The sheer size of it all left her feeling more alone than ever before, particularly after the upstairs maids had removed her bath and vacated the chamber, leaving Jane alone with Meg.
“Your Grace, I’m glad we added the rosehip to your bath water this evening.” They sat near the fire, and the lady’s maid was brushing Jane’s hair from behind. A silken wrapper was Jane’s only covering after her bath. “It’s a lovely scent, ma’am.”
She’d attempted to tell Meg not to bother with such an extravagance; it wouldn’t matter tonight, since Peter wouldn’t be demanding anything of her. Jane’s fate for her wedding night was to spend it alone.
“You needn’t bother with formalities, Meg. The idea of being called Your Grace doesn’t sit well with me.” Just how, precisely, had she ended up a duchess? The events of the last twenty-four hours were all blurring together into a giant cloud in her mind.
“No, ma’am, I must. That would be most improper. His Grace would replace me on the spot if he learned I wasn’t giving you the proper respect.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose we cannot have that, can we?”
Her new life could be worse, she knew. If Peter hadn’t arrived when he did last night, Jane could well be married to Lord Utley. That had been Utley’s plan, after all—though Jane couldn’t fathom why he’d plotted such a thing. Surely that was why Lady Plumridge had rushed up to catch them, though. What other purpose could the gossipmonger have had for being in the family’s quarters? If things had gone to Utley’s plan, surely Jane wouldn’t be preparing to spend her wedding night alone.
She shivered. Her life could be far worse.
Marriage to Peter might not turn out to be as dreadful as she’d once imagined it to be. True, he was leaving her in a state of nerves with his unexpected decision this evening. Jane would almost rather have the deed done and over with. At least then she wouldn’t wonder if there were some other reason (an aversion to her, or perhaps anger at the circumstances?) he wasn’t insisting she fulfill this particular duty.
And everyone knew how highly her husband valued duty and responsibility.
“There now, that should do, ma’am.” Meg stood and returned the silver-plated brush to the gilded vanity. “Lady Sophia sent a few things up for you, Your Grace. Since you don’t have a trousseau, that is.”
When Meg turned around, she was carrying a few colored gauzy articles—nightrails, most likely—and coming toward Jane with them.
“Thank you, Meg, but that will be all for tonight, please.” The thought of having someone help her into one of those things, even if the girl had seen her before, didn’t sit well. Maybe because she knew no one else would be seeing her in it. Certainly not her husband. Jane doubted she would see him before they broke their fasts the next day.
And by then, she intended to be fully dressed.
Meg placed the items on a dressing table and curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.” Then she slid out the door and padded silently away.
Jane dug through the armoire in her dressing area until she found one of her old, comfortable, white cotton nightrails. Once she had it on, she placed the new gowns where it had been.
After taking a candlestick from the dressing room, she slipped into her new bedchamber. The counterpane had been turned down. Yet another thing Peter must have ordered done, since Jane had finally broken Meg of that habit. Little things like that, she preferred to do for herself.
It was obvious he didn’t expect her to visit his bed tonight—or at least not to remain with him.
Fine.
If he didn’t want her, she certainly wouldn’t force herself on him.
Jane brushed away the tear falling down her cheek. Drat. Crying was a highly inconvenient manner of falling asleep.
But by the time she slipped beneath the silken sheets, the dam had burst. Mr. Cuddlesworth leapt out of his basket and onto the bed, then curled up on her back and kneaded until she’d cried herself dry.
~ * ~
Peter slept in fits and starts that night. The knowledge that Jane lay in the opposite chamber of his suite burned at him. Nearly every time he woke, he was hard as steel and dreaming of her. Which, he noted, was not exactly the easiest manner of resting after his sleepless night last night.
Only a couple of walls separated them. It was torture.
When he awoke and discovered himself grinding his hips against a pillow, he questioned his own decision to allow Jane to decide when they would copulate. Celibacy with Mary had been entirely too easy. Restraining himself from touching Jane might yet kill him, if it went on too long. And if this self-imposed celibacy, even in marriage, neglected to kill him, he might resort to murder.
By the eighth time he woke, the sun shone through the picture window in his chamber, peeking around the edges of heavy drapes. There would be no more sleep for the weary.
~ * ~
Peter had set his plan to woo Jane into motion the day after their marriage.
He arranged for Cook to send up a breakfast for them each morning, so they could dine alone together in the sitting room. He instructed Mrs. Wilson, the housekeeper of Hardwicke House, to assign an additional maid to see to Jane’s needs, so that she would have one of her two available at all times.
Then he met privately with his mother and discussed which of the responsibilities that had previously fallen on her shoulders in the running of Hardwicke House would be transferred to his wife, since Jane should now be involved in such affairs. They also discussed which of those numerous responsibilities Peter would now take care of himself.
He scheduled time each afternoon to receive guests with Jane, so as to be certain everyone who came afforded her the respect her position as his duchess demanded, and so she would not feel overwhelmed by her new social obligations.
He escorted her to social functions in the evenings—to the theater, the opera, to various balls and musicales and the like—making certain to be visible at her side, to fetch her lemonade, to assist her in every way possible. Peter wanted there to be no doubt amongst the ton that he was enamored with his wife.
It was all rather exhausting.
And still, after nearly two weeks of catering to her every want or need, she had neglected to come to his bed.
His level of sexual frustration would soon reach epic proportions.
Spending this amount of time in her presence was certainly not helping matters any. He had come to genuinely enjoy her company. Jane’s smile could light an entire ballroom far better than hundreds of candles, and her laughter could melt the heart of even the stodgiest of curmudgeons—as evidenced by her effect upon old Rotheby, who had come with Alex and Grace to visit his grandson and great-grandson in Town.
But while she smiled and laughed freely—and often—when they were with his mother and sisters or in company, her joy fled when they were alone.
Peter began to think he was doomed to fail, yet again, at creating a marriage based on love. Not from any lack of effort. Nor from a lack of love on his part. Deuce take it, somewhere along the way, he had gone and fallen head over ears in love with his wife. Yet she loathed being in his company and dreaded his touch.
A lesser man would forget about the promise he had made to her. But that wasn’t Peter’s way.
Instead, he chose to redouble his efforts at showing her of his love through his actions.
Eventually, he would wear her down. Jane would come to him.
Peter had to believe it.
~ * ~
Jane’s new husband was driving her to distraction. Throughout the two weeks since they married, he hadn’t allowed her to lift a blessed finger.
Take this morning, for example. They sat together in the downstairs drawing room, Peter on an wingback chair near the window, and Jane across from him on the brocade sofa with Mr. Cuddlesworth’s basket at her feet. Before they married, Peter would have been dealing with his account ledgers and reports on his estates in his library.
But today? Today he had them spread out before
him in the drawing room, so he could spend time with her.
And what, one might wonder, was Jane allowed to do while he did this? She would prefer to be meeting with the housekeeper and discussing the schedule of rotation for cleaning the various unused rooms of the house, or perhaps working with some footmen to move the furniture from one room to another, so as to make use of a different room.
Even if she couldn’t be performing one of those tasks, she could be sewing a pretty new gown for Sarah, or taking the children for a walk through the park.
Instead, she was relegated to embroidery. Useless embroidery, she might add. One couldn’t very well wear a swatch of embroidery to a ball, after all.
So much for his promise of giving her some of her own responsibilities, so she wouldn’t feel so blasted useless. Every time she turned around, a maid or footman was rushing to assist her. Her responsibilities in overseeing the running of Hardwicke House had been reduced to conferencing with Cook each day about the menu for meals. Mrs. Pratt was still in charge of the nursery, so Jane couldn’t even participate in rearing Peter’s children without feeling like she was encroaching upon someone else’s position.
Mama Hardwicke and her daughters had moved to their new lodgings at Number Seven, Curzon Street earlier in the week. Neil had yet to return from the country, but Peter assured her that the youngest Hardwicke brother would secure some bachelor lodgings as soon as he returned.
Jane wasn’t even granted the responsibility of seeing after them and their needs.
The only thing she was allowed to do beyond embroidery, it seemed, was pour the tea when they had guests. Even with that, Peter would often rush to take the cups from her and pass them about.
If all of that wasn’t enough, his lack of insistence upon engaging in the marriage act had gone on for so long she was certain that not only did he not love her, but he couldn’t possibly even feel lust for her. The bit of lust she’d assumed he felt from their previous encounters had all but faded, leaving her with no alternative but to believe she’d only imagined its existence in the first place.
She was a dismal failure as a wife.
For all Jane knew, Peter felt she was just as dismal a failure at being his duchess—hence his insistence upon helping her with even the smallest of tasks, like passing around the tea.
If those worries weren’t enough to keep her awake at night (or cause her to cry herself to sleep, as the case may be), Mr. Cuddlesworth had started acting rather peculiar.
From the day they’d arrived at Hardwicke House, her cat had latched on to Sarah. Jane didn’t mind. He had always enjoyed children, so she was glad to see he had a new friend. He still came to spend time with Jane, particularly in the afternoons when she and the Hardwicke sisters would gather in the downstairs drawing room to see their guests. At that point in the day, the sun warmed the room, and cast sunbeams across the floor where he could sleep. But otherwise, he stayed with Sarah—even at night, on occasion.
But every night since their wedding, Mr. Cuddlesworth had been sneaking into Jane’s chamber and stretching himself out across her back, much as he had done as a kitten. He would stay with her the entire night, and remain by her side or on her lap the entire day. This behavior had continued every day, without fail.
Sarah would occasionally come and fetch him. Then she’d carry him off to the nursery to play with her. But as soon as someone opened the door so he could escape, he would dart out and search the house for Jane.
She hadn’t thought too much of it at first. Things in Mr. Cuddlesworth’s life had changed drastically in recent months, after all—much as they’d changed in Jane’s life. But now, she worried that his old age was finally catching up with him.
On this particular morning, Jane’s spine bristled every time her husband “hemmed” or “hummed” about something in his records. She jabbed her needle through the fabric much harder than she intended, poking her finger in the process.
“Drat,” she muttered. She pushed the fabric aside and looked down. Her finger was bleeding. She put it in her mouth so the blood wouldn’t ruin her work or her gown. Mr. Cuddlesworth opened his eyes for a brief moment and purred at her.
Peter didn’t even glance up at her. Good. With the way he’d been behaving toward her of late, he would likely send for a doctor if he knew she was bleeding.
Spenser poked his head in the open doorway. “Lord Neil, Your Grace.” Before the butler could step aside and allow him entrance, Neil barreled through the doorway.
“Peter.” He hurriedly inclined his head and struggled to catch his breath, as though he had just run from halfway across Town. Then he turned to Jane and repeated the gesture. “Your Grace.”
Good Lord, would everyone in her life suddenly be calling her that? She supposed they would. Neil hadn’t even stumbled over the title—he hadn’t even thought twice about perhaps calling her Jane, as he had before. How aggravating.
Neil returned his serious gaze to Peter. “I need to speak with you. Urgently.”
“About—er, about Carreg Mawr?” her husband asked.
Carreg Mawr—was that his estate in Wales? She couldn’t quite remember. He’d gone through a litany of estates he owned one day as she sat doing her embroidery, telling her all about them and when they might visit each. The name of the place certainly sounded more Welsh than English though, so it likely was.
Neil lifted a brow, but didn’t betray anything Jane could decipher. “Yes . There are a number of developments, shall we call them? that we should discuss.”
Peter rose and carefully stacked his ledgers into a neat pile upon a table. “Come to my library. Jane, I apologize. I hate to abandon you, but I would be loath to bore you with business. Excuse us.”
Bore her, indeed. Listening in on their discussion might actually provide her something with which to occupy her mind. Yet she waved the two men off. Let them have their silly business conversations. She would enjoy her time alone—which, she had to admit, was in rather short supply these last weeks.
Before she could settle into her solitude, however, Spenser interrupted her again. He inclined his head. “Lady Sophia and Lady Charlotte, Your Grace.”
“Oh, do please send them in.” She had only seen them twice in the last week, and even on those occasions they’d been unable to truly talk.
Her two friends rushed in and drew her into a hug, careful not to disturb the sleeping cat upon her lap.
“Is Peter gone?” asked Sophie.
“Not gone. He’s meeting with your brother, Neil, in his library.” Jane gestured for them both to take a seat.
Sophie picked up a scone from the nearby platter before settling in to the loveseat. “Good. Then we can have a real conversation.”
“Are you settling in to married life well, Jane?” asked Char. “You look...you look like you aren’t sleeping.”
She had hoped it wouldn’t show. But these two knew her better than anyone else. Perhaps no one else would notice.
“Are you?” Sophie scrutinized her thoroughly.
There was certainly no point in lying to either lady. They’d likely see through to the truth, in any case.
“Some. Not enough. And not well when I do sleep.”
Sophie grinned. “Is Peter keeping you up at night? I remember when Meredith Ingersoll first married Lord Sainsbury, they both had circles beneath their eyes for weeks. And ten months later, their twins came into the world.”
Jane frowned. “And what would you know of such things, being an unmarried lady, hmm?” Her attempt at a joke rang hollow, even to her own ears. Perhaps because, even as a married lady, she knew nothing of such matters.
Sophie failed to blush over the barb.
“But no. That’s not why I can’t sleep.” Jane recounted her list of complaints against her husband. After all, if she couldn’t talk to Peter’s sisters about her concerns, who could she talk to? Certainly not Peter. However, she neglected to mention the parts involving their lack of intimacy. Some things were
simply not suitable to discuss with unmarried ladies.
Sophie would not let her off so easy, though. “And how are things working out between you two at night?”
Charlotte blushed profusely. “Sophie! You can’t ask her that.”
“I just did.” She gave her sister a look that clearly dared her to challenge her again. “Now answer me.”
“I...well, there is...there isn’t much to say.” Jane could hardly believe she was having this conversation.
This answer clearly did not satisfy Sophie. “Why?”
Why? Oh, drat. She couldn’t possibly admit that, in two weeks of marriage, she’d never been touched by her husband. Could she?
Her new sister wouldn’t let the question go unanswered, though. “Is it unpleasant for you?”
“Oh, no,” she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “That is, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” Sophie stared at her, her eyes wide. “Peter hasn’t bedded you yet? Good Lord, why ever not?”
Charlotte reached out and took her hand. “Did you deny him? Surely things aren’t so bad you must resort to such measures, Jane.”
“I’ve done no such thing.” This was all dreadfully embarrassing to discuss. “He told me...” But the words seemed so terribly pathetic to confess out loud. “He told me that when I was ready, I should come to him. That he wouldn’t require that from me—seeing as how he already has an heir.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “He doesn’t want me. Peter only married me because he had to, but he doesn’t want me that way.”
Mr. Cuddlesworth looked up at her with sad, amber eyes and pressed his head repeatedly into her hand until she scratched his ears.
“Fiddlesticks,” Sophie said.
“What do you mean?” Jane asked.
“Our brother may have a number of things left to learn, I’ll never deny that. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He watches you like a cat stalking a mouse. Trust me. He wants you very much.”
A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle Page 86
