by Cheryl Bolen
He got up and strode across the carpet to the little bed beside the wall and flung himself onto it, pulling the blankets to cover his breeches—and his exploding need – need for the woman who had become his wife.
Chapter 13
The sun was high in the sky when Carlotta woke with a dull headache the next morning. It must be the brandy, she thought, pressing a hand to her throbbing forehead. Then she heard the sound of a man lightly snoring and spun around to see if Lord Rutledge was still beside her, though the sound of his breathing seemed more distant.
Her glance darted to the nearby chaise where he sprawled, sleeping soundly. For the life of her, she could not understand how he slept at all—he appeared so completely uncomfortable. His feet and the lower part of his legs hung off the chaise, which was far too small for him. Thankfully, the breeches he had worn to dinner the night before covered his lower torso. Her glance skimmed his bare upper torso. He had apparently rolled over on the only skimpy blanket he had. Since the fire had now gone cold, she shivered just looking at him.
She tried to remember falling asleep, but she could not. It suddenly occurred to her she must have fallen asleep while she read to him, while she was as close to him as two horses in tandem.
He must have picked up the book and blown out the candles.
When, then, had he decided against sharing her bed? Not that she objected, of course.
She looked at the clock on her mantle. 'Twas well past the time when Peggy normally woke her with a tray of steaming tea and toast. Carlotta smiled impishly. Of course, Peggy would be reluctant to come barreling in on the newlyweds.
From her seated position on the bed, Carlotta could see herself in the looking glass. The heavy purple gown looked wretched. And to think, she had always prided herself on her striking appearance! The only thing striking about her this morning was how devilishly unbecoming she looked. At least she could endeavor to make her hair presentable before waking her husband.
She came down off the bed and quietly seated herself in front of her dressing table and began to brush out her tussled hair. When it was smooth and glossy, she attempted to arrange it attractively, but she was hopeless without Peggy. She merely pushed combs into the sides. That will just have to do! She dabbed lavender scent on her neck, then stood and turned to gaze at her sleeping husband.
As ghastly as she looked, she would now have to wake him. She was concerned over his discomfort.
She moved to the chaise, bent down, and gently nudged him. “James, dearest,” she whispered softly, “please move to the bed where you'll be more comfortable.”
His eyes snapped open as he leaped to a seated position. A puzzled look on his face, he looked first at her, then at the chaise, then to the bed some four feet away. Next he spun around to see the clock. “There's no more time for lying about,” he said gruffly.
She reached for his shirt that hung on the back of a nearby chair, and she handed it to him.
“Does my bareness offend you?” he asked, a smile sliding across his face.
“Only when the bareness is below the waist,” she replied primly.
He slipped his arms into the sleeves and began to button the shirt.
“Why did you leave so comfortable a bed for that chaise? You looked so wretchedly uncomfortable there.”
He didn't answer for a moment. She watched as he buttoned first one button, then another. Finally, he spoke. “It occurred to me my plan to sleep with you was not a wise one.”
She started to ask him why then, having some idea of the feelings that precipitated his action, decided against it. “Oh, dear, I'd forgotten all about your valet. However will you dress without him?”
James sat on the edge of the chaise and reached for his stockings and boots and began to put them on. “I daresay I'll try to make a completely unobtrusive entrance into my hotel, where Mannington awaits to make me suitably presentable.”
“I suppose by now all of Bath knows of our nuptials.”
He stood and nodded as he reached for his tailcoat. “Not that I'm a well known figure in Bath, not like my wife.” He shot a searing glance at her.
Her heartbeat drummed. Had he heard of her disparaging past? Had he, surely he'd be more outraged. She watched as he buttoned his jacket, then he strolled across the room and brushed his lips across her cheeks. “We have much to attend to today. Do you realize by this time tomorrow we'll be on the road to Exmoor?”
“I have much more to do than you. You forget I've lived six years in Bath.”
“I've not forgotten. I'll be back to assist you in any way I can.”
* * *
At dawn the next morning, cold and still sleepy, the three of them climbed into the coach-and-four. Carlotta spread a rug on one of the seats for Stevie to lie upon. “Go back to sleep, lamb,” she whispered to him as he stretched out on the seat. It was the perfect size to accommodate the length of him.
“I've never been to Exmoor before,” she whispered to her husband as she sat beside him. “You must tell me about it.”
“You will need to make your own judgments about it,” he said.
She watched her sleeping son for a moment, then peeked under the velvet curtain as the coach rattled across the River Avon. A moment later, she turned to James. “How long have you lived at Yarmouth?”
His outstretched legs formed a line from one corner of the carriage to the other. “Less than a year. Before that, I had never been there.”
“You'd never visited your uncle?”
He laughed. “I'd never even met my uncle. My father, you'll remember, died young, and we had very little contact with his family after his death. My father was a second son. My mother had told me my father's eldest brother, who lived in the West Country, was heir to their uncle's earldom, but it never occurred to us that the earldom would fall to me when my father's brother died without a male heir.”
How selfish Carlotta had been these past several weeks not to have asked James more about himself. And how peculiar it was to wed a man one knew so little about. “Then you weren't raised in the West Country?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. My mother's home was in Sussex, and since she had inherited a farm there—and since my father's prospects were slim—he gladly became a country squire of some little prosperity.”
“If you had a farm to run, why did you buy colors?”
He shrugged. “My mother had become very independent, having been widowed at so young an age. She ran the farm almost single-handedly.”
“Does she still?”
His breath stilled. “She died when I was in India,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Ashamed of herself for not even knowing her husband was an orphan, Carlotta offered her sympathy. “You two must have been close—especially since you had no brothers or sisters.”
“Except for missing a father, I had a perfect childhood. My mother adored—and spoiled—me.”
Carlotta had no doubts that James, who was loyal and noble and sensitive, adored his mother. “Feelings I'm certain you returned.”
His eyes sparkled. “Of course.”
“It must have been difficult for your mother to have allowed you to become a soldier, to travel all over the world.”
“I believe it was difficult for her, though she never admitted it to me. All my life, she said I was destined for . . . this is embarrassing,” he said with a chuckle. “She said I was destined for greatness, and greatness could not be achieved by staying in Sussex.”
“Then greatness is obtainable in Exmoor?” Carlotta asked in jest.
Another chuckle broke from his throat. “Hardly. You realize it was my mother who wanted me to become a great man. That was not something I've ever strived for. My needs are far more simple.”
Unconsciously, she put a hand on his arm. “What, pray tell, are your needs?”
He drew in his breath and did not answer for a moment. “I want most what I missed as a youth.”
A family
. She had tread on too personal a ground. This conversation was far too uncomfortable for her. Of course, he wanted a loving wife and children and a happy family. And she could never be the loving wife he sought, the wife he deserved.
She grew quiet and once more lifted the curtain to peer at the countryside. The sun had now risen, and farmers were already in the fields. She turned back to James. “You still own the farm in Sussex?”
“I lease it now. I hope to one day present it to Stevie.”
Her heart melted. He loved Stevie as if the boy were his own son. Not being James's own flesh, though, Stevie would never be able to inherit Yarmouth. Her stomach tumbled. Perhaps Yarmouth would one day belong to a son of James's. Perhaps a son she would one day bear.
The thought brought no joy. As kind as James was, she did not love him. And the anticipation of intimacy between them held no allure for her. Would she ever be ready to share his bed? Other wives allowed their unloved husbands such liberties. Which meant she was doubly blessed that James had vowed not to take his pleasure from her until she came willingly to him. She wondered how long he would be willing to wait. No man could be saintly forever.
“Is your groom riding the post chaise with Peggy?” she asked to break the awkward silence.
His brows lowered. “Jeremy?”
Carlotta nodded.
“No. He's bringing my horse back. Why do you ask?”
“I believe Peggy has set her cap for him. I hope he's not married.”
James laughed. “Sweet heavens, no! He's not much more than a lad. It's only this year that he's taken off and grown like a beanstalk.”
“Oh, dear, I hope he's not too young for Peggy.”
“She appears youthful,” he said.
“Let me see,” Carlotta said as she began to count on her fingers. “She was only thirteen when I got her, and that was six years ago.” She looked up at her husband. “Which makes her---”
“Nineteen.”
“Do you think that's too old for Jeremy?”
“I'd say they're perfectly suited—if a mite too young to be thinking of marriage.”
“I was widowed before I was twenty.”
He did not answer.
They rode on in silence for several miles before she asked, “You have tenants at Yarmouth?”
He frowned. “Yarmouth is not a typical estate. The land immediately surrounding the estate is farmed, but most of the wealth comes from coal mines located not far from the property.”
“Then you've had to educate yourself about mining?” she asked.
“I'm still educating myself. Whether as a farmer, a soldier or an earl, I don't ask my people to do anything I don't do myself.”
“Then you actually have gone down into the mines?”
“Any number of times.”
She cringed. “I have a deathly fear of them. They're so dark and dangerous.”
“I'm channeling my resources into making my mines safer.”
How very noble. Like James himself.
“I've had to close down some because of excessive accidents.” He stopped. “And lives lost,” he said, his brows drawn together.
“Many people of your class would have no care for the lower classes.”
His mouth grim, he said, “I couldn't live with myself if I held those opinions.”
“Then you must be liberal thinking—not that I'm well informed about The Rights of Man and all that.”
“Nor am I,” he countered. “I only know I must do what I think is right.”
Her thoughts fleetingly jumped to James's mother and what a fine job she had done raising him to be so fine a man. How proud she would have been of him.
Then Carlotta's glance flitted to Stevie, curled up opposite her. In repose, his hair moistened to his head, appearing more brown than blond. He slept with his little mouth open. She smiled as she watched him. He really was a beautiful child. Even if he was a mite too thin. Now she had to ensure he was as beautiful on the inside. Thank goodness she would have James to help her raise the lad to become a fine man.
Stevie began to stir, and rubbing his eyes, he sat up and looked at them. “Are we there yet?”
James chuckled. “We've a long way still to go.”
“Will it be dark when we arrive?” Stevie asked.
“I hope to get to Yarmouth before dark.”
“Tell me again about the stables,” Stevie asked, smiling broadly.
“I've no doubt you could recite about them to me as well as you can say your nursery rhymes.”
“Like `Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, Where've You Been?'“
James nodded. “I know very well you can tell me how many horses are in the stable at Yarmouth.”
“Eleven.” The boy scooted to the window and lifted the curtain to look out. “When we get to our new home, Uncle James,” the lad said, “may I call you Papa?”
Carlotta's heart fluttered, and her glance nervously darted to James.
He was silent for a moment, and she feared he would refuse the boy's humble request.
Finally, in a throaty voice, James answered. “I would be honored. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than being a father to you.”
A huge lump formed in Carlotta's throat, and her eyes grew misty.
Their peace and quiet was as gone now as the morning dew, for Stevie spoke incessantly.
At the first break in her son's innumerable questions, Carlotta turned to her husband as he quickly glanced away. He had been watching her, and he must feel uncomfortable about it.
She turned back to look out the carriage window again. Though gentle hills marked the landscape around Bath, hills were far more pronounced here in the West Country. Carlotta found she could not look away, so mesmerizing was the lonely landscape. A brush of heather covered vast stretches of treeless moors and heath, and smooth-topped hills spread over the landscape like pebbles on sand.
They crossed a river, and she asked James what river it was.
“'Tis the Parrett—somewhat of boundary for the Saxons. You'll learn everything west of the Parret has retained more of the Celts—including their language—than anywhere else in England.”
“The language? Do you mean people in Exmoor will speak Celtic?”
“It's dying out now, but you'll find the speech quite different from what you're used to.”
As soon as she thought she was getting accustomed to the West Country terrain, it would change. From Broad sweeps of moor to wooded gorges or to lush river valleys.
She removed her face from the pane long enough to turn and address her husband. “I perceive we must be near Exmoor, the geography is so vastly different to what I am accustomed. Why, James, did you not tell me how beautiful it is here? In some ways it reminds me of Portugal.”
His vermillion eyes danced as he nodded. “There are similarities. For one, it's warmer here, and certainly hilly and close to the sea. I had hoped you would find it as beautiful as I do.”
Soon the carriage rattled over an arched stone bride covering a narrow, swift river. “We've just crossed the Barle. We're now in Exmoor,” James said.
“Now you must tell us what Yarmouth Hall looks like.”
He shook his head. “You will have to form your own conclusions on it. I mustn't color your opinion one way or the other.”
* * *
She had the opportunity to make her own judgment when the coach clattered up Yarmouth's broad avenue at dusk.
As soon as James told her they had reached Yarmouth, she slapped back the curtain and pressed her face to the glass. Sitting high above a sweeping green park, she observed a magnificent four-story brick structure with two shallow wings at either end of the symmetrical building. Its pitched roof was balustraded and dotted with tall, slender chimneys that mimicked the tall, slender mullioned windows.
When they drew closer, she saw that the pedimented entry was on the second floor, with broad steps leading up to the doorway.
Unaccountably, as the coach came to a stop a
t the front door, her stomach flipped. I'll be mistress here. Doubts over her competence seized her.
James turned to her and drew her hands into his. “Your new home, my lady.”
Chapter 14
James had forgotten to tell Fordyce to instruct the servants not to line up like a daunting regiment to be surveyed by the new countess. The sheer numbers of his vast staff were likely to intimidate his bride. He should know. He had bloody well been intimidated when he had first come to Yarmouth. Still was, actually. Though he'd as lief not let them on to that.
But it was not Carlotta he need worry about. It was her son. Their son now. As they entered the massive entry hall where some forty servants stood at sentry on either side and along the sweep of the staircase, Stevie clung to his mother's skirts and buried his head within its folds.
James nudged up closer to the nervous lad and set a reassuring hand on top his head. His mother had already claimed the boy's shoulder. “Everything's all right, Stevie, this is your new home,” James whispered.
Still, Stevie would not show his face.
James flicked a glance at the butler and housekeeper, the two whose dress was distinguished from the other servants' chartreuse livery, and to another man who dressed as a gentleman. “I should like to present you to the new Lady Rutledge.” He looked back at Carlotta, who smiled brightly at them. “My dear,” James said to her, “Mrs. MacGinnis can conduct you on a tour of the house tomorrow, when you're more rested from the tedious journey.”
Carlotta smiled at the housekeeper. “I shall look forward to it. How long have you been in service at Yarmouth, Mrs. MacGinnis?”
James looked at the housekeeper with new eyes. With her silver hair and plump little body, he guessed her to be well past sixty. Mrs. MacGinnis smiled. “I came to my post here three and twenty years ago.”
“Then I daresay, you know far more about Yarmouth than my husband,” Carlotta said with a little laugh.
The housekeeper smiled smugly.
