Chapter Seven
Rhys wiped the sweat from his brow as rays of sunlight gleamed through the trees that edged his fields in the distance.
There was no helping it. He needed to be out of bed and working before the sun came up or he was useless.
That, and there was little reason to stay in bed when he was wide awake, staring at the wall that separated him from his wife.
His wife… it had been three weeks since their arrival to Fenwick Park and while he had managed to keep his distance from Louisa by throwing himself into his work, it was becoming harder every hour to do so.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her. On the contrary, his body had a visceral reaction whenever she entered a room. But with the contentious start of their marriage, mixed with an unwitting desire to surpass Louisa’s former beau, Rhys was struggling to be someone he was not.
A refined gentleman.
For who could claim to be so, when every thought he had about his wife was carnal?
After all, he had nearly taken her in the barn only days ago and it had taken all his strength not to take the lead with Louisa.
He wanted to, God, how he wanted to, but theirs was not a normal union and he was determined to allow it to play out on her terms.
He wanted to be like her John. Gentle and kind, refined and serene.
Louisa’s eyes had become watery during her description of her former friend, and it had set Rhys’s teeth on edge.
She was still so affected by the man’s memory that Rhys hardly believed that there was any room for him in her heart.
Not that he wanted her to love him or anything so preposterous.
He just wanted to be held in a similar regard.
He had first realized the weight of her affection during the carriage ride to Fenwick Park.
But it seemed that the memory of John was never far away.
For instance, just last week when she had tasked herself with removing all the books from the library to keep them safe from renovations, she had asked his opinion on what type of wood should be used to replace the water damaged bookshelves.
“Oak, I would assume,” he had mused quietly as he used a hooked iron pole to rip down the rotting pieces of wood. “A solid, strong English oak would do nicely.” When he finished pulling away all the debris, he spotted her across the room, peering intently at several books.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Rhys placed the iron bar on the floor, startling Louisa into turning around, only to reveal pale cheeks and watery eyes. He was beside her in an instant.
“Louisa?” He had tried, but she shook her head immediately.
“Forgive me. It’s just… You have a copy of Pamela by Samuel Richardson.”
Rhys blinked.
“And?”
She shook her head again, glancing down before immediately remembering that he couldn’t see her mouth. Turning her face up, she spoke.
“It was one of John’s favorite books.”
“Ah,” he said, hoping to sound indifferent, though his stomach twisted. Quickly, he tried to shift her focus. “Was it a favorite of yours as well?”
“Not particularly, if I’m being honest. I know its significance, but the naivety and shortsightedness of the heroine always made me feel, well, annoyed.”
“Annoyed? How so?”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember if it was my third or fourth time reading it when I decided that it was truly a miserable story.
But John loved it so and I tried time and time again to try and see what he did.
” Rhys had hoped that that would be the last of it, but then she continued. “Do you have a favorite book?”
“Er, no.”
“Are you sure? You seem like you would enjoy reading.”
He wished in that moment that he did, but reading books for entertainment had never made sense to him. He always preferred to be outdoors, whether it was horseback riding, or investigating nature, or merely walking. To him, books had always been a last resort.
“I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m really not much of a reader.”
“Oh,” she had said, almost defeated for some reason, which of course had made him instantly try to rectify his shortcomings in her eyes.
“I have read books, of course. Many of them. I just finished one before my trip to London, but… It’s not one you would find very exciting.”
She perked up instantly.
“I think you should let me be the judge of that. What is it? Something by Henry Fielding? Robinson Crusoe perhaps?”
Rhys had sighed before answering.
“Have you ever heard of the Diary of a Country Parson by James Woodforde?”
Louisa’s shoulders dropped a fraction and though her face remained perfectly neutral, the slump in her stance made Rhys irritated. She shook her head.
“I have not.”
“Well, that was the last book I read. But mostly, I read the Agricultural Society Reports.”
She had nodded in response before turning back to the bookshelf to continue packing away all the ancient books that had been left there by the previous owner.
It had been a small, almost insignificant encounter, but one that Rhys had obsessed over the following days. He had never been the sort of person to envy others, but he couldn’t deny the growing desire to be everything Louisa wanted in a husband.
Mud splattered on his boots, kicked up from beneath the horse-drawn seed drill.
Rhys had spent every day in the fields, sowing wheat.
Yesterday had been the first that he hadn’t been able to, due to monsoon-like rain that had swept the countryside.
But the humidity had increased tenfold by sunrise the next morning.
He was drenched in sweat since he had just had to dig out the corner of the seed drill that had sunk into a pit near the eastern edge of the field, and mud covered his legs, all the way up to his waist.
He looked like a peasant from olden times. Which only served to make him agitated. Surely Louisa would never want the likes of him touching her.
But as soon as the idea popped into his head, Rhys let out a ragged breath.
Every night since their arrival at Fenwick Park, Rhys had dreamed the most vivid dreams about Louisa.
And each one was triggered by a word or a look she had given him the previous day.
Just yesterday, she had been down in the kitchen, on her hands and knees, cleaning out and around the cast-iron stove.
She was dressed in what could only be described as rags, to keep from ruining any of her good gowns, and he had walked in to find her scrubbing the floors.
“What on earth are you doing?” he had asked, half stunned, half indignant, as he stalked over to her.
She sat back on her calves and looked up at him, her eyes as round as saucers, with black soot marks all over her cheeks and nose.
“I’m cleaning, of course.”
“You’re not a scullery maid.”
“I am until we hire one,” she said with a small grin.
The sight of her there, on her knees, was too much for him.
Staring up at him, covered in dirt, she had sent his senses into a frenzy.
He was equal parts aroused and appalled.
That she should be on all fours, scrubbing floors like a servant, irritated the husband in him.
That she was covered in dirt all because she was eager to help make this place a home called out to some primal part of him.
He wanted to forbid her from ever lowering herself to scrubbing floors, while simultaneously trying to restrain himself from falling to his own knees and kissing her senseless and taking her right there among the old ashes, well… He felt torn in two.
He had to take several deep breaths before he spoke again.
“Get up off the floor,” he had barely whispered.
“I will,” she had answered, turning back to her work. “Just after I finish this last part.”
Her backside began to jiggle from her vigorous cleaning, and all Rhys could do was leave the kitchens immediately, lest he pounce on her like some sort of vagabond.
His dreams had been wet and torturous that night. Just like every damn night.
Which was exactly why he decided he’d rather toil in humid, muddy conditions than be within a hundred feet of his perfectly plump wife.
He exhaled a hiss as he remembered her during their first night, when he had left her alone in the main bedroom. It was the only completely refurbished room in the entire estate, with all the comforts of modern life. It was the best of Fenwick Park and she deserved it. A place for peace and sleep.
If he shared her bed, however, it would not be a place for either of those things. Which was why he had decided to sleep in the room next door. He didn’t want his carnal urges to triumph over his goal of being seen as a gentleman in her eyes.
He only wanted to please her on all accounts. But once he had finished laboriously seeding the last field of the day, sometime around noon, he found that all his efforts were for naught.
Coming in through the main door after unharnessing the horses, Rhys needed a bath.
He would have to heat the water himself and carry it upstairs to the copper tub that he had purchased a few months ago.
The idea of hauling multiple buckets of water up and down the stairs made his sore muscles tense, but there was no helping it.
Peeling off his muddied vest, he mentally prepared himself for the next mountain of work that would start tomorrow. The tenant houses. But before he had even crossed the threshold, he saw an overcoat he had not seen before.
A murmuring of what sounded like muted laughter caught his attention next as he stalked into the receiving room. There, sat next to one another, was Louisa, in one of her prettier gowns, and an exceedingly well-dressed man huddled over dozens of rolled out papers.