Teaching the Earl (7 page)

She prepared for dinner as best she could without a trained lady's maid. Her hair, inexpertly twisted into coils and plaits with ringlets at her forehead and nape to form a passable approximation of a fashionable style. Her favorite dress, adequately pressed by Mary. The sapphire necklace she had discovered on the bureau, labeled as a wedding present for Lady Carhampton, around her neck. She raised a hand to it, letting that symbol of his thoughtfulness lend her courage. He did care. He had noticed - had perhaps even chosen the jewels to match her eyes. It was not a very grand necklace, but she liked the girlish simplicity of it.

Beneath her moist palm her heart thundered.

With a silent hand she eased open the door to the lesser dining room. There he was. His head was bent over another one of those ledgers, which he had brought to the table. His cutlery and wineglasses were pushed into disarray to make room for it, and he was oblivious, one finger tracing a line down the open page.

He muttered something under his breath and shook his head. His
dark brown hair fell in his eyes, and he shoved it out of the way, then propped his forehead on one fist.

She heard his heavy sigh across the room.

She walked toward him on slippered feet. "I don't think you enjoy what you read."

He looked up with that same dazed expression he had given her earlier in the day, as if he had returned from some place miles away from the room. "It makes for melancholy thoughts."

"Account books?"

"For the estates, yes."

"Is it all bad news? Or merely tedious?"

"Oh," he closed the book abruptly and pushed it away like it disgusted him, "only that there hasn't been a penny spent on the place in four decades. Every resource squandered on a London life, and the land and grounds left in woeful state. The income should be three, four times what it is. Only for want of a little investment, the family fortunes are at a standstill. Such neglect I can barely account for it. It gives me the greatest disgust of my-But I should not talk so to you, Madam. Please sit." He waved her to the seat laid at the opposite end of the table.

She surveyed the arrangement, then began to gather up utensils in her hand.

"I would far prefer you call me Elizabeth. Or even Beth, as my family do. So much friendlier, don't you think?" She carried her burden to the seat directly to his left, and placed them there with a faint clatter. Then she returned to her designated place to fetch napkin and wineglasses.

"That's true." He cocked his head to one side, and examined her. "Would you like to call me Christopher?"

"Yes.
Unless you are perhaps a Chris."

"I have never been before."

She dared herself to be friendly with him, and informal, as if he was an equal or even a friend. "I think new experiences can be very beneficial. Let's try 'Chris' and see if it suits you."

"If you would like."

"Thank you so much for this necklace. It is beautiful."

His eyes refocused on her collar, and he blinked. "I'm afraid I haven't seen it before."

"Oh, but it-Did you not label it a wedding present and leave it in my room?" A certain glow flickered out within her.

He looked at her, and even before he spoke she knew the answer was no. "My mother must have s
ent it." He frowned. "But not via me. One of the servants will have put it there, I suppose. Very peculiar."

"I'll ask Mrs Harrow if she knows. I can't imagine it was the coachman or the grounds keeper."

"Unlikely."

There was silence between them, and she lowered her gaze and aligned her cutlery with careful precision.

"Perhaps I need to let Mrs Harrow know we are ready for dinner," he finally said, got up and strode to the bell pull. He gave it a firmer tug than she would have dared, considering how frayed the rope was. Then he paced back and stood behind his chair, hands clasping the back of it, and stared down at her with a faint frown folding the skin between his brows.

Did he wonder what to do with her?

"I imagine a wife is a frightfully disconcerting thing to acquire." Her statement was half teasing, half a challenge. "Such a change, to be required to make polite conversation at dinner at home rather than enjoying solitude."

"Not at all," he immediately demurred, and the very swiftness of his response made it seem he had thought the same thing.

"Perhaps you could teach me a little of your concerns so I may share them. Or tell me what else you enjoy talking about, so I can divert you."

"You are too good." He dismissed her offer. "I shan't trouble you, though. I'm afraid they will consume me for some months to come. I shall not be as available as you might prefer. You may take on some small refurbishment within the house if you like
, to busy your time. I am prepared to make you an allowance to spend as you please."

"I had thought perhaps my bedroom-"

"Yes. Ideal. Do whatever you like with it."

"And if yours is in a similar state, perhaps you would like me to-"

"That won't be necessary. I can make do, until the estate is firmly in hand."

"I don't mind spending my allowance on your comfort," she said, and looked at him from under her eyelashes, feeling intensely daring
to discuss his bedroom, his bed; which she would share, if she understood Mama's rather garbled explanations correctly. It was a thought that stole the breath from her chest.

"Your allowance may not be as large as you imagine. In time we will have more to spend, but now almost all funds must go to recoup our losses. You understand? I know it is unjust to expect you to go completely without funds. Yet I do expect you to practice economy."

"Of course. Yes."

"Nothing is to be bought on credit."

"No."

"Come to my study tomorrow morning and I'll advance you some money."

"Thank you." Come to his study? He made it sound as if she were an employee. Would they not share his bed tonight, and finally have the wedding night deferred by travel?

She opened her mouth to question him, but could not find the exact words. How did one ask a new husband how husbandly he planned to be, this evening?

Mrs Harrow came in, bearing a platter with a plain roast beef on it. She saw Elizabeth's moved place at the table and her eyebrows went up, but she said nothing, only laid down her burden, curtsied and stumped out.

A moment later Mary entered with two dishes of boiled vegetables.
Her expression was troubled. "Mrs Harrow said there was no time to make gravy, but I think I can manage some if you've a mind for it, milady? Milord?"

Lord
Carhampton frowned at her and said nothing, so Elizabeth replied, "I think that's an excellent idea." The meat looked dry and overcooked, and the unfortunate spring vegetables had been boiled until pale and dull.

Mary curtsied with a quick bounce like a nodding head, and took herself away, her skirts whisking briskly.

"Who is that?" he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made her look at him in swift dismay.

"I hired a girl from an inn where I stayed."

"You can't hire staff without consulting me."

Her heart sank. "I have asked Mrs Harrow to find
a half dozen more."

"We need money for workmen to repair the farm buildings, and
laborers for the fields. House staff are a frivolity."

"You need only look at this beef to see we need more help." She poked it with the carving knife and the arid lump rolled across the plate without yielding.

"That is no necessity. Only the strictest of economy will see us through."

"But you only just finished telling me to redecorate my room."

"That is a special favor, designed to keep you amused and occupy your time. You cannot afford that and also staff."

"If I must choose one or the other then I shall hire staff." She made an effort to sound reasonable. "I'm not accustomed to sit down to an overcooked meal. Nor destroy my skirts walking through a layer of dust an inch thick. And why must my time be occupied? Won't we be together at all?"

"Not much. You will be bored, while I improve the place. I'm trying to keep you content."

He spoke of her as if she was some inconvenient pet, to be shut up where she could not cause trouble, and pacified with morsels.
"Content with what? Meager scraps of your attention, and the refurbishment of a single bedroom? I am not such a paltry creature as that." She took a breath, and said in a softer voice, "Surely there's something more useful I can do?" Now was not the time for one of her rare bursts of temper. What would he think of her then? But he must see how unreasonable this was.

"Hardly, Madam.
You are born and bred to be an ornament. You do that very well, but that doesn't mean you are competent or skilled enough to handle what must be done here. You've already been helpful enough. Now it is only a matter of keeping you out of the way."

"Out of the-You wish to dispose of me like some inconvenient, overbred lapdog?"

"There is no need for you to be unhappy. Best we accept your limitations and cope with them. If I need someone to advise me on prettying up some room in the house, in a few years, I shall certainly consult you. Other than that there are books in the library-"

"I am not in the least bookish!"

"Or you can go for long walks in the countryside. I don't recommend you borrow my horse as he won't suit a lady. He is very ill-trained. You may sew to your heart's content as long as the fabrics you choose are not too expensive-"

"Sit and sew alone?
With no conversation? No companionship? I'll be bored out of my skull." Where was the gentle, attentive husband she had been promised?

"There's no need to be dramatic-"

"I am
not
being dramatic. You tell me I am to sit and stew, alone and completely purposeless, in the countryside. All the while you shall rush about the place and do I-don't-know-what to rescue this-"

"The work I do is for our mutual benefit. As time passes there will once more be money for a few enjoyable-"

"As time passes? I heard you say years.
Years.
And all this time I am to wait patiently like some medieval maiden? Why that's . . . that's archaic! Are you really so cruel?"

"There is nothing cruel about it. You have clearly been too indulged, too inclined to get everything your way-"

"How dare you? You toad! You are supposed to
love
me."

They stared at each other, she breathing quickly and he dead pale, his eyes dark and shadowed. When he abruptly stood the sharp scrape of the chair legs made her flinch.

"I beg your pardon," he said, and bowed, very stiff, from the waist. Then he strode out with his head high. The door slammed behind him.

She glared at the wood panels. Then the resistance melted out of her and she folded and laid her head on the back of her hands, flat on the table.

"Oh, no," she moaned. "Oh no, oh no."

What was she thinking
, to berate him? To shout, like a termagant? He was not a sibling to be scolded. He was Christopher Alexander, sixth Earl of Carhampton. Of course he took offense when she defied him. What had happened to the meek obedience she promised?

"I can't believe I did that. I'm an idiot."

"Milady?" said Mary as she entered with a gravy boat and dish.

"Nothing.
Please put it there."

"Milord didn't want his dinner?"

"I don't know what Milord wants."

"That's a lovely bit of gravy, though it's me who says it. It should pretty up dinner a little. Don't tell Mrs Harrow I said so."

For a moment Elizabeth gazed up at the girl, scarcely two years younger than herself yet without any idea of how one should speak to a countess, or more precisely, be silent with one. She must train her better. Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again.

One person to talk to her like she was a friend.
One person to be pleased for a little conversation, no matter how uneducated. Was that so much to ask?

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"You're welcome, milady. Eat up, and ring when you're ready for dessert. Mrs Harrow has made Spotted Dick. I'm not sure I trust it, but I made the custard myself, so I know that's good."

"Lovely. That will be all."

"Right you are."

Elizabeth was left in solitary
splendor to enjoy her dry roast beef and sickly vegetables under a tidal wave of gravy, and anticipate the dubious Spotted Dick.

The silence was impenetrable. Had there ever been stillness so complete? She had left a single candle alight on her nightstand, and the flame burned straight and unflinching. For hours she listened for noises from his bedchamber. There was nothing.

Was he still downstairs? Or were the walls and door between them so thick she had not heard him? Surely set against the dead silence, any noise he made would be sudden as a thunderclap?

With only a single light to hold back the hungry darkness, it was easy to imagine she was all alone. Everyone had left the house. There was only her here, and whatever ghosts lingered from centuries past. Horrid thoughts. She huddled down into the bed and the ropes below its ancient feather mattress creaked.

There was the loud click of a door latch, then muffled footsteps across the floor in the next room.

It was him. It must be. She sat up, eased to the side and clutched the edge of the mattress.

She must go apologize to him. It could not be delayed, or she would never sleep, and the tension of their disagreement - and the wedding night yet to come - would only grow.

Her feet were silent in the cold, gritty carpet. She pulled her wrapper from a chair and thrust her arms in the sleeves, doubled it over as far as possible at the front and then tied it very tight. He must not think her too forward, to come to him like this. Should she dress again? But that was foolish, if he should want to undress her. This was a good compromise. She was covered from neck to ankle-The idea he might want to undress her made it difficult to concentrate. What would his face look like as he approached her? Would he smile? Would she please him? Not every man enjoyed a deep-bosomed, dimpled wife, no matter what fashion said. She squeezed one hand tight within the other until the skin burned.

She could still hear the faint sound of movement from his room. Now! It must be now, before he went to sleep and it was too late.

The marble doorknob was an icy shock on her sweating palm.

The next room glowed with light from a candelabra and also the fire he had lit in the grate. Outlined against it was his body. He still wore breeches but his shirt was gone and orange firelight picked out the sweeping curves of lean muscles tight in around his shoulders and back. They flexed as he leaned to hook his robe from a footstool, and when he swept it around so it engulfed him and cloaked his body, she was disappointed. He tied it with brisk inattention and turned away from the fire.

Although his face was in shadow she knew the exact moment he saw her for he stilled.

The fire crackled.

"Madam
wife?" he asked in the politest tone, cool and distant.

"I'm sorry I was so rude. I should not have called you a name, or been bad-tempered. It was
very wrong of me."

He sighed
. "A handsome apology," he said, but his tone was bland. Did it even matter to him?

He turned to the tall-backed chair behind him. There was another beside it, and he gestured her to it and waited for her to sit before he did. "No doubt I should offer an apology too. I do not mean to make you miserable. I know this place lacks the comforts to which you are accustomed. I'm sorry for that, too. In time-But no, you don't want to hear that again. So let us not be so medieval. I will keep it to 'I'm sorry' and hope you'll be forgiving." Still his voice was dull, as if he spoke what he thought he should, not what he actually felt.

His lack of clothing distracted her. She could see all of his neck, deep into the shadowed cleft of his collarbone and further, to where his chest was furred. Her own hand crept up to pull the sides of her robe in tight around her neck. She lifted her feet away from the chill floor into the folds of her wrapper, and stared at him. He was infinitely more terrifying here alone than she could have imagined a man would be. What could she say to him?

He examined her in turn, with tired eyes, and after a moment his faint smile came and went. "You seem very small and lost, curled up in your chair."

"I am not so small as all that."

"Young, too.
Painfully young. All too innocent."

Was that a flaw? "I thought that's how brides are supposed to be."

His eyelids dropped, and he looked away. "Perhaps they are. It is only I who feel so jaded by comparison."

"You don't seem jaded to me."

"Do I not? How do I seem to you?" He glanced back as he asked, and rested his head on the padded back of his chair to survey her with eyes she could not read.

She hesitated, wondering if it would be gauche to tell him. But then she was not skilled at
pretense. "Noble," she said quietly. "You seem noble, and sad, and weary. And as if your troubles are too big and time too short."

There was a short silence. "Perceptive little thing, aren't you?
All apart from the nobility. Such qualities are in short supply these busy times."

"Then polite, mostly, which passes for the same, I suppose. And in mourning, which might look romantic to the uninitiated. I am foolish no doubt. Give me leave to build my new husband into a creature worth admiring-"

"Praiseworthy sentiments, but I shall only disappoint."

"Are you a cynic, then?"

His eyebrows went up. "Nothing so formal. Only-"

"Jaded, yes.
I heard you. And it's true that death of loved ones makes it hard to be cheerful. I think it must be difficult to take on the responsibilities of a great inheritance when one is full of sorrow. Even more when you find the inheritance so sadly wasted."

"Wasted.
That is the exact word for it. But you mistake my sentiments. My cousin was never a kind man, nor inclined to pay attention to those he believed his inferiors."

"But surely for his family-"

"Surely not, Madam-Elizabeth. Beth. We were of no interest to him, and he was hardly a kind or generous family head. He forgot us as completely as he could manage."

"Pride
goeth before a fall," she said stoutly, and then her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Oh, I should not say such things. How dreadful."

But at this he laughed, for only the second time since she had known him. It was a short laugh, and hard, but it lit his face for a flash of an instant and she felt a tightening in her chest.

"Dreadful," he nodded. "Far too apt." His grin took any sting from his words. But too quickly it faded, and he took a deep breath, and let it out again. "It was pride precisely. A beautiful pair of high steppers, a crowded street, then a sudden accident ahead of him, and the Earl a member of the Four-In-Hand who was certain he could bypass it without checking. A friend of mine, James Carstairs, was there and saw it. Carstairs said he himself would have jumped down and run to the heads of his horses, guided them through. But Edward - my cousin - was determined to keep his place. The horses reared in the traces, the phaeton tipped, and Edward was thrown head first to the cobbles."

"How appalling," Elizabeth whispered, picturing it all too vividly. She was nauseated.

Lord Carhampton, who had fallen into a sort of trance as he spoke, started and looked up at her face. Whatever he saw there made him stand and come forward, then go swiftly down on one knee beside her and take her hands in his dry, warm ones. "Now it's my turn to apologize. I'm sorry. I should never have told you such a story. What was I thinking?"

"Oh no, no," said Elizabeth, but made no attempt to free her hands, entranced by his sudden attention. "Only I would not wish that fate on anyone, no matter how they squandered their estate or ignored their relatives, or how prideful they were. It is very bad."

"It is."

"And now all those burdens fall to you." She blinked at him, his eyes on a level with hers for the first time. His were a lovely
color now she could see them so well, so close, though marred by being bloodshot and so exhausted. She reached out and laid an impulsive hand on his cheek, and for a moment felt the rasp of stubble and hot skin drawn tight over a hard jaw. Then he recaptured her hand and put it back in her lap, and stood to return to his chair. He moved well, long-limbed and fluid. In truth she could not imagine him as a younger, poorer cousin. He seemed everything an earl should be.

Settled, and once more distant, he shrugged. "Everything has its price. This estate need only be earned. It will take time, and
labor, and the portion you have bestowed, but it will flourish."

When he said it in such a way, she could not doubt him. "I wish you'd let me play some part. I am not as useless as you suppose. I have not been raised to run an estate, but I am capable of learning. I'm not stupid."

He raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. Was he tired of her nagging already? "No. No, of course you are not stupid. I never meant to say you are. Only under-educated for what must be done here. As is to be expected of a city-bred girl from a prosperous family. But if you are not satisfied to be idle then make friends among the local gentry. I don't know them well, but I think they will welcome you and - finding you to be genteel and well-spoken - be delighted to occupy your time with local entertainments."

"You think I am well-spoken?" A flush of heat ran up under her skin at such praise. He said she was genteel too, though she should not remark upon that as if surprised that Mama and Mrs Gardiner's teachings had fulfilled their promise.
Well-spoken and genteel. She squirmed with pleasure.

"Of course," he said, as if surprised.

"I think you are very kind, and charming also." She smiled at him, and looked at him from under her lashes.

He shifted in his seat. "I don't wish to keep you from your bed. I'm sure this has been a very tiring day for you."

Was this the moment? In an instant she stiffened as fear clutched bony talons around her ribs and squeezed. "Do you-Shall I-that is, shall I take off my-" She stood and tugged the cord of her sash free, determined to face her fright and find out the worst of it.

His eyes widened, and she was sure that was consternation on his face. She froze. What had she done wrong?

He was already at her side, turning her, his hands firm on her waist. Even as she looked up at him, trying to understand, he shuffled her to the door she had come in by. "You must sleep," he commanded. "This is not the appropriate time. There is too much-" She was in her own room, cold and poorly lit, her fingers tangled in the front of her nightgown. "Good night," he said, and the door closed with a sharp bang.

Seconds later the doorknob was released and snapped back into place, as if he had stood and held it from the other side to be sure she would not burst through on him.

Dangerous, feral, wanton creature he must think her.

Her breath came in quick huffs, and her eyes watered. What had she done? Had she been too forward? Had she given him a disgust of her? Mama had said they would go to bed together. She must have misunderstood. But surely it was all supposed to take place on a 'wedding night,' or else why the significance of the term?

He said it was inappropriate. He was not pleased with her.

A tear ran down her cheek, and her nose started to drip. Where had Mary put her handkerchiefs?
In the top drawer of the dressing table? No. Nor in her portmanteau. She went to the wardrobe to search there and as she opened the door she was engulfed by familiar fragrance.

She sank down before the ranks of hanging dresses, their gauzy shimmer lost in the dimness but the scent of them alive all around her.
The smell of home, of love, of warmth and welcome and delight. Of rooms full of laughter and squabbles, where she ruled as eldest sister, where she knew exactly how to be, and what to do. Her hand clutched a wad of muslin and - careful not to mar it with her wet cheek, she drew in that smell, a thin comfort to hold in the lonely night.