The thought was ridiculous and rather unmanly, but he couldn’t help the image of her wet through and in nothing but her underthings to tell him her gowns were all wrong.
“How would you feel about visiting the seamstress in the village for some summer frocks?”
She straightened from where she’d been giving Henry some scratches to eye him suspiciously.
“I brought summer frocks with me. There’s no need—”
“You have a rather stunning figure that is not at all showcased in your gowns, do you know that?”
He hadn’t meant to startle her, but at the redness that appeared at her cheeks, he knew he had.
“I’m not so sure it’s the gowns—”
He set down his plate harder than he’d meant to. “It is the gowns. You forget I’ve seen you with far less clothing.” He gestured to her figure. “These garments practically hang off of you. That can’t be very comfortable when you’re trying to work with Henry.”
She blinked. “How did you know that?”
He went to get a second plate to fill for her. “It would be the same if I wore a riding habit that was over large. Hardly the proper thing for a good ride.”
The redness was already fading from her cheeks when he turned back.
“I suppose you might be right.” She bit her lower lip. “Is there someone in the village who could assist me?”
“Mrs. Fletcher. She’ll be able to help you.”
She took a seat next to his at the table. “That will be splendid then.” She picked up a fork, her eyes drifting to the window where rain still lashed. “Surely we won’t go today, will we?”
He laughed softly as he took his seat. “No. I’m afraid a sea storm is not something to trifle with. We’ll go as soon as it passes.” A dismal thought suddenly struck him. “Eh, I know you will be shut in doors today, and I—”
“There’s no need to entertain me. I’m not a small child.” She took a bite of toast and swallowed. “I should wonder though if there is a small room somewhere that I may have for my affairs. Returning correspondence and such.”
He looked up at the timid pitch of her voice, but she resolutely studied her eggs.
“There are more than enough rooms in the manor. You should have your pick.”
“Any room?” She lifted only her eyes, and even then, her voice held a note of caution.
He gave a nod as he swallowed his sausage. “I recommend finding one in the south corridor. You’ll have the most light throughout the day there.”
Her eyes sparked at his suggestion, and he paused in his careful chewing.
Eliza had a secret.
He’d known all along there was something more to her than she let on, but he had suspected it had something to do with a matter of more tangible quality. But the way her eyes had lit at his suggestion of a light-filled room had him questioning his conclusion.
After all, what tangible thing could allow a woman to remain so involved in a marriage the husband had declared a farce?
He swallowed at the memory of his own carelessness.
“I have some letters to return, but I’m sure Mrs. Donnelly would be happy to show you the south corridor so you can choose which room suits you.”
Her face relaxed into a genuine smile. “That would be lovely.”
He thought that would be the end of it.
He rang for Mrs. Donnelly after they’d finished their meal and had lingered for some moments over tea and coffee, but he could sense Eliza’ s urgency. She really did seek a room with good light. How odd.
He truly thought he’d be rid of the notion of his wife hiding things from him when he made his way to his study and immersed himself in the two days of post that had piled up on his desk. Sheridan had left some reports on the calving the spring had seen and what they planned for the following year. He needed to read over the harvest expectations as the farm was largely self-sufficient and needed to produce enough feed to manage the livestock it held.
But no matter how tricky the figures or engrossing the topic, he could not let the thought of Eliza’s expression stray.
Somewhere along the south corridor Eliza hid something from him.
He should let it go.
But the notion had nagged at him for weeks, and now he had something more on which to work, actual physical proof of her deception.
He set down his pen, appalled at his own thinking.
His wife was not capable of deception. It was his own storied past that had him even thinking it.
But it was his past that had him standing moments later, striding toward the door to see just what his wife was about.
He made it to the south corridor in moments, but he was met with absolute silence. The rain continued to beat along the roof of the manor house, and somewhere a clock ticked, but otherwise, the corridor carried nothing more than the ethereal quiet of a stately home.
He made his way down the hallway, peering into each room, finding each as empty as the last until he’d almost reached the end. It was a room his mother had used for music although his mother was the least musically talented woman in all of Britain, but she liked to have a place for her guests to retire to should they be stuck indoors on a day like it was then. She decorated the rooms in soft shades of violet, and the rear wall like all the rooms on this floor was a panel of windows casting out over a section of the cliffs.
The room was sparse of furniture now, the piano having long been removed, but there was still a long table set against the windows that had once been used for refreshments. He remembered as a boy hiding under the table with Ronald while some debutante droned on at the piano.
He faltered in the doorway as the memory washed over him, but soon his attention was caught by his wife.
A fire had been lit and candles brought in as the storm muted the light through the windows. His wife leaned over that same long table, a forgotten chair discarded behind her. She was examining something on the tabletop, her attention rapt, her fingers moving with delicate precision.
He didn’t hesitate. He stormed into the room and snatched at the paper she held in her hand. She gasped, stifling a scream, but he didn’t take a moment to either apologize or take in her face as he did not want to see or hear her excuses.
He didn’t know what he expected to find, perhaps a letter to a lover she’d left in London, but had he been in his right mind, he would know the absurdity of such a notion. He’d crushed the paper slightly with his hasty grab, and now regret and guilt washed over him.
It was a watercolor of a small bunny.
His lips parted, and he raised his eyes reluctantly to Eliza, who cowered beside him, her eyes beseeching, her fingers hesitantly reaching for the paper he still held.
“Oh, please. I didn’t mean to get in the way. Mrs. Donnelly said no one uses this room now.” Her fingers reached tentatively for the paper in his hand. “Please, Ashbourne. May I have it back?”
He was back to Ashbourne. Horror at what he’d done seized his throat, and he could only relinquish the paper to her.
She set it carefully on the table and attempted to press the creases he’d made from it. But it was no use. He’d ruined the little bunny and the careful rendition of grasses that surrounded him.
“Eliza, I must beg your forgiveness. I—” But the rest of the words were lost to him.
His eyes moved, taking in the rest of the table. It was covered in watercolors. There must have been dozens of them. All small sheets of paper with a single scene of a bunny or a fawn, sometimes a turtle or a bird. Some contained just the watercolor, but others contained writing. He shifted, afraid to step closer, but needing to see what was written on them. At first it didn’t make sense. The writing was nonsensical until he’d read several of them.
“You’re writing a story with illustrations.” The words came out as hardly more than a whisper.
Eliza didn’t answer, and he shifted his gaze to find her. She still huddled against the table, her back bent as she t
ried futilely to remove the creases he’d caused in the paper he’d snatched. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, instead focusing on the watercolor in front of her as she shifted ever so slightly.
Had he not been watching her so closely he would have missed it, as it was nothing more than the shift of her shoulder, but it effectively hid her face from him.
His stomach clenched, and he thought he might be sick.
“Eliza, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you wished to be an author. I had no idea—”
She whirled on him, straightening to her full height. While he had expected to see the tears in her eyes, he hadn’t expected such fury.
“I have no such wish, Ashbourne.” Her words were steely and absolute.
He faltered, gesturing weakly to the scattered watercolors.
“But all of these drawings, the script on them, surely you mean to publish these one day.”
That defiant chin went up, and her shoulders went back.
“These are not for publication, Ashbourne. These are for my children.”
All at once it struck him.
The deal she had bargained for with him was not the result of hurt pride and a determination to see her duty fulfilled. Had he been wiser, he would have understood that society had taught Eliza to think very little of her own feelings, and she would never broker such a bargain.
No, this was something that ran deeper, truer.
He whispered the words even as they formed in his mind, “You want to be a mother.”
Chapter 12
During her first season, she’d stumbled upon a group of debutantes in the retiring room. Stumbled literally, for the door had a faulty latch. When she’d burst into the room, she discovered they were discussing the wallflowers present at the evening’s ball and namely her. They were detailing just how precisely her face resembled that of her favored canines.
Even then she had been less mortified than she was now.
She looked everywhere but at Ashbourne, wanting so much to step back in time only a few seconds to keep him from figuring out what it was she truly sought from their bargain.
Never had she revealed her deepest desire, her yearning to be a mother, because in all reality, it had been so terribly unlikely until she’d met Ashbourne. Even now her life seemed like a dream, and she feared at any moment she would awaken.
“I don’t see anything remiss in my natural desire to be a mother. Many women become mothers every day. It’s not so unthinkable.”
When he touched her, she jumped and reflexively tried to push him away.
He shushed her with soothing noises as he drew her into his arms.
“Eliza, darling, calm yourself. I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort. I think it’s wonderful that you wish to be a mother. I’m just saddened that you didn’t feel comfortable telling me.”
She stared resolutely at his chest, her body rigid as she refused to give into his warmth and assurances even for one inch. She knew that way lay danger. It would be all too easy to let his warm words and soft touch sway her, but she couldn’t forget the words she’d overheard. They sliced through her even now when they were just a memory. She had to keep her wits about her.
“You know we mustn’t stop at an heir and a spare. I believe those were the terms of the deal?”
He had her attention now, and she couldn’t help but look up, meet his gaze.
“Yes.” The single word cost her greatly, but she simply needed to hear what he would say.
“As an only child, I missed having the companionship of brothers and sisters. I shouldn’t like our own babes to lack the benefits of a big family.” His brow creased. “You do enjoy being part of a large family, do you not?”
“Oh, very much so.” She hadn’t meant to answer him. She hadn’t meant to engage in this conversation at all, but once again, he lured her in with his gentle tone and promising words.
Like the first night they’d arrived, his honest tone alone had set her at ease, and now with his arms around her, it was all too easy to fall.
“Then why shouldn’t our children enjoy the same comfort?”
He eased her away before she was ready to lose his touch, and she stumbled ever so slightly on the carpet.
“What is it exactly that you’re doing here? I understand it’s a story, but what is it about?”
Words were utterly foreign to her then.
No one had ever asked her about her watercolors.
Her first few attempts at speech fell hopelessly on the carpet at her feet, but she tried again, forcing her lips to form actual sounds.
“It’s a simple story, and it’s really not about the story at all. It’s about the colors and shapes and the animals.” She shifted the watercolors about on the surface of the table so he could see them properly. “When Jo was a babe—” She stopped, licked her lips, and straightened her shoulders.
Really, Eliza, this is not overly difficult.
“Johanna, my youngest sister, we call her Jo. When she was a wee thing, she had trouble with shapes and colors and animals and such. She would call pigs, dogs and cows, elephants.” She licked her lips again and pressed a hand to her stomach. “My mother was gone by then, you see. Johanna’s birth had been difficult, and Mother hadn’t recovered when the influenza came. Poor Jo never really knew our mother.”
She didn’t realize Dax watched her until he reached up and pushed a lock of her wayward hair behind her ear. The gesture was so intimate, pain flashed in her chest.
“Mother was the one to always teach us things. Poor Jo didn’t have anyone, and Viv and I tried to help. Viv being Viviana, of course. But there was Louisa, too. Only a year older than Jo.”
Dax’s expression grew serious. “Did you not have a nanny or a governess?”
“It’s entirely possible our nanny had witnessed the building of Stonehenge, and our father didn’t remember to call for a governess until Viv was practically out for her debut. We’re lucky we are naturally resourceful.”
A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Indeed. So why these watercolors?”
She returned her gaze to them, pride filling her as it always did. “I couldn’t find suitable material to help Jo with some of the more basic understandings, so I made them up.”
“You made them up?” His baffled tone drew her gaze.
“Of course, I did. I couldn’t let her continue thinking a pig was called dog. Imagine how offended Henry would be now.”
As if understanding they were talking about him, Henry made a noise of agreement from where he lay sprawled in front of the fire.
“How did you make them exactly? You cannot be much older than your younger sisters.”
She crossed her arms over her stomach. “I’m actually a good deal older. We believe our mother suffered two still births between myself and Louisa although no one speaks of it. I’m six years older than Johanna because of it. I was eight when I began making drawings for her. Just simple ones with some chalk and a slate. Eventually my father brought me some lovely charcoals from one of his trips to London.”
At some point, he’d settled against the table, and with a start, she wondered if he intended to stay. When Mrs. Donnelly had shown her this room, she’d been elated at the prospect of having a little bit of the manor to call all her own. She thought the desk in her rooms would have been adequate, but curiosity had pushed her to ask for more…well, space. Not that she hadn’t been enjoying Dax’s company. It was just that after living with so many siblings, she was looking forward to having a little bit of quiet if only temporarily.
But the way Dax lounged against the table made it almost seem as though the room weren’t quite finished until he’d arrived.
“You speak fondly of your father.”
She paused at his words, her mind faltering over their meaning.
“Should I not?”
He gave a casual shrug. “It could be said many members of the ton do not have such a relationship with their father.”
Her
shoulders sagged. “Did you have a poor relationship with your father?”
He gave a bark of laughter that startled her. “My father was thirty years older than my mother when they wed. It was like having a doting grandfather instead of a strict parent, instilling virtue and morals. My father never expected to have a child and so he showered me with gifts and attention. It was everything a child could have dreamed of.”
“You don’t seem to believe your own words.”
He studied the carpet before answering. “Because he was so grateful for me, I always felt like a grand prize instead of his son. As if I were placed on a pedestal for the simple happenstance of my birth.”
“I don’t find you spoiled in any manner as your upbringing would suggest.”
His laugh was rich now. “I will tell my mother you said so. She worked hard to counter the duke’s attention, so I came up with a reasonably level head.”
“Your parents did not wish to have a large family then?”
The shake of his head was precise. “The duke was happy to have me. He spoiled both myself and my mother and let us to our own devices. It was all merriment and laughter.”
“That’s not really what families are about.”
He studied her for several moments before answering. “I’m beginning to understand as much.” He gestured to the watercolors. “But you’ve carefully avoided telling me about your own father.”
She followed the direction of his gesture and gave a small shrug.
“There really isn’t anything to tell. Poor Father was left with the five of us, not knowing what on earth was to be done.” She adjusted one of the watercolors, this one a rendition of a fawn amongst the reeds of a creek. “He was kind but distant, never really sure what to make of all of us.” She fingered the edge of the paper. “I miss him terribly. Andrew is lovely and takes very good care of us, but there’s something about having a parent. They’re the ones you’re always supposed to turn to, aren’t they?”
The Duke and the Wallflower Page 16
