An Unexpected Gentleman (The Haverston Family Trilogy Book 2)

by Alissa Johnson

  Excitement and longing hummed through her veins. “I want to go to Prussia and France.”

  “That’s a start. Where else?”

  “Oh, I don’t think there will be time for any place else.”

  “We can take all the time you like.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t leave George alone for too long.”

  “Why should we leave him? Traveling is a fine education for a young boy.”

  “He may come with us?”

  “Certainly, as long as we take a nanny along as well.” He lifted a hand to brush a loose lock of hair from her shoulders. “I don’t fancy competing for your time or fishing him out of a canal in Venice. And I imagine Isobel will want the freedom to explore a bit without having a child in tow.”

  “Isobel may come as well?” She realized she was more or less echoing everything Connor said, but she couldn’t help it. It was all so extraordinary. He was handing her another dream. More, he was fulfilling the dream her mother and father had never been able to see materialize. The Ward children on tour . . . Most of the Ward children, she amended.

  “What of Wolfgang?”

  “He may join us, if he likes.”

  Given her brother’s sour disposition of late, she rather hoped he wouldn’t. But at the same time, he couldn’t be left to his own devices for any length of time.

  “I don’t know that he’ll agree to join us.”

  “Then he won’t,” Connor said dismissively.

  “Wolfgang cannot be left unattended for—”

  “Unattended?” His brows winged up. “Is he in an invalid?”

  “Very nearly,” she grumbled. “He makes terrible choices. I don’t know if he’s capable of making good ones.”

  “He’s capable. We will do what we can for him, but he’s a grown man, Adelaide. You cannot stop him if he is determined to make himself miserable.”

  “I know, but I have to try.” Frowning, she looked down and nudged a rock with her toe. “It’s not just himself he injures. There’s Isobel and George—”

  He cut her off by capturing her chin in his hand and lifting her face to his. “Your fate is no longer tied to your brother’s. Do you understand?”

  Adelaide considered it. A part of her would always be tied to Wolfgang, because a part of her would always hope to see the boy she’d loved become a man of whom she could be proud. Though it pained her, she wouldn’t sever that tie if she could. Who would look for a lost boy, if not his family? Who would mourn his loss?

  But Connor was right from a financial standpoint. The days of fearing complete ruin were over. Nothing Wolfgang did now could change that.

  “Yes, I understand.” She reached up, took his hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. She let go of her sorrow along with it. Now was not the time to dwell on the heavy matters of the heart. It was a lovely day, a beautiful day. And she had a trip to plan.

  “When shall we leave?” she demanded, growing excited. Directly after the wedding? Or should they take a week or two to settle into Ashbury Hall?

  “When I’ve done with Sir Robert.”

  That was not the answer she’d been expecting.

  Hadn’t Connor said he had his own list? A long list of treats in store for his brother, or something along those lines? How long? How many weeks or months, or even years, would it take to check the items off on that list?

  She struggled not to let her disappointment show. He’d never promised her a trip. He’d certainly never promised a trip taken in the immediate future. Eventually, he would take her, and that was more than she’d even thought to ask for.

  “Well,” she said in what she hoped was a passably cheerful voice. “I shall have some time to plan, then. Is there someplace you’d like to recommend?”

  “I remember Vienna being agreeable in the fall. Isobel would enjoy Rome, I imagine.”

  “You’ve been those places as well?”

  “My mother took me to Vienna when I was a child. I was in Rome two years ago on a matter of business.”

  She tilted her head. “What is your business, exactly?”

  “I’ve more than one, but the bulk is shipping. Goods from the Americas, silk from China—”

  “China? You’ve been to China? How on earth did you go from escaping impressment to traveling the world?”

  He shook his head. “Another time.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve something else for you.” He handed her the papers.

  Distracted from the inquiry, she took them with a baffled smile. “More presents? What is all this?”

  “The contracts. Your fifteen thousand pounds. A few other items of business.”

  With a gasp, she bobbled the atlas in an attempt to get a better look at the papers. “How on earth did you get these so quickly?”

  “It wasn’t easy.” He reached out and retrieved her book before she could drop it. “The special license alone cost more than—”

  “Special license?” She dug through the papers, realized she had no idea what a special license looked like, or why she needed to know, and stopped in favor of gaping at Connor. “But we don’t need a special license. We agreed to wait for the banns to be read.”

  “Yes, because you didn’t want to be married by the blacksmith.” He jerked his chin toward the papers. “Now we don’t have to.”

  There had been a host of reasons to wait. She tried to remember them now as her heart galloped. “I . . . I don’t have a gown. Isobel and I went to the Modiste only yesterday.”

  “Wear the gown you had on when we met. Marry me today.”

  “No.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No, that was a ball gown. And I need to review the contracts and—”

  “So review them,” he suggested easily.

  “What, now?”

  “As good a time as any.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about the law. A solicitor—”

  “If I wanted to cheat you,” Connor cut in with a hint of impatience, “I’d have seen to it the contract was too complicated to decipher, then I’d simply pay whichever solicitor you hired to say everything was on the up-and-up.”

  “Not everyone is susceptible to bribery,” she grumbled.

  “No, just enough to keep things moving along nicely,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s move this courtship along—”

  “But you wanted a grand affair. You wanted an acre of flowers and your bride in the finest gown.” She’d assumed he’d meant to make a great show of his victory over Sir Robert.

  “I’ll buy you a hundred fine gowns and watch you tend the garden.” He smiled when she did. “I wanted to elope first, you’ll recall.”

  “Yes, but I . . . I’ve made plans.” Most notably, the plan to marry in a few weeks. “I cannot—”

  “Change them. Every day you put it off, is a risk, you know. I could be thrown from a horse on my way home, or change my mind and run off to Australia with the widow McClary tomorrow.”

  Mrs. McClary was old enough to be his grandmother. “She wouldn’t have you. She’s more particular in her taste than I.”

  While he chuckled at that, she considered his argument. What he said did make a sort of sense. He could change his mind. If he discovered the truth of why Sir Robert had courted her, he might very well change his mind. Then she would be out the fifteen thousand pounds as surely as if the contract was a lie, and she would be out of a husband.

  Connor must have sensed her resolve was wavering. He set the atlas and papers on the ground and stepped closer, until the scent of him filled her senses. The fingers he trailed gently along her cheek were warm and lightly calloused. “Ashbury house is habitable now. All but the interior designer, architect, and a few craftsmen are gone. Most of the new windows are in. There’s furniture, staff, a nursery all set up for George. I’ve a gardener—”

  “You made up a nursery?”

  “Were you expecting otherwise?”

  “Well, no.” Or
possibly yes. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but she’d not have been surprised if he’d not thought of George’s needs. “It’s only—”

  “Everything is ready,” Connor said softly. “Why wait?”

  She thought through the matter with a mind for what was best for herself and her family, but quickly realized that, barring Connor taking a tragic fall from his horse, her decision would make very little difference in the long run. Whether she married Connor today or married him in a few weeks time, the end result would the same.

  Except that, if she waited, there would no longer be a decision to make. She would wake on her wedding day knowing her only options were to arrive at the chapel and say her vows or send her family to ruin.

  But today . . . She could marry by choice. It was an exceedingly loose definition of choice, a razor-thin veneer of control, but it was enough to bring a smile to her lips.

  She could marry Connor today because she wanted to marry Connor today; there didn’t need to be any other reason. There didn’t have to be strings or expectations. She could do exactly as she liked.

  “I want to change,” she announced. “I want Isobel and George to be in attendance.” She gathered up the stack of papers and all but shoved them into his chest.

  “And I want you to sign the contracts.”

  Chapter 20

  At the age of thirteen, Adelaide had briefly fancied herself in love with young Paul Montgomery, the son of a local farmer, and for three long weeks she had hounded her mother for the details of her parents’ day. Had there been music and flowers? Had she felt like a princess in a gown of silk and lace?

  Her mother had answered with patience and humor. What she remembered was excitement, and nerves, and a great whirlwind of activity. The details would forever remain a blur.

  Adelaide anticipated a similar experience on her own wedding day. Only there wasn’t much in the way of activity. The only whirlwind was George, who strenuously objected to having to bathe and wear Sunday clothes on a Friday and made his displeasure known by leaping out of the tub and streaking about the house while screeching at the top of his lungs like a soapy, irate piglet.

  It took a solid half hour to catch him, rinse off the soap, and wrestle him into his clothes.

  There was little to be had in the way of excitement after that. Unlike her mother, Adelaide wasn’t in love with her bridegroom. She was, at best, cautiously fond of him.

  She thought perhaps she might be a little excited, but it was difficult to determine the exact cause of her racing pulse and trembling hands. It could just as well have been nerves. Unable to identify the source of her anxiousness, she set aside the question of how she felt and focused on what needed to be done.

  Practicality. That’s what her wedding day was filled with.

  She washed, she changed. Word was sent to Wolfgang at the tavern. No one expected a reply.

  Connor left for Ashbury and returned with his carriage several hours later to whisk them all to the small chapel where Adelaide had attended services all her life. She knew every detail of its one stained-glass window, and the backs of the pews she knew as well as the back of her own hand. The vicar was the same man who’d baptized her as an infant and patted her back years later when she’d been sick on his son.

  Now she was standing before him at the altar as he spoke of fidelity and the sanctity of holy matrimony. He said something about wives and masters, as well. She pretended not to hear.

  Another step, she reminded herself as her world spun. This was all merely one more step, and it had been her choice.

  She said her vows. Connor said his. Isobel clapped when the vicar pronounced them man and wife. George bumped his head on a pew and howled. Michael Birch and Gregory O’Malley signed as witness.

  And she was married. Just like that, she had a husband, a new life.

  It was done.

  “Well,” she heard herself whisper in a daze. “Well.”

  Connor’s large hand settled on her back and his low laughter floated over her head. “Ready to leave, are you?”

  She wanted to take offense at his amusement, but the presence of his touch and voice were welcomed anchors in her spinning world. Slowly, her mind began to clear as he ushered her outside into fresh air and the last light of evening. She felt nearly coherent when she thanked Gregory and Michael for their assistance and then climbed into the carriage with her family and Connor. And by the time they were rolling down her drive she fancied herself quite . . . Well, herself.

  She’d scarcely heard the words Connor had spoken to her at the altar, but she understood what he was saying to Isobel now. They should pack tonight as he meant to send for the family tomorrow. Thinking that made perfect sense, she nodded as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of her home.

  Isobel hopped out, scooped up a fidgeting George, and headed for the house. Adelaide rose from her seat, intending to follow. Should she pack her ivory muslin gown, she wondered, or had it become so discolored as to be unsalvageable?

  An arm looped around her waist before she could so much as poke her head through the door.

  Laughing, Connor pulled her back inside and onto the bench beside him. “Where do you think you’re going, love?”

  Stunned, she stared at him. “I . . . You said you’d send for us tomorrow. After we packed. You said it not two minutes ago.”

  “I said I’d retrieve the Ward family tomorrow—”He reached over and closed the door. “—Mrs. Brice.”

  It was then that she realized that she wasn’t quite as clearheaded as she’d imagined. Of course he’d not meant for her to return with Isobel and George. Because she was his wife now. Because this was their wedding day. Because, oh, good heavens, it wasn’t done.

  Alarm shot through her at the belated realization that there was more to becoming a wife than going through the motions at a chapel. There were . . . other motions. Secret, wicked motions of which she had only the vaguest understanding.

  “I . . .” Her eyes shot to the door again, and if the carriage hadn’t begun moving at that very second, she may well have made a second attempt at escape.

  Evidently, her thoughts were plain to see, because Connor slipped an arm under her knees and hauled her into his lap. Her alarm spiked to near panic. Did he mean to have it done in a carriage?

  But that particular terror was short-lived. Connor gave no indication of taking premature—in her opinion—advantage of his marital rights. He pressed her cheek to his chest and draped his arms loosely about her waist. She felt his chin brush the top her head.

  “You’ll not regret today,” he said softly and moved his hand in gentle circles against her back.

  Clearly, he wanted to soothe her. She wanted him to be successful. She feared they were both bound for disappointment.

  She was surrounded by the scent of him, vividly aware of the hard beat of his heart and the latent power in his muscular frame. He was so much larger than her, stronger than her, and undoubtedly more knowledgeable of what was shared between husbands and wives.

  She could think of nothing but him, of what he would do, and of what a shortsighted fool she’d been to ask her mother about her wedding day when she ought to have asked after the wedding night. Not her mother’s wedding night, specifically, she was quick to amend—no one should be made to suffer the details of one’s parent’s wedding night—but a wedding night. She ought to have asked her mother what happened on a wedding night.

  She wondered if she could ask Connor, and then wondered if asking was really necessary. While there were a good number of details that were unclear to her, she wasn’t completely ignorant of the subject. The fundamental mechanics were known to her . . . somewhat.

  Maybe she should have spoken with one of the village women, or even Isobel, whose insatiable curiosity had probably led her to acquire a book on the subject. Did they produce books on the subject? Blast, she ought to have asked someone about that.

  Connor’s lips brushed her hair. “
Don’t think so hard, sweetheart.”

  “I’m not.”

  A soft laugh rumbled in his chest. His thumb sought the inside of her elbow, stroking the delicate skin. “Close your eyes, wren. Relax.”

  She took a slow breath and concentrated on the gentleness of his touch and the careful, almost sheltering way he held her. It helped, a little. She wasn’t relaxed when they reached Ashbury Hall, but neither was she quite so tempted to make a dash for home.

  It also helped that the staff was not lined up for a formal welcome. In her opinion, the potential awkwardness in such a scenario was mind-boggling.

  Thank you all for such a warm and generous welcome. As we all are perfectly aware, my first act as mistress of the house shall be to bed your master. Do excuse.

  Good heavens.

  Mrs. McKarnin and a maid were the only servants waiting inside. “Shall I take your gloves, ma’am?”

  “What? No!” Adelaide grimaced when the housekeeper’s eyes grew wide. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. McKarnin. What I meant to say is, thank you for the offer, but I shall retain my gloves for now.” No article of clothing would be removed until such time as it became absolutely necessary. The fact that this was absolutely ludicrous was something she chose to ignore.

  Mrs. McKarnin’s expression softened to one of understanding. “As you like, ma’am. Is there naught I might do for you?”

  “There is. Might I . . .” Ask you some wildly inappropriate questions? “Have a small glass of wine?”

  Connor stepped up beside her. “I’ll see to it, Mrs. McKarnin. Thank you.”

  He placed a warm hand on her back and urged her forward with subtle pressure. Adelaide had no choice but to follow where he led—across the great hall, up the stairs, and down the hall of the family wing. But to her surprise, Connor led her not into the master chambers but its adjoining sitting room. It was relatively smaller in size and less imposing than the rest of the house. The colors, mostly blues and greens, were softer here, the centered chaise lounge and set of upholstered chairs were feminine in design, and the wood in the room was stained a golden brown that glowed in the flickering candlelight.