To Marry an Heiress (16 page)

“Don’t you think it’s deliciouth, Father?” Millicent asked.

“Who wouldn’t think that, Kitten?” he hedged.

“We made sourdough biscuits and fried apples,” Noel added.

“Fried apple dipped in thugar,” Millicent explained.

“Ah, now that sounds tasty indeed,” Devon said. “I look forward to sampling dessert.”

“We’ve already eaten them,” Noel said.

“I would think dipped in sugar meant they were dessert,” Devon mused.

“They were, Father, but since we were the cooks—” Noel began.

“We got to eat them firtht,” Millicent finished.

Devon glanced at Georgina. “Are there no rules in this world you inhabit?”

“Only to make the most of each day.”

“Am I to gather then that we do that by eating dessert first?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m not at all certain that’s wise,” he murmured.

He dropped his gaze to her mouth. He was incredibly tempted to feel her smile against his lips. He’d been a fool to taste her sweetness and then deny himself further enjoyment of it.

He should have bedded her as dispassionately as he’d originally planned. Perhaps then his body would not ache with his need for her.

He turned his attention back to his bowl of stew only to discover that his appetite had disappeared.

G
eorgina drank her coffee, relishing the bitter brew. As mistress of the manor, she could dictate exactly how she wanted it prepared. As far as her husband was concerned, that’s what she did.

Mrs. Cooper, however, knew differently. Georgina prepared it herself and brought it into the breakfast room before Devon arrived.

Sitting at her place at the table, she watched as her husband filled his plate with food from the sideboard. The offerings were not as abundant as they were at Lauren’s house, but the variety was nothing to scoff at. Devon seemed pleased with the assortment, if the amount he piled on his plate was any indication.

She had a feeling in later years he was going to become as rotund as her father. He had an immense appetite for a man who did nothing all day.

She had yet to determine exactly what an earl did.
And her husband was as elusive as a shadow. Their paths seldom crossed except during meals. He had insisted she honor him with her presence during the morning and the evening meals.

She’d eat with the children in the late afternoon, then join him in the evening. If he knew she was spending time with the children, he voiced no objection and he went with her when she said good night to them, a silent sentinel standing at the foot of the bed while she regaled them with stories.

She found it odd that the longer they were here, the more distant he became, as though he was strengthening the wall he’d begun building between them in London. Lauren had mentioned he was reclusive, but Georgina didn’t think he should feel uncomfortable in his own home.

He set his plate on the table and took his chair, barely casting a glance her way. He unfolded
The Times
, which Winston set at his place each morning. She’d been horrified to discover the butler actually ironed the newspaper “to set the ink for his lordship,” he’d explained.

As though ink on fingertips was a crime.

She had no idea where he went when he left the table. A few times she’d searched for him, certain he was somewhere in this vast house, but she’d never been able to locate him during the day.

In the evening, after they’d put the children to bed, he’d retire to his library. She could find him there, going over his ledgers. But what he did with the remainder of his time was a mystery.

She planted an elbow on the table and cupped her
chin with her palm. “What do you do all day?”

He stilled, glaring at her over the edge of his newspaper, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth—a mouth framed by lips that had brought her immense pleasure. She’d never expected to miss the days and nights in London that they’d had together before her father died. Who would have thought they would be more like strangers the longer they were married?

“How I spend my day is not your concern.” With precision, he shoved the fork into his mouth and then dabbed at his lips with his linen napkin.

“But how I spend mine is your concern?”

Glowering, he set his fork aside as though he feared he might bend it with his anger. “Impertinence does not become you.”

“And you think being mad enough to spit nails might?”

He leaned forward slightly. “Pardon?”

She sighed in frustration. “Devon, I need something to do.”

He straightened, studying her as though he couldn’t quite determine what language she spoke.

“You are responsible for managing the household, overseeing the servants,” he said.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Which takes very little of my time. They know their duties. They don’t need me poking my nose into their business.”

“But you feel a need to poke your nose into my business?”

She slapped her palms on the table. “I don’t know what your business is! I seldom see you. Surely
there is something I can do around here to feel more useful.”

“I daresay some sort of needlework is acceptable for your position.”

“Needlework?”

“You are familiar with needle, thread, cloth, are you not?”

“Of course I am. Do you need something mended?”

He briefly slid his eyes closed, during which time she thought he might be counting. “The servants would mend my clothing. You would apply needle and thread to some sort of artistic endeavor.”

“For what purpose?”

“To occupy yourself, as Margaret did. You might also read, pen letters, practice the piano. Genteel pursuits.”

“Is that how Margaret spent her day?”

“Quite so.”

“And you feel this is a worthwhile use of my time?”

“I daresay as much as possible you should give the appearance of being a lady of leisure.”

“Why?”

“Because it is tradition, and without tradition you have nothing.”

Before she could inform him of her opinion regarding his harrowing suggestions, Winston walked into the room and stood beside Devon’s chair. He waited patiently to be acknowledged. Everyone was so polite that sometimes she wanted to scream.

“Is there a problem, Winston?” she asked, unable to stand the suspense a moment longer.

Only his lips moved as he responded, “I do not perceive a problem, milady, but a missive has only this moment arrived for his lordship.”

Devon shoved back his chair. “I’ll take it here.”

“Very good, milord.” Winston passed the letter to him and stood at attention, waiting for whatever else his master might require.

She couldn’t determine Devon’s emotions as he read. Why did everyone here have to keep such a stiff upper lip? Why hide their feelings?

“Alert the driver to ready the carriage. I need to travel to London immediately.”

“Yes, milord.”

Devon turned his attention to her. “The missive is from my solicitor. Someone has an interest in the London house. I need to see to the paperwork.”

“Did you want me to go with you?”

She didn’t think he could have looked more surprised if she’d suddenly stood and removed all her clothes, but he quickly banked down his astonishment.

“I assure you that your presence is hardly necessary.”

“I know it’s not necessary,” she said quietly, “but I thought it might be welcomed. I’m sure this moment can’t be easy for you.”

“I think it would be best if you stayed here.” He stood. “I shall be gone a few days.”

He turned to leave.

“Devon?”

He faced her, his eyes devoid of emotion. For the briefest of moments during their wedding night, she’d thought he’d let down his guard and revealed the man behind the title, but now, standing before her, he was a stranger, keeping his emotions and thoughts in check. She desperately wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know how to reach him.

“I’m sorry things turned out as they did.”

He nodded brusquely before striding from the room. She shoved her plate aside.

She didn’t like the lurid thoughts entering her mind. She’d begun to wonder if his absences were an indication he had a mistress. He had to do something with his days. She was fairly certain he didn’t take needle and thread to cloth.

If there wasn’t a mistress here, was there one in London?

Georgina was surprised to discover that with Devon gone, she felt lonelier than ever. She shouldn’t have even noticed his absence. After all, it wasn’t as though they spent their days enjoying each other’s company or their nights locked in a passionate embrace.

Yet the high-ceilinged rooms seemed to echo a bit more deeply, and the faces in the portraits seemed to glare down a bit more sternly than before.

As a rule, she preferred solitude. She’d been overwhelmed by the balls to which Lauren had dragged her. Enthusiastic, outgoing Lauren simply hadn’t
understood how Georgina could prefer the quiet of an afternoon or find contentment in sitting and talking with one person. Lauren was like a rose in full bloom gathering busy little bees around her. The more, the sweeter the honey.

Georgina more closely resembled the dandelion in the garden, clinging to the brick wall, hoping not to be noticed for fear of being plucked.

She didn’t know why she felt as she did. Her parents had been kind and generous. She’d always known they loved her. But they had been older than the parents of most of the children her age.

Her father had often not been at home. He’d always been searching for the best get-rich scheme. She’d thought he’d found it, only to discover riches didn’t last.

Her mother had ached from the years of picking cotton, her joints stiff. She’d preferred staying at home, and Georgina had spent much of her time in her mother’s company. She was glad of it, because she had stories and memories, but she’d hardly been prepared for the swirl of social life in London.

She wandered through the house, surprised to discover that within some of the rooms she couldn’t hear the rain at all while in others its steady downpour was a comfort.

She drew her shawl more closely around her. This drafty old mausoleum was cold. Marble floors and statuettes didn’t draw in any warmth. She thought of her house in Texas—the one in which they’d lived before her father had decided to travel
with the wind—so small that she could stand in its center and see every room. Her home possessed warmth that had little to do with the Texas heat. Cozy. Comforting.

As she entered the foyer, she spotted Winston talking with a young serving girl, Martha.

“Winston?”

He turned and approached her. “Yes, milady?”

“While the first Lady Huntingdon was alive, was the house always this cold?”

“Quite so, milady. I believe the chill is a result of all the marble, which has a tendency to absorb and reflect the cold.”

She shook her head. “I’m not talking about the cold in the air. I’m talking about the atmosphere, the…” She waved her hand in frustration. “This house just doesn’t seem to invite a person to kick off his boots and relax.”

“I should be quite glad that it doesn’t.”

“Don’t you ever feel as though you’re walking through a museum where you’re not allowed to touch anything?”

“There are many valuable pieces here. Touching them would risk destroying them.”

“Quite right. We wouldn’t want to destroy anything, now, would we?” she asked with a sarcastic edge to her voice. Heaven forbid that she should manage to wipe out the stuffiness that surrounded her.

“No, milady, we would not.”

“Thank you, Winston.”

“Anytime I might be of service, milady, do not hesitate to call upon me.”

Leaving her frustrated, he walked away, while she headed for the stairs. How could she explain to these people what it was she wanted to create? But maybe what she was looking for came only from the warmth of love.

She stepped into the day nursery. The children were unnaturally quiet, busy at their studies. Young children should romp and play.

“Lady Huntingdon.” The governess greeted her without emotion.

The children’s heads bobbed up, hesitant smiles playing at the corners of their mouth. Thunder resounded, and Millicent’s eyes rounded, her smile completely withering.

Georgina turned to the governess, who sat in a rocker with a book on her lap. “Mrs. Tavers, how are you this afternoon?”

“Quite well, milady.”

“I’ll be glad to watch the children if you’d like to get some tea for yourself.”

“Milady—”

“I know. It’s simply not done, but since his lordship is in London, I think it will be all right.”

Mrs. Tavers set her book aside. “A spot of tea would be nice. Thank you, milady.”

She waited until the woman had left the room before dropping into the rocker and holding out her arms. Millicent immediately popped up from her chair, hurried across the short distance separating them, and clambered onto her lap.

“Are you afraid of the rain?” Georgina asked.

Millicent bobbed her head.

“She fears the thunder,” Noel provided. “At night, I sneak into her bed to protect her.”

“Do you?” Georgina asked.

He nodded, although he didn’t look all that brave himself. She held out her free arm. “I’m afraid of storms. Do you think you could sit on my lap?”

He was curled against her in the blink of an eye.

She began to rock back and forth, enjoying the slight weight of the children.

“When will Father be back?” Millicent asked.

“I’m not sure,” Georgina confessed. “How would you like to go on a picnic when the rain stops?”

“A picnic? What’s picnic?” Noel asked.

“You’ve never been on a picnic?” Georgina asked.

Both children slowly shook their head.

“Do you ever go outside?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” Noel answered quickly. “We take a stroll in the morning and then in the afternoon.”

A stroll? “Do you ever run?”

“We’re not allowed to run,” he said. “It’s unseemly.”

Georgina was horrified. “Have you ever climbed a tree?”

He shook his head.

She hugged them close. “As soon as the weather clears, I’m going to take you on a picnic. We’ll run and climb trees.”

“Will you climb trees?” Noel asked, obviously not certain whether he should be delighted or affronted at the thought of his stepmother hiking up her skirts and scrambling from limb to limb.

She smiled wickedly. “Of course.”

“Will Mrs. Tavers?” Millicent asked.

“No, I think for our first picnic we’ll leave her here.”

Devon was barely aware of the speed with which the coach traveled over the rough country road toward his estate.

Selling the London townhouse—a house his grandfather had purchased as a young man—and allowing strangers to inhabit it had left a gaping hole in his chest. He had not expected it to be so incredibly difficult to apply his signature to the papers turning his home over to someone else’s keeping.

An American no less. An American with three daughters, whom he wished to see married to someone of rank.

A
wealthy
American, who had paid the initial installment with cash. If Devon had not been already married, he might have found himself a suitable match with one of the daughters.

Instead he had a bit of the man’s money to replenish his coffers—but for how long?

He’d paid off the debts Georgina’s father had accumulated, because he no longer wanted those hanging over his head. He’d used a portion of the remaining funds to make good on his own London debts. It was unconscionable to force a shopkeeper to wait any longer than necessary for what was owed him.