Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
BENNET HALL, SURREY - JUNE 12, 1816
LEE
Cass promptly sank her claws into my arm as soon as I shut the door to my wife’s chambers. A curse escaped me before she bounded free, leaping from my arms to land on the bed.
“You cannot do that. I do not want her gowns ruined. What were you even doing in there anyway?”
The cat squeaked out her odd little meow in response before prowling to the top of the bed. There, she found a pillow and began to knead it with her feet, digging her claws into the fabric covering and yanking.
“Shoo!”
She paused to glare at me, then spun in a circle once, twice, three times before curling into a ball in place.
I collapsed onto the foot of the bed and Cass snapped a chirp before closing her eyes. I let out another sigh as I flopped back to lay half on and half off the bed.
This was an inconvenience I hadn’t anticipated about having a wife—a beautiful wife at that. Separated from me only by a thin wooden door and a soaking wet shift that wasn’t merely transparent but clung in all the best places.
The accident hadn’t left me blind. I was still a man with eyes, and my wife was a stunningly beautiful woman. It was to be expected that I would find her attractive. It didn’t have to mean anything.
Except that it did. I still reacted in all the ways I used to when presented with a beautiful woman. I still wanted . It was just that the wanting had no outlet. And I had signed on for a year of wanting desperately with no release in sight.
I would end up in the madhouse before the year was over. I glanced at the telltale traitorous tightening in my breeches. It was no help at all that every time I closed my eyes, the image of my wife’s form in a soaked shift appeared, burned in my mind.
With an exhausted sigh of concupiscence, I considered the usual tactics… The mental image of Crawford in the same clinging shift seemed to do the trick.
Brigsby chose that moment to knock and enter without waiting for a reply. He froze at the pathetic sight of me wallowing on the bed. “Is everything well?”
“No.”
“Do you… wish to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Do you require a few more moments?”
“No,” I sighed the word and pressed myself up to stand.
He began the process of collecting all the ridiculous accouterments required for a formal dinner. That would be another adjustment. No more solitary suppers in my shirtsleeves. Wives expected their husbands to be properly attired at the table.
“Is this about the very cross lady’s maid I saw leaving your new wife’s sitting room?”
“Not entirely, but that beast is responsible.” I gestured at the little menace currently purring—and shedding—on my pillow.
“Oh dear…”
“Yes.” I tugged my cravat loose, then pulled it free from my collar and unlooped it from my neck. “If you don’t mind, would you see about assisting Imogen with it? Otherwise, we should see about having it replaced.”
“Of course. Although… Your wife will soon require new gowns, if I’m not mistaken.”
Damn, she’d want to go to a London modiste for that. My back ached at the thought of watching the carriage bounce along. Another trip to and from town, fretting over my wife, and I’d need to find the cane I used after my accident. I had no desire to hobble around the house like an octogenarian.
Brigsby held out the clean linen shirt I was to wear to dine, and I tugged it over my head distractedly.
“Can you discuss those arrangements with Imogen as well? Perhaps we can find a modiste willing to travel here?” The valet gave a dubious brow raise and I fought back an eye roll. My wife’s habits were catching. “Ask please?”
“Yes, my lord.” He draped a fresh cravat around my neck before tying it in a rather more showy style than I preferred. “Is there anything you wish prepared for tonight? Rose petals perhaps? Additional candles?”
“That will not be necessary.” I hated myself as I said it. Those things ought to be necessary. My stomach clenched guiltily, and I longed for a peppermint.
“But, my lord…”
“No.” He knew better than to press that tone. I gave Brigs a great deal of leeway and tolerated all manner of impertinences, but that timbre brokered no argument.
Lack of protestations did not signify a lack of opinion, however. Brigsby was more than capable of making his feelings known in the strength with which he tightened my cravat.
“Has chef made the changes I requested to supper?”
“I believe so.” Still peeved with me then.
“Very good. How is Imogen settling in?”
“Fine.”
At a loss and cursing imprudent valets the world over, I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the coat he held before him. Turning, I faced the mirror. Acceptable. I shook my hair loose and tugged a few strands free to conceal some of the scarring on my temple. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I would be able to manage.
In the glass, my valet glared pointedly, arms crossed and hip jutted out.
“Brigsby, I will say this once. My marriage, such as it is, is neither your responsibility, nor your concern. I’ll thank you to keep your comments about it to yourself. And the rest of the staff as well. If I catch one hint of gossip about Lady Champaign, the person responsible will find themselves turned out without a reference. There will be no warnings.”
It was, in point of fact, the least kind speech I had ever delivered to him, perhaps to anyone. But I knew how gossip traveled. The child my wife carried was mine—as of this morning at any rate. Any rumors would damage not only my reputation but that of my wife and the babe as well. And I would not—could not—allow that.
His jaw had hinged open with the second sentence and hung there, open and overdramatic. I strode from the room, abandoning him, still pinned in place, in favor of the small dining room.
On the way, I found my wife in the drawing room, perusing the bookshelves with half-hearted interest. She wore not the purple gown that Cassiopeia had claimed but a sunshine-yellow frock. When she turned, I caught the whisper of a belly under the parted fabric.
It was astonishing, in truth, how an entire person could come from nothing. A child resided in there right that second.
Rather than share that inane thought, I floundered for a more appropriate topic. “Do you read?”
“Some. Are you the collector? It’s quite a vast selection.”
“The majority are mine. A few belonged to my parents and the others…” She nodded. There was no doubt in her mind where my thoughts had gone. “Do you…” I broke off, clearing my throat. “Do you have a preference?”
“I was reading a great deal of romance. But I may be in search of something new if you have recommendations.” I considered thoughtfully before sliding Belinda free from its companions.
She took it and flipped through the pages with something akin to interest.
“I believe supper should be ready if you’d like to head in?”
My wife set the book on a side table for later perusal, then slid her hand into the crook of my arm. There, her ring caught the light, the glinting metal that called her third finger home astonishingly bright.
The family dining room was smaller, seating four comfortably, though six could be packed in if need called for it. The table was a rich mahogany with edges carved in intricate scrolls and vines. I helped my wife to her place before taking my own.
Three footmen filed in with dishes of greater variety and extravagance than I was used to—though I was pleased to find no oysters in sight. I had not escaped the pine nuts though. Nor the currants. The staff would enjoy the oysters at least.
I watched carefully which dishes my wife selected and which she took the smallest spoonfuls of. She seemed fond of pickled salmon but made no effort to touch the roast.
“Did… was your gown beyond salvage?”
“Imogen is looking at it.”
“I apologize again. I had no idea Cass would break into your room. She has never shown even the slightest inclination.”
“It is no matter.” Her words were perfectly polite, delivered in a perfectly appropriate tone. But there was an edge just underneath where her irritation lay.
“I should see about other locks. She’s quite a magician.”
“And she resides… indoors?”
“She resides wherever she wishes. Doors are no obstacle. Every attempt to keep her locked away or in the barn has failed within a quarter of an hour.”
That earned me an indistinct hum.
I fought for something else to speak of, something to pull her thoughts away from her ruined gown. “Did you—do you—have evening rituals? For after supper?”
Lord this was stilted. Mia and I had known something of each other before we wed, our courtship and engagement having spanned nearly six months. The person across from me now was a stranger.
“I often play the pianoforte or read when I am at home in the evenings.”
“If you like, after supper I can show you to the music room.”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Supper continued in the same formal, laborious manner until the dishes were cleared away.
Her hand found that same familiar home in the crook of my elbow as I led her down the hall to the music room. The delicate touch was heavy there, a responsibility. For the first time in years, another person’s happiness was mine to ensure.
“Lord Champaign?” I dipped my head down to her. “Do you, would you prefer I refer to you as such? Or…”
“I prefer Lee. And you?”
“Charlotte.”
We entered the music room. It was spotless, despite having remained untouched for years, and a fire was blazing in the hearth. I would need to determine which of the footmen overheard her and thank them. Charlotte broke away from me and trailed a hand across the harp before making her way to the pianoforte by the window.
She settled primly on the bench and lifted the fallboard. Her fingers whirled automatically through the notes of a scale. The piano was impressively well tuned for so long in disuse. I couldn’t recall the last time someone touched it.
With seemingly no effort, but what was likely the result of decades of study, she shifted into the notes of a familiar jig. Even though her posture was impeccable and her technique flawless, her countenance was light and unaffected.
I settled in on the nearby settee to enjoy her performance. It seemed I had found an accomplished wife. It would be no hardship to listen to her play every evening. Not at all.