Читать книгу Regency Christmas Courtship - Louise Allen - Страница 16

Grant sat up in the marble bath and considered the tricky, but eminently safe, subject of plumbing. His grandfather had installed baths with a cold-water supply and drains for the main bedchambers, but he had not risked the newfangled systems of boilers and piped hot water. Grant had agreed with him at the time, but lugging the cans of hot water upstairs and along endless corridors certainly made a great deal of work for the servants.

He lathered the long-handled brush and scrubbed his back while calculating the safe location for boilers and the length of pipework one would need. It was technical, complicated, and was entirely failing to stop him brooding on the subject of his wife. His second wife.

He had been deep in discussion with his secretary and the steward when he heard her voice in the hallway that afternoon. Six months ago Mr Rivers would have pushed aside the piles of paperwork and asked the men to wait while he went out to greet her. But the Earl of Allundale could not do anything as unfashionable and demonstrative as interrupting an important meeting in order to speak to his wife for no reason whatsoever. A few months in London society had reminded him forcefully of that.

Madeleine had always said he was far too casual, not sufficiently aware of his own consequence, or of hers. Now he was the earl he should behave like one, and, given the circumstances of their marriage, Kate was going to need all the consequence he could bring her, he was very conscious of that.

Now he put aside the brush and lay back to critically survey what he could see of his body as he stretched out under the water. Toes, kneecaps and a moderately hairy chest broke the surface. No stomach rising above the soap suds, thank goodness. The London Season was enough to put inches on anyone foolish enough to eat and drink all that was on offer during interminable dinner parties, suppers at balls, buffets at receptions. But with rigorous attendance at the boxing salons, sessions with the fencing master and long rides in the parks, at least the elegant new clothes he’d ordered when he’d first arrived still fitted him by the end.

Alex had laughed at him for having a fashionable crop, but he had hardly noticed the teasing—contemplating his old friend Alex Tempest married to the woman he had believed on first sight to be a nun was enough to distract any man.

Alex and Tess had seemed happy. Blissfully so and physically, too. Shockingly they hardly seemed able to keep their hands off each other—Lord and Lady Weybourn appeared to have no reservations about appearing unfashionably in love.

Grant reached out and pulled the plug out, then, when the bath emptied, he put it back and turned on the cold-water tap. He made himself lie still until it reached his shoulders. It had dawned on him when he reached London that he was a married man again. Which meant that he should be faithful to his wife. It was not something that had entered his head when he made that rash proposal, and sex had not been exactly at the forefront of his mind for at least a month before that, what with the anxiety about his grandfather and then so much travelling, culminating in his accident in Edinburgh.

Now he lay in the cold water and made himself calculate. This was May. It had been mid-November when he had ended that pleasant little dalliance with the Bulgarian attaché’s wife in Vienna. Nearly six months. Despite the chill of the bath, blood was definitely heading downwards with the realisation of such prolonged celibacy. Damnation. He could hardly sling a towel round his hips and stride off to his wife’s bedchamber to deal with the matter. That was not the way to approach one’s first night in the marriage bed. And what were Kate’s expectations of that marriage bed anyway?

Grant climbed from the bath and stood in front of the fire while he towelled himself dry. The logical way to discover her feelings and views on any subject was simply to ask her. On the other hand, he hardly knew the woman. Wife or not, he could not just sit down and have a frank and open discussion about sex. She would be shocked.

He had been away a devil of a long time and he had a guilty conscience about that, he realised as he towelled his back. He could expect to receive, at the very least, some wifely remonstrance on the subject before he was forgiven. Yet when they had met in front of the mausoleum Kate had simply not acknowledged that there had been anything wrong, so he could neither justify himself nor be forgiven. Maddening. The question was, did she realise how awkward that was and was she administering a particularly subtle punishment? Or did she care too little to be annoyed with him? Probably the latter.

The faint sound of splashing stopped him, the towel still stretched across his shoulder blades. Of course, when the suites had been changed around, the two new bathing rooms had been carved out of a small, little-used retiring room and the walls must be simply lath and plaster. He padded across and applied his ear to the panelling. Definite splashing and the sound of Kate’s voice.

Grant stepped back with a grimace. The next thing, he would be peering through the keyhole at his own wife. The sounds were certainly exercising his imagination in a thoroughly arousing way, as though his body needed any more encouragement. He gave his back one sharp slap with the towel and went out to the dressing room, where Griffin, his smart new London valet, was laying out his smart new London clothes. If nothing else, his wife would not be confronted by the travel-worn, battered, weary, grief-stricken man she had married. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he lowered his chin the half-inch to perfect the set of the waterfall knot in his neckcloth, nodded his thanks to Griffin and headed for the drawing room and the start of his new marriage.

Kate paused at the head of the stairs for one last calming breath, twitched her black silk skirts into order and descended the staircase in a manner befitting a countess. She had waited nearly four and a half months for this evening and the unexpected encounter with Grant that morning had done nothing to make this any easier. The exhausted, kind, patient stranger she had married was now an alert, attractive, impatient, secretive stranger. Nothing had changed for him, it seemed, except for the fact that he’d had nearly four and a half months’ worth of town bronze, the status of an earl and an endless amount of time to regret marrying her. She had her looks back, her confidence as the mistress of a large country house and an inconvenient attack of physical attraction for the aforesaid stranger.

I want a proper marriage, not simply make-believe for the rest of our lives. But what does he want? She smiled at Giles as the footman opened the door for her and then checked on the threshold as Grant turned from the contemplation of a landscape painting she had placed over the hearth, a replacement for one of the old earl’s more bloodthirsty hunting scenes.

‘A definite improvement.’

For a moment she thought he meant her appearance, then he gestured to the painting. At least he is smiling. ‘I am glad you think so.’ Kate went to her usual armchair by the fireplace. The distance across the room had never felt so long, nor her limbs so clumsy. Grant moved as though he would intercept her, touch her, but she sat down before he could reach her side. With a feeling of relief that she recognised as sheer nerves she picked up her embroidery frame from the basket beside the chair. She wanted this man, but she had no idea how to cope with him.

‘Naturally, I would not remove any portraits, but I found that sitting here every evening under the glazed eyes of a slaughtered stag was somewhat dampening to the spirits,’ she said as she found the needle, then dropped her thimble.

Grant stooped to retrieve it and handed it to her. He moved back, but remained opposite her, one elbow on the end of the mantelpiece. In any other man she would have supposed the pose was intended to draw attention to his clothes or his figure, and it certainly did that, but Grant’s attention seemed to be all on her.

‘That is a charming gown. Have you been sending to London for the latest fashions?’

She had been pleased with it, although a trifle nervous of the low neckline, which the dressmaker assured her was high by London standards. ‘No, merely for the latest fashionable journals. I have discovered a most accomplished dressmaker in Newcastle and an excellent fabrics warehouse.’

‘In that case you might wish to accompany me into the city next week and choose something for half mourning. I imagine you are weary of unrelieved black and grey and the six months isn’t too far away. I hardly feel the need to apply the strictest rules, do you?’

‘We are mourning your grandfather, it is for you to decide, but I must confess that some colour would be welcome.’ It would be a delight, to be truthful, even if it was only shades of lavender and lilac. She placed a careful row of French knots. ‘Were your friends very surprised at the news of your marriage?’

Grant’s eyebrows rose at the abrupt change of subject and it seemed to Kate that in moving to take the chair opposite her he was taking the time to compose his reply with care. ‘My three closest friends know something of the truth.’ He shrugged. ‘I could hardly deceive them that our relationship was of long-standing, they know my movements too well. But I would trust them with my life and you may rely on their absolute discretion. As far as acquaintances in town are concerned, I confided in a few incorrigible gossips that Grandfather had not approved of the match, hence a secret Scottish wedding and no announcement. They were titillated enough by the disapproval not to question the date and one or two were obviously on the verge of remarking that it was convenient that his death precluded an uncomfortable confession to him following the birth of our child.’

‘How…distasteful.’

‘Society can be like that, I find. The prospect of gossip and scandal sharpens even the most respectable tongue.’ He shrugged. ‘But it plays into our hands. They’ll spread the tale and provided no one has the effrontery to demand to know the date of the wedding it will soon become of no matter, and even if some conclude that we anticipated the wedding, no one will hold that against you. It will soon be old history.’

‘They won’t hold it against me because too many of them have done the same, no doubt.’ His lips twitched at the tartness of her tone. ‘Did you tell people who I am?’ she asked, trying not to sound as worried as she was. ‘And what is supposed to be the reason for your grandfather’s disapproval?’

‘I mentioned that you were from a respectable minor gentry family in Suffolk.’ She managed not to let out a long sigh of relief. ‘The fact that your father was merely a country squire without connections or an established place in society was sufficient explanation for Grandfather to oppose the match. The old man was a product of his generation—nothing less than the daughter of an earl, and one bringing a substantial dowry and influence with her into the bargain, was good enough for the Earl of Allundale.’

‘I see.’ Kate unpicked the knot she had just set, which had become unaccountably tangled. So presumably Madeleine had been Lady Madeleine, even though she was married to a mere Mr Rivers.

‘That was his view,’ Grant said. ‘I do not share it. Having married a lady with just those qualifications as my first wife, I know all too well they are no guarantee of anything. However, it makes a perfectly plausible reason.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed. And the old earl was quite correct—what do I bring to this marriage? We could have a good marriage, as long as I can keep my secrets, but if they become public knowledge, it will make a scandal that would rebound on Grant and on the children. She was pleased at how composed she sounded.

‘Kate, you must write to your brother soon,’ Grant said.

‘No. I will not write to him. I do not want him knowing anything of my marriage.’

‘Kate, why ever not? I would have asked you for his direction and done so myself if I had realised you would neglect to do so. I need to talk to him about the settlements,’ Grant said. ‘And I assume he is holding money for you that will be released on your marriage. I seem to recall you saying something.’

Did I? How foolish. ‘There is virtually nothing. I do not want to make a fuss about it. He has control until I marry with his approval, that is all.’

‘You think he will object to me? He may not know me by reputation, but he is hardly likely to turn up his nose at an earl.’

‘He would be delighted with an earl,’ Kate said drily. ‘But he will be unpleasant. If you must have the truth, Henry has an expensive wife and ambitions beyond his means. He is quite unscrupulous.’ That was all true enough. ‘If he discovers who I have married, he would ask to borrow money—which I doubt you would ever see again. To encourage him to sponge off you would not be right.’

That was harsh, but it was a mild version of the truth. Henry would hold the scandal of Anna’s parentage over Grant, try to entangle him in that mire. He would get a surprise if he tried it, she thought grimly. Grant would probably throttle him. But then there was the blackmail. What if Grant thought he must inform the magistrate? He was an honest, straightforward man. There was no way he could ignore it, surely? Then he would be smeared by association, by his marriage.

‘He is my brother-in-law. I would not like to be unreasonable. Do not sound so apologetic, my dear. Brothers-in-law are almost expected to hang on one’s coat-tails.’ The tolerant amusement in Grant’s voice was no help. ‘Besides, there is the matter of the settlements, which I really should discuss with him. You should have what is yours.’

‘It is very little, a few hundreds.’

‘Settle it on Anna if you do not want it. It is always a mistake to neglect financial matters, however minor.’

Kate wondered suddenly just how wealthy Grant was. There was no stinting about the household, the land was obviously in good heart. But that might simply be because he was expending all he had on keeping things just so. Now, on top of the risk of her dubious brother touching him for loans, which would never be repaid, she had saddled him with the expense of a wife and a child. She had removed his opportunity for a much more advantageous marriage and all she could offer were the skills of any competent mistress of a country house.

For how much longer could she put Grant off about contacting Henry? Or could she add to her deceit, tell Grant that she had written to her brother, but that he had cut the connection?

But then Grant would still want to pursue her money for her and, she suspected, he would try to heal the breach. And behind those fears was the lurking terror that sooner or later he would ask her to accompany him to London, take her place beside him in society as his hostess. Inwardly she quailed. A country mouse contemplating life amidst the birds of prey of fashionable London could not have felt as inadequate. She could not even dance the waltz, Kate reflected with a descent into gloom. The faint smile felt as though it was pinned to her face. She would manage if she had to. Somehow. But if Lord Baybrook was there…

‘Kate, is something wrong?’ Grant had obviously noticed the artificiality of her expression.

‘No, of course not.’ She made the effort to smile with her eyes when all she felt was queasiness.

‘There is no need to be anxious.’ There was something warm in his expression, some meaning in his tone. Kate stared back, puzzled, as he added, ‘About tonight, I mean.’

He is talking about bed, about making love. Does he mean not to be anxious because he will come to me…or that he will not? I hope he comes. There was no hiding the truth from herself that she was attracted to this man, this stranger-husband. She felt the blush rising up her face and with it the shame that Grant would see her eagerness, think her a wanton. Or perhaps he would welcome that, expect her to be very experienced and to possess sophisticated skills in bed.

It was difficult to understand this feeling. After all, her skills were non-existent and she had no idea what would be involved in sophisticated lovemaking.

‘I am not anxious about tonight,’ she said, rather too loudly.

‘Dinner is served, my lady.’ Grimswade somehow managed to sound even more smoothly efficient and bland than normal. When had he appeared in the doorway behind her? Had he heard? She wondered if it was possible to pass out from sheer embarrassment. Henry always said that one should treat the servants as though they were furniture and would discuss anything and everything in front of them—from an embarrassing rash to his gaming losses.

‘Thank you, Grimswade.’ She found a smile for the butler as she began to rise to her feet, then almost jumped in surprise to find her husband by her side, his hand outstretched.

‘My dear.’

My dear. A conventional phrase, that is all. He means nothing by it. She put her fingertips on his wrist and resisted the urge to curl them around the strong tendons, to feel the jut of his wristbone. When she had seen him this morning her eyes had been drawn to his bare, tanned hands, a sharp contrast with her smaller, paler hands beside his on the rug. What would those long fingers look like on her body? How would they feel? Now she told herself that she could detect nothing through the fine kid of her evening gloves, not his body heat, not the pulse of his blood.

‘I do hope you like the new recipe for veal ragout Cook has been trying,’ Kate remarked as they walked through to the dining room. ‘It is an old family one I remembered.’ Discussing the food was utterly banal. He would think her so dull. But it was safe.

Giles the footman stepped forward to pull out her chair at the foot of the table for her, but Grant was before him. He pushed it in carefully as she sat, then laid one hand on her shoulder in a fleeting caress before taking his own place at the head of the long board. ‘I am certain that whatever you suggest will be delightful.’ That warmth was back in his eyes and behind it a question that had not been there before. Or perhaps a doubt.

Conscious of the attendant footmen, of Grimswade bringing the decanter to fill Grant’s wine glass, Kate closed her lips on the impulsive questions—What do you want of me? What do you expect of me?—and focused her attention on the dishes arrayed on the table. At least her husband would have no reason to complain of her supervision of the kitchen, whatever he felt about her presence in his bed.