Contracted as His Countess

by Louise Allen

  He felt the simmering anger that had heated his blood ever since he had turned to look down the aisle begin to fade, to turn to something uncomfortably like shame when he recalled the harsh words he had flung at her over her first attempts to decorate the house. No taste had been the least of it. Left to follow her own instincts she had great discrimination—he should have remembered her garden.

  ‘My lord?’ Partridge was standing at the foot of the stairs looking up, far too well trained to express surprise at his employer’s odd behaviour, standing stock-still with dried lavender trickling between his fingers. ‘Her Ladyship is in the drawing room.’

  ‘Thank you, Partridge.’ Jack walked down the final flight of stairs. His stairs, he realised. He owned this house now, owned all the estates his family had accumulated over the centuries. Lyminge would be joining them at the Mote in a day or so, accompanied by the accountant he had employed to help organise all the management across the various properties.

  The thought carried him across the hall and into the drawing room with all his carefully prepared topics of conversation quite forgotten.

  ‘Good evening, my lord.’ Madelyn sat on a high-backed armless chair, an embroidery frame in front of her. As she spoke she pulled the needle through the canvas, trailing a strand of vivid red wool behind it.

  Jack became aware that his mouth was open, closed it so sharply he caught the end of his tongue and stared at his wife through the haze of tears that the sharp pain produced. Madelyn looked as though she had stepped down from an antique tapestry and settled herself with her embroidery at his hearth. The deep green gown pooled around her feet, the heavy weight of her plait lay down her back like a golden rope and she swayed gracefully as she reached to set another stitch.

  She is beautiful and she looks so right, sitting there. How had I not realised how lovely she is? How wrong I was to try to force her into being something she is not.

  Madelyn glanced at him, apparently too polite to demand that he come in and close the door and stop creating a draught. ‘I am embroidering a new set of seat covers for the dining-room chairs. They were so worn that it is impossible to see what the original design was.’ She moved the stand so he could see the canvas stretched on it. ‘I am using the beasts from your family coats of arms—this is the griffin from your mother’s family crest.’

  Jack closed the door and went to stand beside her. ‘That is exceedingly clever. Did you design it yourself?’ The red griffin reared up against a background scattered with tiny flowers that made it seem to be prancing in a grassy meadow. Somehow Madelyn had given the fearsome beast an amiable expression, despite its claws and the curling black tongue.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, bending to set a stitch in one pointed wing-tip. ‘I am giving all the beasts a flowery meadow as background.’ She finished the stitch, stuck the needle in the margin of the canvas and pushed the frame away a little. ‘I wanted to finish that wing, the shading is quite complex.’

  ‘Don’t stop, unless you really want to,’ Jack said as he took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘It is soothing, watching you.’

  Madelyn coloured up as she drew the frame back. ‘I imagine you need soothing.’ She stooped to rummage in the basket of wools at her feet, effectively hiding her face from him.

  ‘That was not what I meant. I had no intention of reading you some lecture, if that is what you thought.’

  Damn, now I am snapping. And lying. I had been brooding on that lecture all through the breakfast.

  ‘This is our wedding night.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  From Madelyn’s expression as she straightened up with a hank of black wool in her hand, a reminder about their wedding night had not been tactful.

  ‘I had hoped for a quiet evening’s conversation, a rest after a very crowded day,’ Jack said, retrieving his temper. This was like gentling an unbroken mare and he was beginning to find the process of winning his wife’s trust even more absorbing than that.

  Madelyn was threading the new wool into the needle, peering almost cross-eyed at the little slit, her tongue protruding with the effort of concentration. Jack’s body stirred. There was something very sensual and natural about that tiny glimpse of wet pinkness. She ran the tip over her lower lip, leaving a glimmer of moisture, and Jack drew an unsteady breath.

  ‘Ah.’ The wool went in the eye and she drew it through with a murmur of satisfaction that sent Jack to his feet. He took a couple of rapid strides across the room and stopped with his back to her, turning over the small pile of books on a side table while he got himself under control.

  ‘I do not have any conversation, I am afraid,’ Madelyn said. ‘I have never had anyone to practise on, you see. It has not been as bad as I thought it would be at parties, because everyone wanted to ask me the same questions about the castle and Father, but I do not know how to make small talk.’

  ‘Surely you held conversations with your father and with visitors?’ The more blatant evidence of arousal under control, Jack went back to his chair.

  ‘They discussed things among themselves, but Father never did so with me. He told me what he wanted, or he would tell me about his latest researches or an antique piece he had bought, but we did not converse. It was not an exchange.’ She adjusted the position of the frame and began to sew again. From the back, Jack could make out that she was giving the griffin his claws. ‘Mother and I would talk, of course, when she was not busy, or ill.’

  How lonely you must have been.

  Jack sensed that it would not be kind to say that out loud. ‘No imaginary friends when you were younger?’ he asked, his memory jolted as he caught sight of a small portrait of his grandmother. ‘Many children have them. My grandmother made up stories with a dashing pirate explorer and he became so real that we would go on voyages around the pond on a raft together, or when I climbed trees they were really the mainmast of his galleon and he was there, too. We would be on the look-out for rival pirates or native war canoes. His name was Randolph the Ruthless.’ He found himself smiling at the memory. Lord, how long was it since he had thought of Randolph, let alone gone adventuring with him?

  ‘You were lonely, too?’ Madelyn asked betrayingly.

  ‘When I was small, I suppose I missed children of my own age. But later when I went to school I made friends.’ Some stayed loyal when his father became more and more of a liability. Who the true friends were became clear when Roderick died and the full extent of the financial disaster became apparent. Many took the view that a man with no money to throw around was no fun and that an earl who would not use his title and who took commissions for money would somehow pollute their own lofty status. Lackland, they murmured, was showing bad form and that was inexcusable in a way that the profligate squandering of a family’s assets was not.

  It had hurt at the time until he learned to view it as a way of pruning back the dead growth and seeing true character clearly. He had fewer friends now, but, like Charlie, they were true. ‘Did you have a governess?’

  Madelyn shook her head. ‘Mother taught me to read and write and to do my figures. Father ordered my reading and taught me how to carry out research by setting me tasks to do—the right style of hangings for different rooms, or the composition of early glass for windows, that kind of thing. I suppose,’ she said thoughtfully, needle poised, ‘that did teach me a great deal about history and geography and some science and technology.’

  ‘It must have done,’ Jack said. Window glass? It had never occurred to him to wonder how it was made or how he would go about finding out. ‘But nothing of the modern world?’

  ‘I found out quite a lot by reading the boteler’s—the butler’s—newspapers. And sometimes I would go into Maidstone to shop.’ She bent over the canvas as though to hide her face. ‘I tried not to go very often—I was stared at so much. It was not a very good preparation for actually living in the nineteenth centur
y, I find.’

  That was a considerable understatement, Jack realised. And he had thrown her into deep water and expected her to swim with as much care for her fears and feelings as her ghastly father had shown. A number of unutterable swear words came to mind.

  ‘Tell me which other heraldic creatures you are using,’ he said, abruptly jerking the subject back from the painfully personal.

  Madelyn frowned in concentration, but he was glad to see that she was sitting up straight again and not hiding her face from him. ‘There are the golden bats from your maternal grandmother’s family—I thought several of those flitting about would be amusing. The blue spotted hound from your maternal grandfather—the one that is the opposing shield supporter to the griffin. Then there are several types of lion.’ She carried on listing beasts as Jack felt himself relax back into the cushions, watching her until one particular name caught his attention.

  ‘What in Creation is a pantheon—other than a group of great people or gods or a building?’

  ‘It is an heraldic beast, as well. One of your female Tudor ancestors brought them with her. They look a little like a deer, but with no antlers and a fox’s tail, and they are spangled with purple stars. Look.’ She picked up the wool basket and pulled out a book from among the skeins. ‘Here is a drawing of your full coat of arms with all the quarterings. It is this beast, right down in the corner.’

  ‘You drew this?’ He sat back with it in his hands, a delicate, detailed drawing with each tiny section meticulously coloured. ‘Do you enjoy art?’

  ‘I wish I was better,’ she said. ‘It is frustrating not to be able to paint a landscape as I would wish, or to conjure things from my imagination.’

  ‘Take lessons, employ a tutor,’ Jack suggested. They could afford it and he found he had no scruples about suggesting luxuries to his wife while he still inwardly recoiled at the reality of his own financial position. He was a rich man now and virtually every penny of that was Aylmer money. His own savings, earned from his commissions, were tiny in comparison with what Aylmer must have commanded.

  ‘You would not mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Why should I?’

  ‘I never know what will displease you.’ She jabbed the needle into the embroidery and reached for the glass on the table beside her. It had quarter of an inch of dark liquid remaining.

  ‘Other than dressing in bizarre clothing, attending vulgar masquerades and dancing with your old loves?’ Jack asked, the acid escaping into his tone despite his best intentions.

  ‘Yes, other than those things,’ she bit back and emptied the glass in one defiant swallow. Suddenly they were looking at each other across a gulf of mutual misunderstanding.

  Jack counted to ten in Greek backwards.

  Pretend neither of us has just spoken.

  ‘Is that sherry?’

  ‘Yes.’ Madelyn sounded wary. ‘Would you like some? Shall I ring for another glass?’

  ‘Good G—I mean, no, thank you. Has Partridge brought in all the decanters?’ He looked around. ‘Yes, I see he has.’ He got up to see what was there. What kind of cellar had Aylmer kept? Nothing but mead, ale and Bordeaux, probably from what little he knew of medieval drinking habits. He picked up one decanter filled with a clear amber liquid, sniffed, poured himself a glass and sipped.

  ‘Now this is an excellent dry Madeira. Where did it come from?’

  ‘I sent to Berry Brothers and asked them to restock the cellar here. Lady Fairfield said they were most reliable and they are just around the corner.’

  ‘A good choice,’ Jack said. He walked over and refilled her glass. Two glasses of sweet sherry were not going to put her under the table and it might help her relax.

  ‘Thank you.’ Madelyn took the glass and raised it to her lips. ‘How would I go about finding a drawing tutor?’

  ‘Ask Lyminge, that’s the kind of thing he’ll know. Or he can find out. That’s his job.’ He wondered what else might put her at ease. ‘Shall I send to the castle to have your dog brought to Dersington?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’ Jack felt a stab of conscience that he had not thought of it earlier, then her face fell. ‘But I wish I could have my mare as well, but it is so far for Shadow, it would take days at an easy pace.’

  ‘I will buy another mare for Dersington and teach you to ride side saddle,’ Jack said airily, wondering where the devil he’d have the time to find something suitable in Suffolk. Another task for Lyminge’s list, he supposed.

  ‘That is so thoughtful of you, Jack.’ Madelyn’s smile was eager, unguarded, and it took his breath for a moment.

  This could work, he thought, smiling back and lifting his glass in a silent toast. Madelyn lifted hers in return and her eyes continued to smile into his over the rim of the glass as they drank.

  ‘Ehem.’

  They both jumped. Partridge was standing there, and Jack realised that he had not even heard the door open.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight, my lord. Dinner is served, my lady.’

  Somehow they had spent almost two hours together with only one minor spat. Jack realised that he had been neither bored nor irritated. Normally he would spend his evenings with a few close friends, or working on a commission or with his feet up and a good book and a bottle of wine for company. Somehow he had been entertained, moved to pity, enlightened, aroused and annoyed by his new wife in quick succession without feeling the slightest desire to be anywhere else.

  He tossed back the remains of his Madeira and stood up. ‘Shall we, my dear?’

  Madelyn finished her sherry and swallowed rather too fast, he guessed, judging by the colour in her cheeks. He offered his hand for her to rise and she took it with a flattering readiness. Perhaps she, too, had found the time together pleasant or perhaps it was relief that her new husband had managed to control his bad temper for this first evening together.

  She was close and warm and sweet-smelling beside him as they walked the short distance to the dining room. Jack found himself wondering what soap she used, what oils in her bath, what rinses for her hair. What would she look like in her bath, her hair wet around her, moulding her shoulders, her breasts, even as it veiled them? Her knees, pink with the heat, peeping out of the water...

  This promising line of speculation took him as far as the table, all its leaves removed to reduce it to a size where they could converse down its length without needing to shout. He led Madelyn to the chair at the foot, then took his own place at the head. His grandfather’s place, the Earl’s chair. He thought he would have been pleased to see his younger grandson there. Roderick had never troubled himself with his grandparents. ‘The old man’s mad and the old lady’s a bore’ was his verdict. Jack doubted that they had set eyes on him since Roderick was seventeen.

  ‘The staff have done excellent work today, Partridge.’ he said as the butler proffered the bottle of champagne for his approval. The room was pristine after the wedding breakfast and the only unusual features remaining were the large vases of flowers on the sideboard and stands.

  ‘I will convey that to the Hall, my lord. The staff were most gratified by Her Ladyship’s message of appreciation earlier and are most grateful for the guinea apiece that you so kindly instructed Mr Lyminge to distribute to mark the happy occasion.’

  ‘I did? I mean, excellent.’ Jack raised an eyebrow in silent signal to Madelyn and she nodded. Thank goodness she had thought of that. He was unused to having a staff of more than two—a valet and a groom—but he should have realised how much work would be involved and how any gesture of thanks would be appreciated. Madelyn had had years of experience with staff and he had not realised how valuable that would be.

  ‘Pour the champagne, Partridge.’

  Madelyn had ordered a simple supper, judging well how small an appetite they might have after the wedding breakfast. She certainly seemed to have l
ittle, he noticed as he ate an excellent poached plaice with green peas. He indicated her empty glass with a wave of his hand and the footman hurried forward with the wine.

  It would help relax her. Eager though he was to make love to his new wife, Jack was conscious of a reluctance to deflower a virgin. He had no experience of inexperience, but he suspected that a bride who was passionately in love and blinded by that passion must be a far easier prospect than one who, however naturally sensual, was marrying as a matter of business.

  Alcohol would help, he thought, but not for him. He laid his hand over his glass when the footman next approached with the bottle. He wanted all his wits about him, but Madelyn needed to be slightly in her altitudes, to use the common parlance for not quite drunk. Two glasses of sherry and two of champagne were probably one too many of each under normal circumstances, but this, he thought as he watched her taking a small spoonful of syllabub, was not normal.

  Charles cleared the dessert plates and Madelyn began to stand. Paul, the other footman, was behind her in a moment, pulling out her chair.

  ‘I think I will retire, my lord.’

  She did seem to be clutching the edge of the table rather fiercely. As he stood Jack saw how white her knuckles were. ‘An early night? That seems an excellent idea. I will be up shortly.’ He sat down, deliberately not staring at her, even when there was the sound of a slight scuffle in the doorway. She was nervous and shy and that was making her clumsy.

  * * *

  Madelyn was not quite certain afterwards how she got upstairs. She reeled into the bedchamber and sat on the edge of the bed with relief. ‘Harper, I feel very strange.’ She tried to focus on the maid’s concerned face.