Her fingers curled into her counterpane like claws.
How typical of a man. To leave her...stewing, in this welter of unpleasant emotions while he...well, he’d probably downed a whole bottle of brandy and was now sleeping it off somewhere.
She should have picked up on the clues. From the grim expression on his face during the ceremony itself, to the way he’d chosen to ride his horse, rather than travelling in the coach with her. The way he’d spent as little time with her as he possibly could. He hadn’t even tried to see her before the ceremony, and offer her any kind of reassurance...
And why would he, when he obviously wanted to marry her as little as she’d, initially, wanted to marry him?
And yet she’d planned to make the best of the match...
Ooh...when she thought of the number of times she’d remembered what he looked like unclothed, with a strange kind of...pulsing awareness of her own femininity... When she thought of how she still reminisced, with fondness, over the summer of the collar bone, and had hoped they might rekindle that friendship... When she thought of how she’d told her parents she wasn’t likely to find another man she preferred...meaning it...
She’d even donned this sliver of nothing, and left her hair flowing loose round her shoulders in the hopes of pleasing him.
When she would have done better to remember the things he’d said about her when she’d been lying concealed on the top shelf of the library...how her main value as a wife was the fact that she was Jasper’s sister. Apart from her money, that was, which she’d already learned from Father had been the one thing that had, finally, persuaded him to marry her. The only value she had, in effect, was her relationship to Jasper, and her dowry. There was nothing about her as a person that he found even...palatable!
And now, now she remembered how he’d stayed silent when Horace had said he’d rather take an icicle to bed. And how she’d assumed that he hadn’t agreed with Horace. Because he’d spoken up in her defence, just a bit, saying Walter ought to be glad she wouldn’t wear his ears out with a lot of incessant chatter. But perhaps he did feel as if he’d rather take an icicle to bed. He certainly wasn’t here, was he?
Right, well, if the only thing he appreciated about her as a person was her disinclination to chatter incessantly...if he valued a quiet bride, then a quiet bride he was jolly well going to get.
She huffed, and flung herself down into the pillows, but she couldn’t get to sleep. She was too...too...angry. Too hurt. Her mind wouldn’t stop going over and over all the stupid assumptions she’d made. And her stomach was actually churning.
It came as a relief when she heard the first stirrings of grooms in the stables outside, and inn servants bustling about, lighting fires and cranking the handle of the rather creaky pump in the yard beneath her window.
Grateful that she could at last give relief to all her pent-up feelings by doing something, she flung aside the bedcovers and yanked on the bell pull to let the servants know she was ready for breakfast. Ready to start letting Ben know how she felt about having to marry him.
Which she could easily accomplish by not talking to him.
See how much he enjoyed getting the cold shoulder!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ben had lingered as long as he could over the indifferent brandy the landlord had insisted was his very best. He could not stay in this sitting room for much longer or someone might come to clear away and catch him there, and think that he was reluctant to bed his beautiful bride. Which might lead them to think there was something wrong with her.
He tossed back the last of the drink, set his glass down on the table, and strode to the door to her room. And paused with his hand in mid-air. He knew exactly what was wrong with her. She’d had to marry him, that was what was wrong with her. He let his hand fall to his side. Only a very insensitive man, or a very cruel one, would attempt to enter the room of a bride who’d spent the whole day demonstrating the way she felt about marrying him by flinging every symbol of her nuptials as far from her as she possibly could.
He might have known she hadn’t seen sense, which was what her father had assured him when he’d returned to Wattlesham Priory with the licence tucked close to his heart. He should have smelled a rat when they’d advised him not to pester her before the ceremony because she was too busy with wedding preparations.
It was only too clear, now, that although somehow Daisy’s father had compelled her to go through with the wedding, she was very far from happy about having to do so. And why should she be? She was getting a very poor bargain. Even on the surface, he had little to offer any woman. Let alone one as beautiful as Daisy.
But, Daisy being Daisy, she had been gracious and polite, and had smiled for her well-wishers. Because that was what she was always like in public—a pattern card of good manners. Of ladylike behaviour. She never let anyone know what she was thinking, which was why some people said she had ice running through her veins.
He’d seen the heart of her, though. The compassion she’d shown, the very real sympathy for him that summer he’d broken his collar bone, when his family had just abandoned him to her family’s care. The hours she’d spent with him, trying so valiantly to find some common ground, some way she could keep him from being utterly miserable. And even now, years later, she was still so tender-hearted that she hadn’t been able to leave him to shiver with a thunderstorm under way, after his so-called friends had stolen his clothes and stranded him on the island.
Though it had cost Daisy her freedom. No wonder she was furious. Not that she had let anyone else see how upset she was. No, Daisy had kept it all bottled up inside until she was out of sight of her family. The way she always did. The number of times he’d watched her stalk away, her nose in the air, after her brothers had played some particularly humiliating trick on her, as if it was all so much water off a duck’s back...
He’d guessed she’d stamped her feet, or thrown things, or cried only when in private. Just as it had only been once she’d driven far enough away from her family that they wouldn’t see her reaction before she’d vented her true feelings about their wedding. And he didn’t blame her. Even though she didn’t know the half of it. Lord Darwen had acted as though it didn’t matter. But Ben knew different. He was not the kind of man Daisy should have married. And if she ever found out what he really was...
Shoulders slumped, Ben went into the tiny room into which the footman had taken his things. Lord Darwen’s footman. He pulled off his jacket, reflecting that even if she’d been...willing, Ben would probably have found it rather awkward to do anything of a romantic nature in a bedroom that had been arranged and paid for by her father, with her father’s servants bustling about, and her father’s advice about how to pleasure a woman ringing in his ears.
On the whole, it was better to just...wait until she’d calmed down, and they were in their new home.
Oh, yes, Ben, he reflected bitterly as he pulled his shirt over his head and hung it over the back of a chair, that was a wonderful idea. Once she’d seen the state of Bramhall Park and realised what her act of impulsive kindness had got her into, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was the last straw.
It was all very well her saying that her mother had told her all about what to expect when she got there, but even he had been shocked, when he’d finally gone to claim his inheritance, to see just how much havoc the Fourth Earl had managed to wreak during those last few months of his life. Her mother couldn’t possibly know about that, since Ben hadn’t told anyone.
He couldn’t let her walk into all that without giving her fair warning. She already resented the fact she’d been coerced into taking his name. In the morning, he’d have to explain it all to her. All? No, not all. Just the bit about the dilapidated state of his house. No matter how badly she reacted to that news, it would be far worse for her to find out when they arrived. But as for the rest... He shuddered. Pray God he neve
r had to tell her of his deepest shame. Not for his sake alone, but for hers. She shouldn’t have to bear the indignities he’d had to endure all his life.
But Daisy didn’t give him the chance to confess to any of it. She took her breakfast in her room, and stalked across the inn yard to the carriage when it was time to set out, without deigning to so much as glance at him, even though he was standing holding open the carriage door for her.
And, no matter what he did, she managed to evade him for the entire day. Her maid and the footman her father had sent to attend her on the journey both aided and abetted her, scurrying about with messages and taking a sort of defensive position between him and Daisy whenever it looked as though he might get an opportunity to speak to her. To warn her. It was as if she’d flooded her moat with water, lowered the portcullis, and raised the drawbridge to keep him at bay.
His heart sank. Once she saw Bramhall Park there would be no cajoling her out of her mood. But what had he expected? Just as in every other area of his life, his marriage was going to turn into a sham. He had inherited an estate that was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, a house that was practically derelict, and a title without any of the honour that should go with it. So why wouldn’t fate decree that he marry a woman who would ensure that the relationship remained one in name only?
The only place he’d ever felt as if he mattered, as if he belonged, had been in the army. Oh, he’d enjoyed his visits to Wattlesham Priory, and larking about with Daisy’s brothers when he’d been a schoolboy. But he’d always been aware that he was just a visitor. That when the holidays came to an end he’d have to go back to his real life. But in his regiment, why, he’d fitted in from the very first day. Because there he’d had...value. Nobody cared who his father was, or what sort of woman his mother had been. Everyone treated him on his merits, on his accomplishments.
He’d been a fool to sell out when he’d inherited the title, just because Boney was all but defeated. What kind of idiot took that, along with him inheriting at the precise moment when Daisy was about to be launched into society, as some kind of divine sign? What kind of fool had he been to hope that, with his lack of experience with women, he’d somehow have been able, during an assembly or a picnic, to tell her...to persuade her...?
A self-deluded, lovelorn fool, he reflected sourly, just as the dark clouds that had been steadily amassing finally blotted out every last ray of sunshine. Which meant that when they drew into the village of Bramley Bythorn, for which he now, as the Fifth Earl of Bramhall, was responsible, she would see it at its gloomiest.
Although perhaps once they’d driven through it, that might work in his favour. Perhaps she might not notice, in the gathering gloom, how overgrown the driveway to the house was, or that the lawns to either side of it had reverted to meadow. Yes, perhaps it was for the best that she was arriving on a gloomy evening. Tomorrow would be soon enough for her to discover what a poor bargain she’d made in marrying him, in regard to the state of his property anyway.
* * *
As they’d driven through the last village, Marguerite had wondered what sort of landlord could let so many of the buildings get into such a state. No wonder the few villagers who’d watched them drive by looked surly.
It was only when, almost as soon as they’d left the last dilapidated dwelling behind, they turned through a set of open gates and set off down a drive that was three quarters potholes that it occurred to her that it was Ben. Ben was the landlord who’d allowed his property to fall to rack and ruin.
Marcie, who’d been wriggling about and peering out of the window with increasing frequency, suddenly turned to her, a frown on her brow.
‘Are you sure this is the right place, my lady? I mean...’
Marguerite glanced out of her own window. And bit down on her lower lip. ‘I think it must be. Vale said John Coachman thought we would arrive this evening. And surely no innkeeper would leave the grounds of his property looking so...untidy if he wanted to attract paying guests, would he?’
‘Untidy?’ Marcie peered out of her window again. ‘That’s just like you to say it so politely, my lady. It’s a...a rank wilderness, that’s what it is. What kind of a man brings a bride to a place that looks like nobody has lived here for fifty years?’
Marguerite pondered for a moment before venturing an answer. ‘Well, you know, Ben...er... His Lordship only inherited the title recently. Less than a year ago, in fact. And the village couldn’t have fallen into such disrepair in that amount of time. This must be the way it was when he inherited it.’ It must be.
‘You’d have thought he could have got someone to mow the lawns, though, wouldn’t you,’ said Marcie in disgust.
Well, yes, if he had the money to pay someone to do it. But Walter and Horace had said, hadn’t they, in the library, that he was the one who would benefit most from marrying her as he was the one most in need of money. Which she’d thought was just a symptom of greed at the time. But if he couldn’t afford to pay gardeners to mow the lawns, let alone repair all those thatched roofs in the village, then he clearly did need money. A lot of money, if he intended to put everything to rights.
She supposed at least she could understand, now, why Father had managed to talk him round so easily. No decent man could allow his tenants to put up with such conditions if, by the mere act of marrying, he could acquire enough money to start making the necessary repairs. And, she grudgingly conceded, even if she was, at present, very angry with Ben, she’d never doubted that he was at heart a decent sort of man. Only what woman could possibly tolerate being simply a means to an end? Not one with any pride, that was certain. Which meant that even though she could understand Ben’s motives in jumping at the chance to get his hands on her dowry, she didn’t hurt any less.
Why couldn’t he have agreed to marry her because he wanted to get his hands on her? Instead of demonstrating, on their wedding night, that he most certainly did not. That depressing reflection meant that she was completely unable to muster a smile when the carriage drew to a halt in front of a house that was entirely in darkness and Vale came to open the door and let down the steps. But then, his face, too, was particularly wooden.
Behind him, she could see Ben dismounting stiffly from his horse, and the servant who’d been with him in the army get down and take the reins of both horses. Ben approached her with a grim look on his face. As though he had bad news to break to her. Or wasn’t sure what kind of reception he was going to get.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.
‘We need to go round to the back of the house to gain entry,’ he said, in a tone that she thought sounded rather defiant. ‘There are only two servants left, and it isn’t fair to expect them to come to the front and answer the door when they will be busy in the kitchen, preparing our meal.’
He turned on his heel and strode off.
Well! He might at least have held out his arm and escorted her to the door he’d spoken of, rather than just walking away and expecting her to trot obediently behind him.
Only she’d rebuffed him every time he’d attempted any such thing during the last two days of their journey here, hadn’t she? Or pretended she hadn’t seen him. So it probably served her right if she entered her new home, and met her new servants, from two paces behind her new husband, rather than on his arm.
But...only two servants? How on earth did they manage to look after a place this size? As they walked the entire length of the front façade of the Jacobean building, she counted the windows on the second floor. Thirty. Which meant inside there must be probably half as many rooms. And more still on the floor above, and several in the attics. And when they reached the end of the façade and went through a little wooden door into a rear courtyard, she saw that the house had two wings, each of which looked almost as big as the main house.
Two servants wouldn’t be able to, she decided. And she mustn’t expect them to have done
so. She would be gracious, to them, she vowed. It wasn’t their fault, after all, that their employer hadn’t hired anyone else to help out.
Ben finally ducked in through a small, plain wooden door and held it open for her to pass inside.
‘Welcome to Bramhall Park,’ said Ben, with what sounded like heavy sarcasm.
She stepped into what turned out to be a kitchen, in which two women were standing, nervously twisting their hands in their aprons. One of them was middle-aged and plump. The other was a half-starved-looking slip of a girl.
‘This is Mrs Green,’ said Ben, indicating the older woman, who bobbed a curtsey, her wide eyes fixed on Marguerite with evident wariness. ‘And this is Sally,’ he said, as the skinny girl followed suit. ‘Ladies, this is my bride. Your new mistress,’ he said, giving her a challenging look as he waved for her to step forward.
‘It is lovely to meet you,’ she said, going over to the older woman and holding out her hand. The woman, slowly realising she was being invited to shake it, finally took it and allowed Marguerite to pump it up and down. ‘It is just the two of you, I believe,’ said Marguerite, repenting shaking a cook’s hand when she’d been in the midst of preparing a meal but determined not to yield to the urge to wipe her now rather sticky hand lest she insult the poor woman.
‘My goodness,’ she said brightly, ‘what a lot of work you must have to do.’ She turned to the skinny girl and shook her hand as well. It wasn’t as if it was going to get much dirtier, now, was it? ‘Sally, is it?’ Sally made a startled sound, then looked down at her hand in wonder, as if nobody had ever willingly touched her before.
‘You must be wanting your supper,’ said the cook. ‘We was just about to go and set the table in the dining room, my lord, er, my lady,’ she said, her eyes swivelling from one to the other, ‘only, well, there ain’t no fancy dishes left. Nor eating irons fit for a bride...’ She clasped her hands at her waist, her brow creasing in consternation.
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 8
