His thoughtfulness touched her. ‘It’s a lovely house, Griff.’ And it was. There was no denying that. Dappled sunlight streamed through the open French doors, emphasising the pristine cream walls which cried out for some coloured wallpaper and a few of her father’s and sister’s paintings, and the highly polished parquet which would look magnificent against a silk Persian carpet. ‘A blank canvas...’ She spun a circle then ran her fingertips over the barren sideboard which cried out for a huge vase of flowers. ‘Tell me—was the banker you purchased it from a bachelor too?’
‘He was.’ Griff chuckled, unoffended at her appraisal of the plain decor. ‘But he painted the study where he doubtless spent the most time, and in a very odd shade too.’ He pulled a face. ‘That had to go.’
‘Is that the only room you redecorated too?’
‘It’s the one I spend the most time in as well.’ He took her elbow again. The lightest of touches yet she felt it everywhere. ‘My mother planted some flowers in the garden though, because she despaired of the pathetic and empty rectangle of lawn and decided she couldn’t bear the lack of colour everywhere.’ As he manoeuvred her out of the doors, his hand grazed the small of her back. Brief and solicitous though it was, it was intimate enough to still make her pulse quicken. ‘And there were already a few trees so I’m rather proud of the result even though I had no hand in it.’
‘It’s pretty.’ Quite charming actually as it reminded her of her parents’ garden and she needed the familiar. The paved terrace was raised and surrounded by a stout columned wall which barely reached her waist. Three wide steps led down to a rose-filled flowerbed which flanked a winding path that meandered down the lawn, the rectangular shape softened by dotted trees and clumps of summer flowers all in full bloom.
While they waited for the tea, she wandered down it while Griff watched from the terrace above. He was anxious, she could tell, and no doubt as unsure about everything exactly as she was, but he was trying and she was grateful for that. Since he had found her being ill this morning, he had barely left her side and, much to her surprise when one considered their stark differences, she had appreciated his attentiveness. Bizarrely, as mortified as she had been to be found throwing up into a chamber pot, Griff had taken it all in his stride and this somehow made her feel better, as if they were in it together. He had sat with her for ages afterwards, talking to her because he sensed she needed the distraction in order to settle, until the constant tiredness got the better of her and she drifted off. When she awoke, it was to find that he had covered her with a light blanket and left a fresh glass of water on her nightstand. She hadn’t noticed he had left the connecting door open until he poked his head through it to check on her. Then he personally brought her some toast and tea and kept her company while she gingerly ate it.
It was funny. They had been with one another for hours since, chatting amiably about everything and nothing, but in all that time they had both tacitly avoided conversing about anything important. Yet there were so many things they still needed to discuss, and those things had hung over their heads like an ominous dark cloud all morning. She supposed there was no putting it off any longer.
He was already pouring the tea when she re-joined him, looking every bit as if he too knew that they had to have a serious conversation and was dreading it much the same. As she sat he slid the cup and saucer towards her across the small ironwork table and smiled his awkward smile. ‘You have questions, don’t you? I can hear the cogs of your mind whirring.’
‘A few.’ The most burning of which concerned her career. ‘I am legally committed to the theatre till the end of September.’ She had taken a few days of absence because of the wedding and her understudy was doing those performances, but the theatre expected her back tomorrow and she wanted to be there. As tired and ill as she was, she needed that thread of normality in this new, confused tapestry of upheaval.
‘I know.’ His eyes were kind. ‘I do understand how a contract works, Charity. However, I cannot deny that I am worried about you fulfilling that commitment in your current state.’
‘I shall be careful and rest as much as possible in between performances, exactly as Dr Macdonald said.’ She chose her words and tone carefully, mindful that this was no time for one of their customary battles of will because, as a wife, she was now legally bound to obey him. No matter how much she might loathe that power and hope he would never use it, there was also no denying he could put a stop to it all instantly and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it any more.
‘Do the theatre know that you are with child?’
She shook her head. ‘Nobody outside of our circle knows yet and it is much too soon to tell them.’ Aside from the inevitable scandal, the doctor had cautioned that the chance of miscarrying was at its highest in the first three months.
‘I agree.’
‘Singing is everything to me, Griff, and I don’t want to give it up.’ She blurted out the truth and held her breath, but he tilted his head, bemused at the force of her outburst.
‘I know that too. Did you honestly think I would try to prevent you from doing it?’
‘Some men expect their wives to give up everything so that they can be at their husband’s beck and call.’
‘Some men might, but I’m not daft.’ He shook his head and laughed as if the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. ‘I meant what I said just now—I want you to be happy and I am well aware of the fact that I shall always have to share you with the stage. But your mother and sisters all manage to juggle family and their careers, so I dare say we’ll do the same. Asking you to give up music would be as ridiculous as asking Faith to stop painting or Hope to never write another book again—or expecting me to stop tweaking machinery—because ultimately such a request would only make us both miserable. For better or for worse, we are shackled together for all eternity, remember?’
Shackled was such a depressing word, but probably the right one given the circumstances. It wasn’t as if he’d had any more choice in the matter than she. Then again, he could have refused and abandoned her to have their child out of wedlock as so many lesser men did every day. That was food for thought too. ‘We don’t have to be...for ever, that is.’ One good turn deserved another and as he had made a sacrifice, so could she. ‘Once the baby is born you could divorce me.’
His cup froze midway to his lips, his expression suddenly unreadable. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘It is an option...if things become unbearable.’ Although even contemplating it made her sad. ‘You might want a different sort of marriage.’ She took a sip of her own tea to mask her unease. ‘A different sort of wife.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You say that now, but let us not forget how much you despair of me...’ His dark brows furrowed and before he could politely lecture her, she decided it was better to invite it. ‘So, I can still perform and I can redecorate, but what do you expect from me in return? What are the rules of Mr Philpot’s charming house?’
‘Rules?’ He laughed again, but it was tinged with something more than amusement. ‘I am not your master, Charity. I have neither the time, the inclination nor patience to attempt to bend you to my will or curb your rebellious spirit.’
An enormous relief which unknotted some of the tight bands strangling her innards. ‘But there must be some things you expect?’
‘Requests perhaps—but not defined expectations.’
‘And those are?’
‘I would always request your honesty, no matter how painful or how much admitting it goes against your stubborn pride—or mine. This marriage has begun on enough of a back foot that it needs no lies to hamper it further.’ As she nodded his eyes locked with hers, stormy and intense. ‘And I would request you give our marriage a fair chance before you give up on it.’
‘Or you give up on it, Griff. That door swings both ways.’ He was hardly entering into their u
nion wearing rose-tinted spectacles as far as she was concerned and, of course, he had form when it came to being changeable. They had gone from friends to enemies in a heartbeat after York and she still had no clue exactly why beyond the unpalatable fact that she had worn his patience too thin simply by being her.
‘I shan’t.’ Her disbelief must have been obvious. ‘You have my word on that.’
‘Because your word is your bond?’ It seemed appropriate to make light of it, but Griff wouldn’t let her. He lifted her chin with his finger.
‘Because I firmly believe nothing is unfixable—even us—and I fully intend to fix it, Charity, or I’ll die trying.’ His tone was fierce. His stare fiercer. ‘We’ve made a child, and we owe that child a proper family. The sort we both grew up among.’
Which suggested a proper marriage in every sense, with laughter, intimacy and perhaps even love.
Didn’t it?
In case it didn’t and the hopeless romantic within her was trying to find some among the overwhelming sense of responsibility where none existed, she nodded again and sipped her tea. ‘Then you have my word too that I shall persevere for as long as it takes. Any other requests?’
He shook his head. ‘None.’ Then he surprised her by taking her hand, his thumb lightly massaging her palm in the most distracting manner.
‘No wifely duties you expect me to perform?’ Like occasionally sharing his bed. They hadn’t discussed that important detail either and it had played on her mind all night. She forced herself to stare at him boldly to ensure he got the innuendo, to be blasé about the prospect of more intimacy even though she wasn’t. Their one foray into passion aside, if it came without the emotional connection and respect she craved, she sincerely doubted she would ever feel comfortable with that side of things again.
By the bland way he composed his features before he sipped his tea, he understood completely what she alluded to. ‘Not that I can think of, no.’
She had no earthly idea if she was relieved by that or disappointed. It certainly felt like a bit of both, but she nodded again, supremely conscious that his big hand was still caressing hers and it felt lovely.
‘Splendid.’ Clearly embarrassed to be discussing such personal things, he severed the contact to pick up his tea again. ‘And what about you? What requests do you have for me?’
There was only one that she could think of off the top of her head. ‘That you let me in.’ She touched his forehead. ‘That you allow me to see what is going on in here. That you entrust me with more of the real Griff—the one you keep so tightly locked up until all those unseemly emotions you feel so uncomfortable with bubble out as anger like steam in an...’
He smiled. ‘Engine?’
‘I was going to say kettle, but I assume the principle is the same. Will you try to open that book rather than blow hot and cold and always be completely honest with me too?’
He nodded. ‘I will. I promise. What else?’
‘Nothing else springs to mind.’
He took her hand and allowed her to see his awkwardness and his hope. ‘Then seeing as we have the rest of the day free, how about we do some shopping for our new nephew and then try to rebuild the bridge between our parents? If we are annoyingly persistent, I firmly believe they’ll have to forgive us eventually. After all, they can’t keep claiming that they are practically a family, then bemoan the fact that we finally made the claim official.’
Chapter Eighteen
Charity settled back against her sister’s pillows and watched fascinated as she fed her baby. Her usually caustic middle sibling was smiling at her newborn as he nursed, an uncharacteristic sereneness about her which Charity hadn’t seen before which she assumed came from motherhood. That mystical, instantaneous state of complete love, devotion and selflessness which apparently miraculously occurred in a woman the second her baby arrived in the world. It had happened to both Faith and Hope in quick succession and she couldn’t help but wonder if it would be the same for her, or if her selfish streak was just too strong and ingrained for her to ever be that good a mother herself.
All she knew for certain was that she didn’t feel it now, but oddly, there was already something different about her feelings. The initial pangs of resentment had given way to curiosity and, as her hand instinctively went to her stomach, there was some excitement among all her worries for the future alongside an undeniable link between her actions and the needs of the child inside her which now controlled them.
‘Does it feel odd to have something attached to your bosom like a limpet?’
Her sister smiled. ‘I suppose it should—but it doesn’t. It is what they are meant for, after all. And, of course, being the only one capable of feeding Radcliffe gives me an edge over his besotted father and I quite like that. It is the one thing that I can do that Luke cannot and it ensures he has to hand our son over at regular intervals or I swear he’d hog him completely.’
‘He’s a natural father. Piers is too.’
‘Griff will be the same.’
Hope had held out an olive branch and asked Charity and Griff to be little Radcliffe’s godparents and that had meant the world. The service this morning had been a small, private family ceremony followed by an informal al fresco lunch in the garden because her sister and her husband had little time for big social affairs and that had made things easier today too. A week after her wedding and she was still getting used to being Mrs Philpot in private. Being Mrs Philpot in public too was a daunting prospect, especially as it was plainly obvious to everyone that they were more awkward around one another than they ever were. There were moments where they seemed to get along well but just as many others where they had no earthly clue what to say or how to behave.
‘Do you think?’
‘Of course.’ Her sister seemed surprised that she had any doubt. ‘He’s always had the patience of a saint and has a lovely gentle way about him. He’ll make a fine father.’
‘I suppose...’ She couldn’t deny he had a lovely, gentle way about him, but he had never had the patience of a saint around her. That might be because she really was as difficult a person as he had often lamented, or it might simply be because they had very different personalities which were always destined to grate against one another. ‘I cannot say we really know one another well enough yet to be able to make a judgement.’
Hope laughed at that. ‘You have known him most of your life!’
‘I have...but I don’t know him like you and Faith do. I was always the annoying little one who got in his way and got on his nerves.’
‘You adored him as I recall and did some outrageous things to get his attention.’
‘Initially perhaps...’ Trust her sister to have seen her behaviour then for exactly what it was. ‘But the bloom was soon off that rose and besting or thwarting one another quickly became the norm. We were always more rivals than friends and that never changed.’ Although it had. Briefly. And it had been glorious. ‘We are only married because we have to be.’
Hope’s smile collapsed into sympathy. ‘Are you very miserable?’
‘Not very—we rub along well enough all things considered.’ She forced a smile, not wanting to spoil such a joyous time in her sister’s life with her woes. ‘Griff seems determined to make the best of it and I, at the very least, owe him the courtesy of doing the same.’
Bizarrely, the best times this past week were when she was at her most ill which was usually in the middle of the night. Then he was a rock by her side and had the canny knack of making her feel all better afterwards when he tucked her back into bed and sat beside her on the mattress—stroking her hair while telling her in soothing, whispered tones about his day or something he had read in the newspapers or reminiscing about their shared childhood. When he sensed that she was settled again, he had taken to explaining in complicated detail the intricacies of one of the machines his factory built, usin
g them as lullabies which never failed to send her softly back into the comforting arms of Morpheus.
But for some reason, the easiness they shared when it was dark outside seemed to evaporate when the sun was up and she had no idea why. It wasn’t just Griff who became awkward, it was her too, and for the most part the rest of each day passed with cautious over-politeness and avoidance interspersed with snippets of the playful friendliness they had discovered during those brief halcyon weeks between Lincoln and York.
‘Especially after I ruined his life.’
‘He said that?’
Charity shook her head. ‘Of course not. He’s been annoyingly noble about it all—but I am not his favourite person and have no delusions on that score. He’s never liked me much and before this happened...’ she tapped her belly ‘...he called me spoiled, self-absorbed and superficial, accused me of kissing significantly more men than a proper young lady ever should and said he was sick of the sight of me. And now I have condemned him to look at me for ever.’
She attempted to force a smile, but a self-pitying tear fell regardless which she angrily swiped away. ‘It’s all a dreadful mess.’ Griff’s telling summation that broke her heart. ‘Those are his words—although I echo the sentiment, yet I have no idea what to do about it.’ Certainly, all the annoying self-pity wouldn’t fix it and she was much too miserable to formulate a proper plan. The forced smile physically hurt but she maintained it regardless. ‘I’ve made my bed, and now I must lie it in. Till death us do part.’
Hope put little Radcliffe in his cradle and came to wrap her arms around her. ‘Oh, Charity... It doesn’t have to be for ever if you don’t want it to be. There are ways out of these things. Piers managed it and now he has found happiness. There is no reason you cannot do that too.’
How Not to Chaperon a Lady--A sexy, funny Regency romance Page 17
