Marjorie Farrell (13 page)

“You have two sisters, I understand.”

“Kate and Lynette.”

“Gareth and Lynette. How Arthurian,” said Arden with a trace of mockery. “But why Kate?”

“My father named the first two children, but my mother was so afraid he might name the baby Guinevere that she insisted on a simple Kate. And it is also my aunt’s name, as you recall.”

“And which of you is the eldest?”

“Lynette. I think you would enjoy Kate.”

“And not Lynette?”

“Oh, Lynette is not for mere liking,” replied Gareth. “She is for loving. First, because she is so beautiful. And second, because she does not live on the same plane as the rest of us. Her mind is superior even to my father’s. Her hold on everyday details, however, is a bit tenuous at times,” said Gareth, smiling at memories of Lynette at her most irritating and lovable self. “Kate is quite down-to-earth,” he continued, “and is the one who keeps all our lives in order. You both would share a sense of the ridiculous, although Kate has a warm heart,” Gareth added without thinking.

Arden was stung into a heated reply: “How dare you say I have no heart! What do you know of me, after all?”

“Only the little you allow to be seen, my dear wife.”

“You will never know my heart, I can promise you that, Captain,” she said in a low, vehement voice. “Pray excuse me. I am tired after such a long and eventful day.”

Gareth rose and watched as she walked out. Stung, madam, he thought. A good sign, surely, for her to be hurt by his accusation. On the other hand, she was so set against him that perhaps this marriage had been a dreadful mistake. Had he deluded himself? Was he as arrogant, in a different way, as Arden? Was it all one-sided, that magnetic pull he felt? And the feeling he had on that first day, that he was looking right into her soul? What if she had no soul? He moved away from the table and retreated to the parlor where a bottle of port stood open next to two glasses. Gareth poured a little into each glass, mockingly toasted himself and his wife, and then hurled both into the fire.

He had always been able to woo the women he wanted. He liked women and they liked him. And when he was particularly drawn to one, she was equally drawn and allowed herself to respond to his (if he did say so who shouldn’t) considerable charm. It was very hard dealing with Arden, for it went against his grain. He wanted her, even thought he was in love with her, though God alone knew why, he thought. I certainly don’t, for there is no reason I can come up with. And in order to win her, if that were even possible, he would have to continue to feign indifference. She had to reveal her heart first, or he would never have her respect or be sure of her love. But it was damned hard, for he wanted to stroke her hair, to be sitting by this fire with her, instead of leaning on the mantel watching the flames licking around the shattered crystal.

* * * *

When Arden entered the bedroom, she found the bed neatly turned down, and a fluffy white flannel night rail laid across it—an inviting sight which had drawn Motley, who was curled up in the middle of it. Arden pushed at him but he only opened one eye, looked dismissively at her and closed it again. She could not budge him by pushing, so she pulled the night rail out from under him. He arched his back in protest and jumped off the bed, walking slowly out the door, presenting the appearance of a cat who had made his own decision to leave, not one who had been evicted. She closed the door and tried to brush the cat hairs off the white flannel, a nearly impossible job. A soft knock at the door startled her.

“Tis only me, lass,” whispered Janie. “The captain sent me up to help tha out of your clothes.”

Arden let Janie in gratefully. This one night she did not want to feel Gareth’s fingers brushing her hair and neck.

“Doesn’t that cat go outside at night?” she asked as Janie untied the gown.

“No, he declared himself a house cat long ago, and will not soil his feet in the barn. Lady Elizabeth brought him in when he was a kitten, and he has ruled the roost ever since.”

“Hmph,” replied Arden. Janie smiled behind her back. Her new mistress, pretty as she was, was clearly used to having her own way. I wish tha luck with Mott, lass, she thought. Tha’ll need it!

“There you be. Now, let me brush your hair before I hie off home.”

“Where do you live, Janie?”

“I am from Hawes and my Matthew won’t stand for me being too late at night.”

“So you are not a widow?” Arden was surprised, for very few servants had their own lives and most housekeepers were widows or women of a certain age who had never married, but adopted a title of Mrs.

“No, God be thanked, I have a reel good man to keep me warm at night. And so do you, lass, so do you.”

Arden said nothing in reply as Janie continued to draw the brush through her heavy black hair, which was not silky and easy to brush, but when released from her braids, sprung away from hand or comb. Unbound, it had a life of its own, as though all of Arden’s energy were held there, waiting to be released.

Janie gave her hair a final pat, said good night and left Arden looking at herself in the dressing table mirror. Her pupils were large in the shadowed room and her hair was like a cloud around her head. This was more truly a wedding night than any of the evenings on the road, for they were at home. Gareth had kept his promise so far, but would he keep it here? Well, she would see that he kept it, she thought defiantly, as she crawled into bed, shivering with cold and nervous energy. She made sure she lay on the very edge of the bed, back turned away from where Gareth would lie. After some moments of expectation she realized that he was not coming up right away and fell asleep.

* * * *

When Gareth finally entered the bedroom, he whispered Arden’s name, and receiving no answer, walked over to the bed and sat down to undress. He could see that she was lying as close to the edge as she could without falling out of bed, and he was half amused and half frustrated. Her hair was all over the pillow, and he reached his hand out and gently stroked it. At that moment he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, and he did not know how he was going to sleep in the same bed and not touch her. He eased himself under the covers and decided to follow her example; perhaps leaving some space between them and planning his work schedule for the next few days would quench his desire.

When Arden awoke, she found herself in the middle of the bed. Gareth’s body was pressed closed to hers and she could feel something warm pressing against her belly. His hand, she supposed. For a moment, she lay there, not quite awake, and she had to admit, a bit dazed by the unexpected pleasure and comfort his closeness brought her. Then she realized that this was no way to start a marriage of convenience. She did not want Gareth thinking that he could just casually pull her close like this. One thing could too easily lead to another, so she reached down to take his hand and move it, when her fingers encountered hair, too much hair for a human hand, and she gave a little shriek as memories of childhood stories of maidens married to beasts came flooding back. Her cry awakened Gareth, and as full consciousness returned to her, she realized it was indeed a beast, “That beastly cat,” she muttered, as she struggled to dislodge Mott from his comfortable position curled up against her stomach.

Gareth, who awoke to find himself lying close to his wife, one hand on her hip, removed it quickly and rolled over onto his back, only to see that in the arousal of early morning, the sheets were beginning to lift. Arden, who had just turned to face him, could not ignore such evidence of her husband’s desire.

Gareth could not help grinning at the combination of dismay and curiosity on her face.

“You are shameless to lie there like that, sir. It is insulting to me as a lady.”

“I assure you, madam, it is a compliment, not an insult, that my body responds to you. And there is not much that I can do about it, after all. Well, there is at least one thing I can think of, but I take it you are not inviting me to consummate our marriage?”

Arden had pulled herself up and the covers around her and was sitting against the headboard, staring away from Gareth. Her head kept wanting to turn around, and she felt a strange tightening in her own private parts. Dear God, she would not feel that. She would call him a…centaur. A centaur? Where had that come from? She couldn’t think of how to insult him. She never could summon up any wit around him. She took a deep breath and said as haughtily as she could, “I am sure that you agree that this sharing of a bed is somehow improper under the circumstances and will not work for either of us. I wish you to sleep in your own room.”

“Your idea of what is improper is marvelously convoluted, my dear,” replied Gareth, watching himself become soft with real regret. He had hoped that his arousal would spark something in her, but in addition to a loveless marriage, perhaps he had condemned himself to a union with a frigid wife? “It is surely meet, right and just for a husband and wife to become ‘familiar with the other’s response, physical as well as emotional.”

“Not in this marriage,” she said harshly. “Your…lust is an insult to me. You only married me for my money and to please my father. There was no pretense of affection. Your response is that of an animal.”

“And so we all are, my arrogant wife, my lady prig,” replied Gareth, stung into anger. “Were I a different sort of man, I would force you to admit that, and admit me into your body.”

Arden’s eyes became wide at his words and tone, and she again realized that Gareth was unlike any man she had met. She never had been able to put him into place. But that did not mean she need give in to him. Why should she? He had gotten what he must have wanted: a rich and highborn wife. “As my husband, you had the right and power to bring me to this shabby little farm, and legally you may have the right to bed me, but morally you have no rights at all. If you come near me, I will only fight you, and scream until I have no voice.”

“You would likely have to scream that long, since there is no one to hear you,” said Gareth, “for in such a ‘shabby’ place, there are, as you know, no servants to respond. And if there were, they would be answerable to me.” He was now coldly angry himself, for she had insulted his home, which, if she had any feeling at all, she would have experienced it as a home, despite its lack of luxury, unlike some of the drafty mansions of the
ton
. “However,” he continued, “despite your evident naiveté about arranged marriages, and despite appearances, I have no desire to sleep with any woman who does not want to sleep with me, even if she is my wife. I will have Janie fix up my old bedroom. You would have to beg me on hands and knees before I would return to such a cold bed, madam, my wife.”

Gareth gathered his clothes and left Arden staring as the door closed behind him. She had won, but somehow, it felt like a hollow victory. Mott, who was sitting at the end of the bed, looked at her with that strange, ringed eye and she hurled a pillow at him, which he sidestepped neatly. He turned his back on her and proceeded to clean himself.

When Arden came down to breakfast, she found Gareth had already eaten and was off reacquainting himself with the farm. Janie’s openhearted warmth of the day before seemed a little subdued, and Arden guessed that Gareth had already given his directions about the bedrooms.

“Will tha be wanting to go over the house with me, my lady?” asked the housekeeper, as Arden finished a second cup of tea.

“Did Lady Elizabeth take charge of meals and so on?”

“Oh, no, her ladyship is far too busy with the sheep. Miss Kate was the one in charge.”

“But Kate is the younger daughter, is she not? Should not the responsibility have fallen on Lynette?”

“Oh, aye, in any other household that would be true. But Miss Lynette, she is not at all suited for the practical details of life. A true scholar she is, like her father.”

“Yes, Gareth did tell me she helped Mr. Richmond, but I assumed it was only in her spare time.”

“The master and his daughter are true partners. They are working together on a book, as a matter-of-fact. Not that I think a young lady should be shutting herself up in a library all day, but in this family, no one does what tha’d expect from the quality!”

Arden smiled at Janie’s combination of exasperation at and obvious devotion to the Richmond family. “I think I will go over the household with you tomorrow, Janie. Today I would like to get outside and perhaps explore the village.”

“Shouldn’t tha wait for Captain Gareth to return?”

“Surely I can walk in alone? It is not that far.”

“I suppose so,” said Janie, pausing in her table clearing to consider the matter. “Miss Kate always walks down on her own. But then Miss Kate is not the daughter of an earl or the wife of the new…ly returned Captain Richmond.” Janie stumbled over the last few words, remembering just in time that last night she had been sworn to secrecy by the captain. Lady Arden did not seem to have noticed her slip, thank God.

Arden’s trunks had been brought upstairs and she rummaged through them for a pair of suitable walking shoes but found none. Her half boots, which Ellen had picked out as being appropriate for country strolls, were hard and stiff from the rain and mud, and still a bit damp, but she had no other choice. She pulled on a light wool pelisse and went downstairs. Poking her head into the kitchen, she told Janie she would be back shortly and stepped out into the drive.

The day was glorious. The sky was a deep, clear blue with only a few high, white clouds. The air was crisp and clean and seemed purer than the air around Stalbridge. Perhaps it was because they were farther north, Arden wondered.

The house looked more attractive than it had in the rain. Rhododendrons were planted along both sides of the door and were just beginning to bloom. Red buds were pushing up out of dark green leaves, and Arden felt her heart lift. It was hard to maintain resentment on such a morning. She walked the small path that circled the house. There was not much of a yard around the house, but what there was was emerald green. At the back of the house was the kitchen garden, and only a hundred feet away was a low stone wall which separated the house from pasture where sheep were feeding. The field rose gently but steadily, ending in a flat-topped scree. It looked as though someone had sliced off the top of the hill. Arden had never been in a home where pasture ran almost up to the back door, and she was again struck by how different Yorkshire was from Sussex.