Ever His Bride (14 page)

“You might have told me that you planned to
marry him, Felicity.”

“I would have. But I didn’t even know the man
till two days ago.”

Dolan propped his elbows on his desk. “You
met and married in two days? That much in love? What the hell are
you doing here, then? You ought to be on your honeymoon!”

“My husband isn’t the honeymooning type.”

“How did you meet him?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oooo . . . The man himself is a mystery, and
now he’s got himself embroiled in a mystery courtship. What have
you gotten yourself into, Felicity?”

She sighed and sat down opposite Dolan. How
many times had she wondered that same thing in the last two days?
Married to a madman; living in a tomb.

“Never mind that, Mr. Dolan. I came about
next month’s gazette. I’m nearly finished with the piece on the
Bennington Post Road in Kent.”

“Bosh the gazette, girl. I want stories about
dinner parties and soirees. I want bejeweled matrons and scandalous
barons, licentious cabinet ministers and their mistresses! Bring me
gossip, my dear!”

She stood. “Gossip? I will not.”

Dolan jumped to his feet. “Oh, but don’t you
see the opportunity? You’ll be sharing the salt with society!
You’ll be my fly on the wall.”

“I’ll be nothing of the sort, Mr. Dolan. I’ll
write my travel pieces and that is all. This is the last of the
Bennington Post series.” She propped the end of the folio on top of
his desk. “Take it or leave it,” she said, feeling very much like
the rapacious Hunter Claybourne.

Dolan studied her for a long moment then
frowned. “All right. I’ll take it.”

“And what would you say to taking all of the
Bennington Post entries, binding them together, and making a single
guidebook?”

“Hmmm. Easy to carry in one’s travel
case—”

“Exactly, Mr. Dolan. And what if we promised
one bound-together travel guide for every railway line in the
country? Each guide would cater to the needs of the modern female
traveler.”

He sat forward. “And you’d write under the
name Mrs. Hunter Claybourne?”

She saw the promotional value immediately;
surely, a respectful use of the Claybourne name, entirely in
keeping with Article Five. “Who else?”

Dolan clapped his palms together. “You’re a
shrewd woman, Felicity Mayfield.”

“Felicity Claybourne. And you’ll raise my
salary.”

“You want a raise?”

“And an advance.”

“I already pay you twice what you’re worth.
And now you’re married to a man who could buy up all the papers in
London with the change that collects in his trouser cuffs.” He
dropped into his chair. “Hell no, you’ll have no raise and no
advance.”

“That’s your choice, Mr. Dolan.” Felicity
picked up her folio and turned to leave, stopping long enough to
brush an imaginary bit of fluff off her very dingy cuff. “Perhaps
the
Lady’s Day
would be interested in employing the wife of
Hunter Claybourne.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Let’s see, the
Lady’s Day
is two
buildings down, and above the
Record,
I believe . . .”

Dolan growled. “How much of a raise,
Felicity?”

She thought of young Giles and decided to use
her raise to buy him a new shirt—no,
three
new shirts to
replace the one that Claybourne ruined with his vile temper.

“Another guinea per story will do nicely, the
next installment in advance.”

“Not on your life!” Dolan held his breath and
vigorously shook his head.

She shrugged and started toward the door.
“Good-bye, Mr. Dolan.”

“Oh, all right!” He threw himself out of his
chair and made the door before she did. “But that means I’ll have
to drag in another advertiser.”

She smiled pleasantly and tapped on his
lapel, exceedingly pleased with herself. “Try the Claybourne
Exchange, Mr. Dolan. The management might be inclined to send some
trade your way.”

Dolan brightened like a beacon; his mustache
twitched with the possibilities. “Brilliant, Mrs. Claybourne!”

“Now, Mr. Dolan, about binding my travel
articles into a guide . . .”

Half an hour later, Felicity descended the
stairs with three guineas in her pocket, her folio of the
Bennington Post Railway under her arm, and a promise from Dolan
that he would print her first complete travel guide as soon as she
could edit the entries into a single book. When that was done, she
would begin researching her new travel guide in
Northumberland—somewhere far away from Hunter Claybourne.

She arrived back at Claybourne Manor in time
to down another bowl of Mrs. Sweeney’s stew. Four meals in a row of
carrots, potatoes, and chunks of beef. Perhaps she would speak with
the woman in the morning about expanding the menu.

Ernest was in the process of trying to
furnish her new chamber. The crates that had once packed the room
now lined the corridor. The only piece of furniture in sight was a
dusty wardrobe, and the entire effect was lit by candles instead of
by the sunlight that beat hard against the windows.

“This darkness will never do.” Felicity drew
the drapes aside, which would have flooded the room with a blaze of
light if not for the half-story tall hedge of laurel. But the
half-light was better than no light at all. She’d take a pruning
saw to the hedge as soon as she made the room itself livable.
“Douse those lamps, Ernest. Daylight is good for the eyes and the
spirit, and candles are expensive.”

“Yes ma’am.” Ernest pinched out the flames
and rubbed the wax into his palms. “Your bed hasn’t come, Mrs.
Claybourne. Branson said it was due any time. As for the rest of
the room . . . I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Come, then. We’ll search through this
warehouse that Mr. Claybourne calls home and see what else we can
find.”

They quickly uncovered a dresser and a side
table in a room under the stairs. They rescued a writing desk from
the cellar, and a comfortable chair from beneath the mounted head
of a surly-looking boar.

The bed arrived mid-afternoon and soon stood
against the wall, centered between two pastoral paintings. She
found a half-dozen lamps packed away in crates, their beautifully
etched and prismed globes wrapped in cotton and never disturbed. No
one at the manor seemed to know why, or for what eventuality,
Claybourne was saving his treasures. According to Ernest, packages
arrived regularly, authorized and purchased by Claybourne himself.
Yet the master never seemed the least bit interested once the goods
arrived. He would merely point to a corner, wave a careless hand,
and instruct the crate or barrel to be put with the rest.

Dismissing her husband’s odd behavior, she
vowed to fashion her own haven in the midst of his mausoleum and
happily swept and dusted her chamber. She took after the laurel
shrubs and scalped them down to a waist-high hedge, had the windows
washed while she took the drapes outside and beat them until the
air cleared of the dust clouds, then had Ernest rehang them with
tiebacks. All this under the collective gaze of the staff who, it
was clear doubted her sanity.

Finally, she directed her bath to be set up
between the bed and the window, so she could watch the fading sun
on its way toward the distant hills. She was sore all over and
coated with dust. The warm water seemed to soak right into her
bones and the scent of lavender into her soul.

So much nicer than the Queen’s Bench, or Mrs.
Wright’s Boarding House for Genteel Ladies. Once she finished
negotiating the thorny details with her foul- tempered innkeeper,
Claybourne Manor might work out very nicely for a base of
operations. She could close herself up in her lovely chamber when
she needed to write; travel when she needed to do her research.

And with any luck, she would only
occasionally pass her irascible husband in the halls.

H
unter crossed his
own threshold and followed his wife’s lavender scent up the stairs
to her chamber door. He had business to discuss with her. Married
only a day, and she was already costing him. He would have knocked,
but the house belonged to him.

He threw open the door, and met with dazzling
sunshine. “Damnation! What the hell have you done here?” He
shielded his eyes and found his way to the center of the room.

“Mr. Claybourne, I’ll thank you to leave
immediately!” Her bristling indignation came from somewhere beyond
the bed and all its gauzy drapings. “How dare you burst into my
chamber!”

Then he caught the faint plash of water, the
moist scent of lavender. She was bathing.

“Out, Mr. Claybourne!”

She was his wife.

“And next time, knock.”

But this was his home, though at the moment
it looked anything but. He decided to stay, and slammed the door
shut.

“And good riddance, you swollen-headed,
penny-pinching barbarian!” A hairpin landed with a click at his
feet.

“Well, then,” Hunter said quietly, “at least
I know your true opinion of me.”

The splashing stopped, but the water kept
sloshing. She harrumphed. “I asked you to leave, Mr. Claybourne.
Can’t you see I’m bathing?”

Through the gauze he could see only that
she’d drawn her hair to the top of her head into a loosely ribboned
cloud. A stream of afternoon sunlight fanned through the sparkling
windowpanes, lighting her hair like a spun-gold explosion. But the
bed and the brightness obscured more detail than that; and he was
better off blinded. She had diverted his intention too deeply
already.

“You spent seven hundred seventy pounds at
Madame Deverie’s today.”

“Is that so, Mr. Claybourne? I had no idea a
wardrobe cost so much. If only you’d loaned me that ten pounds,
you’d have saved yourself the entire seven hundred seventy.”

“And you should have been mindful of the
cost.”

“I buy my blouses in lots of three, cheap as
I can. What would I know of the price of high fashion? Your note
said you wanted me dressed for every eventuality. Madame Deverie
saw to that task quite thoroughly. I would have preferred the
simpler fabrics and styles, but the woman insisted on the best. But
fear not, Mr. Claybourne: should we ever be invited to a duck hunt,
I have the perfect shooting costume.”

“Damn the ducks!”

“And why haven’t you gone, sir? This is my
chamber and I am bathing.”

“This is my house.”

“Except for this room, at the moment. It is
mine!”

“I can see that.” The woman had strewn all
sorts of objects about her chamber: a bandy-legged table, a
black-and-gilt lacquered screen, lamps and paintings—and he
couldn’t recall having seen a single item before this. The fittings
were of little value to him, meant nothing more than the fact of
their existence.

“You should be pleased with the change.
Amazing what an open drape, a clean window and a pruning saw will
do to eliminate the gloom. I borrowed a few things from other parts
of the house; I hope you don’t mind. By the way, you have expensive
taste in lamps, Mr. Claybourne.”

He snorted in frustration. “And in
wives.”

She laughed suddenly, brightly, and turned
toward him, peering through a gap in the bed-hangings. Her arm was
lithe and damp, and circled the lip of the brass tub. She looked a
little surprised, and then sent a disappointed sigh into the air
between them.

“Ah, you weren’t joking, Mr. Claybourne.” She
turned away again and sank deeper into the water. “I thought you’d
discovered your sense of humor. I was about to compliment you on
its depth, but I shall have to refrain.”

“I have a sense of humor, Miss Mayfield!” He
hadn’t meant to defend himself on so insignificant a point, but he
refused to be dismissed for a lack in his character by this
thieving travel writer.

“Oh, I’m sure you do have a sense of humor.
It just needs exercising.”

“It needs a reason.”

“Then look no further than the end of your
nose.”

“You find the end of my nose to be humorous?”
Insulted to the marrow, he stalked to the blanket chest at foot of
the bed, but found it a precarious place to stand. She was too
lovely and he was too close. Her back was to him, bare to the nape,
where stray curls clung damply to her shoulders.

“Stand away, sir.” She quickly drew her knees
to her chest and tented the
Times
over the opening in the
tub, leaving only her bare shoulders and her fierce gaze to entice
him. “You are husband in name only, Mr. Claybourne. This is my
bath, sir, my private chamber. Now, turn your back and stay turned
while I escape to the dressing screen.”

He did as directed, sat on the chest with his
back to her, trying to rid himself of the aching need to slide his
hand down the sleek column of her neck and across her shoulders. He
heard her stand, heard the caressing sluice of water as she hurried
to the dressing screen in the corner of the room. Every sinew and
fiber urged him to turn.