Devil's Own Bargain (London Lords)

by Mary Gillgannon

  “You didn’t enjoy London?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” She smiled wistfully. “It was all my father’s idea. To have me come out, go to all the best parties—”

  “Attract a titled husband?” Devon finished for her.

  Caroline nodded. “I went along to please him, but now that it’s over, I must say I’m vastly relieved.”

  Devon raised his brows. “I thought that entree into the glittering social whirl of London was the reason you married me.”

  “If you recall,” she said with asperity, “I had very little say in the matter. It was my father who made the financial arrangements, my father who spread the gossip that made our capitulation inevitable.”

  “You truly didn’t want to marry me?”

  Caroline froze. How could she possibly answer? She looked long and hard at her gloved hands resting in her lap.

  “I am... gratified that my father is pleased with the match, and...”She raised her gaze and tried to smile.” I’m certain we’ll get on tolerably well.”

  How lame and foolish her words sounded. Rude, too. But she could hardly tell him that for all her doubts, in some way she felt as if she had fallen into a fairy tale, where she, the overlooked, unassuming Cinderella, had somehow ended up with the prince.

  “Of course we will.” He exhaled the words in almost a sigh.

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that, so Caroline went back to observing the scenery outside the carriage.

  The sun sank below the horizon in an early winter sunset, and deep shadows surrounded the coach. Finally, the roadway entered a heavily wooded area that Devon identified as the outer fringe of his family estate.

  It was too dark for Caroline to see much as they drove up the tree-lined drive, but at last the manor house came into view. It looked massive and forbidding, with only a few lights visible in the tall windows of the main floor.

  Men came out with lanterns as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Welcome to Darton Park,” said Devon.

  Caroline stretched as best she could. A footman opened the carriage door and helped her down.

  In the tiled entryway of the house waited a gray-haired motherly woman in a ruffled mob-cap. “This is my wife, Lady Langley,” Devon explained. “If you could be so good as to escort her to the guest chamber.”

  The woman looked nonplussed, then after a moment, said, “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam. I’m Mrs. Butterly, and the gentleman next to me is my husband, who serves as his lordship’s steward.”

  The stout, red-faced man bowed to Caroline. She nodded back.

  “Come this way,” the housekeeper said. “After you are settled in, I’ll bring some supper up. I am sure you’re exhausted after your long journey.”

  Caroline turned to Devon. “Good night, Caroline,” he said, then vanished down a hallway.

  “May I take your wrap?” Mrs. Butterly asked solicitously. Caroline took off her pelisse, and after handing it to another servant, followed the housekeeper up the stairs. All the way, she fumed. Clearly, her husband hadn’t seen fit to tell his servants that he was to be wed. What did he think, that he could leave her in London and avoid ever discussing the matter of his marriage? She deserved more consideration than he had offered. To be foisted off onto servants like an uninvited guest, it was outrageous!

  “I’m afraid we’re really not prepared for you, ma’am,” Mrs. Butterly said, echoing Caroline’s thoughts. “If his lordship had sent word, we might have been able to air out the former countess’s rooms, but as it is, they’re scarce habitable.”

  . Caroline nodded. Observing the threadbare carpet and the yellowed and tattered wallpaper in the second-floor hallway, she realized Devon hadn’t exaggerated. The furnishings were in very poor condition.

  Mrs. Butterly paused to open a door and ushered Caroline into a large room. The wallpaper looked ancient, and the faded blue damask draperies enclosing the canopy bed gave the room a tired, depressing atmosphere, but at least the chamber appeared to have been cleaned recently.

  A footman entered and went to lay a fire. Mrs. Butterly opened one of the armoires set against the wall. “I’ll have one of the housemaids put your things away.”

  “My own maid should arrive in a day or so,” Caroline answered. “She and the earl’s manservant were to follow us in a coach with the rest of the luggage.”

  “You have more trunks coming?” The housekeeper looked surprised.

  Caroline smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid so. In London, a fashionable woman doesn’t wear the same gown more than once in a single season. l imagine it will be much different here in the country. I am certain I will be able to make do with fewer clothes.”

  “Do you know how long will you be staying, ma’am?”

  The question caught Caroline off guard. To sort out her thoughts, she went to the window and pushed the draperies aside, pretending to examine the view, which was nonexistent in the pitch black night.

  “I believe his lordship has extensive plans for the property,” she said. “And as I hope to completely redo the house, I don’t anticipate either of us will return to London for some months.” There. She’d made herself quite clear. If Devon desired to get rid of her, he was in for a battle.

  The housekeeper went to see to water for her bath, and Caroline sat down on the bed and took off her gloves and hat. She started at a knock on the door. Who could that be? Northrup? Rising eagerly to her feet, she called, “Come in.”

  Her hopeful mood faded as a footman entered carrying a large cauldron of steaming water. Caroline sighed and directed the servant to a hip bath behind the dressing screen in the corner.

  Four

  Her eyes opened. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, then Caroline recognized the moth-eaten blue fabric above her. Darton Park. Her new home.

  She sat up slowly, thinking that she had spent another night as a married woman and yet remained a virgin. Perhaps Northrup had meant to be considerate. Or discreet. If as she supposed, the master’s sleeping apartments were situated in another wing of the house, it would be difficult for him to spend the night in her bed without the servants being aware of it.

  On the other hand, if they never shared a bed, the servants would know about that, too.

  Glumly, she climbed out of bed and rang for a maid. Mrs. Butterly answered her summons.

  “Is his lordship up?” Caroline asked as the housekeeper helped her out of her nightrail.

  “Oh, my, yes,” Mrs. Butterly said. “He had his breakfast before dawn. Took off on his favorite hunter, he did.”

  “So early?”

  “Guess he means to get back to his old routine. Rises at six, eats a light breakfast and goes off about his business. Usually returns around teatime or a little after. After he dines, he spends an hour or two in the bookroom before bed.”

  “He leaves the manor every day?”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, he hasn’t been back very long. And now that he’s wed, he may change his habits.”

  “How long has it been since his father died?” she asked as Mrs. Butterly brushed out her hair. “You’ll have to excuse my ignorance, but I only knew Lord Northrup a short time before we were wed.”

  “Oh, less than a year.”

  “And before that, he lived in Ireland?”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Near to five years.”

  “Does the family have land or business there?”

  “Not that I know of, ma’am.”

  Five years in Ireland. Most of English society scorned the boggy, godforsaken isle. What had kept her husband there for so long? The more she learned of him, the more mysterious he seemed.

  Mrs. Butterly helped Caroline arrange her hair and put on pearl earrings, then asked, “Will you require any more assistance, my lady?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll go down and have breakfast now.”

  Caroline ate rolls and chocolate alone in the breakfast room, then began a tour of the
house. In the west wing, she wandered down a gallery lined with portraits of the previous earls, none of whom were nearly as attractive as her husband. She decided Northrup must have gotten his dark, good looks from his mother.

  The gallery led to a massive double doorway, now dulled with grime. Opening one side, Caroline peered in and gaped at an immense ballroom. Huge marble fireplaces stood at either end, and above the cavernous chamber, the crystal fixtures of a once dazzling chandelier glinted in the light filtering in through the tall windows set along one side of the room.

  She went in and stood in the center of the dancing area, feeling awed. Once this vast room must have echoed with the rustle of silk slippers and the clink of polished boots on the parquet floor. Laughter floated out through the high windows, along with the merry strains of an orchestra. In the corner, she could see the painted silk screen that would have concealed the musicians.

  Almost reverently, she tiptoed to the French doors at one end of the room and gazed through the dusty glass. The ballroom opened out into what once must have been a stunning garden. She unlatched the creaking doorway and stepped out. Despite the fall chill and her thin, cap-sleeved gown, she couldn’t resist following one of the marble pathways. Everywhere she looked, the dried remains of flowerbeds, hedges, and overgrown shrubberies hinted at the verdant splendor this place must boast in spring and summer.

  One path led to a lichen-encrusted bench, strategically placed among some wildly overgrown bushes. The perfect place for a private tête-a-tête. Caroline smiled as she imagined a dashing buck and a winsome miss meeting in this sheltered nook for a stolen kiss.

  She gazed back at the house, observing the strands of ivy trailing gracefully over the carefully mortared gray stones of the manor walls. The high windows, with mullioned panes at the top, winked back at her in the sunlight, and something inside her thrilled. Her father’s town house, gleaming and new, was nothing like this. There was so much character in this place, so many memories. Generations of Langleys dancing in the ballroom, flirting and playing in the garden and parklands.

  So what if it was run-down, neglected. That could be remedied. The basic structure of the manor remained sound, and the layout of the public areas were perfectly functional. With new window coverings, carpets, wallpaper and paint, and a thorough cleaning, the place could be made beautiful again.

  Excitement filled her. She was mistress here. By rights she could refurbish the whole place, redecorate the dozens of bedrooms and return the ballroom to its former magnificence.

  Then she remembered Devon’s remark that he was not a wealthy man, that her plans for the house might have to wait. The idea frustrated her and made her recall the inheritance she had from her mother. Why could she not use it to improve the manor? How could her husband object if she chose to use her own funds?

  She stood for a moment in the bedraggled, disordered garden, then bent down and plucked a stunted, frost-burned but still lovely yellow rose blooming at her feet.

  A few hours later, she sat in the dining room and tried to keep her gaze from the mauve moiré wallpaper, now faded to an unpleasant pinkish brown. As she ate her lamb chops, peas and creamed potatoes, each scrape of her fork on the plate seemed to echo through the empty room.

  She stared down the long table, and sudden tears made the candlelight from the tall candelabrum wink and glimmer. Was this what her future held—solitary meals, long, lonely days? She’d tried to wait dinner, but when. Devon failed to return by eight o clock, she had resigned herself to eating alone, lest the repast be utterly ruined. If only Jeanette would come so she would have some companionship. But the coach carrying her maid and her husband’s manservant had not yet arrived.

  A sound in the entryway drew her attention. Hearing the low tones of a man’s voice, she put down her wine and rose from the table. She had scarce done justice to the butterscotch torte served for dessert, but she could not endure the huge, empty dining room any longer.

  She hastened to the foyer. Disappointment set in as she beheld an extremely tall, thin man talking to Mr. Butterly. She’d hoped Devon had arrived home.

  The man was garbed in a voluminous traveling cloak, which made him look like a gaunt, dark bird. Seeing her, he bowed. “You must be the countess. I am Ginter, your husband’s manservant. At your service, madam.”

  Caroline blinked, startled by the realization that this man was even taller than her husband. But he had none of Northrup’s threatening presence. He was slender to the point of emaciation, his manner grave and deliberate. “I understand that his lordship is out at the moment,” he said. “I will find my way to his quarters and proceed with unpacking his things.”

  “But where’s Jeanette? Why isn’t she with you?”

  “We had a slight mishap a few miles from Darton Park. Broke an axle and had to have the carriage towed to a blacksmith’s shop. I transferred most of the luggage to a wagon and had the smith bring me here. Thinking it too cool for her to ride in an uncovered vehicle, I suggested Miss Wells remain at the posting house. Late as it was, she agreed to spend the night there.”

  “How kind of you to think of Jeanette’s comfort. I hope the journey wasn’t too much of a trial for her.”

  “She bore up well enough. Although her constant chatter does grow tiresome.”

  Caroline felt herself stiffen. She’d always found Jeanette’s cheerful prattle rather endearing. “I’m certain you’re weary after the journey and the difficulties on the road,” she suggested to Ginter. “Why don’t you have something to eat before you go up to the earl’s room?”

  “That’s very kind of you, madam.” Ginter bowed again, even more formally this time, then went off down the east hall.

  Jeanette wouldn’t be here until tomorrow, Caroline thought morosely. What was she going to do with herself for the rest of the evening?

  Restless, she went into the drawing room and sat down at the pianoforte. She was an indifferent player at best, but perhaps she would get better with practice. After playing the few tunes she knew by heart, she rose. A timepiece on the mantle showed not yet nine. Still too soon for bed. Perhaps she could find a book to read until she grew drowsy.

  Carrying a candle, she made her way to the library. This wing of the house was dark, and it seemed colder as well. She shivered in the thin ivory gown she’d changed into when she still hoped to have a dinner companion.

  To her surprise, she saw firelight spilling out of the open doorway of the book room. She’d not thought the staff would bother to build a fire there at night unless the room was occupied. Perhaps Devon had returned. Her steps quickened at the thought, then she paused on the threshold of the room. If her husband were there, what would she say to him?

  Squaring her shoulders, she entered. Devon sat at a desk near the fire. As soon as saw her, he immediately rose. “Madam.”

  “I came to get a book.” She stepped cautiously into the room. “I didn’t realize you were home. I would have waited dinner for you.”

  “I ate earlier... at the cottage of one of the tenants.”

  Caroline nodded. “Mrs. Butterly suggested you might be touring the property. Did you find everything in order?”

  “As I’ve told you, there’s much work to be done. My father bled the tenants for all they were worth, and many of them have been reduced to appalling circumstances. Their roofs are half falling in and they scarce have enough fodder to see their livestock through the winter. I’m embarrassed to even ask them for rent this year.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “But I have thought of a means of paying for improvements to the house. I’ve decided to use my own funds.”

  He gave her a startled glance, then stood and fingered one of the leather-bound books on the desk. “You’ve only been at Darton Park one day. Are you so convinced you want to make your home here?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked perturbed. His dark brows drew together in a fierce expression that unnerved her. He really didn’t want her to live here. W
hy?

  He sat down again at the desk and returned to perusing what she imagined were account books for the estate.

  “Well,” she said. “Do I have your permission to proceed with my plans?”

  He did not look up. “You are mistress here. Do whatever you wish.”

  His voice was so curt and dismissing, Caroline fought back a sob. She swiftly turned and left the book room. As she walked, shivering, down the hall, she wondered if she had traded the joys of refurbishing the fine old house for any hope of ever having an intimate and satisfying relationship with her husband.

  ~ ~ ~

  “My lord, should you not come to bed?”

  Devon looked up from the figures before him, blurring now as fatigue set in. Ginter stood in the doorway. “I suppose I should,” he answered. He snuffed the lamp and started toward the door. “When did you arrive?”

  “Only a short while ago. Her ladyship said you were out, but upon inquiring further, I discovered you were in here.”

  Devon flexed the stiff muscles in his shoulders. “What do you think of her, Ginter? My new wife.”

  “She’s lovely. Very pleasant. Much more gracious and refined than I would expect of a—”

  “Cit?” Devon supplied. He nodded. “There’s no faulting her manners. She’s been well-brought up.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a relief.”

  “Is it?” Devon started to walk down the hall. His manservant fell in step beside him. “I think I’d rather hoped I could despise her. I’d also hoped she would be reluctant to leave the delights of London. It appears I’m mistaken. She gives every impression of wanting to reside here at Darton.”

  Ginter raised his brows. “What about Rafe?”

  “She’ll have to be told. But not quite yet. I don’t want her to misunderstand things.”

  Ginter nodded.

  ~ ~ ~

  A knock at the door jerked Caroline from her restless sleep. She sat up and called out, “Who is it?”