“You sacrificed your freedom for me,” she reminded him.
“You didn’t ask for it,” he replied. “And I don’t consider what I did a sacrifice.” His words surprised him. Two nights ago when he was scrambling up the sides of houses and over rooftops with Sussex, all he could think about was the sacrifice he was making. Throwing away a perfectly grand bachelorhood for Liana. Sacrificing himself on the altar of matrimony to save Colin’s sister from their father’s foolish indulgence in drink and games of chance he could not win.
“Beware, my lord,” she warned. “That may not always be the case. Someday, I may ask for something more.”
“I will look forward to it.”
Setting her empty cup of chocolate on its saucer, Liana blotted her lips with the napkin, then rubbed her palms together. “Now, tell me all about this game of yours. What are the rules? How do you play it? What must I do to win?”
Alex laughed. “The game is called Taking Liberties and the rules are simple. During our time together here at the Abbey, we are allowed to take liberties with each other that we would not be able to do otherwise…”
“For example…”
“This morning you have snarls in your hair that require careful brushing. Your injury to your wrist prevents you from doing it, so I promised to do so.”
“I had hoped my wrist would be better this morning,” she admitted.
“It isn’t.” Alex knew because she’d dropped her heavy silver fork twice during breakfast. After her second attempt to work it, he’d taken the utensil away from her and fed her from his fork, the way he’d done last night when she couldn’t manage to spoon her lamb stew. “So I’ll happily do it for you, but I’m allowed to take liberties while I do so.”
She was wary. “What sort of liberties?”
“The sort of liberties only a husband or a lover might take.”
She pursed her lips in thought. Alex was almost overwhelmed by the urge to kiss them. “Explain, please.”
“I might steal a kiss or massage your neck or scalp or any other pleasurable liberties you allow.”
“I allow?” she asked. “You told me earlier that as my husband, you have a right to do what you will with my person whether I want it or not.”
“The rules of the game are otherwise,” he hastened to add. “In the game, I can only do what you allow. If you tell me to stop I must stop. If you tell me no, then I cannot take that liberty. And the liberties I do take must be pleasurable, not painful.”
She frowned. “Are the rules the same for me? Am I allowed to take liberties with your person? Or is this a one-sided game where all the cards are stacked in the house’s favor?”
He took a last sip of coffee in order to hide his smile at her gaming terminology. There was a part of Lord McElreath in her after all. “The rules are exactly the same for both of us.”
“What if I wish to watch you shave your whiskers? Or see what you wear to sleep in?”
“I would definitely allow the former,” he told her. “And consider the latter. Depending upon my state when you ask.”
“I don’t understand.” She wrinkled her brow. “Why one and not the other?”
He took a deep breath. “Men are subject to certain physical states over which we have little control—especially in the morning and in times of arousal. That state might prove to be uncomfortable for me to share with you.”
“Will you satisfy my curiosity about such things?”
He nodded. “To the best of my ability, but only if you agree to observe the rules and stop when I say stop or refrain if I say no.”
“I am generally a rule follower,” she reminded him. “Not a rule breaker.”
“Be forewarned, my sweet, because we are going to break all sorts of society’s rules, but only in private. In public, we must be the very pinnacle of circumspect. No one must ever suspect that we are anything but a well-respected marquess and marchioness. Our game must remain between the two of us and nobody else. We cannot play it where it might raise eyebrows or cause embarrassment to others. Only in private.”
“Only in private in our chamber? Or elsewhere?”
“We are free to play the game wherever we like as long as we are guaranteed privacy.”
“Like kissing in the coach yesterday?”
Alex nodded. “Exactly like that.”
“If you say no once, does that mean I cannot ask again?”
He couldn’t imagine ever saying no to any of her requests. The game, after all, was seduction, but Alex had to admire the way the way the new Marchioness of Courtland thought. He especially liked the fact that she was willing to ask the embarrassing questions. “You are always free to ask again. As am I.”
“How do I win at this game?” Liana asked. “I don’t believe in gaming the way Papa does. I don’t believe in playing games I don’t have the skills to win.”
Alex grinned. “My sweet, Liana, we both win at this game.”
She pinned him with a suspicious look. “Have you ever played this game before?”
“Not this game,” he said. “Only variations of it. In my bachelor days.”
“The day before yesterday?”
Alex shook his head. “In my bachelor youth.”
“Much better.” Liana beamed at him. “So, when do we start?”
“Go get your brush and comb, my lady. The game is about to begin.”
* * *
He brushed her hair with a carved wood brush and comb. Alex stared down at the comb in his hand as he used it to work the tangles out of her hair. He’d never seen one made of wood or one so plain. All of his life, his mother had used a silver comb and brush and a silver-backed mirror had rested on her dresser beside them. His nanny had used tortoiseshell combs and brushes on his hair and on her own. At Harrogate, he’d used tortoiseshell as well. He’d never seen a wooden comb or brush and wondered why a lady like Liana had them.
“Alex, what is it? Why did you stop? Is my hair hopelessly snarled?” she asked from her position on the reclining couch he’d dragged from her bedchamber to a cozy spot in front of the fire in the sitting room. He sat on a chair behind her, her long hair spilling over the arm of the couch and onto his lap.
“No,” he replied. “I’m making progress, but I was wondering if I had the right tools for the job.”
“I’m afraid those are the only tools I have.” Liana leaned back and gazed up at her husband, getting her second good look at the scar on the underside of his chin. She had the urge to trace the contours of it with the tip of her tongue.
“I’ve never seen a wooden comb and brush set before, and while the carving is nice, I don’t recall ever seeing a set like it.” He paused. “My mother has a silver set. I have a tortoiseshell set. I was wondering why you have a wooden set.”
She shrugged. “You know why.”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t believe I do.”
“Papa.” She sighed. “I’m sure my Maman had a silver comb and brush and mirror dresser set at one time, but silver and tortoiseshell are valuable and anything valuable in our house was likely to disappear. Papa probably pawned it years ago. And I’m equally sure Maman decided to replace all of our combs and brushes and mirrors with wooden ones so Papa wouldn’t leave us with no way to arrange our hair the morning after his gaming losses.”
Liana was brutally honest. And her honesty made his chest ache. “I’m sorry I asked.” He was equally honest. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” she said. “If anything, I feel guilty.”
“Guilty? Why on earth would you feel guilty over your sire’s failings as a husband and father?” He patiently separated the strands of hair, working the teeth of the comb through the worst of her tangles.
“I’ve been fortunate enough to escape not only Rothermere, but Papa’s guardianship as well when Maman and Caroline have not.”
He pulled the comb through the long, fine, strands, letting them slip from his hand to the arm of
the couch and back again until all the snarls were gone and her hair hung straight and silky smooth against the arm of the reclining couch. Alex looked at it lying there, then scooped up a handful of it. “I’m not sure I can pin it into place for you.”
“Do you know how to plait?”
“I know how it’s supposed to be done,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it as well as Lady McElreath or Caroline would.”
Liana smiled up at him. “I don’t require perfection, Alex.” She lifted her injured arm to remind him why he was brushing her hair. “All I need is a hand. Do the best you can. I promise not to complain. However you plait it will be good enough for me.”
Lifting her hair from the couch, Alex began to fashion it into a serviceable braid. When he reached the end, Liana held up a lavender hair ribbon with which to tie it.
Alex doubled the ribbon and tied it around the bottom of her braid in a fine imitation of the intricate four-in-hand his valet had insisted he learn to tie. “All done.” He draped her braid over her shoulder and handed her the hand mirror that matched her dresser set.
Liana lifted the mirror and looked at the back of her braid. “Thank you.”
Alex slid off the chair and onto his knees behind her. “Taking liberties,” he announced. “Yes or no?”
Her heart began to pound as he placed a kiss on the nape of her neck. “May I ask a question first?”
“Of course.”
“Will I still be allowed to come into your bed at night?”
He answered honestly. “I’d like that.”
She looked up at him. “Let the game begin.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.”
–Henry Fielding, 1707-1754
The staff of Greneleafe Abbey was all a-twitter. Lord Alex had finally brought home a bride and it was plain to see this wasn’t a marriage of convenience as so many noble marriages were. His union to Lady Liana McElreath was a true love match, just as his father’s and mother’s had been.
A new Lord and Lady Courtland had returned to Greneleafe and all the maids and footmen whispered and giggled among themselves at what was going on. Lord Alex thought he was fooling the staff, but there were far more maids and footmen and gardeners and stable boys with eyes and ears at the Abbey than there were lords and the ladies.
The gossip running through the Abbey told of fireside picnics in different rooms of the house—including the empty nursery and schoolroom and the bachelor wing. Of grown-up games of hide and seek, of smoldering looks and stolen kisses in the library. Long, passionate kisses behind the draperies in the music room and in the alcoves and late night giggles coming from the musician’s gallery. Tender touches, brushes of flesh against bare flesh, missing buttons and tangled laces and clothing left lying in heaps where they’d been discarded.
And then there was the bed.
The big, carved English oak bed in the lord’s bedchamber had been occupied every night for nearly a week. The bed in the lady’s bedchamber had not. The footmen who lit fires in the sitting room and delivered morning trays spoke of intimate meals, tender whispers, and hand holding beneath the table. And the maids who changed the bed linens and towels snickered over their state and the fact that there wasn’t a nightshirt to be found among them.
It was just like old times. Love had returned to Greneleafe Abbey and every man, woman, and child on the place delighted in witnessing it.
But the excitement turned to concern when news of the scandal reached the Abbey less than a week after their lord and his new lady arrived.
Westerly knocked on the door of the sitting room at half past six with the breakfast tray and the freshly ironed London newspapers.
The article in the Times was small and printed on the society page: Marquess of Courtland Weds.
The Morning Chronicle, a paper known for its love of scandal, ran it on page one: Marquess of Courtland Interrupts Marquess of Rothermere’s Wedding.
Alex answered the door wearing his quilted robe and a pair of unbuttoned buckskin breeches. His feet were bare. His hair mussed. He put a finger to his lips as Westerly entered the room, warning the butler to keep his voice low. “Her Ladyship is sleeping.”
Westerly set the tray on the table and poured steaming hot coffee from the pot into a cup for his master.
“Thank you, Westerly.” Alex accepted the coffee from his butler and took a grateful sip, noting as he did so that the other pot on the tray was a teapot, not a chocolate pot. Liana was holding firm on her decision to deny herself chocolate until Sunday. He smiled at her stubborn resolution.
“These arrived in the regular morning mail packet from London, sir. I thought you would want to see them right away.” He handed Alex the two newspapers.
Alex set his cup on the saucer, unfolded the Times and scanned the headlines. There was a detailed report on the progress of the Congress of Vienna and another on the social whirl surrounding the diplomats and nobility gathered to decide the fate of Europe after Napoleon’s defeat. According to the report, there was more intrigue among the noble lords and ladies than there were discussions of treaties and peace. There was an article on Napoleon’s life as an exile on Elba, another on the progress of the war in America. Two columns were devoted exclusively to the news from the East India Company and the prices of molasses, sugar cane, and rum from the Caribbean.
“Page three, sir,” Westerly offered.
Alex opened the paper to page three and read the article detailing his wedding to Miss McElreath at St. Michael’s Church. It was full of description of the ceremony performed by His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the attendants, distinguished guests, and the wedding breakfast that followed. “We’ll save this one for Lady Courtland.” He placed the newspaper, folded to the wedding article, at Liana’s customary place and picked up the Morning Chronicle. The headline above the fold struck him like a fist to the chest the moment he read it: Marquess of Courtland Interrupts Marquess of Rothermere’s Wedding.
Alex read the scandalous account of the aborted wedding at St. Bartholomew’s Chapel, including an account of the Marquess of Courtland’s bursting in and declaring Lord Rothermere was about to marry his betrothed. It gave a one-sided, mostly false, description of the events that had taken place that morning, including a list of the distinguished guests in attendance. Alex wasn’t interested in the details. What interested him was the list of distinguished guests in attendance. He read the list. His mother’s name wasn’t on it. Alex didn’t know if it had been omitted by mistake or because the publisher of the Chronicle had no wish to tangle with the Dowager Marchioness of Courtland. Alex couldn’t help but think that if the publisher knew the new Marchioness of Courtland, he wouldn’t want to tangle with her either.
“Have you read this?” he asked Westerly.
The butler nodded. “I couldn’t help but read it when I was ironing it, my lord.”
Alex took another sip of his coffee. “Did you read it to the staff?” He knew it was customary for the butler at each of his residences to read the morning paper aloud to the staff for the benefit of those who could not read it for themselves.
“No, sir. I did not.” Westerly replied. “I read the Times to them this morning.”
Alex met the butler’s gaze, silently thanking him once again. “I see we’re of the same accord. I’ll make a copy of the guest list from it and then, I’ll burn this—” He waved the paper. “I see no reason to upset Lady Courtland with an article in a scandal rag.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but is there anything the staff should know about that?”
“All the staff needs to know about Lady Courtland, they can learn from her behavior. She’s a lady from a family with an old and honorable title but little money. Whatever you think about what you’ve read, I want you to know that I could not have made a better choice for a marchioness.”
Westerly shook his head. “Sir, you don’t understand. I’m not questio
ning your judgment, sir. I only meant to inquire whether there might be trouble on the horizon and if we should be on our guard for acquaintances of Lord Rothermere who might not be as congenial to Lady Courtland as they should be.”
“I appreciate the thought, Westerly, and the extra sets of eyes looking out for Her Ladyship’s welfare.”
Westerly’s stiff demeanor softened a bit. “Lord Alex, I speak for the staff when I say that we are as pleased with your choice of a marchioness and a mistress for Greneleafe Abbey as you are.” He gave Alex a knowing look. “Despite the fact that we’ve hardly had the opportunity to get to know her.”
“That’s because I’m taking the opportunity to get to know her. We are on our honeymoon, Westerly,” Alex replied. “And we appreciate the discretion of the staff.”
“That goes without saying, sir.” He smiled at the young man he’d known and served since Alex was born. “And, sir…”
“Yes?”
“May I say that it’s nice to see you laugh and smile again?”
Alex hadn’t thought about it much, but the times he’d come to the Abbey during the past two or three years he had come on business—either estate business or League business. There hadn’t been any ladies or youthful indiscretions and no reason to smile or laugh. Everything had been serious. “Thank you, Westerly. It’s nice to laugh and smile again.”
“I suppose we’ve Lady Courtland to thank for that,” Westerly added.
“I suppose you’re right.” Alex knew his butler was right. He hadn’t smiled or laughed so much in years. And he couldn’t remember being this happy, this settled since he’d become the marquess.
“We are grateful to her,” Westerly told him. “It is nice to see a couple so much in love. It’s almost like having your mother and father here again. Theirs was a happy household. The Abbey rang with laughter back then, too. And the staff were forever accidentally interrupting romantic rendezvous between the former Lord and Lady Courtland.” The butler nodded to Alex before heading for the door.
A Bachelor Still Page 21
