Ever His Bride

by Linda Needham

  Now the chit had the gall to look annoyed. “Sir, there’s no need to force me more into debt. I’ll never be able to repay you. And I will not spend the rest of my life owing you.”

  “What of that fortune your enterprising uncle is to make in the California gold fields? Or have you come to doubt he’ll succeed?”

  She glowered at him. “Uncle will return with plenty of profits, Mr. Claybourne. In the meantime, three simple, ready-to-wear dresses will suit me and my finances just fine.”

  “You’ll see the dressmakers, or you’ll get no money from me at all. You’ve a role to play, Miss Mayfield, and you’ll play it in the correct costume.”

  “I can’t afford it, Mr. Claybourne.”

  “When our year together has ended, Miss Mayfield, and I own the Drayhill-Starlington railway outright, then I will consider the dressmaker’s bills paid in full. You will owe me nothing.”

  “I’ll take your charity for the term of our marriage, after which I shall donate my entire bespoke wardrobe to some charitable union for the benefit of impoverished women, who wish only to clothe themselves in a bit of dignity.”

  The room became suddenly stifling; sweat began to bead at his temple. Charity be damned. This was a business decision, nothing more. “When the time comes, you may burn the lot for all I care.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll see whatever dressmaker you choose.”

  “Do it today. Branson!” he shouted. “We’re late!”

  “Sir.” Branson met him at the dining room door and handed him his case and his hat. “The carriage is outside.”

  Miss Mayfield caught his arm, blocking his way. “I’m coming with you, Mr. Claybourne. I must talk with Mr. Dolan, today.”

  The woman could pierce solid rock with her determination.

  “You will see a dressmaker, Miss Mayfield. If there is time, Branson, you may take her to this Dolan character.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And what about a bed, Mr. Claybourne?” she asked, her eyes blazing with unwarranted triumph. “I can’t very well keep using yours, can I?”

  “Purchase a new mattress and a suitable bed, Branson. And see that a chamber is arranged for my wife.”

  The woman smiled grandly and let him pass. He strode down the hallway as he shrugged into his top coat.

  He hoped the rest of his day wasn’t the contest his morning had been.

  What a very closed off man you are, Mr. Claybourne, Felicity thought as he sat in silence at an obtuse angle beside her, hidden behind the crinkled wall of the Times, all the way to Cornhill Street. He muttered occasionally, shifted in his seat, shook out the crease a dozen times, and finally folded the newspaper only as the carriage came to rest in front of the Claybourne Exchange.

  “See that your business is finished by noon,” he said as he opened the door.

  She felt the rear of the carriage shudder, and hoped that Mr. Pepperpot’s escape from the luggage boot had gone unnoticed. She also hoped he’d been discreet in his thievery at the manor. Not that anything would be missed from among the crates.

  “By the way, Mr. Claybourne, if you’re lunching at your club today, you may want to shave before you go.” In jest she ran her finger across the stubble of his chin. His jaw tightened, a tremendously solid edifice. “You look a bit scruffy this morning.”

  Claybourne scrubbed his hand across his cheek, then sent her a look that promised murder. “You should have said earlier.”

  “Shall we amend our contract, Mr. Claybourne? Article Six, I will remind you to shave before you leave the house each morning.”

  He looked thunderous and turned to his footman. “Keep her out of trouble, Branson. Here is a letter of credit that will send the bills my way. Good day.” Claybourne left Branson standing beside the carriage, and Felicity glaring after him.

  “Do you know Fleet Street, Branson?” she asked, watching Claybourne’s doorman greet her husband and grovel as if Claybourne were king.

  “Enough to know that you’ll find no dressmakers there.” He started to close the carriage door, but she held it open with the toe of her shoe.

  “Please, Branson. Let me see Mr. Dolan first. It’s urgent.”

  “Impossible. Mr. Claybourne gave strict orders to—”

  “Mr. Claybourne can sit on a tack. Let me see to my business with Mr. Dolan, and then I’ll quite happily visit the dressmaker.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, miss. Please don’t ask again.” Branson seemed terribly distressed and she finally relented. The footman and all his staff seemed frightened to death of Claybourne; she didn’t want them thinking the same of her.

  “To the dressmaker’s, then, as quickly as possible.”

  The ordeal at Madame Deverie’s Apparel Shoppe took hours and hours, and promised even more hours of flaying and punctures when she returned for fittings and to choose accessories. Claybourne’s letter of credit included instructions to outfit his wife for every eventuality. Felicity stressed comfort and durability, and gave in to elegance only on a few items that she might wear to one of Claybourne’s financial events. Such a waste of money. Such a waste of time.

  She ought to be hiking the sheep trails above Conniston Lake right now, or sitting in a Shropshire tea room, chatting with the proprietress about the upcoming village cycle play, or about Founder’s Day. In any case, she certainly wouldn’t be in London right now, with her arms stuck full of pins, and her ears full up with advice about how her curls might be better harnessed by the proper use of lacquer and wire mesh.

  Her father would be dismayed. He’d never had much use for society. What would he think of this muck she’d become mired in? He would surely be blazing angry with Uncle Foley, and he’d probably have changed his will to keep her from stumbling into such a marriage with a man like Hunter Claybourne.

  Now she was anxious to see Mr. Dolan and explain her new situation. She would then present him with her grand idea for a new kind of travel guide, and be gone from Claybourne’s dismal manor on a new adventure.

  Hours later, she was finally free of the pins and Madame Deverie’s chattering, and on her way to Mr. Dolan’s office.

  “You’ve married Hunter Claybourne?” Thomas Dolan gripped the arms of his chair and held on as though fearing he’d be tossed from it headfirst. “The Hunter Claybourne?”

  “The very one, Mr. Dolan, but—”

  “The richest man in all England?”

  “He’s not the richest man, Mr. Dolan. At least, I don’t think he is. But that’s not why I came.”

  Felicity had known the man for nearly a year, but had never seen him in such a state.

  “You might have told me that you planned to marry him, Felicity.”

  “I would have. But I didn’t even know the man till two days ago.”

  Dolan propped his elbows on his desk. “You met and married in two days? That much in love? What the hell are you doing here, then? You ought to be on your honeymoon!”

  “My husband isn’t the honeymooning type.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Oooo … The man himself is a mystery, and now he’s got himself embroiled in a mystery courtship. What have you gotten yourself into, Felicity?”

  She sighed and sat down opposite Dolan. How many times had she wondered that same thing in the last two days? Married to a madman; living in a tomb.

  “Never mind that, Mr. Dolan. I came about next month’s gazette. I’m nearly finished with the piece on the Bennington Post Road in Kent.”

  “Bosh the gazette, girl. I want stories about dinner parties and soirees. I want bejeweled matrons and scandalous barons, licentious cabinet ministers and their mistresses! Bring me gossip, my dear!”

  She stood. “Gossip? I will not.”

  Dolan jumped to his feet. “Oh, but don’t you see the opportunity? You’ll be sharing the salt with society! You’ll be my fly on the wall.”

  “I’ll be nothing of the sort, Mr. Do
lan. I’ll write my travel pieces and that is all. This is the last of the Bennington Post series.” She propped the end of the folio on top of his desk. “Take it or leave it,” she said, feeling very much like the rapacious Hunter Claybourne.

  Dolan studied her for a long moment then frowned. “All right. I’ll take it.”

  “And what would you say to taking all of the Bennington Post entries, binding them together, and making a single guidebook?”

  “Hmmm. Easy to carry in one’s travel case—”

  “Exactly, Mr. Dolan. And what if we promised one bound-together travel guide for every railway line in the country? Each guide would cater to the needs of the modern female traveler.”

  He sat forward. “And you’d write under the name Mrs. Hunter Claybourne?”

  She saw the promotional value immediately; surely, a respectful use of the Claybourne name, entirely in keeping with Article Five. “Who else?”

  Dolan clapped his palms together. “You’re a shrewd woman, Felicity Mayfield.”

  “Felicity Claybourne. And you’ll raise my salary.”

  “You want a raise?”

  “And an advance.”

  “I already pay you twice what you’re worth. And now you’re married to a man who could buy up all the papers in London with the change that collects in his trouser cuffs.” He dropped into his chair. “Hell no, you’ll have no raise and no advance.”

  “That’s your choice, Mr. Dolan.” Felicity picked up her folio and turned to leave, stopping long enough to brush an imaginary bit of fluff off her very dingy cuff. “Perhaps the Lady’s Day would be interested in employing the wife of Hunter Claybourne.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “Let’s see, the Lady’s Day is two buildings down, and above the Record, I believe …”

  Dolan growled. “How much of a raise, Felicity?”

  She thought of young Giles and decided to use her raise to buy him a new shirt—no, three new shirts to replace the one that Claybourne ruined with his vile temper.

  “Another guinea per story will do nicely, the next installment in advance.”

  “Not on your life!” Dolan held his breath and vigorously shook his head.

  She shrugged and started toward the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Dolan.”

  “Oh, all right!” He threw himself out of his chair and made the door before she did. “But that means I’ll have to drag in another advertiser.”

  She smiled pleasantly and tapped on his lapel, exceedingly pleased with herself. “Try the Claybourne Exchange, Mr. Dolan. The management might be inclined to send some trade your way.”

  Dolan brightened like a beacon; his mustache twitched with the possibilities. “Brilliant, Mrs. Claybourne!”

  “Now, Mr. Dolan, about binding my travel articles into a guide …”

  Half an hour later, Felicity descended the stairs with three guineas in her pocket, her folio of the Bennington Post Railway under her arm, and a promise from Dolan that he would print her first complete travel guide as soon as she could edit the entries into a single book. When that was done, she would begin researching her new travel guide in Northumberland—somewhere far away from Hunter Claybourne.

  She arrived back at Claybourne Manor in time to down another bowl of Mrs. Sweeney’s stew. Four meals in a row of carrots, potatoes, and chunks of beef. Perhaps she would speak with the woman in the morning about expanding the menu.

  Ernest was in the process of trying to furnish her new chamber. The crates that had once packed the room now lined the corridor. The only piece of furniture in sight was a dusty wardrobe, and the entire effect was lit by candles instead of by the sunlight that beat hard against the windows.

  “This darkness will never do.” Felicity drew the drapes aside, which would have flooded the room with a blaze of light if not for the half-story tall hedge of laurel. But the half-light was better than no light at all. She’d take a pruning saw to the hedge as soon as she made the room itself livable. “Douse those lamps, Ernest. Daylight is good for the eyes and the spirit, and candles are expensive.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Ernest pinched out the flames and rubbed the wax into his palms. “Your bed hasn’t come, Mrs. Claybourne. Branson said it was due any time. As for the rest of the room … I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

  “Come, then. We’ll search through this warehouse that Mr. Claybourne calls home and see what else we can find.”

  They quickly uncovered a dresser and a side table in a room under the stairs. They rescued a writing desk from the cellar, and a comfortable chair from beneath the mounted head of a surly-looking boar.

  The bed arrived mid-afternoon and soon stood against the wall, centered between two pastoral paintings. She found a half-dozen lamps packed away in crates, their beautifully etched and prismed globes wrapped in cotton and never disturbed. No one at the manor seemed to know why, or for what eventuality, Claybourne was saving his treasures. According to Ernest, packages arrived regularly, authorized and purchased by Claybourne himself. Yet the master never seemed the least bit interested once the goods arrived. He would merely point to a corner, wave a careless hand, and instruct the crate or barrel to be put with the rest.

  Dismissing her husband’s odd behavior, she vowed to fashion her own haven in the midst of his mausoleum and happily swept and dusted her chamber. She took after the laurel shrubs and scalped them down to a waist-high hedge, had the windows washed while she took the drapes outside and beat them until the air cleared of the dust clouds, then had Ernest rehang them with tiebacks. All this under the collective gaze of the staff who, it was clear doubted her sanity.

  Finally, she directed her bath to be set up between the bed and the window, so she could watch the fading sun on its way toward the distant hills. She was sore all over and coated with dust. The warm water seemed to soak right into her bones and the scent of lavender into her soul.

  So much nicer than the Queen’s Bench, or Mrs. Wright’s Boarding House for Genteel Ladies. Once she finished negotiating the thorny details with her foul-tempered innkeeper, Claybourne Manor might work out very nicely for a base of operations. She could close herself up in her lovely chamber when she needed to write; travel when she needed to do her research.

  And with any luck, she would only occasionally pass her irascible husband in the halls.

  Chapter 8

  Hunter crossed his own threshold and followed his wife’s lavender scent up the stairs to her chamber door. He had business to discuss with her. Married only a day, and she was already costing him. He would have knocked, but the house belonged to him.

  He threw open the door, and met with dazzling sunshine. “Damnation! What the hell have you done here?” He shielded his eyes and found his way to the center of the room.

  “Mr. Claybourne, I’ll thank you to leave immediately!” Her bristling indignation came from somewhere beyond the bed and all its gauzy drapings. “How dare you burst into my chamber!”

  Then he caught the faint plash of water, the moist scent of lavender. She was bathing.

  “Out, Mr. Claybourne!”

  She was his wife.

  “And next time, knock.”

  But this was his home, though at the moment it looked anything but. He decided to stay, and slammed the door shut.

  “And good riddance, you swollen-headed, penny-pinching barbarian!” A hairpin landed with a click at his feet.

  “Well, then,” Hunter said quietly, “at least I know your true opinion of me.”

  The splashing stopped, but the water kept sloshing. She harrumphed. “I asked you to leave, Mr. Claybourne. Can’t you see I’m bathing?”

  Through the gauze he could see only that she’d drawn her hair to the top of her head into a loosely ribboned cloud. A stream of afternoon sunlight fanned through the sparkling windowpanes, lighting her hair like a spun-gold explosion. But the bed and the brightness obscured more detail than that; and he was better off blinded. She had diverted his intention too dee
ply already.

  “You spent seven hundred seventy pounds at Madame Deverie’s today.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Claybourne? I had no idea a wardrobe cost so much. If only you’d loaned me that ten pounds, you’d have saved yourself the entire seven hundred seventy.”

  “And you should have been mindful of the cost.”

  “I buy my blouses in lots of three, cheap as I can. What would I know of the price of high fashion? Your note said you wanted me dressed for every eventuality. Madame Deverie saw to that task quite thoroughly. I would have preferred the simpler fabrics and styles, but the woman insisted on the best. But fear not, Mr. Claybourne: should we ever be invited to a duck hunt, I have the perfect shooting costume.”

  “Damn the ducks!”

  “And why haven’t you gone, sir? This is my chamber and I am bathing.”

  “This is my house.”

  “Except for this room, at the moment. It is mine!”

  “I can see that.” The woman had strewn all sorts of objects about her chamber: a bandy-legged table, a black-and-gilt lacquered screen, lamps and paintings—and he couldn’t recall having seen a single item before this. The fittings were of little value to him, meant nothing more than the fact of their existence.

  “You should be pleased with the change. Amazing what an open drape, a clean window and a pruning saw will do to eliminate the gloom. I borrowed a few things from other parts of the house; I hope you don’t mind. By the way, you have expensive taste in lamps, Mr. Claybourne.”

  He snorted in frustration. “And in wives.”

  She laughed suddenly, brightly, and turned toward him, peering through a gap in the bed-hangings. Her arm was lithe and damp, and circled the lip of the brass tub. She looked a little surprised, and then sent a disappointed sigh into the air between them.

  “Ah, you weren’t joking, Mr. Claybourne.” She turned away again and sank deeper into the water. “I thought you’d discovered your sense of humor. I was about to compliment you on its depth, but I shall have to refrain.”

  “I have a sense of humor, Miss Mayfield!” He hadn’t meant to defend himself on so insignificant a point, but he refused to be dismissed for a lack in his character by this thieving travel writer.