by Ann Clement
There was no washstand, and she winced at this inconvenience until the inconspicuous door in the side wall reminded her of the blessing of her own water closet. She had been wrong not only about her husband’s advanced age; his home was not what she had expected either.
But she was right about his character. In conceit and disrespect for his wife, he excelled even her father. Maybe he did not want the plantations, but it was probably because he did not want the trouble, in spite of that lofty statement he had made yesterday. Her father had just spent three years in Jamaica making sure none of the upheaval from Saint-Domingue reached his property.
She got up and padded over to the inconspicuous door. Josepha would be here any moment to shake her out of slumber. Judging by the sunlight, the day was well advanced.
Given the lateness of the hour, Sir Percival was probably gone, prowling fields in the company of his steward and dressed worse than his steward, in that terrible coat of his. That was just as well. She needed some time to regain a modicum of balance in her life.
The plan she had hatched at night seemed to gain different dimensions in full daylight. If it was ever to come to fruition, she had to organize her immediate future into some semblance of a normal existence. Getting familiar with the house was the first thing to do.
But when half an hour later she came down to the breakfast room, she almost faltered in the doorway. Sir Percival sat at the table, one leg crossed casually over the other, reading a newspaper, a cup and an unfinished plate by his side. Judging by his dress, he must have already prowled the fields with his steward—riding breeches showcased muscular legs above the familiar-looking scuffed riding boots.
At the sound of the door opening, Sir Percival raised his head. He got to his feet as soon as she entered the room, and waited patiently for Slater to seat her at the table, then waved him away.
Letitia smiled at the butler before he left the room.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Sir Percival said. “Did you find your chamber to your liking?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, noticing his polite and entirely unconcerned expression. “Did you spend your night the way you planned?”
“Indeed I did,” he answered. “What may I get you?”
Just like that? No guilt over the duplicity of his behavior? No, of course not.
“Hot chocolate,” she said.
She’d succeeded in surprising him. Sir Percival got up, but instead of going to the sideboard, he opened the door and gave dispositions to a footman.
“Will you eat anything?” he asked once the chocolate was ordered.
“No.” The idea of eating and chatting with him held no appeal. “I am not hungry.”
“Very well.”
He returned to his chair and picked up the folded paper. Their conversation for the day was over, then. The duty of acknowledging her existence done, he would return to his reading and pay her no more attention.
“Mrs. Waters would like to show you the house today.” To her surprise, he set the newspaper aside. “She expects to keep you fully occupied with the inventories for a few days.”
Letitia only nodded. Taking over the management of the house had been one of those ridiculous “covenant” articles he mentioned yesterday.
“Our wedding breakfast will take place on Monday,” Sir Percival continued. “This will be a good opportunity for you to be introduced to the neighborhood and to meet my family’s acquaintances and some of my friends.”
“A wedding breakfast?” She frowned. “You married a woman tainted by scandal. I’m sure you do not need to advertise this fact to your neighbors.”
The door opened, and the footman walked in with a tray containing the accoutrements of chocolate making. He placed the tray in front of Letitia and left the room. She poured some chocolate into the cup, added hot water, then glanced at her husband.
“Marriage removed the taint from your name,” he said tightly when the door closed. “Most of my neighbors will find ours the most eligible union and will want to congratulate us. I see no reason to disappoint them. My family has been of some consequence in this county for centuries. I feel obliged to celebrate our nuptials in a proper way and to extend that consequence to you. This will, I believe, achieve the purpose of your marrying me.”
“Do you?” she asked, not trying to hide the sarcasm that crept into her voice. He must have forgotten where he had spent the night. At least he now had the decency to seem taken aback by her question.
She held his gaze, willing him to look away first. In the diffused sunlight, a golden undertone gave his eyes an unexpected warmth and beauty, despite the frown marring his features as he studied her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “I believe you should establish the position due you as a baronet’s wife and an earl’s daughter. Do you find that objectionable?”
She found his duplicity more than objectionable. For a moment, she wondered how he would react if she told him she knew. “No,” she said. “As it happens, I have a request too.”
Sir Percival raised one eyebrow as if to prompt her. “Let me hear it, ma’am.”
“You would oblige me greatly by giving me space for a painting studio,” she said.
Letitia half expected, half feared he would laugh, or outright refuse her, or put off the decision. She devoted her attention to the steaming cup in front of her.
“I should have guessed you make watercolors,” he said. “I suppose some small room with good light will suffice?”
“I paint in oils,” she rejoined. “Some of my canvases are large. I shall need a large room with excellent light and with a fireplace for comfort during winter.”
He seemed to think about it. “How large is large in this case?”
“At least as large as a decent morning room. With windows on more than one side, if possible.”
He tilted his head, focusing somewhere on the wall behind her back. Letitia watched him, surprised to see sadness bordering on pain pass across his face. It was gone instantly, like a cloud on high wind.
“The orangery might be appropriate,” he said. “Let me show it to you after you finish your chocolate, so you can tell me instantly if it suits you.”
“And if it does not?”
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps adjustments could be made to the nursery rooms upstairs.”
His words brought on an unexpected disappointment. Letitia quelled it hastily. Thank God he’d acquiesced to their de facto separation and had no intention of changing his mind. Children would ruin her plans completely.
While she swallowed her thoughts, together with the chocolate, Sir Percival unfolded his newspaper again, clearly not interested in small talk. Letitia drank a few sips and pushed the tray away. The sooner they were done with this, the better. At the sound of silver on the tabletop, Sir Percival winced and glanced at her.
“You do not need to forego your chocolate,” he said. “We have time.”
“I am ready.”
His expression inscrutable, Sir Percival got up without a word and came over to move her chair. She followed him into the main hall, and then through a corridor until they reached a large door at its end, in the back of the house.
When he opened it and stepped aside to let her in, Letitia gasped, surprised.
The orangery was easily forty feet long and about thirty feet wide. Three sides were constructed from glass panes placed between wooden columns. At the lower level, they opened as French doors to a terrace on one side and the lawn on another. The slanted roof, mostly filled with glass, easily reached twenty feet in the center. The orangery connected to the house on the fourth side, using its external wall to support a hanging basin with a small fountain. Several large stone plaques with bas-relief images of East Indian deities filled its lower portion. Large tropical trees in tubs and a great number of other plants in cont
ainers confined the walking space to meandering paths. Benches sat between the stone vases here and there.
Letitia inhaled deeply. The air, thick with moisture, combined the pongy scents of earth and decay with exotic fragrances she could not identify. Neither did she know any of the plants, though some beckoned with colorful blossoms.
She glanced at her husband. He gazed at her, his brows drawn in question, so she set out along the path in front of her, amazed at the strange beauty of the place, yet already seeing several excellent locations for her easels, tables and other furnishings. It would be far more grandiose than any studio ever occupied even by the presidents of the Royal Academy.
When the path brought them back to where they’d started, Letitia stopped and turned around, gazing up at the ceiling—until her shoulder collided with a solid object. Awed by Sir Percival’s exotic garden, she hadn’t noticed he followed at a short distance.
Now, he looked down into her face, unhurriedly examining her features. Several inches shorter, with the top of her head barely above his shoulder, she found herself gazing up into the rich bronze of his eyes framed in dark lashes.
She dropped her gaze, but that proved to be a mistake. It slid down to his mouth. And he definitely had a nice mouth. Without any warning, she imagined those lips touching hers. Would he kiss with the same authority with which he spoke?
Sudden embarrassment filled her, along with the heat spreading in her cheeks. She had a plan to break this marriage. He was helping her to achieve that goal. And she, instead of focusing on her future, contemplated the shape of his mouth!
“Do you like it? Will it suit you?” He didn’t step back. From the short distance, his voice sounded also different, softer, huskier.
Her insides clenched unexpectedly. Letitia forced herself to step away from him.
“Yes,” she replied, trying to ignore the little twisting sensations. “You must know I do not allow anyone in my studio, except Jose—that is, Miss Fourier.”
“No one comes in here anymore,” he said. His tone was again distant and businesslike. “Petre, my steward, can move the plants to one of his hothouses, or sell them.”
“Oh.” She blinked at him, shocked, but his features became once more an inscrutable barrier. The regret that the lush greenery would be removed gave way to the sudden realization of who had created this garden. “The large trees can stay,” she suggested. “But what about the fireplace? Even with the glass, the sun alone will not keep this room warm in winter.”
“Do you see the openings in the floor, covered with the iron grills?” he asked, and when she nodded, continued, “Petre found a way to heat this entire room without a single fireplace by conducting the heat pipes under the ground, more or less the way hothouses are kept warm, but without the accompanying odor. This is probably the most comfortable room in the entire house in winter.”
“You won’t regret losing your garden?”
“No.” He glanced around. “The gardener has enough to do without tending to a jungle every day. Besides, it shall be easier to make the necessary changes here than elsewhere in the house.”
Aware of his presence immediately behind her and careful to avoid another collision, Letitia headed for the back wall. She stopped in front of it, looking at a four-armed figure in a strange stance with one leg lifted, and stole a quick, sly glance at Sir Percival.
The scowl on his face suggested he would be happier elsewhere. Or maybe he would be happier if she were elsewhere. Why give her the orangery, then?
Letitia answered her own question. He was as coldly practical and as calculating as her father. Adjusting the orangery for her was, by his own admission, cheaper than altering some other part of the house.
But why should it matter to her? She would have a wonderful space in which to work and prepare for the day she could leave this place forever. The more paintings she took with her, the better.
“I shall give you the details tomorrow,” Letitia murmured, noticing his dour expression.
“Very well.” He nodded. “Let me find Mrs. Waters.”
Percy followed Letitia along the path chartered by tubs and containers. She was as much in awe of Sarah’s creation as everyone else. She ought to be. He had spared no expense to please Sarah. Just those pieces of a ruined temple decorating the wall had commanded the price of a small cottage. At the time, he’d been ready to spend tenfold as much just to see Sarah smile.
Now Letitia would have her painting studio in here. If that kept her off his back, it was going to be worth all the trouble.
A scent both new and almost familiar wafted by his nostrils, and Percy inhaled deeper to confirm his guess. Yes, it was the same scented water he smelled yesterday when he kissed her at the altar.
If one could call it a kiss. But that was an entirely different subject requiring no further consideration.
As soon as he and Stanville signed the papers, Percy had decided to keep this marriage white. The apprehension, if not fear, with which Letitia had eyed him yesterday had reinforced his conviction that he made the right decision. He hoped she had slept peacefully in her new bed, as he had told her she could.
A twinge of compassion touched his heart. He knew how one felt, uprooted from home and transplanted to an unknown place, with only a few possessions at hand forming connections with the world of the past. No wonder Letitia was so protective of her companion, the only person here she’d known for more than a couple of days.
His gaze slid to the pale-gold mass of hair confined to the knot near the top of her head. Fleetingly, he imagined taking it down to see how long it was. She was a beautiful woman, though her looks didn’t matter one whit, of course. Once he had made the decision to barter his freedom for his deepest desire, her youthful attraction was entirely beside the point. He would have married her even if she were ugly as a gargoyle and twice his age. So allowing himself some pleasure offered by her appearance was not going to change anything.
Percy inhaled deeply again in hopes of catching another waft of Letitia’s perfumed water. Though not overbearing, it held its own against the fragrance of Sarah’s plants.
He forced himself to get off that path. It was too slippery. His mind turned to practicalities. He would eventually inform her of his plan. If, after a while, he decided she was responsible enough to live on her own, that indeed there would be no other scandal, he would offer her a separation and a few thousand a year from her own dowry, the money he had already made hers when he was in London.
He had no intention of taking a single penny of Stanville’s money for himself. He would keep only what was his. But he also had no intention of spending a single penny of his own money on Stanville’s daughter. If she survived him, she would be a very rich widow, without any detriment to his estates. If he survived her, he would give away her fortune to various charities, under her name. If all went well, after a year or so of this not-to-be-consummated marriage, they would probably never see each other again.
They would not see each other very often anyway. The morning visit to Wycombe Oaks from which Percy had just returned before she got out of bed confirmed what he already knew. His old house was going to claim much of his attention for months to come. He had already sent an advertisement to hire a second steward. Petre could not be expected to handle everything by himself.
Yesterday, with that scared look on her face, Letitia had reminded him of a frightened animal caught unawares by a hunter. The best he could do was to put her at ease. Now, while he let his eyes feast on the sunny blonde locks, he grudgingly conceded that the self-imposed separation might prove harder to endure than to declare.
He still remembered the rush of blood and the unexpected pounding of his heart when he stopped her from tripping on the stairs, in time to keep her nose from hitting his marble floor. That most alluring indentation of her trim waist, the lovely, soft curve of her hip under his hand that h
ad sent a jolt of lust through his body, awakening, to his great annoyance, what he had put to rest long ago. He needed to watch himself.
But for now he watched his new wife, Stanville’s daughter, walking hypnotized through the garden that was the last vestige of Sarah’s presence in his house.
He was not sure why he hadn’t thought of dismantling the tropical forest before. Sarah had surprised him with her ardent desire for the Indian jungle. He had spared no expense to please her, first by building the orangery, then by stuffing it with the plants she wanted. He should have sold them long ago.
Percy halted abruptly when Letitia stopped without warning just in front of him, avoiding, at the last second, barreling into her. They had made a full circle, but he hadn’t noticed. He clasped his hands behind his back to give himself an aura of indifference.
She turned to him. Lord, she had gorgeous eyes. They were now filled with a combination of awe and anxiety.
“Will it suit you?” he asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t miss the enthusiasm underlying her answer. “It does. I will give you the specifications tomorrow.”
Percy swallowed a smile. It sounded as if he had been summarily dismissed from his own orangery. “Very well,” he said. “Let me find Mrs. Waters.”
Allowing himself the last waft of her scented water, he headed for the door. It was definitely safer to leave her alone, before some foolish idea planted itself in his head. Despite his resolution, Letitia’s presence in his house might turn out to be more difficult to ignore than he had assumed it would be.
Chapter Seven
Letitia exhaled with relief once the door closed behind Sir Percival. His gaze had the most disconcerting effect on her concentration, and her thoughts were in turmoil already, without any need for more confusion. She sat on the nearest bench and looked around again, tapping one foot on the floor tile. The day had taken an unexpected turn. Not only did she get her wish, but it far exceeded her expectations.
