The Vengeful Bridegroom. Kit DonnerЧитать онлайн книгу.
only relief I will know is to return to my own home, and for an annulment to take place in the greatest of haste, if I am, indeed, Mrs. Gabriel Westcott.” She paused. Her words boiled in fury.
Gabriel sat on the bed and sighed. “You are truly my wife. After you signed your name to the registry, I had Caroline call you away in order that I might sign my correct name. I planned for you not to know my true identity until we were far from London.”
As he stretched his legs out on the bed, he realized again the painful cost he would have to pay to have her near him. “Please join me, or I will have to carry you over here.”
She must have believed he was serious because in no time, Madelene had washed, slipped into her bedclothes, and hesitantly climbed onto the bed. His eyes closed, he promptly rolled over and pinned her next to him. He actually felt more exhausted than he appreciated, because in little time, he let sleep overtake him.
The hour grew late. Madelene lay stiffly in bed, noticing the stars from the window and wondered what tomorrow would hold when they actually arrived at his estate in Shropshire. She blinked, remembering. Skinny? Child’s feet? Even with a cuff to his shoulder in indignation, he merely grunted, stretched, and continued slumbering. She finally drifted into slumber worrying why it seemed important he desire her instead of being relieved he didn’t.
She dreamt someone stroked her arm, then the curve of her cheek, and next her lips, the touch as soft as silk. She smiled, thinking this must be what bliss felt like, and snuggled deeper into the side of another warm body.
Body? She sprang into wakefulness and tried to pull away from strong arms that held her tight against him, her husband. Her husband? She was still unaccustomed to thinking of Mr. Westcott as her husband.
She struggled briefly until daring a glance at Mr. Westcott, who, with eyes closed, appeared to be sleeping. She watched him suspiciously, but his controlled breathing indicated he continued to slumber.
Had she imagined his touch? Or perhaps, Mr. Westcott himself dreamed he held another woman in his arms? She steamed, thinking her best revenge would be to roll him off the bed. But one glance of his strong physique gave a halt to that idea. If only she could stay awake, then he couldn’t touch her again without her knowledge.
But I can’t stay awake, and it really had felt quite lovely. With little choice, she fell asleep in his arms, missing the smile on her husband’s face.
Madelene couldn’t believe they had almost arrived. She felt like she had been riding in a coach for months instead of three days. A few miles back, Mr. Westcott had decided to exchange the carriage ride for a horse, anxious as he was to arrive at his home.
Earlier on the journey, Mr. Westcott had offered that he had inherited his uncle’s estate several years earlier. His wife Aunt Adelphia had raised his sister and him but she had been gone some time. After a sojourn in Italy, he now divided his time between his town house in London while managing his shipping affairs, and on his large estate on the border of Wales.
Madelene had heard about the death of his sister and thought it best not to mention it.
From the carriage window, she enjoyed the view of early summer’s green passion as they approached the village of Ludlow in Shropshire. The carriage rumbled on past the village, down a few more dusty roads, until turning into a long, graveled driveway. Passing through a large stoned archway, Madelene could see the terraced landscapes with a magnificent neoclassical home sitting atop a small hill.
She leaned out the window to delight in the subtly altered hills and valleys, naturalistic plantings of trees and breathe in the sweet if dusty spring air. There even appeared to be a serpentine lake nestled through a band of trees on the horizon.
Could this magnificent estate truly be her home for a short while? Madelene had heard rumors Mr. Westcott earned his money in the Far East trade, and he must have been successful in order to keep up such a large home in the country and a home in Town.
The clacking wheels on the cobblestones announced their arrival. When the carriage stopped in front of the grand stone steps, Mr. Westcott appeared and opened the carriage door to greet her and assist her from the carriage. As she walked up to the manor’s entrance, Madelene noticed more weeds than late spring flowers. She mused it would be a lovely place with the proper care and attention.
The house had almost a forlorn feeling, as if it had been neglected for too long and forgotten like a spinster’s heart. She couldn’t understand why it had not been better maintained.
As Mr. Westcott unlocked the large wooden doors and beckoned Madelene to enter, she heard the driver wheel the carriage around and clack out of the courtyard.
Following her husband inside, Madelene stepped farther into the small but high-ceilinged hall, admiring the grand staircase in the center, with a flight of steps flowing down on each side as if curtains parted for a stage. Although the wooden rails hadn’t been polished in some time, the railing had not lost its majestic splendor.
Studying her surroundings, she noticed through an open door to the right a drawing room with covered furniture, a large fireplace, and covered paintings on the walls.
No servants to greet them. Odd, that. Her husband made no comment or offered an explanation.
Unable to keep her curiosity contained, she inquired to the back of his head as he pulled linens off the few straight chairs standing sentinel in the hall. “Mr. Westcott, where are the servants?” Back at their house in Bloomsbury, they had had a full entourage of servants until their father passed on. Then with Matthew’s gaming losses, they slowly, one by one, released all their servants, housekeeper, butler, until they retained only Millie, who cooked and cleaned for them.
“The house has been shut for over a year, and the servants released. I could not be certain when I would return. I plan to visit the village tomorrow and bring our old housekeeper, Mrs. Henchip, and the assortment of cooks, gardeners, and groomsmen. We’ll simply have to handle matters ourselves until then. My man, Windthorp, should not be far behind. Tomorrow night in all probability.” His tone nonchalant as he headed for the mahogany doors to the right of the staircase.
Madelene hurried to follow him, lost in a fog of uncertainty. No servants? Who didn’t have servants to open their house for them and prepare for the master’s home-coming? Was this Mr. Westcott’s oversight, or had he merely been in a hurry to marry her and win the bet? Perhaps his investments had recently soured or he had empty pockets and couldn’t pay their wages? No matter. She had never before been without a servant.
“Mr. Westcott?” she called to him, in her attempt to halt his progress.
He turned around to look at her with hands on his hips. “Yes?”
“Mr. Westcott, this simply will not do. We could return to the village, spend the night at an inn, then return here tomorrow with the servants.” She thought it a sound and plausible idea, a pleading smile on her lips.
Her husband obviously thought differently because he looked at her cryptically as if to see if she intended humor, then shook his head. “Madelene, this is now our home. I’m sure one night without servants catering to your whims will do you no harm.” He turned and continued farther into the house.
Her boots tapped down the corridor as mistress followed master. It certainly appeared her new husband had not considered her needs in the slightest. Mr. Westcott had not heard the end of this untenable position in which he had placed her. What could he possibly be thinking? She had no intention of performing any duties. It wouldn’t do. She wasn’t a servant, she was a baronet’s sister. He needed reminding.
In his commanding stride, his long legs easily swallowed the length of the hallway, which permitted no dallying on Madelene’s part for peering into the richly colored rooms they hurried past. Late-afternoon shadows followed her following him, first down a short set of stone steps to two thick doubled oak doors, and then another short flight into the kitchen, the oblong room still warm from the day’s sun.
If he presumed that she would be cooking for him, she would start walking home.