“You heard me,” he said, a challenging edge to his voice. “It’s not as though you’re hideous.”
“Well, thank you for that backhanded compliment.”
She turned her head and stared out the window.
“I meant no insult. I simply can’t fathom that a woman could go through life and never have known a kiss.”
The furrows grew shallow, and the harsh lines around her mouth softened. He didn’t think she was seeing the trees and land that spread out before them. Instead she seemed to be gazing inward.
“I was nine when the war started. Thirteen when it ended. There weren’t many fellas around during those years.”
“No men, certainly, but there would have been children.”
Slowly she shook her head and looked at him with sad eyes. “Not many boys stayed behind. As soon as they could beat a drum, they joined their father or older brother on the battlefield. The fellas from a town fought together, which meant if the Yankees were victorious, a town could lose most of its men. That’s what happened to Fortune.”
She glanced back out the window. “The few who did return…Defeat haunted them. When you’ve survived hell, it’s hard to trust in the existence of heaven.”
She lifted a shoulder slightly. “Those who might have shown an interest in me before the war had grown into men surrounded by blood and death. They weren’t quite comfortable around girls. Besides, so few returned, they could have their choice of girls. Why settle for tin when you can have gold?”
He contemplated telling her that he didn’t consider her tin, but then neither was she gold. She hovered somewhere in between—common, yet precious. Why in God’s name did he think that?
“Your eyes carry that haunted, defeated look,” she said softly.
Her gaze was trained on him now, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she was looking down the sight of a rifle, getting a good bead on him, searching for his vulnerable spot so she could destroy him with one well-aimed shot.
“I don’t see how that can be, countess, when I’ve never gone to war.”
“Battles aren’t always fought over land or between nations.”
“I assume you speak from experience.”
She gave him a soft smile before turning her attention back to the countryside.
“We are not engaged in a war, you and I,” he announced.
“I’m glad you feel that way, my lord, because if we were, you’d lose.”
There it was again. The obstinate part of her nature that she kept hidden, as though she wasn’t quite certain if it belonged to her or not.
He didn’t want to be intrigued by her, and yet he was. What baffled him was that he was actually pleased he did not have to return to Huntingdon alone.
Georgina fought desperately not to gawk as she stepped into what she supposed was the main foyer. To her embarrassment, her mouth had dropped open when the driver—she was relatively certain a groom should have accompanied them on the trip, but it seemed Devon had a smaller staff than Ravenleigh—had helped her out of Devon’s carriage and she’d caught her first sight of his home.
His home. Heavens! From what she’d been able to see as they approached, she could have fitted almost every store that lined the main street of Fortune inside it.
But once inside, she noticed the evident signs of deterioration. The floors were not polished to the same sheen as those in London were. The draperies were faded.
Since guests here were no doubt few and far between, Devon had not needed to keep up a front, as he had in London, where people could easily drop by. Still, the place came close to being a palace as far as she was concerned.
Gilded chandeliers, statues, paintings. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. Someone had painted cherubs frolicking in fields. She slowly turned, resisting the strong desire to lie on the floor so she could study the artwork without straining her neck.
“Milord, you’ve arrived,” a stately voice announced.
She jerked around and watched as the butler approached. His jacket was frayed at the edges, and his shoes had seen better days, yet he stopped before them with a haughty dignity and bowed slightly.
“Winston, please see that the east wing is prepared for my…wife,” Devon commanded in a strained voice. “And see that she is made to feel at home there.”
She didn’t think Winston could have looked more shocked if Devon had aimed a loaded pistol at him.
He recovered quickly and tilted his head slightly. “Milady, if you’ll allow me to escort you to the east wing.”
“What about the children?” she asked, turning her attention to her husband.
“I’ll introduce you to them later. At present, I have important matters to which I must attend.”
“What could possibly be more important than your children?”
Fury flashed in his eyes, and a jaw muscle contracted. “Winston, where are the children?”
“In the day nursery, milord.”
“Countess, if you’ll honor me with your presence, I’ll make introductions, after which you may retire to your wing.”
He crooked his elbow, a courtesy gesture he might not have made if the butler hadn’t been standing nearby. She slipped her arm through his, surprised by the firmness that greeted her—a hardness caused more by restrained anger than arduous work.
“Winston, see to her ladyship’s accommodations.”
“Yes, milord.”
Devon led her down the long, wide expanse of the hallway and up the grand sweeping staircase.
“Never question my actions in front of the servants again,” he warned through clenched teeth once Winston was no longer within hearing.
“Forgive me, my lord. I was under the impression that I was about to be banished to the farthest regions of the house, and I wasn’t certain if I’d ever see hide nor hair of you again.”
He snapped his head around. “You are my countess. Our spending some time together will be unavoidable.”
She slipped her arm free of his. It took him two steps to realize she wasn’t following like an adoring pet. He glared at her.
“Devon, this arrangement is asinine.”
“Lest we forget, allow me to remind you this arrangement came about as a result of your father’s inability to walk away from a gaming table.”
“You’re not the only one he hurt.”
He averted his gaze, his hand gripping the banister until his knuckles turned white. “He did not hurt me. He failed to uphold his end of the bargain, and for his weakness I am forced to pay an extremely steep price.”
He’d promised Devon wealth and given him nothing. She couldn’t even claim to have a husband after the journey they’d taken for the most part in complete, absolute, infuriating silence.
“Although I must admit it does not seem he did well by you either. However, he could have done worse. At least I am not in the habit of striking women.”
“You think blows can only be made against flesh?”
He blanched. Civilized Englishmen seemed to have no way to release their anger. Back home she would have ridden a horse hard, galloped him until they were bone-tired.
She placed her hand on his arm. “Devon, we’re both weary from the journey and disappointed. Introduce me to the children. Then we can part company, and with any luck—in this massive structure—you’ll never set eyes on me again.”
He began walking up the stairs. “As I mentioned, Countess, there are times when we’ll be unable to avoid each other’s company. Dinner, for one. I’ll not have the servants whispering about our failure to dine together.”
He was exiling her to the farthest regions of his home, and he was worried about meals? She considered pointing out his flawed logic, but she thought it might be best if they did indeed live at opposite ends of the house. Their wedding night had given her unexpected memories to cherish. He’d thought he was getting something out of the bargain then.
She dared not contemplate his bedding her when he knew his only
prize was her. She didn’t think he’d be as thoughtful, as considerate. The act would be cold and leave her feeling emptier than she felt now.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was as remarkable as the foyer, although she also noticed signs of its decline. How hard it must be for Devon to witness such grandeur aging ungracefully.
At the end of the wide corridor, he opened a heavy mahogany door. She preceded him inside to what she instinctively knew was a day nursery. A rocking horse stood unused in a corner. Books lined a tiny set of shelves. A large dollhouse dominated a section of one wall.
And children. Children sat at a small table with a woman who looked as though she had one foot in the grave and was gingerly lifting the other one to join it. Her bones creaked as she stood. “Milord.”
The children snapped their heads around. “Father!” they yelled in unison.
The children stood and with their arms raised, they dashed across the room.
The harsh rumble of Devon clearing his throat bounced off the high ceilings.
The children staggered to a stop, their little chests heaving, their eyes once bright with joy now downcast in shame.
“That is hardly the manner in which children take leave of a table,” Devon said sternly.
The children spun on their heels, their tiny shoulders slumped forward in dejection as they trudged back to the table and straightened their chairs before turning to face their father as though they were soldiers about to be inspected by a general.
Devon offered them a curt nod and they marched forward.
Georgina wanted to slam her fist into her husband’s handsome face. For all of her father’s shortcomings—and she wasn’t blind enough not to realize that he had possessed many—he’d always loved her unequivocally.
She remembered all the times he’d returned home from a long day at work only to scoop her up in his arms as soon as her churning legs got her close enough to him. He’d hold her high above his head, his grin so wide that she’d been able to see the gaping hole at the back where he’d once had a tooth knocked out by a kicking mule.
“You’re my sunshine!” he’d yell for the whole world to hear.
And she’d known it was true. They’d been poor for much of her life, but she’d always felt rich.
“I’m glad you’re home, Father,” the boy said.
With his hands clasped behind his back, he was a small replica of the man standing rigidly in front of him. The sunlight easing in through the floor-to-ceiling window stroked his black hair, making it seem almost blue in places. But not nearly as blue as his eyes, which reflected the calmness of a placid lake. They no longer sparkled with joy but sought acceptance.
“Yeth, Father,” the little girl lisped. “We’re tho glad you’re home.” She smiled tentatively, her fingers fiddling with the bow on the front of her dress.
Devon nodded curtly. “Lord Noel. Lady Millicent. May I introduce my wife, Lady Huntingdon.”
Since smacking their father was out of the question, Georgina dropped to her knees and smiled warmly. “But you may call me Gina.”
“They may not,” Devon said curtly.
She angled her head toward him and flashed him a sickly sweet grin. “They may indeed.”
“Milady, it’s simply not done,” the governess stated, her hands primly clutched in front of her.
“And you are?”
“The governess, milady. Mrs. Tavers.”
“Then you must forgive me, Mrs. Tavers. I’m not yet familiar with all the British etiquette. I assumed that since I am the countess and this is my home, I could establish some rules outside of societal constraints.”
“It would confuse the children, milady, to have two sets of rules to follow.”
“Are you saying that my lord’s children are dimwitted?”
Devon paid attention to the exchange with interest. Christopher had warned him about Texas ladies. The night he’d proposed, Gina had first shown him some of her stubbornness. He’d not expected her to bring it into his home, however.
He watched Mrs. Tavers’s cheeks burn bright red. He feared the woman might swoon on the spot.
“Of course not, milady. My lord’s children are exceedingly bright.”
“Then I would think they could well comprehend that when it is only us, they may call me Gina, and when we are in the company of others, they are to address me with the stilted name of Lady Huntingdon.” She arched a delicate brow. “Are you smart enough to know the difference?”
Devon was hit with unexpected pride as his son thrust out his tiny chest.
“Yes, my lady, we are,” Noel answered.
Devon did not miss that his son included his sister in his answer. He felt his throat tightening with an emotion he couldn’t quite put a name to, something that went beyond fatherly satisfaction.
“How old are you, Lord Noel?” Georgina asked.
Noel darted a glance up at Devon, who gave him a brusque nod.
“Eight,” he answered.
“And you, Lady Millicent?” she asked.
“I’m five.” Her eyes widened. “I have a loothe tooth.” She opened her mouth and flicked her tongue over a lower tooth.
Before he could scold his daughter for such inappropriate behavior, Gina had eased down to the floor, latched onto Millicent, and pulled her onto her lap so she could inspect the tooth more closely.
“How exciting!” Gina crooned. “It looks like it’ll come out any day now.”
Apparently not at all uncomfortable that she was sitting on a stranger’s lap, Millicent nodded quickly. Devon was certain that the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows was responsible for softening the lines of his wife’s face.
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. Not even on her wedding day had she looked that radiant. As though she’d suddenly discovered the moon and stars had been placed in the heavens for her pleasure alone.
“Are you our mother?” Millicent asked.
“No,” Devon said brusquely as he shoved himself away from the wall, regretting the harshness in his voice as his daughter’s face fell and she scrambled off Gina’s lap. Regretting more the disappointment that swept through Gina’s eyes before she worked her way to her feet.
“Mrs. Tavers, I apologize for interrupting the studies. We’ll leave you to the children now.” He extended his elbow toward his wife. “Countess, you and I need to talk.”
With a swish of her skirts, she spun on her heel and strode from the room. Judging by the wide-eyed stares of his children, they had not missed the fact she had snubbed their father.
Ah, yes, they needed to talk quite badly.
Chapter 13
“Y ou’re determined to make this entire situation as difficult as possible, aren’t you?”
Sitting behind the desk in his study, Devon studied his wife as she stood in front of the window. Sunlight glimmered in a halo around her, but she did not appear angelic. With her hands on her hips, she more closely resembled a warrior goddess. She almost looked magnificent.
“I allowed you your freedom to establish rules of behavior for the day nursery—”
“Freedom?” she said. “You allowed me my freedom?”
She moved forward, planted her palms on his desk, and leaned toward him. “My freedom is not yours to give. I own it—lock, stock, and barrel.”
No woman had ever dared to speak to him so defiantly or look at him with fire shooting from her eyes. Certainly Margaret never had. For a time she had worshipped the ground upon which Devon had stood. Then she’d simply whined and sulked.
“Madam, you are my wife—”
“But not your slave.”
He felt a muscle in his jaw jump. He was in danger of grinding his teeth down to nothing.
Sadness touched her eyes as she straightened. “You didn’t even hug them,” she said resignedly, as though all her anger had eased away. “You’re their father, you’ve been gone at least six weeks, and you never once touched
them.”
“It’s simply not done.”
“They’re your children.”
“There are expectations that must be met by the children of an aristocrat—”
“Damn the aristocracy, its expectations, and its rules. Noel and Millicent are your children!”
He didn’t know what shocked him more, her immense anger or her use of profanity. “Madam, there are also expectations of the wife—”
Shaking her head, she returned to the window.
“Never turn your back on me,” he warned her through clenched teeth.
“We’ve been intimate,” she said quietly. “We’ve caressed each other. You’ve heard me cry out during the height of passion.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Yet you speak to me as though I’m someone you’ve just met on the street.”
“What passed between us beneath the blankets was the result of my fulfilling an obligation. Make no more of it than that.”
“What in God’s name possessed my father when he decided you were the best catch in London?”
What indeed? He held her gaze and decided it was time to change the subject and get down to the reason he’d wanted to have this meeting to begin with.
“Regarding your duties. The staff here is small, but you will oversee their efforts with decorum and dignity. They will not address you as Gina. You shall not become their friend or their confidant. They are our employees. We cannot afford to hire any more. We must make do with what we have and hold no grudges when they leave.”
“You expect them to leave?”
He leaned back in his chair. “In time. It is only their loyalty that has kept them here this long. They have gone without wages for some time. It’s unfair to make them feel that they are obligated to stay.”
“I assume, with the exception of your bedchamber, that I can have full run of the house.”
“Yes.”
“I assume, then, that there is to be no affection between us.”
Had he not stated as much in London? Why was she questioning him now?
“I thought we had agreed to civility.”
She visibly shuddered. “Your house is almost as cold as your heart.”
To Marry an Heiress Page 14
