The Next Best Bride (14 page)

She held up her hands in surrender. "Very well. You are not lying. There is a world of sensation for me to discover. Everything that has happened is my fault. The maid knows nothing of what you were about. Now, please may I get dressed?"

He stared at her silently, as if he might refuse her request.

She added impatiently, "I'm sorry I lied about my indisposition for two days. I was silly to be afraid. After all, that is the reason we married — to have a child."

"True." The heat in his eyes banked at her reminder, to her relief. He rose without another word and began to dress. "We are fortunate, then, that even an inconvenient maid cannot prevent me from going to stud."

Helena ignored his pique, afraid that they would begin an argument about climaxes and orgasms again. What kind of foolish women did he associate with, who would believe such claptrap? Even William had known better than to suggest such an unlikely possibility to her. She struggled into her shift and stared helplessly at her corset. She would have to call the maid. The same maid who — "I don't know how I'll face the girl this morning, when she helps me dress."

He answered curtly, as he tucked in his shirttails and fastened his trousers. "Then don't call her."

Helena looked at the corset, which laced in the back. "I cannot manage by myself."

His green eyes gazed at her for a moment, as if he didn't understand her dilemma. And then, in a transformation so swift she could not mark it, he grinned, his good humor apparently fully restored. "I undressed you last night. Let me dress you this morning."

"You?" She was doubtful. He was more likely to undress her with all his talk of going over the edge.

He bowed low. "Me, my lady propriety."

Only the thought of facing the maid knowing what they had done made her agree. "As you wish."

She thought for certain she would need to call the maid, but he proved to be skillful at dressing a woman. Though he provided service beyond that of maid and venturing into the territory of lover, he was willing enough to accept her firm rejection of his renewed offer to take her to bed and show her what she had missed.

She had a strong suspicion, however, that he was not done with the subject. No doubt it would show itself as one of the lessons he plied her with each day. She thought of how he had taught her to use her tongue when they kissed. As pleasurable as that had been, she had not been in the least afraid of going over the edge of reason. Truly she thought he spoke arrant nonsense. So why was there a spreading warmth low in her belly when she thought about what he had said?

As they breakfasted, he asked, "Would you care to ride today, rather than travel in the carriage? The journey by horseback would be about four hours."

She hesitated.

"Can you ride?" There was more uncertainty in his voice than she liked to hear. He had no doubt been thinking of Ros, who was an excellent horsewoman.

"I can," she reassured him. "Not as well as Ros, but then, I ride sidesaddle and she does not."

"The day promises to be fair. If you do wish to ride, I will have the horses prepared."

She nodded. "Yes. Do. After so many days journey, I look forward to an escape from the confines of the carriage." On horseback she would not be forced to sit closely beside him for hours, either.

Rand, too, was grateful to escape the rigors of carriage travel. Though his carriage was well sprung, and well upholstered, the roads in this part of the country were deeply rutted.

To his relief, Helena proved to be as excellent a horsewoman as she was an artist. They made good time and pleasant conversation as they rode, when they were able. Although he found himself hardpressed to pay attention to what she spoke of as they approached Parsleigh.

He took her by a path which avoided a view of the main house and came out before the dower house. He stopped his horse when the small house came into sight.

"Is that our home?" Helena asked.

"The house in which I was born," he said carefully, not wanting his bitterness to show.

"My own house to manage." Helena could not hide her pleasure at the thought. "Would you mind terribly if I stopped to draw it." She looked apologetic, as if she was imposing upon his goodwill. "I'd like to capture it now, at first sight, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all." He wouldn't mind if he never stepped inside that house again. But that was something he would not share with his bride. She had a happy family, she would not understand.

Chapter Eleven

Rand dismounted, glad for the excuse to delay his return home a while longer. He lifted Helena down from her saddle and helped her find her sketchbook and pen. He spread a blanket for them to sit upon and bowed low to indicate she should make herself comfortable.

Like a child, she sat with her legs crossed, and looked up into his eyes with a smile. "Thank you for indulging me."

"What is a husband for, if not to indulge a wife?" He stretched himself out next to her, enjoying the sun and the breeze on his face. Wishing they could stay like this forever, on the knoll.

Within a moment, his bride was entranced by her own private vision as she tried to capture the essence of her new home on paper. Rand leaned up on one arm, so that he could see both Helena's serious, faraway expression and the sketch forming on the page before her.

He thought how pleasant making love in the grass would be, but when he leaned over to kiss her knee, she slapped him away with an inarticulate protest. He wasn't completely certain she even knew she slapped at her amorous husband and not an insistent insect.

An hour passed before she took a deep breath and put her pen down. He watched as her eyes slowly began to take note of things around her. At last, she remembered he was there and smiled down upon him.

"Did you succeed?" he asked, in no hurry to rise.

She dangled the sketchbook in front of him, to his surprise. "What do you think?"

"I think I could watch you caught in the throes of your muse all day." Soon, he hoped, but did not say, he would see that look on her face when she thought of lovemaking. He sat up and pulled her into his lap for a kiss.

"Someone might see." She came into his arms with a laughing protest, dropping the sketchbook and pen. There was more wary indulgence in her than abandoned passion.

"No one is watching us," he answered, giving up his notion that he might convince her to make love there in the grass. Over her shoulder, Rand looked at the modest dower house as she had viewed it through her innocent eyes. True, the stone facade was plain and weather worn, but there was a femininity about the place he had not noticed before. No doubt the curved shutters and the matching dormers were responsible for the softening of the boxy stone design. He wondered if some female ancestor had influenced the design of the house when it was built two centuries ago.

Somehow, her sketch had captured the flutter of the lace curtains caught by a breeze at the windows. Her work gave an overall impression of a quiet motherly welcome. Rand felt the familiar bitterness curl inside him and choked it down. His grandfather had indeed had the dower house made ready for them. A most attractive prison, but a prison nonetheless.

Not for much longer he vowed. Soon, Helena would give him the means to escape. He would never look back.

They walked their horses down to the wide stone entrance. As if to prove he lied, to prove they had been watched, the servants filed out onto the steps to greet them when they were halfway down the knoll.

There were only two staff members to greet them: Mrs. Robson, the housekeeper, and Dibby, the scullery maid. Apparently that was all the household staff his grandfather presumed them to need.

"His lordship will expect you to take all your meals up at the main house," Mrs. Robson explained. "No sense having two cooks for just the three of you. But I can fix you some tea, and something light if you wish, my lady."

Helena glanced at Rand, and he smiled at her encouragingly. It was her household, now, small as it was. As graciously as any countess he had ever met, she turned to the housekeeper and replied. "That would be splendid Mrs. Robson. Could you set it out in about an hour? My husband and I will retire to freshen up, first." If he had not seen her hands trembling ever so slightly, he might never have known the effort it cost her to sound the mistress of her own home.

The housekeeper curtsied. "Very good. Would you like me to show you around after your tea, milady?"

Helena raised a brow in his direction. "Does that suit you, my lord?"

To have Helena told the history of his life as she viewed the rooms in which he spent his childhood? No. It did not suit him. But he smiled genially, as he nodded to the housekeeper. "No need to put yourself to the trouble, Mrs. Robson. I’ll show my wife what she needs to know."

"As you wish, my lord." Mrs. Robson’s hooded eyes showed nothing of whether she was surprised or offended. His grandfather might have chosen her for housekeeper of the dower house for that particular ability. But he had no doubt she had received his message clearly.

The housekeeper curtsied again, and added, "Griggson arrived day before yesterday, my lord. The marquess sent a lady's maid, my lady. They await you in your rooms with a hot bath."

"It will be good to wash the dust of the road off me," Helena said, moving slightly toward the stairs and then halting. Evidently she realized that, mistress of this house or not, she did not know where her rooms were.

"I agree, a bath is just the thing." He came up beside her, as if he thought her hesitation was to allow him to follow. "Let me show you to your room." He held out his arm, and she took it with a grateful look.

Mrs. Robson called up behind him, "I have prepared your parents' rooms for you and the new countess, my lord."

"Your diligence should be rewarded, Mrs. Robson." Rand tried to ignore the ghosts of his childhood as he walked up the stairs, Helena at his side. The past could not hurt him, all dangers lay in the present.

Helena stopped at the top of the stairs to give him a perceptive glance. "You do not like it here."

He shrugged. "I left when my parents died. I suppose I have childishly bad memories of the place."

"Well, if we are to live here, you must let me replace those bad memories with good ones."

"Memories cannot be replaced like curtains, Helena." When she looked distressed, he said lightly, "Though I am not averse to making good memories — say of me, washing your back in the bath?"

Helena was not to be put off so easily, though. "You should not be unhappy. This is to be our home."

"Your home," he reminded her. "Mine will remain in London, as it has been since I left school."

Her astonishment was palpable, as she stared at him, her blue eyes reflecting dismay. He could see the open warfare carrying on inside her. The wife who wished a less difficult marriage against the honorable woman who had agreed to his marriage terms willingly — more or less.

"My lady." He opened the door to his mother's old room and bowed low, to indicate Helena should enter. The room was as it had been in his childhood. Nothing had changed — not the dark rose wallpaper, the pearl pink curtains, or the subtle scent of dried rose petals that wafted from the room. Nothing had changed, except that the maid waiting anxiously by the door for the countess to enter had probably not been born when his mother lived here.

Helena hesitated, still caught in her private war. But her gaze cleared and she obediently entered the room. The maid curtseyed a little clumsily as Helena stepped through the door, glancing at him as though wondering whether to shut the door or not.

He did not follow. He was not yet ready for the wealth of bittersweet memories entering the room would evoke. Perhaps he could convince Helena to change the decor. Surely his grandfather would agree. Redecorating was the kind of thing a wife was expected to do, after all.

His father's room was unchanged as well, except for the presence of Griggson, who had set out clean clothes and shaving gear. "Welcome home, my lord."

The dark oak his father had favored in both the bedroom and the study felt oppressive and stifling. Rand loosened his collar. "This is not our home, man," he said sharply. "Never forget that."

"Yes, sir." Griggson had been with him long enough not to question, but his stiff posture was reproof enough. Excellent. First he offended his wife with the truth, now his valet.

Rand sighed. "Help me out of these clothes, Griggson, and into that bath. After I wash a week of travel off me, no doubt I will be my usual charming self."

His valet, wisely, said nothing in reply.

Shaved and bathed, Rand sent Griggson below stairs to polish his boots and see to brushing down his clothing, dusty from the day's travel on horseback.

The man's absence made the room seem suffocating once again. Rand threw open the curtains, thankful that the day was sunny. He opened the window to allow the fresh breeze to mute the scent of leather and lemon oil from the room's recent cleaning.

He wanted to escape. But there was no escape. Not yet. He must bide his time. At least, he reflected, he had Helena to distract him. She had turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant diversion. Had she forgiven him yet for reminding her that he was only a makeshift husband? Might he still have the opportunity to chase her maid away and wash her back himself?

He tried the connecting door between his room and hers, wondering if he would find it locked. Fortunately, he did not. Unfortunately, neither did he find her in her bath. Instead, she sat at her dressing table while her maid went through her trunks. Her back was straight and slim and, from this distance, seemed formidably unbending.

Helena heard the connecting door open and debated whether to turn around and greet her husband or not. She did not know whether she was more upset over his blunt statement that he would live in London, or her own reaction to the idea. After all, as she had reminded herself several times already, he had been clear that their marriage was not to be a typical union.