My Naughty Minette (7 page)

August sighed. “If you want swans, you shall have them.”

“I don’t,” she said, looking up at him. “I’m absolutely sure that some pretty flowers and music shall be quite enough. I’d hate for anything to ruin our day, particularly swans, because they aren’t as sweet and romantic as everyone thinks.”

He looked away first, but not before he saw the anxiety in her gaze. “Doves would be nice at a wedding,” he said. “They’re very peaceful.”

He was not surprised when Minette launched into an animated monologue about her many adventures involving doves. If it eased her fears to chatter about inane things, August was happy to let her talk, although he couldn’t remember conversing about birds for such an extended period at any point in his life before now.

The important thing was that the people across the lake at the tea party saw him holding her hand, and gazing into her eyes like a dazzled fellow who was falling in love.

In deference to her brother’s wishes, Lord August married her the following week, just after the house party ended. They recited their vows in the picturesque chapel at Marble Grove, a sleepy village bordering the Warren estate. Many Oxfordshire families attended, but others stayed away, most notably the Coltons and their set. Lord Barrymore, August’s father, did not attend either due to illness. Minette wondered if that was true, or only an excuse.

Minette studied August throughout the ceremony and the small wedding breakfast at Warren Manor, trying to discern if these absences upset him. He smiled when he ought to smile, and held her hand, and conversed with the guests like a pleased bridegroom, but there was some tension underneath, some simmering darkness. Minette did her best to maintain a merry mood, although she bawled like a child when she said goodbye to Warren and Josephine and Mrs. Everly afterward. Even worse, she had to share the coach to Barrymore Park with her new mother-in-law, who frowned at her the entire way.

Oh, there was nothing for it. Her wedding day had been a disaster, nothing like the sort of day she’d hoped.

Now she was Wilhelmina Anne Randolph, the Countess of Augustine, married to Method Edwin Randolph, which was such a strange name for a person they’d always called August. Method? A method for what? Who would name their child such a thing? At least she knew Barrymore Park well, having been there on more than a few occasions with her brother. It wasn’t really August’s house, but his parents’. Lady Barrymore introduced her to the housekeeper as Lady Augustine and both the women’s noses seemed to pinch in distaste. Minette was then ensconced in a rather distant wing, pending refurbishments, Lady Barrymore said. When they nearly “forgot” to fetch her for dinner, Minette had the lowering suspicion she’d been placed in the distant wing by design.

Do not lose your nerve now
, she chided herself.
You must be a pleasant, amiable wife, like Josephine is with Warren, or Aurelia with Townsend. You must smile and bring happiness to your husband’s home and your husband’s world.

And yes, she would go to bed with him, even if the process puzzled her. Even if it hurt. She waited in her prettiest night dress for him to come to her after dinner, but the hours ticked on into evening and then nighttime, and he didn’t come.

Perhaps he imagined she wouldn’t welcome him, after their awkward encounter Hallowe’en night. Perhaps he’d gotten lost on the way to her rooms, as she was so far removed from the main areas of the house. Well, she had never been one to shrink about and allow matters to go awry. They were married now. At the very least they ought to say good night to one another, and if there were other words that must be said, Minette was not afraid to say them.

She pulled a robe over her night dress and proceeded into the hall. A footman stood just down from her door. “Will you take me to my husband?” she asked. “Lord Augustine,” she clarified hastily, in case the servant was not well informed.

They began the great trek back toward the main house, and once they arrived, the footman took her downstairs to the library. Why, it was nearly eleven o’clock, but Lord August was there, laboring over correspondence. “Lady Augustine,” the footman announced, before turning on his heel and shutting the door.

Goodness, these haughty servants. She turned to August with a smile. “Are you working tonight, on your wedding night?”

“I had a few matters to attend to.” His face revealed new lines in the lamplight. He did not put down his pen.

Minette tried to think of something to say that might soften the tension around his eyes. She found her voice had left her for the first time in a while.

“How are your rooms?” he asked.

Distant
, she thought.
Like your expression.
“They are very well, for temporary rooms,” she said aloud.

“Yes, temporary. We’ll find you something better. There were plans for refurbishments, but no wedding was expected until next year.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “I want to thank you for...for your sacrifice today. In marrying me.”

“Let’s not call it a sacrifice, as that sounds rather grim. I married you out of duty, and respect for your honor. And so your brother wouldn’t kill me,” he added as an afterthought. “We shall attempt to make the best of things.”

“Yes,” she said, seizing on his words. “I want to make the best of things. I want you to know I’m completely recovered from our... Well. I want you to know that I won’t shrink from my marital duties.”

A corner of his lip quirked up, not that he looked very mirthful. “Such noble bravery won’t be necessary. You’re doubtless tired after our busy day, and I must finish this correspondence before I leave for London in the morning.”

“We’re going to London in the morning? No one informed me.”

“I’m taking my mother to London,” he said. “You’ll be staying here at Barrymore Park. My father is very ill, you see, and his physician is in London. I won’t be able to spend much time with you until he’s through this latest spell, so it’s better if you stay here in Oxfordshire, near your brother and Josephine. If you like you can even stay at Warren Manor. I leave that up to you.”

Be pleasant. Be amiable. Even if your composure is about to break.
“Why would I stay at Warren Manor now that we’re married?” she asked.

“My father is very sick and the London household is in upheaval at the moment.”

His expression was closed, inscrutable. She didn’t understand why he distanced himself from her, even within his house. He’d put her in the far wing, and now he intended to journey hours away from her and stay there for some indeterminate amount of time. “I’m sorry your father is ill,” she said. “Perhaps I might come and help.”

“You’re not coming.”

Now he had said that very rudely, almost in the tone of a scold. “But I should really like to come,” she said.

“And I would really like you to go to bed, so I can finish what I need to finish.”

“But it’s our wedding night.” Her anguished voice rang out in the silence of the library. The tall shelves seemed to tower over her like bleak, dark wraiths. “A groom is supposed to go to bed with the bride on her wedding night. He’s supposed to kiss and romance her, and hold her in his arms.”

“And there are supposed to be swans and flowers and music. I know. But we’ve already established that our marriage is not the conventional sort.” His fingers tightened on his pen. “I’m sorry, Minette. You’re charming and sweet, but I’m not of a mind to bed you. Not tonight.”

“When?”

“Later,” he said evasively. “I have things to do in London, as I’ve told you.” He looked back down at his letter and began to write. Minette realized she’d crumpled great handfuls of her silk robe in her fists. She let it go and smoothed the fabric.

“Do you think you can be rid of me so easily?” she said. “Warren will bring me to London if I ask him.”

“I wouldn’t do that. You’ll be happier staying here.”

“Living on my own in this cavernous manor? For how long?”

“Until things settle down.”

“And what if I don’t agree with this ‘living apart’ plan?”

He threw his pen down on the desk. “It’s not up for discussion.” His voice sounded taut, like the crack of a whip. “Will you go to bed as I asked, or will you stay here and continue to argue with me?”

“I’m going to stay and continue to argue with you,” she said. “I’m going to whine and nag until you agree that I must accompany you to London.”

“Then you’ll be whining and nagging a long while, for I’ve made my decision.”

He picked up his pen and hunched back over the desk. He was in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his handsome gray wedding coat strewn carelessly over a nearby chair. She went over to twitch at it, and straighten the folds lest it wrinkle.

“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m seeing to your coat, in the absence of your valet. I bet you’ll be taking
him
with you to London.”

“Yes.”

“But not your wife.”

He looked up at her with a dark expression. “I’m going to lose my temper in a moment. I don’t want to, but I will if you keep this up.”

It was really a very scary look he gave her, but if she capitulated now, he’d go away and leave her in this vast, lonely house for God knew how long. “I wish you would put down your correspondence and listen to me for a moment. It’s only that I believe, after many years of reading romantic novels, that there’s a certain way married couples ought to go on. Of course, as a man, you’ve never read a romantic story. Let me tell you, the couples in those books have problems all the time, but over the course of the book, through adventures and misadventures, they come to love one another, you see?” He stared at her as if she was daft. She threw up her hands. “My Lord August, how are we to have our adventures and misadventures and fall in love if you’re miles away in London and I’m back here in Oxfordshire?”

He gave a great sigh. “Come here, if you please. I would like to show you something.”

There, his pen was down. Now he would listen to her. She went to stand beside him at the desk as he reached inside one of the drawers and drew out an oblong white box tied with ribbon. He opened the lid to show her an engraved wooden plaque of some sort resting on a bed of satin.

“What is it?” she asked, picking it up.

“Your brother gave it to me today as a wedding present.”

She tilted her head to inspect the word inscribed into one side. “WAR? Whatever does it mean? What an inappropriate thing to inscribe on a wedding day plaque.”

“They’re your new married initials.
W.A.R.
Wilhelmina Anne Randolph, and it’s not a plaque, it’s a paddle.”

“A paddle?” She took a step back.

August nodded at her, tight lipped. “A paddle with your initials on it.”

Minette gawped down at the thick, polished thing. Yes, it was long and rectangular, with a perfectly obvious handle she hadn’t noticed before. “Is it...is it a paddle for cooking? For taking tiny loaves of bread out of the oven?”

“It’s not a paddle for tiny loaves of bread.” He took it from her and turned it over in his hand. “I think you know what it’s for.”

Minette narrowed her eyes. “What a despicable present for a brother to give on his sister’s wedding day.”

“I believe he meant it as a lark. Nonetheless, it’s a very fine paddle and I’m very close to using it.” He put it on his desk and drew her close. “Now, my dear, I’m going to give you a kiss good night, and then I’m going to go back to work on my letter and count silently to ten. When I look up, I expect you to have disappeared completely. Are we clear with one another?”

“How quickly are you going to count?”

“Minette.”

“It’s only that I don’t know how quickly I’ll need to walk. You have a big library.”

He cupped her cheek, and when she lifted her lips to his, he kissed her forehead instead. Oh, this whole situation was maddening.

“Are you counting now?” she asked when he released her.

“I’m already nearly to two.”

She took a look at the paddle—damn Warren—and turned for the door. She opened it so forcefully she nearly bowled over a footman. She felt sorry for the man but she was so very angry. She ignored him, took a few steps down the hall, and leaned against the smooth mahogany paneling. This was not how things ought to go at all. She wanted to cry. Well, she began to cry a little, but she quickly realized nothing would come of tears.

Or, rather, nothing would come of
quiet
tears.

She looked over to be sure the door was still ajar. The footman had been so offended when she knocked into him he hadn’t remembered to shut it. She broke into her best theatrical cry, the one she used when the stakes were highest. They’d never be any higher than they were now. When she got no response, she cried louder. She thought she saw the footman’s eyebrow twitch. When he moved as if to shut the door, she gave him an awful look so he froze where he was and turned to face front.

“Oh, I can’t believe I’m to be left alone here,” she wailed in melodramatic grief. “I can’t bear it. I’ll start sleepwalking all over again. I’ll probably walk off a tower or something, and dash my brains all over the cobblestones below.” She paused, but heard nothing within, so she took a deep breath and began again. “All I want is to be a proper wife. I can’t bear this, when I love my new husband so much.” She wept as if her heart was breaking, but she couldn’t seem to summon real tears in her frustration. At last, August appeared and stood regarding her, one hand on his hip.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” she said. “I’m crying.”

“You’re faking,” he snapped. “Those are false tears. But that can be remedied.” He took her arm and pulled her inside. The footman shut the door behind them with an unsubtle bang as August pulled her across the library to his desk. It was her turn to ask, or rather shriek, “What are you doing?”

He sat in his chair and threw her over his lap. “I’m doing what I’ve wanted to do ever since I woke up a week ago and found you in my arms.”

Oh goodness, this wasn’t the outcome she’d hoped for at all.