Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  John turned to her. “Richard Rowan, this is my wife, Lady Gwendolyn Montague.”

  A surprised expression crossed Mr. Rowan’s face, then he doffed his hat and bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your ladyship.”

  Her appearance must be off-putting. Most ladies did not get their hands and persons dirty.

  She smiled and extended her hand before she remembered she didn’t wear gloves. He took it and kissed the air above her grimy fingers.

  Not well done, Gwen. The locals won’t recognize you when they see you again.

  “I’ll be going now.” He peered into the back of the cart. “Do you want this unloaded?”

  “No, I’ll get it. Linens and crockery for the house.”

  “Then I’ll take my leave.”

  He strode back to where he’d come from and disappeared.

  “Who was that?”

  “The foreman I hired the day we visited the village. He had a reference from the baron who owns the land adjoining ours. I would have introduced you when he and his men arrived earlier in the week, but I daresay you’ve been busy in the house. How is it coming?”

  They strolled over to the cart, and Gwen opened the clasps of a large trunk, revealing stacks of sheets, towels and blankets.

  “I love the smell of clean linen, do you not?”

  “I suppose so. Haven’t given it much thought.”

  She put the lid down. “That’s because you and I have always taken such luxuries for granted. We grew up with servants to keep our rooms clean and our bedsheets changed.” She walked back around to the front of the cart. “Since coming here, I have a new appreciation for our servants.”

  He lifted the trunk onto his shoulder and headed for the house. “Can you open the door for me? I want to unload these two items before we go back to the cottage.”

  She ran ahead and did as he asked. The door was now sturdy and sound and closed firmly. He set the trunk in the foyer and went back out to unload one other item covered by burlap.

  “What else do you have?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She waited while he lifted an object out of the wagon, and her eyes nearly popped when she saw what he held. A shiny new copper tub glinted in the sunlight. Although heavy, John managed to bring it up the steps and set it in the hall.

  “Is it for me?”

  He nodded. “Do you like it?”

  “I do.”

  He smiled, took her hand, and tugged her back out to the cart. “I want you to be happy here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I stopped at the house on my way, and Mary said to bring you back for lunch. She said you’ve been working hard and missing meals. You need to eat to keep up your strength.”

  “I am a bit peckish.”

  He helped her up into the cart and climbed beside her to take the reins. Her thoughts strayed to what almost happened before the foreman interrupted them.

  Had John wanted to kiss her? She had felt his breath on her face when he’d closed the distance between them. Her entire body had thrummed in anticipation. Her mouth actually tingled, waiting for John’s lips to touch hers.

  What is wrong with me? Whenever John is near, my temperature rises.

  She settled the thought in the back of her mind to examine later. She had far too much to do. Once back at the cottage, she’d wash, sit down to a small meal, refine her lists, and perhaps catch up on her correspondence.

  “Will you be having lunch with me today?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I have more errands to run in town. I will find someone selling pasties when I find time. Did you finish the drawing room? I saw the array of furniture in the hallway. Most of it looks past its prime. Will you keep any of it?”

  “I’m quite fond of the armoire left in one of the guest rooms and a small pie-shaped table I found in the kitchen. There’s also a clock badly in need of polish that might be brass. I haven’t wound it yet. No key. If it doesn’t work, I shall put it in the lot destined for the attic.”

  “Good luck in finding the key. I cannot tell you how many doors are locked in the east wing. I may have to break them down to see what’s inside.”

  “Wasn’t the east wing part of the original abbey?”

  “So I’m told.”

  She wondered if he knew about the ghost. “John . . .”

  The cart stopped, and John hopped down and went around the side to assist her. She put her foot on the edge, slipped, and stumbled, falling into her husband’s arms, her breasts pressed against his muscled chest. Warmth flooded her body. Her cheeks aflame, she gathered her skirts and scurried into the house.

  I must have a malady.

  She would ask Mary for a tisane.

  After lunch.

  Chapter 10

  John swore as Gwen disappeared inside. What a fool he was to think he could ignore his wife’s female charms merely because it was the right thing to do. When Gwen’s foot missed the step, he’d broken her fall by wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her close. His cock had come alive as her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Damn, it had been too long. He should have found a mistress by now, an older woman, past childbearing of course, who’d meet his needs. He’d become acquainted with one or two while in the army, handsome women who fancied younger men. Surely there was one in the neighborhood.

  You’ve been married less than three weeks, and you’re already looking for a fancy piece? Think of your lady wife. She may be happy to remain a virgin, but she doesn’t deserve to meet your ladybird in society. And that’s what would happen if you look for someone in the village.

  Thoughts of Father drifted into his head. An inconsiderate devil, he’d often paraded his mistresses in front of Mother at summer house parties and ton balls. Miranda thought his sexual proclivities and outrageous behavior might have been what sent Mother round the bend. After listening to Culbertson’s assessment of Mother’s devotion to her husband, she could be right.

  I shall not become my father. I am not a cad. If I take a mistress, it will be with the utmost discretion. And it will not be anytime soon.

  But lately when he’d fantasized about bedding a woman, the face that rose before his eyes was that of his wife. Perhaps the doctors he’d consulted were wrong. Perhaps his children would be normal. Then the vision would be replaced with wild-eyed bedlamites, some howling, some naked. He’d been a soldier on a battlefield, but those horrors were nothing like the ones he’d seen in both public and private hospitals for the insane.

  He shuddered as he entered the cottage. He must take care with Gwen and not show any undue interest which could be misinterpreted. He didn’t want to frighten her. He’d promised her time to become comfortable with him before they consummated their marriage.

  Bedding her was a legal necessity. Nothing more.

  Once they were settled in the house, perhaps he’d suggest they host a dinner, invite some of the neighboring gentry. She’d said she missed her artistic friends. Perhaps she could find enough people to begin a salon of sorts here. She could start by hosting a weekly tea as she had in London.

  I want to give her the life she had.

  Shuffling and laughter told him Gwen was in her room with her maid when he passed her door and entered his own. Catching his reflection in a gilt mirror, he groaned. If only Jeremy could see him. He would never call him a dandy now.

  He grimaced at the label.

  When Father became ill, Jeremy had been sent to Jamaica to oversee the plantation the family had been granted by George III. While he was gone, it had been John’s duty to see that Father’s latest cast-off mistress had a house and staff. He and Jeremy had discovered she had a child, Phoebe, a little girl who was their half-sister. The charge had kept him in London. He’d dine
d out most nights, attended the theater and boxing mills, and frequented a few gambling hells. Looking back, he’d generally spent his time in bored dissipation, giving more attention to his wardrobe than anything else. Hence, the term dandy, a fitting description of what he’d been.

  Everything changed when Father died. After Jeremy returned home to take up his duties, they found out Father had other mistresses who might have produced offspring. While Jeremy worked to put the estate to rights, it was John’s duty to track down their father’s castoffs to make sure no other half siblings existed. His time in the army postponed the search, but since his return, he’d agreed to follow up on any lead Jeremy sent.

  He had not had any letters from his brother, but then he had not checked the post in days. He would do it after dinner.

  His ablutions complete, he descended the stairs and paused in the drawing room. Gwen, her gown changed and her hair tidy, was ensconced in a book until luncheon was served.

  “I’ll take my leave now and shall return in time for dinner.”

  She lifted her fingers in a wave. She seemed to want to tell him something earlier, but he was already late. It could wait.

  The village was small with cobblestoned streets and the usual number of shops. A church lay beyond the main street. His destination was the alehouse again, where he was to meet with his neighbor, a member of the gentry who had sheep to sell. It seemed all business transactions were conducted here.

  A distinguished-looking older man rose as he approached. He had a handsome countenance and wide-set eyes holding a welcome in their depths. He was dressed in tight pantaloons, a silver waistcoat, and a dark-brown overcoat with an intricately tied cravat. John felt dowdy next to this paragon of manly fashion.

  “You’re the new owner of Woodhaven.” He held out his hand. “Lord Livesley, at your service. I’ve wondered when someone would occupy it again. The place has not been fit for habitation for years, but I’ve always thought with enough blunt the buildings could be put to rights and the tenant farms could be prosperous again.”

  “And I’m John Montague.” He shook the man’s hand and sat across from him, raising his fingers to beckon the barmaid. “I’m happy to report the roof is nearly repaired and the doors fit snugly. My wife is seeing to the interior and tells me we can move into the west wing at the end of the week if furnishings arrive on time.”

  “I am impressed. Last time I was there it appeared nature would be claiming the house as it did the abbey.”

  John widened his eyes in surprise. “You’ve been there?”

  Livesley sat back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor for a moment. “I believe it was in early summer—before you arrived. I was out looking for errant sheep, met the couple in the steward’s house, and was informed the owner was due imminently. Imagine my surprise.”

  “No more than mine when my grandmother died and I was told I was a landowner.”

  His companion sipped his ale, peering at him intently over the top of the glass. “You didn’t buy the property?”

  “No, it was willed to me by my maternal grandmother, a lady who died when I was a lad. Not only did I never meet her, but I know nothing about her. It was the Addersley family. Are there any cousins lurking about?” He almost hadn’t asked, fearing the answer might be, “Why yes, and they’re all mad as hatters.”

  The man didn’t answer while he took a meat pie off a tray the barmaid set in front of them. He bit into it. “Beef I think. Rather good.”

  “No one remains then? Just as I suspected.” He still wanted to do research into Mother’s branch of the family, but the repairs to the manor came first. “Let us talk sheep. I understand you have some to sell.”

  The conversation turned to business, and John made arrangements for a flock to be delivered. Low stone walls crisscrossed his property. He’d find an area where the gate still survived intact and put them there. Wool was the main industry in these parts, and he was sure he could find help when it was time for them to be shorn.

  Tenants once raised their own sheep on the land. One still had a few sheep of his own. John had plans for him. Knowing nothing about sheep, he hoped to convince him to tend the new flock for a share of the profits.

  He also wanted to ask him about a mystery. One of the tenants who occupied a restored cottage was absent. Who was he, and where had he gone?

  John was trying to learn all he could about running an estate as quickly as possible. Longstreet, the Longley steward, had given him some instruction, but it was Jeremy who’d taught him the most.

  Concluding his purchase of sheep, he shook Livesley’s hand and promised to invite him and his wife to dine as soon as their kitchens were in operation.

  “You plan to stay then? Out at the house?”

  “I do.”

  The man fidgeted, as if he wanted to make a remark that might not be taken well. But his smile was wide when he took his leave.

  My imagination is overworked . . . just like I am.

  “Before you go, do you happen to know who owns a bright green phaeton? I encountered one on the lane a few days ago.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The idiot nearly ran me off the road. Fortunately, no one was injured.”

  He looked down and pursed his lips. “The conveyance belongs to my eldest son, Marcus, but it’s my younger son, Geoffrey, who probably drove it. He is still learning how to handle the vehicle. I do apologize on his behalf. I’m sure he meant no harm.”

  John chewed on the information and decided to let it go. “Do caution him about other drivers.”

  “You can be sure I shall.”

  John left and headed home. He looked forward to a quiet night. Perhaps he’d engage Gwen in a game of whist. He knew she liked cards, and it relaxed him. But first he had one more errand in the village.

  He’d passed a baker’s shop, and Gwen was fond of sweets. A bell jingled as he stepped inside, the aromas of fresh bread and sweet buns making his mouth water. The proprietor brought out a tray of tarts, and John selected a half dozen, which were carefully wrapped and placed in a shallow basket. He owed his wife a treat. She was the daughter of an earl and had done the work of scullery maids without protest.

  Miranda was right. He couldn’t have found a better wife. Cheerful, willing to help, she was already a favorite of Mary and Lionel. No matter what John asked of her, she willingly complied. Yet it must be hard on her with her family and friends far away. He recalled she’d been friends with Miranda’s cousin, Lady Emily Sinclair. Perhaps Gwen would like to invite her for a visit once their home was put to rights.

  The orange glow of a sunset filled the sky when he arrived back at the steward’s cottage. He plucked the basket out of the cart and brought it into the house, making a detour to the kitchen to leave it with instructions for Mary.

  She laughed when she saw the treats. “I remember these were your favorites, Mr. John.”

  “Lady Gwendolyn is fond of them, too.”

  “Two peas in a pod, you are.” She beamed. “You made a good match.”

  He reached in the basket and stole a tart, stuffing it in his mouth.

  Mary snatched the basket out of reach. “You want to keep some for your dessert. I daresay I shall have to hide these from you. I know how much you like them.”

  He wiped his mouth and left the kitchen. He’d change into something more comfortable for dinner. They didn’t stand on ceremony, but except for their first night when they’d shared their meal with staff, they observed the formality of dining alone.

  Gwen was in the parlor when he came down again. She had on a light-blue wool gown, cut high under the bosom in the French style. She wore it with a paisley shawl in shades of red and blue. Her dress color matched her eyes, which were now focused on him.

  “Was your trip suc
cessful?”

  “If you mean, are we now the proud owners of a flock of sturdy sheep? Yes, it was.”

  “I’ve always wanted to touch one to see if the wool is soft or coarse.” She put down her book and leaned toward him, the shawl falling open in front to show a hint of deep cleavage.

  John looked away, once again aware of his wife’s abundant charms. His cock twitched in anticipation. Damn, was he a complete goat? Could he not think of anything except bedding his wife—something he could not do on a whim?

  He thought of the sheep, a good-sized flock that would need feed and water, but probably not too much. Grass was plentiful in the north, and the good, hearty eaters would keep it trimmed to the nub.

  “John?”

  “What.” He spat out the word, alarmed at his tone.

  “Are you cross with me? Have I done something to annoy you?” Her expression challenged him to choose his words with care.

  “No. I apologize for snarling like a dog.”

  She retied the shawl primly in place and folded her hands in her lap.

  He forced himself to adopt a gentle tone. “Did you have a good day?”

  Grinning, she tilted her head. “An amazing one. Did you know we have a ghost? I heard it from one of the maids helping me clean out the drawing room. She told a sad story about a woman pining for the baby taken away by the abbots. Is it not wonderful? I must write my friend Hattie. At my salons, she was always nattering about ghosts.”

  Relieved Gwen had regained her good humor, John rolled his eyes. “Ghosts, huh. When does this ghost appear? All Hallows’ Eve?”

  She laid her finger across her puckered lips. “I do not know. I forgot to ask. Perhaps it’s when the moon is full.”

  “And where does this ghost roam? Hopefully not in our house.”

  “No. ’Tis in the tower. High up. Her face can be seen in the window, and I assume her child’s wails are heard below.”