Gayle Buck (17 page)

When Mary entered her room, she found that her maid had already laid out a nightgown on the wide four-postered bed and had put a screen around the steaming brass tub that was set before the fire. “How inviting this looks,” Mary said.

The maid began to help her to undress. “Aye, it has been an exciting day. I’ll warrant you are tired, my lady.”

Mary shook her head, the faintest of smiles on her lips. She stepped into the warm bath. “How odd it sounds to hear myself addressed in such a fashion.”

The maid grunted an assent as she gathered up the discarded clothing. She bustled about, tidying up for a few more minutes before she was needed to throw the nightgown over her mistress’s head.

Mary went over to sit in a chair before the fire to dry her hair. Behind her, the maid turned down the bedclothes and ran a bedwarmer between the sheets.

“I shall be in my room if you need anything more, my lady.”

“No, nothing. I shall go directly to bed,” said Mary, smiling. The maid wished her a quiet good night and left the bedroom through a door that obviously led to the dressing room. Mary turned back to contemplate the flames, her fingers combing slowly over and over through her damp hair.

Several minutes later, when the fire had begun to burn down and the warmth generated by her bath was fading, Mary thought it was time to seek her bed. Just as she rose from the chair, a door set into the paneling beside the fireplace opened and a masculine figure entered. She took an inadvertent step backward, a startled gasp escaping her.

It was Lord St. John, attired in a silk dressing gown, his hair glistening with drops of water. Mary felt her heart thudding. She had not expected anything like this. “My-my lord!”

He regarded her with an ironic lift of his brows, a mocking glint in his eyes. “I am sorry if you assumed that ours was to be a strict
mariage de convenance.”

Mary’s throat was dry. It was exactly what she had thought, and she realized the depth of her naiveté. “No, my lord. It-it is just that you surprised me a little.”

“Did I? But you will know better in future,” he said.

His hand reached out to caress her cheek. She caught his fingers with her own, stilling them. The eyes that she lifted to him were very wide and very dark. “I am frightened, my lord,” she whispered.

There was a flash of something strange in his eyes, then their expression became inscrutable. “You have no need to be, not here, not with me.” Then he swept her up, lifting her high, and carried her to the bed.

The succeeding days, and nights, at Rosethorn settled into a pattern. Mary was shown over the manor house by Mrs. Jessup and she discussed with that happy lady various improvements and changes that were designed to increase the comforts to be found at Rosethorn. It occurred to Mary almost at once that she no longer had unquestioned command over the household monies; that prerogative belonged to her husband. Mary subsequently inquired of the viscount what latitude she was to be granted in finances.

Lord St. John regarded her from where he sat behind his desk. His gray eyes were exceedingly cool. “My dear lady, you have complete carte blanche. You may do whatever you wish. The settlements were more than generous.”

Mary felt the color rise in her face. “That was not my question, my lord.”

“My apologies. I thought perhaps that it was,” he said. “Nevertheless, it is as I said. You may do whatever you wish. I attach no sentimental value to the furnishings in this house. You may gut it with my goodwill.”

Mary thanked him quietly and retreated from the study, more shaken than she cared to admit by his lordship’s attitude. It was just as she had feared. The viscount resented that it was her father’s money that had saved him. Beyond even that, she found his supreme indifference to what should be done inside Rosethorn shocking. Surely he had some feeling for the things that had been familiar to him from childhood.

She paused just outside the door of the study, her brows knit. Perhaps, just perhaps, the viscount had expressed the essence of his wishes in those hard, dismissive words. The more Mary thought about it, the more certain she became that it was indeed so. She went away to the library to write a letter to her father, requesting that fabric samples for draperies, curtains, and upholsteries be sent to her. She would take her husband at his word and begin to rid Rosethorn Hall of all that was worn and out-of-date.

Thus Mary’s days became full of plans and inventories and consultations with an enthusiastic Mrs. Jessup, who could be relied upon to know which tradespeople and crafters in the village would do the best work. Her dealings with her husband retained the polite, reserved tone that had been established from the first. Lord St. John’s time seemed to be quite taken up with the company of his bailiff, Mr. Todd, and he spent very little of any given day indoors.

The newly wedded couple met only occasionally during the daylight hours, but every evening, over the dinner table, they spoke stiltedly about what had taken place during their time apart. Lord St. John began to join his wife in the drawing room for coffee. There was little conversation. She was content with her embroidery and he with reading.

Once, he surprised her by asking whether she was a card-player. “Why, only a very little,” confessed Mary. “I fear you would find my skill sadly lacking as an opponent, my lord.”

“Never mind; I shall teach you,” he replied with the glint of a smile. She acquiesced, nothing loath when his eyes contained that unusual warmth. She proved an apt pupil and it was not long before it became an established thing that they indulge in a game or two of piquet during the evening.

Little by little, Mary began to piece together something of her husband’s preferences. She knew what dishes and wines he enjoyed, which of her toilettes he liked and those he didn’t, what he preferred to converse about—in short, she took note of everything about him and tried to make of herself and of Rosethorn all that was most appealing to him. She was rewarded in small things, such as the occasional glance that had the power to bring warmth to her face, the rare invitation to join him in going about the estate, and the offhand comments approving the menus or the new draperies that hung in each room.

As for the nights, the connecting door between her bedroom and the viscount’s was never locked.

Chapter 16

Several weeks later, Lord St. John sat at breakfast with his wife. He regarded his lady with a lazy half-smile, his memory dwelling on the hour before dawn, before he had left her bed. She looked remarkably composed and very fine in a pale yellow morning dress.

Mary glanced
up, meeting his gaze, and color stole into her face. She smiled and asked, “Would you like more coffee, my lord?”

Lord St. John’s rare smile lighted his face. “Thank you, my lady. I would, indeed.” He watched her graceful movements as she poured, idly reflecting upon the woman he had wed. His wife had a pleasant voice. She was easy to look at over the breakfast table or, indeed, any other time. She was not vulgar or waspish or demanding of him. She had been uniformly cheerful and even-tempered from the day of their marriage. In short, his bride from the trades possessed in a remarkable degree every attribute that his friends had considered necessary in his prospective viscountess.

He considered himself very fortunate. He could scarcely imagine what his life might have been like if his lady had been in any way less compatible.

He had been a damned man, with nothing to anticipate but disgrace. Soliciting the hand of a bride from the trades had been a desperate gamble and one that he had detested with all of his heart. It had left a bitter taste in his mouth to acknowledge the necessity. But he had done what his circumstances demanded of him in order to salvage his pride and his heritage.

Lord St. John had gone into the marriage with his eyes open and with the absolute certainty that he would regret having married outside his class. He had not thought to gain except in a financial sense, but it had gradually been borne in upon him that the lady who had become his wife had a special gift of bringing comfort and a sense of contentment to everything she touched.

Since he had come into his own, it had not once over the years occurred to him to change anything about Rosethorn Hall, even though every time he had entered the manor he had been reminded of unhappy times. The welcome he had that once at the Jessups’ hands had surprised him and eased his exacerbated pride, but it had not dispelled the general distaste he had always felt while at Rosethorn. The furnishings, the carpets and drapes, the very arrangement of the paintings on the walls, had all remained as they had been when he had endured his miserable childhood. Whichever way he turned, the past had always haunted him.

However, in recent weeks a metamorphosis had overtaken Rosethorn. New draperies and carpets accented the rooms; the ponderous furniture of his father’s day had been replaced with the elegant, neat fashion currently in vogue; faded family portraits had been exiled to the attic or circumspectly placed amidst magnificent hunting prints; and prettily embroidered pillows adorned the newly upholstered settees. The faintly dusty smell that had always hung over the house had been replaced by the scents of beeswax and lemon. The once-gloomy rooms had come alive with the light of day spilling through open draperies, and at night were bathed with soft candlelight.

The shadows of his childhood had been banished.

The transformation of Rosethorn Hall represented a fortune, but Lord St. John cared little enough for that, for he knew that he had never been more content. He could easily eschew his former life in London and remain at Rosethorn indefinitely, he thought, as long as his lady was with him.

He realized suddenly the implication behind his thoughts. He stared across the breakfast table at his wife. Somehow this woman that he had been forced by excruciating circumstances to wed had become necessary to his existence. The disturbing insight dragged a frown between his brows.

“Is there anything wrong, my lord?”

He met her questioning gaze, instantly smoothing his expression. “Nothing of moment, my lady.” Finished with his coffee, he rose from the table. “I shall be closeted with Mr. Todd for a time this morning over the accounts.”

Mary smiled up at him and nodded. She saw nothing unusual in his announced intention. His lordship often spent his mornings on estate business, either in his study or riding over the grounds with the ever-attentive Mr. Todd. “Very well, my lord. I know that I shall not see you again until luncheon. I mean to keep myself tolerably well-amused, however. Mrs. Jessup desires to consult with me on any number of domestic trivialities.”

Lord St. John granted her the slightest of smiles. “I suspect that Mrs. Jessup looks upon you as the savior of Rosethorn.”

She shook her head, laughing. “No, my lord. You are too firmly entrenched in that role ever to be displaced by me.”

The quick rise of his brows indicated his startlement. “Indeed. I had no notion.”

“Oh, you are a veritable saint in the Jessups’ eyes and I am certain that Mr. Todd is not far behind in his own veneration,” she laughingly assured him.

Lord St. John grimaced. “The mantle of sainthood does not sit well on my shoulders.”

“I know you do not like to be thought above the cut, so I shall say no more. But rest assured that you are very well thought of by all your household,” Mary said, holding out her hand to him.

Lord St. John took her hand in his, but held it a moment while he quizzed her. “Have I your high regard as well, ma’am?”

A faint rose tinge came into her face. “It could be no less, my lord.”

Strangely discomposed by the reaction he felt at her soft words, Lord St. John raised her hand and brushed his lips over her slender fingers. It was a small gallantry that had become a pleasing habit. But this morning, coming swift on the heels of the strong impulse to snatch her into his arms, even that small act of homage was disturbing to him.

Lord St. John quickly exited the breakfast room and strode down the hall to his study.

* * * *

A little more than two hours later he had finished his business with Mr. Todd. Instead of completing the entries in the ledger books on his desk, he sat back in his chair. There was a shuttered expression on his face which would have been familiar to his friends, one that warned that there was something churning just below the surface.

Lord St. John’s thoughts returned to his wife. She had somehow made a place for herself in his life that he had never thought would be filled. She was a companion, a gentle force that eased his days and charmed his nights. Her character was such that—

Abruptly he comprehended that the unease he felt in connection with her had nothing whatsoever to do with her character, but what her presence in his life meant to him.

Lord St. John, renowned for his aloof cynicism, had actually become infatuated with his own wife.

It was a totally unanticipated state of affairs and, from his point of view, totally unacceptable.

The memories, half-faded but still potent, streamed through his mind. Innumerable hurts and disappointments had been his lot since early boyhood, until he had built up such a hardened defense for sheltering his sensitivity that he no longer believed in the innate goodness of humanity. His recent experiences had done nothing to revise his bitter opinion. The insults and innuendos since he had lost all prospect of the dukedom had been difficult to bear. Most intolerable of all had been Lady Althea’s negligent shrug and her hard smile when she had rejected him. The Earl of Cowltern’s overbred contempt and the absolute certainty that his will reigned supreme had been but a flick of the same heavy whip.

Lord St. John left his chair and strode over to the window. Resting one forearm against the edge of the wall, he stared down at the gardens. His expression was exceedingly grim.

His life had been filled with betrayal. He had thought himself immune to its bite, but at the last he had nearly been destroyed.

Then Mary Pepperidge had fallen into his arms and, quite unknown to him, his life had taken a turning for the better. Providence had chosen to take a merciful hand in his affairs at last and breathed fresh life into his existence in the form of a woman of generosity, wit, and kindness.