Chapter Twenty-four
“You informed my lady’s maid to pack my things?” Madeline asked him one day.
“Indeed.” He smiled. How did she always manage to look so beautiful?
“Admiral Fitzroy will return soon from Europe. Some distance from London would be beneficial.”
“Oh.” She looked slightly less displeased. “Where are you sending me?”
“Kent.”
She frowned.
“You complimented it on the journey. In fact…it’s not too far from Lord Rockport’s estate. Lord Worthing lives near there too.”
“You desire them to keep an eye on me?”
“It wasn’t an immediate concern, but naturally I wouldn’t reject—”
Her face seemed to shatter. “When am I going?”
He blinked. Did she imagine he might send her alone? “We are going tonight. That way we can reach it when it’s still light tomorrow.”
“We?”
He nodded. “Naturally.”
Madeline still looked puzzled, but there was something almost adorable—or even utterly adorable—about the manner in which she tilted her head.
He only hoped she would appreciate it tomorrow.
He was tempted to tell her what he’d done.
His title had come with an estate, but he’d sold his manor house early in the war. At the time he’d been living in Falmouth and had been happy to sell it to relatives of the late marquess. Cumbria has seemed far too remote, and a manor house far too large for him at the time.
So a week ago he’d purchased another one.
And three days ago he’d purchased an art collection with which to fill it.
He only hoped he hadn’t been too hasty, and that Madeline did not prefer to return to Yorkshire, the home she’d shared with her late husband, a place filled with memories that didn’t include him.
The next day they arrived at Rose Point Park.
Spring was in full force, and poppies dotted the fields. The carriage wound past half-timbered and brick farmhouses.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” Madeline asked.
Arthur shook his head. “Patience is a great virtue.”
Madeline frowned at him, but she didn’t seem too upset and seemed to enjoy the sight of village children playing in the streets and clambering over the wooden fences to dash about in the long grass.
Finally the carriage swept through ebony wrought iron gates, and Arthur pulled the carriage over. “Let’s walk the rest of the way.”
They strolled through the parkland and came to a Tudor house. Ivy curled over the dark gray stone, and steep gables pointed cheerfully into the heavens. Fruit trees were scattered on either side of the drive, and they inhaled the scent of apple and cherry blossoms.
“It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, and he found himself beaming.
“Are we visiting one of your relatives?” she asked uncertainly.
“No.”
“A friend?”
“No.”
“Then—”
He took her hand in his, conscious that his own was shaking somewhat.
Please let her be happy.
“That’s Rose Point Park,” he said. “Our new home.”
“Truly?”
He nodded gravely. “I purchased it for us.”
“It’s heavenly.”
“There’s a garden behind the manor house,” Arthur said.
“This is already perfect,” Madeline said.
“I thought we could keep a peacock there,” Arthur said.
“A peacock?”
“Given your proclivity for embroidering them.”
She laughed. “I believe they have a tendency toward squawking.”
“Then let’s get a herd of deer.”
“The gardeners will grumble,” Madeline said.
“Then let’s not grow vegetables.” Arthur laughed and swung her around.
Madeline’s legs flew over the grass, and her heart soared. The sun beamed merrily in the sky, crowning the clouds with its light.
Arthur took her hand and they strolled over the path. The dirt lane turned to stone pebbles that crunched beneath their feet.
Wooden doors loomed over them, and they ascended the steps.
“I’m afraid the place is still shut.” Arthur removed his key. “The previous owners took their servants with them when they moved to a smaller home.”
“I am certain some of my servants will be happy to relocate here.”
“Splendid,” Arthur said, and they entered their new home.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“It couldn’t be any other way,” he said. “Not where you’re concerned.”
She stared at him. The reflection from stained glass windows sparkled over her. Tapestries hung from long walls, and oriental vases shone over ornate sideboards.
He cleared his throat and stepped away. “There’s quite a nice gallery inside.”
“Darling,” Madeline murmured.
Arthur led her through the corridor.
He grasped hold of a handle and pulled a heavy door toward himself. Jeweled canvases seem to glow from golden frames.
“But those are Maxwell’s pieces!”
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
He’d had a bloody hard time convincing the man’s heir to part with them, even after brandishing substantial coin.
But he’d been happy to spend the money.
“Mind?” Joy emanated over her face. “But I adore these pieces. I missed them. I thought I would never see them again. Y-you didn’t need to do that.”
“I wanted to,” Arthur said. “I thought it would be good if someone actually interested in art owned it. Someone who’d selected the pieces herself.”
An unlit fireplace sat in the center of the room, and they stepped over lavish woolen carpets.
Once the house was filled with guests and servants and perhaps, perhaps even family, the room would be magnificent.
But as he gazed at Madeline it seemed as if the room could not be any more perfect, and the trickle of unease he’d experienced in London vanished.
I’m happy.
*
Life had turned idyllic over the past few weeks, as if Madeline had ventured into one of the gilded framed pictures which adorned Rose Point Park’s gallery. She grasped her sketch book in one hand and strolled through the garden, stepping on the strategically placed stones.
The wind flitted through the leaves of the chestnut trees, humming pleasantly, as the shadows flickered over the path. A rabbit peeked from underneath the hydrangeas, and other, more adventurous ones, hopped in the long grass.
A twig snapped, and a deer darted over the field.
Arthur hadn’t had to bring any deer to the manor house. A herd of them frequented the woods behind the estate, and Madeline took pleasure in seeing them.
Perhaps she wasn’t in an actual painting, but Madeline was certain no artist could create a finer scene. The view must be as perfect as those devised by Poussin, and the compilation of roses and other floral notes must compete with anything the most dedicated Parisian perfumist might create. Still it was the reminder of Arthur’s lips upon hers and the manner in which his eyes flickered with seeming delight when he saw her that made her smile. Her heart swelled, as if she half expected to float away with the majestic clouds that sailed above her.
Sometimes Arthur would stroll with her. He’d kiss her, and in the evenings they would make love.
He continued to be so sweet, as if he truly cared for her. But he’d never told he loved her, and she certainly did not want to tell him, even though she’d long decided this must be love.
Love must be the force that made her happy to see him, happy to be around him, and happy for him whenever he had a good day. If so, it must also be the force that made her worry whenever he left for London.
She worried that she’d imagined tender gazes from his eyes, and that she’d confused the pleasure he took in her body with the fact that she was the only woman in the area, and certainly the only one to whom he was married. But more than that she imagined highwaymen accosting him and mail coaches rushing into his path, even though no man in the world could be better equipped than he to handle it.
She shook her head.
Perhaps her time in the French prison was making her imagine the worst.
Life was certainly blissful, and hopefully this afternoon she would also succeed in sketching one of the deer. They’d been evading her all week.
Something rustled behind her.
It must be the deer.
She beamed and turned toward the sound.