Chapter Seventeen
The rocking motion of the carriage that had lulled Olivia into delicious oblivion stopped. Voices came from outside, set against a backdrop of the merry air of a violin.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes; her skin tightened with cold.
She was alone in the carriage. Lord Devereaux stood beside the open door, gesturing to his valet, who was relaying instructions to a thick-set, whiskered man with ruddy cheeks.
“Right ye are, your lordship,” the man said, before raising his voice. “Daniel, Tom! Get yer lazy arses out here and deal with his lordship’s trunks. Hurry, now! We don’t want to keep him waiting!”
The carriage tilted sideways, and Olivia spotted two men lowering her trunk from the top.
Then the valet caught her eye and nudged his master. “Lady Devereaux, we’re here.”
The valet offered his hand and, ignoring the ache in her bones, Olivia uncurled herself and climbed out, almost losing her balance.
The valet caught her arm and smiled. Then his smile disappeared as Olivia’s husband pulled him away, his brow furrowed into a frown, and she could swear she heard a low growl reverberating from the bigger man’s throat.
She cast her gaze over the inn—a white-fronted two-story building with diamond-paned windows and a sloping, thatched roof. Over the entrance, through which music and laughter came, swung a sign that creaked in the breeze, depicting a dancing man, legs akimbo, holding a violin.
The whiskered man, evidently the innkeeper, touched his cap. “Welcome to the Fiddlers’, ma’am…pardon me, Countess Dever-axe.”
“It’s Devereaux, Mr. Smith,” the valet said, with a grin.
The man nodded, then raised his voice again.
“Betsy! Ger yer bones down here now. Earl Dev-row and the countess are waitin’ to be shown to their rooms.” He glanced toward Olivia’s husband.
“We’ve set aside the best rooms for ye, sir—not that ye’ll be needin’ both rooms for much of the night, I’ll warrant. ”
He let out a chuckle, and coarse laughter came from the servants carrying the trunk.
Olivia stumbled against her husband’s arm, shaking with fatigue even though she’d been sitting in the carriage all afternoon. He placed his hand on the small of her back and steadied her—a gesture that, though insignificant, spoke of possessiveness.
“Mr. Smith,” the valet said, “be so good as to have supper ready as soon as possible, then Lord and Lady Devereaux will wish to retire.”
“Very good, sir. Betsy, see to it, will ye, lass?”
The maid bobbed another curtsey then disappeared.
The innkeeper glanced at Olivia then patted her arm. “We’ve a nice bit of venison pie for ye, lass…beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Dev-row. That’ll bring the color back to yer cheeks. The wife bakes the best venison pie in the county.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” Olivia said, managing a smile. “That’s very kind.”
“No trouble.” He gave a gap-toothed grin, a flare of interest in his eyes. “Ye’re a pretty thing, aren’t ye? If I were ten years younger! Yer husband’s a lucky lad to—”
He broke off, his eyes widening, and mumbled an apology. Olivia glanced up to see her husband’s eyes dark with cold fury.
“I’ll see to yer carriage, Lord Dev-row, sir,” the innkeeper said. “Ah! Here’s the missus. She’ll see ye right.”
A woman almost as plump as the innkeeper appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Mary, love, here’s Lord and Lady Dev-row.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can see that, Jim, ye great oaf. Do ye think I’m blind?
Men! Just because they don’t notice what’s in front of their noses half the time, they think us womenfolk are equally lacking in wits.
” She smiled at Olivia. “Bless me! To look at ye, a person wouldn’t think ye’d just had the happiest day of yer life.
But ye must be right tired after yer journey.
Come in out of the cold. Ye need a good bit o’ pie to get yer strength back. ”
Olivia tried to return her smile, then, clinging to her husband’s arm, followed the woman inside.
*
The innkeeper’s claim about his wife’s pie was not without foundation.
Molded into a smooth, round shape, crimped at the edges and decorated with embellishments in the shape of a stag’s head surrounded by leaves, it was a work of art.
The cook at Rosecombe, who’d taught Olivia the basics of baking—including how to perfect pastry, such that it was strong enough to maintain its shape but not so tough as to loosen the diners’ teeth—had always said that one could recognize who’d baked a pie from the decoration, which was like a signature.
Olivia herself had discovered a knack for fashioning remnants of pastry into roses and grapevines.
No countess would be expected to have practiced the skills of the kitchen.
But Olivia had never expected to become one.
And even though he’d recognized her as his sister and brought her to live at Rosecombe, Montague had known that, for Olivia, a Society marriage with a respectable man had always been unlikely.
Instead, she was risk of being preyed upon by the less respectable—fortune hunters who, with overly bright smiles, promised love and devotion but mistreated their wives as soon as the money changed hands.
At least I cannot accuse my husband of deceiving me into matrimony with overly bright smiles or promises of love.
Olivia glanced across the dining table. Her husband stabbed a piece of pie with his fork, dipped it in the sauce, then placed it in his mouth and chewed, his jaws moving up and down with vigor.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he lifted his wineglass.
Then he paused, glass in midair, and met her gaze.
He’d caught her staring.
Her cheeks warming, Olivia lowered her gaze and resumed eating. But the next time she looked up, he was still watching her, with the same attitude, glass in hand.
She pushed her plate aside, and he glanced at her half-eaten portion then lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“I-I’m no longer hungry,” she said. “It was delicious—thank you for bringing me here, my lord—b-but I’ve had my fill. W-would you like to finish mine?”
He frowned, and she cursed herself.
What must he think of her? No well-bred couple would consider passing their plates about and eating each others’ leftovers.
“I-I would hate to think Mrs. Smith thought me unappreciative of her efforts,” Olivia said. “If she’s worked hard to cook supper, I wouldn’t want to appear ungrateful. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up, then he deftly swapped his empty plate for her half-full one and resumed eating. Not long after he finished, the door opened to reveal the young maid who’d greeted them earlier.
“Mercy me!” she cried, taking their plates. “Mrs. Smith will be right pleased to see you’ve finished the pie. Been boiling the bones all yesterday, she has, to make the jelly. Will ye be wanting anything else or are ye eager to get to yer chambers? Ye’ll need to work off that pie!”
She gave a broad grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“My lord, may I retire?” Olivia asked.
She rose, her stomach knotting with apprehension. He stood and, as she reached the door, he motioned toward a large cabinet that dominated the wall beside the window, where a decanter, half filled with a dark-red liquid, stood on the top. The maid poured a glass and handed it to him.
Of course, after a meal, husbands preferred a moment away from their wives.
And Olivia had to admit that she craved a moment away from his presence.
The very air seemed to bend around him, as if the world yielded to his superior masculinity.
And though it gave her a wicked little thrill deep inside her center, that thrill came hand in hand with fear.
Once inside her chamber, Olivia undressed then slipped into her nightgown. As she was brushing out her hair, there was a knock, and the maid entered.
“I’ve been sent to see to you, seein’ as ye’ve brought no maid of yer own.”
“I can take care of myself,” Olivia said, “but thank you.”
“Mrs. Smith insisted I give satisfaction.”
She glanced at the thin young woman in the dressing table mirror. Would she be admonished if Olivia sent her away?
“Very well,” Olivia said. “You may brush my hair if you wish.”
The girl picked up the hairbrush and ran it through Olivia’s hair in soft, gentle strokes.
“Thank you,” Olivia said. “It’s not often someone brushes my hair for me. I like the sensation.”
“You do, yer ladyship?”
Your ladyship…
Would she ever become used to a title?
“Doesn’t yer own maid brush yer hair?”
“I have no maid.”
“But ye’re a countess!”
“I wasn’t a countess yesterday.”
“Well, ye’re right lucky if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so,” the maid said. “A fine, big man the earl is, and good lookin’ with it. Ye’re in for a treat tonight!”
“I-I suppose so.”
“There’s no suppose about it!” the maid said.
“The size of a stallion, I reckon, and he knows his way around a woman, I’m sure of it.
Ye’ll be moaning his name all night, and I’ll not be surprised if ye’re bow-legged come the morning!
” She let out a peal of laughter, and Olivia startled as the door opened to reveal the innkeeper’s wife holding a cup from which wisps of steam arose.
“Betsy Green! What have I told you about making bawdy talk? I could hear every word ye said—doubtless ye could be heard in the next village!”
The maid went as red as fire. “Sorry, Mrs. Smith.”
“It’s not me ye should apologize to.”
“Beg pardon, yer ladyship.”
“Yes, yes—now be off with ye, lass,” Mrs. Smith said. “And for yer bawdy talk, ye can help Tom rake out the fireplaces in the parlor. Mind ye don’t fool about with him though, lass—at least, not until ye’ve seen to those fireplaces.”
The maid gave a saucy grin, bobbed a curtsey, then slipped out of the chamber. Olivia cringed as she heard footsteps followed by whispering and giggling.
Heavens! Was the whole inn gossiping about her wedding night?
Mrs. Smith placed the cup on the dressing table. “A little hot chocolate, Lady Devereaux,” she said. “It’ll help ye relax. Will ye be wanting anything else before yer husband comes?”
Olivia’s stomach fluttered with anticipation, and she shook her head.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Smith,” she whispered.
The older woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Ye’ll be all right, lass,” she said, her tone that of a stable hand coaxing a nervous filly. “I’ll send ye some sweet tea in the morning. My ma swore by it for new brides. Sweet tea and a hearty breakfast.”
Heavy footsteps approached, the floorboards vibrating as they drew nearer, and Olivia’s stomach twisted once more as they stopped outside the chamber next door. Mrs. Smith exited the bedchamber, and Olivia caught her words as she closed the door.
“I trust ye enjoyed yer port, yer lordship. Good night, then—best leave ye to it.”
Olivia sipped her hot chocolate, wincing as the hot liquid scalded her lips. But all she could taste was the sharp tang of anticipation. Setting the cup aside, she approached the bed and slipped beneath the sheets.
Shortly after, she heard a murmur of voices coming from next door.
No—a single voice. The valet’s, punctuated by periods of silence.
Her heart thudding, Olivia extinguished the candle, settled back, and waited.