earl had married was the only key to the man’s salvation. Yet Jennie and Kit might as well have been residing on separate continents for all they saw of each other. It was enough to make a stronger man than Renfrew despair. But not Renfrew—he only bided his time while making plans of his own.
As part of his project designed to invest Jennie with some passionate feelings for this particular Bourne domicile and her position as mistress of all it contained, Renfrew spent three full days acquainting her with every stick of furniture in every room of the mansion, impressing her with the history of this original painting and that priceless set of engraved silver plate.
His efforts were not in vain. Jennie was not impressed by the wealth spread out before her, but rather with the stories of the Bourne ancestors who had furnished the mansion with such care and love. That the responsibility for maintaining the beauty around her as well as placing this generation’s personal stamp on the place by way of worthy additions of art and other accessories that would reflect their times while not detracting from what had gone before was now hers was not lost on Jennie. It surprised her, though, to realize that she was more than eager to take up the challenge.
The more mundane side of running a household, neatly catalogued in a half-dozen closely written ledgers, did not inspire the same creative urges. In fact, after pretending a studious perusal of just two of the big black leather-bound books, Jennie pleaded a headache and Renfrew kindly moved the dratted things out of her sight.
“Renfrew,” Jennie proposed, once the butler had poured her a bracing cup of tea, “I’d like to strike a bargain with you. If you will consent to managing the household accounts, acting as secretary or whatever, I shall, besides offering you my eternal gratitude, undertake the hiring of the additional staff his lordship tells me we require.”
Happy to see her showing such an interest, such a willingness to involve herself, no matter how indirectly, with his lordship’s comfort, Renfrew agreed with alacrity. After all, he told himself airily, what could go wrong in the mere hiring of household staff?
And with that thought Renfrew proved yet again that, be he earl or butler, a male is still a male—never failing to underestimate the tremendous potential for disruption that churns just beneath the surface of those apparently fragile feminine forms men so condescendingly refer to as the weaker sex.
THERE WAS A GREAT DEAL of perverse satisfaction to be derived from flouting your husband’s wishes, Jennie learned as she and Goldie climbed back into the town carriage after concluding her business with the clerk in charge of placing advertisements in the Observer.
She was pleased with the wording of her advertisement—certainly the clerk had seen no reason to change so much as the placement of a single comma—and she rode home secure in the belief that this more personal form of advertising would result in bringing to her door a fair number of robust, hardworking country folk who were new to London and eager for honest work they could not find due to lack of references.
That’s what she wanted. Country folk. Plump, redcheeked farm girls and strong, raw-boned farmers’ sons who’d remind her of home. After all, what did she want with a passel of top-lofty London servants who were known far and wide for aping their masters while at the same time despising the very people who paid their wages?
She had done the right thing, she was sure of it. The fact that she had planned her trip to the newspaper office to coincide with Bundy’s monthly retreat to her couch due to a regular-as-clockwork migraine headache proved nothing to the contrary, absolutely nothing.
As they rode along the crowded street, Jennie rechecked her list. Heading it was the need for a chef—Renfrew had informed her that Kit had specifically requested a French chef—followed by notations calling for three additional footmen, two kitchen helpers, a pair of experienced stable hands, at least two more housemaids who could double at serving table, and, perhaps even a tweeny to run errands between floors if she could find one.
It seemed ostentatious to require nearly two dozen people to care for the needs and comforts of a family consisting of two young, healthy creatures who by all rights should be capable of fending for themselves.
Of course, they weren’t two average people, she amended mentally. After all, how many English couples live in eighteen-room houses containing a conservatory, two separate dining rooms, and a veritable barn of a ballroom? Bundy said the Bourne mansion was no more than a fit setting for an earl and his countess. Jennie wisely refrained from wondering aloud if this particular earl and countess didn’t look just a tad out of place in their grand surroundings—almost like children playing at being all grown up.
Kit, she had to admit, at least looked the part, having visited his tailor before traveling to Bourne Manor so that an entire new wardrobe had been waiting for him in Berkeley Square, but she knew her own simple gowns to be sadly provincial. Which was why the Bourne carriage was just then coming to a halt outside a fashionable shop in Bond Street (this part of her trip also deliberately planned around Bundy’s migraine or else Jennie knew she’d be the first countess in history to be dressed entirely in concealing white dimity gowns matched to sensible, serviceable jean boots).
Goldie was in her glory as she stood gaping and gawking throughout Jennie’s lengthy session with the modiste. A young woman of definite tastes that had previously taken second place to her budget, Jennie worked her way purposefully from one end of the selling room to the other, selecting lengths of material with an eye to color and texture and never once bothering to ask a single price.
In the space of an hour Jennie had matched the materials to sketches the delighted modiste swore on her hopes of heaven were designed with just madam countess in mind. “That exquisite waist! That so entrancing swell of bosom—so innocent, so alluring! The regal carriage of a princess, the fine molded arms of a Greek goddess. The hair of an angel, the skin of a newborn babe. Ooh la la! That the countess would deign to honor this humble establishment with her attention. I will be the making of a poor, struggling widow in a foreign land. Once madam is seen in public the ton will demand a like transformation—an impossible task, to duplicate such beauty, my lady, but one must make a living.” On and on went the modiste.
Two hours after entering the shop, Jennie departed, her head still buzzing with the Frenchwoman’s ridiculous compliments and fervent expressions of gratitude (the latter being more readily believed if Jennie had but known the total of the bill). She changed her mind about shopping for shoes, bonnets, gloves, and other accessories, putting off that errand for another day even if it meant she must listen to Bundy’s prudish criticisms of her every choice. She had a headache of her very own now, the result of the modiste’s incessant chatter and a growing hunger for her lunch, which may have accounted for her almost violent reaction to seeing her husband strolling down the opposite side of the street, a soft, clinging bit of frailty hanging from each elbow.
It was ridiculous. Why should she feel this almost overpowering urge to dash across the street and plummet the two slyly simpering creatures about the head and shoulders with her reticule? And when she had done with them she would deliver a bash or five on the noggin of the stupidly grinning ignoramus who was acting less like a married man than Prinny himself!
She stood stock-still on the flagway, rooted to the spot by her anger and her inability to do more than mentally mangle the cause of her upset.
“O-oo-o, lookee, miss,” Goldie piped up loudly at exactly the wrong moment. “There’s his lordship himself, out for a breath of air. Yoo-hoo! Your lordship!” she trilled in a high, carrying soprano, her voice succeeding in reaching the earl above the noisy street sounds and the animated chattering of his companions.
“Oh, my God!” Kit breathed in exasperation as he spied Goldie and his wife—his oddly erect
