Her little face was all woebegone.
Damn. Why wasn’t he more adept with words? His explanation of how his mind worked had come out sounding more like a reprimand. And he’d hurt her. Which was the very last thing he ever wanted to do.
‘Look, I warned you before we got married that I’m a blunt man.’ In lieu of smooth words, he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So this is the truth. I like being married to you.’ Far more than he’d thought possible.
‘Oh. Well, I like being married to you, too,’ she said shyly, returning the pressure of his hand.
He lifted her hand and kissed it.
‘There. That’s all right and tight, then.’ He got up and reached for his clothes. ‘Think I’ll go for a ride.’ Clear his mind. And let her recover.
Because if he stayed he was bound to end up saying something that would make this awkwardness between them ten times worse.
* * *
All of a sudden, it seemed to Mary, the place was teeming with servants. When she’d eventually plucked up courage to go downstairs and face Mrs Brownlow, the woman had told her exactly how many she would need to run a house of this size efficiently, then brought them all in. She didn’t even go through the motions of letting Mary interview them. She just hired the people she always hired on whenever Mayfield had tenants.
Not that she could fault any of them. Each of them knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing—and each other, too.
She was the only one who seemed to feel like a stranger here. Who wasn’t totally comfortable with their role. She was used to doing housework, not ordering others to do it, that was half the trouble.
So, as the spring cleaning commenced, even though the new year had not yet come round, Mary took to walking about the rooms with a rag in her hand, and a scarf tied over her head, desperate to find some dirt, or a cobweb, Mrs Brownlow’s team might have overlooked.
While her husband rode out early to avoid, she suspected, all the bustle, even though he muttered vague excuses about tenants. And only making love to her at night, behind the closed doors of their bedroom.
‘There’s a carriage coming up the drive, my lady.’
Mary looked up from the skirting board behind the sofa—where she’d found a satisfyingly thick layer of dust—to see that Mrs Brownlow herself had come with the news, instead of sending her husband.
‘You’ve got visitors. So I’ll take that,’ she said, snatching the duster from Mary’s hand. ‘You shouldn’t be doing it, anyway,’ she grumbled.
Though what was she supposed to do all day, now that her husband didn’t seem inclined to chase her round the furniture any longer? Sit on a sofa and twiddle her thumbs?
‘I’ll have Mr Brownlow...’ who’d taken on the mantle of butler ‘...show them to the drawing room while you go and change into something more suitable.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mary, fumbling the strings of her apron undone and making for the door.
Change? Into what? She supposed she would look slightly better in a clean gown, rather than one she’d been crawling around on the floor in, but not much. Neither of the other gowns she owned were in all that much better condition, after serving as bedding, then withstanding her time as cook and housemaid.
There was her wedding gown, of course. Only was it suitable for receiving callers?
What did the wife of a viscount wear for receiving callers, anyway?
Oh, what did it matter? Surely the most important thing was to make them feel welcome?
And it was no use, she decided—snatching the scarf from her head and stuffing it into her pocket—trying to pretend she was something she wasn’t.
She stifled a pang of guilt as she hurriedly tidied her hair before the mirror. Lord Havelock had said he wanted her to be well dressed when the local gentry came calling. He’d said she would have to buy a lot of new clothes.
Only, somehow once they’d got down here, the topic had never come up again. And she hadn’t liked to mention it.
With any luck, whoever was calling on her today would be able to tell her where she could find a reliable dressmaker, locally. In fact, it would be a very good topic of conversation. Anyone who knew her husband would have no trouble believing he’d swept her off her feet, and down here, without giving her a chance to buy any bride clothes.
Feeling much better about her gown now she could look upon it as a conversation opener, rather than a personal failing, Mary made her way to the drawing room.
She had only just reached it and taken a seat on one of the chairs by the fireplace, when Brownlow opened the door again.
‘Lady Peverell,’ he intoned. ‘And Miss Julia Durant.’
‘Oh!’ She leapt to her feet, her hand flying to her throat. She knew that her husband had written to invite Julia to come and live with them, but as far as she knew, he hadn’t received a reply.
Lady Peverell, a stylishly dressed blonde who didn’t look much beyond the age of thirty, flicked Mary’s crumpled, grubby gown a look of scorn, drew off her gloves and made for the chair she’d just leapt out of.
‘Oh. Of course,’ said Mary, moving out of her way. ‘Do come and sit beside the fire,’ she said a moment too late. ‘You must be dreadfully cold after your journey. Such weather. I expect you’d like tea.’
It was all she could do to cross to the bell pull and ring for a servant, rather than run down to the kitchen and put the kettle on herself. With one withering look, Lady Peverell had made her feel as though she had no right to be in the room. Let alone pose as lady of the house. And as for presuming to the title...well!
‘And you, too, Ju—’ She pulled herself up, remembering she had no right to address her husband’s sister by her given name, just because they’d been used to speaking of her that way. ‘I mean, Miss Durant.’
She sent the girl a timid smile. Which wasn’t returned. Miss Julia Durant remained standing just inside the doorway, scowling at her.
Oh, but she looked so very much like Lord Havelock, when things weren’t going his way! She had the militant stance and the determined chin. She had the same-shaped hazel eyes, too. And from what she could see of her hair, which was fighting its way out from under her bonnet, the same thick mass of unruly curls that graced his head, too.
Though, she frowned, he had described her as a beauty. A girl at risk from a predatory older man.
Julia could certainly become very attractive, once she’d outgrown the spots that marred her complexion, learned not to pout and glower at strangers, and had her hair styled by a professional.
Julia responded to her smile with a look of scorn and a toss of her head. She flounced over to the window and flung herself on to the sill, turning her shoulder to the other occupants of the room.
‘You see?’ said Lady Peverell, waving the riding crop she held in one hand in Julia’s direction. ‘You see what I’ve had
