A Properly Conducted Sham (Most Imprudent Matches #5)

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

BENNET HALL, SURREY - JUNE 13, 1816

LEE

My wife was peeved at me.

Oh, she was trying to hide it. But the snappish tone, pursed lips, and furrowed brow spoke far louder than her words.

Her knife clanged a touch louder than was polite after she spread the jam across her toast. She bit into it with a bothered chomp—as though she imagined it was my head.

It was, to be quite honest, most amusing. A good husband, a proper husband, would ask what, precisely, he had done to put her in such a foul temper. But she was so, so angry. And she tried so, so hard to conceal it. She made such a poor showing of it that a part of me was desperate to find out just how long she could maintain the charade. I wasn’t particularly proud of that part of me, but it was winning at present.

“Pass the kippers, please?” They were perhaps half an inch closer to her than to me. I was a terrible man.

She stuffed the piece of toast into her mouth before tearing it away, eyeing the dish. Then she grabbed it with one hand and half tossed it a few inches closer. It landed with a clatter, splashing up my arm.

I bit back a laugh. “Thank you.”

The look she shot me would have had lesser men cradling their ballocks.

The silent evisceration of her breakfast did little to hide her temper. And I maintained my desperate efforts to conceal my laughter behind bites of the various offerings.

I ought not say it, I knew I should not, but it escaped all the same. “I trust you slept well?” I was barely able to mask the mirth in my voice.

All but tossing her fork to her plate, she pulled her napkin to her lips and wiped her face before throwing that atop her half-eaten breakfast. “I did not,” she bit out between tight-knit lips.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do let Crawford know if there are any changes you wish to make to your rooms that would allow you to rest easier.”

“Will Crawford be able to transform you into a more polite husband?”

So the issue was with me. Her ire was only slightly less amusing when I was certain I was the target. Truly though, I could not imagine what I had done between her door last night and the breakfast table this morning. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind,” she snapped, shoving her chair away from the breakfast table. Now I was annoyed too.

I caught her wrist before she managed a step. My irritation was such that I could hardly appreciate the silken skin and delicate bones of her wrist in my hand. “Oh, I think I very much mind.”

“Let go of my wrist.”

My grip slackened and her hand broke free. “I apologize. Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, turning to leave once again. This time I watched her sweep out of the room, goldenrod gown trailing in her wake.

I dragged a hand through my hair, tugging the strands into place. Now I had thoroughly botched the first night of my marriage without the slightest notion as to how. And I successfully drove my wife from the wing. The morning began with the vague intention of returned correspondence and reviewing the ledgers. Now such a notion seemed untenable.

Perhaps I was overly familiar with her. The way I had placed her hand in the crook of my arm last evening. It was too easy, and uninvited. My father had taught me better than to touch a woman against her wishes.

Such perfunctory displays of gentlemanly conduct had never been unwelcome before. But I was not a scarred recluse before. Guilt twisted into a swirling amorphous mass in my gut.

The thought of remaining trapped inside my study with nothing but my own thoughts and a still peevish Brigsby for company was unendurable.

That left but one option. I slipped out the side door after catching a glimpse of the valet and leaving him with directions and a pinched expression in my wake.

Charlotte

“—and he is unbearably rude.”

Imogen merely hummed disinterestedly while fussing with the pins in my hair. It was possible I was overreacting. But I was tired, drained physically and emotionally. And at the moment, I had only my husband and his viscous attack cat to blame

Distractedly, I brought the nearby teacup to my lips, hoping the ginger flavor would settle my stomach. As the cup reached my nose, I caught a whiff of not ginger but peppermint.

My eyes shot to Imogen’s in the mirror. She must have read the confusion there.

“Your unbearably rude husband requested that for you.”

I bit back a retort and took a tentative sip. The tea soothed all the way down, hitting my stomach in the midst of a discontented roll. Instantly the jostling ceased, settling. A second sip warmed something in my chest. It was unusual to have such pains so early in the day. That burning sensation around my heart was often reserved for night. But I found new gifts from the hanger-on inside of me every day. Fortunately, the sensation wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as it usually was. Certainly not unpleasant enough to outweigh the easing of my stomach.

“It’s possible I was a bit harsh with him this morning.”

I caught a raised brow in the mirror, and she slid a pin into place sharper than usual.

“Something to say?”

“Not at all. It just seems that you would not have minded so much if the baron had absented himself from your bed chamber for any night.” She smoothed another curl before slipping it to join its brethren.

“Of course not, he was horrid.”

“Well, perhaps your unbearably rude husband was being considerate of the very eventful day and your delicate state and chose not to impose himself on you.” She flicked her fingers through the hair accessories I had brought with me and pulled out a ribbon that matched my gown, smoothing it before me for approval.

I nodded before countering. “Then he should have said so. I waited up for him and then his horrid cat broke in.”

“The cat is not so bad. Just give it a scratch or two behind the ears.”

“It bit me.”

“Oh no.” Her tone indicated the true depth of her worry. If she cared enough to fill a thimble I would be astounded.

“Your concern is touching, truly.”

“I know.” Final curl in place, she pulled the chair free for me. “Charlotte—” She broke away. She called me by my Christian name so rarely I could count the instances on one hand. Imogen had been with me for years, since I entered society. And she never, ever used my Christian name without purpose.

“Charlotte. This is not your first marriage. Lord Champaign is not Lord James. Nor is he Mr. Parker. And you, my dear, are not the same Charlotte you were with either of those men. You cannot punish him for their sins. By the account of absolutely every member of the staff, your husband is a good man. Though your marriage has been but a day, he has been nothing but kind and eager to please.”

Thoroughly chastened, I watched as she swept out of the room, puffed up on righteous indignation.

With a sigh, I flopped back into my chair. Imogen had missed a curl behind my ear. I certainly wasn’t going to call her back for another tongue lashing, no matter how well deserved. A few pins were splayed out on the vanity, I tucked the curl back with one.

The tea was growing cold beside me. A sip confirmed that, unlike the ginger tea, the peppermint wasn’t quite so unpleasant lukewarm. I downed the rest of the cup. I would need it for another one of Crawford’s tours. Especially with a house this size.

“—and this is the study,” Crawford drawled with an air of self-importance.

I peeked around the corner, hoping for a glimpse of my husband, only to be met with an empty chair. Objectively, I knew it was a rather large house. He wasn’t avoiding me. Probably. Almost certainly.

I had often gone days living in a much smaller house with Ralph and managed to avoid him entirely. Except that had been entirely purposeful.

Still, my late husband lived in his study, particularly on days when his performance at the club had been less than exceptional—the majority of them.

Apparently, Lee did not live in his study, though evidence of his presence was everywhere, and a sharp burst of peppermint permeated the air. I took a few steps inside, approaching his desk while Crawford rambled on about the history of the furnishings or moldings, the same nonsense he had been babbling about for nearly two hours.

This room was lived in. There was a plate, bereft of all but a few crumbs, perched at the edge of the desk—surely some antique with a rich history that Crawford would relay. A half-drunk cup of tea, missing a saucer, left a ring on a hastily scribbled list. Ledgers were stacked on the floor in several piles, nonsensical to anyone except my husband I expected. Several books had been left open and lumped atop each other. Correspondence was also splayed across the mahogany desk in indiscriminate mounds.

It seemed my husband was something of a mess. For reasons I was incapable of explaining, that fact was endearing. Perhaps because he had been so practical about our entire arrangement. I needed a husband, and he needed a wife—of course we would marry. He would ask my father for permission—that was proper. A life together for a year, just long enough to stave off the gossipmongers—entirely well considered. If I was being generous, I suspected his absence last evening had an equally rational and reasonable explanation.

But this entirely sensible man was just a little bit of a mess, a little bit human like the rest of us. He was odd about carriages and had been claimed by a ridiculous cat and was just the tiniest bit irritated with me at the breakfast table this morning. My husband, a mortal after all.