The Earl's Marriage Bargain

by Louise Allen

  ‘Take a footman with you everywhere at first,’ Ivo suggested. ‘But it is hard to get lost. We had an ancient relative staying when I was a child. She was confused, poor dear, but she would wander all over and then shout when she became too lost. Someone always heard her. You can work out roughly where you are by looking out of the window, after all. The park is littered with eye-catchers which make useful points of reference.’

  Jane looked around and saw he was right. Even a quick glance revealed a little Grecian temple on one hill, a glimpse of a marble cupola through the woods on the other side and the glint of water curling around the side of the house.

  ‘What is that down in that hollow? A little chapel? It looks charming.’

  ‘An ice house with the entrance disguised as a hermit’s cell,’ Ivo said, not even glancing in that direction. ‘It is disused now. Grandfather had one built closer to the kitchens.’

  ‘It would make a very pleasant short walk, I imagine.’

  ‘Not at all. The ground is boggy and there are biting insects,’ Ivo said shortly, then seemed to realise how dismissive that sounded. ‘The best walks are around the lake, or up to the temple, and the park has a great many rides.’

  ‘I cannot ride,’ Jane admitted cautiously, wary after his reaction to her desire to walk to the ice house.

  ‘I will teach you. Are you nervous of horses?’

  ‘Not at all, but then I have rarely encountered one at very close quarters. I should like to learn how to drive more than to ride. Just a pony cart, I think.’

  ‘For rural expeditions with your easel and paints?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, relaxing. ‘Or perhaps a donkey?’

  ‘Countesses do not drive donkey carts,’ Ivo said, making her nervous all over again with visions of smart little vehicles and showy ponies that she must learn to drive with a dash when all she wanted was something she could amble about the countryside in.

  The groom jumped down when they arrived at the front of the house and Ivo came round and lifted her to the ground. He had done it before, but this time he seemed to linger, letting her slide down close to his body until they were standing toe to toe, his hands still on her waist. ‘Welcome to the Tower. I do not think that you paid it very much attention on your first visit.’

  ‘None at all,’ Jane admitted.

  At that moment her view consisted entirely of Ivo’s neckcloth—spotless and crisp—his tie pin—a rather good oval sapphire—and his chin—firm, stubborn, smoothly shaved. If she came up on tiptoe she could press a kiss right in the middle, below the sensual line of his lower lip. It was a disconcerting and unexpected thought—most improper, of course, but surprisingly exciting. It was one thing to enjoy being kissed by an attractive man, quite another for a well-bred young lady to think about kissing him in broad daylight, virtually on the steps of a great house. Was she falling for her husband-to-be?

  It was dangerous, instinct told her. This was to be a convenient marriage, one of liking, certainly, and perhaps some desire, but feeling anything more laid her open to heartache and worse.

  She was just telling herself to step back when Ivo bent his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. Jane closed her eyes, then opened them again seconds later when he moved away from her. ‘Now I have shocked Partridge,’ he said with a huff of laughter. ‘He is so starched up that nervous visitors have been known to assume he is the Marquess. Come and charm him.’

  Jane realised that they had an audience. The front door was open and a black-clad figure stood there, a footman at his side. A flicker of movement, a flash of blue and white behind the short stone balustrade disguising the service area, made her suspect that several maids had been peeping at them and a bulky figure moved away from one of the long first-floor windows. The Marquess himself?

  Was that why Ivo had held her for so long, had kissed her? Was he demonstrating something for the benefit of the household? Jane shivered, suddenly chilled by the thought that Ivo was playacting an affection he did not feel.

  The butler, for whom the word cadaverous could have been coined, greeted them with funereal solemnity. ‘My lord. Miss Newnham.’

  Jane repressed the urge to curtsy. Ivo merely grinned, ‘Cheer up, Partridge, or Miss Newnham will decide to employ a young, jolly, butler for our half of the household.’

  Partridge permitted himself a frigid smile. Jane imagined the sound of ice cracking. ‘You will have your little joke, my lord. Lord Westhaven is in the library.’

  ‘No joke,’ Ivo remarked as they made their way towards the staircase. It rose from the centre of the hall, then split into two sweeping arms. ‘We have an entire wing to ourselves and we can set up an entirely separate household if you wish it.’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Jane clutched at his arm. ‘Everyone would be so offended. Promise me you will not.’

  ‘It is as you wish, my dear.’ Ivo paused at the top of the right-hand arm of the staircase and looked down, seeming not to notice her start of surprise at the mild endearment. ‘Wonderful banisters for sliding down, these. I used to do it daily as a small boy and got beaten for it every time my father or grandfather caught me.’ He grinned. ‘Not very hard, mind you. I assume they both did exactly the same in their time.’

  For the first time Jane thought about children, not as an abstract concept, one that she had assumed she must forget if she was to follow her art, but as a reality. In a year perhaps she would be a mother, in six or seven years’ time, a mother anxious that her children might be breaking their necks sliding down these very banisters.

  Ivo’s children.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jane was still so wrapped up in the realisation that there was rather more to marrying Ivo than the marriage bed or the servant question or even how she would continue painting that their arrival in the library came as a surprise. ‘Oh! How wonderful.’

  It was a proper library, a working library, not a collection of books amassed because their owner thought it was necessary for a nobleman to own hundreds of the things, all in splendid bindings. These were splendid, indeed, and the shelves were loaded, but the tables that stood around the room had piles of books, some open, some with markers sticking out of them. The atlas stands supported open volumes and the great globe had a faintly worn look to it, as though it was often spun for enquiring fingers to trace a river or a sea route or locate a mountain range.

  But even better, in Jane’s eyes, were the paintings. Everywhere she looked were miniatures, hung between book stacks, framed as groups, arranged in little glass-topped tables. She was nose to nose with an exquisite Elizabethan gentleman who had plumes in his velvet bonnet and a great pearl hanging from one ear when the sound of someone clearing their throat made her jump.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Newnham.’

  ‘My lord. Please forgive me, I did not see you there.’

  ‘You like my collection?’

  ‘You gathered all these?’ There must be almost fifty, she thought. ‘This is Hilliard, is it not?’

  ‘Close. Isaac Oliver, I believe, although it is contested. I inherited that and about half of what you see here. The rest I have collected or commissioned.’ He bent and opened one of the display tables. ‘You might like this.’

  Jane took the little oval that he handed her. ‘It is Ivo in uniform! How very dashing you look, Ivo. Is it a Cosway?’

  ‘It is. You have an eye for style and you know your artists, Miss Newnham. I had that painted before Ivo went abroad for the first time. Keep it,’ he said when she tried to hand it back.

  ‘Really?’ It was a generous gesture and she knew she must accept with grace, but she felt almost as though she was taking it under false pretences. But at least she would not be removing it from its home, it would still hang in the house. ‘Thank you, I will treasure it, my lord. I had best give it back for now, though.’

  He smiled and returne
d it to its place. ‘You go and find Mrs French, Kendall. I will entertain Miss Newnham in your absence.’

  Jane suppressed the urge to grab hold of Ivo’s sleeve as he turned to go out, abandoning her with his grandfather, and managed to keep a smile on her lips. The old man was as subtle as a sledgehammer and he wanted something, although she could not imagine what it was he was going to ask her. Or tell her, perhaps.

  ‘Now this one here, this is by Nicholas Hilliard,’ he said, moving to one of the larger miniatures, hung away from the direct light.

  Jane followed him and admired the small gem, glowing in its shady corner, but she was not deceived that this was going to be a conversation about art.

  ‘Are you in love with my grandson?’ the Marquess asked.

  Even braced for an interrogation, she was startled into the truth. ‘No. That is to say, I like and admire him. Respect him.’ She stopped rather too abruptly, but that was better than gabbling about growing desire or her anxiety over whether he truly would allow her the freedom to paint as she wished.

  ‘Excellent. I did not think that you had foolish romantic notions in your head about this match, but one can never be certain these days. Girls read too many novels, too much poetry and that can only lead to disillusion.’

  Jane bit back the retort that it was perfectly possible to read both without becoming romantically deluded. ‘I am very conscious that Lord Kendall offered for me out of concern for my reputation. I would be foolish indeed to imagine warmer feelings than liking on either side.’

  An expression that she hoped was approval crossed the craggy face. ‘You consider it a matter of mere liking on both sides? You do not imagine that my grandson is in love with you?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Jane said, startled into crispness. ‘We had known each other for a matter of days before his proposal.’ The Marquess looked sceptical. ‘My lord, we have already established that I am not subject to romantic imaginings.’

  ‘Good. Excellent, you set my mind at rest. I thought when I heard about you that you seemed to be a sensible young woman, one with some courage and resolution. Intelligence. That is what Ivo needs in a wife. But I would not have you...disappointed later.’

  What on earth was he hinting at? ‘I have no illusions about the nature of this match and Ivo has assured me that no other woman would be left with disappointed hopes as a result of him offering for me. Naturally, I hope and trust that affection between us will grow with time and familiarity.’

  My goodness, I sound like some starched-up dowager. Oh, well, in for a penny...

  ‘My concern is to be a support to Lord Kendall as he takes up his responsibilities at your side, my lord, but I have his word that I will be able to continue with my art.’

  ‘Your art? Of course, you paint, do you not?’

  ‘I paint portraits. In oils. I am not certain if you are aware of how seriously I take it?’

  He beetled his brows at her, clearly not used to pert young women standing up to him like this. ‘Are you any good at it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Now was not the time for modesty.

  ‘Convince me of it and I have a commission for you. Ah, here is Mrs French. Off you go now: I have no doubt she will show you parts of this house I have never seen myself.’

  Jane bobbed a slight curtsy and turned to the woman who stood in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of her over a crisp apron. There was lace at her collar and cuffs, a great bunch of keys hanging from her waist and a smart cap on her brown curls.

  ‘Miss Newnham.’ The housekeeper was perhaps fifty, tall, angular and plain, but her expression was intelligent and alert, her voice cool and assured. Jane had no idea whether she would prove to be an ally or an opponent, but she was clearly a force to be reckoned with. ‘Lord Kendall has asked me to show you around the house at any time that is convenient to you.’

  ‘Now would be perfect,’ Jane said, relieved at the excuse to escape. She had no idea how to respond to what Lord Westhaven had said to her. A commission? Did he really wish her to paint a portrait for him, a man who could doubtless afford to have every relative he possessed painted by Lawrence, the king of contemporary portraitists? And his questions about her feelings had been even more baffling, unless he was simply very old-fashioned and disapproved of love matches on principal.

  Or was he warning her against falling in love with Ivo for some reason? Why should anyone object to a wife loving her husband? Unless he feared that she would be hurt... Did that mean that he considered his grandson incapable of loving? Surely—‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs French. I was concentrating so hard on remembering where exactly I was that I missed what you have been saying.’

  ‘It is a very large house, Miss Newnham,’ the housekeeper said pleasantly. ‘Some confusion is only to be expected at first. But fortunately, unlike so many other old houses, it is quite straightforward in its layout. Both wings are symmetrical—in fact, they are mirror images of each other except that the West Wing has the main entrance hall and that space in the East Wing contains the music room. The only irregularity is that caused by the tower in the centre where the floor levels are different and that is compensated for by short flights of steps on either side.’

  She opened a door as she spoke and Jane found herself at the top of stairs leading down to a circular room with a large hooded fireplace and a number of suits of armour. ‘The tower rooms are purely to display the older artefacts,’ Mrs French explained. ‘They are opened when there are parties or balls and when we have visitors call when His Lordship is not at home then this is the main part of the house I show them, rather than any of the more modern rooms.’

  It had not occurred to Jane that this was one of the great houses where genteel travellers might expect to call and have the housekeeper show them through the public rooms. That would be difficult to become accustomed to, she realised.

  Along with a great deal else...

  Mrs French took her around the East Wing because, she explained, this was now Lord Kendall’s domain and would therefore be her own after the wedding. Jane found herself lost in tapestries and panelling, hangings and rich decoration and hardly dared glance through the door of Ivo’s bedchamber, let alone through the one to what would be her suite of rooms next door.

  ‘At present Their Lordships dine together every evening in the small dining room in the West Wing,’ Mrs French explained as they reached the safer ground of the dining rooms. One large—enormous—and one small, which could seat fifteen easily.

  There was something in her tone that suggested she did not expect this to be the case after the marriage. Jane was not so certain. It was hardly as though she and Ivo would want to be alone every evening—besides, it would complicate things for the cook.

  ‘His Lordship suggested that you might like to view below stairs after luncheon, Miss Newnham,’ Mrs French said as they arrived back in the circular tower chamber. ‘Unless you are tired and would prefer to do so on another day. I am at your disposal at any time. Oh, good morning, Lady Frederick.’

  The newcomer was standing at the top of the short flight of stairs into the West Wing. Jane took in an impression of elegance and height and a beautifully cut walking dress and pelisse, both in deepest black. Despite the mourning, the hat perched on Lady Frederick’s dark curls was more dashing than anything Jane had seen outside the pages of La Belle Assemblée and the overall effect was enough to make her feel like a candidate for the post of scullery maid.

  Lady Frederick...

  She must be married to a younger son, presumably, but surely Ivo would have said if he had a sister? Then the other woman came down the stairs and Jane saw she must be forty, perhaps older.

  ‘French. Who is this?’ Her voice was perfectly pleasant and the housekeeper did not react to the omission of the courtesy title that even the Marquess used.

  ‘Miss Newnham, Lady Frederick. Miss Newnh
am, Lady Frederick Merton.’

  ‘Ivo’s little bride? Come, let me look at you. That will be all, French, I will see Miss Newnham finds the luncheon table.’

  Jane made a point of thanking the housekeeper before she turned back to the other woman.

  Little bride, indeed!

  ‘Lady Frederick.’

  ‘I am Ivo’s aunt,’ she said. ‘His father’s sister-in-law and, apparently, the only one in the family who sees fit to wear mourning for him. Let me look at you. You look intelligent, at least, although you are a plain little dab of a thing. How satisfactory he has had the sense not to propose to some pretty spoiled chit given to high drama—presumably he has had enough of that.’ It was all said with a smile and such great charm that it took Jane a second to realise that she was being insulted.

  ‘I believe that your nephew values character over looks and, I hope, kindness over beauty.’ Jane wondered what she had meant about pretty spoiled chit. She smiled as sweetly as she could manage at the older woman.

  ‘You have claws. Well done.’ She smiled apparent approval of Jane’s retort, but the warmth did not reach her eyes. ‘I suggest you do not show them to Ivo before you have his ring safely on your finger. But I forget, you have already been seen quarrelling with him in the middle of Bath. Very reckless of you. And here he is.’

  Ivo came through the door and joined his aunt on the landing. ‘Aunt Augusta. I did not realise we were expecting you.’

  ‘You were not but, as by some apparent oversight I have not received an invitation to meet your betrothed, I decided to drop by. A mere twenty miles out of my way. So nice to meet you, dear, I will see you again at luncheon, no doubt.’ She smiled at Jane, nodded thanks to Ivo who held the door for her and swept out.

  ‘Ouch,’ Jane said. That interview had hurt, as it had clearly been meant to. ‘Your aunt is glad you have settled for a plain little dab of a thing with some intelligence as opposed to some spoiled, pretty chit given to high drama, whatever she means by that.’ She felt too bruised to hide her feelings.