Only to have Fanworth come and haul her out of it, she supposed. Even if she had not promised to return to him, her discussion with Justine left her feeling unsettled. When he had been sweet and kind to her, she thought she’d understood him. Then he had been cruel. But she was still sure she understood his reason for it.
Now she was lost again. The laughing, kind Stephen Standish had been real. Given his unwillingness to reveal his impediment to the world, he’d never have paraded it before her, simply to get her to bed. But then, why had he changed? Had Mr Pratchet lied about his involvement? But then, where had the rubies come from?
Thinking about it made her head hurt. Or perhaps it was the lack of a decent meal. If she had swallowed her pride along with her share of the wedding breakfast, at least she might not be hungry.
If there was no supper waiting for her, she would insist that something be brought to her room. If she went to her husband’s bed tonight, there was no reason to let nerves prevent her from eating. The worst was over. Her maidenhead was gone and what they were about to do was sanctioned by church and society.
And, if she was perfectly honest with herself, it might be enjoyable. Her whole body trembled when she thought of the last time she had lain with him. Despite what she had said to him at breakfast, she looked forward to doing it again, without guilt. It would be even better if there was a chance that she might find her way back to the Stephen she had fallen in love with.
Then she remembered the girl in the street. She might pine for their former familiarity. But it seemed he had moved on to another.
As she shut the front door of the shop and locked it, a black carriage pull forward, from the corner. ‘Your ladyship?’
She glanced at the crest on the door and the colours of livery. She had not seen it before, but it must be Fanworth’s. Her new family colours. She turned to the groom.
The man bowed. ‘Lord Fanworth sent us to retrieve you. If you are ready, of course.’
She could argue that she preferred to walk, but what would be the point, other than to make life more difficult for this poor man? ‘Thank you.’ She allowed him to help her into a seat for the short ride to Fanworth’s apartment.
And today, when she entered, it was through the front door. The look on Mrs Sims’s face was still not what Margot would call welcoming. But at least the woman held her tongue as she took Margot’s bonnet and cloak, and escorted her up the stairs.
Things had changed since her last visit. When the door opened, she had expected to see Fanworth’s private sitting room. Instead, most of the furniture had been removed and his bed and dresser had been moved into the space they’d occupied.
Margot raised an eyebrow.
‘Your room is through here, your ladyship.’ The housekeeper led the way through the changing room, to what had been the master bedroom, then turned and abandoned her to her fate.
When that woman had said it was her room, it had not been a generalisation. All traces of masculinity had been scrubbed from it. The walls and the windows were hung with cream silk and the large bed had a matching satin coverlet and chiffon curtains that would be useless to keep out the morning light. Since she was often up before the sun, it probably didn’t matter.
It appeared that the decorations had been chosen to remind her of the shop. If so, it was a confusing message. Was it to remind her that her new job lay here, in this bed? Or was it simply an effort to design a room to suit her tastes?
She opened the nearest cupboard and found the dresses she had ordered while shopping with Justine. Apparently, the woman had saved time and sent them directly to her new home. Which meant the drawers on the dresser must contain the scandalous nightclothes that Justine had made for her wedding night.
When she had thought of this moment, over the last few weeks, she had envisaged her things stacked haphazardly in the corner of the room, a reminder that their owner did not quite fit in this new world that had been forced upon her.
She had been quite wrong. For someone she suspected of marrying her as little more than an afterthought, Fanworth had taken surprising care to make her feel welcome in her new life.
‘Is it suitable?’ He stood behind her, in the doorway to his own room, and had been watching her reaction. ‘The entry to the hall is not yet finished. The carpenters were late.’ He pointed to a place on the wall.
He meant a doorway, she supposed. But he had been careful not to say the word in front of her, for fear of a stutter. It made her strangely sad. ‘It is lovely,’ she said.
‘They are setting a meal on the table in my room. If you wish...’ He did not finish.
‘Of course. Thank you.’
Once the food was served, the housekeeper disappeared, leaving them alone together for the first time in their married life. If she had expected Fanworth to relax, she was mistaken. If possible, he became even more quiet, as he ate from the plate set in front of him without so much as a clink of cutlery.
She tasted her own food, then set down her fork, reached for her wine and took a hurried sip. It appeared that Fanworth’s cook was of the sort that was heavy handed with seasonings. The capon on her plate was so salty as to be practically inedible. She tried the carrots beside it only to discover where the pepper had been used. To make up for the two of them, the potatoes had not been seasoned at all, only burnt dry. She glanced at her husband who was close to clearing his plate without comment. ‘How was your food?’
‘Excellent, as usual,’ he said, but made no effort to elaborate.
Either the man had no taste at all or she had been sent another subtle message of disapproval from the household staff. To test her theory, she reached for the dessert course, which was a shared pot du crème, garnished with berries. It was exquisite. She gathered it to herself and stuck in her spoon without bothering to fill her plate.
He watched her for a moment as if trying to decide if the behaviour had significance or was an aberration in manners worthy of correction. Then he reached for her plate, tasted her food and immediately spat into his napkin. This was followed by a torrent of perfectly pronounced cursing and the same foul look he must have given to her family over breakfast.
Then he rose and turned to the bell pull.
‘No.’ She put her hand on his arm to draw him back down.
‘This cannot stand,’ he said, waving his hand at her plate.
‘It can wait until tomorrow.’ She had almost said, do not ruin tonight. But she had no proof that statement was appropriate. It was quite possible that there was nothing left of the day to be salvaged.
He sat down again, still irritated. But since his mood was in defence of her, she did not mind it so very much. Then he switched their plates, offering her what little was left on his and setting a buttered roll beside it.
‘Thank you,’ she said, too hungry to pretend that his sacrifice had not been necessary. She tasted and found he was right. The food was excellent, if the cook liked and respected the one being served. That was some consolation. It would be far easier to deal with a tantrum in the kitchen than complete incompetence.
Fanworth’s act of kindness was a silent one. He made no effort to comment further on the staff, the day, or his plans for the night. He simply stuck his spoon into the opposite side of the custard and ate.
It was clear he had no intention of volunteering information. If she wanted answers, she must find the questions that would most easily coax the truth out of him. He set down the custard bowl and took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass. She did not need words to guess what he was thinking about. His gaze had a confidence that had been absent in church.
She