She’d read his name on countless marriage-related documents. “Sebastian Leslie Guy de Ath Ballister,” she said, smiling. “And here I thought you had all those names because there’s so much of you.”
She felt his body stiffen. She looked up. His jaw was tight, too, his mouth set in a hard line.
She wondered what nerve she’d struck inadvertently.
She didn’t have time to work out the riddle, because Dain snatched up her forgotten bonnet and shoved it on her head backwards, and she had to right the hat and tie the ribbons. Then she had to try to make a dress she’d traveled in since early morning look presentable, because the carriage was turning in to a gateway, and Dain’s ill-concealed agitation told her the drive beyond led to his home.
Chapter 12
Despite the unplanned-for pause at Stonehenge, Dain’s carriage drew up at Athcourt’s front entrance at precisely eight o’clock, as scheduled. By twenty past eight, he and his bride had inspected the domestic army, all turned out in trim ceremonial array, and had been discreetly inspected in turn. With a very few exceptions, none of the present staff had ever clapped eyes on their master before. Nonetheless, they were too well trained and well paid to show any emotion, including curiosity.
All was ready, exactly as Dain had ordered, and every requirement provided precisely to the minute, according to the schedule he’d sent ahead. Their baths had been readied while they reviewed the staff. Their dinner clothes were pressed and neatly laid out.
The first course was served the instant lord and lady took their seats at opposite ends of the long table in the cavernous dining room. The cold dishes arrived cold, the warm, warm. Andrews, the valet, stood near His Lordship’s chair throughout the meal and assisted with all tasks requiring two hands.
Jessica did not appear in the least daunted by a dining room the size of Westminster Abbey, or the dozen liveried footmen waiting at attention near the sideboard while each course was consumed.
At a quarter to eleven she rose from the table to leave Dain to his port. As coolly as though she’d been mistress there for centuries, she informed the house steward, Rodstock, that she would have tea in the library.
The table had been cleared before she was through the door, and the decanter appeared before Dain almost in the same instant. His glass was filled with the same silent unobtrusiveness, and his host of attendants vanished in the same ghostly quiet and quick way when he said, “That will be all.”
It was the first time Dain had had anything like privacy for two days, and the first chance to think properly about the problem of deflowering his bride since he’d realized it was a problem.
What he thought was that it had been a long day and his paralyzed arm was throbbing and the dining room was too quiet and he didn’t like the color of the drapes and the landscape hanging over the mantle was too small for the location.
At five minutes to eleven, he pushed away his untouched wineglass, rose, and went to the library.
Jessica stood at a book stand, where the immense family Bible lay open to a page containing the customary entries of weddings, births, and deaths. When her husband entered, she threw him a reproachful look. “Today is your birthday,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He approached, and his stony expression settled into the usual mocking mask as he glanced down at the place she pointed to. “Fancy that. My estimable sire didn’t black my name out. I’m all amazement.”
“Am I to believe you’ve never once looked in this book?” she asked. “That you weren’t interested in your forebears—when you knew all about Guy de Ath?”
“My tutor told me about my ancestors,” he said. “He tried to enliven the history curriculum with regular strolls through the portrait galley. ‘The first Earl of Blackmoor,’ he would solemnly announce as he paused before a portrait of a chevalier with long golden curls. ‘Created during the reign of King Charles II,’ I would be informed. Then my tutor would expound upon the events of that reign and explain how my noble ancestor fit in and what he’d done to win his earldom.”
His tutor had told him, not his father.
“I should like to be tutored in the same way,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow you will take me for a stroll through the portrait gallery. I collect it must be about ten or twelve miles long.”
“One hundred eighty feet,” he said, his eye returning to the page. “You seem to have an exaggerated view of the size of Athcourt.”
“I’ll get used to it,” she said. “I managed not to gape and gawk too much when introduced to the cathedral village otherwise known as Her Ladyship’s Apartments.”
He was still staring at the page where his birth had been recorded. His sardonic expression hadn’t changed, but there was turmoil in his dark eyes. Jessica wondered whether it was the entry directly below that troubled him. It had saddened her, and she had grieved for him.
“I lost my parents in the year after you lost your mother,” she said. “They were killed in a carriage accident.”
“Fever,” he said. “She died of fever. He entered that event, too.” Dain sounded surprised.
“Who entered your father’s death?” she asked. “That isn’t your hand.”
He shrugged. “His secretary, I suppose. Or the vicar. Or some officious busybody.” He pushed her hand away and slammed the ancient Bible shut. “If you want family history, we’ve volumes of it on the shelves at the far end of this room. It’s recorded in tedious detail, going back to the Roman conquest, I daresay.”
She opened the Bible again. “You are the head of the family and you must put me in it now,” she said gently. “You’ve acquired a wife, and you must write it down.”
“Must I, indeed, this very minute?” He lifted an eyebrow. “And suppose I decide not to keep you after all? Then I should have to go back and blot out your name.”
She left the bookstand, crossed to a study table, took up a pen and inkwell, and returned to him. “I should like to see you try to get rid of me,” she said.
