“For one thing, the south wing is to remain locked. It’s far too dangerous to inhabit, and until the necessary structural repairs are made, you’re not to go into that part of the house for any reason. When it comes to the rest of the estate, you are not to go wandering beyond the rear gardens without me—there are traps and snares set in the birchwood, and only I know their locations.” Malcolm cleared his throat again. “And ... as far as our marital duties, I shall only ever come toyourchambers. Please do not be forward about seeking me out at night. My rooms are my own.”
“All right,” Eliza said, wrinkling her brow. Rules. What a strange conversation for the morning after their wedding! She tucked into her breakfast, a potato and leek tart adorned with pastry doves in flight. Mrs.Duncan came bustling out of the kitchen, her friendly, round face a welcome distraction. She laid a platter of fresh fruit between Eliza and Malcolm. “Thank you, Mrs.Duncan. This pie is delicious,” Eliza said. The rotund little housekeeper beamed and curtseyed before going back to the kitchen.
“No need to thank the staff,” Malcolm said curtly. “They’re only doing their jobs.”
“I show gratitude to anyone who extends kindness to me, husband. Especially to servants. It’s how I was raised. Noblesse oblige.”
“As charming as they are, you’ll find that many of your Creole sensibilities will merit polishing here. Speak pleasantries to the staff and they begin to feel as if they’re your equal. We can’t have that, can we?”
“I suppose we can’t.” She hurriedly finished the rest of her breakfast and stood from the table, irritation burning her ears beneath her untamed hair. “I think I’ll go to my rooms now,” she said sharply. “I need to dress for our outing and finish my toilette. I’ll have to send Turner to Sherbourne House to fetch the rest of my clothing, but I do have my daywear.”
“Very good.” Malcolm stood, scanning her bosom. He scowled. “Something a bit more modest would suit you, I think. I’ll come for you at one.”
Their trip into Cheltenbridge was lovely, so long as one was talking about the weather. Malcolm was silent most of the way there. He drove Apollo harder than she would have liked, freely employing his crop.The matter at Mr.Brainerd’s office took most of the afternoon, with Eliza having to watch Malcolm sign endless documents, while Monty lay across her feet, his shaggy head nudging her hand for pets, which she willingly gave.
She asked only one question, when the time came for Malcolm to put his pen to the deed for Sherbourne House. “My sister will be able to stay on, as we discussed. Isn’t that so, husband?”
“Miss Tourant may stay on until she marries, at which time I’ll let out the property to tenants. No need to maintain another household within walking distance, is there?”
Eliza blanched. “I’d hoped she and Clarence might stay at Sherbourne House, even after they marry. I’ve promised the house to them as a wedding gift. That way, I can visit her whenever I’d like. Lydia is the only family I have left. We’ve never been apart for longer than a day.”
Malcolm turned to her. A slight tremor of irritation quivered between his brows. “Look, darling. I’ve agreed to let her stay on for now. She isn’t even betrothed to Fawcett yet. We’ll see, won’t we?”
Eliza bit her lip. A drop of ink plopped onto the parchment from Malcolm’s pen. Mr.Brainerd shot an annoyed look over the top of his spectacles.
Malcolm scratched his name—Malcolm Aaron Winfield, fifth Viscount Havenwood—across the page next to her own, and it was done. Her house and her fortune now belonged to him as much as herself.
He was positively giddy at the sum, chattering about his plans for renovating the manor the entire way home. All the while, Eliza’s head pounded with a sudden, blinding migraine. She did her best to smile and be agreeable, even as a wave of nausea threatened to bring up her breakfast. She skipped the lovely tea Mrs.Duncan had laid out and chased away her headache with a dram of whisky and a nap.
That evening, dressing for dinner, Eliza searched her armoire. She hadn’t packed a single suitable gown. Or had she? She gave a noiseless laugh, remembering the long-forgotten parcel in the bottom of her trunk. Her mourning gown. She’d wrapped the black lace and bengaline atrocity in brown paper and twine and buried it beneath a riot of colorful ball gowns when she packed for England, swearing never to wear it again. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. She knelt on the floor in front of the high-legged Chippendale armoire and pulled her steamer trunk from beneath. She took the packet out, ripping the twine and paper loose. The gown bloomed like a black orchid in her hands, smelling of stale church incense. She pulled it on over her petticoats and corset. Its ruffled neck came just below her chin, where the stiff lace flared like a Renaissance collar. The puffed, gigot sleeves narrowed to a sharp point, covering the scars at her wrist. She smirked at her reflection. He did say he preferred modesty, didn’t he?
She stood before her dressing table and coaxed her ginger hair into ordered ringlets with bandoline, then piled it atop her head. She finished her ablutions by clipping a pair of jet earrings onto her ears. She looked as tame as she was capable of looking without her full wardrobe.
The gong rang for dinner. Eliza gave herself one more appraising glance and went down, the beaded hem of her gown hissing on the wooden stairs. Malcolm was standing beneath the winged seraph at the base of the staircase, dressed in white tie. He turned, a teasing smile playing at his lips. “My beautiful wife. Looking rather more like a widow than a bride, but lovely all the same.”
Eliza pinched the lace collar between her thumb and forefinger. “Well. I had to work with what I had. And you mentioned you prefer modest dress.”
He ran his fingertips down the row of tiny buttons up the back she’d had to contort herself into fastening with the help of a crocheting hook. “I suppose I did say that, although I may have to resort to scissorslater,” he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek. “Your charms are much too hidden for my liking.”
The dining room table was laid outà la russe, the silver gleaming over pressed white linens. Turner pulled out a chair for Eliza at the foot of the table, and Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Turner, but I’d have my wife sit close to me at the head. This old table is rather too long as it is.”
Unlike their morning meal, dinner was filled with witty conversation and laughter over Madeira and a sumptuous roasted squab, lightening Eliza’s mood. During dessert, Malcolm’s hand found its way beneath the table and rested on her knee, then moved higher, his fingers brushing where the boning of her corset met the delta of her thighs. Boldly, she held his gaze and opened her legs. Even under a layer of petticoats, he’d be sure to gather her intentions.
“I’m quite full, aren’t you, darling?” he asked.
“I’m not as hungry for dessert as I’d anticipated,” Eliza said, her lips curving into a slow smile. “And I’m suddenly so tired.”
“Perhaps I should see you to your chambers.”
They were hardly over the threshold before Malcolm was clawing at her gown. “You’re wearing far too many clothes,” he teased, biting her earlobe. “It’s driving me mad.”
“Then take me out of them.”
Without hesitation, he spun her around, hooking his fingertips in the back of the gown and ripping the buttons free. They fell and scattered on the floor like black, glistening rain.
“Goodness. I’ll need a lady’s maid if I’m to have any clothing left,” Eliza teased.
“That dress is no great loss, I assure you.” Malcolm loosened her corset with practiced fingers and pulled her petticoats free from her hips. She turned slowly to face the heat flaring in his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this all day long, wife. Thinking about you.”
