“Perhaps.”
He took the wood from her and turned it in his long fingers.
Charity’s stomach churned as she watched him. Her constant concern was would he honour her wishes and refrain from making love to her on their wedding night? Apart from their first kiss, he hadn’t revealed an urgent desire to touch her again, but then they’d spent very little time together.
He handed the driftwood back. “We’ll travel up to London straight after the wedding.”
“So soon?”
He chucked her under the chin and laughed. “Is that a pout? Don’t you wish to go to London?”
“Of course I do, but it’s just so lovely here.” She waved her hand.
“Don’t you love the sea? Your uncle has accrued an excellent library of books. And I enjoy walking through the gardens, they are laid out magnificently. Have you ridden through the deer park? There’s quite a showing of bluebells under the trees. And the servants are so nice.”
He looked at her brows raised. “Are they?” He laughed again. “I’ve never heard a house and its servants praised quite like that before.”
She knew he teased her, but his laugh made her feel warm and special, perhaps because he did it so rarely. She wished they might stay here a little longer and get to know each other without the distractions of London. If they could laugh a little more, perhaps they’d come to know each other, maybe even like each other. She held the driftwood tight against her chest and bit her lip. She’d learned much about London from friends of her parents returning from that busy metropolis.
Its smart, cruel people with their precise manners and exquisite modes of dress awaited her. She would rather go to war in that ship on the horizon.
CHAPTER THREE
The wedding took place in the grey stone parish church. Their words, in the almost empty building, echoed around the vaulted ceiling, disturbing a flock of wood pigeons nesting in the rafters. There were only the parson, two witnesses, and the bride and groom, but a small group of curious villagers waited outside. Charity wished they could have given the people more of a show. She wore her best gown, a cream silk chemise dress with a narrow sash. Apart from the neck ruffle, it was a little plain. Rebecca had convinced her to wear her hair loose under a straw hat trimmed with wild primrose and lily of the valley. Perhaps in sympathy with her, the groom had dressed soberly for the occasion in a brown silk coat, cream embroidered waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, white cravat and fawn breeches. There were no velvets or laces and his hair was unpowered. He had pinned a nosegay of yellow flowers to his coat, as a knight might do for his lady, and she thought him very elegant.
He complimented her on her outfit, saying what a delightful rustic picture she made, like a true country miss. It was not quite what she wished to hear. But she would let nothing detract from this special day. Her heart beat fast as he gazed into her eyes and said the words that would tie them together, come what may until death.
“I give thee my troth,” she answered solemnly, gazing into his face and, she suspected, a little in love with him. She searched for some sign he felt the same but found nothing more than courtesy and acquiescence. It made the true meaning of the day seem unreal to her. Was she really married? She desperately wanted him to love her, if he didn’t already.
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” Robert slipped his signet ring bearing the St Malin coat of arms on her finger, saying it would suffice until he could retrieve the family jewels from the London bank. It felt loose, and she panicked at the thought of losing it.
After paying the parson enough money to make his eyes bulge, Robert proved as good as his word, for they departed for London straight after the ceremony, sparing only a little time for her to change into a travelling gown. Pulled by four matched greys, the well-sprung carriage travelled fast.
“I hope Felix doesn’t miss us too much,” she said as she glanced out the window. They were passing through Helston and the smell of hops wafted in on the breeze from the Blue Anchor.
“I trust James will look after him.”
“But if the dog continues to pine?”
“Then James will let me know. I promised my uncle I’d take good care of him.”
“Felix loves you.”
He looked surprised and pleased. “Do you think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
She was to be closeted with her new husband for the best part of three days, and the prospect seemed daunting. She asked him to tell her more of London society, and he obliged. He made it sound thrilling and completely unnerving. Why couldn’t the wedding have been held in London with all the fanfare a man of his stature deserved? If he was ashamed of the less than brilliant match he’d made, why take her there at all? He might tuck her away in the country if he chose. She snuck a peak at his fine profile, and wanted to ask him if he was happy. But she was afraid of the answer for she often detected some underlying sadness in him. Her gown billowed out taking up far too much space in the carriage. Even through the yards of fabric, she felt sure his knee touched hers. Every touch was electric, like some unspoken message of what was to come.
“Shall I meet your family in London?”
His lips firmed. “I don’t spend time with my family.” Charity’s eyes widened. “Why ever not?”
He leaned forward and flicked her cheek with a gentle finger. “You ask too many questions.”
“If you supplied me with answers, I’d stop,” she said in a teasing tone. His amused blue eyes studied her.
“I have reason to doubt it.”
They spent their wedding night at a coaching inn in Honiton where Robert had engaged a private parlor and two bedchambers. The small, stuffy room with its riotous crimson-striped wallpaper was crammed with furniture. A fire had been lit despite the evening being warm. Charity’s cheeks burned, and she watched Robert from beneath her lashes as he sliced the sirloin of beef roast. He placed several portions on her plate, but she could hardly eat a bite and sat watching him tuck into the meal. Obviously his emotions weren’t overset by the occasion, she thought, annoyed. But she knew it to be entirely unreasonable to accuse him of having too good an appetite.
“You must be tired,” he said, after she tried to suppress a yawn. “A little.”
She eased her stiff shoulders. She’d been tense since this all began. And now her pulse thumped that he might wish to bed her. She tamped down a thrill that travelled up her backbone and was suddenly very much awake.
“Go to bed, Charity. A lot has happened today, and we have a long day tomorrow.” He raised a brow. “I don’t want you exhausted or sick by the time we reach London.”
She frowned and rose from table. He had managed to make it sound as if he was more concerned with how she looked than her health. “Very well. Goodnight, Robert.”
Perhaps she was overtired from sitting beside Robert for hours and suffering that nervous heavy sensation in her stomach. It was ever-present when he was near. She couldn’t sleep. She pounded her pillow and thought about Robert in the next room. She tried to imagine how he looked. Did he sleep in a nightshirt? Naked? Suddenly her imagination took the suggestion and ran wild with it. Now there was no likelihood of her sleeping.
She tossed over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. A man’s body was a complete mystery to her. How would his skin feel? It looked so smooth. By nightfall, his chin was shadowed in dark hair, and when he ran his hand over it, it rasped. She curled her fingers. It must be bristly to the touch. She liked his big hands. What would it be like to have him touch her in those special places? She tucked her hands between her legs and shivered. She didn’t understand herself. Didn’t she need time to get to know him? Here she was wishing he’d put his arm around her in the carriage. She tried to convince herself that her nerves, since her parents’ accident was her reason for wanting his embrace.
However, a silent voice whispered she was fooling herself.
; It was very late. Outside in the corridor, the floor creaked like a series of footsteps. This old inn was haunted, she was sure of it. She didn’t like being alone, it would be better to have Robert here. In her bed, there was room enough for two.
The next day was much like the last. She talked about her family to fill the silence as the countryside flashed past. How her father had been able to quote whole passages from all of Shakespeare’s plays, and how his oratories in the village hall were always warmly applauded. “He taught a group of village players to perform a Shakespearean play every summer.”
“It might have been more pertinent to run his estate efficiently,” Robert said in a dry tone.
She frowned. “Not everyone is good at that.” She moved to the corner of the carriage.
“No.” Robert sighed. “My uncle was interested in progress.” He shrugged. “But not the actual running of his own estates and businesses. He preferred someone else to take care of that while he read about the latest poetry, philosophy and scientific discoveries.”
“Can you run a large estate?” she asked curiously.
His eyes widened. “I haven’t had to, but I intend to try.” He gave her an apologetic grin, perhaps realizing he’d hurt her feelings. “Maybe I will be, for philosophy seems rather pointless to me and I’m not keen on reciting iambic pentameter either.”
“No? Not even a little from Romeo and Juliet?” she asked hopefully. He laughed and shook his head.
She spent another night alone feeling as if all her nerve endings had come alive. It was well past midnight when she heard creaking on the stairs and footsteps pause outside her room. She lay ramrod straight in the bed. Hearing no more, her heart pounding, she rose and hurried to the door and leant against it, listening. A further scrape and a cough sounded very close. Footsteps shuffled away and she opened the door a crack.
She thought she saw a ghostly white shape loom at the end of the corridor, but it might have been the bright moonlight.
Fear sent her scuttling to Robert’s door. She tapped and called his name softly. She just wanted reassurance, then she would return to her own bed. He didn’t answer. The hairs stirring on the back of her neck, she boldly turned the handle and opened the door. The room was lit by moonlight, and the bed stood empty.
Charity put her hand to her mouth. Where was he? Not with that chamber maid who made cow eyes at him, she hoped.
It must have been him she heard. Feeling foolish she returned to her room and climbed back into bed.
Robert strode up and down the cobbled courtyard in the cool air, his cheroot glowing in the dark. Being cramped in a carriage all day long didn’t suit his constitution. He grudgingly admitted that Charity’s lightness of spirit and her ability to cut through to the core of things made her company more pleasant than he expected. But he still felt thoroughly put out by what had been foisted on him. He yawned, hoping that stretching his legs would tire him. It was surprisingly difficult to sleep with the knowledge that his new wife was in bed a few steps away over the corridor. He should just go right in there and put this nonsense to an end. Deflower an unwilling virgin in an inn? What if she cried? She didn’t even have her maid to assist her.
Robert shook his head, stamped out the cheroot and made his way back to his room. Life would be more peaceful if he bowed to her wishes. He eased his tight shoulders. Providing her demands were within reason.
Charity rose feeling tired having managed only a few hours sleep. Might Robert have lain awake too and thought of her?
She rather doubted it, for she found him looking fresh and eager to get home. Within hours they had reached the outskirts of the great metropolis. Misty fields where cows grazed were replaced by grim slums then streets of houses in a grey landscape. Rain slapped the carriage windows and black soot belched into the skies over London. The noise astonished her, from hawkers to barrow boys, to the general hubbub of a big city. Charity wrinkled her nose. The air was filled with the smell of wet horses and worse. Filthy water rushed down the open drains. A lady emptied a chamber pot from her window, and a man walking below jumped back and shook his fist at her.
A coach and six passed them on its way out of London, its heavy wheels splashing through the puddles, slopping putrid water and sending pedestrians scattering. The streets were busy with peddlers shouting their wares and crowded shops selling all manner of things from oranges to birds in cages. There were ragged beggars on every corner and some were children which tore at her heart. Prostitutes too who gave Robert the eye when the carriage pulled up in the busy city traffic. The streets became cleaner, the houses more respectable. They drove along past a wide expanse of parkland, called Hyde Park and Robert pointed out Rotten Row where aristocrats and the gentry exercised their horses. The houses here were finer and well-dressed people crossed the street, paying the street sweeper to clear a path for them.
“Where are we?” Charity asked rubbing at the misty window.
“This is Mayfair,” Robert said leaning close. “So called from the annual fair in the days of Edward I.”
“It seems very nice,” she murmured, aware of his breath warm on her nape.
The carriage passed a grand mansion and turned into Curzon Street. They passed a chapel and a market, and pulled up in front of a white house of three-stories. A tall wall separated it from the buildings next door, and it had a wide front garden. Two liveried footmen rushed to open the door.
Charity stood on the pavement feeling her cramped limbs unbend. She gazed up at the house wide-eyed. Four elongated statues of Greek Goddesses adorned giant Doric columns, which appeared to hold up the upper-story.
Smiling, Robert offered her his arm. “Shall we go inside?”
The St Malin residence was as different from the castle in Cornwall as the sun to the moon. Inside was just as impressive as its exterior. Robert led her into the vestibule with its soaring ceiling. A gracious staircase rose to the upper floors from the black and white checkerboard floor. The formidable butler, Hove, welcomed her formally without a smile, and took her cloak and bonnet. She thanked him and followed Robert up the stairs to the first floor. Everywhere she looked stood superior-looking servants in their gold and blue livery.
Robert bowed to her at the door to her chamber. She peered in at the lofty, elaborately furnished room, hung with rose damask. A four-poster bed large enough for an entire family barely filled a corner.
“Charity?”
“Yes?” She turned back, hoping he’d decided to come in with her. Even if just to keep her company a while, for the grand chamber was distinctly unwelcoming for all its grandeur. It made her feel rather small and insignificant.
His brows lowered. “Don’t keep thanking the servants. You’re a marchioness now, remember.”
Disappointed, she tilted her chin. “I like to thank people; they don’t seem to mind it.”
“They are not your friends, Charity,” he said in an exasperated tone. “They are here to serve you.”
“I’ll try, Robert. But I must do what comes naturally to me.” She watched as he continued down the passage and sighed. He shrugged his shoulders as though his coat was too tight. Everything she did and said seemed to annoy him.
He had explained that there was no time to waste. A wardrobe must be made for her immediately and a proper ladies maid to be found. He’d arranged for an aunt to call and take her shopping for clothes. And after an elaborate luncheon she was too nervous to do justice to, Robert left her in the care of his aunt and departed for his club. Charity understood that he would not wish to take part in such a venture, but she couldn’t help feeling he’d deserted her on their first day in London. Might he not have taken her around and shown her the sights?
Lady Susan was an elderly widow whose aquiline nose made her appear most disapproving. Displaying the exquisite manners of the ton, she asked no questions of their sudden marriage, and whisked Charity off to be fitted for a wardrobe of stunning gowns and accessories. The modiste’s rooms were like an Aladd
in’s cave filled with lustrous materials, furs, beads and feathers. Charity wandered about captivated. She picked up a garment that lay half-completed on a table. It was a nightgown of black lace. She could see her hand through the fabric, and the thought of wearing it made her blush. She had never countenanced such a thing. Her nightgowns were always high-necked and made of white lawn.
Arriving in Vauxhall, Robert drove along the flat barren lands past Lambeth Marshe. Squatting on a rise in the distance, its spires stark against the grey sky, sat the gloomy Jacobean mansion, Osborne Hall in a small park. It had been his Great Aunt Agatha’s family home. It was leased to a wealthy nabob, although why anyone would want to live in the drafty place was beyond him. As a child he’d been convinced it was haunted.
A few miles down the road he came to the clay pits near the river and pulled up his horses. He climbed down from the curricle, throwing the reins to a young lad in the yard. “Walk them and you’ll earn a shilling.”
The pottery factory was little more than a shed. And what was being produced was not up to Sir Josiah Wedgwood’s work, unfortunately. The standard of workmanship was poor. An apologetic manager showed him the ledgers which revealed very little profit. Robert left wondering what on earth he should do with it. He would have to carve up the lands. Selling land went against the grain with him and if he sold the business as it stood, he would get practically nothing for it. It was close to dusk when he left Vauxhall behind. He had been invited to watch a boxing bout between Big Ben Benjamin Brain and John Boone, taking place that evening in Bloomsbury. He thought of Charity and swiftly buried a twinge of guilt; it was a special event he simply could not miss. And why should he?
When Charity returned home, she found a package had arrived from the jeweler. She burned with curiosity waiting for Robert, but the last daylight hours passed without a sign of him. Arms folded, she walked the length of the room and back, several times, her heart sinking. Is this what I must get used to?
The Reluctant Marquess Page 4
