by Ann Chaney
“We must be at the duke’s country estate before his houseguests arrive. If we call this afternoon for tea, we can make the offer to leave in the morning. Whitings is a half-day ride from Town. We’ll have two days to search the house. What do you think, my new wife?”
“I think as you said, we must see this through to the end and pray we are wrong about Uncle Whitney. I’ll send a note around inviting ourselves to tea.”
“Wonderful.” Lady Sylvia shouted, “Timmie!”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Send one of the footmen up to my rooms and fetch down my traveling desk.” She continued. “I’ll do the same. I’ll postulate about the joining of our two families. Isadora will have no choice but to extend an invitation.”
Timmie returned with the writing supplies. Gillian and his mother made quick work of their notes and Moreham summoned a footman to deliver both missives. To his great relief, his mother decided she must return to Philly’s townhouse out another day gown for their visit to Whitney Place. In the space of a quarter hour, he once more had Gillian to himself. Not that he had a single notion of what to do with her.
He turned back to Gillian only to see her attempt to hide her yawn. The poor dear had to be exhausted. Perhaps the simplest course of action was to escort his wife to her bedchamber and leave her in peace. He was rather tired himself.
He walked over and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Gillian, we have both had a long day. If we are to call on the duke and duchess this afternoon for tea, may I suggest we take a respite?”
He almost smiled at the look of relief on her face. He gave her his arm and led her to the stairs. The entry hall was empty except for Timmie and the footmen stationed outside the library. The hall looked barren now the other household staff had returned to their duties. He matched his steps to hers as they ascended the steps.
The earl and countess rooms were on the garden side at the back of the house on the third floor. Their rooms were side by side and shared a balcony. Moreham opened the door to the sitting room.
“Our apartments consist of our bedchambers and this sitting room. My mother insisted on the sitting room, when she married my father. This room is where we gathered in the evenings to read for as long as I can remember.
The room was breathtaking. Drapes, carpet and wall coverings were a deep red with gold accents. Moreham…um…James might have a smaller residence than her uncle, but he certainly lived as lavishly.
She stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Moreham came up behind her and stood. Gillian looked over at him. “This room is lovely, quite breathtaking. I can see a family sitting here enjoying each other’s company.”
Moreham motioned to the double doors to the left. “Those doors lead to the earl’s, or rather, my bedchamber.” After a moment, he motioned to the door on the far side of the room. “Your bedchamber is through that door.”
Gillian gulped hard. “I must own I assumed I would be staying in a guest room not the countess’ rooms
“Why ever would you think such? You are the countess, so you occupy the countess’ rooms.” Moreham’s warm breath tickled her neck. “Would you like to see your bedchamber? Your maid should be waiting for you.”
He threw open the doors then stood back to allow Gillian to step into the bedchamber first. Candles lit up the white and gold decor. The room positively glowed. All she could do was stand in the middle of the room and stare. The sumptuousness of the chamber stole her breath.
These room outshone her room in Whitney Place for the last four years where she’d woke every morning to the sound of the deliverymen coming and going. Uncle’s cook, known for her parsimony, argued with each and every tradesman over the quality of the foodstuffs. Gillian rose with the first cock’s crow and rode in the park because of the cacophony in the yard below her window.
She walked over to the wall of windows to find her room looked out over a garden. No deliverymen would wake her tomorrow morning.
“Why are all these candles lit?” Moreham’s voice broke through the quiet.
The man looked so at sea over her presence. She felt rather sorry for him. She was not the only one fumbling for solid footing. For a man who did not consider the married state one he wanted to experience, he now found himself with a wife.
“I would venture to say your servants have a romantic bent. It is your wedding night, after all.” She forced a smile to her lips. One never knew who was lurking about.
To prove her point Maisy entered the room from another door. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t know you were here. I’ll come back in a few moments.” The maid scampered from the room before Gillian could say a word.
Feeling more than a little uncomfortable standing in a bedchamber with Moreham, Gillian returned to the sitting room. Moreham followed her. She turned her attention back to Moreham. “My rooms are lovely. Thank you for seeing to them.”
“I must own that I had nothing to do with this. I would wager a monkey that my mother had a hand in this. I would also say the refreshing of the room’s accoutrements required more than this morning to bring about. More likely. The transformation took several days which means I should talk to my mother and determine what role she played in our betrothal.”
She whipped around and gave him a hard stare. “You will do nothing of a sort. We are where we are because of our own actions. Your mother may have had a hand in Uncle Whitney discovering us in his bookroom, but we both went into that room knowing full well we could be caught. I will find a moment to thank her. You will say nothing.”
Moreham growled and shot her a disgruntled look. “Very well, but it galls me that my mother would go to such measures to see me married. I’m in possession of fairly decent looks. I work too much which is why I haven’t married.”
“My lord, admit it. You are put out with your mother because she outfoxed you. I find her machinations to be quite delightful.” Gillian laughed.
“You can laugh because she is not your mother,” he replied. “In regard to my mother’s eccentricities, you may find this one of interest. The door to my bedchamber does not lock. Early in their marriage, after one of my parents’ more vocal arguments, my mother locked that door. My father who was equally as eccentric took great pleasure in personally removing the lock.” Moreham’s eyes were glacial. Without another word he stalked to the door. “So, for once I am in my mother’s debt. Should you require my assistance, you only have to open the door.”
Moreham stepped into his bedchamber, closed the connecting door before leaning back against the paneled portal. The sight of Gillian in the middle of the countess’ bedchamber was far too alluring.
Shaking his head, he walked across the room to peer out his window at Philly’s townhouse across the square. His mother and Philly were no doubt hiding in the morning room at the rear of the house chortling over how they had seen to his happiness. He’d wondered why Whitney had returned home early last evening. Most likely, his mother had sought out the duke and voiced concern for Miss Browning.
The damage was done. He would not allow his mother and Philly to dictate to him how he lived his life.
The question remained. How had his mother commandeered his servants to change out the draperies, bed linens and furniture without his knowledge? He was certain the bill he would receive for the transformation would be most egregious to his ledger sheet.
He undressed down to his shirt and breeches before seeking his bed. Only then did he laugh. His bride’s beautiful room screamed seduction. His innocent bride had no idea the message his mother was sending in their direction.
Sometimes, he wished he had been an orphan. Then other times he thanked the dear Lord for giving him such a loving parent.
Moreham found he was too wound up to sleep. After a half hour of recounting every conversation he’d had with Gillian. He gave him the pretense. He grabbed his banyan and did what he had promised himself he would not do…entered their sitting room. Gillian was an innocent, all alone in that room. Sh
e was his and seeing to her welfare was his duty. He knocked on Gillian’s door.
“Yes.”
He entered Gillian’s bedchamber to find her in her sitting by the fireplace wearing a dressing gown with a teacup in her hand. Her eyes big and round told him all he needed to know. She looked so lost in that huge room.
“Gillian, you are so pale. Are you unwell?” He could not stop from asking. He had caused this travesty to happen. He owed her some compassion. “Do you want to talk?”
Gillian heaved a deep sigh and motioned for him to join her. “Yes, maybe if we talk a bit, I’ll relax. My apologies for being such a ninny. Maisy helped me undress and brought me a tea tray. I hoped the tea would ease my uneasiness. New husband, new house and me. My thoughts are tumbling around in my head.”
He walked over and sat beside her. “I won’t come any closer, you have my word.” He promised.
“Oh, James—”
“—James, is it now? Not Moreham? I rather like hearing you say my name. Timmie is the only person who doesn’t call me Moreham. Even Mother calls me by my title. Timmie was a footman in the nursery when I was born. He called my Jimmie when mother wasn’t around. He still does when he is put out by my behavior. Please don’t emulate him. Doing so will get you banished to my hunting lodge in Scotland. I am an earl and I can make people disappear.”
She laughed. “You aren’t a very good earl, are you? My uncle stands in the front hall and bellows. Not a pretty sight, but his shouting gets results. I have witnessed your version of titled behavior. You shudder which I don’t think gets the same results as shouting.” She sat her cup down. “Truthfully, this room is so big. That bed could hold an entire family.” She blushed. “I sound like a little girl which I suppose I am. I’ve been coddled by my aunt and uncle my entire life.”
Moreham winced at her words. Any other woman speaking of a bed being too large would have meant the words as an invitation to join them beneath the sheets. He knew in his heart Gillian was not suggesting he join her in that bed. He also knew he would not leave her on her own on their wedding night. In the years to come, he did not want to lie to their children, any more than he’d want to tell the little urchins the truth.
“Gillian, would you like for me to sleep in here tonight?”
Her face turned even paler and her lips thinned into nothingness.
“I don’t mean in your bed with you, I can pull the coverlet off my bed and sleep on the settee.”
“Moreham–”
“–James, remember?”
Gillian gave him an impatient glare. “My lord, you can’t sleep on that settee. You will be muscle sore in the morning. No, you will sleep with me. We are married and will be married for the remainder of our days on this earth.”
The mantel clock chimed. “’Tis time I dress for our visit to Whitney Place. I could call for Maisy, but if we are to be a married couple then we should start acting like one, I say. Would you help me dress?”
She crossed the room to her bed and picked up a white muslin day gown. “I’ll don the dress so you can lace up the back.”
She disappeared into her dressing room. Moreham clenched his fists to stave off the shaking. He knew how to get a woman out of her dress but had not had much experience with lacing one into a dress. The women he consorted with tended to remain undressed. Not that he intended to explain his inexperience to his wife of less than half a day.
Far sooner than he would have liked, Gillian reentered the bedchamber and turned her back to him. “From what Aunt Isadora says, you know your way around ladies’ clothing.” She giggled. That sound charmed him like no other ever had.
The white gown hung off her shoulders. The back of the gown gapped open for his perusal. How he wanted to trace each bump of her backbone with a single finger. He was a doomed man. This woman would be the death of him.
His hands shook as he made short work of doing up her gown. All he could think about was accomplishing his task without embarrassing Gillian. To his chagrin, she held her gown close to her chest. He He dared to not think of the coming night.
Moreham forced himself to move away from Gillian to look out the window by her bed. Never had he felt so undone. To bloody hell with Whitney and Philly and their friends. He wanted to enjoy his time with his wife. What was wrong with wanting to take time to get to know her?
“James, I am dressed.” Gillian’s voice broke through the quiet.
He turned around to find Gillian standing next to him, looking as innocent as she had in the dismal brown servant’s dress, she’d worn that night in Philly’s library. All thought of ravishing his wife dissipated into the air. They must learn the truth about Whitney before they could move forward with their wedding night.
“You are the most beautiful sight I have ever seen,” he said.
She laughed. “I think you exaggerate. There is no need to spout such to me. I have a mirror and know I am a plain woman.”
Moreham shook his head. “You are not plain. Your eyes light up with humor at the most inopportune times. No one can be disconsolate when you are so optimistic. I will admit, when I first met you, I thought you to be unremarkable. Now, I crave your smiles for my own enjoyment and am jealous when you beam at anyone else.”
Gillian narrowed her gaze on him as if she were trying to discern if he was being truthful. He hated the distrust he saw in her eyes. At that moment, he knew he would strive to deserve her esteem.
She reached out and touched his cheek. “Very pretty words. You are a romantic at heart. I never realized.” She gave him a pointed look. “It would seem I should assist you in changing for our outing. Turn about being fair play and all that.”
“Gillian, if you were to help me dress, we would never appear at Whitney Place which would mean my mother and Philly would run roughshod over your aunt and uncle. That pair are dangerous when they have a common purpose.”
“Such as manipulating you into marrying me?”
“Yes, exactly. While I would enjoy your assistance and I hope to take you up on the offer at some point in the future, you have no idea how much it pains me to say my valet will assist me and I’ll be back in a thrice.”
Moreham rushed from her bedchamber before his will power vanished and he did indeed take his wife to bed. He knew as well as he knew his name that once he had her beneath him, he would never let her go.
Chapter 7
Moreham met her back in the sitting room in less than a quarter hour. He nudged her toward the door.
“Time to face them again. When you have had enough, let me know and we will be on our way. There is a certain latitude allowed newly wedded couples. I’ll spirit you back into our love nest within minutes. All we have to do is secure our time at Whitings then we can leave.”
“I hope you mean what you say. Aunt Isadora can be a trial when she doesn’t get her way. I love her dearly, but even I can only take so much of her martyrdom. This will be the quickest cup of tea she’s ever poured.” Gillian nodded her agreement and led the way down the stairs.
The carriage ride was short, so her lack of conversation didn’t seem to bother Moreham. What did she want from him anyway? Affection? Friendship? A marriage of convenience? She didn’t know. What she did know was when Moreham smiled at her, she lost sight of her reason for becoming embroiled in Moreham’s business.
To save Uncle Whitney.
She must remember her actions were to save her uncle. With her resolve strengthened, Gillian left the carriage and entered her former home to find her uncle’s butler waiting. The older man stood back from the door wringing his hands and occasionally looking over his shoulder. The servant bobbed a stiff bow to her and Moreham each, but she noted his attention was not on them but on whatever was going on behind him. Gillian saw nothing behind him out of place.
“Ambrose? Are you unwell?” Gillian asked as she handed him her pelisse and bonnet. “Are we the last to arrive?
“I’m quite well, my lady and yes the countess and Lady Ph
ilomena have arrived. My lady, you best hurry. When I was in the drawing room several moments ago, the dowager countess asked the duke about his lineage. Her ladyship was not happy when he said the first duke was a bosom beau of old Tudor Henry.”
Moreham groaned and hurried Gillian along to the library. “Mama considers the eighth Henry a womanizer and poor monarch. Trust me, we do not want to get Mama started on his many failings.”
Moreham pulled her into the drawing room as his mother’s voice rang out with disbelief “—you mean to say the first Duke of Whitney was the one who encouraged dear sweet Anne to marry that old reprobate? Whitney, you are fortunate your ancestor did not lose his head when the queen lost hers or you wouldn’t be with us.”
Moreham ushered her through the door. “Mama, I wish you would discuss a subject more current…our marriage for instance. Oh good, there’s tea.”
Lady Philly shot him a disdainful glare. “Moreham, of course, there’s tea. We are here for tea. Issy —”
“—Philomena do not call me that horrid diminutive. You know I abhor being called so. I have told you exactly that many times.”
“Your Grace, I have known you since we were both in leading strings. I called you Issy then and I will continue to do so.”
Before either lady could say another word, Uncle Whitney interrupted. “Moreham, shall we leave the ladies to their tea and adjourn to my study?” Whitney asked, “I normally would say very few visit my private sanctum but as we all know, you have already availed yourself of a sojourn in my bookroom.”
Gillian desperate to keep Moreham at her side, reached for her uncle’s hand. “Uncle, I hoped you would forgo taking yourself off. It’s my wedding day after all
She turned to Moreham, hoping he would rescue her as he’d said he would. The blasted man hesitated. Didn’t he know one did not do so when in a room with her aunt and Lady Philly? Only a man would find the ladies constant bickering amusing.
