Chapter Thirteen
As the carriage passed through the familiar gates and began the journey along the driveway to Bedford Hall, James’s heartbeat increased. He drew in a long, slow breath to temper the tremors in his body, then glanced at his wife.
The woman sitting opposite looked almost childlike.
During the journey from London she had responded to his questions with monosyllabic answers until he surrendered to the silence she so evidently wanted.
The way she held herself—shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, body turned to one side—told him that she craved invisibility, that his scrutiny pained her.
But as soon as she’d fallen asleep, he was free to observe her.
In the stillness of sleep, the pain in her features had gone, replaced by serenity. She looked at peace, her body rocking with the motion of the carriage as she leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
The blanket over her knees had slipped off and he reached for it, covering her once more. She stirred and he froze, ashamed at being caught staring at her. Then she stilled again and he sat back.
I love him…
Those were the words he had heard after he’d woken—the words she spoke to that flamboyant young man, her back to James while the young man met James’s gaze as if in challenge.
Had she spoken the truth? Doxies lied, did they not? But she had no reason to speak falsely to her friend—the youth who seemed so determined for James to hear her confession.
And she was a doxy no more. Like it or not, she was Viscountess Bedford.
And he found—against reason, decorum, and propriety—that he did like that.
James caught his breath as the familiar facade of Bedford Hall came into view. His beloved home.
The carriage slowed and he leaned forward and took his wife’s hand.
She inhaled, then her eyes opened, their clear gray reflecting the light of the afternoon sun. His heart ached at the softness of their expression. Then she blinked and focused her gaze on him and the softness disappeared, replaced by apprehension.
“We’re almost home,” he said. “I wanted to wake you before we stop, to give you a minute to ready yourself.”
She glanced about, then her gaze turned to the window and her eyes widened.
“Oh!”
“There’s nothing to fear, Cordelia,” he said. “It’s my home—our home. And you are now its mistress.”
“I am not afraid.”
The tremor in her voice belied her words.
“You have no need to be,” he said.
“Do I not?”
By the time the carriage rolled to a halt, the servants had formed a row leading toward the main doors. Standing at the front were James’s sisters.
Margaret’s form shimmered with the vitality of an adolescent vibrating with life and enthusiasm. Georgiana was more still, showing the poise of a debutante—the debutante she would become, courtesy of Cordelia’s fortune.
I’ll just have to refrain from telling my sister how that fortune was made.
James clambered out of the carriage, then helped his wife out. Her fingers were cold against his own, and he squeezed them in encouragement.
Georgiana stepped forward first.
“Welcome home, brother.”
“James!” Margaret moved to run forward, but Georgiana caught her sleeve.
“Decorum, please,” she snapped. “You forget your manners. We must not do anything to stain the family name, must we?”
She turned her gaze to Cordelia and arched an eyebrow.
Why such hostility? Georgiana had wanted him to marry almost as much as Margaret—if only for the sake of his wife’s fortune.
Perhaps she was nervous. Did she expect hostility from Cordelia? Foolish girl! Cordelia had a warmth about her that made people want to trust her, to talk to her beside an open fire and share their troubles…
Then he checked himself.
No—the woman he was thinking of was Dahlia. A facade, an act. A woman who did not exist.
He steered his wife forward.
“My dear, may I present my sister, the Honorable Georgiana Bedford?”
Cordelia dipped into a curtsy, and a warm smile curved her lips as she extended her hand.
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Georgiana—if I may be permitted to call you Georgiana? Your brother has spoken much of you.”
“In the Lyon’s Den, I presume?” Georgiana said, ignoring the proffered hand. “Are the rumors about the Lyon’s Den true? That men go there to marry whores for their fortunes?”
Cordelia winced and withdrew her hand.
“Explain yourself, Georgiana,” James said, anger rising in his gut.
His sister tilted her head up and wrinkled her nose. “I have nothing to explain. You, on the other hand, have much to explain if you’ve brought a slut into my home.”
“That’s enough!” James cried.
Margaret, her eyes widening, glanced from him to Georgiana, then her gaze settled on Cordelia and she tilted her head to one side.
“What’s a slut?”
“Margaret, go back inside,” James said.
“But I want to meet—”
“Now!” he roared. “Or did I not make myself clear?”
Margaret’s cheeks reddened and her lower lip wobbled. Then she pulled a face and sprinted toward the house, her sobs filtering through the air against the backdrop of the servants’ whispers.
“I asked you to explain yourself, Georgiana,” James said.
“I don’t see why I must—”
“Because I’m the head of this family and you must do as I say.”
“Very well,” Georgiana said, casting a glance at Cordelia then wrinkling her nose. “I had a caller.”
“A gentleman?”
A slight color stained her cheeks. “A baronet, if you must know.”
Hell—that was all he needed. It must be that arse Sir Iain Leaney. But he was handsome enough, and marriage to a baronet would satisfy Georgiana’s vanity.
“You need not fear for my respectability,” Georgiana continued. “I know how to behave properly. Miss Flight chaperoned me. He took tea and then left. But not before he told me about the den of sin where you found your wife. Tell me, is it frequented by gamesters?”
“Georgiana, I hardly think that’s any of your concern.”
“It’s very much my concern if, rather than court a respectable woman befitting your rank, you indulge in a sordid game to win a woman of doubtful reputation in a”—she wrinkled her nose—“a gaming hell that also operates as a bawdy house.”
A gasp came from his right, and James glanced at his wife. But her expression betrayed nothing, save for a narrowing of her eyes.
Dear Lord—had Cordelia serviced Sir Iain? What of the other gentlemen who lived hereabouts? Had she spread her legs for them also?
Georgiana let out a huff and rolled her eyes. “You ought to look more pleased than that, brother. A baronet is a suitable match for a viscount’s sister. Though I question whether a whore is a suitable match for a viscount.”
Cordelia tightened her grip on James’s hand and Georgiana let out a little huff.
“Do I speak the truth, Lady Bedford?”
Cordelia glanced at James as if seeking reassurance. Then she nodded.
“Your brother and I were matched at the Lyon’s Den.”
“And are you a doxy?”
James stiffened, tempering his anger, but before he could admonish Georgiana, his wife nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “At least, I was.”
“Until you snared a viscount.”
“Desist!” James cried. “Pas devant les domestiques, Georgiana. Did not Miss Flight tell you that?”
“The servants have every right to know that you’ve brought a slut into the Bedford family home.”
“That slut, as you call her, will be funding your debut and providing you with a dowry in order to tempt a baronet into offering for you, Georgiana—and you’ll be in sore need of that dowry, whether earned through immoral means or not.”
Cordelia flinched and withdrew her hand.
Bloody hell, I’m making an utter mess of this.
“Get back inside, Georgiana, and join your sister,” James said. “I don’t want to see either of you until dinner is served, when I expect you to behave as befits the sister of a viscount.”
“As opposed to…”
“As opposed to what?” he said. “A viscountess? Because that’s what my wife is, and you will honor her for it. If you do not, you dishonor her title—you dishonor me.”
She glared at him, her eyes the color of ice. Then she dipped into a curtsy.
“Forgive me, brother, if I gave offense. It was not my intention to show disrespect to the title of Viscountess Bedford.”
Then she turned her back on Cordelia and marched back to the house.
He ought to demand a more heartfelt apology. But perhaps that was the problem: In her heart, Georgiana didn’t believe she’d said anything amiss. Rather than press the point, he’d best get Cordelia safely inside, away from the scrutiny of the servants.
But first he had to parade her past the line of men and women in their crisp, starched uniforms, each with their roles, responsibilities, and understanding of the running of a respectable household that eclipsed anything his wife might know.
How the devil was she going to survive?
But as he steered Cordelia toward the servants, her smile resumed and she greeted them in turn, speaking with warmth and friendship to each one. Her ease waned as she moved toward the upper servants, but the housekeeper and butler kept their expressions neutral.
“Pleased to meet you, Lady Bedford,” the housekeeper said. “I’m Mrs. Case. I’d be obliged if you’d grant me an audience, perhaps tomorrow when you’ve settled in, to discuss the running of the household.”
Cordelia took the older woman’s hand. “I’m much obliged, Mrs. Case. I’m afraid I have little experience of…”
“Few ladies from London Society do, ma’am,” the housekeeper said. “I daresay a London house is organized very differently to a country estate. But I’ll help you in any way that I can. Now—did you bring your maid with you, or has she chosen to remain in London?”
Cordelia colored and discomfort shimmered in her eyes. The housekeeper patted her hand.
“I quite understand,” she said. “Young girls can be so independent these days, always wanting to seek their own adventures rather than follow their mistresses. I can recommend our head housemaid Tilly, who’s a capable young girl. Or, if you prefer, I can make inquiries in the village.”
“I would not want to take Tilly from her duties, Mrs. Case.”
“It’s no trouble, my dear. Tilly doesn’t mind, do you, lass?”