Only, now that he’d actually married her, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he was. The way she looked at him, as if he could do no wrong...how could he knowingly destroy that? How could he confess the truth when confessing was bound to turn her regard to disgust?
He would have to be honest with her, but not yet. Not when they’d been wed less than a day. Not when he’d only just brought her here to Lyningthorp.
He wasn’t ready to lose her quite so soon.
Chapter Nine
And ceremoniously let us prepare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
— William Shakespeare
Though Rosalie tried to sleep, she lay awake for hours after David’s abrupt exit, staring up into the darkness. After everything her aunt Whitwell had told her about a bride’s first night with her husband, she’d been prepared for a little pain and occasional moments of embarrassment, but both those potential drawbacks had faded to insignificance beside the prospect of greater closeness with David.
Was there something she should have done differently, something she might have tried or said that might have sparked his interest? She’d worn the new nightgown she’d had made up for her trousseau, and done her best to tame her unruly curls into loose waves. But now that seemed woefully inadequate. She had the dismal suspicion most new brides didn’t just stand about in their bare feet, asking foolish questions, waiting for their husbands to be seized by a fit of wild passion.
Mrs. Howard had been right—she was hopeless. Alone in the still, strange surroundings of her new bedchamber, Rosalie felt small, unwanted and miserably sorry for herself. By the time she dropped off into an exhausted sleep, the clock in the corridor outside her room had already chimed most of the night away.
Despite her unhappy reflections, however, her first thought upon waking the next morning was Poor David.
Now that she’d slept on her disappointment, now that she recalled the details in the clear light of day, she could see he’d been ill at ease for hours leading up to their encounter. She still had no notion why that should be so, given his bitter insistence he’d had prior experience. She could only suppose it wasn’t very extensive experience, or it had gone badly.
And she’d only made matters worse, for it wasn’t as if she knew how to attract a man. She’d grown up motherless and spent the last nine years of her life thrown together with strangers on foreign shores, or sailing on cramped ships manned by rough-spoken sailors. Drawing masculine attention under such circumstances could have been hazardous. And so she’d latched on to older, nonthreatening companions—matronly women like Mrs. Howard, mostly—and wound up with no notion what men found seductive. She didn’t know how to dress or flirt, how to be arch and captivating. She’d never even been properly kissed until the night David proposed.
Well, her pitiful lack of feminine allure was going to have to change. She rose and reached for the bell pull.
For most of her life, Rosalie had scraped by without a lady’s maid. She and her father had traveled light, and during their brief stays at Beckford Park she’d simply enlisted the aid of an upstairs maid. Now she was a marchioness, and with the title came her own abigail. Mrs. Epperson had chosen one of the staff for her, a gangly, sandy-haired young woman called Bridger.
The girl soon answered Rosalie’s summons, casting a curious glance at the bed as she entered. Rosalie wondered what Bridger hoped to see. Bloodstained sheets? Tangled bedding? Pillows rent asunder in the throes of passion? Rosalie couldn’t decide whether to feel ashamed or relieved that she had nothing of the kind on display.
Bridger gave a respectful bob. “Good morning, my lady.” Like all the servants at Lyningthorp, she spoke in an undertone, the kind of hushed voice one might use in a sickroom. After her time with Aunt Whitwell—whose every pronouncement wasn’t just spoken, but declaimed—Rosalie found it disconcerting.
“I’d like to wear something becoming today,” she said, realizing as the sentence crossed her lips that it had to be one of the most witless things a lady had ever told her abigail. What woman set out to wear clothes that were unbecoming? But to Rosalie’s relief, Bridger turned briskly to the clothespress, showing no sign of scorn for her new mistress’s gaucherie.
Still, even the most ingenious abigail couldn’t make something out of nothing, and Rosalie’s trousseau remained pitifully small. She’d never owned more than she could fit into a single trunk, and of the limited gowns she’d possessed, she’d had to dye most black in mourning for her father. Since her arrival in England, she’d had time to have only a handful of new gowns made up—a riding habit, a walking dress and a new evening gown, plus the single nightgown she was already wearing. Bridger stared into the clothespress, the corners of her mouth turning down in a pensive frown.
Observing her expression, Rosalie suffered a fresh pang of insecurity. No doubt Bridger had been thrilled at her elevation to lady’s maid, never suspecting that the new Marchioness of Deal would turn out to be such a sad disappointment. “Is there a modiste nearby whom the ladies of the neighborhood patronize?”
Bridger’s freckled face brightened. “Yes, my lady. Would you like me to send for her?”
Rosalie nearly sagged with relief. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea.”
Together, they settled on one of her older dresses, a morning gown of white eyelet that had been too lightweight to withstand the North Atlantic breezes on the Neptune’s Fancy and had thus escaped the dye pot. It was girlishly simple and even a little threadbare at the hem, which only added to Rosalie’s self-consciousness.
As Bridger fastened the back of her gown, Rosalie asked, “Do you know if Lord Deal is up and about yet?”
“Yes, my lady. He’s in the breakfast room.”
Rosalie squared her shoulders. The important thing was to be patient. She’d heard rumors of retiring young ladies who’d gone to their wedding nights quaking and terrified. In such cases, society expected any husband with a jot of sensitivity to treat his new wife with forbearance and understanding. Didn’t David deserve the same consideration, even if in this case the groom was more nervous than the bride?
She shouldn’t have pressed him so hard for an explanation the night before. She’d not only failed to attract him—indeed, made the sort of graceless remarks guaranteed to stamp out any desire he might feel—she’d also backed him into a corner. Now she started down the stairs, resolved to let David set the tone for their honeymoon.
He rose to his feet as soon as she entered the breakfast room. Seeing him, Rosalie regretted her old eyelet gown even more. He was dressed with his usual elegance, everything from his superbly cut bottle-green coat down to his gleaming top boots representing the union of country informality with urbane good taste.
He smiled fleetingly. “Good morning. I trust you slept well?”
His tone was polite, pleasant. So they were simply pretending the night before had never happened. If that was the way David wanted it, she would do her best to oblige him. “Yes, I—I slept soundly, thank you.” It seemed the most tactful way to describe the brief spell of rest she’d managed.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He waited for her to take her place across the table before resuming his seat. “I’m afraid I have a bit of estate business that requires my attention today. Would you mind if I attend to it?”
“Not at all. Might I go for a ride, do you think, while you’re otherwise occupied? I’d love to explore a little of the countryside.”
“You’re mistress here now. Make yourself at home.” Though his expression remained one of relative self-possession, he had yet to look her directly in the eye. “You’ll find a lady’s mount waiting for you in the stables. Just be careful not to wander too far afield your first time out, and take a groom with you if you have any thought of venturing off the estate.”
“Why, are there footpads in the area?”
“No, not footpads, not that I’m aware. But it’s...not the friendliest of neighborhoods.”<
br />
Rosalie was about to ask what he meant when she remembered his words on the night he’d proposed. My neighbors have made it abundantly clear they consider me persona non grata. Well, she would see what she could do to change that.
Not quite an hour later, she’d traded her old gown for her new habit and was surveying the grounds from atop a neat bay filly. She liked everything she saw about Lyningthorp, from its situation between softly rolling hills and a wooded valley to the clean and well-kept stables, the meticulously tended gardens and the parkland beyond. The mount David had provided for her was a joy—beautiful and light in the mouth, with a biddable temperament and a smooth gait. She circled an ornamental wall, fragrant with the same lilacs that perfumed her bedchamber, and then rode at a canter across the park.
Yes, Lyningthorp was beautiful. Only one thing about her new home bothered her—that eerie stillness. After less than a full day at Lyningthorp, she was chafing for the hum of activity, some sign of vitality and cheer. What this house needs is children.
Immediately the image of David’s face the night before came flooding back, together with Mrs. Howard’s withering assessment of her appeal—she was unremarkable, girlish, unsophisticated. Rosalie longed for children of her own, and she’d imagined David must want an heir. What if they never enjoyed a normal married life? What use was she as a wife if David felt no desire for her at all?
Patience. She’d already resolved to give David as much time as he needed, and she intended to stick to that resolution. And in the meantime—well, perhaps she could learn how to be more desirable.
Still, the dismal sense of failure lingered. If only her aunt Whitwell hadn’t made it all sound so natural, so expected, perhaps her disastrous wedding night wouldn’t have been such a let-down. Or if only she had someone else to talk to, some trusted confidante to assure her all would turn out well. But she didn’t. There was only David.
She should head back soon. Crossing the valley atop the spirited little filly, she was just about to turn her mount around when she caught sight of a gentleman riding at a distance. The gentleman spotted her, too, and after a few seconds of remote assessment, horse and rider came trotting in her direction.
The gentleman looked to be about the same age as David, though dressed in a more countrified style—buckskins, a sturdy brown riding coat and well-worn top boots. Fair hair peeked out from beneath his curled beaver hat, and as they neared each other his broad, freckled face wore a welcoming expression.
“Hullo.” He tipped his hat to her, reining in his mount. “I haven’t seen you around these parts before. Are you staying at Lyningthorp?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I suppose you’ve come with the new Lady Deal?”
“You could say that. I am the new Lady Deal.”
The stranger’s sandy brows shot up. “Indeed? How astonishing! You’re not at all as I expected.”
A flash of disappointment assailed her. “Dare I ask what you expected?”
He scratched his jaw. “Well, I thought you’d be older, for a start. You can’t be many years past the schoolroom. And I pictured someone with a...let’s just say a more sophisticated air.”
His words so closely mirrored Mrs. Howard’s assessment of her shortcomings that Rosalie’s spirits sank lower still. The new habit she’d changed into, dark green and trimmed with braid a la Hussar, was one of the smartest articles of clothing she owned. No wonder David didn’t want her, if even in her modish habit and plumed shako she still looked like a child.
“What I mean is, you seem most cordial,” the stranger said, observing her crestfallen expression. “Assuming Deal decided to marry at all, I’d always supposed he would choose a marchioness with a more fastidious air. You might say that’s what the Linneys are known for in these parts.”
Perhaps it wasn’t all bad, then, differing from the gentleman’s expectations. There was nothing wrong with fastidiousness, but given her choice, Rosalie would pick cordiality every time. “Well, I’m indeed Lady Deal. In fact, I have been for almost a full twenty-four hours now.”
The gentleman laughed. “That long, eh? In that case, how do you find our little corner of the kingdom, Lady Deal?”
“It’s lovely, but I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”
“Robert Melton.” He reached down and patted his horse. “I own the house on the other side of this valley, Radcombe Priory.”
“And are you a single gentleman, Mr. Melton?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I have an excellent wife and three young children, two boys and a girl.”
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting my new neighbors. Perhaps you and Mrs. Melton would like to come to dinner at Lyningthorp tomorrow evening?”
Mr. Melton peered at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses. “Does Lord Deal know you’re inviting company to dinner?”
“No, but I’m certain he won’t mind.”
Mr. Melton looked anything but certain. He shifted in the saddle. “I tell you what, ma’am—just in case matters don’t fall out as you expect, suppose you and Lord Deal come to the Priory tomorrow evening instead. I believe my wife and I are...er, more in the habit of entertaining.”
Rosalie hadn’t missed the evasion. “Very well, Mr. Melton. Tomorrow evening, at Radcombe Priory. What time would you have us arrive?”
“We dine at six, ma’am, and I hope I may look forward to seeing you both.”
“Oh, we’ll be there,” she said lightly. “I assure you, Deal is not nearly so standoffish as people seem to think.”
Mr. Melton smiled. “Not with you, I’m sure, but we can’t all be lovely young ladies with big brown eyes and fetching smiles.”
He winked at her, and they both turned their horses about. Rosalie rode away wondering if she’d mishandled the encounter. On the one hand, she’d made the acquaintance of her nearest neighbor and secured a dinner invitation on her very first morning at Lyningthorp. On the other, she couldn’t help fretting about the surprise Mr. Melton had shown when she’d told him she was Lady Deal, and the doubtful expression on his face when she’d said David wouldn’t mind her asking company to dinner.
As soon as she stepped inside the house, the quiet enveloped her again like water closing over the head of a drowning man. Outside, it was all bright sunshine, azaleas and butterflies. Inside, it was hushed and shadowy, so that the sweep of her skirts on the flagstones seemed a harsh intrusion.
She would have to do something about Lyningthorp’s strange, oppressive stillness. She’d been here less than twenty-four hours, and it was already wearing on her nerves. The dark, echoing rooms and the muffled voices of the servants had left her almost grateful to leave the house. In all her years of longing for a home, she’d repeatedly wished for safe and familiar and permanent—never stopping to add cheerful and heartening.
Rosalie discovered David bent over the desk in his office adjoining the library, totaling a column of figures. He had that relaxed, loose-limbed look about him, the ease he showed only when he thought himself unobserved.
She cleared her throat.
He looked up, and immediately his eyes took on a shuttered look, his shoulders tensing. He set down his pen. “Rosalie.”
Now why should he freeze up that way, just because she’d appeared in the doorway? She was hardly intimidating, and not at all hostile. And the tension was clearly more than just uneasiness about the way their wedding night had gone. She’d seen that look too many times before.
Turning her riding crop over in her hands, she told him about her encounter with their neighbor and the invitation he’d extended.
David frowned. “Dinner at Radcombe Priory? But I’ve never dined there before.”
She’d wanted to be useful, yet so far all she’d done was disrupt David’s routine. “Mr. Melton seemed most gentlemanlike.”
“I’m sure he’s gentleman enough, but I would never call on him.”
“Why not? Do you dislike each other?”
Dav
id’s brows drew together. “I don’t even know him. That is, we played together on a few occasions when we were boys, but he and his family have kept their distance since the day my father killed himself.”
She hoped she hadn’t propelled them both into the thick of a feud. “How odd. I had the impression Mr. Melton thought you were the more unfriendly one.”
“I? But I’ve barely exchanged two words with the man in twenty years.”
“Perhaps that’s why he thinks you unfriendly, David. But we’ll soon set that to rights.”
Chapter Ten
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, ‘t were all alike
As if we had them not.
— William Shakespeare
She went up to change out of her habit. When she rang for her abigail, a young maid she didn’t recognize answered the bell. Rosalie wondered if she’d made some mistake, confusing faces and duties—or if her chaste bedroom and girlish fashion sense had been so disappointing to Bridger, the girl had already handed in her notice. “Where’s Bridger?” she asked the new maid.
The girl set to work helping Rosalie out of her habit. “Her sister’s taken queer, my lady, and Mrs. Epperson said she might go to the village to check on her. I’m Coyle.”
“Her sister isn’t seriously ill, I hope?”
“I couldn’t say, my lady. All I know is she took to her bed all feverish.”
Rosalie glanced at the dressing room mirror, and the face that looked back at her wore an uncertain frown. During the brief spells she and her father had spent in England, she’d made a point of calling on his tenants. If one was sick, she’d offered whatever help she could. Her mother had done no less when she was alive.
Now she was the Marchioness of Deal. Being so new to her position, perhaps it would seem awkward if she called on one of the villagers. After all, she’d met Bridger only the day before, and Rosalie doubted she could avoid the strained manners that typically attended any interaction between mistress and servant, even if Mr. Melton did think her sadly unsophisticated. Besides, Rosalie hadn’t forgotten the cool reception she and David had met with the day before as their coach had made its way through the estate village.
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