Julia London 4 Book Bundle (14 page)

Which was why his leaving her each night made it so much harder to bear. She longed for him to hold her for just a little while, but he never lingered. He would kiss her good night, wish her sweet dreams, and disappear through the door that adjoined their rooms. Oh, Lord, how she yearned to be held by him, to feel the power of him surround and protect her!

“What a foolish dream,” she mumbled to herself. Adrian Spence had no use for such intimacy. At least not with her. He apparently did not even want the companionship he had claimed when he had offered for her. Adrian spent his days out on the estate somewhere. From Max she had learned that he planned to renovate the estate with the latest agricultural technology and to embellish the mansion to rival any other. Naturally
he
had not said a word to her of such plans—when she tried to ask what he did during the day, he was politely evasive. “A number of business dealings, Lilliana,” he would say with a charming smile. “You would not be interested.” Naturally she never disputed him—the nagging voice of her mother reminded her it was terribly unladylike to be disagreeable. But damn it all, she would very
much
like to have listened to his plans for Longbridge!

Even if she did summon the courage to ask, she rarely saw him long enough to discuss something so important. He worked from sunup to sundown and was often in his study until the early hours of the morning. She knew this from Max, too, who proudly told her how
hard he was working, how impressed the tenants were with his willingness to toil alongside them in resurrecting what had once been such a grand estate. And the little man almost suffered a bout of worshipful apoplexy when he told her that her husband’s generosity was unparalleled. He had set up a school for their children, demanded that abundant food stores be purchased, and even went so far as to help several of them erect a new barn. With his
bare hands.

Would that she could work alongside him, Lilliana thought miserably, and dabbed paint on her brush. At least make herself useful! As it was, she spent her days wandering aimlessly about the house and spending far too much time chatting with Max. There was nothing much for her to do; the staff was efficient and everywhere. She would have given everything she owned to have escaped her chores at the Grange, but now she would give anything to have a
single
chore. The idleness was
suffocating
her.

So there it was. Three weeks at Longbridge and she was the useless mistress of a household that did not need her and an inept wife to a husband who did not notice her. And to think she had thought she would soar here. Honestly, what pathetic folly! What shameful naivete! With no thought to reality or consequence, she had married a man she hardly knew, all because of some silly, romantic, and terribly childish notion of life!

And as if to make things bloody impossible for her, she recognized that she was falling in love with him.

Oh yes, she certainly was, and she actually snorted out loud at the very idea. Only silly Lilliana Dashell would love a man who did not seem to notice she existed. But she had loved the image of him for as long as she could remember, and the stories Max filled her head with excited her on a level she could hardly fathom. He was an adventurer, a man who was not afraid of hard work, and generous to a fault. And he was a scoundrel, too. The things he did to her in bed were absolutely wicked. But he was also a gentleman. Unerringly polite,
he never raised his voice, yet commanded respect among all those around him, including herself. If only she could command the same respect from him. If only she could be the sort of wife he deserved. A man like Adrian Spence deserved far better, a woman of great connection and sophistication and bearing, not a dormouse like her! She should be thankful he spoke to her at all. Perhaps she should be thankful he
didn’t
notice her—or else he might very well see how bloody insignificant she was.

     
L
ILLIANA PUT THE
finishing touches on her latest creation, a still-life portrait of a basket stuffed with red apples. She stepped back from the canvas, and cocking her head to one side, eyed it critically. Apples. How perfectly boring.

Frowning, she tossed her brush aside and wiped her hands on the apron tied beneath her bosom. Having painted every conceivable object at Longbridge, she was now reduced to apples. Lilliana glanced irritably about the orangery—the walls were covered with her paintings, as were those of the house, the quarters above the stables, and the guest house. Paintings of trees and horses and houses and servants. What she had not brought from Blackfield Grange, she was quickly creating. For weeks now she had done nothing but paint, welcoming the task that filled the endless hours of her lonely existence. But the weight of emptiness was pressing down on her harder and harder, and painting, which had once given her such solace, no longer filled the void.

Apples
, for heaven’s sake!

Dear God, she had to do
something!
She suddenly jerked the strings of her apron free, tossed the garment
aside, and marched through the door of the orangery into the bright sunlight. She would find something new to occupy her time and her thoughts, propriety be damned! She marched across the meticulously manicured lawn, her pale blue and white skirt rustling against the yellowed grass. Perhaps she would go and find Adrian and
demand
he allow her to help him!

On most days she felt completely inadequate and cowed by her title and by being the wife of a man like him. But
this
was one of the days she despised him and cursed him for marrying her. This was one of those days she felt her heartache keenly and blamed him for everything wrong with her life, including the blasted apples!

She noticed Max rushing toward her across the lawn and paused to allow him to catch up. “Good afternoon, milady! Have you finished your painting so soon?” he asked breathlessly.

She had finished, all right. Forever. “Apples, Max. I have painted apples.”

“Ooh, a
lovely
subject.”

“A boring subject, sir. It seems I have quite exhausted my imagination.”

Max shook his head fiercely, as he was wont to do. “Your paintings are quite lovely, and I am quite certain your apples are painted to
perfection.
”

Lilliana snorted impatiently. “It is not terribly difficult to paint apples to perfection, is it, Max? One simply paints a circle, then colors it red.”

“If it were so easy, we should all paint apples,” Max informed her with a sniff, and paused to brush an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “You are fortunate to have such unique talent—why, if it were not for your lovely paintings, Longbridge would be quite plain.”

Lilliana laughed at that. There was nothing about Longbridge that could be even remotely described as plain. “Nonetheless, I’ve decided to retire for a time.”

“I suppose it’s just as well, milady. You have callers.”

An immediate sense of foreboding descended on Lilliana. “Callers?”

“Yes, milady,” Max responded, looking terribly pleased. “Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark from
London!
”

Callers from London! This was a catastrophe! “Does … does my husband—”

“Oh yes, madam. He is with them now and bade me fetch you.”

She forced herself to smile at Max, who was obviously quite pleased she had actual guests. “Very well then,” she said with an airy flick of her wrist, and proceeded to walk toward the house, Max anxiously on her heels.
Callers!
Oh
Lord!
These women, whoever they were, would see that the Earl of Albright did not care for his new wife.

As they walked into the house through the terrace sitting room, Lilliana paused to look at her hair in the mirror. Max, beaming his approval, assured her she looked quite fetching, and nervously hopped from one foot to another until she was satisfied there was nothing she could do. When they reached the gold salon, Max proudly swept the doors open.

Two elderly women jumped to their feet as Lilliana entered, both talking excitedly as Adrian strode forward. He smiled absently at her and beckoned her into the room. “Lady Paddington, Mrs. Clark, may I present Lady Lilliana Albright,” he said smoothly. Lilliana curtsied, intended to extend a proper greeting, but the women immediately began chattering before she could open her mouth.

“Lady
Albright!
My, what a wonderful ring the name has to it, don’t you think, Mrs. Clark?”

“It is positively divine, particularly since we were never expecting there to
be
a Lady Albright!”

“Oh my, never!” Lady Paddington echoed.

Uncertain how to respond, Lilliana stammered, “I, uh, thank you.”

“Lady Paddington is the great-aunt of my close
friend, Lord Arthur Christian,” Adrian informed her. “And Mrs. Clark is her companion. They have stopped on their way to Cambridge, to visit with Mrs. Clark’s sister.”

“Cambridge is such a quaint little town,” Lady Paddington said with a sigh. “It reminds one of—”

“London!” Mrs. Clark chirped.

“London!” Lady Paddington echoed, and folded her chubby hands over her middle. “Have you been to Cambridge, Lady Albright?”

Good Lord, she had hardly been to Newhall! “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure,” she said, and the recently familiar sensation of awkwardness began to creep into her bones. She gestured helplessly toward some chairs. “Please, do sit.”

The ladies did so eagerly, and launched into a disjointed discussion of their travel plans. Not a single detail was left out as far as Lilliana could tell, including the ladies’ shared relief that Mrs. Clark’s sister lived in Cambridge and
not
in London. Why they were undertaking a journey to see her would, apparently, remain a mystery.

They talked incessantly; when one finished, the other began. And they did most of their talking at Adrian. Lilliana tried to converse, but their chatter was daunting and she had absolutely nothing to add. If she did manage to say something, it seemed the women barely heard her. Oh, they smiled and nodded their heads at her pleasantly enough, but their attentions were most decidedly on Adrian.

And
he
, of course, gave no sign that he heard anything she said, but conversed with the ladies easily enough, just as Lilliana had seen him converse with her father.

When the ladies had completed their dissertation on Cambridge, they began to prattle about events in London, talking of people and places Lilliana did not know. Not once did they attempt to explain to her who the Devil of Darfield really was, or why Bavaria was mentioned
so often in the same breath as the Duchess of Sutherland. Nor did they attempt to explain the significance of Harrison Green, who apparently hosted several bawdy gatherings in his home, which all of them had, at one time or another, attended. They had had a grand time of it, too, judging by the uproarious laughter as several incidents were recalled.

Abandoning her feeble attempts to join in the conversation in which she was so obviously an outsider, Lilliana sank against the plush armchair, convinced she was indistinguishable from the floral print. When Lady Paddington stood and started wandering about the room, she thought to stroll with her, but Adrian was quickly to his feet, walking beside her and nodding thoughtfully at one of Lilliana’s paintings the woman admired.

And then her misery gave way to a rising, anger. When Lady Paddington asked after the artist, Adrian merely shook his head. “Probably a local,” he said dismissively, and pointed her toward an expensive oriental vase that had recently arrived. That bloody husband of hers did not know it was her painting! After weeks of feeling like a country bumpkin, an indignant anger ignited and flamed through Lilliana at a frightening pace. He did not really speak to her, he did not acknowledge her in any way, and he did not know she painted!
Damn
him! He said he wanted a companion! He said they suited! He was a liar if nothing else, a bloody
liar!

When Max announced tea, the ladies eagerly accepted Adrian’s invitation, swearing in the same breath that they simply had to be on their way. Adrian extended an arm to each of them, smiling politely at their simultaneous chatter. Lilliana remained seated, glaring at the lot of them as they sauntered toward the salon door. When they reached it, Lady Paddington paused and glanced so quickly over her shoulder that her sausage curls danced wildly. “Lady Albright, aren’t you joining us?” she asked sweetly.

Adrian jerked around. “Lilliana! I’m terribly sorry,
I’m afraid I forgot you,” he said with a disarming little chuckle, and smiled charmingly at the ladies.

He had forgotten her—but wasn’t
that
fine! And why should she be surprised? He hardly knew she existed, so she should hardly take offense that he had
forgotten
her! But offense she did take, and hard. Slowly she pushed herself from her chair and walked to where they were standing, glaring at Adrian the whole way. He quirked a lazy brow, then smiled down at his companions. “You are in for a treat, ladies. We have had the good fortune of engaging a particularly good cook. I think you will find his pastries quite delightful.”

“Ooh, I simply
adore
pastries!” Mrs. Clark chirped, and out the three of them walked, strolling abreast down the corridor, leaving Lilliana to walk behind.

The chatter continued, unabated, during tea. After insisting she would introduce Lilliana around when Adrian brought her to London for the Season—something Lady Paddington seemed terribly certain would actually happen—she began telling some outrageous tale about a game of loo in which she had lost against one Lady Thistlecourt. “I vow, I so desperately wished I was a man so I could avenge my honor properly,” she huffed, and stuffed a whole strawberry into her mouth. “Do you play, dear?” she asked Lilliana, carefully spitting the strawberry crown into her napkin.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know the rules,” she answered truthfully, and wanted to smash Lady Paddington’s scone when she exchanged a brief but undeniable look of pity with Mrs. Clark.