Leslie LaFoy (8 page)

“I wish to apologize for my earlier lack of manners and general hostility,” he said tautly, resolved to get the task done so he could move on to more important matters.

“Just out of curiosity,” she countered, “would you be inclined to offer your regrets had Mr. Cantrell not berated you?”

He sighed, wishing she hadn't heard the exchange. “I'd determined they were necessary prior to his lecture on the subject.” Not by much and only because Edmund had shown him up on the steps, Devon silently admitted. But that was a point of information the woman didn't need to know. It was to his advantage to let her think that he'd come to the conclusion entirely on his own.

She opened her mouth as though to speak, then apparently thought better of whatever words she'd intended to fling at him and pursed her lips. The carriage rocked gently on its springs as the driver climbed into the box. As they began to roll forward, she drew a deep breath and said, “I accept your apology on the understanding that it is offered sincerely, that it covers the entirety of your behavior since our initial meeting, and that it marks the point of a new beginning in the conduct of our relationship.”

Devon cocked a brow. Settling back in his seat, he considered the stranger across from him and mentally added yet another role to those he'd already seen her so
ably play. “Did you teethe on law books?” he wondered aloud.

“Mathematics,” she countered, a small smile flirting at the corners of her mouth. “The law books came soon thereafter, followed by the sciences and philosophy.”

Clearly, she'd expected to surprise him, to set him back on his heels. She had, but he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of showing it. He drawled, “A most atypical education. Did anyone happen to instruct you in the more traditional feminine arts? To provide you with the skills that might be of some practical use to you in life?”

Claire forced her gaze to her hands so that he couldn't see her disappointment. Devon Rivard was without doubt exceedingly handsome, but apparently, like so many others of his sex, he wasn't the least bit concerned with whether she possessed the skills necessary to assure her own survival. All he cared about was whether she had the ability to make
his
life more comfortable. Being the temporary wife of this particular man wasn't reason enough to grant him any greater allowance than she had others.

“Do you require a needlepoint pillow?” she asked, looking up at him and feigning demure interest.

He blinked and tilted his head to the side. Amusement gilded his voice as he replied, “If I did, could you make one?”

“Of course I could. And the florals would be botanically accurate.”

His right brow edged slightly upward. “How long would it take you to make it?”

Claire smiled sweetly. “I think you'd be quite fortunate to have it just before you died of old age. I tend to find needlework rather boring and tedious. Given a choice, I'd much rather spend my time with a good book.”

He studied her for a long moment and then said,
“You'll find an extensive library at Rosewind. Books happen to be one of the few commodities we have in abundance.”

There was also a large library at the Seaton-Smythe house, but women were permitted in the room only to see to its dusting. It had been so long since she'd had the luxury of choosing something she wanted to read. On her travels she'd had to be content with whatever material a fellow passenger had been willing to loan her. If Devon Rivard was actually giving her tacit permission to read the books he owned… It would be a little slice of heaven she'd thought she would never see again. It might even make the waiting to be free of him slightly bearable.

“I look forward to perusing the titles,” she ventured blandly, trying not to reveal her hope. It would be foolish to give him a weapon to use against her. “Is it an old collection?”

“Yes and no,” he supplied. His gaze went to the carriage window curtain. “My father valued books only for the favorable impression they made on his houseguests. To that end, he had his agent purchase and ship over the entire library of an English estate. Parts of the collection are quite old. But it's been housed at Rosewind for only the last fifteen years or so.”

“Your father's view of books isn't at all uncommon,” she observed, thinking that his father and her uncle shared a similar attitude in that regard. “How do you see them, Mr. Rivard?”

“I've read every single one of them. Twice,” he answered, his attention still on the world beyond the carriage. “And my name is Devon. Mr. Rivard was my father. I prefer to avoid the possibility of any confusion.”

Claire nodded and was about to ask that he address her by her Christian name when he said, “At my father's passing, life at Rosewind changed dramatically.”

She could tell him much about how the death of a parent changed life, but nothing in his manner suggested that he was interested in commiseration.

“There are some realities you should know prior to our arrival there,” he went on, his tone cool and flat. “You'll find Rosewind Manor to be exceptionally well appointed. If, however, you should happen to look beneath the surface appearances, you'll discover that the grand manor stands as a true testament to pretension, empty illusions, and even emptier pockets.

“In short,” he added, bringing his gaze to meet hers, “you've been shackled to a man who, two years ago, inherited an estate teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. I've made little progress in reversing our fortunes, and if this autumn's crop falls even slightly below spectacular, this coming winter will find the Rivards living in a tent in the woods. And a borrowed tent at that.”

It occurred to her that Edmund Cantrell might have offered her a cursory explanation of Devon Rivard's circumstances prior to his arrival in the office. Had she known something of them beforehand… “And I've become another burden added to those already weighting your shoulders,” she offered quietly. “I'm truly sorry.”

He blinked and then quickly shrugged, saying, “It's done and we'll have to make the best of it. What do you know of colonial society?”

“Very little in a practical sense,” Claire admitted, trying to see the logic in the sudden conversational turn and finding none. “What foreign traveling I've done for my uncle has been largely confined to the Caribbean before this trip.”

“There's some small consolation to be found in the knowledge that I'm not the only man in His Majesty's American colonies to be in debt up to his eyeballs.” He smiled ruefully. “We excel, however, at pretending otherwise. As a society, we take great pains to avoid any public discussion of our individual finances. Privately,
we've woven a net of personal loans that bind us together hip and ankle. If one man goes down, he pulls the rest of us with him.”

Claire understood what he was telling her, understood just as clearly all that he'd left unsaid.

“I will
not
be the man who falters,” he assured her. “I have no doubt that you'll be quickly informed of my ruthless determination to make life for the inhabitants of Rosewind Manor as miserable as I can. My mother will tell you that, as a result of my miserly ways, the Rivards have become hermits, that my refusal to host lavish social affairs or attend them is a sign of mental unbalance and a fundamental disrespect for my family's needs.”

Claire nodded and offered him what she hoped he'd hear as reassurance. “I think that it doesn't much matter where you are in the world.… Social affairs require the latest fashions, attending servants in fine livery, lavish gifts, and great quantities of food and drink. All of which are luxuries that come at great expense. Expenses that are difficult to afford even in good times.”

His smile was weak and his nod slight. “My mother seems to be incapable of grasping that reality, try though I have to explain it in every way I know how. Her sister, Elsbeth, is a generally shrewish woman who has, over the years, developed criticism to a high art. She feeds my mother's expectations and discontent. If I had somewhere to send her, I would.”

“Your mother or your aunt Elsbeth?”

“Both.”

“And what of your brother?”

“Wyndom approaches life just as our father did. You'll recall that it's his debt to your uncle that put us in front of the vicar this afternoon. If Wyndom could be sent to a place where he'd be forced to become responsible, he'd have been trussed up and shipped away years ago. Unfortunately, I can't think of where that might be,
and I've concluded that it's better to have him where I'm able to keep his damage to a minimum.”

Not that he'd been very successful at doing that, she silently observed. “I promise you that, until our contract is dissolved, I'll do whatever I can to earn my keep. I have no desire to be an additional drain on your resources.”

“Thank you.” He summoned a smile of sorts and added, “I'm sure your uncle will send your belongings once he receives the news of our marriage.”

“There's nothing to send,” Claire countered. “All the goods I own are in my valise.”

“Your uncle's reputed to be a wealthy man. Have I been misinformed?” he asked, his brows knitted as he glanced at the small leather bag at their feet.

“No, you've heard correctly. But George Seaton-Smythe's definition of family is a very narrow one, and I fall well outside of it. I had clothing when the court gave me into his custody, but in the course of four years, I grew and the clothing didn't. He saw no particular reason to replace my wardrobe.”

The information seemed to take him aback. He frowned and the crease between his brows deepened. Finally, he nodded and said, “I'm sure my mother has several gowns she wouldn't mind giving you.”

Hadn't he just told her that his family didn't socialize? “But I thought—”

“We may not actively participate in the social whirl of Virginia's First Families, but Rosewind Manor is a convenient stopping place for travelers on their way to the capital when the House of Burgesses is in session. I can't have visitors comparing observations and realizing that they've all seen you wearing the same dress.”

“Because of the importance you all attach to the pretense of having money?”

“Precisely.”

Claire considered him in silence. The
Seaton-Smythes put a high value on social appearances, but they could well afford the necessary trappings. To insist on playing the sport when you didn't have so much as two farthings to rub together was beyond foolish. It was simply insane. No wonder he hadn't been able to reverse the family fortunes.

Devon watched the shadow of disbelief pass across her features. Intrigued by the possible direction of her thoughts, he prompted, “Is there something you wish to say, madam?”

She hesitated, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I can't help but think that your finances wouldn't be quite so desperate if you were a little less concerned with what people thought about you.”

At least she was honest. It was more than could be said for most of the people he knew. “I happen to agree with you completely,” he conceded. “But that doesn't have the slightest effect on the reality in which we must survive. There are rules governing the conduct of the Tidewater gentry. To ignore them completely is to invite the collapse of the house of cards in which we live. It's a delicate balance of caring and not caring. I expect you to conduct yourself as a lady of the manor should in every regard so that we can maintain the fragile illusion.”

She sighed and pursed her lips, then said, “I think it only fair to tell you that I have little patience for social games and no tolerance for the people who play them. My uncle very quickly decided that it was safer to have me conducting his business in the far corners of the British Empire than to have me navigating London social circles.”

“You can learn,” Devon replied reassuringly. “From time to time the wives of burgesses accompany their husbands to the capital. When they stay the night at Rosewind on their way there, it's customary for the ladies to retire to the salon with their needlework after
dinner. You'll have to find a suitable project for yourself and hostess their chatter.”

From the opposite seat came a most unladylike snort. “I would rather be shot dead.”

They had been doing so well, their conversation easy and smooth. And then she'd had to prove that she was the most deliberately difficult, stubborn female he'd ever met in his life. “You said that you would make every attempt to earn your keep during your stay,” he reminded her, hoping to at least shame her into acceptance.

“Have you ever attended such a gathering?”

“No.”
Men have more important things to do
.

“Do you have any notion of what it is that women talk about when in their own company?”

“No.”
And it's never occurred to me to wonder
.

“Allow me to enlighten you. There are three principal subjects of conversation: their children, their homes, and their wardrobes. If you have none of those, you're at something of a loss when it comes to making a contribution anyone would care to hear.”

“You'll have a home to talk about,” he countered. “Rose—”

“Rosewind is your home and I am a temporary guest in it,” she interjected. “The only true home I have ever known is Crossbridge Manor in Herefordshire, England. I haven't seen it in four years. I don't know if I will ever see it again. I have absolutely nothing to say that these women would want to hear.”

She was in a land and community not her own, and he felt sorry for her. “Perhaps,” Devon suggested kindly, “you could broaden the conversational range? Take it upon yourself to address a topic or two outside of the traditional expectations?”

She settled back in her seat and after a moment found a small smile. “I've followed Parliament's discussions of the colonial problems,” she replied. “I'm aware
that there's considerable dissatisfaction here with Crown policies. I could ably converse on that subject. Do you suppose taxation and political representation would be of interest to other women?”

He rather doubted it. She was the first woman he'd ever heard use the words. But using them and actually knowing what they meant were two very different things. “And what's your understanding of the colonial position on those matters?”