Chapter Twenty
He appreciates his supreme good fortune in securing your hand.
Olivia turned her attention from the view outside the carriage window and glanced at her husband, his body hunched and contorted to fit himself onto the seat.
Gallant though the words were, they were evidently not his. Surely if he thought himself fortunate, he wouldn’t look so angry all the time.
But she clung to the flash of tenderness in his eyes as he’d passed her the note—a tenderness that belied the awkward words he’d written. Eleanor had always told her that men knew little of fine speeches and pretty words. It was only by their actions that they could express any feeling.
The terror that beset Olivia last night had long since faded, but humiliation had replaced it.
Shame had burned deep inside her body as she read his confession that he’d thought her some sort of harlot.
And, to further her humiliation, he’d confessed that he wouldn’t have touched her had he known she was a maiden.
Doubtless he preferred the company of doxies.
He sat before her, rocking softly in unison with the motion of the carriage—hands folded on his lap, fingertips touching the gem on his signet ring. His eyes were closed and had been for most of the journey.
But if he were awake, what would she say to him?
And what could he convey to her that would not further her shame?
The valet, with his kind eyes and gallant words, might have furthered a conversation between them, but the man had, once again, insisted on sitting outside.
His merry conversation with the coachman filtered through the window, and not for the first time, Olivia wished she had remained in obscurity—on the periphery of a Society to which she didn’t belong.
Then she might have sat outside in the sunshine, enjoying easy laughter with those of the class into which she’d been born, rather than imprisoned in the confines of the carriage with a man who despised her.
Her husband’s eyes snapped open, and Olivia’s stomach flipped with shame at her being caught watching him.
She averted her gaze, then drew in a sharp breath as a large hand took hers.
He uncurled his body, frowning as his head bumped on the ceiling, then he glanced out of the window and made a gesture.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He pointed to the window and nodded. Through the trees she glimpsed a building.
“Is that your home?”
He frowned, pointed to his chest, then to hers.
“Our home?”
He nodded and made a gesture that she recognized from yesterday.
“That means yes, doesn’t it?”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Will you teach me to understand what you’re saying with your hands?”
He frowned and made another gesture.
“Are you saying you think it would be too difficult for me to learn?”
He tilted his head to one side, the expression in his eyes conveying surprise, and she allowed herself to smile.
“It’s not just by a person’s voice, or their hands, that they tell us what they’re saying,” she said. “It may take time for me to understand you, but I have the rest of my life.”
He frowned, and she caught an expression of guilt in his eyes. Then he released her hand and leaned back, staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the building outside, which seemed to have grown in height the closer they drew to it, dominating the skyline.
But rather than express the delight of a man returning home, his expression seemed to darken with each turn of the wheel.
By the time the carriage drew to a halt, the brooding anger had returned, shimmering about his form. The carriage shifted as someone climbed down, then the valet’s cheerful face appeared at the window. He opened the door and, without a glance at his master, took Olivia’s hand and helped her out.
A row of servants formed a line, at the head of which stood a black-clad butler and a woman, presumably the housekeeper, in a dark-blue gown with iron-gray hair scraped back into a severe style.
Next to them were a young man with a mop of black hair, dressed in a rough-spun jacket and breeches, and a young woman with light-blonde hair, pale-blue eyes, and delicate features.
The man stared at Olivia with frank appraisal, but his companion narrowed her eyes, hostility in her expression.
Olivia heard her husband’s footsteps crunching on the gravel as he climbed out of the carriage, then he placed his hand on the small of her back and glared at the valet, and Olivia could swear she heard a low growl.
Then he propelled her toward the waiting servants, who, at a word from the butler, bowed and curtseyed in unison.
Olivia hesitated. How was she expected to respond? Should she greet each one individually?
Was there nobody to tell her what to do?
The gray-haired woman approached, warmth glowing in her eyes. She cast a frown at Lord Devereaux, then took Olivia’s hands.
“Welcome, my dear,” she said. “What a pretty little thing you are! We’ve all been looking forward to your arrival. It’s about time Master Charles brought a wife home.” She glanced at Olivia’s husband. “You’ve chosen well, sir. Hasn’t he, Jacob?”
The young man at the end of the line nodded, his eyes sparkling. “I’ll say so.”
He cast his gaze over Olivia’s form. The young woman standing beside him scowled and took his hand, but he withdrew it and approached Olivia.
“How did you manage to reel in such a fine catch, brother?”
Brother?
Olivia glanced at her husband. The young man let out a chuckle.
“I doubt he’d have told you about his reprobate of a brother. Ashamed of me, he is.”
“Jacob, that’s enough,” the housekeeper said. “Haven’t you got chores to be getting on with? Those logs won’t chop themselves.”
“He chopped them yesterday,” the young woman said, her gaze still fixed on Olivia, “and he’s every right to—”
“That’s enough of your lip, miss.” The housekeeper nudged the young man. “Well, Jacob, aren’t you going to say how-do-you-do to your brother?”
He let out a snort. “Half-brother,” he said, “as I’m sure Charles would say. That is, if he bothered to speak.”
Devereaux stepped forward, his lips curled into a snarl and his eyes darkened until they were almost black.
“Be off with you now, Jacob,” the housekeeper said. She gestured to the line of servants. “And the rest of you. The master and mistress will be wanting tea before their supper. See to it, will you, Susan?”
One of the maids bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, Mrs. Brougham.” Then the rest of the servants dispersed.
The young woman with Jacob tugged at his sleeve. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Jacob rolled his eyes. “Nicola, this is my brother and his new wife.” He winked at Olivia. “Lady Devereaux, this is Nicola, my…” He hesitated, and the young girl scowled.
“I’m his sweetheart,” she said.
“That’s enough of that, young miss,” the housekeeper said. “Don’t be getting ideas above your station.” She gestured to Olivia. “Come along, my dear, let’s get you inside. You’ll need some tea, and supper’s at eight—if that’s acceptable, Master Charles?”
Devereaux nodded.
“Have you brought your maid, Lady Devereaux?” the housekeeper asked.
“I have no maid, Mrs. Brougham,” Olivia said, her cheeks warming.
The older woman raised her eyebrows. “Oh… Well, I suppose some lady’s maids are unwilling to uproot their lives when their mistresses marry. I can make inquiries tomorrow if you like, and Ethel can see to you in the meantime. I suspect you’ll be wanting to retire straight after supper.”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Brougham. I—”
“It’s no trouble, dear. We can’t have the lady of Penham Park with no maid, can we? I can’t think what Master Charles is about, letting you come here without one!”
Olivia glanced at her husband, whose scowl had deepened. The housekeeper shook her head, then, with a huff, took Olivia’s arm and ushered her inside.
The hallway, though smaller than at Montague’s estate, seemed more cavernous, perhaps because it was devoid of any of the features that turned a mere building into a home.
The floor was covered in polished marble stones, which seemed out of place in a room that was otherwise fashioned almost entirely of wood.
Dominating the hallway was a wide staircase, flanked by thick wooden banisters that swept up to form a gallery.
Olivia glanced upward to where a chandelier hung from the ceiling.
A black oval studded with thick candles, suspended by a thick chain, it looked more like an instrument of torture than one of light.
She shivered and drew her shawl about her, then glanced toward her husband, who stared at the foot of the staircase, hands curled into fists, jaw bulging as if he gritted his teeth.
The housekeeper tutted and took Olivia’s elbow. “If Master Charles won’t tend to you, child, I’ll take you to the morning room, where there’s a fire all ready. Master Charles, are you coming?”
He glanced up, his eyes unfocused. Then he shook his head and gestured with his hands. The housekeeper let out a huff.
“Surely the estate affairs can wait when your wife’s needing attention?”
With another huff, she led Olivia past the staircase and into a room that carried a smell of lavender and wood polish that could not completely conceal the odor of damp and dust. Then she excused herself and left.
Olivia glanced about the room. Dark-purple curtains—a color that matched the furnishings—seemed to absorb the light.
The wood-paneled walls were adorned with candle sconces fashioned in a similar style to the chandelier, with the same hint of rust at the edges.
A stone fireplace in which a fire blazed dominated the far wall, and a longcase clock fashioned from dark wood ticked in the corner.
Unlike the hallway, the floor was fashioned from polished wood, forming a crisscross pattern.
A round table covered in a lace cloth stood in the center of the room on a blood-red rug dotted with a pattern in purples and greens.