Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife (10 page)

‘Bishop’s Green,’ he told her, as the carriage turned off the road into a narrow lane. ‘We are nearly there. Bishop’s Court is only a quarter of a mile distant now.’

‘Which bishop is it named for?’

‘Not a bishop, Rosamund, a man whose name was Bishop. Robert Bishop. He built the house a century
ago, when Charles II was restored to the throne after the Commonwealth failed. He was awarded the land and money to build the house for services rendered to the Royalist cause. The village of Bishop’s Green grew up around it.’

The hamlet was a collection of small cottages, a church, a rectory and a few small businesses that depended on the estate to thrive, including a tavern. All seemed well built and well tended. The carriage turned in at some wide-open gates and continued up a gravel drive lined with trees until the house came into view. It was four storeys high, standing on a stone terrace with a row of shallow steps up to the front door, before which was a wide circular carriage sweep in the middle of which was a statue of a man on a huge muscular horse with two great deerhounds beside him.

‘My great-grandfather,’ Harry said, noticing her looking at it. ‘He was a great huntsman.’

The carriage came to a stop and the grooms dismounted. One came and opened the door and let down the step for Rosamund to alight. She stood on the gravel looking up at the great mansion with its rows of deep windows either side of a two-storey portico, and felt overwhelmed by its size and the terrifying thought that she was to be mistress of it. It was a ridiculous notion. The house and its owner were way above her touch. She must have been mad to agree to that preposterous proposal. It was a dream, a nightmare, a cruel jest and soon she would wake up and find herself back in Holles Street waiting for her father to return from whichever gambling house he had decided to favour with his custom that night. But her father was dead, had died in
violent circumstances and he had left behind nothing but some worthless shares and a bag of false coins. What had Max done with those?

She felt a light touch under her elbow which, for all its gentleness, startled her. She jumped and stiffened. ‘Come, my lady,’ Harry said, letting go of her as if he had been stung. ‘The servants are waiting to receive you.’

Without touching her again, he ushered her up the steps and into the cool hall where a double line of servants waited, beginning with Conrad, the butler, and Mrs Rivers, the housekeeper, and working downwards through footmen, cook and maids to scullery maids and boot boy. Harry greeted each by name as he presented them to her. They bowed and curtsied, and though the lower ones seemed overawed, most smiled a welcome. Rosamund smiled back and had a word for each one, though she could not afterwards remember what she said.

‘Has her ladyship’s maid arrived?’ Harry asked Mrs Rivers.

‘Yes, my lord. She is upstairs unpacking and waiting for her ladyship.’

Harry turned to Rosamund. ‘I am sure you are fatigued, my dear,’ he said. ‘Mrs Rivers will show you up to your rooms. I shall see you at supper.’

And with that the servants were dismissed to go about their normal duties and Rosamund was handed over to the housekeeper. Harry strode off down the corridor, leaving Rosamund feeling abandoned. She told herself that she ought not to have expected anything else. The public show was over; he was going about his business and she was to settle down as best she may.

‘This way, my lady.’

She followed the housekeeper up a wide, curving staircase, which took them to the first floor. Here there was a landing with corridors going to left and right. The housekeeper ignored those and continued up to the next floor and along another corridor, leading her past several doors before stopping at one. ‘Your boudoir, my lady.’ She opened a door and stood aside for Rosamund to enter.

It was a large room, comfortably furnished with sofas and chairs, little tables, bookcases and shelves. There was an adjoining door, which she thought might lead to Harry’s rooms, but she was disabused of that idea when Janet came through it, a beaming smile on her face. ‘Miss Rosie—’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady.’

‘Never mind, Janet,’ Rosamund said. ‘We must both become used to my new title, must we not?’

‘I will have hot water and refreshment sent up,’ Mrs Rivers said. ‘If there is anything you would like to ask me…’

‘Not at present,’ Rosamund told her. ‘No doubt I shall think of a great many questions later. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow, after breakfast?’

Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow was another day. She had yet to survive the night. Better not think of it, or, if she could not help thinking of it, she must consider it a painful duty which must be done and not dream of being in the arms of a loving husband who wanted her for her own sake. It would be all too easy to do that; Harry Portman would fit the role to perfection.

‘Certainly, my lady. The bell will be rung in the hall
half an hour before supper and again at five minutes to. Your maid will show you the way to the small dining room.’ With that she bobbed her knee and disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Rosamund flung herself on one of the sofas. ‘Janet, Janet, what have I done?’ she cried.

Janet smiled. ‘Got yourself wed to the finest man in the kingdom. You should hear what the servants say about him. “Never was there a better lord and master, so considerate, so generous, so polite.” That’s what they say, miss…I mean, my lady. The only word said against him and that not really a criticism is that he is so rarely at home and he never sees his daughter, but they hope that now he is married again, that will change.’

Rosamund wondered about that, but she did not say so. She sprang to her feet and went to the window. It looked out over a courtyard on the far side of which was a wall and beyond the wall, some outbuildings she guessed were stables, and beyond that the beginnings of a park. A belt of trees in the distance shielded the grounds from the village, but she could see the church spire, rising above them.

She turned to Janet and pointed to the inner door. ‘What is through there?’

‘Your bedchamber and dressing room, my lady. I have unpacked your trunks and laid out a dress for you to change into. Shall you want to explore the house before supper?’

‘No, that will do tomorrow.’ She walked across the room and into her bedchamber, wondering if it had been the bedroom of the first Lady Portman and if his
lordship had come to her there. She hurriedly thrust the thought from her.

The window of this room faced the same direction as the sitting room, but was beyond the courtyard and she could see the end of the stable yard and the coach house. Harry was talking to Travers, his head groom, engrossed in whatever he was saying to him, pointing and gesticulating. She was struck all over again by his muscular figure, his strong thighs and broad shoulders and the way his hair curled naturally about his shoulders. He disturbed her in a way she could not understand.

Their hurried travesty of a courtship had left no time to get to know him properly, to discover his faults and well as his virtues, to find out what pleased him and what made him angry. She remembered his cousin saying he would not have his daughter to live with him.
‘Daughters he won’t have at any price,’
he had said and that seemed to be borne out by what Janet had learned.
‘Let us hope you do not give him a girl child, or you might find yourself cast out along with her.’
It had been said maliciously, but was it true? She left the window as servants brought hot water and a tray of refreshments. They put them down in silence and just as silently left.

Janet helped her off with her wedding clothes and into something a little less ostentatious, a sack gown of grey taffeta trimmed with white lace. By the time the coiffure’s creation had been dismantled and her hair had been arranged in natural ringlets and held in place with combs, the half-hour bell had sounded.

Out in the yard Harry heard the bell, finished talking to Travers about the horses, instructed him to find a
suitable mount for Lady Portman and turned to go back into the house, glancing up as he did so. He fancied he saw Rosamund at the window, but if it was, she had quickly moved away. He hoped she approved of the rooms. They were the ones his mother had used, not Beth’s, and he had had them done up and modernised for her. Beth’s rooms were at the further end of the corridor and he never went anywhere near them if he could help it.

He climbed the stairs and paused outside Rosamund’s boudoir, half-inclined to go in and see if she was happy with her accommodation, but decided against it. Those three rooms were her refuge and he would not invade them unless invited. He laughed at himself as he moved on. How then was he to claim her part of their bargain from her, the most important part? He went on to his own rooms, washed and changed and, hearing the five-minute bell, made his way along the corridor towards the stairs. Rosamund was coming out of her room as he reached it. ‘My lady.’ He bowed and offered her his arm. Together they went down to the dining room and sat down, one at each end of a long refectory table.

The meal was a stilted affair; while the footmen hovered round to serve them intimate conversation was impossible. Rosamund supposed that was how it would always be. She was glad when it was time for her to rise and leave him to his cognac. A footman conducted her to a small parlour, where the tea things—kettle, teapot, caddy and cups—were arranged on a small table. She had just brewed the tea, when Harry joined her, folding his long frame on to a sofa opposite her.

‘No sense in sitting in two rooms on our own, is there?’ he said.

‘No sense at all, my lord.’

‘Besides, I wanted to ask you if your rooms were satisfactory. If you want to change anything, then let Mrs Rivers know. I want you to be comfortable.’

‘The rooms are very comfortable, thank you, my lord.’

It was not the rooms he meant, but he let it go. ‘It is late tonight, but tomorrow I will show you the house and perhaps we can ride round the estate and explore the countryside. You do ride?’

‘I used to as a child when I stayed with my grandparents in the country, but that was a long time ago. I have not been on a horse for years.’

‘Travers will find you a quiet mount. You do have a habit?’

‘Yes, my aunt insisted on buying one.’

‘Good. And there is a gig in the coach house you might like to drive out when I am away from home.’

‘I cannot drive, my lord.’

‘Then it will be my pleasure to teach you.’ He paused, stood up and offered her his hand. ‘Come, it is late. Time for bed.’

She was trembling as she took his hand and allowed him to raise her. The time had come. She tried a smile, but all she could manage was a travesty of one. He tucked her hand beneath his elbow and escorted her from the room, along a corridor to the hall and up the stairs. She tried to calm her shaking nerves by looking about her at the portraits that lined the staircase, some very old, some more recent. Could one of those be his first wife? She could not bring herself to ask.

They reached the second floor and her bedchamber door where they halted and he turned towards her. ‘Rosamund, I…’ Whatever he was going to say died on his lips. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. Then he lifted his hand and touched her cheek with the back of his finger and then gently stroked it down her face to her chin. She felt the heat flare in her face and, as he raised her face to his, it spread right through her until she felt as if her whole body were on fire. He looked down at her, his glance moving from eyes to mouth and back again, as if he were trying to read her thoughts. She did not dare blink, the moment was so fraught with tension.

He bent his head and put his lips to hers. It was not a proper kiss, it was over too soon, but it was as if he were testing the ocean with his toe before plunging in. Was he waiting for a sign from her that she had not forgotten their agreement? That she was still willing? She put her arms about his neck and kissed him back. He seemed to respond and pulled her closer against him, pressing his lips to hers, making her shiver with delighted anticipation.

And then suddenly drew back, took her hands from around his neck and gently put her from him. ‘Goodnight, my lady,’ he said, and then he was gone, striding down the corridor to his own quarters, leaving her staring after him in disbelief.

She moved at last and went into her bedchamber where Janet waited for her. The maid made no comment as she helped her undress and into the fine cambric nightrail, with its delicate embroidery which her aunt had insisted on buying and which no doubt Lord
Portman had indirectly paid for. And he didn’t want to know! Janet left her to go to her own room and she climbed into bed where she lay wide awake, staring at the ornately carved ceiling by the flickering light of a candle, trying not to cry, trying to make sense of Lord Portman’s behaviour.

Had he changed his mind about the bargain they had made? It was surely a little late to have second thoughts. Did she mind? She was shocked to discover she minded very much indeed. Had she expected him to be a conventional husband? But she had known from the beginning he would not be that, so why was she so disappointed? Was it because he had not referred to their agreement at all since the wedding and she had hoped they might come to a deeper understanding of each other, especially as he was so courteous and careful of her?

And just now, as they stood outside her door, he had kissed her and her heart had leapt inside her, wanting him to go further, wanting him to come into her room and really make her his wife. It was what they had agreed. Instead, he had left her standing. She felt humiliated and betrayed and very, very lonely. He had bought her. He could do with her as he wished and if it amused him to keep her on tenterhooks, then she would have to endure it. Oh, how muddled she was!

It had been a long, tiring day and even her tumbled thoughts could not fight sleep all night. At last her eyelids flickered and closed and she drifted into fitful slumber.

Harry, in his own room, had sent Jack away and now sat looking out of the window at the moonlit landscape,
wondering what madness had got into him, to make him propose to her. It was all very well to blame Ash and Max Chalmers, but he was his own man, able to make up his own mind what to do, especially about something as important as his marriage. Was he so desperate for a son he was prepared to take a stranger to his bed? But she was no longer a stranger; in the short time he had been trying to court her in the conventional way, he had come to know her a little and in doing that had realised she was too beautiful, too courageous, too altogether admirable to be used as he had intended to use her.