Chapter Twenty-Three

A s Lawrence trudged along the path, he caught sight of two flickering lights—large, rectangular, luminous eyes watching him from ahead.

The windows of Ivy Cottage, illuminated from within, as if they guided him home. The light stretched across the garden, picking out the leaves in the shrubs, and the edge of the fence he’d erected with Ned’s help.

“Papa—look!” Jonathan tugged at his sleeve. “Doesn’t it look pretty, Papa?”

“Don’t be so foolish!” Roberta said. “It’s like all houses. Somewhere we have to sleep while we’re waiting to go outside again.”

Lawrence couldn’t help smiling. Roberta was her father’s daughter, all right. Already stronger and braver than her twin, and with a keen interest in plants, she’d helped him clear the garden around Ivy Cottage. And the most intelligent of his children—if a parent was permitted to admit the superiority of one child over another. She had a bright future ahead.

Or would, had she been born a boy. As a girl, she’d have to set aside her ambitions and succumb to the duty of all women.

Which reminds me…

“Come on, children!” he said brightly as he reached the cottage and opened the front door. “Let’s see what Mama’s been up to.”

The hallway was empty.

“Bella?” he called out.

Silence.

“Bella!”

“Mama, where are you?” the children chorused.

Perhaps she’d taken flight.

“What’s that smell?” William asked.

“It smells good,” Jonathan said. “I like it!”

“You like everything ,” Roberta said. “You’re such a baby! People won’t like you any more just because you like them.”

“Don’t like you !” Jonathan gave her a push.

“That’s enough,” Lawrence said. Though he had to admit, the aroma had a certain appeal. It smelled suspiciously like…

Cooking.

He pushed open the parlor door. A fire flickered in the hearth, and the candles at either end of the mantelshelf were almost out.

What the devil was she about? They couldn’t afford to waste candles and logs in an empty room. Clearly, she had no appreciation of how much things cost.

“Papa—come and look!”

He followed the children’s voices into the kitchen.

Ah—that explained the aromas.

A pot sat on top of the range, and next to it, a loaf of bread.

He picked up the loaf, which was still warm to the touch. It was on the small side, and somewhat hard—it barely yielded when he squeezed it—but it was better than nothing.

And in the pot…

He lifted the lid to reveal a thick brown stew that simmered gently. He stirred it, revealing pieces of meat, potato, smaller pieces of onion, and the occasional carrot.

“Bella!” he called out again, but there was no answer. “Children—go upstairs and remove your shoes, then return to the table. I’ll find your mother so she can serve supper.”

“She’s not our—” Roberta began, but William poked her in the ribs.

“Yes, she is—remember what Papa said.”

She pulled a face, then exited the kitchen, followed by her brothers.

“Don’t push me!” William cried, followed by a shriek from Jonathan.

“Children!” Lawrence roared.

Heavens! He’d been toiling in the vicarage garden all day, and now he had to deal with their bickering? That was what wives and mothers were for.

A female scream echoed from upstairs.

Ah—the children had found her.

“Come on, Mama!”

“Sleepyhead! Mama’s a sleepyhead!”

“Mama, I’m hungry!”

The clatter of footsteps resumed, and the children ushered Bella into the kitchen.

Lawrence almost lost his composure. Hair unkempt, with blotches of soot on her cheeks and a dark smear across the front of her gown, she resembled a chimney sweep.

“Bella, where have you been?” he asked, struggling to contain his laughter.

“She was on my bed!” Jonathan cried out. “That’s my bed. You’re too big for it.”

She glared at Jonathan, and the room fell silent, as if awaiting a tirade of fury. But she merely sighed and shuffled toward the range, where she lifted the lid of the pot and gave it a stir.

He hadn’t expected such a rapid transformation. The haughty demeanor had gone, replaced by the cowed attitude of a servant.

At last, Miss High-and-Mighty, you’re experiencing what you force your maidservants to endure every day.

He pointed to the pot. “Is that our supper?”

“No,” she said. “It’s the contents of the privy.”

Jonathan let out a giggle, cut short as William shushed him. Bella turned and faced Lawrence, her eyes glittering with venom.

Her fire hadn’t completely died.

Good. He liked her spirit. As did his cock, which had twitched with need as soon as he heard her footsteps, and now strained in his breeches. Eyes flashing, plump lips parted, as if ready to receive his kiss, she straightened her stance and returned his stare.

A wife was supposed to submit to her husband’s authority—but where was the pleasure in that?

He gestured to the children. “Sit, while your mother serves us.”

He caught a flash of anger in her eyes, before she spooned stew into bowls then placed them on the table. The last bowl she set at the empty place, spilling some of the contents on the table.

“Ha-ha!” Jonathan sang. “Mama’s made a mess! You’ll have to clear that up.” The twins tittered with laughter, and she glared at them.

“Why, you…” she began, but Lawrence interrupted.

“Wife—not at the table.”

“I beg your pardon? You expect me to put up with—”

“ I’ll admonish the children.”

“Why must you—”

He raised his hand. “That’s enough,” he said. “Children, don’t laugh at your mother. I’ve not been working hard all day to endure such noise. A man should expect a peaceful home when he enters it.”

Bella’s eyes flashed, but she either thought better of arguing, or was too tired to respond. Instead, she picked at the stew in front of her, while he shoveled forkfuls into his mouth.

Bloody hell —that was delicious.

“Did you make this?” he asked.

“You ordered me to cook for you, did you not?” she retorted.

“Well, it’s proper tasty, thank you.”

A flicker of pride shone in her eyes.

No—that wouldn’t do. She was proud enough already.

“Where’s the bread?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes, then rose from the table, returning with the bread and a knife. She raised the knife and smiled coldly at him. The blade reflected the candlelight, curling into an evil grin.

I’ve no doubt you’d as soon plunge that knife into my heart, wife.

She cut the loaf into slices.

“Help yourself,” she said. “I presume you’re capable of that , unless the process of entering his home renders a man completely useless.”

Roberta gave a snort.

“What’s so funny?” William asked.

“ She’s right. Boys are useless.”

“Don’t say she —it’s rude!” Jonathan cried. “Isn’t it, Mama?”

Bella turned to the little boy, and her mouth curved into a smile.

Lawrence’s breath caught at the expression in her eyes—a softness he’d not seen before.

Then she resumed eating, and the moment was gone.

“This bread’s tough!” William cried, chewing on a slice.

“Dip it in your stew, silly,” Roberta said.

“Mind you chew it,” Lawrence said. “You want to keep your teeth.”

Bella’s smile disappeared. “I’d like to see you bake bread.”

“That’s women’s work,” Lawrence said. “A man shouldn’t sully himself with women’s work.”

“Why? Because men are incapable?”

Roberta laughed again.

Curse her! Was she trying to enlist his daughter against him?

“Have you finished your supper, children?” Lawrence asked. In response, they pushed three empty bowls across the table. “Good—get ready for bed. Your mother will be along later to tuck you in.”

“I’ll what?” Bella asked.

“You always tuck them in,” Lawrence said. “And read them a story. Doesn’t she?”

Roberta hesitated, but the boys nodded. Then the children scraped back their chairs and clattered their way upstairs.

“I suppose you’ve not made anything for pudding,” Lawrence said.

Rather than scowl, Bella gave a smile of triumph. “That’s where you’re wrong, oh munificent husband .”

She stacked the bowls while he sat back and watched, then she cleared the table, casting him the occasional glance as if she expected him to help.

Bugger that—she had a debt to pay.

Then she opened the range and pulled out a pie.

He wrinkled his nose at the warm aroma of apples.

“You baked a pie ?” he asked.

“Didn’t you say I always cook for you?”

“Yes, but I didn’t expect…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Serve me a slice.”

“A please wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Why?” he asked. “You’re my wife.”

“Unfortunately, I am,” she said. “If you lack manners, that’s your misfortune—but you should set our children an example.”

“Our children?” he said. “But they’re…”

They’re not yours.

He checked himself. “Very well—serve me a slice, please .”

The irony was not lost on him that she, of all people, saw fit to lecture another about manners.

She cut a slice, placed it on a plate, and pushed it toward him before cutting a smaller slice for herself.

He shoveled a forkful of pie into his mouth and let out an involuntary groan. The apples were firm, yet soft, their natural sweetness complemented by an exotic taste he couldn’t quite place. It was delicious.

Then he caught the pride in her eyes.

No—that won’t do.

He pushed back his chair and beckoned to her. “Wife, remove my boots.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“It’s what you do when I come home. Normally you do it before supper, but I’ll let that slide tonight.”

“Oh, you will, will you?”

“It’s never bothered you before.”

“Or perhaps it did, and you were too ignorant to listen to my protests.”

He laughed. “That’s my Bella—feisty before she yields. I do love that in you.”

“And what is there in you to love?”

“The pleasure of serving me.”

She eyed his boots. “I’ll suffer it this once,” she said, “if only to ensure you don’t cover my floor with muddy footprints.”

“ Your floor?”

“It’s my home as well as yours, is it not?”

In response, he stretched out his legs. She kneeled at his feet, grasped one boot at the ankle, and tugged until it worked free. Then she removed the second boot and placed them on the floor beside the range.

“Bella?”

She glanced up, and his body surged at the image of her at his feet, eyes wide, mouth parted, as if in readiness to serve him.

Was there ever a sight more arousing? He squeezed his thighs together to temper his rising cock. Then she lowered her gaze to his groin and, blushing, drew in a sharp breath. Her tongue flicked out and moistened her lower lip.

Like it or not, she was aroused.

“Like what you see?” he asked.

She scrambled to her feet, almost losing her balance. He reached toward her, and she fended him off. “Don’t touch me!”

“Why the sudden coyness, Bella?” he teased. “Most nights you’re beggin’ me to touch you—and more besides.”

“You’re a boor!”

“I’m your boor,” he said. “Come here.”

She backed away. “I’m tired,” she said. “All I want to do is sleep.”

“Then ask permission to retire and I’ll grant it.”

“I shouldn’t have to…” she began. Then she let out a huff. “I’m too tired to care,” she said. “Very well—please may I retire, oh lord and master?”

“You may.” He gestured to the table. “I’ll excuse you from clearing up the supper things.”

“Thank you.” Her mouth twitched into a smile.

“You’ll just have to add them to your list of chores for tomorrow.”

“I’ll what ? After what I’ve had to do today—you expect me to do it all over again?”

“What—throw a few pieces of pork into a pot and bake a pie? Hardly a day’s hard toil.”

“What would you know of hard toil?” she sneered. “And to think—we made the pie special. With cinnamon, as a treat, to—”

“Cinnamon?” So that explained the exotic taste. Exotic and expensive —the foolish, spoiled madam! “What the devil have you done?” he asked. “Do you have any idea how much that costs?”

“It was a gift,” she said. “I—”

“ Nothing is a gift, Bella,” he said. “Everything must be paid for. Though I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”

“Someone like me? What do you mean?”

Bugger —he’d almost betrayed himself.

“I-I mean someone incapable of keeping house.”

“Incapable?” she said. “Do you have any idea what I’ve endured today? No—I suppose not, because I’m a woman, and women don’t matter in your eyes. Neither do children, from what I can see.”

“You’re criticizing my children?”

“There you go again! Your children—as if I had no role to play. Am I just a broodmare? An unpaid cook and housemaid?”

“That’s marriage, Bella, love.”

She stepped toward him, thrusting her face close. “That’s not marriage—it’s indentured servitude!”

He gripped her shoulders, and her eyes widened. Then, unable to resist the torrent of desire in his veins, he pulled her toward him and crushed her mouth to his. For a moment, she struggled, then she gripped his arms, digging her fingertips into his flesh, and pulled him hard against her body.

Sweet Lord —she was delectable! All fire and passion simmering beneath the surface of that lush body. It was a body made to accommodate him—with soft curves and plump, ripe breasts made to fill his hands.

He slid his lips against hers. She parted them, and he slipped inside, relishing the taste of sweetness and spices. She was a delectable meal on which he’d gladly feast. And she was ready for him. She trembled against him, softening to mold against his form. He lowered his hand to cup a breast, and a low growl escaped his lips as her nipple beaded against his palm.

What might it be like to taste it—to taste her?

His mind filled with the image of her spread before him on the kitchen table, offering her sweetness. He pushed her against the wall, and she let out a mewl, shifting her legs with an instinct born of pure female need to receive him. He only need lift her skirts and he’d be buried inside her in a heartbeat…

What the fuck am I doing?

He broke the kiss, closing his mind against the sight of her—lips swollen, face flushed, hair in disarray, like a twopenny whore who’d taken her pleasure in the bushes.

She was not his to take, no matter how greatly he desired her.

She stilled, then her eyes fluttered open. Dark with desire, they were the color of a deep ocean, until they cleared and filled with horror.

He released her and retreated, willing the ache in his groin to subside.

No matter how much he hated her—and he did hate her—he had no right to take her innocence.

“Forgive me, Bella,” he said. “I didn’t mean to touch you. I’ll not do so again.”

Regret rippled across her expression, and she lifted her hand and wiped her forehead. He caught a flash of redness on her palm.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” She turned her palm inward. “May I retire now?”

“Bella, I—”

“For heaven’s sake!” she cried. “Just leave me be, you vile beast!”

Vile beast —it hadn’t taken long for that evil tongue of hers to lash him once more.

“Very well,” he said. “But take care not to disturb me. I have much work to do before I can retire. I can’t languish on the sofa all evening.”

“Devil take you!”

She turned her back and exited the kitchen. Moments later, he heard the parlor door open and slam shut.

He climbed the stairs to his study and settled at his desk. Then he picked up his pencil and began adding to the sketch for Mr. Trelawney. He winced as the pencil rubbed against a callous on his palm, and he stopped to examine the flesh. It was bright red where he’d rubbed it against the shovel—the marks of hard toil.

That was the lot of folk of his class, unlike those of hers…

Though her palms had seemed very red. But she’d concealed them when he asked. Out of pride, no doubt.

He set the pencil aside. There’d be time to work on the sketch tomorrow. Mrs. Gleeson was holding a garden party, which meant his presence was not required, and it was days yet before he was due to start work on Sir Halford’s garden. Besides, there was enough work to do here—those beans, for a start, needed sowing in the kitchen garden. And he could keep an eye on her—make sure she wasn’t shirking her duties.

He leaned back, glanced about the study, then froze.

Something was different.

What was it? The books were in the same order on the bookshelf—alphabetical order of the author, just how he liked it.

Then he saw it. The dust lining the walls was no longer there—neither were the cobwebs that had occupied the corners of the ceiling. The gold embossing on the spines of the books gleamed in the candlelight. As for the window overlooking the garden—the smears of dust and debris had gone. He could actually see out where the moonlight bathed the garden with a soft blue glow.

The study had been transformed. Even the floorboards had been cleaned and polished—he ought to have noticed the faint odor of wax earlier.

What else had she done?

He rose and exited the study, looking—really looking for the first time—at the hallway. The floor had been swept—that pile of rabbit droppings William had brought in was gone—and the windows washed.

Perhaps she’d not been so idle after all.

He tiptoed down the stairs and opened the door to the parlor, wincing as it creaked on its hinges.

The fire was almost out, the dying embers casting a dull orange glow. But even in the fading light he could discern the transformation. The rug beside the sofa now bore a discernible pattern of reds and greens. And the table beneath the window had been polished and bore a cracked vase of pale pink blooms.

Bloody hell —she’d cut his best roses.

But, in doing so, together with everything else she did today, she’d transformed Ivy Cottage into a home.

No wonder she was exhausted.

He crossed the floor and kneeled beside the sleeping woman on the sofa. In the stillness of repose, her expression was that of an angel—serene and beautiful.

You’re a bastard, Lawrence Baxter—do you know that?

“Yes,” he breathed, his gut twisting with guilt. “I’m an utter bastard.”

She stirred, and, unable to fight the impulse, he took her hand. She curled her fingers around his, and his heart ached at the gesture so simple, yet it conveyed such trust—a wife seeking comfort from her husband.

But he wasn’t her husband. He was the blackguard who’d deceived her.

Better him than that vile man Dunton, who’d seen her as a possession, then saw fit to abandon her, alone and afraid.

You can’t justify your own transgressions merely because they’ve been surpassed by another’s.

Her eyes fluttered open.

“Lawrence.”

His heart ached to hear his name on her lips.

She lifted her head. “Is there something you need? Or—the children?”

She tried to sit, but he placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.

Why must his conscience plague him so? Lady Arabella Ponsford was a harpy. He hated her.

Didn’t he?

You don’t hate her. In fact, you…

“No!”

Her eyes widened. “Lawrence, what have I done?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing you’ve done, Bella. It’s me—I-I’m afraid I’ve not been…” He hesitated. “There’s something I must tell you, Bella. Forgive me, I should have said it before—but I was afraid.”

“Afraid? I can’t imagine you being afraid.”

He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles, bracing himself for her rejection. But instead, she curled her fingers around his and smiled.

Sweet heaven —she was beautiful enough in the throes of anger, all fire and passion. But the quiet smile she gave him rendered her breathtaking.

“What did you want to say to me?” she asked.

May God forgive me.

He kissed her knuckles again.

“Thank you,” he said. “I wanted to say thank you.”

She smiled again and blinked, slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue. He placed his hand on her forehead, caressing the skin with his fingertips.

“Sleep now, love.”

She closed her eyes and her chest rose and fell in a sigh. Moments later, her body settled into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

So—he could add cowardice to his list. A blackguard and a coward.

But he could, at least, show himself to be a better man than the Duke of Dunton.