The smile that lit his face rendered the austere planes quite beautiful. “You’ve already given me a treasure beyond price.”
She tilted her head, staring at him as she tried to imagine…
His smile deepened, and he whispered, “You.” Then he straightened and returned to his chair.
She decided his unexpected answer was simply that of a sophisticated gentleman seeking to put his new bride at ease. While she ate, he questioned her as to what she wished to do that day, and she admitted she felt a strong need to learn her way around the large house and the immediate grounds.
He readily offered to escort her—another thing she hadn’t expected—but he seemed infinitely more relaxed here, in the country, than he had in London. And she quickly realized he knew Brampton Hall better than anyone else.
Rather than guide her, he encouraged her to explore as she would, while he adopted the role of “font of local knowledge.” He had tales, most funny and many self-deprecating, about the places he followed her into.
By the time the bell for luncheon rang over the gardens and he caught her hand and unerringly led her out of the hedge maze in the shrubbery, she’d learned a great deal—not just about her new home but also about the man she would share it with.
On the fourth night they’d spent at the Hall, Frederick lay on his back in the center of his decidedly rumpled bed, one arm bent with his hand behind his head, the other looped around his pleasurably exhausted and now-sleeping wife, and marveled at the changes she’d brought into his life.
Through showing her over his home—the house, gardens, and estate—he’d found himself viewing each aspect through her eyes, seeing those aspects anew, appreciating them all the more.
As for the contentment he felt in moments such as this, bone-deep and abiding, a sense of home that extended so much further than simply place, he had no words with which to do it justice. He dwelled on the feeling, on the peace and calm certainty it brought, then turned his head and, through the shadows, studied what he could see of her face.
All in all, in securing Stacie as his bride, he was inclined to feel not just lucky but blessed.
The resolution he’d made on the night of their wedding to protect her from all harm had expanded and taken on a broader scope; he no longer wanted only to protect her, he wanted to set her free.
He wanted to lift the shadows from her mind, wanted to erase them so she no longer feared love.
More, he wanted to give her the choice to love if she wished—if she dared.
If, like him, she came to count the subtle and immutable joys of loving as worth every iota of the concomitant vulnerability.
Quite how he had got to his present state, he didn’t know and honestly didn’t care. Living his life beside her felt so right, it was impossible to question that he and she were where they needed to be.
Together.
Feeling her soft, warm weight against his side, he closed his eyes—and consigned the question of how to vanquish her fears to the morrow.
On the afternoon of the following day—the fourth after they had arrived at Brampton Hall—they sustained their first bride visit.
“That’s Lady Cormanby’s carriage.” Frederick narrowed his eyes on the old-fashioned equipage as it lumbered around the curve of the drive, heading for the forecourt. “And I’ll wager she’s brought her son and daughter with her—she’ll want to foist them on your acquaintance.”
He and Stacie were mounted; after luncheon, they’d gone out riding over the estate’s lands to the west, purely to familiarize her with them. She was eager to learn about the estate and those who worked on it; his tenant farmers had been delighted to welcome her and, he’d judged, they’d all been thrilled that, so early in her tenure, she’d come riding out to meet them. He and she had been on their way back when he’d spotted the carriage and drawn rein in the trees off the drive, effectively screened from the forecourt and the porch.
Beside his heavy black, the chestnut mare he’d had saddled for Stacie danced as Stacie craned her head and watched the carriage roll into the forecourt. “We can’t ride off and avoid her, you know.”
He grunted; that was, in fact, what he’d been about to suggest. “It’s only the fourth day after our wedding. Isn’t she supposed to give us at least a week?” He knew he sounded as if he was whining; that was because he was. He’d expected not to have to share Stacie with anyone else—much less a nosy neighbor—for at least the regulation seven days.
“Yes, she should have waited, but she’s here now.” Stacie glanced at him, read his reluctance in his eyes, and smiled commiseratingly. “Come on—let’s ride to the stables, then you can introduce me to her and her children. I promise I’ll get rid of them after twenty minutes.”
His brows rose at that, and he nodded. “All right.” Watching Lady Cormanby put to rout would be worth the initial irritation.
Stacie felt very much on her mettle as, still in her riding habit, she preceded Frederick to the formal drawing room where Hughes had deposited Lady Cormanby and her two adult children. A faintly intrigued smile on her lips—one conveying welcome but also surprise—Stacie swept into the room, bringing all three callers to their feet.
Frederick trailed after her, and she aimed her smile at their visitors. “Good afternoon.”
“Lady Albury. Lord Albury.” Lady Cormanby dipped into a regulation curtsy, one her daughter hurriedly mimicked, while her son bowed deeply. The son was barely in his twenties and looked distinctly uncomfortable, while the daughter, possibly a year or two younger, wore an expression that suggested she wished she were anywhere but there.
In contrast, Lady Cormanby’s gaze was sharp and inquisitive; she was a heavy woman trussed into a gown the frills and ruffles of which did her no favors. Rising from her curtsy, she looked pointedly at Frederick.
With languid grace, he stepped forward. “My dear, allow me to introduce Lady Cormanby, Miss Cormanby, and Mr. William Cormanby, of Cormanby Manor, some miles to our south.”
Stacie bestowed gracious nods upon the three, then, with a wave, invited them to sit. While Lady Cormanby and her daughter settled on the chaise and the son claimed a straight-backed chair set to one side, Stacie sank gracefully into one of the armchairs angled before the huge fireplace. As Frederick moved past her to take up a position beside her, leaning against the mantelpiece, she sent him an appreciative look. Brief though his introduction had been, he’d told her that Lady Cormanby was a neighbor, but not one with whom they shared a boundary.
“I hope, my lord, my lady,” Lady Cormanby said in her rather mannish voice, “that you will overlook our precipitousness in calling, but we are due to travel into Cornwall tomorrow, and I couldn’t leave the district without calling in person to offer our family’s felicitations on your marriage.”
Stacie smiled brightly. “Why, thank you. I do hope it’s not any sort of family emergency that compels you to travel to Cornwall?”
Lady Cormanby colored. “Well, no—but I’d thought to visit my sister and her family. Mind you, Cormanby isn’t keen, and his chest is bothering him, so it’s possible we might have to delay.”
“And where in Cornwall does your sister live?”
Lady Cormanby faintly frowned. “In Truro.”
“That’s a pleasant place—I’ve visited several times. Tell me—” And Stacie rattled on, leading the conversation down whatever rabbit hole Lady Cormanby, in answering Stacie’s incessant questions, alluded to.
She paused only to offer refreshments, which were somewhat gratefully accepted, but even when Hughes had delivered the tea and cakes and she poured, Stacie didn’t ease her relentless and rather ruthless interrogation.
To any question Lady Cormanby sought to ask, such as how long they thought to remain in the country, Stacie returned brief, uninformative answers—“I really can’t say”—before turning the question back on her ladyship, for instance with “I assume you’re based at Cormanby Manor, but you mentioned your sister—do y
ou visit family often? Where?” and so on.
With amused appreciation, Frederick watched and learned, and sure enough, a few minutes past the twenty Stacie had suggested, Lady Cormanby, looking rather dazed, set down her empty cup, gathered her children with a look, and rose. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Albury, but we really must be going.”
Stacie rose, too, and with every appearance of having enjoyed her ladyship’s company, walked with their visitors back into the front hall and onto the porch. Frederick followed and halted beside her. As Lady Cormanby nodded in farewell, Stacie smiled and said, “I hope you enjoy Cornwall.”
Her ladyship blinked. “Cornwall?” Then she colored. “Ah—yes, Cornwall. Truro. Indeed.” With a last vague nod, she followed her children down the steps.
Smiling with genuine delight, Frederick remained beside Stacie as she waved the Cormanbys off. The rout had been even more comprehensive than he’d imagined possible—and his new marchioness had accomplished it in style.
Five halcyon days later, Stacie accompanied Frederick on a visit to the estate’s cider mill. As they rode past ripening fields and down lanes that overarching trees had turned into tunnels of dappled shade, she marveled at the simple happiness that seemed, these days, to be her permanent state of being.
Her declared purpose of establishing herself as a hostess of musical evenings for the haut ton—and through that, advancing the careers of worthy local musicians—had been intended to absorb her and give her life a continuing focus; in reality, given the episodic nature of such musical evenings, such a purpose could never have filled her days.
Becoming Frederick’s wife—his marchioness—had. The role fitted her so well, it was almost uncanny. Quite aside from the unending delights of the nights spent in his big bed, wrapped in his arms, running a large household and supporting Frederick in managing the estate—being the lady by his side—was all but second nature, and everyone on the estate had welcomed her and, indeed, actively sought to please her.
There had been not a single hiccup or unexpected hitch; she and the staff at Brampton Hall had, within a day, taken each other’s measure and had embraced the other with a certain relief.
She was coming to believe that Fate had designed the role of Frederick’s wife expressly for her.
He rode beside her on a powerful black gelding, idly looking about him as, having galloped earlier, they walked their horses down a shady lane.
When, apparently sensing her gaze, he turned his head and met her eyes, then, after surveying her expression, arched his brows in gentle question, she smiled and faced forward. “I’m not sure I should tell you this”—your arrogance needs no encouragement—“but I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for suggesting we convert our sham engagement into a real one.”
When he made no lighthearted riposte, she glanced at him and discovered he was studying her in a more serious and intent fashion than she’d expected.
After several seconds searching her eyes, he asked, “Does that mean you’re happy—and content—being my wife, my marchioness?”
Surprised, she blinked at him. “Do you really need to ask?”
His lips quirked, and he shrugged and looked ahead. “As I’ve mentioned before, I’m too wise to believe I can read—or even accurately deduce—the state of any female’s mind.”
“Well,” she said, nudging her mare to keep pace with the black, “I am—content and quite happy.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the curve of his lips deepen.
“Good,” he returned. “And as for your gratitude…” His glanced at her, and she felt the warmth in his gaze. “I’m sure that, between us, we can negotiate a suitable way in which you might demonstrate it.”
Pleasurable anticipation coursed through her; they’d discovered they were both adventurous spirits when it came to their sensual encounters. She grinned and shot him a deliberately provocative glance. “You may be sure I’ll put my mind to it.”
He laughed, and smiling delightedly, she rode on by his side.
The cider mill proved to be far more absorbing than she’d imagined. The brewer, a Mr. Tranchard, was a keen enthusiast, and when she expressed an interest in learning about the process by which the larger part of the estate’s apple crop was converted into a brew well known throughout the local area, he was only too happy to escort her around the mill and explain all the stages from the washing and crushing to the fermenting and eventual bottling into jugs.
A thin, wiry man, Tranchard clapped his hands together and assured her, “We supply the Hall and all the tenant farms and have enough left over to sell to several local inns.”
She assured him she’d already sampled his wares. “It was the delightful taste that made me inquire as to the source. I was fascinated to learn it was from the estate.”
Although Frederick knew everything there was to know about the cider-making process—the mill had been in existence since he’d been a boy—he’d trailed Stacie and Tranchard through the building, amused by the impact Stacie’s genuine and unaffected interest had on Tranchard, who could sometimes be standoffish. During the two weeks since they’d arrived at Brampton Hall as man and wife, he’d come to appreciate her innate ability to interact with anyone regardless of social rank, to know just how to approach people and draw them to her.
She seemed intuitively able to convince people that they all shared the same goal; he recognized her actions as a form of subtle manipulation, yet her intent was entirely benign.
She put people at ease to the extent they wanted to help her in whatever way she needed. Given she was a noblewoman, now a marchioness, that wasn’t a skill to be scoffed at.
He waited and watched, and when they finally rode away from the mill, they left Tranchard utterly captivated.
A week later, Frederick felt a tug, a compulsion he hadn’t experienced for years.
It drew him to the music room, to the grand piano that stood in pride of place by the windows.
Stacie was busy at a meeting with Mrs. Hughes, discussing household matters and expenditures to do with refurbishing several rooms. Other than himself, there was no one around that part of the house.
He contemplated the piano for several minutes, then surrendered. After raising the lid and removing the felt covering, he sat on the stool, stared at the keys, and felt his mind empty, his active thoughts flowing away, then he raised his hands, placed his fingers on the keys, closed his eyes, and played.
Sometime later, he paused, rose, crossed to a side table against the wall, and from the table’s drawer, retrieved a bundle of sheets ruled for scoring music and two pencils, already sharpened.
Returning to the piano, he sat and scribbled, then set aside paper and pencil and, now driven, continued refining the lilting melody.
It was nearly an hour later when Stacie walked in. Immediately, he lifted his fingers from the keys.
“There you are!” Smiling, she strolled to the piano. “I haven’t heard that piece before—what is it?”
He almost told her—self-preservation caught his tongue just in time. “Just a minor air.” He had to assume she’d heard the stories of his past, of his supposed young love and the last piece he’d composed and played; if she had, then learning that he was composing a piece for her would alert her to his feelings for her, and he didn’t think he’d yet convinced her that him loving her embodied no threat.
She halted in the curve of the piano; from there, she couldn’t see that the music sheets were newly created, in pencil rather than printed.
If she saw, if she asked…
He couldn’t explain without giving himself away. In reality, he was quietly amazed; he’d thought the impetus to compose had left him, an outcome of that long-ago public debacle—that the creative spark necessary to ignite the flame had died. Apparently, an ember had lurked beneath the cold ashes, and she—all she was, all she was becoming as his wife—had been enough to coax it back to life.
The musician in him exulte
d.
The rest of him was focused on keeping the development concealed. Holding her gaze, he reached for the felt to cover the keys and, with a deliberately seductive smile, asked, “Did you have some purpose in mind in hunting me down?”
Her smile deepened. “I did, as it happens. I wondered if you had time to stroll the gardens with me before we change for dinner. Storrocks is of the opinion that we should cut down the old elm on the west lawn and replace it with an oak or a beech.”
“Is he?” He closed the lid of the piano and rose. He left the incriminating music sheets facedown on top of the piano; he would hide them later, after she’d gone upstairs. “Did he say why he’s taken against the elm?”
Stacie turned, and side by side, they walked toward the door. “He says it’s of an age when it’s liable to start dropping branches.” She slanted a teasing glance up at him. “I believe he imagines that we’ll soon have infants and small children resting or racing around on the lawn, so he views the elm as a potential threat better removed.”
“Ah—I see.” His lips curving, he caught her hand, laced his fingers in hers, and walked beside her into the front hall. “In that case, I suspect we had better examine the tree and then duly agree with Storrocks.”
Three days later, Frederick drove Stacie into the nearby town of Guildford so she could experience the town’s market day, a once-a-month event.
He drove into the town along Millbrook, the road that followed the river Wey, then turned onto Castle Street so she could view and exclaim over the castle, sitting on its hill above the town. The market was held where the eastern end of North Street widened into a rectangular space that passed for the town square. Frederick left his curricle and horses at an inn in the High Street and, with Stacie on his arm, escorted her around the corner to where a plethora of colorful stalls had been set up, running along either side of North Street. Combined with the shops that lined the street, the stalls created three long avenues of temptation.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 28
