Married to the Rogue Page 5

  “So, you don’t smell of horse at my wedding. Bustle about!”

  A teaspoon clattered as they all stared at him.

  “But…but who the deuce are you marrying?” Letchworth demanded.

  “Miss Shelby,” he replied impatiently.

  Letchworth leapt to his feet, his face whitening.

  Christopher laughed. “Not your Miss Shelby! Deborah, the eldest sister.”

  “She is not even in Cheshire,” Letchworth said.

  “She has only recently arrived,” Christopher replied diplomatically.

  “Then, you knew her before?”

  “No.”

  Letchworth gave a crooked smile. “You must have some devastating charm.”

  “I haven’t charmed her in the slightest,” Christopher said with a twinge of regret. “Obviously, it is a marriage of convenience, but we believe it will answer very well.”

  “For you,” Lady Letchworth said, frowning. “Infamous of you to marry the girl for such a reason. Does she know you only want access to your fortune?”

  “Of course she does,” Christopher said impatiently.

  “Perhaps she wants access to it, too,” drawled Letchworth’s sister Frederica, Mrs. Ireton. She was a pretty young matron who had adopted a fashionable ennui since her marriage a year ago.

  “Who could blame her if she does?” Christopher retorted. “However, that is not her reason for marrying me, and I hope you will treat her with every kindness and respect. Hurry up, Letchworth, I need to go back to Gosmere and change.”

  “Oh, stand still, man!” Lady Letchworth exclaimed as Christopher strode back toward the door. “Why all this urgency?”

  “It’s the vicar. He’s a busy man and a stickler for punctuality.” He grinned, pausing only to be sure Letchworth followed him out of the room.

  “Are you sure about this?” Letchworth demanded as they approached the staircase.

  “Of course, I am.”

  “Doesn’t she—Miss Shelby—find it…insulting?”

  Actually, after last night’s bizarre but curiously touching visit, he wasn’t quite sure what she thought of it. “She’d find it more insulting if I pretended an affection I couldn’t possibly feel after a total of about half an hour spent in her company.”

  “Halland, you can’t do this!” Letchworth said, even more appalled.

  Christopher paused, scowling. “Look, if you want no part of it, say so now, and I’ll ask someone else instead. I thought of you because you at least have some connection to the family, but I daresay Copsley or Dr. Nairn would oblige me. With or without you, the marriage goes ahead as planned.”

  “Don’t you think people might find it a bit rum? Such a speedy, hole-in-the-corner affair?”

  “I don’t care if they do. It’s not them I’m marrying.”

  “No, but it’s Deborah Shelby, they will all be looking at and gossiping about, speculating as to why she married you so quickly on so little acquaintance.”

  He shrugged. “We all know little acquaintance is the only way she could be induced to marry me. Yes or no, Letchworth?”

  Letchworth sighed. “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Then, hurry,” Christopher said, shoving him toward the upward stairs. “A quarter before eleven!” With that, he rushed down the stairs, two and three at a time.

  As he rode back to Gosmere, his head was full of plans for the school, and how quickly he could begin it. But more than once, Deborah intruded into his thoughts.

  Perhaps he should not be doing this. Ruling out other possibilities for her. Providing comfort but not the happiness of love she might expect. She wasn’t the kind of girl, surely, to enjoy intrigues and furtive affairs. She was refreshingly different. Funny. Sweet. And honest, telling him about the scandal immediately, when she could easily have secured the ring first. And last night’s impulsive visit, looking like a half-drowned urchin, lost yet determined to discover if he was worth the risk.

  No, neither of them were romantic fools. They were each taking practical steps toward their own goals, and Christopher had no last-minute regrets.

  He wondered how soon Gates could get here. He had already summoned builders and spoken to his solicitor about setting up a separate trust for the school and inviting charitable donations, for his own fortune could not last forever on such a project.

  *

  Deborah, amazingly, had crept back into the house last night without her sortie being discovered. By morning, she cringed at her ill-judged visit to Gosmere and would not have been surprised to enter the church and discover it empty.

  But in fact, as she stepped inside with her mother, her siblings trotting behind, the pews were remarkably full. She wondered if she had stumbled into some other service, for beside the Copsleys were other gentlefolk, and several villagers sat behind.

  But no, there, at the front of the church, talking to Mr. May, the vicar, and Sir Edmund Letchworth, was Christopher Halland.

  She hadn’t scared him off after all.

  His head turned toward the newcomers, and a sudden beam of light through the high window seemed to blind her. She walked on, blinking rapidly, and then Christopher stood in front of her, tall, solid, and handsome in smart morning dress. Her heart thundered as he took her hand and led her to Mr. May.

  In sudden panic, she looked over her shoulder to see her mother and the children taking their seats in the front pew. Lucy stood still beside Deborah. The vicar’s voice drew her attention back, but his words seemed to float over her head. Christopher was removing her glove, holding her hand in his. Life and sense seemed to zing suddenly back. Her fingers curled convulsively around his and then loosened. But she could not look at him.

  Mr. May was speaking to her. She responded, making her vows before God and man.

  And then, they were man and wife.

  *

  Christopher seemed quite content to breakfast at the inn. Sir Edmund joined them, though his family did not.

  Neither did the Copsleys, although Mrs. Copsley embraced Deborah, murmuring, “If you need anything, anything at all, come to me.”

  “Thank you,” Deborah said politely, appreciating the kindness while having little clue about the meaning.

  Mrs. Briggs greeted them at the inn’s front door with huge smiles, having played her part in bringing the happy couple together. They were shown into the private parlor and presented with an array of her best dishes.

  “If you have your things packed and ready, we can take them up to the hall with us this afternoon,” Christopher suggested as they neared the end.

  “Very well.”

  “Anything else can be sent up later.”

  “Can we come this afternoon?” Stephen asked eagerly.

  “Not this afternoon,” their mother said firmly.

  “Tomorrow, if you wish?” Christopher offered. “Arrange it with Deborah, but you are welcome at any time.”

  “Are you not going on a wedding trip?” Lucy asked in astonishment.

  Christopher’s eyebrows flew up. “Do you know, I never thought of it? Do you care for such a thing, Deborah?”

  Deborah, who had been longing to travel abroad for as long as she could remember, and who had walked into the princess’s house that fateful evening convinced it was about to happen at last, smiled and shook her head.

  “Perhaps we can take a few weeks once everything is under way,” Christopher said carelessly.

  “We shall see,” Deborah murmured.

  *

  Until last night, Deborah had only ever seen Gosmere Hall from a distance, for without a horse or carriage, it was a long walk from the village. In her mind’s eye was a large, gloomy house shuttered and faceless. Blundering up there in the dark and the rain had done little to dispel the memory. And in daylight, her first glimpse of it through the trees seemed to confirm everything. However, as they grew closer, she saw that the shutters had been thrown open, that apart from a tangle of ivy, it was not really overgrown. And yet the impression o
f darkness, of eeriness remained, no doubt the product of her imagination.

  “The building is old,” Christopher said apologetically. “But it is in decent repair. However, we’ll probably want to make changes to the inside. Ask Mrs. Dawson to help find tradesmen to do whatever you want to the place.”

  “Who is Mrs. Dawson?”

  “The housekeeper. She and Hunter, the butler, have been there since before my maternal grandfather died. They’ve kept the place going for years, maintaining a handful of rooms for unexpected visits by my grandfather—Hawfield, I mean—or me. But we’ll need more servants to open the place up completely. Gardeners, too, probably.” He glanced at her with a quick smile. “Am I overwhelming you?”

  “I’m not used to running a large establishment.”

  “But you’ll find your way,” he said comfortably. “And it’s not so very large. I like the house. I think we’ll be comfortable here.”

  We. He was her husband, her family, now. But as the carriage rumbled up the sweeping drive to the front of the house, she couldn’t imagine ever being comfortable in the big, rambling hall.

  Christopher jumped down unaided and let down the carriage steps for her. As he handed her down, she saw the meager staff had assembled like a guard of honor down each side of the steps to the portico. At the front stood a tall, thin, balding man who held his head tilted slightly, perhaps to look down at the rest of the world more easily. And a rigid, plump woman with thin lips and a disapproving expression. Her heart sank.

  “This is Hunter and Mrs. Dawson,” Christopher said casually, and the pair bowed and curtseyed, respectively. “Mrs. Halland is now your mistress. Have them take up the bags, Hunter.”

  Hunter bowed submissively, but his darting glance was not friendly. As they walked up the steps to the front door, Deborah saw a cook, two maids, and last night’s footman, Eric, in faded, ill-fitting livery. There were also a couple of rougher looking men who might have been gardeners or grooms or the coachman from last night whom she had only seen in darkness. She would no doubt discover in time. For now, Christopher did not trouble to introduce them, so she merely nodded to them on the way past.

  The entrance hall was huge, dark, and gloomy, despite large, tall windows on all sides, even stretching up the marble staircase.

  “It needs work,” Christopher allowed. “Only one room on this floor is cleaned as a reception room for unexpected callers. Up on the next floor,” he added, ushering her toward the staircase, “it is slightly more comfortable.”

  Deborah hoped so. However, comfort was not the word she would have used for the massive formal dining room or the ornate yet faded drawing room on the other side of the gallery. They were clean, but still gloomy and smelled musty.

  Increasingly oppressed, she followed him upstairs to the bedchambers.

  “You can explore everything at your leisure and decide what to do with each room,” he said as though sensing her feelings. “These apartments are traditionally the mistress’s, so they’ve been hastily cleaned and aired for you. But again, you must feel free to choose any rooms you like.”

  The rooms were large and well-proportioned. Although inevitably gloomy, someone had blessedly left the windows open, and the musty smell was minimal. A generous sitting room, a small antechamber, and a large bedchamber made up the suite, which must have covered as much area as the Shelbys’ entire house.

  “My room is right at the other end of the house. I’ll show you just so you know where to find me!”

  Obediently, she accompanied him along the passage, which, again, should surely have been lighter and brighter than it was on such a sunny day.

  “These were my grandfather’s rooms,” he said, throwing open the first door they came to, some distance after her own. She had a glimpse of dark opulence and several doors within before she hurried after Christopher.

  His bedchamber was considerably less grand, a large, single room with clothes, books, and papers strewn all over it.

  “Sorry,” he said, closing the door again. “Not a tidy person!”

  “Don’t you have a valet?”

  “No, though perhaps I should acquire one.” He frowned suddenly. “You don’t have a maid either, do you? We had better change that, though I suppose you could use the chambermaid for now. There is plenty of room in the servants’ quarters.” He pointed to the attic above. “So, we can take on as many servants as we see fit.”

  “Do you really want to open up the whole house?” she asked, daunted. “It will be a huge undertaking. Especially if you are involved with the school at the same time. To say nothing of your parliamentary duties.”

  “We could begin a little at a time. We can take proper stock tomorrow and set a few things in motion. For today, I think we should just get used to the place. I’ll leave you to unpack and settle into your rooms. And then… Would you like tea in the garden?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” she said fervently, desperate to get out into fresher air.

  It didn’t take her long to hang her few gowns and outer garments in the wardrobe and her underclothes in the drawers. Her hairbrush, pins, and ribbons found a place, as did her toothbrush and powder. In a clean but streaky mirror, her new ring glinted on her finger—gold and diamonds, finer than anything she had ever possessed, binding her to the man who owned all this.

  Or at least, she hoped he did. Otherwise, Lord Hawfield, the trustee, would come back and turn them both out. A breath of slightly hysterical laughter caught at her throat. Hastily, she crossed to the door and went downstairs in search of Christopher, the terrace, and tea.

  The terrace was reached through a large, grubby room on the first floor, suddenly made bright by throwing open the French windows. Christopher grinned at her delight and showed the chairs and table set up outside. The servants brought tea and an array of scones and pastries.

  Deborah poured tea for them both and finally relaxed enough to look about her. The terrace overlooked a formal garden sloping down to woods and fields. A natural lake glinted on the right.

  “It is pretty,” she said in surprise. “Did you come here as a child?”

  “Occasionally. But my grandfather lived mostly in London. I came more after he died, knowing it was mine or would be one day. And yet, I had no say in the running of the estate or the use of the house. And as you see, it is not exactly welcoming.”

  She glanced back through the dingy French widows. Sunlight beamed in on cobwebs and dust. Setting down her cup, she rose and touched the outside glass of the door. “No wonder the place is dark. The windows are filthy. Christopher, we will need an army of servants.”

  “I know. Talk to Hunter and Mrs. Dawson.”

  She nodded, gazing curiously into the room. The furniture was masked in Halland covers, and the floor was dirty, but beyond the cobwebs, the ceiling moldings and the cornices were pretty. “This could be a beautiful room, a kind of summer drawing room.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea. Will that be your first project?”

  “If you like the idea.” She sat down again and thoughtfully drank her tea. “If your aim is entertainment, I think we need to brighten up the formal rooms, too. And the entrance hall, while magnificent, is not welcoming either. It will,” she reflected, “be a massive upheaval.”

  “Will you mind?”

  “No, I like to be busy. But it will not immediately be a restful home for you.”

  He blinked as though he barely understood the words. Then his face softened. “You are very sweet, you know.”

  She flushed. “I’ve no idea why you would think so.”

  “You are truly concerned for my comfort when I have just married you and plunged you immediately into a large project of work.”

  “Is that not the normal concern of a wife?”

  “You are not exactly a normal wife.”

  “I shall endeavor to be convenient.”

  “As shall I, but you may need to kick me from time to time. I am obsessive by nature and too used t
o pleasing only myself.”

  “And yet you will spend thousands creating and maintaining a school for the poor.”

  “I’m a politician,” he said cynically. “Nothing is done without an element of personal ambition.”

  After tea, they wandered through the garden and, without actually meaning to, ended by walking to the lake.

  “There used to be swans here when my grandfather was young,” Christopher said. “Long gone by the time I remember it. I do remember swimming, though, and fishing with Rupert and Dudley.”

  “Your brothers?”

  “Cousins. We all came with my grandfather one summer. I think it must have been shortly after their father died. Their father and mine were brothers, and Dudley had just become Hawfield’s heir, with the title of Lord Bilston.”

  “And Rupert?”

  “Ah, well, Rupert is the skeleton in our cupboard. He killed a man in a duel and had to flee the country. Which is a pity—except, of course, that it keeps me from being held up as the black sheep of the family.”

  “You have a…colorful family,” she observed.

  He shrugged. “Rupert was the best of them, in my opinion. Which probably tells you all you need to know. I think I prefer your family.”

  “You won’t once they have run wild here a few times.”

  He laughed. “I like that they’re lively.” He shrugged. “I was alone a good deal after my sister died.”

  She glanced at him in quick surprise, the oddest idea striking her, that he might ever have been lonely. “What happened to her?”

  “The doctors were not sure. One of those sudden, childhood ailments that could not be cured. They would not let me see her in case I caught it, too.”

  “You must have missed her.”

  “Yes.” But he didn’t linger to discuss it, merely offered her his arm for the walk back to the house.

  It felt very strange, this casual intimacy, but then everything about her life was strange now—even summoning a chambermaid to help her change for dinner. The girl’s name was Anne, she was only eighteen years old and came from the village, but she seemed delighted to help her new mistress dress, even offered to brush and pin her hair, which she did surprisingly well.