Gayle Buck (18 page)

A small portion of his mind observed dispassionately that in his memory the gardens had never appeared more attractive. The overgrowth had been tamed, the dead things uprooted and replaced. It was Mary’s doing, of course. She had hired gardeners. She could always be relied upon to quietly bring order out of the chaos. All he need ever do was express a desire. He could place his heart in her capable, comforting hands.

“No!”

Lord St. John turned his back on the view of the gardens, his fists clenched. He could not afford to trust anyone to that extent. The very thought of it made the small hairs rise on his neck. Surely he had been burned too many times to shuffle off his hard-won cynicism. Only a handful of people had ever stood by him. None had been women.

Not that the female was any worse than the male of the species. His own father had been a bastard of the first degree. Lord St. John gave a short bark of laughter, but it was a bitter sound even to his own ears. How well he had learned the lesson that one must rely only on oneself.

His wife had found her way to his most vulnerable part. The scarring of his soul was deep, but it had responded to her generosity and her gift of creating comfort where there had been none. If he did not act before it was too late, he would be irrevocably lost. Then, when her betrayal came, it would utterly destroy him.

Lord St. John was brutally honest with himself. It actually terrified him to think that he was in the grip of an emotion so powerful that the point of his very existence revolved around a woman; a woman whose regard he had come to desire more than anything else in the world.

He had to distance himself from her in order to save himself.

Suddenly decisive, Lord St. John sat down again at the desk. He pulled a sheet of paper over to him and began penning a short communiqué to his secretary, Mr. Wither-spoon. When he was done, he readied the letter for the post.

After he had sent a servant off with the letter, Lord St. John stared for several long moments into space. His expression was bleak. What he intended to do gave him no pleasure to contemplate. However, it was necessary for his own survival.

He would throw his bride from the trades into the whirlpool of a ravenous society. His lady would build her own life revolving around entertainments and gossip and morning calls and shopping. He would plunge back into his own activities and seek out his former acquaintances. Eventually he would come to see less of his wife than did society as a whole and he would be safe again.

He would stand alone once more, impregnable, self-sufficient.

The future stretched before him like a cold barren landscape, its keening wind sweeping through the depths of his soul.

Lord St. John announced his decision over dinner that evening. Mary lifted wide eyes to him. “London, my lord?” There was a note of mingled dismay and astonishment in her voice.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming from beneath hooded lids. “Have you an objection to removing to town, my lady?”

“Why, no. Of course I do not. It has simply come as such a surprise that we are to go so soon,” said Mary.

“I wish to be gone from Rosethorn by the end of the week. Is three days sufficient time for you to be ready, ma’am?” asked Lord St. John.

Mary nodded. She was made only too aware by his lordship’s abrupt tone that he would have little patience for any reservations.

“Yes, that is sufficient,” she said quietly, her mind already skimming those tasks necessary to organize the move. There would be packing and instructions to the Jessups, not only for the household but for the disposition of the last of the articles that she had purchased for Rosethorn Hall. There were also letters to be written, cancelling various orders she had made for the manor, and one to her father to inform him of her new direction. Her correspondence to friends could wait until she had actually settled in London.

“Then I shall leave the details in your capable hands,” said Lord St. John, rising.

Mary also rose from her chair, taking her cue from him that their repast was done. “I shall leave you to your wine, my lord.” She walked to the door, feeling that she had been handily dismissed.

“Do not wait coffee on me, my lady. I will not be joining you this evening as I mean to return to my ledgers later,” said Lord St. John.

“Very well, my lord. I wish you good night,” said Mary, hoping that he would smile at her, however slightly.

He bowed to her, his countenance reflecting only cool civility.

Mary spent a lonely hour in the drawing room with her embroidery. She frequently glanced at the clock on the mantel. It had become so pleasant to spend the evenings in Lord St. John’s company that she now felt her spirits to be somewhat depressed by his defection.

It was nonsensical to feel so, she knew. His lordship simply had work that required his attention and he probably wished to have it all well in hand before the journey to London. Naturally he would want to leave matters in such a way as to make it most easy for Mr. Todd to continue in his lordship’s absence.

Mary knew that she would regret leaving Rosethorn behind. She thought that the weeks she had spent at Rosethorn would always remain fixed in her memory as a time of peculiar happiness. She had adjusted to becoming a wife and she had become comfortable with her role as mistress of the manor. The household had accepted her without apparent reservation and the house and gardens had begun to take on a well-ordered appearance that quite eclipsed the former signs of neglect.

She thought also, though she could not be certain, that her lord appreciated the quiet changes she had made. He had begun to laugh with her and more than once she had surprised an expression of contentment in his eyes as he surveyed the lands or the refurbished rooms of the manor itself.

That was what made it so difficult this evening to accept his withdrawal into his former chilly manner toward her.

She knew when Lord St. John left the dining room. His quick hard steps sounded on the marble tiles in the hall, hesitating the slightest moment outside the drawing room door, then hurried on at a swifter pace than before. Seconds later a door slammed.

Mary stared at the impassive drawing room door for a long moment. Then she composedly folded her embroidery away and left the drawing room to go upstairs to bed.

Chapter 17

Two months after his marriage, Lord St. John set out for London with his bride. He chose to ride on horseback alongside the carriage that carried his wife and her maid. Another carriage followed with the baggage and the valet, Tibbs, while his lordship’s faithful groom rode on the box.

Mary had ample time for private reflection during the journey. Her maid was not loquacious by nature; in addition, after a time the swaying of the carriage made the woman begin nodding. So if Mary’s glance often strayed to the window where she could see the viscount’s wide shoulders, there was no one to witness it.

Lord St. John had given no explanation for his abrupt decision to remove to London other than to observe that it was time for his wife to make her entrance into society. Mary felt some apprehension at the prospect, but she accepted the viscount’s wishes in this matter as she had in every other. She would contrive somehow to be a credit to him.

The familiar sights of London caused her a twinge of anxiety for the first time. She had grown up within the city’s busy environs, but she had never really paid more than passing attention to the number of smart carriages or the fashionable promenaders in the park. She had rarely had occasion to pass through the venues of elegant townhouses, for she had known none of the inhabitants. Her world had never overlapped into that of the
beau monde.

The fashionable world was a world unto itself. Frivolity, gambling, scandalous intrigue, and licentiousness were its earmarks. Lord St. John had been born into that society. He was at home in it. Now it was to become her place as well.

Mary was too levelheaded to believe that it would be an easy matter to become accepted by polite society. Her birth and background had nothing of the blueblood that would automatically recommend her to the
ton.
She was simply the daughter of a wealthy merchant, who had been fortunate enough to be handed a title when a gold ring was slid onto her finger.

Her new position demanded a rarified association that, given the choice, she would have preferred to avoid. Obviously she could have nothing in common with those who had inherited their perquisites.

However, she understood how it was that Lord St. John desired her to be presented to his friends and acquaintances. It would be strange if he did not.

The slowing of the carriage warned her that their destination was in sight. The maid started awake, putting her hand up to her bonnet to straighten it. “Have we arrived, my lady?”

“I think so, Smith,” Mary said. She saw the viscount ride by the window a last time. His stern profile was presented to her and she sighed, wondering at herself. It would have been a very small thing for her husband to have turned his head to smile at her as he passed; but he had not and the disappointment she felt was disproportionate.

Lord St. John had not smiled once at her since he had told her of his decision to return to London. Certainly his mouth had occasionally stretched in that horridly self-mocking way, but his eyes had remained shuttered and she could not delude herself into believing that things were well between them.

Mary would have liked to have gone on just as they had at Rosethorn. With the exception of the last three days, she had been increasingly encouraged that her husband was beginning to look upon her with a sort of tolerant affection.

She discounted what passed between them in the privacy of the nights as a true indication of his feelings. She had gathered from past fragments let drop by the married women of her acquaintance that gentlemen could consort with women without feeling a particle of either liking or respect for them.

As for her own emotions—

Mary felt herself blush and she was glad of the chill wind that nipped up as she was descending from the chaise, it giving her an excuse for her heated face.

Lord St. John’s glance was considering, but he made no comment on her heightened color. He merely offered his arm to her. Mary placed her fingers on his elbow and allowed him to escort her up the steps of an elegant town house.

The moment that she entered the town house with Lord St. John, Mary realized that the ease with which she had taken command of Rosethorn Hall was not to be granted to her by this London household. The servants had been drawn up in the hallway to greet their lord and his lady, but their combined stares were hardly encouraging to Mary. There was not a curious or eager gaze in the lot and though Mary did not detect outright insubordination at this early juncture, she wondered whether she would not be faced with that trial before many days were out.

“Craighton, this is Lady St. John. You will see to it that her ladyship is accorded every courtesy,” said Lord St. John.

“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed to the new mistress of the house. His expression was wooden as he gestured forward a footman. “Edward will show your ladyship and your maid upstairs. The rooms are naturally all prepared for your arrival, my lady.”

“Thank you, Craighton,” said Mary quietly.

“I will meet you again at dinner, my lady,” said Lord St. John, taking his wife’s hand and raising it briefly to his lips.

“Very well, my lord,” said Mary, inclining her head. She mustered a smile. “I shall be glad of an opportunity to put off this bonnet and rest for an hour.” She turned to the footman and nodded that she was ready to follow him up the stairs. Behind her, she heard the orders issued for the baggage to be brought in.

Dinner that evening was unexceptional. Lord St. John was civil and he spoke at some length on what she could expect in the coming days. He was brutally frank at one point. “I think you will find that our marriage will be considered something of a nine-day’s wonder. Every eye will be upon us for some clue as to the nature of our relationship. I hope that you will not be put out of countenance by the stares and malicious remarks.”

“Now that you have given me warning, I shall be better able to carry it off, my lord,” said Mary quietly.

He smiled with that twist of the lips that she had begun to detest. “Certainly I cannot ask for more.”

For Mary, the evening seemed to drag on leaden minutes. Lord St. John had withdrawn behind that polite, cold mask that she had first seen come over him in Dover. It was a burden to remain unaffected in her own manner and this, combined with the long journey, had the effect of exhausting her. Thus she was not unhappy when the viscount indicated that she was free to go to her rooms, which she did. After her maid had readied her for the night she crawled straight into bed. Within moments of her head touching the pillow she was asleep.

* * * *

In the next few days Mary’s intuition that she faced a difficult period with the servants was correct. Several small so-called misunderstandings arose over her orders. She was undoubtedly up for judgment by the viscount’s household and she had to prove herself capable of running a well-ordered establishment.

It was not a task that she was unfamiliar with since she had had the ordering of her own father’s house for many years, as well as her more recent experience at Rosethorn, to fall back on; but it was a nuisance. In any event, Mary was able to meet the challenges to her authority with a confident calm that went far in scuttling the disgruntlement of some at having a tradesman’s daughter set over them.

She was aided by the unexpectedly supportive attitudes of the butler, Craighton; the viscount’s man, Tibbs; and the secretary, Mr. Witherspoon. These three gentlemen, swiftly recognizing the quality of their new mistress’s manner if not her antecedents, quickly abandoned their reservations and made certain that their approval was well-known throughout the household. Mary was thus able to resolve any question of her authority or capabilities.