Chapter Eleven
Bracebridge put his hands around Emily’s waist and swung her down from his gig one last time. He ignored the sizzle of attraction. Aldreth’s conviction that this marriage would be unhappy for them both had sunk into his bones as undeniable truth. Anne was the woman he loved, not Emily. All the beauty in the world did not erase that fact. Lust had nothing to do with love.
She understood that, for as soon as her feet hit the ground, she stepped out of his arms and shook out her skirts. She’d traveled just as far and as hard as he, yet he saw no sign of distress or exhaustion in her. It seemed unfair that God would create a woman who could travel from one end of England to the other with no maid and almost no luggage and manage to look effortlessly perfect. Which she did.
Despite the travel-worn clothing, despite her obvious exhaustion, Emily Sinclair was constitutionally unable to look anything but exquisite. Even without the services of a maid this morning, she’d done something fetching with her hair. One of the filigreed combs he’d bought her at an early stop on their return glittered in the curls piled atop her head.
Emily looked around in silence. “As beautiful as ever.”
“Thank you.” They were at Corth Abbey, his home in Sussex, bought with the proceeds of his misspent youth and early adulthood. He was not at all certain he’d done the right thing bringing her here. Corth Abbey was his domain. Everything here was exactly to his tastes and preferences. His private and personal estate. Part of him resented her presence here already, and she’d yet to set foot in the house.
He reached into the gig for Frieda’s leash. He pushed the door open wider to give the dog a clear view of the jump to the ground. As he did this, one of his grooms hurried around the corner from the direction of the stables. He extended one arm to the woman he had married, took Frieda’s leash in the other, and smiled at her. “Shall we?”
She nodded, and he headed for the stairs with Emily on one side of him and Frieda on the other. Change must inevitably come, even to Corth Abbey. Whether he’d married Anne, Clara, or some other woman, he would have brought her here to the home he loved. His resentment was unfair.
“Given your preferences,” he said, “I expect you would prefer to live in London. I have no objection to that.”
“What preferences are those?”
“Yours. You love society.”
She snorted, and that took him aback.
“Wherever you are in London, visiting acquaintances or family, you flit from amusement to amusement as if a moment of rest or reflection would cause you untold grief.”
She stopped walking, as did he. Frieda promptly sat on his feet. “Allow me to point out that you have never seen me in any setting but a social one.”
“I’ve seen you organize games for children and adults alike. When we were at Blackfern, I thought you’d run your legs off the way you were dashing about with the children.”
Blackfern was Thrale’s property, which he and the entire Sinclair family had once visited together. He’d lost his head with her yet again during that visit. One minute they were in the midst of yet another dispute—he couldn’t even recall about what—and the next he’d taken her in his arms. He did not remember what they’d been arguing about, but he did remember the way he’d kissed her as if she were the only woman left in the world.
When Bracebridge managed to free his feet of Frieda’s considerable bulk, they resumed walking, while the dog went to sniff something interesting near the bottom of the stairs to the front door.
“I like children,” she said. “I especially enjoy entertaining my nieces and nephews. I don’t often see all of them at the same time.” Frieda strained toward the stairs, and Emily grabbed his hand. “Don’t let go of the leash!”
“You know very well I shan’t.”
His butler, Pond, opened the door, and they hurried up the stairs. Behind them, a groom was driving the gig around the corner. The moment Bracebridge saw just a glimpse of the foyer, a sense of ease came over him. Lord, it was good to be home where everything was exactly as he preferred.
Pond, a short, dignified, white-haired man of sixty, hardly taller than Emily herself, had been born and raised in Hinderhead, the nearest village to Corth Abbey. He’d been the first servant Bracebridge hired here. When his father’s butler had resigned rather than stay in the employ of the new Lord Bracebridge, he’d put Pond in charge of the London house without a moment’s regret, then or now. From then forward, Pond followed him between London and Corth Abbey. “Welcome home, my lord.”
A footman stood at attention near the back stairs, wearing one of the suits Bracebridge provided his staff in lieu of powdered wigs and frock coats. He’d be damned if he put his servants in livery. That was a tradition he was glad to let die. If he wanted to be reminded of his father, he could go to the London house on Cavendish Square.
Frieda, ecstatic to meet yet another friend, wriggled around Pond’s legs. She could not reach the footman, though she tried. Emily closed the door while Pond pressed a hand to Frieda’s haunches until she sat.
“Miss Sinclair.” His butler addressed Emily with genuine pleasure. “How delightful to see you again. Are your esteemed sisters here, too?”
Manifestly, he and Emily had arrived in advance of Keller and Bracebridge’s letter informing Pond of his marriage. Bracebridge stood to one side and reassessed the homecoming he’d imagined. Instead of a household warned in advance that there was now a Countess of Bracebridge, he faced the considerable bother of relaying his news and seeing that there were rooms for Emily.
“Thank you, Pond,” Emily said smoothly. “I am equally delighted to be here. You’ve recovered from your painful knee, I hope?”
“I have. Thank you for inquiring, miss. The poultice you recommended was most efficacious.”
Where had that information come from? Not only her recollection of Pond’s name, but also her knowledge of his once painfully swollen knee. She would have encountered Pond on her previous visit to Corth Abbey as well as at the Margaret Street house on Cavendish Square, so the opportunity had certainly been there. All the same, he was surprised.
“I am happy to hear that,” she said. “Our housekeeper swears by that poultice. I mean,” she said with an uncertain glance at Bracebridge, “in Bartley Green. Mrs. Elliot at the Cooperage.”
“Please convey my gratitude to her, Miss Sinclair,” Pond said. “I have used that poultice many times since, for myself and others.”
Bracebridge cleared his throat and said, “Pond.”
“My lord?”
“She is no longer Miss Sinclair.”
Pond broke into a wide grin. After Aldreth’s less than enthusiastic response, Bracebridge was relieved that someone, anyone at all, was pleased by his news. “This is a joyful event, indeed!” Pond headed for the now-closed front door. “Is your husband outside? What are we to call you now, Mrs. . . ?”
“Carlisle,” Bracebridge replied dryly as Pond opened the door, looked out, then closed it.
Emily yanked on the back of Bracebridge’s coat and murmured, “That is bad of you, my lord.”
“Mrs. Carlisle?” Pond turned, his hand on the door, frowning as if he were trying and failing to recall who the poor fellow was.
Bracebridge straightened his coat and said, “Less confusion all around if you address her as Lady Bracebridge.”
“Lady Bracebridge?” Pond said with confusion.
“Yes,” Bracebridge said.
The butler blinked several times. The footman standing at attention gaped. “Lady Bracebridge?” Pond said.
“As in my wife,” he said.
Emily tugged on the back of his coat again.
Pond regrouped and bowed to her. “My apologies, Lady Bracebridge. I was unaware of this felicitous event.”
“Of course you were, Pond.” She took his hand in hers and pressed it. His butler melted. “In fact, you are among the very first to know of our happy news.”
“My lady.” He withdrew his hand and bowed again. “Please accept my heartfelt congratulations.”
“Thank you so very much.”
“My lord.” Pond turned to him. “Words fail me.”
“We seem to have arrived in advance of my letter to you. Keller must have been delayed in leaving Rosefeld. I had assumed he would arrive before us.”
Emily’s smile was absolutely dazzling. “It was . . . an unexpected event that came about . . . while—”
Her beauty was so unworldly that even Bracebridge briefly lost track of what she was saying.
“It is a great shock, I know. Thank you so much for your good wishes.” Emily stooped to stroke Frieda’s head. “But there are more introductions necessary. This is Frieda. She is my dog, but you’ll find her love for Bracebridge knows no bounds.”
In one stroke, Emily had cemented her place here and declared herself as fiercely loyal to him as she was to the dog of whom he’d become so inordinately fond.
“A very fine creature she is, Miss—Lady Bracebridge. We welcome her to Corth Abbey.”
“Thank you.” She maintained her smile. “There is one thing I hope you can assist me with.”
“At your service, milady.”
“Can you recommend a woman of suitable character who could do for me? Just until my maid arrives from Bartley Green. Not unlike my lord’s valet, she was delayed in leaving.”
“All shall be handled to your satisfaction, milady.” If Pond thought there was anything untoward about the two of them arriving without their personal servants, he did not show it. Then again, Pond had been with him from his days as the disreputable Devon Carlisle. He’d seen more shocking things than this.
“That, my dear Mr. Pond,” she said, “goes without saying. I am happy to employ whomever you recommend.”
Frieda let out a woof that echoed in the foyer. The dog had ceased any attempt at pretending to sit; Pond was now her intimate acquaintance. Frieda pressed against the butler’s legs then sat on his feet, looking up at him with an adoring gaze.
“Bracebridge,” Emily said brightly and too quickly. She held out her hand for the leash. “I’ll take her out. She’s been such a good girl all these days.”
He handed over the leash, aware of what Emily had already realized. The household did not know he was married, and therefore, could not possibly have prepared any rooms for her. If she went for a walk, the servants would have time to address the issue.
A still-smiling Pond bowed. “I’ll have tea waiting upon your return, milady, and the lady’s rooms made agreeable, though I hope you will understand if it takes a day or two to bring the rooms to standard.”
She put a hand over her heart and beamed at him. Pond flushed. “You are a treasure. An absolute treasure. I have no worries whatsoever. Everything will be splendid.”
“Thank you, milady. All of us here at Corth Abbey are happy to see to your every comfort. Whatever you desire, you have only to inform us.”
“You are a dear man. Thank you.”
They’d not been here even five minutes, and already she had his butler wrapped around her little finger. To be fair, though, she had not done it with one of her stunning smiles, though her smiles had certainly advanced her cause. Rather, she had remembered Pond’s personal circumstance. It was well done of her.
Though he’d handed over Frieda’s leash, he took it back. If they were to get on as husband and wife, he ought to act the part in front of the servants. Besides, there was no harm in knowing her better. “I’ll accompany you.”
Pond hurried to open the door for them, practically glowing with pleasure.
How many men had Bracebridge overheard discussing Emily Sinclair? Dozens. Most of those conversations had centered on her beauty, but not all of them. He had dismissed praise of her character as being the more deluded opinions of her coterie. Now, he had to admit he might have been wrong to do so.
He headed out with Frieda beside him and Emily a step behind because she’d paused to say something more to Pond.
“Thank you, Lady Bracebridge.” The affection in Pond’s response was unmistakable. Softly, he closed the door after them.
Outside, Emily caught up with him. She was exquisite, all that golden hair, those piercing blue eyes, and the way the delicate lines of her face combined. No wonder men lost their heads over her. He, too, could be counted in that number. But he had never entertained the possibility that she was more than her beauty. For the first time, a sliver of doubt lodged in him. He did not care for the feeling. “You must be as exhausted from our travels,” he said because he could think of nothing else.
“No more or less than you, I daresay.” She shook her head. “It isn’t necessary, you coming with me.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Go on inside, Bracebridge.” She reached for the leash, but he did not relinquish it. “Honestly, I’ve been here before and know the immediate grounds. Frieda and I shan’t go far, and only long enough for Pond to air out my rooms and change the sheets.”
He looked at the sky. “Not a cloud to be seen. Let’s enjoy the sun while we may.”
“Very well, my lord.” Emily set off at a pace that approached a run. That’s how she was—always moving, never sedate if she could help it.
When he caught up, she patted the dog on the head, and he said, “You certainly made an impression on Pond. I do believe if you told him the house needed a moat, he’d be off to Hinderhead to buy shovels.”
“A moat.” She faced the house and shaded her eyes. “A moat would be lovely. I wonder why you didn’t think of it sooner.”
“If we’re to have one,” he said, “we must also have fish and swans, don’t you agree?”
She threw her arms wide. “All that and a dragon!”
He laughed. “A dragon would be required.”
“Knights in armor riding enormous war horses.” She turned around and walked toward the edge of the lawn. “Pike the size of your arms!”
This must be considered a good start. They weren’t arguing; quite the opposite. Had they a real marriage, based in respect and admiration, he might whisper words of love and encouragement about their future as Lord and Lady Bracebridge. A husband who cared for her might hold her hand or tuck her arm under his. Any other husband might lean in and give her a kiss. Laughter was a start, but it was not enough.
As they headed through the trees along the path that led to a meadow to their right, he cast about for a less fanciful subject. “You’ve added Pond to your legion of admirers.”
Her chin came up, and her mouth curved into a smile that could have inspired DaVinci to paint angels in her image. Perfect. So perfect, her beauty hid her every emotion. “I’ve done no such thing.”
Frieda let out a loud bark and ran to the end of the leash. Bracebridge reeled her back. That done, he lifted one hand, palm out. How long before they learned to converse as a married couple? He was afraid the answer might be never. He knew so little about her and even less about holding a normal conversation with her. “As you do every man who meets you.”
She fell silent, and that quiet was familiar from much of their journey to Scotland and back.
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“I had considered us staying in London.” How to say this to her when so many possibilities had been roiling in him since Aldreth had expressed his doubts? “But I thought it best for us to be away from society whilst our situation is so new to us.”
She bent to pick up a stick, an action that caught Frieda’s rapt attention. She drew off one glove and peeled off a strip of bark. “Because?”
“We do not know what rumors there are about us. Speculation has surely begun. I don’t expect Mr. Davener to keep quiet. Nor your father, who I fear has likely already told at least three different tales about our marriage. Since we are newly wed, no one will remark if we remain here.”
“I’m surprised you care what anyone thinks. You never have before.”
“I care now that I am your husband.”
Her gaze flicked to him, full of doubt. Again he felt the stirring of physical admiration for her. Other than that first night, he had kept their relations subdued. But they were married. He could take her to bed whenever he pleased. Tonight, even. In his own bed. Or hers. Without any worries about needing to be on the road at some ungodly time of the morning.
“I should like some private time to learn how to be a married man.”
She peeled more bark off the stick. “Have I any choice?” She pressed her lips together. “You know I haven’t. Whatever you decide, I must accept. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“Yes, you are.” She dropped the stick and headed back to the house.
“Emily.”
She continued walking. Frieda whined, and he looked at the dog that his wife had rescued from a cruel and short life, and he found that he too couldn’t bear to think of her starving.
Emily turned a corner, and he hurried after her. “Emily!”
She faced him with an untroubled expression that by now alarmed him. “Don’t pretend you like me. Don’t pretend you think this marriage will succeed. For pity’s sake, at least consider the worst possible outcome.”
“That I’ll go mad?”
“That is farther down the list.”
“I’d list it first or second.”
She did not laugh, though he’d hoped to relieve the tension with the remark. She looked at the ground, then back at him. “What does it matter? Do what you will, my lord. It doesn’t matter what I think.”