The Seduction (47 page)

He took her upstairs, and they wound their way though a maze of dark corridors, lit only by windows half-obscured by heavy velvet draperies. But the dim light could not hide the threadbare carpets and moth- eaten upholstery. It could not disguise the tarnish and dust that spoke of an inadequate staff, nor the oppressive atmosphere that spoke of long hardship.

Trevor seemed to read her thoughts. As they turned down yet another corridor, he said, "As you can see, it's going to take a great deal of work to make this house a comfortable home."

And a great deal of money,
she thought again.
My money.

"Maggie," he went on, "the house is your province, and I hope you will take on the task of refurbishing it. Feel free to make any improvements you feel are necessary."

"I can spend my own money," she said tartly. "How generous of you, my lord."

He ignored her attempt to start a fight. "All I ask is that you consult with me regarding any major renovations. We are man and wife, and I want us to work together in this. I want us to mutually decide what things should be done."

This might be his home, but she did not intend to be here long enough to make any improvements to it.

"I do have a word of advice for you," he said. "When it comes to the house, don't let my mother walk all over you. She will, you know, if she thinks she can. To my mother, tradition is all, and she will not like it if you start changing things. Always remember, you are the countess, and you have final say over whatever is done within the house."

"Except, of course, for you," she answered, in no mood to be conciliatory.

He acknowledged the truth of that with a nod. "Except for me. However, as long as I know ahead of time what you intend to do, I will support your decisions as often as possible."

To Margaret, that was not much consolation. It still seemed that he was only giving her permission— and conditional permission at that—to spend her own inheritance.

They finally came to the bedrooms of the west wing, which Trevor explained were their private quarters. "This is your bedroom," he said, opening a door into a room of red velvet, gold damask and gilded cornices. It was as ornate and dark and oppressive as the rest of the house, and she hated it on sight.

Margaret walked through the sitting room and looked at the elaborate shell-shaped bed of dark walnut. She couldn't help remembering his vow on their wedding night.
No separate bedrooms.

He had obviously forgotten that promise, or it had simply been another lie.

Trevor opened a door that led into another bedroom, larger and even more elaborate than her own. "And this is mine."

Their eyes met, and the austerity of his expression softened slightly, reminding her of the man she thought she had married. "An English house gets quite cold at night, Maggie," he said quietly. "I want more than a coal fire and quilts to keep me warm."

He sounded as if he meant it. But that could be a lie, too. He needed an heir, after all.

She stiffened and watched the tenderness vanish from his expression. "I'll send your maid to you now and leave you to rest. Dinner is at eight o'clock." He bowed to her and departed.

She watched him go, and she had the sudden desire to call him back, to ask him to hold her, to tell him she loved him. It was absurd, because she did not love him, not anymore. She had thought he was noble, brave, and trustworthy. But what she had thought to be real was a mirage, a fantasy she had created.

You believed what you wanted to believe.

With a sudden stab of fear, she realized that she no longer knew what was imagined and what was not. It was as if her entire world had been turned topsy-turvy. Truths were lies, and love was a joke. Everyone was a stranger, including her own husband, the man whom she'd thought only two days ago was her one and only. Maybe all of this was just a dream from which she would awaken. But she had the sickening feeling that her life here was not so simple as that. Nor so easy to escape.

Trevor toyed with his glass of wine, studying his wife down the long length of the dining table. She looked utterly miserable. The spirited, strong-willed woman he knew—the one who liked going on midnight adventures and who could never resist a challenge— was gone, and in her place was a stranger. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

Part of the reason for her unhappy mood must be the house. It was a depressing sight indeed, especially since he could recall the days when it was a place of grace and beauty, the pride of the county. But he loved this house as much now as he had when he was a boy. It had not taken him long to rediscover everything that had enchanted him in childhood, the priest's hole hidden in the library, the dark corners of the wine cellar, the huge chestnut tree where he'd spent many an afternoon with a book.

Though he loved this house, he could not expect Maggie to instantly share that feeling, and without memories of better times to encourage her, it must seem a dreary and inconvenient place, especially given the amenities and luxuries she was accustomed to.

He watched her pick at her food, and he couldn't blame her. Mutton and boiled potatoes could hardly compare with the cuisine prepared by French chefs that had been served at her father's home. Yet she'd eaten beef jerky and dried apricots without complaint and with a much healthier appetite than she had tonight.

His mother and Elizabeth occasionally tried to draw him into the conversation, but speculation about the state of the vicar's health did not interest him overmuch. Margaret they completely ignored, and he grimly vowed to have a talk with his mother about that. His grandmother, bless her, had talked with Maggie in a friendly way just after they sat down, but soon after the soup, she had fallen asleep in her chair.

He realized he was looking for excuses to explain Margaret's unhappiness, and he knew there were none.

Although the food was not of excellent quality, it wasn't the reason she sat twirling her fork and staring into space. The dark and dreary house was not the reason all the light had gone out of her pretty face. His family's unfriendliness wasn't the reason she hadn't said two words during the past hour.

The reason was him. He could not lay the blame anywhere else. Ever since yesterday, he'd tried to tell himself that it was just hurt pride and disillusionment, but he found himself unable to dismiss her feelings so easily. Edward's words came back to him.

She loves you, you know.

He reminded himself that her unrealistic notions about love had been fated to shatter eventually, but somehow that sort of reasoning was not much consolation tonight. He found her idea of love overly sentimental and unrealistic; she thought his was cynical and callous. But there had to be a way for them to find some common ground in this marriage. Divorce was out of the question, and the idea of separate lives after the nursery was full did not seem to have the appeal for him that it once had.

After dinner, Maggie went upstairs to bed. Trevor was tempted to follow her, but he remembered how she'd reacted to his earlier inference that he wanted her to keep him warm at night. He didn't think it likely she would receive him with any willingness. But he vividly remembered the details of their wedding night.

He could not believe that those sweet, hot memories did not torture her as well. He would not believe that, because of the way he had been forced to play the courtship game, he had lost his passionate and responsive wife. He refused to believe it.

Rising from the table, he excused himself from the others, took a bottle from the case of bourbon Henry had given him as a wedding gift and went into his study. Without bothering to call for a servant, he built a fire in the grate and poured himself a drink, then sank into one of the shabby leather chairs and stared into the flames, trying to concentrate on the estate and all the things he needed to do during the coming months.

But staring into the fire reminded him of campfires in Italy, the bourbon reminded him of Maggie's eyes, and thoughts of the estate only made him wonder how he could make her think of it as her home.

That seemed an impossible wish at this point, but he could not accept the alternative. He hadn't married a cold and passionless woman, damn it, and he didn't want to live with one. He certainly didn't want to make love to one.

He wanted his Maggie back, the one who provoked him and challenged him, and who was passionate in his arms. To regain the woman he had married, he knew he was going to need some of the things that had won her in the first place.

He lifted his glass and took a deep breath. "Here's to patience, strategy, and fortitude."

Despite his resolution, Trevor had little opportunity to seduce his wife during the month that followed. He had other matters to attend to, matters which, though not more important, were more immediate.

His first priority was the drains. In their present condition, the only thing the drains seemed capable of doing was giving the estate and its environs a typhoid epidemic. He put Blakeney in charge of repairing them.

His second task was the fields. He offered cash settlements to any man willing to tenant on his lands and work his fields for the planting season. The response was immediate. Word spread throughout the county and, within a week, he had renewed previous leases and drafted new ones for all the empty cottages. Once the drains were repaired, he put Blakeney to the matter of fixing and whitewashing the cottages.

Trevor went to London for a week and bought enough horses to fill his stables and cows to fill his pastures. He also bought some things for Maggie, inspiring the giggles of more than one shop girl during his venture into the utterly feminine environs of
Harrod's
toiletries department. His foray into some less respectable shops in
Soho
caused much less comment. He returned to Ashton Park with the engineers Henry had hired to discuss the building of the linen mill. Plans were drawn, and construction began.

But, as busy as he was, thoughts of Maggie intruded on everything he did. He saw her at meals, and those brief moments were enough to keep her in his thoughts day and night.

His mother kept him informed of her activities, which were limited. She wrote letters, walked in the grounds, and generally stayed out of everyone's way. Her manner worried Trevor greatly because he knew such behavior was so unlike Maggie. Yet, sometimes, when he studied her across the dining table, he wondered if he really knew her as well as he'd always thought he did. She continually wore an expression of quiet inscrutability, and he realized he no longer found her easy to read. But he knew she was not happy.

He tried to encourage her to take an active role in the running of the household, but she showed no interest in that. She left everything in the hands of his mother, a situation which contented Caroline quite well. He told his mother to include her in the management of the household and teach her how it was run, but he knew that, without Maggie's cooperation or his constant presence to enforce his wishes, Caroline would never do so.

He did discuss the situation of servants with
Chivers
, knowing the house was not adequately staffed. The butler recommended that half a dozen gardeners, four housemaids, two footmen, six stable grooms, and an additional
kitchenmaid
be added to the staff immediately. Trevor agreed and dismissed the butler, returning his attention to other matters. But
Chivers
did not depart.