Karen Harbaugh (15 page)

“Is everything all right, my lady?” Betty asked.

Linnea let down her hands. “Oh, it’s nothing, Betty, just a leftover ache in my head. It’s gone now.”

“Do you need more tea, perhaps, ma’am?”

“No, not at all. I am quite well now.” Linnea turned to her wardrobe. The rest of her trousseau had arrived the day before yesterday. Surely there was something more modest than this!

She went through four dresses before she gave up and went back to the pink sea-foam goddess one again. Every gown she had picked when she went shopping with Lydia had been altered in a more dashing manner than the original in the fashion plate. Lydia! She would have a thing or two to say to her sister-in-law when next they met!

A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece showed her it was a few minutes to eleven. Well, at least Rothwick should be done with his breakfast by now and she need not see him—and be seen by him—this time.

But, of course, he hadn’t finished breakfast and so was exposed to the full glory of her sea-foam morning dress. Rothwick was not in the best of tempers. Dousing himself in near freezing water last night had only temporarily cooled his heated imaginings, and he had tossed between that and self-recrimination at his weakness all night long. He was tired. He felt guilty. And having Linnea come down in a dress that clung to her bosom every time she breathed did not help. After one riveted gaze and a hastily murmured “Good morning,” he abruptly put his newspaper in front of him and apparently became absorbed in an article about a new method of mulching.

Linnea swallowed a lump in her throat, and the food-laden table before her became less appetizing. So, she had embarrassed him and herself last night. Well, all she could do was apologize. She waited until the servants had left, then cleared her throat.

A corner of the newspaper flicked down, and Rothwick peered over it at her. “Yes?”

“I—I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” Rothwick’s brows rose.

“About last night. I am afraid I did not act as I ought.” Linnea could feel her face grow warm, but she lifted her chin and looked her husband in the eye. “But I suppose we are irrevocably married now, and what’s done is done.”

“What
are
you talking about?” said Rothwick. He had put down his newspaper and he stared at her, his brows together in a frown.

Linnea pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool the heat that rose higher there. “Why, I mean, last night, after we left the library—you came to my room, and, and...” She faltered and stopped.

Rothwick rose from his chair, put both hands on the table, and leaned toward her. “And nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.” He sat down again and put up the newspaper.

“But, but, you were, well, in my bed, and you, ah, touched me, and, er—”

The newspaper came down with a snap. “You needn’t throw it in my face, for God’s sake, woman! For all that I was determined not to touch you, it
was
our wedding night, and the way you kept pressing yourself against me—it was more than a man could bear!”

“I
said
I was
sorry!”
retorted Linnea. “Besides, I did not know how my medicine would affect me.” She sat up straight on her chair, glaring at him. Embarrassment fled, and chagrin and a sense of insult overcame her. Determined not to touch her! On their wedding night! She would not have known that from the kisses he had pressed on her by the lake, and, yes, she remembered far different kisses last night.

Rothwick’s innate honesty warred with his temper. “Oh. You took some laudanum, did you? Well, that would explain it. I suppose I should have remembered what Dr. Grenwich said about it since you were not in a state to do so.” He averted his gaze, and there was silence, broken only by the light, rhythmic tapping of his fork against his plate. “For that matter, I suppose I shouldn’t have had as much brandy as I did. The combination of that brandy and that dressing gown of yours...” He grinned. “I am not a monk, you know.”

Linnea blushed rosily. “It was Lydia.
She
chose most of my gowns for me, and altered some of the ones I chose. They are not at all what I am used to.”

Rothwick’s smile faded a bit as he mentally cursed his sister. If all of Linnea’s dresses were like the one she was wearing now, he was going to have to make damned sure he was rarely alone with Linnea while her foot healed. He put up his newspaper again.

Linnea absently surveyed the table before her, selecting different foods at random. She stared at what she could see of Rothwick, wondering if she was going to face a newspaper at breakfast for the rest of her life. Certainly she had married a strange man—or were all men strange like this? First he is free with his caresses and kisses, and then he says he never wanted to touch me—as if I forced him to do so! Linnea shook her head. She thought it was proper for a man to kiss his wife—did not he say so himself? But now he said he did not want to! And men called women contrary!

She looked at the newspaper separating them again, then took a deep breath. Well, if she did not ask, she would never know.

“Excuse me, my lord?”

“Yes?” His voice sounded weary behind the paper.

“Why
is
it that you did not want to touch me?”

A groan issued from behind the newspaper, and it collapsed, tent like, over Rothwick’s head. He removed it, the edges crushed in his hands, and the gaze he bent on her resembled that of a dog, much tortured and abused.

“Because it was not the gentlemanly thing to do.” His voice was as calm as tension could make it.

“Oh.” Linnea felt even more confused. How did a gentleman perform his marital duties if he did not touch his wife?

Her confusion must have shown on her face, for after tiredly rubbing both palms into his eyes, he continued: “Not when your foot is still hurt and healing.”

“Oh!” replied Linnea, much enlightened. She smiled at him, warmed by his consideration and thoughtfulness. “Actually, I do not remember it hurting much at all last night.”

Rothwick gazed at her, conflicting emotions fighting for a place on his countenance. He looked at his newspaper, crumpled in his hands. A hole pierced the mulching article. Useless! Not that he wanted to know anything about mulching, but a torn newspaper was a ridiculous thing to hide behind—far more than a whole one. He grinned.

“My dear lady, the way you were sleeping, nothing would have roused you—foot, kisses, or anything else.” He rose. “If you will excuse me, I need to see to some matters with the bailiff. Shall we meet again for dinner, or would you prefer to rest with a tray taken up to you?”

Linnea smiled at him, puzzled but glad of his change of mood. “I would like to dine with you, my lord. I detest meals in bed.”

Rothwick bowed upon leaving the room and smiled with a certain satisfaction. Perhaps he could show her someday soon that a meal in bed was not to be despised.

Chapter 9

Some days later, as soon as he had quit his business at the gatehouse with Mr. Potts, the bailiff, Rothwick knew he was developing a cold. It started as a little tickle in his throat and disrupted his interview with Mr. Potts. The bailiff was a meek, if competent, man and paused respectfully in his speech whenever Rothwick cleared his throat. Since his lordship needed to do so constantly, Mr. Potts interrupted himself constantly, and neither of them did get to the point of their meeting by the end of their appointed hour.

Rothwick gave it up. His throat was already sore, his nose tickled, and he was as tired as if he had not slept in days. It was that damned midnight dousing he had given himself, he was sure of it. Well, at least he would not be tempted to make love to Linnea while her foot healed; sneezing profusely somehow put one off any sort of amorous activity. He went into the house.

Intent on going up to his rooms, he walked up the curving staircase, and upon turning at the end of the landing, he found himself face-to-face with Linnea.

“Good morning, my lord, er, Will.” She smiled uncertainly at him.

Once more Rothwick cursed his sister’s choice of Linnea’s clothes. He had prided himself on staying away from his wife for the last three days since that disastrous wedding night, trying to content himself with a kiss on her hand or her cheek. He now saw he would have to give up kissing her cheek. It was too close to her delectable neck, now emphasized by the delicate frill that edged the V neckline. It drew his eye downward: unfortunate, for as much as he tried there was something irresistible about the lines of the dress, and he did not think it was the fabric.

With an effort he raised his gaze to her face. “Do you not have any other dress more—more modest than this one?” he snapped.

Linnea’s face became pink, and a spark gleamed in her eye. “I am sorry, my lord, but dresses like this one comprise nearly all of my wardrobe. I believe I informed you of this some days ago, so you need not bite off my head.”

Rothwick’s expression stiffened. “You must excuse me, ma’am. I have had a most trying morn—ahh, ahh—” He hurriedly pulled out a large handkerchief and covered his nose. “Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!” He shuddered, then eyed Linnea’s suddenly sympathetic look with suspicion.

“Oh, dear, it sounds as if you have a cold!” she said kindly.

“And if I interpret that look in your eye correctly, ma’am, I suspect the next thing you will propose is some noxious remedy to correct the problem.” He dabbed his nose one last time and moved to go past her. “I thank you, but no.”

Linnea’s eyes widened. “Why, how did you know?”

“You forget, my dear, that I have three sisters.” He continued through a door and down the hall. Linnea hobbled after him.

“But what has that to do with anything?”

“Quite simply, it has to do with survival.”

“Survival?”

“Of course. Envision yourself an only son, cosseted and beleaguered not only by a mother, but by three older sisters. I was rarely left alone to run about in the dirt, fall into the lake, or freeze myself in the snow as any other boy might have.”

Linnea chuckled. “And?”

Rothwick gave her a woeful look. “You laugh, but it was a trial and a burden, believe me.”

“Well, then, how did you... survive... this burden?”

“I watched them carefully. A softening of the lips, a smile, a concerned crease on the forehead, and I knew a noxious draught was on its way. When the look manifested itself on the faces of my mother or my sisters, I made sure to make my escape.”

A short burst of laughter escaped Linnea’s lips. “And did you enjoy your escape?”

“Very much.” He paused at the door to his chamber. “Now, if you will excuse me, ma’am, I shall rest.”

“Oh, but perhaps—”

“No.
A rest is all I need.” He closed the door firmly in her face.

Linnea sighed and turned away. How useless she felt! She was used to acting as her cousin Boothe’s maid-of-all-work, making up menus, dusting fine ornaments, running errands, and instructing the maids on laundry day. She had wandered this house—her house, now—and looked for any occupation she might put her hand to. There was none. The house was well ordered—the mantelpieces and all decorations polished to a bright gleam, the menus all determined by the excellent French chef—and there were no errands to run. Finally, when she found Lord Rothwick with a putrid cold, she thought there was at last something she could do. She had often nursed her father’s parishioners when they were ill, and she knew she was considered a fine nurse. But he seemed neither to need nor want her help.

Linnea winced as she walked to her own rooms. She felt more inclined to hobble than to walk properly, but if she were careful not to make sudden movements, her foot only ached instead of giving her a stabbing pain. Indeed, she was sure she was recovering, for the ache seemed to recede the more she exercised her foot.

When she entered her room, she went to the window. There she looked out upon the landscape, at the lake and the little Grecian summerhouse. Except for the vines climbing up its pillars, there were few flowers or shrubbery near the gazebo. She wondered what it would be like if there were. Yes. Perhaps a small garden encircling the building; short boxwood shrubberies enclosing beds of roses and peonies. A smile touched her lips. That was something she could do. Though she had supervised the vicarage’s vegetable garden, it was true she did not know much else about gardening. However, she was willing to learn, and she was sure she could ask the gardener if she needed help.

A small weight lifted from Linnea’s heart, and she looked through her wardrobe for a plain, serviceable dress she could wear while consulting the head gardener. At last, she could make herself useful. Why, if she learned enough, perhaps she could even assist Lord Rothwick—Will—in some agricultural matters. It behooved her, then, to find all she could on gardening and agriculture in the library. She changed her dress for her plainest grey, round muslin gown, draped a shawl around her shoulders, and went to find the head gardener.

* * * *

When dinner was announced, Linnea was surprised to find that she came down before Rothwick. Indeed, he did not appear until fifteen minutes after her entrance into the dining room, and a fierce sneeze preceded him.

“Achoo!” He pressed his handkerchief to his nose, glanced at Linnea, and bowed briefly. “You bus escuze be, ma’am, but I am afraid I will nod be good company this evening.”

“Oh, dear, you do sound quite ill! Are you sure you do not want—”

“No!”

“I have it on good authority that lemon-barley tea will do wonders for a cold, and as for dinner, my lord, I do not think you should partake of anything more than a light broth in your condition.” Linnea looked at him, concerned. Lord Rothwick’s nose was a decided red, his eyes watered, and he coughed a little. She shook her head.

“I ab quite all right—recoverig—
recovering,
in fact.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but—”

“Will, Linnea. Do remember thad I hab a Christian name.” He gave her an impatient look.

“Will, I have to say that you do not at all sound as if you are recovering,” Linnea said firmly. “You sound worse than you did earlier today. I strongly advise you to rest in your rooms. It is an easy enough thing to have the broth brought up to you.”