Chapter Fourteen

Augusta awoke the next morning and uncharacteristically rubbed her eyes, knowing it would irritate them further after crying herself to sleep on her wedding night. Miserable and dejected, she sat up, thoroughly confused as a blanket shimmied down her lap and a fire blazed in the hearth.

Had Quin summoned Louisa for her?

Curious, she raised her left hand to shield her eyes from a shard of morning light. A flash of gold glinted there. Verification that she was good and truly wed. But she wasn't. Was she? Not in the carnal sense. Any marriage that wasn't consummated could be annulled. And an annulment would further scandalize her family.

Augusta lifted her ring finger this way and that, admiring the band's wholesome beauty and everything its simplicity symbolized, but failed to deliver thus far. Married in name only, she frowned at the lustrous green fabric of the gown stretching over her arm. It was a blatant reminder that she'd failed to fulfill her marital vows. If she had, she'd be wearing the exquisite embroidered linen night gown Mama had purposefully placed in her trunk for her wedding night. She also wouldn't be sitting alone on one of the White Hart Inn's beds. Instead, she would have awakened to stare into the velvet brown eyes of her beloved.

"‘The level of our success is limited only by our imagination...'"

The line Mama used to quote from Aesop brought her family's perspective on perseverance into focus, neutralizing the disappointment swelling in her breast. Resigned to put the disappointing night behind her and make her marriage work once they reached Sevenoaks, she stepped onto the cold wooden planks on the floor and froze. Oof! A quick glance down revealed she stood in her stockinged feet, her kid-leather boots positioned neatly nearby. Who had removed them? She distinctly recalled collapsing unconsolably onto the bed and crying herself to sleep without consideration for anything other than her breaking heart.

Had Quin let Louisa in while she slept? Or had he slipped in to assist her? The thought of him removing her boots, covering her with a blanket, and stoking the fire in the room warmed her heart.

Rising, she brushed the wrinkles out of her riding habit and smiled.

Perhaps there was hope for them yet.

But what of Quin? Where was he? The inn was blessedly quiet. Had his suspicions about the brandy-faced guests below been confirmed? Had he been forced to confront danger in the hall while she slept?

Alarmed, she strode to the door and hesitated slightly before turning the latch. What happened next sent her into a tailspin.

Quin tumbled backward and hit the floor with a wallop. "What are you doing, woman?"

"I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, bending down to help him stand. His immense size and the width of his shoulders made helping him difficult, once more proving he was not a man to be trifled with. Why, if he couldn't get up, she doubted she'd be able to help him at all. A spark of embarrassment shot through her. This was not how to repay his sacrifice. "I didn't realize—"

"That I was sitting outside the door?"

"Yes. You said you would be, but I,"—his vexation was clear as she struggled to placate him—"I thought. Oof! I don't know what I thought."

"You didn't believe me."

Momentary panic filled her. What must he think of her? She tilted her head back to look at him, melting beneath his probing gaze. Being this close to him again made her pulse throb and her senses spin. The crux of it was she struggled to come up with a coherent thought in his presence, her mind traveling back to the kisses they shared just before he—"And were you able to get any sleep?"

"No." His mouth twitched with amusement before she could apologize for his discomfort. "There will be plenty of time for that at Sevenoaks."

Would that include plenty of kisses too? She brightened in anticipation. "You should nap in the carriage while we travel."

"Nap?" He leaned closer, his voice low and smooth as he fingered a loose curl dangling over her shoulder. "And miss feasting my eyes on you?"

"Missus?" Louisa mounted the stairs, carrying a pitcher of fresh water, her voice quickly dousing the fire igniting in Augusta's belly. "Forgive me tardiness. There be a problem with the pump below stairs."

"I must go." Quin dropped his hand and stepped aside, allowing Louisa space to pass into the chamber. His deep, sensual voice sent a ripple of awareness through Augusta, and his declaration that he was going to leave her again, added a crushing weight. "I shall have the innkeeper send up something to break your fast."

"What about you?" she asked, grabbing his arm to stop him from leaving. "Will you be joining me in breaking your fast?"

He glanced down at his forearm, then up at her, his eyes filled with a deep, curious longing. "I am ravenous. Regrettably, what I hunger for will have to wait."

He winked, then descended the staircase. She watched him go, her knees weakening, knowing something special had just passed between them, something real and reachable. And filled with renewed energy, she stepped into the room and closed the door, greeting Louisa with a smile. There, her maid quickly tended to her toilette.

Minutes later, a tray of bread, chocolate, and porridge arrived. And as they ate in silence, Augusta's thoughts returned to Quin. The way he looked at her, cared for her like a knight of the old guard.

She grimaced. It didn't do to compare her husband to medieval heroes. He wasn't like those men. He wasn't like Grey or Kilverstone. He was a modern man, a self-made gentleman, one who deserved respect for the challenges he faced and the naysayers he'd bettered.

A lot was at stake in this marriage of theirs. On the one hand, her role as a viscount's daughter elevated his status in Society. On the other, his marriage to her safeguarded her reputation, and by proxy, the members of her family, especially Delphi.

"Perhaps you can nap in the carriage along the way."

"And miss feasting my eyes on you?"

Good heavens, she'd behaved foolishly, jumping to conclusions. She should have trusted Quin last night. She should have believed that he had her best interests at heart, that he wouldn't leave her unless it was absolutely necessary.

What reason would he have to avoid her? Unless... Did he blame her for their hasty marriage? For being caught kissing in the Claremont's library? For Delphi's announcement that they were engaged? Was she doomed to spend her days married in name only?

Those were reasons enough.

She wasn't sure what to believe anymore. It was all she could do to sit still against the squabs as the horses moved and the axles shifted and the driver took the southern road.

The hours passed slowly, Augusta's thoughts drifting in the clouds.

"And miss feasting my eyes on you?"

She stared at Quin, frustrated that he'd offered little information about the passing countryside and what she could expect to see as they neared the estate. He didn't look at her at all. Instead, he sat with the brim of his hat pulled down over his nose, making up for the sleep he'd lost, she supposed. He wasn't asleep though. At least she did not think he was because he maintained complete control over his cane as the carriage navigated the rutted roads.

Was he ignoring her again?

There was somuch Quin wanted to tell Augusta, but Louisa's presence prohibited the private conversation he longed to have, namely sharing his wife's nearness and kissing her delectable lips. And, while he was interested in everything his wife chewed over, he had had little sleep for days. It was a struggle just to keep up with her lengthy descriptions of riding astride across the meadows on her mount... What was her horse's name?

Ah, yes. Bellerophon, in honor of the Corinthian hero and HMS Bellerophon, the 74-gun ship known to many as the ‘Billy Ruffian'. Its exemplary service in the Battle of the Nile and others, while suffering heavy casualties, foreshadowed the loss of her captain at Trafalgar.

That much he'd gleaned. It was the fact that Lord Steere allowed her to ride astride that snapped him out of his revery. Cock and pie! Furthering his gallied senses was her persistence that he allow her to do the same, but he would not find fault with a fat goose. Not yet anyway. And so it was, with the greatest relief, that they entered Sevenoaks via the London Road.

"Is this Sevenoaks?" At his nod, she rushed on as she peered out the window. "I wonder how it got its name."

"Someone planted seven sturdy oaks near St. Nicholas, the parish church," he said.

"Oh, what an interesting mix of thatched and bricked tile roofs."

"I have always found them to my liking. The combination gives the parish a certain charm lacking elsewhere." He looked out the window, trying to see Sevenoaks the way Augusta did for the first time. "Thatch is labor intensive, though it is common. More and more residents, however, are switching to tile for its durability, and to ease their pockets."

"I find the old timber frames appealing." She smiled a heavenly smile. "Tell me more about your parish."

He regarded the passing buildings as the carriage traversed the road, observing things are they were not as he remembered them from his youth, and hoping to convey a happier tone. "Drovers taking pigs frequented the road passing through it to the Wealden Forest. The village hosts a market—one of the greatest in Kent—every Saturday near High Street. And large estates dating back to the 15th century border the area."

Packhorses carrying baskets of fish from Rye to Chipstead fish market divided the road. They traveled on, passing a watermill. Ox-drawn wagons grinding up a hill slowed them almost to a halt before diverting onto a dirt road and allowing the postillion to pick up the pace.

"Who owns that farm?" she asked.

Here was a subject that provided him with great pleasure. "The Clenches was owned by Francis Motley Austen for almost twenty years."

"Was?" she asked.

"Yes. Mr. Austen died recently."

"What will become of it—the Clenches? Will Mr. Austen's children inherit?"

"His eldest son, Frances, has." Her question reminded him he did not have a hereditary pedigree or any heirs. That forging his future children's destinies required taking particular care of his wife. "Regretfully, Frances's faculties are in decline."

"How incredibly sad." She managed a tremulous smile, though her eyes misted instantly, making him long to soothe away her unnecessary concerns.

"I agree, but there are other children, and the family has contributed quite the list of heroes to society." He hoped that news would console her.

Perhaps, one day, people would say the same about him.

"Heroes?" The subject change achieved his goal of diverting her thoughts. She shared a knowing look with Louisa, who, for her part, remained as silent as the grave. "Any famous military strategists among that list?"

"Rectors," he corrected after a pregnant pause. The carriage jolted as a wheel hit a rut. Bracing himself, he shot out a hand to steady her. Then, as if understanding his joke, her hearty laughter spurred him on. "And lofty estate owners, bankers, militiamen... and admirals. One even has a foot in the literary world, I am told."

"Zounds!" Amusement flickered in her eyes. "Quite a fruitful family. But even as you toy with me, I am intrigued. Is the poet anyone of note?"

"Novelist." He wouldn't waste time spinning a woman's head round on a lark. "One of the Austens is a novelist." Truth be told, he had his suspicions about the identity of the actual author but would not elaborate, honoring the family's privacy. Especially when Augusta fled the rumor mill, and he understood what slander could do.

Barking dogs ran beside the carriage. Street vendors cried out their wares, standing out from the timber-clad and timber-framed buildings. Eight bells rang the hour in the sixty-foot-tower of St. Nicholas Church, drawing their attention to the rectory and the seven oaks planted there.

"It pleases me that you are impressed with Sevenoaks." Chuckling deeply because she put him in a better mood, he went on. "Booksellers, coopers, cutlers, shoe-makers, hatters, tailors, watch and clock makers, and other merchants are in substantial supply. Though I doubt you would enjoy the Shambles. The sound and stench of butchered animals is offensive even to me. It is far preferable for a lady to smell the aroma of biscuits and gingerbread in the bakeries."

"Oh." Louisa's gaze held a silent plea as she looked at Augusta. "I am famished."

Augusta patted her maid's hand, the act making him feel sheepish. Bollocks! "Forgive me," he said. "I shouldn't have mentioned food when we haven't eaten since this morning. Mrs. Banks will have my head, if she gets wind of it."

"Mrs. Banks?" She angled her body toward him.

"Our cook. I've ordered her to spare no expense when it comes to nourishing the body. I am sure the two of you—you and Mrs. Banks—will get along grandly as you map out our daily menu."

"I should like that." She gave him a smile that sent his pulse racing. "I have waited all my life to be the mistress of my own home. But I have so much to learn, especially in this new place. Of course, Mama has educated me on housekeeping matters." As the daughter of a viscount, brought up to marry well, he'd assumed that was the case. "Does your estate have a name?" she asked, changing the subject. "I do not recall you mentioning it."

"Rolleston-on-Dove." Would she connect the name to his cousin, the widow, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? He hesitated to say more.

"Rolleston-on-Dove." She peered at him intently, the warmth in her eyes a sensual caress. "It has a lovely ring to it. How long have you owned the estate? Does the name have any meaning for you?"

"Per your first question, I've owned the estate for several years now." The coach clattered down the road, conveying them ever closer to the start of their new life together. "The 4th Duke of Dorset sold me the section of land my father used to farm, along with seventy-five acres. I own one-hundred acres of meadow, pasture, arable land, and woodland. As for your second question, my mother's name was Mary. Mary Dove."

"You must miss her terribly." She reached out and took hold of his hand, squeezing it gently. "I wish there was something I could do to help you go on without your parents."

He glanced at Louisa, who purposefully looked out the window to offer them more privacy.

"You married me," he said, fighting the lump stuck in his throat. "That is more than enough." They continued on, her taking in the scenery and him trying to come up with something else to say. "That greenstone building flanked by almshouses is Sevenoaks School, established by William Sevenoke, a foundling who made a fortune selling salt, cloth, and wine, before becoming the Mayor of London."

"Much like yourself," she said, her tone carrying no judgment and wrapping around his heart like a glove.

"Much like myself."

They traveled for another half-hour. The thick heavy breathing of the horses and the muffled thump and drum of the chaise and four on the dusty dirt road. The postillion in command. The yoke and harness, along with the call of a corncrake here and there, created a cacophony of groaning wood, tackle, and the krek krek of the migratory bird.

Inevitably, they cleared the wood line bordering the road and the drive leading to Rolleston-on-Dove, the house and oak trees placed to advantage. He watched Augusta closely, waiting for her reaction to the manse, as if he could experience seeing it for the first time in her eyes.

He tapped the ceiling with the end of his cane, signaling the driver to slow down. "There it is."

The house, in all its glory, materialized around the bend, the sun glinting off the windows on the facade.

Augusta sucked in an audible breath. "Good gracious! Your home is much bigger than I imagined."

"Our home," he corrected her.

"What?"

"Our home. I cannot wait to share it with you."

She raised her hand to her heart, her dazzling blue eyes brightening with delight. "Our home. Oh! What a glorious notion! And look at that magnificent work horse in the field! I can see that he comes from outstanding stock."

As do you. Your appreciation for horseflesh adds to my good fortune.

"I hope you will be very happy here."

But would she be? They were miles away from London and all the things she was accustomed to—Society, balls, and the theater. Even further from Delphi and Lyme.

What if the sea air didn't improve her sister's health? Would Augusta blame him for suggesting the cure?