Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Read online

  Tall—she had noted that—with broad shoulders, and not fat like his father. Although his expression had not been welcoming, he had offered her his arm, and his talk during the short carriage ride could have been intended to set her at ease. There was politeness there, at least, and possibly some consideration for her feelings. And he didn’t seem to look through her clothes as the earl had. Things could have been a lot worse.

  But he was still a stranger, and the idea of intimate relations, possibly tonight, made her shiver. Could she ask for that to be delayed?

  She gave her neck a last wipe with the damp towel and tucked her fichu back into her gown. There would be plenty of time to think about that in the coach. Picking up the bunch of roses, she made her way back along the corridor.

  A dour-faced man awaited her at the bottom of the stairs, and made a small bow as she descended the last few steps. “His lordship and Mr Charters are in the front parlour, my lady, if you will step this way?” He turned and walked off, heading for a door on one side of the hall.

  Connie stood still—the butler had made no mention of Lord Wingrave, and she had no wish to see her father or the earl again. Remembering Martha’s admonishment not to be intimidated by servants, she walked towards the front entrance. As she approached, a footman dressed in ornate livery bowed and opened the door for her, his eyes sliding sideways as hurried footsteps sounded behind her.

  “My lady!” It was the butler, his face even more severe.

  “I will wait outside,” she stated. “Please show me to a shaded part of the garden.” She raised an eyebrow when he made no immediate move, and finally he gave a little bow.

  “My apologies, my lady. I was instructed to show you to the parlour, but if you wish to wait elsewhere, there are some shaded seats in the parterre. Trent, show her ladyship the way.”

  The footman bowed again, and Connie followed him down the steps and along a gravelled path. The seat he indicated was set in an alcove cut into the hedge, blessedly cool. The parterre was laid out in a cross pattern, the beds bordered by neatly clipped box hedges, with a statue of a Greek muse in each one. The flowers filling the beds were not yet in bloom, and the dark, regimented hedging gave the garden a gloomy and forbidding air in spite of the sunshine. She much preferred the look of the vicarage garden, the grass usually over-long and the roses rambling through everything in a disordered riot. It must take an army of gardeners to keep all these hedges so neatly trimmed and the gravel raked. Perhaps the point was to demonstrate the earl’s wealth.

  Nevertheless, it was a pleasant place to sit, with no-one trying to tell her what to do.

  Will found his father seated at the table in the dining room, a plate of food before him containing only crumbs. Charters, with a glass of port in one hand, was inspecting the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Where is Lady Wingrave?”

  Charters looked around. “Has she not returned?” He bowed towards the earl. “No doubt she will soon be here to pay her proper respects to you, my lord.”

  Will was hard-pressed to avoid a sneer as Charters continued. “I look forward to visiting my daughter here, my—”

  “She will be living in Devonshire,” Marstone interrupted, his tone bored.

  Will suppressed his amusement as dismay crossed Charters’ face. His father seemed as little impressed with the man as he was. But he didn’t want to spend time with these two—the sooner he was away from here, the better.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” Will said, and left the room before either man could reply.

  The butler stood in the hall, awaiting Marstone’s next command.

  “Benning, do you know where Lady Wingrave is?”

  “I believe she is waiting outside, my lord.”

  So she had declined to join their fathers—that showed some spirit, at least.

  Gravel scrunched as the coach drew up before the house. Noakes sat beside the coachman on the box; a woman in servants’ clothing occupied the seat behind them.

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Milsom, my lord,” Benning said. “Lady Wingrave’s maid. Shall I inform her ladyship that the coach is ready?”

  “If you please.”

  “Trent, fetch Lady Wingrave. My lord, I will inform his lordship that you are about to depart.”

  Will descended the steps and stood looking over the park while he waited. The deer that normally roamed the grounds were, very sensibly, resting in the shade of the oak trees.

  His new wife appeared first, casting an uncertain gaze at him as he moved forward to hand her into the coach. There was still no sign of her father, or his, although Benning had reappeared.

  “Benning, inform Mr Charters that his—”

  “No, please. Don’t bother on my account.” Her face, looking up at his, held a crease between her brows. “I’m sorry, my lord.” She cast her eyes down. “You will wish to take leave of your own father.”

  “No more than you do yours, my lady.” He had a packet of letters for the solicitor in Exeter. That was all he wanted from his father, as the deeds to Ashton Tracey would not be forthcoming.

  She took his outstretched hand hesitantly, although she did not lean on it as she stepped up into the coach. He followed her in and took the rear-facing seat, relieved to find the smell of her perfume had faded. A basket on the floor showed someone had had the sense to provide some food for the journey. Trent closed the door and stood back as the coach began to move.

  Will gazed out of the window as the familiar parkland gave way to country lanes, the feeling of unreality returning. Last week he’d been single and free—or as free as his father had let him be. Now he was leg-shackled to… to what?

  His wife sat upright, back rigid, head turned towards a window. The hands clenched in her lap made him wonder if she was actually seeing the scenery. She turned her head, but looked away again when she caught his eyes.

  Feeling the need to do something, he pushed the window down, then slid along the seat to open the other.

  “I trust you have no objection, my lady?”

  “No, thank you. The air will be welcome.” She managed to hold his gaze this time, although her anxious expression remained. “May I ask where we are going, my lord?”

  “Devonshire, as I told you.” Had she not been listening earlier?

  “Yes, my lord, I remember you saying so. But Devonshire is a large county, is it not?”

  Connie watched Lord Wingrave’s face as he described the house and grounds at Ashton Tracey, paying more attention to his expression than his words. He had appeared forbidding earlier, but his impatience had given way to something almost resembling enthusiasm, and his face was now lightened by his smile and the lines that appeared at the corners of his eyes. Blue eyes, she noted, and a square face with a firm chin.

  Although relieved that his mood seemed to be improving, she was also dismayed at the confirmation that their destination was so far away.

  “We will be several days on the road, then,” she said, when he finished talking.

  “Yes—we stop at Marlow tonight, then, all being well, at Salisbury tomorrow.”

  Salisbury—would she have a chance to look at the cathedral there? Mr Fancott had told her how much he admired it. But the journey pushed thoughts of the cathedral away. Salisbury was some way from Exeter. She would be cooped up in a coach with a man she didn’t know for two more full days.

  She loosened her fichu, wishing she could remove it and feel a little cooler, but that would be improper. She’d never travelled more than a few miles by coach; in this heat the journey would seem long indeed, even without her worries about her life to come.

  A sudden movement made her look up. Lord Wingrave pulled his wig off and dropped it on the seat beside him, then peeled his coat off. What was he doing? Her father frequently removed his wig, and even his coat on a day such as this, but not in public. Her stomach knotted as she realised this was not in public. She belonged to this man now, whether she liked it or no
t.

  And whether he liked it or not.

  He looked more approachable without his wig and coat—less like his father, and younger than he’d appeared at first. Her father shaved his head; Lord Wingrave did not, but wore his brown hair cropped fairly short.

  She averted her gaze as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. Was he going to remove that, too? Here, in the coach? Surely he did not intend to consummate—?

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, but it is insufferably hot in here.”

  Not now, then. The knot in her stomach eased, but only a little. There was still later.

  She took a deep breath. The topic had to be broached at some point—it might as well be now.

  “My lord, may we have separate rooms at the inn tonight?”

  His hands paused on the last buttons of his waistcoat, and he raised an eyebrow. “I am told I do not snore, my lady.”

  Connie felt her cheeks glow.

  “I mean…” She swallowed hard. “Is it possible… er, may we delay our… our marital relations for a while, my lord?” She stared at her hands, only looking up again when he spoke.

  “And if I demand my marital rights, my lady?”

  Thankfully, he didn’t appear angry. “You can force me, there is little doubt about that.” He would have no difficulty overpowering her.

  “You have just made a vow to obey me.” Neither his tone nor his expression gave any indication of his feelings.

  “And you vowed to love and cherish me, my lord. Is it cherishing to force a woman to have intimate relations with a stranger? No decent woman would wish for that.”

  She swallowed again, impressed that she had got all that out without stumbling. He had one brow raised again, but she could not make out anything but mild surprise on his face.

  “Arranged marriages may be common amongst people of your rank, my lord, but even then, do not the two people get to know each other before meeting in the church?”

  Not if they’ve been forced into marriage.

  As Will watched, a muscle tensed in her jaw and her eyes dropped to her hands again. She did have a point.

  “How long would you like, my lady? A week? A month, perhaps?”

  “A month should be adequate,” she said, with a small nod. “Thank you, my lord.”

  With that, she reached to pull loose the ribbon holding her hat, and placed it on the seat next to her posy. Resting her head back against the squabs, she closed her eyes.

  Will realised he was gaping, and closed his mouth with a snap. His response had not been intended as an offer. Amusement crept in. She had bested him—temporarily, at least. He could explain that he hadn’t meant it, but he thought he would not. The little mouse had some backbone and, more importantly, had not reverted to tears and pleading to get her way. Forcing her before she was ready was no way to start their life together.

  She couldn’t really be asleep—no-one could sleep in that position without their mouth falling open—but feigning sleep had been an effective way of terminating their discussion before he could retract.

  His smile widened into a grin. His father would be livid if he knew what Will had just agreed to.

  What had her life been before today? He’d initially assumed she’d agreed to the match for his title and future wealth. That might still be the case but, from what he’d seen, her father cared as little for her as his own did for him. Could he really blame her for agreeing to the match, whatever her reason?

  In spite of the open windows, the air in the coach was close. He rested his head on the padded side of the coach, closed his eyes and attempted to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Will opened the basket of food after they stopped to change horses. There was a selection of cold meats and cheeses, fresh rolls, and pastries. Lady Wingrave accepted a few slices of cold chicken and a roll, but only picked slowly at the food. Nervous, he supposed, making a good meal himself.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, finally handing her empty plate back. She wiped her fingers on a handkerchief and regarded him for a moment. He thought she was about to speak, but she turned her gaze to the window instead.

  Will packed the food away, and sat back against the squabs. He ought to make some kind of conversation, but what should he talk about? His address was not usually so lacking, but this was not a normal situation.

  “Have you travelled often, my lady?”

  She turned her head towards him. “No, my lord. I’ve never been more than a few miles from home.”

  So much for that topic. She clearly wasn’t about to start a conversation herself. Complimenting a woman’s appearance was his usual opening move, but she might take that as an indication that he’d changed his mind about waiting a month. He’d agreed, and he’d stick to it.

  Giving up, he watched the passing scenery instead. Better a silent spouse than a chatterbox, he thought, turning his mind to the things he needed to do when they reached Ashton Tracey.

  Connie alighted with relief when the coach finally stopped in Marlow, glad to be out of the awkward silence.

  A short, plump woman climbed down from the coach, demanding that Noakes take care with her own bag before turning to Connie. “I’m Milsom, my lady. My lord employed me as your personal maid.”

  “I only need those…” Connie found herself talking to the maid’s back, as she had turned to give more orders about luggage, her sharp voice cutting through the noise in the yard.

  Lord Wingrave had vanished into the building, so she stood waiting, feeling more lonely in this crowd than ever before. Martha had warned that her new status would require a personal maid, but she’d hoped to be able to choose someone she could get along with.

  Look on the bright side, she told herself sternly. Staff can be changed. ‘Be firm from the start,’ Martha had said. ‘There’ll be some servants who’ll spot your inexperience and take advantage.’

  Straightening her shoulders, she walked across the yard and into the inn. No-one took any notice of her—which was to be expected, she supposed, as her clothing wasn’t ornate or rich enough to denote anything more than a respectable woman.

  “Ah, there you are.” Lord Wingrave emerged from a door in the passageway, then turned his head and called to someone behind him. A woman as plump as Milsom emerged, but this one wore a smile.

  “If you’ll follow me, my lady, I’ll show you to your room, and get your trunks sent up. You’ll want to change before dinner. This way.”

  She waddled up the stairs. The room she ushered Connie into was small but clean; the bed looked comfortable and a large jug of water and clean towels rested on a washstand. A table stood beneath the window, open to allow in a gentle breeze from the fields behind the inn.

  “Your maid can ask for anything else you need when she comes up, my lady.”

  She slipped out of the room as heavy footsteps and terse orders in the corridor heralded Milsom’s entry. Two men followed her in, carrying Connie’s luggage. Connie retreated to the window, and sat at the small table. The two trunks took up much of the floor space in the room, and Noakes deposited Mr Fancott’s valise on the bed.

  “One moment,” Connie said, before the men could leave. “I only need that trunk and the valise. You may store the other one elsewhere.”

  The two men glanced in her direction, their mouths tight with annoyance.

  “If you had deigned to listen, Milsom, you would have heard when I told you that in the yard. See to it.”

  The corners of Milsom’s mouth turned down even further, but the inn porter rolled his eyes and shrugged. At least the men knew who to blame for their wasted effort.

  When the men had taken the trunk away, Connie went over to the washstand and poured some water into a bowl. Milsom opened the trunk and lifted Connie’s old muslin gown from it.

  “Milsom, you may leave me. I do not need your assistance.”

  “But my lady, you must change for dinner. There must be something better than these gowns. If you hadn’t sent that other trunk
—”

  “I will dine in here.” It would be a chance to look at what the Fancotts had given her, as well as avoiding further strained silences.

  “My lady, his lordship—”

  “Milsom, I said leave them, and leave me.” Connie tried to keep her voice calm. “I will have tea sent up in ten minutes, dinner in an hour, and you will arrange for my breakfast to be sent up one hour before we are due to leave in the morning.”

  Milsom stared at her.

  “Is that clear?” Connie held her gaze until Milsom looked away.

  “Very well, my lady.” Milsom closed the lid of the trunk, bobbed a small curtsey and left the room, her stiff back showing her offence.

  Connie sighed. If she hadn’t been before, the maid was an enemy now. She walked over to the door—there was a bolt, and she shot it home. With relief, she removed the green gown and her underskirt and washed. Her second-best gown would do for now, and she quickly donned it.

  A knock sounded, and she hurried over to unbolt the door. To her relief, it was the friendly woman from the inn with a tea tray.

  “Here you are, my lady. That maid of yours said you’d be wanting dinner here, is that right?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No, indeed, my lady. I was wanting to know if you want a hot meal, or we have some cold meats and salad greens, and a jelly and cream.”

  “The cold meal, please, Mrs…”

  “Mrs Farthing, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Farthing. You may remove the tea things when you bring the meal.” That should give her a little time without interruptions.

  She poured a cup of tea, then sat on the bed next to the valise. Lifting the lid, she took out a cloth bag. It contained a small embroidery hoop, a selection of coloured silks, squares of fabric, and needles. She took a deep breath, tears pricking her eyes. She had learned to embroider with Martha’s daughters in their parlour in the winter, and under the apple tree when the weather was fine, enjoying the way beautiful patterns of flowers and leaves formed beneath her fingers. Once her father turned over the housekeeping to her, she’d had no time to indulge in embroidery.