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Stupid! Why dodge out of sight as though you’ve been caught in some wrongdoing?
She peered out of the window again, but Richard was no longer in sight. Hands clasped to her chest, Felicity gazed unseeingly at the view as she willed her heart rate to slow. If he had seen her, she must go downstairs. He would think her a complete ninny if she remained closeted up here. Still she dallied, until a peremptory knock forced her to open the door.
Richard stood outside. He brought with him the smell of outdoors, fresh and tangy. He was hatless, his dark brown curls windswept. His skin glowed and his eyes sparkled.
‘Good morning, Felicity Joy. I trust you slept well and are fully refreshed?’
His rich baritone did strange things to her insides. She remembered the times she had sneaked a sip of brandy from her father’s decanter after a cold ride. Richard’s voice spread through her with a similar intoxicating warmth. Images of the night before flooded her brain and she felt her cheeks heat.
‘Good morning, Lord St...Richard.’ Her voice came out as a breathless squeak.
Richard grinned. ‘I’ve just returned from my morning ride. Have you breakfasted yet?’
‘No. I...I was just about to...to—’
‘In that case, would you care to join me for breakfast in the parlour? Unless you prefer to take breakfast in your room, as my mother does?’
She straightened her back, striving for calm.
‘Yes. Thank you. I should like to join you.’
Richard patted her hand as she took his arm to go downstairs. ‘Don’t worry; you will soon become accustomed to your new home.’
At least he seemed to understand how awkward she felt in this strange house. Not a guest, but not yet at home.
The food was laid out on a sideboard for them to serve themselves. Richard helped himself to thick rashers of bacon and eggs and placed it in front of the chair at the head of the table, big enough to seat eight. A second place was set at the opposite end, and Richard pulled the chair out for Felicity. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Felicity set down her plate, with its slice of toast and boiled egg.
Richard poured them both coffee, sat down and began to eat.
‘I always seem to eat twice as much when I’m down in the country,’ he remarked. ‘It is the fresh air and the exercise. I like to ride before breakfast as a rule, as long as the weather isn’t too inclement.’
He paused, his eyes on Felicity. Heat erupted and her skin tingled. Would she ever become accustomed to him?
Richard watched his new wife surreptitiously as they breakfasted together. Her eyes glued to her plate, she picked half-heartedly at her food.
How little I know of her. Who is she, behind the mask? What are her interests? Her dreams? Her fears? Why was she so reluctant to accept me? Was it a ploy, to pique my interest, or was...is...there some deeper reason?
His jaw set. Why plague yourself with such questions? Did you not merely require a wife who would fit in with your life? You have no need to know the whys and the wherefores.
He focused on his bride. ‘Do you ride, Felicity?’
Her amber eyes came alive. ‘Oh, indeed I do. I love to ride. Do you have a lady’s mount in your stables?’
‘Not at present: my mother has not ridden for many years. Do you have a favourite animal at Bath, or at Baverstock? I can send a groom for it, if it would please you?’
‘Unfortunately, no. The mare I used to ride became permanently lame, and I was forced to retire her to Baverstock. Then my stepfather...’ resentment soured Felicity’s tone ‘...declined to meet the stabling costs for another horse. He believed hiring a job horse was sufficient should I wish to ride out with friends.’
It was something he could remedy very easily; something to make his new wife happy. ‘I shall instruct Dalton to find you a suitable mount.’
‘I’m sorry...Dalton?’
‘My head groom.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
Silence reigned once more.
‘If you would like it, I will show you around the house and gardens today. It will help you find your bearings.’
What had happened to his intention to spend the morning with Elliott, inspecting the estate ledgers to ensure his bailiff had overseen estate affairs properly in Richard’s all-too-frequent absences? One more day would not hurt, however, and it would be a worthwhile sacrifice to help Felicity settle into her new role and become accustomed to him. She had reacted like a startled fawn when he had entered her bathroom last night. Covering his eyes had been inspired; she had relaxed and responded, revealing her hidden passion. He would hate to have a wife who was indifferent to or—even worse—disliked the marital act.
‘I do beg your pardon, my dear. I’m afraid I was wool-gathering.’
He had completely missed Felicity’s response to his offer.
‘I said “thank you but that will not be necessary”. You no doubt have important duties. There is no need for you to trouble yourself—I shall ask Mrs Jakeway to give me a tour of the house and, as for the gardens and grounds, I shall be quite content to explore them on my own.’
Chapter Seventeen
Richard placed his knife and fork on to his empty plate, biting back an irritable retort.
‘I have put the day aside especially for you, Felicity.’ A touch inaccurate, perhaps, but at least he had made the gesture. Whereas she... ‘I thought we would spend it together.’
A flick of her eyebrow spoke volumes. ‘We have a marriage of convenience, Richard. There is no need for pretence.’
‘Pretence? Is it so wrong to wish for a comfortable relationship?’
‘Comfortable? Oh, no, of course it is not. But may we not be comfortable without living in one another’s pockets?’
Why did those words chafe? The uncomfortable conclusion was that although he did not wish his marriage to change his way of life, he had—hypocritically—assumed he would be the centre of his wife’s world.
‘I have annoyed you. I am sorry. That was not my intention. I wished to reassure you I will not be a wife who expects or desires your constant attention. That was not our bargain. I am accustomed to relying on my own resources for entertainment.’
Bargain? Richard expelled his breath in an audible huff. ‘The fault was mine. I made assumptions. I wish only to ensure we have a contented marriage.’
‘As do I. I promise I do not refuse your company out of churlishness. I simply wish to ensure you do not spend time with me from a sense of duty.’
How to respond? Their marriage had only taken place because of his sense of duty. Had that same sense of duty prompted his offer to show her around Fernley?
In his mind’s eye he saw Felicity in her bath, felt again her silky skin, heard her soft sighs. His blood stirred. His new wife might not be as buxom as his usual preference, but her pert, springy breasts had excited him every bit as much as fuller, pillowy mounds had ever done. And those lean thighs...her taut belly...her enthusiastic responses...
He studied her face, animated with discussion, her eyes shining with sincerity.
‘I promise I will never do that,’ he said. ‘I will summon Mrs Jakeway to show you the house.’
The morning sped by. To Felicity’s reeling senses, it seemed Mrs Jakeway left no corner of the huge house unvisited and no history of the Durant family untold. Who would have thought touring one house could be so exhausting?
Mrs Jakeway opened a door leading off an upstairs landing and ushered Felicity through into a long, narrow, portrait-lined room. ‘The gallery—the family are all in here.’
Felicity bit back a sigh, anticipating a long story to accompany each portrait, but as they stopped before the very first painting, the door at the far end of the gallery opened.
‘There you are.’ Richard strode the length of the gallery towards them. Felicity fixed her attention on the portrait, willing her fluttering pulse to steady. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jakeway. You may return to your duties.’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Jakeway. You have been most informative.’ Felicity smiled at the housekeeper then said to Richard, ‘It is a magnificent house, but I had no notion of how big it is. I feel as though I have walked miles.’
Richard laughed. ‘You will be ready for some refreshment, then, to replenish your energy.’ He held out his arm, and she took it with some relief. ‘I am pleased you approve of your new home, Felicity Joy.’
She gritted her teeth against the tremor that sped through her at his deepening tone. Felicity Joy, indeed.
‘Oh, I do,’ she said. ‘Your mother has the most exquisite taste; everything is beautifully decorated and furnished.’
‘You must feel free to make any changes you wish, especially in your own chambers,’ Richard said. ‘Whatever you wish for, Felicity, you may have.’
Whatever I wish for...? Hmmph. ‘You are most generous, but I have seen nothing yet I would care to change.’
They strolled along the dim gallery. Felicity cast around for a subject to break the silence.
‘Your mother—’
‘Will be moving to the Dower House in the very near future.’
That had not been what she was going to ask. ‘You do not appear very...well, very close.’
A bitter laugh was quickly bitten off. ‘You might say that. My mother has never hidden the fact she would have preferred my brother to succeed to the title.’
‘Your brother?’ Felicity searched her memory. ‘I had forgotten. He was older than you, was he not?’
Richard indicated a portrait of a youth with a much younger boy. ‘By eight years.’ The youth was a serious-faced lad with the same brown, wavy hair as Richard. ‘That is Adam and me as children. For a long time, my parents gave up hope of having more children. Then I came along. Adam was always the favourite. My parents were inconsolable when he died.’
‘How could they be otherwise? He was their son.’
Richard shot her a dark look, then strode on. Felicity trailed in his wake, her mind spinning. They had the death of a sibling in common then.
At the door leading from the gallery to the upstairs landing, Richard paused. ‘My father died four months after Adam. He lost all interest in life. I was barely seventeen when I inherited the title, a position I never expected. Nor desired.’
His knuckles shone white on the door handle. He started when Felicity tentatively touched his hand. ‘You suffered two grievous losses in a cruelly short time. I do understand. I lost my father when I was fourteen and then my sister, Emma, two years later. She was only eighteen.’
‘Eighteen. So very young.’ Richard lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘You must miss her.’
‘I do.’ Felicity’s throat tightened. ‘It was...’ She paused. She could not divulge Emma’s disgrace, or her mother’s culpability, or her own guilt at the anger she still harboured towards her mother. After Papa had died, her mother had been inconsolable. Following her year of mourning, however, she had launched into a round of gaiety and parties, with the excuse of Emma’s come-out. But Mama had become too intent on her own needs and pleasures, and her naive and innocent daughter had paid a heavy price.
Determinedly, Felicity buried those memories. ‘It was a dreadful time, as it must have been for you and your poor mother after Adam and then your father died.’
‘After the initial shock, my mother coped admirably, as she always does. She did not allow...’ Richard fell silent. ‘Well, that is of no import. Come. Let us go and eat and, afterwards, if you will allow, I should like to show you round the gardens.’
She choked back her instinct to refuse, mindful of that glimpse of pain when he spoke of his family. ‘Thank you.’
He smiled, and Felicity’s pulse quickened. She spun round and headed for the stairs. As they descended, Lady Stanton was crossing the marble-floored entrance hall. Glancing up, she stopped. Richard’s features were set in grim lines and, eyeing the dowager’s haughty demeanour as they neared the foot of the stairs, Felicity felt a moment of sadness for them both. Two people, bound by blood and by common grief, should find succour in one another. All she could read here was resentment, in Richard’s case, and indifference in his mother’s; although...there was a glimmer of fear in her mother-in-law’s eyes whenever she looked at her son that Felicity could not understand. What did she fear?
A footman held the door, and they sat at the table where luncheon—a selection of cold meats, bread and butter, pickles, salads and fruit—was laid out.
The dowager helped herself to a slice of beef. ‘Did you find the Countess’s suite to your liking, Felicity?’
‘Thank you, yes. It is most agreeable.’
‘I moved out of there when Richard’s father died, into my current bedchamber.’ Her gaze flicked towards Richard. ‘I have sent the servants over to the Lodge to prepare.’
‘The Lodge?’ Felicity looked from her mother-in-law to Richard and back again.
‘Fernley Lodge is the Dower House. Mother will move there now we are married.’
‘We shall have to discuss which servants I may take with me, or do you wish me to hire new people?’
‘Not at all, Mother. You may take your pick. I shall hire any replacements I need.’
‘You will be happier with familiar people around you, I am sure.’ Felicity ignored her mother-in-law’s haughtily lifted brow; she was part of this family now; she would not sit quietly when family—and household—matters were discussed.
‘Speaking of servants,’ the dowager said, switching her focus to Felicity, ‘I must insist you hire a lady’s maid without delay. It is completely unacceptable—’
‘It is in hand, Mother,’ Richard interrupted. ‘I have sent a message to Truman in Winchester to find suitable candidates for me to interview.’
‘I should prefer to select my own maid.’ Felicity pretended she did not notice the outraged stare of the dowager or Richard’s amusement at her interjection.
‘Then so you shall,’ he replied.
‘Thank you.’
‘You are most free with your opinions,’ the dowager remarked.
Richard’s eyes were fixed on her, a distinct challenge in them. She pressed her lips together. Start as you mean to go on.
‘I apologize if you think I speak out of turn, Mother,’ she said, ‘but I am, am I not, the Countess of Stanton? I am mistress of this house now, and I therefore believe I am entitled to express my opinion.
‘What do you say, my dear?’ she added, directing a searching look at Richard, who laughed.
‘I have no objection to you expressing your opinions, Wife,’ he said, ‘just as long as they concur with mine.’ The twinkle in his eyes confirmed he was teasing.
‘I shall try and bear that in mind, Husband,’ she murmured, narrowing her eyes at him before focusing on her plate once more.
Chapter Eighteen
This is what happens when you allow sympathy to overthrow your good intentions.
Felicity sat in a secluded arbour overlooking the lake, resentment scouring her brain. She had discovered the spot on her solitary exploration of the gardens and grounds. Her husband had been so easily dissuaded from spending time in her company, she could almost laugh. She had only accepted his offer to show her the gardens because she felt sorry for him. Well, maybe she’d been a tiny bit flattered he had confided in her about his brother’s death and—possibly—she had been foolish enough to hope...but no! She was deluded. This neighbour...some crony of Richard’s—she was so cross she could not even recall his name—had called on his way into Winchester, and Richard had jumped at the opportunity to accompany him, with no thought for her or for his promise.
Why so angry? You refused his company only this morning. Surely you are not already infatuated with him after only one night of passion?
She resumed her march around the lake. It was too cool to sit for long: dark grey clouds scudded across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the sun much as her anger flirted with images of their lovemaking from the night before.
Richard had behaved in perfect accord with their bargain. Was that not what she wanted from their marriage? She should thank him for not encouraging her silly, missish longings.
She completed her circuit of the lake, and made her way back, to explore the flower gardens.
But...if only he had not been so tender...so loving...so—seemingly—appreciative last night. Her thoughts, as she wandered, sparked a myriad of unwelcome emotions. Surely this intensity...such pleasure...such ecstasy...would not—could not—last? In time, their lives would settle into the humdrum. Their paths need not cross during the day and, at night, Richard would visit her bed and service her until they had produced enough children to secure the earldom. He would then leave her alone. Unromantic, maybe, but those sentiments were exactly what she had planned for her marriage and exactly what she needed to bring her down to earth.
Why, then, did she feel so wretched?
She returned to the house to consult with Mrs Jakeway. The sooner she occupied her mind with the everyday matters of running of the household, the better.
‘I’ve appointed a lady’s maid for you. She arrives next week.’
Felicity froze in the act of setting a stitch. Slowly, she looked up at Richard, newly returned from Winchester, a satisfied smile on his lips.
‘You agreed I might select my own maid.’
‘Yvette comes highly recommended, Felicity. She will make you an excellent maid.’
Of all the high-handed... Felicity bit her lip and bent her head to continue with her embroidery.
‘Truman told me—’
‘Who is Truman?’
‘He is my man of business in Winchester. I needed to consult him over additional staff for Fernley Lodge and I mentioned your need for a lady’s maid.’
‘I see.’
‘I met the girl. She is in need of employment and her references are impeccable. Dalton will collect her on Tuesday. I am certain you will approve of her.’
Is she pretty? The words stole uninvited into Felicity’s thoughts, her father’s penchant for comely maidservants still fresh in her memory even after all these years. She concentrated fiercely on her stitching. ‘I reserve the right to refuse her.’
She glanced up. Richard was frowning. ‘Do you not trust my judgement, Felicity?’
Start as you mean to go on. ‘I do not know you well enough to answer that. Staff appointments, however, are part of my jurisdiction and the matter of my personal maid is of particular importance to me, as you might imagine.’
‘Very well. I ask only that you reserve judgement until you have met Yvette. I am certain you will like her.’
Richard watched Felicity push the food around her dinner plate with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. As far as he could tell, not a morsel had passed her lips. She had withdrawn into herself; was she fretting about the night to come? With his mother present, he could say nothing to ease her uncertainties.
‘Is the food not up to your usual standards?’
Felicity’s head jerked up at his mother’s question.
‘It is delicious, Mother, but I am afraid I am not very hungry. Please do pass my regrets to Cook,’ Felicity added, directing her comment to Trick, who stood to one side of the room, ‘I should not wish to cause any dismay in the kitchen. The fault is not with the food.’
‘Well, really, Daughter. Why should kitchen servants care about your appetite, pray?’
‘Mother.’
His mother ignored Richard’s warning, her attention on Felicity, their gazes locked. A mental image arose of two fencers, each on the alert for any hint of vulnerability in their opponent. Richard sipped at his wine, settling back to await the victor.
‘It may well be they would not be concerned about my lack of appetite,’ Felicity said. ‘But I, you see, do care that their work should not go unacknowledged. If I cannot express my thanks by eating the results of their labour, it costs me nothing to pass on a few words of reassurance.’
His mother stiffened. ‘Well!’
Silence reigned. He could almost hear the wheels spinning in his mother’s brain.
‘I suppose there is no harm in it,’ she eventually conceded. ‘You are sending such a message only because it is your wish to do so, and not under any sense of obligation to the lower orders.’
First round to Felicity.
‘I will move to Fernley Lodge as soon as the servants have made it ready,’ Mother said, ‘but I shall leave Trick and Jakeway here. You will need them to maintain the standards to be expected in a house such as Fernley Park.’
‘That is most generous,’ Felicity said. ‘Do you not agree, Richard?’
‘Richard? Why do you not use your husband’s title? He has been Stanton since his father’s death fifteen years ago.’
‘Richard specifically requested that I call him such, Mother. And I know you will agree a wife should always obey her husband.’
Richard bit back a smile as his mother inclined her head, indicating her approval. He detected the mischievous glint in Felicity’s eye and the laughter that warmed her voice, nuances that passed his mother by.
‘I am sorry we will have so little time to become acquainted,’ Felicity said.
‘Fernley Lodge is barely half a mile distance, Daughter. You may walk over and visit me whenever you are at home.’
‘And you, Mother, will be most welcome to visit us here at Fernley whenever you choose,’ Felicity said promptly. ‘Is that not so, Richard?’
‘Indeed.’
Dare he hope to forge a better relationship with his mother, now he was wed? It was hard to remember the time—before Adam’s death—when their bond had been warm and relaxed. He had tried to excuse her rejection but, over the years, his understanding had withered away, stunted time and time again by her condemnation of him.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘even if Mother were to remain longer at Fernley, we will not be here.’
‘Will we not? Are we going away? You said nothing about a journey this morning.’
No, he had not, for he had only that very minute decided. He had racked his brains for ways to help Felicity adjust to her new life...to him. He recognized her skittishness around him, despite her efforts to conceal it. She appeared to believe that reducing the time they spent together—as per their bargain—was the answer. He begged to differ.
‘It was to be a surprise,’ he said smoothly.
It had occurred to him, as they talked about Fernley, that she would become more quickly accustomed to him—and to the idea of being his wife—in a more intimate establishment.
And he knew just the place.
‘I have a small fishing lodge in the Welsh Marches. We will leave after Mother has moved to the Lodge,’ he said. ‘On our honeymoon,’
‘Honeymoon?’ Two bright patches of colour stained Felicity’s cheeks.
‘Honeymoon. The lodge is isolated, surrounded by beautiful countryside. It will give us time to get to know one another.’
There was a prolonged silence. Richard watched as various expressions swept Felicity’s face.
She cleared her throat. ‘If we are to go away, might I request we visit London instead?’
Chapter Nineteen