Scandal's Bride (27 page)

His chest swelled. “That,” he said, his voice very low, issuing through clenched teeth, “is because I'm hungry.”

“Well, breakfast should nearly be ready—”

“Wrong
appetite.”

She blinked—and looked into his eyes. And saw the truth simmering. “Great heavens! But . . .” She frowned at him. “You
can't
be. What about last night?”

“That was last night. Because you disappeared, I missed my morning snack.”

“Morning . . . ?” She felt her features blank, heard her incredulity ring in her weak: “
Every
morning?”

He grinned—a distinctly feral expression. “Let's just say that for the foreseeable future, it would help. But for now”—hauling open the door, he waved her inside—“why don't we see if I can be distracted with breakfast? Unless, of course, you're in favor of snacking throughout the day?”

For one instant, Catriona simply stared at him, then she glared and tossed her head—and ignored the shivery tendrils of excitement slithering down her spine. “Breakfast,” she declared, and swept into the house.

His features like stone, Richard followed her in.

They breakfasted together; in passing pikelets and jam, sharing toast, pouring coffee, the tension between them eased. They were the first to take their seats of those who sat at the main table. Mrs. Broom was fussing, overseeing the serving of the trays; McArdle hobbled in late. Algaria, arriving relatively early, took a seat at the far end and kept her black thoughts to herself.

Sitting back in the carved chair that was now his, Richard idly sipped coffee and watched to see how his wife started her day. Algaria's continued disapproval surprised him; he hoped she'd eventually get over it and accept their marriage, not for his sake, but Catriona's. He saw the hopeful glance Catriona threw the woman and sensed her sigh when it wasn't returned. If he'd thought it would help, he would have spoken to Algaria, but her defensiveness where he was concerned remained marked.

“Have there been any replies to those letters I sent about the grain?”

Catriona's question drew Richard's attention; it was addressed to McArdle.

“Hmm . . . yes, actually, I believe there were.” McArdle frowned. “One or two, at least.”

“Well, I'll see those first, then we really must make some headway on the plans for next season's plantings.”

“Ahh . . . Jem's not brought in his figures yet. Nor's Melchett.”

“They haven't?” Catriona stared at McArdle. “But we need them to make any sense of it.”

McArdle raised brows and shoulders in a comprehensive shrug. “You know how it is—they don't understand what you want, so they hope you'll forget—and so they forget.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Catriona stood. “I'll see to that later then. But if you've finished, we may as well get started.”

As McArdle heaved himself up, Richard reached out and caught Catriona's hand. She turned and raised a brow.

“Don't forget,” he murmured, his eyes on hers, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

For one instant, she stared at him—and he could see she couldn't decide what he was reminding her of—her agreement to tell him her whereabouts, or his invitation to midday snacks. Then she blinked. And looked at him again. “I'll be in the office for most of the day.”

And it was his turn to be uncertain—unsure—just what she meant. She gently tugged and he eased his grip and let her fingers slide from his. She inclined her head, then turned away.

As he watched her glide to the door, he still wasn't sure which she meant.

He'd decided on the library as his own domain—according to Catriona, only she, and Algaria occasionally, used it. There was a huge, old desk, lovingly polished, and a well-padded chair that accommodated his large frame surprisingly well.

Through the combined efforts of Mrs. Broom and Henderson, a large morose man who filled the position of general factotum, he was supplied with paper, pen and ink. Worboys, looking in on him, departed and returned bearing his seal and a stub of wax. After dispatching a maid to fetch a candle, Worboys cast a haughty, barely approving glance over the leather-bound tomes, then sniffed.

“If you need me, sir, I'll be in your room. Henderson—a nice enough chap if one can cope with his brogue—is organizing to have a second wardrobe moved in. I'll be tending your coats.”

Lovingly, Richard had not a doubt. “Very well—I doubt I'll need you much in the coming days.” He looked up at Worboys. “We won't be entertaining.”

Worboys only just avoided a snort. “It does seem unlikely, sir.” With that comment on his new home, Worboys took himself off.

Raising his brows, secretly surprised not to have been presented with Worboys' resignation, Richard turned back to his letters.

He considered, then settled to write a fuller account of his marriage to Devil—the easiest task facing him. He filled in the details he'd omitted in his earlier brief note, but saw no reason to elaborate on his feelings, on the reasons he'd taken the plunge. He was quite sure Devil, having already succumbed, and having lived with the outcome for a year, could fill in the blanks for himself.

And heaven knew Honoria, Devil's duchess, and Helena, Richard's stepmother, certainly would.

Sealing Devil's letter, Richard grimaced and set another blank sheet before him.

He stared at it for half an hour. In the end, he wrote a very careful, exquisitely guarded account, rather shorter on actual facts than the first note he'd sent Devil, but filled instead with the sort of information he knew his stepmother would want to know. That yes, he'd found his mother's grave. A description of the necklace his mother had left him. The fact Catriona had long red hair and green eyes. That it had snowed on the day they had married.

Those sort of things.

He penned them carefully and hoped, without much hope, that she'd be satisfied with that. At least for a while.

With a sigh, he signed his name. He'd told Devil they wouldn't be attending the Christmas celebrations at Somersham this year. He knew without asking that Catriona would prefer to remain here, and even after only one night under this roof, he agreed. Maybe, in years to come, when their life here was more established, they would journey south for those few, family-filled days—he, she and their children.

The thought held him for long moments, then he stirred, sealed his missive to Helena, and turned to his last letter—to Heathcote Montague, man of business, on permanent retainer to all the Cynsters.

That letter was more to his liking—making decisions, dealing with his varied interests, giving directions to enable him to manage them all from the vale—these were positive actions reinforcing his new position, his new role.

He signed that letter with a flourish. Impressing his seal on the melted wax, he waved the letter to cool it, then gathered up all three packets and rose. And set out to discover who collected the mail.

There was no butler as such. Old McArdle retained the title of steward, but from all he'd heard, Richard strongly suspected that Catriona did the bulk of the work herself. Henderson, as factotum, was the most likely to oversee the delivery of letters and parcels. Richard wandered through the corridors toward the back of the house, looking in on small workrooms, finding the butler's pantry—but no Henderson.

Deciding to place the matter—along with his letters—in Worboys's ever efficient hands and only then remembering Henderson's appointment with his henchman in the main bedchamber, Richard headed back toward the stairs.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, a bell clanged.

He was in the corridor heading for the front hall when he heard footsteps cross the tiles, then a heavy creak as the front doors were opened.

“Good morning, Henderson! And where is your mistress? Pray tell her I wish to see her right away. A matter of some seriousness, I fear.”

The hearty, emphatically genial tones carried clearly; slowing, Richard halted in the shadows of the archway giving onto the front hall. From there, he could see the large, heavily built gentleman handing his hat to Henderson—and the reluctance with which Henderson accepted it.

“I'll see if the mistress is free, sir.”

Piggy eyes in a round, reddened face narrowed slightly. “Now you just tell her it's me, and she'll be free, I'll warrant. Now get a move on, sirrah—don't keep me standing—”

“Sir Olwyn.” Catriona's quiet, dignified tones carried clearly down the hall. Richard watched as, having glided from the office, she took up a stance directly before the main stairs. And faced Sir Olwyn calmly.

“Miss Hennessey!” Sir Olwyn's impending scowl was banished by a beaming smile. With over-hearty eagerness, he strode up the hall. “A
pleasure
to see you returned, my dear.” Catriona smiled coolly and inclined her head, but offered no hand in greeting; Sir Olwyn only beamed brighter. “I trust your little sojourn in the Highlands passed without mishap?” As if only then recalling what had occasioned her absence, his smile evaporated, to be replaced with an expression of patently false sympathy. “A great loss, I'm sure, your guardian.”

“Indeed.” Her voice as cold as the snows outside, Catriona inclined her head again. “But—”

“His son has inherited, I understand?” Catriona drew a patient breath. “Yes. His son Jamie was, indeed, my late guardian's heir. But—”

“Aye, well—he'll want to pay attention to things down here, and that right quickly, I make no doubt.” Bluffy earnest again, Sir Olwyn looked at Catriona and shook his head. “I fear, my dear, that I must again lodge a protest—vale cattle have been found wandering
miles
into my fields.”

“Indeed?” Brows rising, Catriona turned and looked at McArdle, who had followed her into the hall. He looked steadily back, then gave one of his exaggerated, disclaiming shrugs—this one expressing subtle contempt for the suggestion. Catriona turned back to Sir Olwyn. “I fear, sir, that you must be mistaken. None of our cattle are missing.”

“No, no, my dear—of
course
they aren't.” Braving the prevailing chill, Sir Olwyn boldly took Catriona's hand and patted it. “My men have strict orders to return them. Many other landowners would not be so lenient, my dear—I do hope you appreciate my concern for you.” Cloyingly paternalistic, he smiled into her eyes. “No, no—you losing beasts is not the
point
, sweet lady. The point is that they should
not
have wandered in the
first
place and should certainly
not
have caused damage to
my
fields.

Not thawed in the least, Catriona, very deliberately, withdrew her hand. “What—”

“No, no! Never fear.” With a hearty laugh, Sir Olwyn held up one hand. “We'll say no more of it this time. But you really need to pay attention to your stock management, my dear. Of course, being a female, you shouldn't need to worry your pretty head over such matters. A man is what you need, m'dear—”

“I doubt that.” With languid ease, Richard strolled into the hall. “At least, not another one.”

Sir Olwyn stared, then he bristled. “Who are you?”

Richard raised one brow and looked at Catriona.

With unimpaired calm, she returned her gaze to Sir Olwyn. “Allow me to present Richard Cynster—my husband.”

Sir Olwyn blinked, then he goggled.
“Husband?”
“As I was
trying
to tell you, Sir Olwyn, while in the Highlands, I married.”

“Me.” Richard smiled—a distinctly Cynster smile.

Sir Olwyn eyed it dubiously. He mouthed a silent “Oh,” then flushed and turned to Catriona. “Felicitations, my dear—well! It's quite a surprise.” His piggy eyes sharpened; he looked intently at her. “
Quite
a surprise.”

“Indeed,” Richard drawled, “a surprise all around, I fancy.” Smoothly moving forward, he interposed himself between Catriona and Sir Olwyn, ineffably gathering Sir Olwyn within one outstretched arm, turning him and steering him back down the hall. “Glean—it is Sir Olwyn Glean, is it not?—perhaps . . . you understand I haven't yet had time to fully acquaint myself with the situation here—we've only just arrived, you see . . . where was I? Ah, yes—perhaps you'd be so good as to explain to me how you identified these wandering cattle as originating from the vale. I gather you didn't see them?”

Discovering himself back at the front door, which Henderson had helpfully set wide, Sir Olwyn blinked, then shook himself. And flushed. “Well, no—but—”

“Ah! Your men verified their identities, then. I'm so glad—they'll be able to tell me the farm from which the cattle escaped.”

Sir Olwyn flustered. “Well—as to that—”

Catching his eye, Richard dispensed with his drawl. “I will, of course, be taking steps to ensure no similar situation occurs again.” He smiled, very slightly, very intently. “I do hope you take my meaning.”

Sir Olwyn flushed to the roots of his hair. He threw a stunned look back at Catriona, then grabbed the hat Henderson held out, crammed it on his crown, swung on his heel and clattered down the steps.

Richard watched him go—watched him scramble atop his showy bay and canter out of the courtyard.

At Richard's shoulder, the taciturn Henderson nodded at Glean's departing back. “Good job, that.”

Richard thought so. He smiled and handed Henderson his letters, then turned back into the hall. Behind him, Henderson pulled the heavy doors shut.

Catriona hadn't moved from her position before the stairs; Richard strolled up the hall and stopped directly before her.

She met his gaze directly. “Our cattle don't stray beyond the vale—I'd know if they did.”

Richard studied her eyes, then nodded. “I'd assumed after reading Glean's letters to Seasmus that all that was so much hot air.” He took her hand and turned her toward the stairs.