“I am afraid I must admit that to sleep thusly would surely cripple me, a fate I shouldn’t mind avoiding. Hmmm. Well then,” he said, stroking his chin as he considered the problem. “If only we could put our hands on some extra bedding, I’d simply make a sort of pallet here on the floor. I could pretend I was sleeping in the woods, as Father and Elias and I used to do for sport.”
Her hands were knotted together before her waist. She was still, making him think of a startled doe.
She took a deep breath, unfreezing to move to the bed and pull at the coverings. “There are two blankets more here, beside the counterpane you have there and the blanket that I had, plus the linens. You could have those two, I suppose? Be sure you take the counterpane, it’s heavier. You’ll need it. The marble under the rugs is always cold. I’ll retain these two blankets and the linens?”
“All right then,” he agreed, even though he suspected neither of them would be warm enough as the night’s chill advanced.
He made a narrow bedding on the floor, by folding the counterpane in thirds and laying it on the carpet, against the hope that one more layer between him and marble would suffice. She tossed him two of the four pillows, which he arranged on top of the counterpane and over which he spread his sole remaining blanket.
He crossed to the bed to pick up his nightshirt. As he approached her, she took a step back, which he pretended not to notice. “I’ll change in the adjoining room.”
***
When he had shut the connecting door, Alessandra’s fingers flew. She’d brought a night bonnet with her, in the pocket of her robe. She wrestled it onto her head, those flying fingers having the worst time tying the simple ribbon beneath her chin. Next she went for the four tie ribbons on her night robe, foolish garment, but eventually they all came loose and she shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor. She left her house slippers on.
Hurrying, she scrambled onto the bed. She piled her two pillows, and flopped down atop them, pulling the covers almost to her ears. She was propped up just enough to be able to glance into the room’s inky corners, and not least to keep an eye on the door between the two rooms.
Geoffrey knocked.
It seemed silly, somehow—but Alessandra decided she liked the politeness of his knock. “Come in,” she called, her voice a bit squeaky.
“I forgot to pack an dressing robe,” he said a little sheepishly. He carried his clothing before him, as if he could hide the nightshirt he wore behind the various articles of clothing dangling over his arm. He still wore his stockings, evidently having neglected to bring his house shoes as well.
He opened the nearest wardrobe, where Alessandra saw two folded shirts and perhaps some breeches. He looked inside, down at his clothes, and in the end threw them onto the floor of the wardrobe. “My man Winters will be arriving tomorrow. After he dressed me this morning, I gave him the day off,” he said apologetically as he closed the wardrobe door.
“I see,” she said, suddenly wanting to giggle. She had never been alone with a man in a nightshirt before, not even her father. One must discount Oliver, who, at nearly six years her junior, was hardly a manly example.
Geoffrey looked rather boyish in his, in fact, especially as the awkwardness of the moment lent a touch of color to his prominent cheekbones.
“Well then, good night,” she said, snuggling down into the covers so that he could not see if there was any amusement in her face.
“Good night.”
He rearranged his bedding to suit himself. As he did so, she clearly heard him muttering curses aloud, calling both Lord Warring and himself fools, then suddenly blew out the lamps.
There was a little light from the fireplace, but still darkness pressed at Alessandra from all sides. It, or perhaps yet the memory of a man in a nightshirt, made her want to giggle again. Well, if Papa and Geoffrey were fools, she must count herself among their number.
***
Geoffrey lay down…
…and lay awake under whirling thoughts that broached all manner of questions he never came close to answering.
A questioning mind was a poor enough event to chase away much needed sleep, but worse, it was not long before he began to shiver from the room’s incessant and invasive chilliness.
He got up once, to stoke the fire, and lingered there long enough to feel a trifle heated up before heading back to bedding that had already given up on any warmth his body had put into it.
After lying there for just a minute, he had a second thought, and decided to pull the bedding closer to the stoked fire, even though it meant moving off the edge of the carpet onto the bare floor.
Doing so, it was not long before he realized the front side of his body was nearly toasted. However, the side next to the arctic marble floor and his backside were decidedly not warmed at all.
He turned over and warmed his chilled parts.
When, one half shivering, the other perspiring, he turned over yet again, it was only to feel the sting of the fire’s heat caressing a nose that had turned pink from the chill in the air. To add injury to insult, a log snapped and a spark shot out and hit him in the neck. He frantically brushed the ember away, no longer bothering to curse under his breath.
There was a stirring sound from the bed.
“All’s well,” he reported, voice low, but still annoyed. I sound like a great bloody Charley, calling out the hour and the state of the streets.
There was no response from Alessandra.
After thoroughly inspecting his bedding to make sure he was not going to try to slumber in a smoldering firetrap, he still found he could not sleep.
Ten long minutes later he rose once again, sighing heavily, to attend again the dying fire.
A small voice called out, “Geoffrey?”
“Yes?” he answered, stabbing at the fire with the poker in a decidedly irritable manner.
“Is it any warmer there by the fire? I am freezing to death.”
He hung his head for a moment and half-laughed to himself. “No,” he called back churlishly.
“Oh.”
He turned toward her, not particularly caring if he was backlighted by the fire and presenting to her an outline of his form beneath his nightshirt. He tossed down the poker with a clatter. “I could move to your old room—”
“Papa made Maggie pour water on the fire there.”
Geoffrey closed his eyes, teeth gritted. After a long moment, he pried his jaws apart. “Well then, there’s nothing for it. Your wily old father would have spent a wedding night in this drafty monstrosity of a room himself. He’s made sure that we’re going to have to share a bed, this bed.”
Silence came through the darkness.
“The good news is at least then we could share the covers.”
She was silent yet, during which he wondered if she was really going to choose to let him freeze to death, or for that matter, herself. Her eyes, through the gloom of the firelight, were very wide as she peered out of the bed toward him.
“Well…yes. I can see that we are in a bad spot here,” she finally said.
“We’ll just take two of these pillows and place them between us. We are above our animal selves, or so the preachers have always told me. I see no reason why we must freeze to death to remain...separate.”
“Of course we need not,” Alessandra agreed quickly, breathlessly, at last averting her eyes.
***
Geoffrey brought the bedding items back to the four-poster and spread them out, tossing the pillows to Alessandra to arrange. When she scooted from the middle of the bed off barely warmed linens, she gritted her teeth against the new chill as she arranged the two pillows, which she could not seem to quite fluff up to her satisfaction, down the middle of the bed. She lay back, burrowing under the covers, and not entirely from the cold.
“The servants did not leave a warming pan to run over the sheets, nor leave us bricks to heat. I cannot imagine why they didn’t,” she said through teeth that threatened to chatter.
“I can. Your father’s orders, no doubt,” Geoffrey grumbled as he drew back the covers on his side and slid under.
Alessandra had not shared a bed in many a year, and then of course only with her sister or female friends. She knew her senses were heightened, but still it seemed his weight made the mattress slant toward the middle quite a bit. She found herself wondering how many couples had spent a wedding night on this very mattress, and how many of them had shared the spot in the middle, leaving this troublesome dip she found herself sliding toward.
“Dash it all!” she heard Geoffrey mutter from the other side of the pillows, quite possibly discovering the mattress’s condition for himself. She grinned to herself crookedly, for the night had been very strange and growing more so, disintegrating into the realm of the absurd. She tried to find a position that allowed her to hold on to the side of the mattress.
“Good night,” she said quietly once she thought she had achieved her goal.
“Good morning,” he said with emphasis.
Happily, before very long, Alessandra acknowledged she was warmer at last. Her lids were pulled down by what felt like weights, but not before she had a few minutes to wonder what “sleeping with a man” would bring her come the morning.
Geoffrey was gone by the time she awakened. She was near to the center of the bed, the pillows running along her spine. She sat up and looked around the room, seeing a drawer was open about an inch, and Geoffrey’s watch and money purse were gone, so she knew he had dressed already. The Italy trip’s purse sat undisturbed from where he had set it last night.
She pushed back the covers reluctantly, and hurried to locate her robe and house slippers. Pulling them on, she went to the dressing room, just to double-check she was indeed alone in the room.
Seeing that to be true, she went back to the bed and climbed under the covers, still wearing her robe and house slippers, and reached for the bell pull.
She started to lean back, to soak up a few more minutes of warmth and quiet, but then she sat up again abruptly, reaching for the two pillows that ran down the middle of the bed, throwing them haphazardly toward the head of the bed. She wasn’t even entirely sure what message she was trying to send to the servants, only that how she and Geoffrey had spent the night’s hours perhaps ought to look predictable.
Maggie responded within a few minutes, bringing a loaded tray with her.
“Tea!” Alessandra breathed, as if the woman had brought her nectar.
“Lord love us, Miss Les...I mean, my lady, ‘tis right nippy in here,” Maggie cried as she set the breakfast tray on its sturdy legs in front of her mistress. “Shall I see to the fire?”
Alessandra nodded vigorously, her mouth already full of warm toast points as she poured the steaming tea into a delicate cup. She proceeded on to the fried eggs and rashers as if she had not eaten in days. A glance at the clock arrested her efforts for a moment, and she cried in a muffled voice, “Never say ’tis two in the afternoon.”
“ ‘Tis,” the maid said simply, beaming at her lady from where she piled coal on the fire. Maggie plainly thought she knew the reason why her ladyship had slept so late.
At the knowing look a little of Alessandra’s ravenous appetite dissipated, but she helped herself to a second cup of tea. “Is...is Lord Huntingsley still to home, or has he gone out?” she asked, wondering if she sounded properly informed. Did wives always know where their husbands were, or what their plans were? One would have to say that was largely true of Mama and Papa, but she was not sure they were a standard against which others should be measured.
“He’s gone out, my lady.”
“Ah. Well, he said he might,” she fibbed.
Maggie nodded cheerily. “He won’t be gone long, I reckon.” And she actually giggled.
Alessandra set her cup down with a rattle. This unstable marriage was going to be quite an exercise in the ludicrous, she could see that right now.
“I’d like to get dressed,” she said, pushing the tray away.
“That’s well, my lady. Lord Warring has asked that you call upon him in his library as soon as may be.”
“Oh.” Alessandra summoned an agreeable smile she did not feel.
***
“Alessandra,” her father greeted her fondly as she came into the library. One hand was on a ledger, holding its pages open, the other was scribbling away at a tally sheet. “How was your night?”
She guessed he was right proud of last night’s manipulation. She did not answer him, sitting in the chair placed before his desk, her hands folded together and settled on the desktop before her as she watched the columns of numbers grow in neat lines. A glance told her his work had something to do with the shipping interests the family quietly supported, the old and revered source of their revenue beyond their farming interests. In fact, they had proved such a reliable and valuable source of income that Lord Warring did not even leave the accounting to his steward as he did with the farming records.
Finally he put aside his quill, rocked back in his seat, and observed her. Now he was more direct. “Is my grandchild on the way, then?”
Her mouth opened, but he had shocked any words right out of her. She finally managed, “I will not speak with you of last night.”
His satisfied look flickered, and he frowned, and then he leaned forward again suddenly. “Nothing happened?” He interrupted anything she’d meant to say. “I know you, girl. You’re not blushing nearly enough.” He growled. “What manner of fool is your Huntingsley, eh?”
My Huntingsley, Alessandra thought, wondering how long-lasting the claim would prove to be.
“He didn’t spend the entire night talking about…about divorcing you, did he?” Papa demanded, face going red with anger. He pointed a finger at her. “If he thinks by not consummating the marriage he’ll have grounds, he’s entirely mistaken. There’s nothing in that, not under the law.”
Papa kept on listing reasons a divorce must not happen and would prove a disaster—who feels that more than the wife?—but Alessandra heard little of it as she considered the knowledge that nonconsummation could not bring about the marriage’s ending. Was Geoffrey thinking it could? Was that why he had not exercised a husband’s bedroom privileges?
Or perhaps he simply does not care for your company, let alone in bed but also out of it…?
But…he’s been kind. He’s been gentle.
But so would many a gentleman. Perhaps he means to make a future separation easier for me? For himself?
Or… Perhaps he loves another?
An image of the very pretty Jacqueline Bremcott sprang to mind.
“Well, never mind all that, my girl,” Papa finally wound down. “Huntingsley has promised me he’ll join you in the Sapphire Room of a night, every night, going forward. You’ll get to know one another, and appreciation will follow. All this modern talk of breaking vows will seem a grand joke to you both one day, mark my words.”
“Yes, Papa,” Alessandra mumbled. She rose, not noticing her father may not have been done talking, and walked out of the room with a frown on her face. If he’d meant to comfort her, he’d done the very opposite, because it was clear she was not the only one worried the marriage was already on shaky legs.
***
Jacqueline had on her new golden habit, the one she had ordered made from the lovely velvet that so perfectly accented the golden highlights in her hair—and coincidentally was perhaps much the same shade of gold a bride had recently worn. Better yet, she knew the black braid and epaulets were all the mode, and that the black feather curling from her little military-styled bonnet lent itself well in contrast with her creamy complexion. She felt very fetching in the new habit and bonnet, and she knew she was turning heads as she rode by.
She spotted any number of acquaintances, and often stopped to chat gaily. The Marchioness of Laruche hailed her, so she worked her horse over to the coach containing the marchioness and her husband.
“You are looking in fine spirits today, my dear,” Lady Laruche told her.
“You are most kind, ma’am.”
“When I saw you at that Huntingsley wedding yesterday, I thought you were sickening for something.”
Jacqueline forced herself not to lower her gaze. “Did you?”
“You had a red flush over most of your face. Of course, Laruche here said that was because you were losing out on Chenmarth’s boy, that you were in a tiff to see you weren’t to be his countess when the earldom comes his way some day.”
“Been an understanding for ages,” the marquess muttered, not bothering to look at either of the ladies, rather as though he were holding a conversation with some crumbs he brushed from his waistcoat. “Nothing formal in it, eh what? Certainly not if he’s gone and tied himself to another filly.”
Jacqueline stared down at him, struggling to keep the horror from her face. Finally she found her voice. “That ancient rumor!” she trilled.
“Quite right, you hear, Laruche? ‘Twas but a rumor. And makes no difference now he’s married.” Lady Laruche went on. “My girl, you are to tell your mother I send my greetings, and ask her to call on me about that charity basket we do every autumn.” So saying, she poked her driver with the point of her parasol and they drove on.
Jacqueline sat still long enough that her horse began to grow restless beneath her. Merciful heavens, was the entire bon ton talking about her as if she had been left on the shelf? As if Lord Huntingsley had married that girl for any other reason than to correct a social faux pas? Her hands tightened automatically on the reins of her animal, holding him back until her cheeks could cool a little. The groom that rode with her scratched his chin and waited on her pleasure, and she hoped he’d not heard Lady Laruche’s comments, only to spread such talk even further via servants’ tattle.
At length, she focused her attention on those around her. If her stiffened behavior had seemed peculiar, no one appeared to have noticed.
She spotted the Viscount Aldford riding his chestnut up an adjoining path. Tilting her chin up with a show of bravado, she urged her horse forward, intercepting the viscount neatly. “My lord,” she hailed him. Here was someone who could help scotch anymore rumormongering.
The viscount turned toward her call, a smile at the ready, but as soon as he recognized her his face fell. “Miss,” he said stiffly.
“What brings you to the park on this fine day?” she said at her most coquettish. It was her intention to charm him, but his face grew frostier, if anything.
“The very fact that it is a fine day,” he said with a sniff. “Pardon me. I must hurry to a prior engagement.” He did not even wait for her response, but spurred his horse in the opposite direction.
She nearly gasped aloud. She had never been snubbed before in her life, and she could not like it. The one man she had thought would run to her beckoning had just ridden away. She had thought she had the viscount firmly wrapped around her little finger, even if she’d refused his proposal. Since, she’d seen him casting wounded puppy-love eyes her way, making her think it’d be the easiest thing to renew his hopes. It was pleasant having a man about who was clearly a devotee of her charms.
But now she recalled Lord Aldford had left in a sudden huff when she had asked to sit out the second dance he’d approached her for two weeks ago. Meanwhile, Geoffrey had wandered off to play whist, leaving her to pretend she enjoyed sitting out that dance.
Suddenly a light dawned: that was why the viscount was spurning her now. He was jealous! That strong emotion she had then hoped to engender in Geoffrey’s breast had gone to the other fellow. Of course. This new rejection was only a symptom of Aldford’s regard.
She sighed with relief, for this made sense of her world once again. The viscount fled from her because he was jealously angry. Geoffrey had married another because he had had no choice. She, Jacqueline, had not lost some vital ingredient, some magic that made her so well sought out and pursued by the opposite gender. No, it was hurt feelings and circumstances that had changed, temporarily, the status quo.
But she could put all to rights again, now she understood. She would bring the Viscount Aldford back to heel, to marry her. Married women had so much more freedom than maiden girls. They could wear fabulous colors all the time, not just for riding attire, not the insipid pastels and whites she was forced to wear as day and evening gowns now. She would have pin money, which she would see was a far greater sum than the pittance Mama allowed her.
Too, of course, a married woman could—discreetly, quietly—take a lover as well. Any children that were begot, under the law, belonged to her husband anyway, whom she’d sleep with just enough to allow him to believe it possible any offspring was his.
She would have everything: respectable marriage, a home of her own, Aldford’s title—and the man she loved in her arms, for Geoffrey was sure to soon tire of that insipid Hamilton girl.
Jacqueline smiled slowly, and urged her horse forward, nodding to her acquaintances. She was content with the world once more, exchanging gossip and quips, the banter that came so easily to her well-shaped lips inspired by the admiration in the eyes of the gentlemen who hailed her, unable to resist the confident air that only added to her beauty.
***
Alessandra had gone to her old bedchamber to gather a few belongings to make her stay in the Sapphire Room more congenial. She and Geoffrey hadn’t talked about any trip to Italy. Perhaps they should, if only to bring their stay in the cavernous room to an end. If not a trip, what then? Move to her old chambers? What rooms or houses did he possess? Living away from Papa held a growing attraction.
She just happened to glance out one of the windows and saw Geoffrey ride into the mews shared by three homes. Her first instinct was to run down and ask him where he had been. Her second instinct told her to not be a ninny, and to wait for him to find her. Her third thought was even more uncertain: how much of his time should she dare to ask him for? How much time were they expected to spend together? If last night was a good example, then she was quite sure they would find they had far too much time together—so maybe she should make an effort to avoid him during the day? Could separation make his heart grow fonder? Did she want his heart to grow fonder?
She was so distracted, she ended up remaining at her window, staring down. She saw him come out of the stables and cross the small bit of yard. His long muscular legs mounted the steps easily to reach the front doors in but a few moments. The doors were built out, lacking a portico, so she could see that he hesitated there and started to raise his hand as if he would reach for the knocker, only to stop in mid-reach. A moment passed, and then he lifted the knocker and released it once and reached for the door latch to let himself in. Poor fellow. He did not even know if he had the freedom to enter his father-in-law’s house without knocking first.