Heaving a sigh, she resumed her pacing, taking in the sparse furnishings and pictures gracing the walls. The damask coverings were faded and beginning to peel. The staining beneath a window suggested it leaked and needed repair. Her bed appeared lumpy.
She kicked off a slipper.
Then another.
Following the wedding breakfast, she and Wycombe—Hudson—had taken the carriage ride to Brinton Manor alone. Their journey had been marked by a great deal of silence. Elysande had been overheated in a combination of the warm day and all the wine she had consumed. Her fan had failed to assuage her discomfort. Finally, her husband had opened the carriage windows. She had arrived dusty and covered in perspiration, her lovely wedding gown quite wrinkled from her travels.
The surprisingly small number of servants at her new home had gathered together to greet her, an act which had seemingly surprised her husband. Although she had spent precious little time in his company, one pattern was emerging. He was not a man who was accustomed to being a duke. The aristocracy was foreign to him. That was well enough for her. She had no wish to be a member of polite society and adhere to its rules either.
Her presentation at court had been wretched, as had nearly every social engagement she had been forced to endure. Gentlemen, she had learned, did not want to converse about the way things worked, the manner in which various components fitted together to create something new and better. They did not want a lady who was intrigued by electricity or engineering or anything of interest. They wanted a lady who would dance a waltz without stepping on their toes. Who would curtsy and listen to their mothers and speak in dulcet, measured tones, and never dream of doing anything worthwhile.
Perhaps, in their lack of ability to adhere to polite society’s expectations, they could find common ground.
On yet another sigh, she stalked to the bottle of Sauternes her lady’s maid had obligingly liberated from the wine cellars at Talleyrand Park at her request. At the time, further fortification had seemed an excellent idea. Denning had been reluctant, but she had done as Elysande asked. There was not a glass to be had, though the cork had been helpfully drawn. Pulling the cork free, Elysande held the bottle to her lips and took a long pull.
The wine was excellent. The wisdom of continuing to imbibe when she had retired to her chamber for a period of rest before she dressed for her first dinner with her husband? There was none.
But that was not going to stop her. The misgiving and anxiety which had been coiling within her like an asp about to strike was stronger than ever. Dinner with the duke. What would she say? What if he pressed her to consummate their marriage? If he refused to adhere to her wishes?
Her requirements, as Father had made certain to inform her, were just that. Requirements which could be ignored or observed. The only binding portion of the marriage contract was the portion which failed to address her wish to remain childless until she could complete her work. The money changing hands was important. Her wishes for her future were not.
It had been a bitter acknowledgment for her to face. More bitter still, the betrayal by her father. For all her life, Elysande had been treated as if she mattered. She had been born a lady, but her parents had given her equal opportunities for education and freedom. What Royston had, so too did she and her sisters. Sometimes, a compromise had to be made in schooling, but Elysande, Isolde, Criseyde, and Corliss had always been afforded the best education possible.
She took another long draught from the bottle, and then a knock at the door connecting her chamber to her new husband’s shocked her out of her wildly unfurling thoughts. On a start, she reached for the cork, stuffed it back into the bottle, and hastily searched for a place where she might hide the smuggled Sauternes.
“Elysande?”
“Just a moment,” she called, rushing toward the wardrobe and promptly tripping on her weighty hems.
She landed on the floor in a miserable heap, her forehead bouncing off the woolen carpets, the bottle rolling away from her grip. Dimly, she was aware of the door opening and a muffled curse.
“Good Lord, woman.”
Masculine hands were on her waist, rolling her to her back, and she blinked at the sight of him towering over her, tall and majestic and so very handsome. More handsome than she had been willing to admit. His mouth was set in a firm line of what she supposed must be disapproval.
But then she thought of how she looked, sprawled on her back in her wedding dress. Married to a man she scarcely knew—the replacement for her previous betrothed, a bottle of wine rolling away from her, thoroughly sotted. And a bubble of laughter rose in her throat before she could tamp it down. The bubble grew and grew, until she released it. And she was laughing then. Laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks and she could scarcely catch her breath.
Laughing as her new husband hovered over her, frowning and brooding and debonair in his own wedding finery. He looked rather like a fierce warrior being forced to dress as a duke.
“Elysande?” he asked. “Have you injured yourself? Say something, damn it.”
But she could not. The laughter had overtaken her. She was delirious. And drunk. And she had been married today.
To him.
He dropped to his knees on the carpet beside her. “Wife?” He patted her cheek. “What is the matter?”
Wife.
That was what the matter was.
And the wine.
And the wedding.
And everything else.
“Are you hurt?” There was concern in his face, the first indication that his façade was cracking.
