She shook out her dusty skirt and glanced about the room Blake had made his own the night before. She’d had the footman carry over a spare table and chairs this morning, but she wouldn’t tear apart a perfectly good study to accommodate the irritating man. If he meant to live in such crude surroundings, he’d have to find his own shelves and desk.
She deliberately blocked out any thought of what Blake was learning from the bankers. She wasn’t even entirely certain she’d ever see his face darken her door again. The possibility hurt more than she wanted to admit.
She hurried down the rough ladder to discover what the new arrival meant.
She almost ran straight into her husband as he opened the carriage house door at the same time she shoved at it. Wearing a caped greatcoat against the damp, his hat pulled over his eyes, and his arms full of books, Blake stepped backward at her abrupt appearance.
“Madam?” he said coolly, juggling the books and looking upon her as if she were a mongrel caught rummaging in the trash. “Were you looking for me?”
“Of course not. Why should I?” she responded as haughtily as he, then moved aside so he might enter out of the rain. “I had the servants carry in some furniture, but if you wish to install your books, I fear it must be in the study. There are no shelves out here.”
He muttered something irascible and set his stack down on the dirty floor. He glanced about at the large empty space and the stalls that would house only his gelding. “Since we have no carriage, this space is wasted. A pity we cannot afford a carpenter.”
His voice dripped scorn, and Jocelyn flinched. He’d been to the bank, of course.
“I am sorry,” she said with more defiance than apology. “But Richard is more important than sending you off to war. Now that I’ve paid off Harold and I’m Richard’s legal guardian, my next allotment is yours. Harold was insistent. I had no choice.”
Blake took off his hat and shook it to shed the raindrops. “What the devil does Harold have to do with your damned dowry? I thought we disillusioned him of the notion that he had any claim to your income.”
“Come in and have some tea before you catch your death of cold. There is no sense talking out here when we have a perfectly good fire in the house.”
“Quit mollycoddling me and just tell me what your damnable brother has done!” he shouted. “I have a cart of books outside getting wet and I detest tea!”
“Of all the irrational . . .” Jocelyn shut up at the fire leaping to Blake’s eyes. She had learned long ago that stating her point of view was useless. Really, she didn’t know what she’d thought to accomplish by losing her temper and expressing her fears yesterday. Rather than bicker, she pulled her shawl over her head and hurried down the path to the house. If he wanted answers, he’d get them when
she
was warm.
Perhaps walking out was another act of pacifying an angry male, which she’d vowed never to do again—especially since she sent Molly the maid for
coffee
as well as tea, and the footman to help unload the cart. She couldn’t help it, she liked being useful. And she hated confrontation. When Blake arrived with his arms full of books, she hurried to unlatch the study door, glancing anxiously at his wrist. No blood stained the bandage.
“The shelves have been dusted and polished,” she told him. “I did not disturb anything more than that since I thought you might like to arrange the study to your taste.”
“I want to know what Harold has to do with my not being able to buy an officer’s colors—
as we agreed
.” Still wearing his damp greatcoat and dwarfing the room with his masculine presence, he slammed the volumes onto the desk.
She ought to be terrified of his fury, but oddly, she wasn’t. Instead, she hurt for him. And she didn’t want to. Richard had to come first.
Jocelyn waved him out of the way so Molly might enter with the tea tray. Teddy, the footman, arrived carrying a crate of books, and she gestured for him to light the coals in the grate. She took several of the volumes off Blake’s stack, saw they were in Latin, sighed, and set them on a shelf at random.
Blake shoved the others next to them, coming so close to her that she could smell wet wool and the enticing male scent she recognized as purely his. Desire curled inside her, and she hated that he could make her want his kisses simply by his proximity.
Once the servants had departed, and Blake had shrugged off his wet coat so he didn’t look quite so menacing, she poured coffee and handed a cup to him. “Harold threatened to lock Richard in the attic if I did not pay him four hundred pounds in return for signing over the guardianship papers. I saw no other choice.”
“You could have told
me
! That was one choice. Hiring a lawyer was another.”
“Hitting Harold over the head was still another,” she agreed mockingly. “I doubt any of them would have gained me what I wanted. I thought it an excellent bargain. Now Harold may never threaten Richard again.”
“Of course he will threaten Richard again. Every time he needs money he’ll find a way to challenge any documents held by a
woman
. And you
still
went through with this farce of a marriage, even though you knew I needed the funds now!”
“I
hired
a lawyer. The papers are irrevocable! I’m not a dunderhead,” she said, with more anger than she’d intended. “And you will
have
the funds,” she protested. “It will just be a little later than anticipated. If Wellesley does not mean to leave until spring, I cannot see the harm.”
“The harm will be that he cannot leave a position on his staff open until spring! I will be out on the front lines with all the enlisted men instead of decrypting code behind the lines. If you wish to keep me alive, you might want to consider that.”
Blake took another swallow of his coffee and stalked out.
Jocelyn nibbled her fingernail and wondered how she would repair this new catastrophe. She didn’t want Blake killed because of her!
Like it or not, she was now responsible for keeping him alive. Measures must be taken. Her shoulders bent beneath the burden of yet one more duty for which she was not qualified.
Blake had crated and carted his entire library by himself, borrowing a cart from one of Quent’s businesses in which to haul the boxes. His healing leg protested and his wounded wrist ached as he lugged the books into the study, but it was easier than hauling them into a loft
.
At least he had the help of his footman’s broad back.
He had a
study
and a
footman
and coffee on tea trays, but no damned officer’s colors. He wanted to gnash his teeth, but in all fairness, he could not argue with his bride’s choice. That she had been smart enough to hire a lawyer and demand an irrevocable custodianship had caught him by surprise. And even he wouldn’t want any of his family in the clutches of Viscount Pig, as Harold would always be termed in his mind after hearing Jocelyn’s name for him.
Which only made Blake want to howl louder. It was only a day after their wedding and she had
deceived
him already. Yet he’d known all along that she wasn’t to be trusted. He had only his blind lust and greed to blame for accepting this arrangement. And his desire to have what was Carrington’s, he admitted.
Except, as usual, Carrington had walked off with the money. How did the fat bounder always manage that? Blake was as furious with himself as he was with Jocelyn.
He dropped a crate on the floor, taking satisfaction in the slamming of wood against wood. With his luck, the floor would give way and he’d end up in the kitchen stew pot. What the devil did he do now? Talk to a parrot? Investigating why the duke wanted Percy had made sense in his rage, but he’d lived with the damned bird for weeks and had not heard anything useful out of its mouth except a new French curse or two.
Could he make leaps of assumption and wonder if Percy speaking French and Harold’s wife being French had any connection to a French thief? He was grasping at straws if he thought bird-wits were spies. Besides, hadn’t Harold sold the bird to the duke?
Blake ran his hand through his already disheveled hair and glared at the empty—polished—shelves. He’d never adapted well to domestication, but he had to admit that an entire room of shelves instead of overflowing tables and stacks of tottering books had appeal. The top of the massive,
polished
mahogany desk would provide more space for his research.
The wine-colored walls . . . He rummaged through one of his boxes and produced the chart of possible alphanumeric equations that could be employed through Jefferson’s version of the code wheel. He could pin the chart on the wall where he could view it more easily.
He was rooting through the crate of code books when his young brother-in-law wandered in. Immersed in what he was doing, Blake ignored the lad. Blessedly, Richard made no greeting, but began perusing the shelved titles. When the boy found the crate of wire mind teasers people had given Blake over the years, he settled into a leather chair and began to take them apart.
Blake forgot he was there. Had his own brothers been so silent, he would have thought them dead, but Richard was obviously cut from a different cloth. The fluffy pug-nosed puppy wandered in and fell asleep at Richard’s feet.
Blake had all the books shelved, his work organized on the desk, and was sipping the last of a brandy he’d found while packing when Jocelyn reappeared.
By all that was holy, even knowing she was a deceitful minx, Blake couldn’t help admiring his wife’s stunning loveliness. She still wore her dowdy morning gown, and strands of ivory hair had fallen loose from their pins, but her rose lips begged for kissing, and her lively eyes danced upon taking in the domestic scene.
Something in her expression caused Blake to glance toward Richard. The boy had systematically dismantled all his cleverly designed puzzles and had them spread across the floor. He was studying them as if he could find some new means of putting the jumble back together again.
It had taken grown men
days
to undo just one of those pieces.
The wretched puppy was chasing escaped parts under the chairs. Blake would never find and match all the right pieces and return them to their original state again.
His bride waited with an expression of expectation.
If she waited for him to bellow and shout—Blake shut down that thought. Of course, she thought he would yell and threaten. She had only Viscount Pig as an example. And maybe her brothers-in-law. He’d have to meet the louts someday, but he damned well wasn’t following in their footsteps.
“You had a message?” he asked in a tone of irritation he couldn’t conceal. He had Venus for a wife, an enormous roof over his head, a place to work in peace, but he still didn’t have what he most wanted. Because she’d
lied.
He wasn’t certain he’d ever forgive that.
“I thought we might have a bite to eat before we attend Lord Cowper’s soiree.”
Blake scratched his ear and wondered if his mind had wandered while she was saying something he hadn’t quite caught. “Cowper’s soiree?”
“Yes, of course. I accepted the invitation some time ago, and I’m certain that as my husband, you will be welcome. The Cowpers were married only a few years back. The earl is too busy buying estates to be helpful, but Lady Cowper knows everyone. She has been reintroducing me to all my father’s old cronies.”
“Old cronies?” He would sound like the parrot shortly.
“Lord Melbourne, the Duke of Devonshire, Lord Castlereagh . . .” She waved her hand vaguely as she reeled off the names of some of the most powerful political figures in the country.
“Why would you wish to bother men like that?” he asked warily.
“Originally, I’d hoped they might know to whom Harold had sold Richard’s birds, but now I think there might be other ways of obtaining your colors besides money. Knowing people can be very beneficial. It will not hurt, and you cannot bury yourself with books every evening. I have had Teddy lay out your gray coat, but you must be peckish by now. Let us see what Cook has prepared. Richard, go wash up.”
“Will you order me to go wash while you’re at it?” Blake shoved aside his papers and rose, still staggering under the knowledge that his wife had inside access to the highest realms.
She showed no indication that his looming size intimidated her. She merely smiled and fluttered her lashes outrageously. “Why, I assume a big strong man like you must know whether you’re dirty or not. We’ll be served in the dining room.”
She spun around and slipped away, leaving him to stew or comply, as he would. He’d be damned if he knew what to do about her.
He supposed if they were to live together in some form of peace, he should be polite. He didn’t have to take orders from anyone, but she was right, damn her. He was starving—for far more than food. Would he have to seduce the damned woman to get her back in his bed?
Cowper’s soiree was another matter entirely. Why the devil should he waste time toadying to a bunch of toplofty aristocrats who had already expressed their disdain for the penniless younger son of a rural baron?
Which was good enough reason to defy them, he supposed.
23
Jocelyn watched her new husband wander the periphery of Cowper’s elegant salon, examining the objets d’art.
Blake was the most physically commanding man in the room. Whispering behind their fans, all the ladies remarked upon it. He did not return the favor by admiring their bountiful charms. She selfishly felt relief. She wanted him to notice only
her.
Foolish, she knew, but she wasn’t good at lying to herself. She loved having her formidable husband’s attention.
Even when it meant he scowled at her, which he was doing now. Her insides fluttered at realizing he knew where she was even when he didn’t seem to be watching. Flashing him a smile in return for his glower, she continued her path to her next target, who had finally been abandoned by his sycophants. Blake was an arrogant, intelligent man. He would not tolerate fools, and even she must admit that there were a great many fools present. Aristocracy did not guarantee intelligence. But a prime minister and former chancellor of Oxford could not be a fool.