Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (23 page)

The groom rapped at the door, for the knocker was off, and after a pause they were confronted by a startled footman in shirt and breeches.

"My lord! We didn't expect..."

Leander strode into the house. "I didn't expect to be here myself, George. Have the bags brought in."

He led the way through an elegant narrow hall to a chilly reception room, where he gently deposited Rosie on a sofa. Moonlight was the only illumination, but the room, and the house, looked expensively furnished.

Leander walked into the hall and shouted, "Ho, the house! The master's home, so stir yourselves!"

A somewhat unorthodox way of announcing oneself but it worked. Within minutes a portly butler and two maids appeared, all very flustered.

"My lord..." stammered the butler.

"Yes, I know. You didn't expect me. It's all right. But I have my wife with me and two children, and we're all bone tired. We need candles, tea, and food of some kind. Soup, if it's available. Air the necessary beds, the children's first. Put them on the main floor near the master suite in case they wake in the night. I don't suppose anywhere has a fire except the kitchen?"

"No, my lord."

"Never mind. We'll be in bed soon, but find a couple of blankets for the children while they wait."

Soon all was bustling.

Bastian had slumped back to sleep at an awkward angle, but Judith didn't move him for fear of waking him. The footman brought a branch of candles and lit them. A maid hurried in with two blankets and tucked them gently around the children, then left with a curtsy and a curious look.

Leander disappeared, to reappear with two glasses and a decanter. "Brandy," he said and offered some to Judith.

Judith shook her head. She wasn't precisely cold in her sumptuous Russian mantle and muff, but she felt chilled. It was mostly exhaustion, for she hadn't slept well last night, and it had been a terribly long day. But it was also the rift between them.

Here they were in his house, where the fact that they were married had rocklike reality, and yet their relationship was more brittle than it had ever been.

To avoid sitting facing him she walked about the room. It was expensively furnished, yes, but in the style of a generation ago, and had all the warmth of a neglected furniture showroom. She wondered if the house was hired, but even such a simple question was beyond her.

Over the mantel was a splendid portrait of a young woman with anxious amber eyes. The clothes, the style, the pose all spoke of arrogant wealth, but the eyes pleaded.

"My mother," Leander said quietly from behind her. "Henrietta Delahaye, only inheritor of two large fortunes. This house was part of her dowry."

Henrietta could only have been about sixteen when this portrait had been done. Judith wondered what kind of woman she had become, other than a clinging mother. She thought she saw a physical resemblance to Leander in the finely curved lips, amber eyes, and soft brown hair, but his character must have come from his father.

As if reading her thoughts, Leander said, "She learned to shield her vulnerability better, but she never lost it. She was too easily hurt."

By then the food was being laid on the table. Judith turned, realizing that she had not contributed to that "conversation" at all, and yet it had thawed the ice a little—as he doubtless intended.

She wouldn't be
handled
out of her distrust.

As the butler, Addison, finished laying out the food, a maid came in to say the children's beds were made.

Leander told the footman to carry up Bastian and took Rosie himself. Judith brought up the rear.

The rooms were chilly, but what else could be expected? The new fires had not had time to have effect. The maids were passing two warming pans through Rosie's bed, and when Judith ran a hand between the sheets she found no damp. With the help of the maid she just took off the girl's outer clothes, her boots and dress, and tucked her up.

When she went into the next room she found Leander had already done the same for Bastian.

"We can leave the doors open between their rooms," he said softly, "and into yours as well, so if they awake in the night they won't be too frightened."

She was to have a room of her own? Judith went through the next door and found the maids making up the big bed there. The hangings were of blue Chinese silk, the wood heavy and dark. Again there was the excellent, old-fashioned quality, but the dead-ness of an unused place.

Leander opened another door. "Your dressing room. My bedchamber is beyond. Come downstairs and we'll have some supper. It will help you rest."

As they went downstairs Judith said, "I don't think I'll need help to rest." Her voice sounded strange, and she realized it was the first time she'd spoken since she entered the house.

It was only the lightest of touches on her elbow to steer her back into the room, and yet her very awareness of it illustrated the gulf between them.

"Still," he said, "I think you should eat."

There was a hearty vegetable soup, doubtless the servants' fare, some wedges of cold ham pie, and toasted cheese. And tea. Judith drank three cups but only picked at the food. She knew this would be a disastrous time to talk of their problems, and yet it seemed wrong to sit here in silence ignoring them.

But they weren't ignoring them. The silence spoke eloquently of that.

She stood. "I must go to bed or you'll end up carrying me up, too."

His look responded to her words, but he only said, "Good night, then. Sleep well."

A maid was waiting to help her out of her gown and brush out her hair. Within moments, as it seemed, Judith was in bed, too tired to even worry about the future. Despite a remarkably lumpy, sagging mattress, she fell fast asleep.

* * *

Judith was woken the next day by a maid making up the fire. She had accepted this small luxury at the inn without thinking, but now she realized it was part of her new life. If this was to be her new life.

Rested, however, her more despondent musings of the day before seemed unreasonable. These last few days had been strained and hectic; it was hardly surprising if things had gone awry. Surely the Leander she had come to know in Mayfield could not be the monster of her worst imaginings.

When the maid had finished her work, she curtsied and made to leave.

Judith said, "Is it possible to have some tea?"

The woman looked startled, but said, "Yes, milady."

With daylight and leisure, Judith studied her bedroom. It was just as she had thought the night before, and not particularly appealing. The furniture was heavy and dark, the hangings faded by time. As neither Leander nor his father had been in England much, she supposed no one had brought this room up to date since the last occupant. Had that been his mother? His grandmother, even? The mattress certainly felt as if it could date back fifty years or so.

She was surprised to experience a touch of nostalgia for her cramped but cozy cottage. Then she took herself to task. She was a countess now, and this was a fashionable house. Cottage homeliness would be very out of place.

As if to prove it, the maid from the night before came in, a different creature entirely from the flustered girl faced with unexpected duties. Back ramrod stiff, the starch in her apron rustling, she set a silver tray by the bed and curtsied. "Good morning, milady. I am Emily and I'll be honored to act as your maid for as long as you wish. I have brought your tea. Is there anything else you require?"

This was said with a challenging edge. Clearly, Judith had disturbed some aspect of servant etiquette by asking the undermaid for tea. On the other hand, the undermaid had been the sort of servant she had been accustomed to at Mayfield House. This high-in-the-instep young woman was very daunting.

"I will require my clothes, of course," said Judith as firmly as she could. "I have no idea where my trunks were put..."

"All your clothing has been unpacked and cared for, milady," said Emily crisply.

Judith flashed a look at the window, but the dimness of the light confirmed her belief that it was still early in the day. This was a tightly run household, alarmingly so. Still, she was determined not to be browbeaten in her own home.

"How efficient," she congratulated with a mild smile. "Then I will take a bath in half an hour, and will wear my rose wool gown. Has someone been given the task of seeing to the children?"

The maid already seemed to be thawing, so Judith assumed her manner had met with approval. "Yes, milady. Betty is to look after Miss Rosetta, and George is to look after Master Bastian. The children are not yet awake, however."

Judith nodded and wondered what else she should say. Ah, yes. "And Lord Charrington? Has he risen yet?"

"Not as far as I know, milady."

Further decisions were clearly called for. "I will breakfast downstairs when I am ready. The children may join me when they rise. After breakfast I wish to have a tour of the house, and discuss management with the senior staff." She nodded. "That will be all, thank you."

When the maid had left Judith sighed and poured tea from a silver pot into a transparently thin china cup. She would be much happier to be friends with the servants here, rather than a distant mistress, but she knew that would be disastrous. The style of management suitable for Mayfield House would not do for here, and particularly not for Temple Knollis.

She shivered at the thought of the staff of the Temple. They probably thought themselves lords of creation. What would happen if all these proud servants learned of her poverty before her marriage? As Leander had been in Mayfield without his own servants, there was always the chance that word wouldn't spread, but she doubted it. When the Ardens returned to Town, their staff would carry the word.

Judith cradled her warm cup for comfort. In all her doubts about the marriage she had never considered this, the daily effort to establish her right to her place.

She pulled herself together. It was merely a challenge, and a lesser one than others she had faced in her life. She had promised Leander that she would be a good wife, and a good countess. Even if all else was falling apart, she could at least fulfill that part of their contract.

What should a good wife and countess do?

Manage his households for prosperity and comfort.

This house, no matter how well run, would not be ready for children, nor could Bastian and Rosie be allowed the freedom they had enjoyed in Mayfield.

If they were only to be in London for a few days it might not be worth hiring a governess or tutor, and yet someone would have to look after them.

If this had been a bachelor household, there might be any number of ways in which she could improve it.

On the other hand, Leander could well be happy with it as it was and resent interference....

Judith rubbed anxiously at her temples. Just a few days ago she would have discussed these matters with him, but not now. She remembered the way he had said. Do not concern yourself with my personal affairs. Were his houses his personal affair?

She remembered the Leander who had teased her, the fellow explorer of the marketplace. How had they come to this disastrous state?

Judith shook her head. Really, this was a great deal of nonsense. She balanced all their days—during which he had appeared honest and kind—against that one hurtful moment, and pushed down the hurt. She was old and wise enough to know that sometimes people said things in a way they did not mean, particularly when they were laboring under strong feelings.

So, under what strong feelings did her husband labor?

It was something to do with his home at Temple Knollis, and his representative there, his Uncle Charles. He thought his family were trying to keep him away, even by fabricating stories of disease. He had described them as grasping.

But why would he not discuss it all with her?

That, she decided, was what lay between them, what really hurt. That he appeared not to trust her.

Emily came in to say Judith's bath was ready. Judith went into her dressing room to find it warmed by a fire. The tub was steaming and thick towels hung on a rack to warm. Sheer heaven.

As she washed she considered her situation. Sebastian had never discussed his personal affairs, including his family, with her and she had not objected. Why was she upset now? Because Leander had seemed different.

Because Leander was important to her in a way that Sebastian had never been. Her hand stilled and her heart missed a beat.

She mustn't feel that way. It was the cardinal principle of this marriage, that it be untarnished by love. She knew how much he would hate to be put in the unfair position of having to be the object of her devotion, but unable to return it. He had lived with his mother's pain. He didn't want to relive it in his own marriage.

She had promised. She had promised.

And it was more than a matter of keeping a promise. She knew Leander needed her. In many ways, he was alone in the world, and a stranger in his own country. He distrusted his natural family. No one should be so alone.

She would not let him be so alone. She would make a home and family for him, and be his link to his heritage.