“I can assure you, madam, that I have not taken you as my wife solely for the purpose of appeasing my rabid, unnatural hunger for sex.”
“I assumed that was what a mistress was for, poor thing.”
His head jerked up. His former mistresses were hardly poor things. Due to his generosity they were financially independent women, and he had never once heard a complaint from any of them regarding his sexual prowess. “We agreed before our marriage to honor our vows of fidelity. I will not take a mistress, nor do I want one. I want you.”
Her breath hitched. “Truly?”
“Yes. As my wife, only you can produce an heir.”
The hopeful expression faded from her lovely face at his final words. Instantly he realized he should not have admitted the last. Telling a woman he wanted her to bear his children was not a helpful approach to this problem. Besides, he truly did not want another woman. He wanted Dorothea.
“I know my duty, sir,” she said coldly. “I will not shirk it. There will be an heir, as you require.”
Carter sighed loudly, raking his outstretched fingers through his hair. “Saints preserve us all, I will not have my wife consider bedding me a duty. It will be a joy and a pleasure for both of us.”
She shrugged as if she had no earthly idea how to make that happen.
“You enjoy my kisses,” he said, almost more to himself than her. “My touch does not appear to revolt you.”
“I never said that it did. Carter, please, last night was not a complete disaster. I enjoyed it, well, all except for the very last bit. And I can school myself to endure that part of the act. It was over quickly enough.” She tilted her head to one side, her expression thoughtful. “Though perhaps the problem has more to do with size. Apparently I am small and you are rather, um, rather large. Maybe if we joined our bodies while your…while you…while it was much smaller it would bring me less discomfort?”
Carter sputtered. Another man might have been angry. She had insulted his skills as a lover as well as his lack of endurance. Over quickly, indeed! The one thing she had accomplished was compliment the size of his equipment, but that was unintentional. Enter her while he was small? Surely he had not just heard her spew such nonsense.
Carter had always prided himself on being a considerate lover, patient and lustful. Not since he was an untried lad had it been necessary for him to exert a great deal of effort in seducing a female. A few charming words, a sultry smile, a passionate kiss and they were in his bed, eager and willing. And they left it satisfied, often purring their contentment.
It would be so with his wife. Carter’s helplessness escalated, but he knew he could not unleash his frustration on her. She was blameless. He had misread the situation utterly, he had bungled it all badly and put a fear of copulation into Dorothea in the process. What an idiot. He knew he would have to dispense with the fear if he ever wanted an eager, passionate wife in his bed.
His path was clear. He would have to woo, to romance, to seduce his bride. He owed it to himself, but more importantly, he owed it to her.
Chapter Twelve
The day after her wedding was turning out to be far more complicated, and emotional, than Dorothea ever anticipated. After a thoroughly embarrassing conversation with her husband, which ended with his abrupt departure, Dorothea was once again left to her own devices.
She had offended him with her comments about their wedding night. Offended, angered, and possibly wounded him. Well, wounded his pride. His feelings she barely understood, but his pride was obvious.
The harmony of their relationship was now strained and she worried it would not be easily restored. Married but one day and already facing a crisis. This was not what she had imagined when she agreed to be his wife.
A shuffling noise at the drawing room doorway startled her, and Dorothea wondered if Carter had returned. She turned, struggling to swallow, half hoping, half dreading his appearance. But instead it was Mrs. Simpson who stood hesitantly in the doorway, inquiring if this was a good time to consult her ladyship on the daily menus for the rest of the week.
Thinking it terribly bad manners to take out her peculiar mood on the hapless housekeeper, Dorothea dutifully agreed. She read through the splendid meals Cook had temptingly created for their pleasure, murmuring her approval in what she hoped was an authoritative manner. This was an unfamiliar task, made all the more challenging since she had no notion of what foods her husband preferred. But she trusted that his staff would be aware of his lordship’s likes and dislikes.
Mrs. Simpson’s grin of approval when she finished eased some of Dorothea’s nerves. She might have gotten off on the wrong foot with her husband, yet miraculously she had managed to make a favorable impression on the staff.
“Please convey my thanks to Cook for devising such an ambitious menu,” Dorothea told the housekeeper as Mrs. Simpson handed over the menus. “And compliment her on the lovely dinner she served us last evening. Lord Atwood and I enjoyed every bite.”
Another nod and smile of approval was soon forthcoming. Mrs. Simpson turned to leave, but paused a moment before departing. “Would you like to see the rest of the house today, my lady? I am at your disposal.”
“Why not?” Dorothea replied, decided it was as good a way as any to spend her day. Perhaps it might even distract her mind from her matrimonial dilemma and chase away some of her gloomy thoughts.
They started on the top floor of the mansion. The domestic quarters were clean, neat, and in good repair. Though they were simple and plain, Dorothea was impressed by the quality of furnishings, linen, and blankets given to the staff, along with the ample piles of fuel for their fireplaces.
The third floor contained two distinct wings of bedchambers. The east wing was reserved for family members, including the suites for the lord and lady of the manor. Thankfully Mrs. Simpson strolled by those closed doors and negligently waved her hand in their general direction, knowing full well that Dorothea had been inside both sets of rooms.
Dorothea clenched her thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose tightly to hold back her reaction as she scuttled past those doors. Highly doubting she could have entered Carter’s rooms, seen that bed, and kept her emotions level, she asked several pointed questions about the furnishings in the opulent suite reserved for the duke as they entered those chambers.
“It has by far the prettiest view of the gardens,” Mrs. Simpson declared. She pulled back the heavy gold velvet draperies to emphasize her point. “’Tis such a shame that the duke so seldom visits the estate. Why, it’s going on five years since we have last seen him.”
“I imagine he has other estates to attend,” Dorothea replied.
“To be sure. But none so fine as Ravenswood,” Mrs. Simpson said proudly.
They continued on to the west wing of the third floor, which also boasted an abundance of elegant, comfortable bedchambers. These were the rooms chosen for close friends and houseguests during house parties, Mrs. Simpson explained, and thus always kept at the ready.
“Is there a great deal of entertaining done here?” Dorothea asked.
“There was, back when the duchess was alive. We are all hoping with Lord Atwood married, the house will once again ring with laughter and good cheer. The staff does not mind the extra work involved and appreciates the opportunity to showcase their skills and dedication.”
Dorothea silently wondered if the rest of the servants truly were as eager to tackle the heavy workload of keeping guests happy. Back home, their cook and two housemaids complained mightily on the rare occasions there was a dinner party. Dorothea could only imagine the tasks involved when a dwelling of this size was filled with spoiled aristocrats and their servants making demands of the staff.
She had already seen many of the manor’s second-and first-floor rooms, but lacking anything specific to do with her day, Dorothea asked to see them again. The rooms were numerous and splendidly furnished, and Mrs. Simpson a knowledgeable guide. Dorothea’s mind could barely abso
rb the details.
There were two drawing rooms, both cavernous, though one was larger than the other, a music room filled with all manner of instruments, the majority of which Dorothea could not, nor ever hope to, play with any level of proficiency. A formal ballroom, a library, a study, a den, a morning room, a breakfast parlor, a private salon designed exclusively for the lady of the house.
She could barely absorb all the layout, let alone all the details Mrs. Simpson so easily imparted, but somehow Dorothea made all the appropriate responses to the housekeeper’s comments. Yet when they entered the long portrait gallery, Dorothea fell silent. Generations of noble ancestors seemed to stare down their noses as she paraded past them. Disapprovingly, Dorothea mused gloomily, glaring back up at the canvases.
How could she ever measure up to these proud, haughty aristocrats? What had she been thinking when she agreed to be Carter’s marchioness and, someday, his duchess?
Dorothea paused and stared up into the stern countenance of a Tudor lord, the first Duke of Hansborough. Henry VIII used to chop off his wives’ heads if they displeased him. Had that been the kinder decision? A swift end to the constant battle and bickering?
She let out a pathetic sigh. Preferring death to marriage? Oh dear, her gloomy mood truly had gone too far. Silently commanding herself to cease this foolishness immediately, Dorothea narrowed her eyes and glared at the portrait.
She was a resourceful woman. A determined female. This messy beginning to her marriage would work itself out. It simply had to, and she would accept nothing less than tranquility along with a dose of happiness in her life.
Bolstered by her determination not to be so easily discouraged, Dorothea invited Mrs. Simpson to take tea with her. They settled into the private salon reserved for the lady of the house, nibbling on crustless sandwiches and sipping strong, hot tea. It was the first meal since her wedding ceremony that Dorothea actually tasted.
“If I may be so bold as to ask, is there a Mr. Simpson?” Dorothea inquired, knowing the title of missus was often used as a courtesy with a housekeeper.
“Oh, yes, my lady. I was married for thirty years. Mr. Simpson died of the fever back in ’07.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” Dorothea cleared her throat. “Though I confess to being interested in hearing any wisdom you would care to impart on coping with a husband.”
The housekeeper looked startled and Dorothea knew she had blundered. Badly. The nobility did not share confidences with their servants. She tried a dismissing smile, hoping to drop the matter, but Mrs. Simpson surprised her by speaking.
“There is no simple answer when it comes to men. Husbands or otherwise.” Mrs. Simpson smiled fondly. “But I can tell you a bit about Lord Atwood. I was here when he was growing up. You couldn’t find a more thoughtful, considerate boy if you tried. He was always kind to everyone, even the servants, and there are not many aristocrats of any age who show consideration to those they deem inferior.”
Dorothea knew that remark was aimed squarely at the duke, a proud and haughty man. Fortunately, his son had not taken on the same superior manner. Her heart gentled when she imagined Carter as a young boy. Mischievous and smiling, always ready for an adventure. “Lord Atwood was an only child?”
“Yes, to his regret. He often expressed the desire for siblings, but it was not to be.” Mrs. Simpson took a dainty bite of her sandwich. “Though he would say he wanted a brother, not a sister. I believe having to endure the antics of the Alderton girls, who were spoiled rotten and always demanding the impossible, prompted that attitude. I daresay, one would need to search far and wide to find two bolder little girls. And they grew into a pair of high-spirited, forward-thinking young ladies,” she added in a lowered, confiding tone.
“Alderton? As in Lord and Lady Alderton?”
“Yes. They are the estate’s nearest neighbors. The families were close friends for many years. For a time there was even talk of Lord Atwood marrying the youngest daughter, but the two families had some sort of falling-out and ceased speaking to each other. They seldom meet now, and only if it is an event that involves the entire neighborhood.”
“Hmm. I wonder what could have caused such a rift?”
Mrs. Simpson shrugged and shifted on her chair. “The gossips have speculated for years, but no firm truth has ever been revealed. Some say it was a dispute over the property lines, while others contend it was Lord Alderton’s failure to honor a gambling debt.”
Dorothea lifted the heavy porcelain teapot and poured them each a second cup of tea. She remembered the dinner when she had been introduced to the duke and his disdainful remarks about Lord Alderton along with his gleeful delight in hearing the story of Alderton’s embarrassment when his corset strings had snapped during the ball. The reason for it might not been well known, but clearly bad blood between the two families existed. She tucked that piece of information in the back of her mind, theorizing it might come in handy someday.
“I suppose I shall learn how to manage my new husband on my own, but I know I will never master the running of this household without your able, expert assistance.”
There was a sound of jingling keys as Mrs. Simpson leaned forward. Her smile was broad and genuine. “I am happy to serve. I know we shall get on famously together, my lady.”
The footman arrived to clear their tea, and Mrs. Simpson left to attend to her duties. In quick succession, Dorothea reviewed and discarded what she would now do with herself. Writing letters to her sister, or even Lady Meredith, would be torturous, for she had no notion of what to say. A nap might be a good idea, since she had slept so poorly the previous night, but her mind and body were too restless for sleep.
She could not visit the neighbors, since she did not know them, nor pay a call on the vicar or the tenants without her husband accompanying her for the same reason. They had passed a prosperous-looking village on the way from Town yesterday, but Dorothea was not in the mood to shop. Nor did she have any coin on her person, though she imagined any purchases could easily be charged to her husband.
She settled on taking a leisurely stroll of the formal gardens. Only the early spring flowers had fully bloomed, but their fragrance and color were a soothing balm to Dorothea’s mood. She noted with an amused smile that the flowers in one particular bed were the exact yellow shade of her muslin afternoon gown.
It was new, as were nearly all the clothes she had brought with her, a flattering design boasting a low bodice, high waist, and puff sleeves. She especially liked the embroidered detail of tiny leaves in a vibrant shade of green around the neckline and hem. When Dorothea stood in the dressmaker’s shop having the garment fitted, Lady Meredith remarked that Lord Atwood would not be able to take his eyes off her when she was wearing the garment.
Yet that had hardly been the case when he had seen her in it earlier today. Carter had barely noticed the gown, except to imply how quickly he wanted it stripped from her body.
Dorothea turned a corner and there he stood, as if her thoughts had conjured him. He was dressed for riding, the polish on his knee-high leather boots gleaming in the sunshine. Her initial inclination was to turn and run the other way, but that smacked too much of cowardice. Instead, she plunged ahead, though she kept her gaze carefully focused on the gravel pathway.
“Lady Atwood.” He bowed.
“My lord.” She returned the formal greeting, punctuating it with a low, deep curtsy that brought a deep wrinkled frown to Carter’s brow.
For some reason, that pleased her.
“Are you having a pleasant day?” he asked.
“Delightful. And you?”
“I’ve been riding, seeing to the condition of the larger planting fields and talking with some of my tenants.”
She blinked in confusion. “I had no idea you took such an active role in the running of your estate.”
“You never asked,” he shot back.
She refused to take offense at his tone. No matter what, they would speak civilly to each
other. “Mrs. Simpson has shown me the entire house, from the attic room to the cellar larder. It was all in first-rate order. I must commend you, my lord, on the dedication and diligence of your staff.”
“Carter,” he said forcefully.
Dorothea creased her forehead, hoping to appear deep in thought. Then she smiled. “And how did you find your lands? In as good repair as the house, I hope?”
One side of his lip twitched. “All is in excellent condition. My staff and tenants take pride in their work.” He lowered his head. “And I do pay them well, too.”
Dorothea grinned, the tension inside her easing at his lighthearted manner. “’Tis a very wise decision. I suggest you continue with the practice. From what I’ve heard, you can easily afford it.”
He gave her a crooked smile in return. “In addition to my tenants, I also happened across a few of our neighbors. I was besieged by no less than five invitations from the local gentry. Everyone is very anxious to meet you.”
Dorothea was surprised. “I thought everyone would be in Town at this time of year.”
“Spending the Season in London is a costly venture, as you know. Only those with daughters to marry or sons looking for adventure or a bride make the journey into Town.”
A few short months ago she was one of those searching females. Was that comment meant to be a jibe at her recent situation? No, she insisted silently, shaking her head. She would not read insult where none was given. Carter was not so petty.
“I would not want to shirk my obligations to the local society by avoiding them completely,” she replied.
As you are shirking your duty to your husband? He did not speak the words, but Dorothea swore she could hear them loud and clear.
“We are newly wed,” he said. “It should not cause great offense if we decline these social invitations.”
“All of them?”
How To Seduce A Sinner Page 19
