Married to the Rogue

by Lancaster, Mary

  She smiled quite gleefully at Deborah’s reflection in the glass and then scowled. “The glass is steaky. Sorry, ma’am. I’ll clean it again while you’re at dinner.”

  “Don’t worry. I realize you have all been very busy with not enough staff to do everything.”

  “Thank you, ma’am!” She curtseyed and stood back to let Deborah rise.

  Although it was still light, the sun had moved across the sky, and the drawing room was even gloomier than before. Christopher had not yet come down, so she walked over to the window and lifted the casement. While the inside was clean, the outside was too dirty for much light to penetrate. She breathed in the fresher air with enjoyment, which is how Christopher found her.

  “The whole house needs aired,” she observed.

  “I suppose it doesn’t need to smell like a mausoleum. In fact, I’d rather it didn’t. A glass of sherry?”

  It was a pleasant evening, for Christopher turned out to be very agreeable company. To her surprise, he actually seemed interested in her opinion on more than the superficialities of art and music, and she soon found herself discussing politics, history, the peace in Europe, and the conditions of the poor, all with a rather beguiling mix of humor and passion on his part.

  When dinner was announced, they took their conversation to the dining room, where places had been set at opposite ends of the large table. Christopher immediately moved his place beside her, obliging the footman to place the dishes in a more sensible place.

  And afterward, he did not bother with the tradition of sitting over his wine, but picked it up and accompanied her to the drawing room.

  The candles had been lit, and the darkness of the place no longer seemed so oppressive. He told her about a few amusing incidents at the House of Commons and asked about her duties with the princess.

  “You miss her,” he observed at last.

  She considered. “Perhaps. Life was never dull around her. She is excessively kind and good-natured. But mostly, I pitied her.” She stopped, biting her lip before she said too much.

  “Because her husband was relentlessly nasty?”

  She nodded, gazing out of the window to avoid looking at him.

  She felt his movement within the room, and then he took her hand, and she jumped, her gaze flying to his face.

  He crouched in front of her chair, a rueful half-smile lurking on his lips. “Theirs was a marriage of inconvenience. There is no reason why ours should be so.”

  “Of course not,” she said nervously. Close up, his intense eyes were overwhelmingly attractive. As was the lean, even bone structure of his face, the shape of his generous, sensual mouth. Without realizing it, she thought, his fingertips idly rubbed the skin at the base of her thumb, causing an odd commotion in her body.

  “I am content with my marriage,” he said gently. “I hope you will grow to be so.”

  She swallowed. “I have no complaints, sir. You have been most kind.”

  A frown tugged at his brows and vanished. “Have I?”

  She smiled uncertainly, and his fingertips stilled on her hand. His lips quirked, then he raised her hand and dropped a light kiss, not on her fingers, but by chance on the precise spot sensitized by his careless caress. Her breath caught, but he had already released her and straightened.

  “Do you know, I believe I shall retire early,” he said. “Do you wish to sit on, or shall I blow out the candles?”

  She all but leapt to her feet, having no desire whatever to linger in the room alone.

  He presented her with a lit candle, and they walked along the gallery to the staircase together. Somewhere, the ease and companionship of a growing friendship remained. But it was overlaid now with this strange, new awareness, not just of his handsome face, but of his tall, masculine body and the loose yet graceful way he moved. It kept her silent until they reached the door of her apartment when it came to her with a jolt that this was her wedding night.

  He had said he would not force his attentions on her, that this was a marriage of mere convenience. But nothing that had happened between them that day could have led him to believe a husband’s attentions would be unwelcome. They were his right and her duty, as her mother had sought to explain in a muddled, only half-understood conversation the previous evening—a discussion that both she and Mrs. Shelby had been delighted to end.

  Now, facing him before her bedchamber door, she felt curiously agonized. Panicked and yet excited, her stomach in turmoil, her skin tingling.

  He held out his hand compellingly, and she placed hers on it, praying it did not tremble. Would it be so very bad to give herself to this man? He was kind and gentle, and at this moment, oddly thrilling. Time stretched out between them. She was afraid to breathe.

  His lips quirked into a faint, rueful smile. He bent and kissed her fingers. “Good night, Mrs. Halland. I hope you sleep well.”

  She swallowed. “I hope you do, too. Goodnight.”

  Releasing her hand, he reached across and pushed open her door. She could smell his hair, his skin, clean and masculine, like fresh tree bark and cut grass. And then he straightened, smiled, and sauntered away down the passage toward his own, distant chamber.

  She stumbled inside, closed the door, and leaned her back against it. What on earth just happened?

  Nothing, she realized. Nothing at all.

  Chapter Five

  Deborah woke early after a long, yet vaguely disturbed sleep. Perhaps it was dreams inspired by the strangeness of the house, but she had a vague recollection of strange sounds, creaks and whispers, and ominous shadows against the partially open window.

  In the light of morning, unease faded into a sense of welcome to the new day, her new life, her new husband. For yesterday, she had learned that they could more than tolerate each other. They could be friends. And this great, gloomy house could be home.

  She washed in the cold water left from last night and dressed in her oldest morning gown, fastening it as best she could before hastily brushing and pinning up her hair. Then, she sallied forth to explore.

  She decided to begin on the first floor, where she walked into the drawing room and threw open all the windows, tops and bottoms. A fresh breeze greeted her, and she breathed in with relief. Immediately, she went to repeat the process in the dining room. Here, she found Mrs. Dawson directing the maid to clean the floor.

  They both stared at her, disconcerted.

  “Good morning,” Deborah said quietly and walked past them.

  “Breakfast will be served in the parlor,” Mrs. Dawson said, “but I’m afraid it is not yet ready.”

  “No matter. I am in no hurry to eat.” Deborah undid the catch and opened the first window before walking on to the next.

  “Ma’am, the dust will come in and dirty the floor she is trying to clean,” Mrs. Dawson said patiently, as though speaking to a child.

  “Then she may do it later. I cannot dine another night in such a stale room.”

  Mrs. Dawson bridled. “Forgive me, ma’am, if all is not yet exactly as you like.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You have been running this house with no staff. I would like to see you and Hunter after breakfast, let us say at nine of the clock. Here will be fine.”

  Mrs. Dawson waved the maid away imperiously, and the girl vanished with her bucket and brush. “Nine of the clock is our busiest time.”

  “The house cannot run now on its old routines,” Deborah said patiently. “You and I have much to discuss. Please tell Hunter, and I will see you at nine.”

  She half-expected to be contradicted again, or at least to receive a killing look, but the housekeeper looked so despairing that Deborah almost turned back. However, Mrs. Dawson strode out of the room and downstairs as though in high dudgeon.

  Deborah sighed, for she did not like confrontations and did not wish to begin one with a woman she needed as an ally. However, thrusting the worry aside until later, she walked along the gallery, throwing open doors to various connecting rooms.
Most of the furniture was in Halland covers. She took off a few to investigate and found most of it in decent condition, if somewhat old-fashioned.

  Turning the corner to a less opulent passage, she found another sitting room, a study and then, at the next corner, she threw open a door and smiled.

  It was a large, irregular-shaped room, lined with books from floor to ceiling. A glass cabinet held what looked like Egyptian curios. An armchair, two sofas, and two desks were scattered about the room. Despite the inevitable mustiness, it felt at last, like home. She walked around the windows, opening them to the fresh air, and looked about with glee.

  “There you are,” Christopher said, sometime later, strolling into the room to find her halfway up a step ladder, examining the books.

  “I love this room,” she said enthusiastically. “Can we clean it and decorate it and make it ours?”

  He blinked. “It is ours, but of course we can. I’m going to breakfast if you’d like to join me.”

  She slid down two steps of the ladder in her hurry, and he strode forward to catch her, lifting her to the ground by her waist.

  She flushed at the contact, although he seemed not to notice.

  “Take care,” he said, releasing her and ushering her to the door.

  Over breakfast, she said, “All the rooms along the gallery I think can be made beautiful again with a thorough airing and beating and a coat of paint. And once the windows are clean. They will be perfect for entertaining—salons for music and poetry, cards and politicking. If we work on those, and the room that leads to the terrace…”

  “And the library,” he interpolated.

  She smiled. “And the library. Then, I think we shall have the space to entertain within a week or two. If we can raise the staff, of course.”

  “We might need some guest bedrooms,” he said. “Oh, and Andrew Gates, my partner in the school scheme, is coming over later today, so he will need one of those bedchambers, at least until the dower house is habitable.”

  “Then I hope Mrs. Dawson has access to servants right away. We’re discussing it after breakfast. With Hunter, too.”

  He smiled faintly. “I did not realize you were quite so efficient.”

  “I might not be. At the moment, all I have is ideas.”

  Accordingly, at nine o’clock, she walked into the dining room, armed with a pen and ink, and her old notebook in which she had written the few tasks of her days with the princess.

  To her surprise, Mrs. Dawson and Hunter were already there, standing rigidly upright just inside the door.

  “Oh,” Deborah said, “thank you for being so prompt. Please, sit down.”

  “Sit down, ma’am?” Hunter repeated, scandalized at the very idea.

  “Yes, we have much to discuss, and it’s uncomfortable for me to strain my neck upward all the time.”

  Exchanging worried glances, the two sat opposite her at the very edges of their seats.

  “Later, I’d like you to show me where everything is—linen stores, china, and glass, things like that—and I had better speak to the cook. But first, we need to discuss staff. How many do you need to run the house efficiently?”

  Again, they exchanged puzzled looks. Then Mrs. Dawson said carefully, “You are not dismissing us?”

  Deborah blinked. “Dismissing you? That would be insanity when I know nothing about the house.” She frowned suddenly. “Unless you refuse to help me, in which case I shall count that as resignation.”

  “No, no,” Hunter said earnestly. “We would love to help you.”

  “It was just you looked so unhappy with everything,” Mrs. Dawson said in a rush, “we were sure you would want to bring in your own people.”

  Deborah frowned. “My own people?”

  “You lived in London with the Princess of Wales.”

  Deborah almost laughed. “Well, that is a quite different matter,” she said hastily. “Mr. Halland wishes to live here and entertain here, so we need an army of servants to clean. How quickly can you interview and bring in more staff?”

  “For cleaning? There will be several from the village and the farms that can begin such work straight away. If you want experienced domestic servants, then that will take a little longer.”

  “Well, let us do both. And let it be known that the locals will be considered for permanent positions if we like their work. Does that seem a good idea?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Now, about cleaning the outside of the windows…”

  She parted from them half an hour later to continue her explorations and decide on the first guest bedchambers to be made ready. There were several substantial suites of rooms, including the one next to hers, but they also seemed to need the most work. In any case, since the first few visitors were likely to be Mr. Gates, an unmarried teacher, and various men of business, it made more sense to use less opulent chambers like the one Christopher was inhabiting.

  By luncheon, two men were up tall ladders with buckets, cleaning the outsides of the hall windows. Six local women—and two of their small children—were being directed to inside cleaning duties.

  Christopher strode through the open front door as she ran down the staircase to fetch a clean bucket.

  She stopped to throw a smile at him. “How is the school?”

  “Still looking like the neglected dower house it was. Do you want to come and see it after luncheon? Or are you too busy here?”

  “No, I’d love to see it. I wonder if Cook has thought about luncheon?”

  It appeared she had not only thought of it but prepared it already, for the expanded staff as well as for Deborah and Christopher.

  They were just sitting down at the terrace table when the sounds of approaching children’s voices distracted them. Two small village children appeared along the garden path, leading Stephen and Lizzie, and behind them came Deborah’s mother and the rest of her siblings.

  Deborah sprang to her feet, darting toward them. “Goodness, did you walk over?”

  “We did,” her mother said breathlessly. “And I am exhausted!”

  “Oh dear, sit here in the shade, Mama…”

  Christopher, having murmured a word in the ear of the servant who had just brought lemonade and a plate of sandwiches, strolled forward to welcome everyone with casual geniality.

  “Deb, have you been cleaning?” Lucy demanded, no doubt seeing the dirt on her gown and smuts on her face.

  “I’m afraid so,” Deborah replied with a quick smile. “There is a beautiful library here, and there is more than enough for everyone else to do.”

  “It is a positive hive of activity,” her mother observed, sinking into the chair while Deborah fanned her with her bonnet.

  “The day after your wedding?” Lucy said with clear disapproval.

  “It’s better than living in a great, dirty mausoleum for much longer,” Christopher said easily, “though to be sure, it’s a lot of upheaval. Deborah has taken the bull by the horns! We have large plans.”

  One of the “new” women appeared with more sandwiches, some cherries, and apples, then shooed the tiny children back toward the house. At the last moment, Christopher swiped the sandwich plate off the table and held it in front of them. The children grinned and took one each.

  “Thank you, sir,” the woman murmured with a smile.

  Christopher merely returned the plate to the table without fuss. But his casual kindness warmed Deborah’s heart.

  Another two chairs were brought out, while the children sat on the low wall around the terrace or wandered around, asking questions.

  “Is it haunted?” Stephen asked Deborah, staring up the house.

  “Only by cobwebs,” Deborah said lightly, although she couldn’t help remembering her troubled dreams.

  “It is huge,” Lucy observed. “Won’t you feel odd, just the two of you rattling about here?”

  “Oh, it will soon fill up with children,” their mother said comfortably, causing Deborah to flush to the roots
of her hair.

  “We mean to entertain friends a good deal,” Christopher said smoothly.

  Lucy laughed. “Deborah? She doesn’t like crowds of people, avoids them like the plague.”

  “Well, they don’t all need to come at once,” Christopher murmured. “A honey-cake, Miss Lucy?”

  The family stayed for a couple of hours, exploring the garden and the house, and asking Deborah about their plans.

  In the end, Lucy said, “It will be very grand, Deb.” There was just a hint of envy in her voice.

  “Not really. I just want it to be comfortable.”

  Christopher sent them home in the carriage, with Giles sitting proudly up beside the coachman. After waving them off, Deborah accompanied her husband on a walk to the dower house on the other side of the woods.

  Although built on a smaller scale than Gosmere Hall, it was still a good-sized house.

  “There should be room for at least ten boys, a couple of classrooms, library, and dining room, private rooms for Gates and another teacher,” Christopher said enthusiastically. “What do you think?”

  “I think that would work. And you could build onto it later if you wished.”

  They walked back, enthusiastically discussing what staff might be necessary to care for ten lively youths, and reached the house just in time to welcome Mr. Gates, Christopher’s partner in the venture.

  “Mrs. Halland,” he greeted her with a bow and a frown. He was a gentlemanly looking man, perhaps in his forties, of medium height and serious expression. “I do hope my visit is acceptable. I confess I was surprised by Halland’s invitation so soon after your wedding, and I assure you I shall be more than happy at the village inn.”

  “Nonsense,” Deborah said. “You are most welcome! I know you have much to discuss.”

  Half an hour later, when she returned to cleaning the library, it struck her that she coped much better with strangers as a hostess rather than a visitor, or even as the daughter of the house. It was an interesting discovery that gave her fresh hope.

  *

  After a day and a half spent with the front door and the windows wide open, the entrance hall smelled fresh and clean. The large, cathedral-like windows now gleamed outside and in. The downstairs reception room, the drawing room, and the dining room had all been thoroughly aired, and the soft furnishings taken outside and beaten until the mustiness of disuse had vanished. With the windows cleaned, they were also brighter and much less daunting.