The Changeling Bride (26 page)

Richard, viscount Atherton, was less obvious in his interest, but she felt the effects to a greater degree. He asked her questions about her home and upbringing, questions that were perfectly acceptable, only she didn’t know the answers. She evaded answering his questions directly and had the distinct sense that he would catch her in any lies she told. Her evasiveness seemed only to intrigue him the more.

Henry, for his part, looked as if he found the byplay amongst the three of them rather amusing, like a biologist watching a family of chimpanzees.

Her ordeal did not end with the flavored jellies served for desert—they bore a remarkable resemblance to the familiar Jell-O of home, rather than the jam she half expected—for afterwards she was required to go sit alone in the room across the entrance hall while they drank their brandies, made toasts, and smoked, and wait for them to join her.

Her dinner had not settled well in her stomach, and she was tired after the long day poring over dress designs and enduring the tension of a meal with strangers. What she really wanted was to adjourn to her own room with a book, change into something warm and comfortable, and huddle under the covers reading by candlelight.

She sat at the end of the ratty couch nearest the fire, and let her head rest against the high back. Her eyes
began to close. Tatiana lay at her feet, a paw over the toe of one of Elle’s shoes.

A small noise disturbed her, and then a shiver suddenly ran down Elle’s spine, accompanied by the sensation of being watched. She opened her eyes, her head snapping forward, and scanned the room. Tatiana lifted her head, ears pitched forward, dark eyes staring at the mullioned windows.

A low growl started in Tatiana’s throat, and the dog stood, her tail held motionless behind her. Elle felt the hairs on the back of her own neck begin to stand, and slowly turned towards the windows.

The windows were dark, reflecting only faint glimmers of fire and candlelight. But down in the bottom corner of one window, almost hidden by the folds of the open curtain, there was a smudge of face-size paleness. The indistinct shape moved, then vanished.

Tatiana gave a sharp bark, then rushed at the window, yapping and howling, her paws up on the sill. Sweat trickled down Elle’s sides.

Elle slowly stood, her knees shaky, and joined the dog at the window. Taking her courage in both hands, she unlatched the casement window and pushed it out, peering into the darkness.

It might have been a curious person, snooping about. Or it might have been one of those fairy people. She was certain that the latter was the case.

She could see nothing in the darkness outside, and Tatiana had stopped barking. The dog sniffed the air, then dropped back to all fours, her interest gone. Elle closed the window and brushed her damp brow with shaking fingers.

She wasn’t going to wait here alone for the men to join her and then try to make small talk. The day had been too long, and a face watching from the window was too much, whatever its intention had been.

“Tatiana, come.” She strode from the room, across
the checkerboard hall, and pushed open the door to the dining room.

“Henry, excuse me, but I’m not feeling altogether well—” Her speech was interrupted by the loud clatter of a metal pan hitting the floor. Her eyes flew to Mr. Peabody, standing near the dilapidated sideboard with his back to her. A small cupboard door was open, and the pan that had dropped was obviously a metal chamber pot.

“What?” she asked, not understanding what she was seeing. Mr. Peabody made the distinctive motions that, even from behind, told of a man tucking his privates back into his pants.

“You were
relieving yourself
in my dining room?” she screeched. “What do you think this is? A barn? We
eat
in here, for God’s sake!”

Henry was suddenly at her side, trying to pull her from the room. She hadn’t even seen him approach.

“Animals! Men have always been, and always will be, animals. Disgusting, I call it! And look at that, it’s spilled on the floor. Do I have to eat my dinner in a room that smells like a urinal? And what are you laughing at, Mr. Smart-Ass?” she snapped at viscount Atherton. The target in question put his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking. Mr. Peabody had his shoulders hunched, and peeped over his shoulder at her, his face scarlet.

Henry finally had her out in the hall and firmly shut the door behind them.

“You let him do that in my dining room?” she challenged him. “Pee?”

“For God’s sake, Elle, do not try to tell me you do not know that men use the pot after dinner.”

A look of horror came over her face. “Oh, Henry, don’t tell me . . . not you, too?”

“Did the men in your home never relieve themselves?” he asked in exasperation.

“Not in the dining room!”

“Be thankful times have changed enough that he
waited until you had left the room. I want you to go back in there and apologize to Mr. Peabody. You have deeply embarrassed our guest.”

“He was
peeing
.”

“Elle!”

Her face set in a mutinous expression. “Very well, then.” She stomped back to the door, swung it open, and declared loudly, “Mr. Peabody, I’m sorry I scolded you for urinating no more than a couple feet from the place I eat my meals. I was not aware that you, and all other men, were raised with the sensibilities of baboons. It is not your fault, for no one taught you better. Please forgive my outburst.”

Mr. Peabody mumbled a stunned reply, his face still beet red, and didn’t meet her eyes. The viscount had tears rolling down his cheeks and was audibly gasping for breath. Elle felt Henry’s grip on her arm, and she was dragged back out the door.

“You are being irrational and unforgivably rude! You will go to your room and stay there, until you are willing to make proper amends to Mr. Peabody.”

Elle pulled back from him, and glared up into his glowering countenance. “You can’t tell me to go to my room like a child. I’m a grown woman, and I have more sense in my little toe than the lot of you have in your arrogant, self-important heads. Just because you’ve always used the dining room as a toilet doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea. It’s disgusting, and it’s unhygienic, and it’s not going to happen in my house. I’ve wondered why I was brought here, and by God, maybe I’ve found the reason. You’d all poison yourselves with your own filth if I didn’t do something about it.”

“Go to your room.” Henry repeated firmly.

“There are going to be some changes made around here,” Elle prophesied darkly. She gave Henry a final glare, then turned and marched up the stairs.

Henry let out a long breath of air as Elle disappeared
up the stairs. He had thought he had made progress in understanding her. Upon reflection, her fears of childbirth had explained so much about her behavior—why she didn’t want to marry, her unwillingness to be touched on their wedding night, her hysterical reaction after they made love in the forest, the attempt to control her fertility—but that could have nothing to do with this inexplicable outburst. And then there was the night she spent searching for fairies, but he did not want to think about that.

He wondered if Elle’s sister, Louise, was as ignorant and as peculiar in her ways. Maybe Louise, too, thought fairies were real. Could it simply be the result of the class of society in which she was raised? Perhaps if Louise were here, he would have a better idea. She might prove a soothing effect on Elle as well—someone familiar, with whom she could talk about her troubles. And someone as well who might tell him if her sister were behaving in her normal manner.

He rejoined his friends. Lawrence Peabody was huddled miserably in his chair, playing with the stem of his brandy glass. Viscount Atherton was mopping his face with a lace-edged kerchief.

“I see you have complete control over your new wife,” Richard commented. “I had always wondered what type of female you would eventually choose to marry and confess that I thought it would be someone much more sedate. A docile, conventional sort of girl, rather dowdy. A practical choice that would fit the neat order of your world. But this woman—you have surprised me, Henry, truly surprised me.”

“I have been in a constant state of perplexity since the marriage ceremony, so I can understand your sentiment.” He turned to Mr. Peabody. “Lawrence, my wife begs your forgiveness—”

He was cut off by Richard’s laugh. “I am afraid that will not work, my friend. We heard everything.”

“Richard, will you allow me to at least pretend that there is some civility left in my household?”

“Do forgive me.” Richard waved his kerchief negligently in the air. “Please continue.”

“As I was saying, Lawrence, my wife extends her apologies. She will no doubt express this sentiment to you personally, but in her absence I wish to do so myself.”

Lawrence raised his head and made an attempt to appear unfazed by the scene with Elle. “Apology accepted. Do not concern yourself about it.” He briefly met Henry’s eyes, then glanced at Richard. “Of course, I may never again be able to make use of a dining-room pot without my bladder shrivelling in fear. . . .”

Richard hooted in a most unaristocratic manner, and even Henry cracked a smile. It was several brandies, a room change, and three games of cards later that Lawrence Peabody made one final comment on the matter.

“And you know, she may have had a point.”

Chapter Nineteen

Elle slept in her own bed and wasn’t surprised when she was awoken in the small hours of the morning by a shift in the mattress as Henry climbed in next to her. He had said they would share a bed, and he was a man of his word. She lay in the dark, her eyes wide, waiting for his touch upon her skin.

Her anger with him had faded when she’d reached her room and had time to settle down. If she hadn’t been so tense and in such a bad mood, perhaps she would not have reacted so strongly to the sight of Lawrence Peabody making himself one with nature. And then, if she did not have such a fetish about cleanliness, she might not have been so horrified.

She would apologize to Mr. Peabody in the morning because she wanted to, not because Henry ordered her to. The poor man, he had been mortally embarrassed. She felt guilty just thinking about that shamed look on his face, like a puppy who hadn’t made it to his papers.

The minutes passed, and Henry made no move to roll towards her or to touch her. Wasn’t he going to do anything? Not even a kiss goodnight? She started to fume, her jaw clenched. He could at least acknowledge her.

She stared into the dark a while longer, and listened to his breathing deepen. He’d probably sedated himself, drinking with his buddies.

She kicked him in the calf. She rolled over, shifting as roughly as she could. She fluffed her pillows. She tugged at the covers.

A soft snore was her answer.

She sat up and peered into his face, barely able to make out his features. It was sorely tempting to pinch his arrogant nose between her fingers, and cut off that self-satisfied snore.

In the end she threw herself back to her side of the bed, disgusted more with herself than with him. What was wrong with her? She should be rejoicing that he was ignoring her.

She turned onto her side, her back to him, and tucked her hands up between her breasts. She told herself the position was to keep her hands warm, but she knew what the truth was. It was to keep from reaching out and touching her sleeping husband.

“I believe your countess has won back the affection of the impressionable Peabody,” Richard commented.

Henry joined his friend at the window and looked out into the gardens. Elle and Lawrence were sitting on the edge of a ruined fountain, heads bent together over paper. Lawrence was drawing and gesturing with an animation such as Henry had rarely seen, and Elle’s posture bespoke an attentive and engaged listener.

“Lady Allsbrook is having a transformative effect upon our Lawrence. One might almost say she had swept him away with her feminine charms.”

“He would be a stammering pool of jelly if that were the case.”

“My mistake. You are correct; he does not look the least bit flattered by her attention.”

Henry narrowed his eyes as Elle laughed at something Lawrence said. “She is trying to make amends for embarrassing him.”

“And doing a lovely job of it.”

“She is not flirting with him, Richard, if that is what you are trying to imply.”

“I had not thought that she was.”

Henry could not tear his eyes from Elle and Lawrence. “Then why are you going on about it? They are discussing the fountains. There is no harm in that.”

Richard laughed, and Henry finally turned from the window, scowling at his friend. “What, pray tell, do you find so amusing?”

“You, Henry. I had thought you above such inferior emotions as jealousy. Indeed, for the past several years I had thought you above all emotion entirely.”

“I have never been above emotion. I remain master of it, is all.”

“Aye, well, I think you have lost the upper hand.”

He did not deign to reply.

It was while changing for dinner that Elle noticed, with both delight and dismay, that her much-anticipated period had at last arrived. Marianne reacted to the blood-stained petticoat as if it were a tragedy.

“Milady, I am so sorry!”

“It will wash out, won’t it?”

“The baby, milady . . .” There were genuine tears in Marianne’s eyes.

“Come now, Marianne. It was too much to hope for, wasn’t it? A baby this soon? There’s plenty of time yet.”

“You are so brave.”

“One does what one must.” Marianne continued to
brush at her eyes, so Elle continued. “A countess can’t afford to take these little setbacks to heart, you know. And neither can her maid.” Marianne’s back straightened. “I need you to be strong for me, Marianne. I need you to go on as if nothing has happened.”

“You are right, milady,” she snuffled. “I need to be as strong as you.”

“Now, I’ll need some fresh water to wash with. . . .” She trailed off and let Marianne get to work.

True to form, Marianne neatly laid out the items necessary for the situation, and when it came time to dress once again, Elle had only to make a vague gesture implying she wanted some privacy, and Marianne obeyed. The maid was getting used to her mistress’s ways.