than hers, making her feel fragile and small.

  They sat unmoving before the hearth for several minutes, staring at each other. For the rest of her life, she would be with this man, and she must make the best of it. She must learn to forget her hurt feelings, to focus on the fact that his offer of marriage had saved her. He hadn’t needed to do it; it would have been nothing to him to offer her a little money.

  Then he gave a tug and slowly pulled. She leaned forward from her chair; he leaned forward in his.

  “A simple kiss,” he whispered, his breath now a warmth on her face, “on our wedding day.”

  She should resist. He’d already kissed her cheek just that morning. And he’d promised not to rush intimacy. But as she looked into his eyes, so bright and almost fierce with purpose, her resistance began to melt, though she frantically called it back. He was more handsome than any man who’d ever looked her way, and such beauty could be mesmerizing.

  Their lips met softly, and her wide eyes stared into his. She’d never been kissed before. And then it was over before she could think what to do. He leaned back, and the extent of her disappointment shocked her. Lord Thurlow released her hand and rose to his feet. She followed, and they faced each other awkwardly. He took his glass and bottle of wine and walked toward the door to his room.

  “Good night, Victoria,” he said, without glancing back at her.

  “Good night.” She stopped herself from calling him “my lord,” but could not bring herself to substitute his Christian name.

  And then he was gone, and she was alone, not quite sure it was relief she was feeling. She sat down at her desk and opened her personal journal, because writing helped everything make sense.

  David barely restrained himself from slamming the door. Nothing had gone as he’d meant it to. Whyever had he asked her to call him by his name, as if he somehow wanted to be close to her again?

  Instead he’d allowed his virgin wife, who asked intimate questions of her housekeeper, to question him about his mistress, for God’s sake. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He’d been more kind and understanding than most husbands would be on a wedding night.

  But when she’d trusted him with her hand, full of a strength he hadn’t anticipated, something had happened inside him, something he didn’t understand.

  And then he’d wanted to throw out all his plans, to sweep her onto the bed and take her immediately, as was his right.

  What was he, a feudal knight? He didn’t think he’d ever skirted the edge of restraint like that. When she’d looked at him as if she might trust him again, it had almost been his undoing. He’d thought to satisfy himself with a chaste kiss, and even that had set his blood burning. Her lips were soft, silken…

  He had to get control of himself, something he always prided himself on. There was never a business arrangement or an argument in the Commons of which he did not have complete mastery.

  But his new wife, his childhood friend, had been afraid of him, and he’d only wanted to make that emotion go away.
r />   He would not live his life like this. She was his partner in marriage, not his reason for existing, as in a foolish romantic poem. They each brought their skills to the marriage like a business arrangement. They could coexist quite nicely, and no one would suffer any pain.

  He took off his clothes and went to bed, satisfied in mind, but not in body.

  Victoria awoke as the sun streamed in her window, and she realized with a start after glancing at the clock that she’d slept almost half the morning away. She pushed aside the blankets, prepared to help Mrs. Wayneflete with breakfast, when she remembered her new situation.

  She was Lady Thurlow, and she had servants to do all those tasks now. Very slowly she leaned back on her elbows, took a deep breath, and let some of her worry go. There would be food on the table that she didn’t have to sell a family heirloom to buy. She would never have to watch her mother grow thinner again.

  There were tears streaming down her cheeks before she even realized it. She didn’t know where a handkerchief was, so she wiped her eyes with shaking fingers and let the relief flow into her. She’d accomplished something she’d never believed she could do.

  She got out of bed and went to the window, where she could see the gardens they’d wandered through yesterday, and then in the distance the back of another grand town house. She felt calm today. Maybe it was knowing that her husband was content to wait for intimacy until they knew each other better. Surely most other husbands didn’t have the patience for that. He had once been a kind boy, hadn’t he? She remembered him writing forlornly after his puppy had been killed by a carriage.

  She’d thought that little boy had long since disappeared, but last night had shown her that she might be wrong. Maybe when they’d started writing, he’d just been a lonely boy who’d felt he couldn’t reveal the truth of himself.

  These last few weeks she’d worried she was marrying a man like her father, cold and aloof. Yet she didn’t dare hope that Lord Thurlow wanted a real marriage, the kind with fondness and concern between husband and wife. No, he was too focused on his railway business, and on how she could prove useful to him.

  After she dressed for the day in her new blue gown—how wonderful it felt to wear colors again!—Victoria went downstairs to the dining room, ready to join her husband on the first day of their marriage.

  But there were only two footmen in powdered wigs and livery, waiting patiently beside the sideboard with its covered tureens of food. They informed her that His Lordship had long since eaten and left for the morning.

  Of course Lord Thurlow was an early riser, Victoria scolded herself as she scooped eggs and ham onto her plate. She normally was, too, but after the stress of the last few weeks, she’d slept long and soundly in her comfortable new bed. From now on, she would have to awaken early every morning to eat with her husband. She at least owed him that respect.

  Though she had grown up in a wealthy family with several servants, she had never been watched by footmen while she ate. She was used to going through her notebooks and planning out her day. But this morning she was self-conscious, so she finished eating quickly.

  She heard someone clear her throat, and looked up to see Mrs. Wayneflete standing in the doorway. The housekeeper looked her over worriedly, but seemed to relax when Victoria grinned.

  “Come talk to me,” Victoria said. “We didn’t have much chance yesterday.”

  Mrs. Wayneflete smiled. “I wanted to tell you that I sent a breakfast basket to your family this morning, so you needn’t worry about them all alone in that nearly empty house.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Wayneflete, you’re such a comfort to us. Thank you!”

  The housekeeper waved away Victoria’s praise. “The girls sent a note back that they would be visiting you later this morning.”

  “Wonderful. I want to see them as much as possible before they leave tomorrow.” She hesitated. “So how have your first days here been?” Her curiosity was twofold; what was it like to work for Lord Thurlow? Surely the other servants talked.

  The housekeeper looked over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “The household was in a bit of an uproar, but that could be expected, what with no housekeeper for a month. Everything seems to have quieted down, but almost like they’re waiting, if you know what I mean.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard bits and pieces about the old earl, but he hasn’t set foot out of his room yet.”

  “No talk of scandals?” Victoria whispered.

  “None.”

  “Well that’s good then. Please let me know if there’s anything I should deal with.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “Could you arrange for me to meet with a different servant every morning? I’ll feel better when I know everyone.”

  Mrs. Wayneflete nodded with understanding.

  “I’ll want to go over the menus with you, and see the household accounts, but for now, would you mind taking me on a tour of my new home?”

  The housekeeper beamed. “I’d be happy to.”

  The tour itself proved to Victoria how big the town house really was. There was even a second, larger drawing room behind the first. “For dancing,” Mrs. Wayneflete added, and Victoria felt a little pang in her stomach at the merest thought.

  Above the second floor of bedchambers, there was a floor for children, and then another floor for the servants.

  The earl’s suite was on the ground floor in the rear of the town house to accommodate his wheelchair.

  Mrs. Wayneflete kept her voice low as they stood in the corridor. “My lady, only this morning the earl threw his breakfast tray at the maid, saying it wasn’t cooked to his exact specifications.”

  “How inconsiderate of him.” Victoria wondered if a man with notoriety attached to his name would even bother to care what people thought anymore. “But he is dying,” she said aloud.

  “We all die, my lady,” the housekeeper said, shooting an irritated look at the closed door. “Some of us do it graciously. Though the earl seldom leaves his room, when he does, he finds fault with every servant he encounters. I’ve heard stories of maids crying, footmen quitting, and housekeepers finally refusing to deal with the extra work. Those women came so highly regarded, they knew they could get a plum position in a better household, regardless of how much the viscount paid them to stay.”

  Victoria stared at his door with worry. “We must do something about this, Mrs. Wayneflete. The last few months, my mother has shown a disturbing tendency to sleep too much of each day. I won’t watch two elderly people confine themselves to their rooms and be miserable at the end of their lives. There has to be some way to help them both.”

  Mrs. Wayneflete nodded, though her expression showed her skepticism.

  Victoria went back to the music room on the first floor overlooking the garden. A piano was the centerpiece of the room, flanked by cabinets full of musical scores. A covered harp rested quietly in one corner, and a cornet and a violin sat on a shelf in their cases. There was a large desk near the window, and Victoria could see herself there, working on her music.

  She found her favorite compositions among the sheet music, soft, quiet tunes that should bother no one in the household. Eventually she grew bold, playing ever louder until the room swelled with music, and her ears rang with each reverberation. As always, she poured her worries and fears into the music, letting it release in glorious sound. She had forgotten how much better her music always made her feel.

  With a happy sigh she let her hands fall into her lap. In the peaceful silence, she thought she heard the front door close. No one came looking for her, but an uneasy feeling rose within her, a prickling at the base of her neck.

  Perhaps Lord Thurlow had come home for luncheon. She walked into the corridor and looked over the railing into the entrance hall below. The voices were louder now, coming from the library, a woman’s—and Lord Thurlow’s.

  Victoria gripped the railing and considered what she should do
. He could be speaking to a maid, after all. Victoria would just walk down to the kitchen—past the library—because she still had to discuss the day’s menu with Mrs. Wayneflete. When she reached the ground floor, she paused. The library door was partly open, though she could not see inside. The woman’s voice was not that of one of the maids, yet Victoria knew it from somewhere.

  Lord Thurlow’s tone was solemn. “Forgive me. It was rude of me not to tell you about Victoria immediately. Things just happened so quickly.”

  “Forgetfulness is often your excuse, David,” said the woman in a sad voice. “How many nights did I wait for you, delaying my own plans, because you said you were coming to me?”

  Victoria felt gooseflesh sweep over her skin, and she shivered. This was Lord Thurlow’s mistress! She was brazen enough to come to Banstead House in broad daylight!

  “You’re right, I have treated you poorly,” Lord Thurlow said.

  “No, you have always been a good man, and that is why this is so difficult for me. Why couldn’t it have been me?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  Victoria held her breath, guilt long since faded away. She needed to hear this.

  “I always thought you would marry a woman of your own class, so I never had hopes for myself.” Her voice broke. “But you married a commoner, just like me.”

  “Damaris, you must understand—”

  Victoria gasped and backed away from the library door. Miss Damaris Lingard was her husband’s mistress? And he had allowed the two women to attend the same luncheon, hurting Miss Lingard and making a fool of his own betrothed?

  Chapter 7

  Victoria’s sisters and mother arrived a half hour later, and Victoria had the butler show them into the drawing room. Victoria had dried her tears and washed her face, determined to speak to her husband about his mistress before the day was out. Until then, she could do nothing about the horrible cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was he already lying to her? Did he have no plans to end his affair?

  When the butler had left them alone, her sisters’ faces showed puzzlement as they stared at Victoria, and then growing concern. No matter how hard Victoria had tried to keep her expression merely pleasant, her sisters had already seen that something was wrong.