Adam watched his new wife exit the room and sank back into his chair, exhausted. What in God’s name had he just agreed to? He’d sunk so low as to marry a cit’s daughter, just to get her money.
And a cool voice at the back of his head reminded him that it was better than his first plan, if it meant that he could be alive to correct his mistake and rebuild his fortune. He had been given a second chance and would make the most of it. There would be money in the bank before his creditors noticed that there had been an absence. And by next year, the drought would be over, the coffers refilling and the present state of penury no more than a bad dream.
And he would be a married man. What was he to do with—he struggled to remember her name—Penelope Winthorpe?
He shook his head. She was Penelope Felkirk now. And there was nothing to be done, according to her. She wished to be left alone.
He was more than willing to grant her wish. He could not very well parade her in front of his friends as the new duchess. He’d be a laughing stock.
He immediately felt guilty for his pride. He’d be a laughing stock in any case, knowing his circle, who often found the humour in the misfortunes of others. Let them laugh. It would not matter, if he managed to save the estate.
But it pained him that they might laugh at her, as well, with her unfashionable clothes, her spectacles and outlandish ideas. To what purpose did the world need another translation of Homer? The majority had had more than enough of that story, by the time they’d left the schoolroom. And yet she was still worrying over it.
But he could find no indication that she meant him harm, by picking him up out of the street. In truth, she had saved his life. And her money would save his land as well.
What would people think of it? She was most obviously not his sort, in temperament or in birth. She was nothing like the ladies of the ton that he usually chose as companions. The world expected him to marry someone more like Clarissa Colton: beautiful, worldly, and with wit that cut like a razor. He shuddered.
Perhaps it told him something of his true mental state that he had married Clare’s opposite. Penelope Winthorpe’s clothes were without style, and her manner was bookish and hesitant. And her looks?
He shook his head. She’d called herself plain, but it was not truly accurate a definition. Plainness implied a commonality with the norm. A face unmemorable. And that did not describe his new wife.
Her looks … were disturbing. Her hair was too pale, almost white. Her skin as well, from too much time spent indoors with her books. And her spectacles hid eyes that were bright and far too observant. He wanted to know what she saw when she looked at him, for she had been studying him most intently. It was like being pierced to the soul, when her eye had held his. A gimlet, not a razor.
The intelligence in that gaze was daunting. And in her words as well. He’d have expected it from another man, but to hear such reasonable behaviour from a woman? There had been no nonsense. No tears behind the lashes. No attempt to appeal to him with her frailty. Their interview had been a frank meeting of intellectual equals.
Her presence had been both calming and stimulating. The combination made him uneasy. It was far too much to take before one had had one’s morning tea.
But it shouldn’t matter, he reminded himself. He needed nothing more from her than her money, and she needed nothing from him but his name. There would be scant little time staring into those disquieting eyes over breakfast. If she did not care for his title, then she need not concern herself with society, after the briefest introduction. And he would be spared the expenses of time or money that were involved in the keeping of a wife in the height of fashion.
And it dawned on him that there were other responsibilities in the taking of a wife that had nothing to do with the purchase of jewels and the redecoration of the manor.
There should be children.
He thought of her eyes again, and imagined a brood of little eyes following him with that same direct stare: dangerously clever children with insatiable curiosity. The prospect intrigued him, but it was not something he was likely to experience, if their current plan went forwards.
It came as somewhat of a relief to know that the title could follow another branch of the family tree. He had his brother as heir. That had been a fine plan yesterday. And if not William, then perhaps William would marry and have sons of his own. Good-tempered and intelligent children, just like their father. Any of those might do for the next duke.
Very well, then. He would take her back to London, or let her take him. And if what she said was true, he would sort out the money, right enough. And once she and her books were safely stowed at Bellston, then he could return to his comfortable old life. They would live, happily ever after, as was told in folk tales.
Just not with each other.
Chapter Four
The carriage ride to London was nothing like the one to Gretna. The trip outbound had been more excitement than misgiving, since she was convinced of the soundness of her plan and the immediate improvement it would bring to her life.
But now that she had succeeded, she found it most disquieting. Jem had been relegated to a seat beside the driver, leaving her alone with her new husband with a morose shake of the head that showed no confidence in a brighter future.
The man seated across from her was not the drunkard she had rescued on the way to Scotland. That man had been relaxed and friendly. His posture was familiar, as was his speech.
But when sober, the duke continued to behave as a duke. She hoped he was still feeling the effects of the liquor, for his expression was most forbidding, and she hoped it was not she that had put the look of disgust on his face. Or, worse yet, that his foul mood was habitual. Perhaps it was only the strain of travel, for they had been almost two full days on the road.
For whatever reason, her new husband sat rigidly in his seat across from her, showing no desire to close the distance between them.
And in response, she felt repelled from him.
It was foolish to care on that account. Jem’s original fears were quite the contrary to the truth. He had imagined her wrestling a brute for her virtue in the back of a moving carriage. But this man no more desired the physical contact of his spouse than she did herself.
The chatty voyage to Gretna had been replaced with an uninterested silence that she suspected could stretch the length of the trip and far into the future.
And it was all right with her, she reminded herself. Once they were settled, she would return to her books and would appreciate a husband who was not likely to interrupt her work with demands for her attention.
Still, there were things that must be decided before they arrived in London. And that would be impossible without some communication.
She cleared her throat, hesitating to speak.
He looked up at her expectantly.
‘I was wondering if you had considered what we might do once we reach London.’
‘Do?’
‘Well, yes. I wish to go to my bank, of course. And make my father’s solicitors aware of my change in status.’ He nodded.
‘But once that is done? Well, we cannot very well live with my brother. There is room, of course, but I doubt that it would be in any way comfortable …’
He was staring at her and she fell into embarrassed silence. He spoke. ‘When we arrive in the city, we will be going directly to my townhouse, and can make the financial arrangements after that.’
‘Your townhouse.’
‘Of course.’
She readied an objection, but paused before speaking. He was her husband, after all. And a