Chapter 1 #2
Marriage has changed me. Or perhaps time has changed me, now I have reached the august age of twenty-five. Once the rules governing vulgarity are discarded, an astonishing number of choices present themselves.
To wit: If one may have a dog, why not a pig?
Perhaps there comes a time in every woman’s life when she discovers that propriety is poppycock. To put it vulgarly, propriety is bollocks.
Or perhaps that only happens to a woman foolish enough to marry a man older than her father.
A tall, scowling man emerged from the door to the abbey.
Even from this distance, I could see that his coat and snowy cravat were exquisitely tailored.
Perhaps that was Burnsby’s heir, Lancelot, scowling over his father’s marriage to a fortune hunter (a verdict I’ve come to anticipate from all and sundry).
My husband had neither this man’s jaw, his height, nor his air of command. The heir was not only more elegant but far more handsome than his father.
Mima waved. “Do come meet the new wife,” she shouted.
Not the most flattering of labels.
“There can be only one wife at a time,” she informed me, as if offering a novel piece of information.
“I am gratified to see that Sir Godric traveled from England to celebrate my birthday,” Burnsby said. So that wasn’t Lancelot, his heir.
“Godric didn’t come for your birthday, but to greet Lancelot’s new wife,” Mima countered. “Have you met her yet?”
“Of course I haven’t, since my only son chose to marry in Paris,” Burnsby said irritably. “Crumpsall, I trust that you will introduce my lady wife to the household.”
Without another word, my husband walked over to intercept his guest. After exchanging bows, Burnsby disappeared into the abbey without a backward look.
That was a surprise. Deserting one’s wife in a new location is extraordinarily impolite, and Burnsby prided himself on his gentlemanly manners. I suppressed a flash of annoyance, but his rudeness likely reflected his fastidiousness as regards illegitimate persons, even his own sister.
That didn’t reflect well on his character, but it was understandable.
Luckily, I was certain that my emotions didn’t show on my face. I am an expert at disguising unladylike emotions.
“This is my son, Godric,” Mima said, waving madly at the visitor. “Godric, this is the new Lady Burnsby.”
He bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Burnsby. My name is Sir Godric Everley. Aunt Mima, I’m not your son.”
Taken aback, I glanced between the two of them.
“Oopsie!” Mima said, slapping her cheeks with both hands.
“You’re Lancelot’s school friend. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t hammered on.
” She turned to me. “Back when the boys were at Eton, Godric used to spend holidays here. Now they’re not at school, he doesn’t visit.
” She squinted at him, confused. “You’re not at Eton, are you, Godric? ”
“No, I live in London. I am joining you this Christmas to meet Lance’s bride,” Godric said obligingly.
“I knew that! I mix the boys up, because they’re both so tall, manly, so—so . . . Fiddlesticks!” Mima flapped her hand around like a disgruntled bird. “Manly.”
Shoulders, chest, thick thighs shown to advantage in his breeches. A bold nose and jaw. Black, thick brows set in a straight line above black eyes. She was right: It all screamed manly.
“At any rate, Godric, isn’t Genevieve surprisingly wonderful?”
He eyed me up and down. Since his gaze conveyed undisguised contempt, my polite smile fell away.
“Surprising indeed,” Sir Godric echoed, looking as if he swallowed a gnat.
His disdain was nothing new. Neighbors of Burnsby’s country estate enjoyed making loud comments about my scheming, fortune-hunting ways. Since I had indeed married for money, I never bothered to point out that most women are forced to seek stability through marriage.
I gave Sir Godric a measured smile. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
Not.
He had a hard chin, hard eyes, hard cheekbones.
Then it occurred to me: The housekeeper had a dimple, and the anticipated ghosts had yet to appear, but the villain of the novel had duly presented himself!
Sir Godric had a wide, villainous brow, tumbling black hair, dark eyes, and that forbidding demeanor.
Broad shoulders, the better to dig a grave.
Hessian boots and a black coat, clearly tailored by Weston.
Actually, that is a surprise. Weston is expensive, and villains are usually looking for money to pay the wages of sin. (Ha!)
Loathing him—compulsory for a villain—would be easy.
I made up my mind to drop “sir” when thinking of him. When a person has written you off as an exploitative sponge, it’s important to score small, albeit private, reprisals.
Crumpsall approached with an offer of tea, and we all set out for the door, Peony trotting at my heels.
Halfway across the courtyard, Mima remarked out of the blue, “Godric was orphaned when his father choked to death eating stewed prunes, which, as you may know, is an infallible cure for syphilis.”
I missed a step. (Syphilis is a disease more offensive than balls and bastards, never mentioned in a lady’s presence.)
“It was Lord Burnsby’s father who choked on a pit,” Sir Godric said, not unkindly. “My father died in a carriage accident.”
Interesting. Burnsby had told me his father’s weak heart had failed.
“Such a dull way to go, Godric, if you’ll forgive my plain speaking.” Mima caught my elbow, bringing me to a halt as she peered at me blurrily. “How did your father die, dear? Who was he?”
“My father, Sir William Sutton, is alive and well,” I replied.
“Yet he allowed you to marry Burnsby?” Sir Godric asked incredulously.
I gave him a chilly stare. “I am not a minor. It was my decision.”
I would choose to marry Burnsby again. Probably. My life is not terrible. My husband and I are friends—or more precisely, friendly. I had made the choice to help my sister. My choice.
Rosie’s dowry and my new wardrobe have given me the fortitude to withstand bystanders’ ridicule and Burnsby’s disconcerting lack of interest in my opinion.
Still, I was feeling battered, so I bent down and scooped up Peony. As her warm body snuggled into the crook of my arm, she coquettishly fluttered her eyelashes at Godric.
“Are hogs fashionable these days?” he asked as we began walking toward the door again. His lip didn’t curl villainously, but the feeling hung in the air. A twirling-the-mustache type of condemnation.
“Absolutely,” I responded. “Every young lady—at least those in the ton—has a pig of her own. I gather you don’t move in the best circles.”
Mima jumped in. “Godric is treasured by royalty. Prince George himself bestowed his baronetage for services to the Crown.”
“No, Aunt Mima, I inherited the title from my father,” Sir Godric clarified.
I was starting to suspect that her memory loss was more serious than garden-variety forgetfulness.
Mima smiled toothily at me. “Godric is a shockingly bad-tempered barrister. I was horrified when I watched my son argue a case for the Crown a year ago.”
Unsurprising. Godric’s face resembled one of those stern marble angels adorning the front of cathedrals, the ones wielding swords. Not friendly. Judgmental.
“I’m not your son, Aunt Mima, and that was over a decade ago,” Godric said, accepting her assessment of his temper.
“He undoubtedly has a choleric liver but refuses to give up port,” Mima complained.
I paused at the door to the abbey. “You surprise me, Sir Godric. Even taking into account the evident benefit to mankind, you refuse to switch to brandy?”
“Unconscionable,” he said. I couldn’t spot even the faintest amusement in his eyes. Considering Burnsby’s lack of humor, I’ve grown to associate appreciation for irony with intelligence.
“Disappointing,” I remarked.
Did I say Sir Godric’s eyes were hard?
They hardened. No, I am not as sweet as my blush-colored cloak suggests.
Oh dear, a crushing look.
Or, in reality, another crushing look. He seemed to specialize in them.
(Consider me crushed.)