But at least the spark was there, even if she kept it hidden. Perhaps, in time, she might emerge from the shell she’d fashioned around herself and come out into the light.
At least, she would if she weren’t married to a man that she feared.
A pity, then, that she’s married to me.
Chapter Twenty
He appreciates hissupreme good fortune in securing your hand.
Olivia turned her attention from the view outside the carriage window and glanced at her husband, his body hunched and contorted to fit himself onto the seat.
Gallant though the words were, they were evidently not his. Surely if he thought himself fortunate, he wouldn’t look so angry all the time.
But she clung to the flash of tenderness in his eyes as he’d passed her the note—a tenderness that belied the awkward words he’d written. Eleanor had always told her that men knew little of fine speeches and pretty words. It was only by their actions that they could express any feeling.
The terror that beset Olivia last night had long since faded, but humiliation had replaced it. Shame had burned deep inside her body as she read his confession that he’d thought her some sort of harlot. And, to further her humiliation, he’d confessed that he wouldn’t have touched her had he known she was a maiden. Doubtless he preferred the company of doxies.
He sat before her, rocking softly in unison with the motion of the carriage—hands folded on his lap, fingertips touching the gem on his signet ring. His eyes were closed and had been for most of the journey.
But if he were awake, what would she say to him? And what could he convey to her that would not further her shame? The valet, with hiskind eyes and gallant words, might have furthered a conversation between them, but the man had, once again, insisted on sitting outside. His merry conversation with the coachman filtered through the window, and not for the first time, Olivia wished she had remained in obscurity—on the periphery of a Society to which she didn’t belong. Then she might have sat outside in the sunshine, enjoying easy laughter with those of the class into which she’d been born, rather than imprisoned in the confines of the carriage with a man who despised her.
Her husband’s eyes snapped open, and Olivia’s stomach flipped with shame at her being caught watching him. She averted her gaze, then drew in a sharp breath as a large hand took hers. He uncurled his body, frowning as his head bumped on the ceiling, then he glanced out of the window and made a gesture.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He pointed to the window and nodded. Through the trees she glimpsed a building.
“Is that your home?”
He frowned, pointed to his chest, then to hers.
“Ourhome?”
He nodded and made a gesture that she recognized from yesterday.
“That means yes, doesn’t it?”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Will you teach me to understand what you’re saying with your hands?”
He frowned and made another gesture.
“Are you saying you think it would be too difficult for me to learn?”
He tilted his head to one side, the expression in his eyes conveying surprise, and she allowed herself to smile.
“It’s not just by a person’s voice, or their hands, that they tell uswhat they’re saying,” she said. “It may take time for me to understand you, but I have the rest of my life.”
He frowned, and she caught an expression of guilt in his eyes. Then he released her hand and leaned back, staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the building outside, which seemed to have grown in height the closer they drew to it, dominating the skyline.
But rather than express the delight of a man returning home, his expression seemed to darken with each turn of the wheel.
By the time the carriage drew to a halt, the brooding anger had returned, shimmering about his form. The carriage shifted as someone climbed down, then the valet’s cheerful face appeared at the window. He opened the door and, without a glance at his master, took Olivia’s hand and helped her out.
A row of servants formed a line, at the head of which stood a black-clad butler and a woman, presumably the housekeeper, in a dark-blue gown with iron-gray hair scraped back into a severe style. Next to them were a young man with a mop of black hair, dressed in a rough-spun jacket and breeches, and a young woman with light-blonde hair, pale-blue eyes, and delicate features. The man stared at Olivia with frank appraisal, but his companion narrowed her eyes, hostility in her expression.
Olivia heard her husband’s footsteps crunching on the gravel as he climbed out of the carriage, then he placed his hand on the small of her back and glared at the valet, and Olivia could swear she heard a low growl. Then he propelled her toward the waiting servants, who, at a word from the butler, bowed and curtseyed in unison.
