Читать книгу Governesses Under The Mistletoe: The Runaway Governess / The Governess's Secret Baby - Liz Tyner, Janice Preston - Страница 17

Chapter Nine

Matrimony didn’t agree with him. In fact, the whole house seemed out of sorts since his marriage. A fortnight should have been enough time for them to adjust. If it had been a manor, he would have called it Bumbling Hall. Cook didn’t seem able to adjust to the circumstance of his asking for breakfast.

‘My apologies.’ The servant bowed her head as she exited his breakfast room, after replacing the drink. ‘I brought you the mistress’s chocolate and she does not wish for hers to be spiced as you do.’

He nodded, taking a sip from the glass left behind. The chocolate still wasn’t correct. He tasted it again, drinking half of it to see if he could discern exactly what error had been made. He paused, realising why it tasted bland. His cook had not made morning chocolate for him in years. The only time he drank it was at Sophia’s and he’d got used to the way her cook prepared it. If he ended the night at his own home, he sipped a brandy as he prepared for bed.

He left, returning to his sitting room. The newspaper lay on the table, but he had no wish to read it. He preferred his news from the club, either by men who had participated or men who’d seen it. Almost always the stories varied, but he sorted out the truth from them.

He picked up the print anyway. Reading through it, he then slapped it back down. Old news. He should have taken to the clubs. He would not make such a mistake tonight. All his friends would be abed now so he had no reason to trot out.

Sylvester had congratulated William on finding a bride who didn’t curtail the nights out and said he planned to do the same.

He looked closer at the arm of the chair and pulled a bit of feather from it, then flicked the fluff aside.

William wasn’t even certain if Isabel knew he was home or not.

Isabel was not like his sisters, always managing to burst upon him with some question, or leave this or that frippery for the servants to put away.

Moving to the door, he opened it and returned to his chair.

* * *

She’d not spoken with him since she had suggested she could leave and change her name. Perhaps that had been too imaginative, but still, she’d offered.

William had left each night at dusk since their wedding night, until the last one. He’d been arriving home some time after midnight because she’d listened and he didn’t return before she fell asleep.

She could not imagine that Husband would be expecting her to provide an heir without his help. She’d also kept the smaller bed and although it had started as a rebellion of sorts, she’d considered it carefully and kept the plan. She looked at the paper in her hand, blowing to dry the inkspot she’d mistakenly made. Well, her penmanship never would win any notice.

She would not be able to send this letter to Grace. She hoped that Grace might meet William some day and draw a picture of him. Grace could sketch up anyone’s face so quickly.

After Isabel realised she was to be married, she’d written to Grace, Rachel, and Joanna. Isabel had spent the entire day writing to everyone she knew—making sure they all knew of her good fortune so they would not suspect she’d made a judgement in error. She’d only admitted to Grace that the marriage was not exactly a love match, but more of a union of two sensible people in exact understanding of each other. Isabel’s teeth had ached after writing the letters, but she was certain it conveyed a certain sophistication and a smattering of newly gained maturity.

Isabel knew she was indeed more fortunate than Grace, with the uncertainty of finding a child, and how horrible it was that Grace had not been able to keep the little one in the first place.

‘Isabel.’ William’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She started. She hadn’t heard him enter her sitting room. Her throat tightened and she nearly knocked the paper from the table. She caught it in mid-air and looked his way. His white cravat looped in a single knot. His face was freshly shaven, which jolted her. The other men she’d met had never looked anything but whisker-peeled after a shave.

She couldn’t stare, he’d think her a twit. If she spoke, well, then she’d have to find words somewhere within her and she couldn’t think of any.

‘You look lost.’ He took a step inside. ‘What are you thinking of?’

Grace. Grace could rescue her once again. She couldn’t tell him of Grace’s misfortune, but she could talk of her schoolmate. ‘My friend Grace, and how she used to make up tales about how the owner, Madame Dubois, obtained the governess school. My favourite was that she was a highwayman in her youth and robbed a merchant of all his gold. But one of the girls said her father insisted that the land was once owned by a peer. Madame spoke so elegantly, and I knew she was from France, that I could believe her somehow close to the aristocracy.’

Isabel picked up the paper she wrote on. ‘Madame didn’t like my favourite songs and told me I was only to sing ones approved by Miss Fanworth. Miss Fanworth approved few I liked.’

Isabel thought back to the excitement of watching the girls laugh and gasp when she sang the most gruesome songs, or sniffle when she chose a mournful tune.

But she had no more wishes to perform. The night at Mr Wren’s had cured that.

‘Are you settling in to your satisfaction?’ he asked, lowering down into the easy chair across from her. The undersized chair gave him the appearance of even longer limbs.

‘I am.’

‘I don’t know if I’m doing so well,’ he said, laughing quietly. ‘I’ve been home more these past few days than I’m used to.’

Her brows rose. ‘You’re serious?’ He’d hardly been home at all.

‘Usually I’m at Sophia’s house. The club. Lord Robert has gambling events which last all night to several days, and he prefers them away from his home, so he finds a place where we can stay comfortably during breaks in the play.’

‘Do you not like the town house?’

‘It has my bed, a roof, room for the servants. That’s all that matters.’

‘It’s a little sparse.’

He looked around the room. ‘I suppose. I don’t like tripping over furniture or lots of little cloths decorating here and there in a room.’

‘Would you mind if I added just a few things?’

‘Whatever you want to do is fine with me. Just not too many things that look like undergarments tossed about.’

‘Table scarves?’

‘That’s why I have the inside shutters on the windows. I didn’t want the look of chemises or a grandfather’s coat hanging out to dry.’

‘You’ve succeeded. It looks like you’ve either just moved in or are about to move out.’

He laughed, stretching one leg. ‘I suppose you could be right on both counts. Sometimes that’s how it feels.’

She studied him to see if he told the truth.

‘Don’t be concerned,’ he said. ‘I’ll be visiting my father soon and I’ll make sure the town house is in my name completely so that it can be yours for the rest of your life. You’ll always have a home of your own now.’

‘But, I...’ She’d wanted him to say a home of their own. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to say he loved her, but they were living together, married, and she wanted him to feel as if he belonged with her. ‘I want you to like the house.’

His eyes wandered around the room. ‘I like the windows in the front and I don’t see you changing them.’ He brushed back the hair at his temple. ‘If you dislike the house, I can set my man-of-affairs on the search for another.’

‘Oh, no.’ She raised both palms. ‘I just want you to feel like it matters to you. Like a home should feel.’ She paused. ‘I would hope.’

He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and raised his hand to prop his chin on it. He settled into the relaxed pose and watched her. ‘It already feels more like a home than at any other day since I’ve moved in. No one moved above stairs before you arrived. Now, servants rush by with a plate of food leaving an aroma of a cooked meal behind. Or I hear you moving, or see you in the hallway and your cheeks light up just the barest, and your eyes smile, and I feel I’ve been bestowed a piece of treasure no one else even knows exists.’

She saw glints of a similar treasure behind his eyes.

‘Thank you.’ Warmth infused her cheeks, but she wasn’t embarrassed.

‘A songbird. Who doesn’t have to be caged. Who flits around and brings cheer. In this instance, my father was right. Marriage is an honourable state.’

* * *

He stood, planning to bend down to kiss her, but if he did, she might think it a sign of more affection than he could give.

He walked by, hoping she would retire early, and moved to his bedchamber.

William opened his nightstand drawer. Isabel had taken him at his word about penning notes. He lifted the last note passed along by the butler, opened it and read again. Isabel mentioned at both the beginning and end that it wasn’t necessary for him to attend Lady Howell’s soirée. He returned the note to the others, then flipped through them. The one before had mentioned the dress she’d purchased while out with his sister and she’d suggested the garment as suitable for an evening event. She’d also mentioned her wish to show them as deeply in love to the ton so no one would ever, ever hint of any impropriety of the past. For his future sons and daughters. Sisters. And himself.

Nothing truly personal was in the notes, yet he’d kept each one. The words of each breezed into the mind as if dashed from a smiling pen. Yet when he read the pages one after the other, the breeziness seemed procured.

Sadness touched him. Probably leftover-marriage tightness. He’d privately asked one of his older friends about the feelings a man might have after the deed was done and the answer had been little more than a shoulder shrug, and a discourse on the sanctity of friendships away from home, good libations, and how a lizard had been on the wall in 1797, or was it ninety-eight? That had helped tremendously and convinced him to spend another quiet night at home.

Waistcoat unbuttoned, he opened the bedchamber door, stepping into the hallway as Isabel rushed from her own room, a blast of feathers on her head. Even her reticule was feathered. He hoped there were no winds.

He paused as she caught sight of him. ‘I thought to tell you I don’t wish to attend Lady Howell’s dance.’

Her lips rose at the sides. ‘I don’t either.’ But something beyond the sky-blue eyes dimmed.

He didn’t want to attend that soirée, but blue was his favourite colour, particularly when it had the sparkle of gemstones. He even liked the darkening blue of the sky before a storm. But he didn’t like the dreary blue of sadness. ‘But perhaps we should go.’

Her eyes brightened, then faded. She clasped her reticule in both hands. ‘I do not know. It will...I don’t want people to think I have married you for your...’

‘Good looks?’ he asked, raising his brows.

She opened her mouth briefly. Her cheeks reddened. She walked forward and slapped his arm lightly with the bag, causing a wisp of feather to break free and float between them.

‘Oh, be serious,’ she said, leaving, ‘no one will think that.’