4. A Couple’s Conversation

CHAPTER 4

A COUPLE’S CONVERSATION

M eanwhile, in the mistress suite of Ritchfield Park

For the first time since leaving London, Ivy wished she had brought her lady’s maid along. Although she didn’t mind unpacking trunks and putting away clothes, she didn’t want to have to repack them should she learn Robert intended to entertain a guest or two.

Chiding herself for not having thought to send a note letting him know she planned to be at Ritchfield Park for Christmas, Ivy pulled out the gown she planned to wear for dinner along with the matching jewelry and slippers.

The satin wasn’t the least bit forgiving when it came to her hourglass-shaped body. Her strongest stays and at least one petticoat would be required.

Glancing out the window, she gave a start at seeing how much snow had fallen since her arrival. For as far as she could see, everything was white.

If Robert did intend to host a guest, they would have had to be on their way or almost to Ritchfield Park or they would become stranded. She rather doubted the roads were still passable, and snow was still falling .

She had never known Robert to want to host a house party. He didn’t like attending them—he didn’t care to play parlor games or pall mall—so he had never asked her to arrange one on his behalf.

But that didn’t mean he was averse to having a guest spend a week or so. She had already imagined who that guest might be. Not his usual professor from Oxford or an old classmate from his university days, but rather a mistress. Or a perhaps a lady of the evening, one who lived nearby and who didn’t work in a brothel but rather made house calls.

Ivy couldn’t imagine a woman making the trek to Ritchfield Park in this weather, but she wouldn’t put anything past someone who needed blunt to make their way in the world.

Oh, why hadn’t she given a thought to the possibility her husband might wish to spend the Christmastide at Ritchfield Park? Ever since she had decided to remain in London instead of returning to York after the end of a Season every year, Ivy had come to the country estate for Christmas. Robert Strathford hadn’t been to Ritchfield Park for Christmas in a decade. The last time he had made the trip, he had been there to hunt with the boys, but that had been at least five years ago, and she had been in London at the time with the girls.

Depending on their school schedules, sometimes one or more of her children would join her for Christmas. With all of them out of the country or married off with families of their own, she assumed she would be spending this year alone.

She might still if Robert had a guest coming. The thought of telling Mr. Walker they would be heading back to London sooner than expected had her wincing, though. He had so looked forward to the stay at the country estate—in fact, it had been him who insisted they finish the trek today rather than spend the night at the last coaching inn. She had been anxious to get to the country estate, too, even if she didn’t have a paramour with whom to spend the cold winter nights.

The thought of decorating Ritchfield Park for the holiday still held a good deal of appeal, even if Robert and his lover were ensconced in one of the rooms of the country house.

She tried to imagine him with another woman, curious as to his preference for age. Would she be younger than him? Much younger? What about her hair color? Red, no doubt. She was sure her hair is what had caught his attention the first time he saw her.

Or perhaps it was her bosom. Surely he would choose a mistress blessed with bountiful breasts the size of melons. She could imagine how he would be hypnotized when they bounced about as he tumbled her, the nipples giving him something to concentrate on until his orgasm had him ceasing his movements and groaning his pleasure into them as he covered one with his mouth.

Ivy shivered at the reminder of the last time they had made love. The last time he had entered the mistress suite in the Mayfair townhouse. He hadn’t said a word, but then, she wouldn’t have expected words. He had simply needed her, and despite the fact that they hadn’t spoken to one another for an entire day or more, she had welcomed him into her bed.

He hadn’t kissed her that night. At least, not on the lips. He had kissed her nipples, though, and nibbled her neck. Pressed his lips to her belly, and he had maybe left a peck or two on her thighs.

Frissons shot through her body as she recalled that night, the last night before he once again left for York after another Season was complete.

She had woken to discover he was already gone.

Wiping away a tear, Ivy once again moved to the window. Gazing out, she hoped the snow wouldn’t prevent the footman from being able to bring pine boughs and a Yule log into the house on Christmas Eve. Perkins would then cut lengths of wire so the housemaids and cook could help with making a few wreaths and with stringing pine boughs atop mantels and on the staircase bannisters. By the time the red ribbon bows were added, the country house would look festive for the holiday and smell like a forest.

A knock at her door had her thinking Graves had returned with an answer to her question. “Come,” she called out, turning from the window to discover her husband staring at her. “Hello,” she managed, although she seemed to have lost her breath for a moment. “I can leave?—”

“You are not going anywhere,” Robert stated, his edict spoken in his most commanding voice. “Not that you could given this awful weather,” he added, holding up a hand as if staving off an attack.

“But... what about your guest? Or... or guests?” she stammered.

He gave a start, obviously not expecting such a query. “There are no guests scheduled,” he said, moving deeper into the bedchamber. He suddenly stopped, his eyes rounding. “Were you expecting… anyone?” he ventured. “Were you planning to host a... a house party perhaps?”

Ivy shook her head. “Goodness, no, Ritchfield. Our children are all grown and gone from the nest, so it’s just me these days.”

He nodded and looked as if he was having trouble deciding what to say next. “I... I met our oldest grandson,” he suddenly blurted.

Her eyes widened. “The future duke?” she asked, grinning. “I can’t say I was very thrilled with his name,” she commented.

His brows furrowed. “Abraham?” he asked, as if he was struggling to remember the boy’s moniker. “It’s his other grandfather’s name. And besides, everyone will simply call him by his current title until he inherits,” he reasoned.

“That’s the name I was referring to,” she said with a smirk.

For a moment, Robert didn’t seem to follow, and then he grimaced. “Viscount Ham. Oh, I see what you mean. He is a bit of a porker, though.”

“Ritchfield,” she scolded, although if pressed, she would have to agree the young boy was taking after his other grandfather. The man was rather rotund. At least Charity’s husband, Luke, was still on the leaner side.

“He was just so... pudgy,” Robert claimed.

Ivy did her best to suppress a chuckle.

They stared at one another for a moment before Ivy said, “I can’t help but think my arrival interrupted something… important.”

He shook his head. “Hardly. I brought all my paperwork with me, so I was just paying bills,” he explained with a shrug of one shoulder.

The chill from the window had her moving closer to him. “Is... everything all right?” she asked, as if she feared poking a sleeping bear.

“Oh, it’s fine,” he assured her. “We’re still… wealthy, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ivy had to suppress the urge to scoff. “I wasn’t.”

He dipped his head before adding, “But that does bring up a matter I wished to discuss with you.”

She stiffened. “Oh?” For a moment, her heart felt as if it had dropped into her stomach. He was there to let her know he had decided to do something more permanent about their estrangement. Some sort of formal separation, no doubt.

Divorce, perhaps?

She couldn’t imagine what her life would become should he do so. He would be generous, though—she wouldn’t be left without an income—but the scandal would require she leave London. Move to a cottage by the sea or the dowager house near York.

They had never talked about divorce. Never broached the subject even in casual conversation. But should he wish it, his title would most certainly ensure he would be granted a divorce.

Once again, Ivy was nearly in tears as she considered what her future might hold. “And what matter might that be?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“It’s about your lack of spending.”

Blinking several times, which had a tear escaping to run down her cheek, Ivy was tempted to ask him to repeat himself. She was sure she heard him clearly, though. “My... my lack of spending?” she repeated, her eyes widening in disbelief.

Well, this was unexpected. What man in the entire world would bring up his wife’s thriftiness as a matter of discussion? He gave her a generous allowance, one which she didn’t always spend because there were some months—especially those outside of the Season—she couldn’t begin to. She had spent this month’s allowance, though, the funds going toward the provisions and gifts she had brought with her for her stay at Ritchfield Park.

Robert held up a staying hand. “I am not complaining . Not in the least,” he assured her. “But, my darling, you are a countess. My countess,” he stated.

Recoiling at the vehemence in his claim, Ivy blinked. She couldn’t recall him ever sounding so possessive.

“And I shouldn’t want you to be… economizing if you thought I would be angered by an occasional bill from a modiste... or a hat shop, or... or Fortnum and Mason,” he explained. “Because... because I wouldn’t be,” he stammered.

Ivy stared at him, her mouth slightly open, especially after the rather specific mention of the grocer from which she had purchased the oranges. “You give me an allowance every month, which more than covers the occasional bill from a modiste or the cost of a hat,” she countered.

“And apparently provisions for this house as well as gifts for the servants,” he said, arching a brow as if in disapproval.

It was Ivy’s turn to lift a staying hand. “Oh, you will be receiving the invoice for the oranges,” she stated in a scolding voice.

Robert couldn’t help but grin at seeing her indignant expression. “Good,” he stated. “And thank you for thinking of the pantry. For doing the menus,” he added.

She gave him a tentative grin. “You’re welcome, although it is my job to do,” she reasoned. “That and seeing to the hanging of the greens, which I hope shall happen on the morrow.”

Visibly relaxing at hearing her plans, Robert said, “It will. Graves assures me the servants have already collected the greenery. It’s in the stable along with a suitable Yule log,” he explained, watching for her reaction.

Ivy beamed in delight. “Oh, thank you for thinking to ask, Ritchfield.” She paused, as if she feared his answer to her next question.

“What is it?” he prompted. He took a step closer.

“Are you… staying? For Christmas? For the Twelfth Night ceremony?”

He allowed a shrug. “I doubt I could leave any sooner, given the snow.”

She allowed a wan smile. “So... that means you will be at dinner this evening?” she asked, hoping her query sounded like an invitation.

He nodded. “I will. And you?”

For a moment, she felt panicked. “I will be there, of course. I asked that dinner be served at six o’clock.” Her gaze darted to the window. The gray snow clouds hid any evidence of the sun, and darkness was already descending over the countryside. “I like it earlier out here in the country, especially when it grows dark so soon this time of the year. Do you mind?”

He shook his head. “Six o’clock is fine.” He paused, his manner uncertain. “In fact, I’ll… I’ll escort you down,” he offered.

Ivy nodded. “Very well. Until then… I’ll be in here, seeing to my clothes.”

He frowned as he glanced around the bedchamber. “You didn’t bring your lady’s maid with you?”

Having pensioned the woman a day before leaving London, Ivy hesitated to respond. She had intended to write him a note explaining the situation during her time at Ritchfield Park, and although right now might have been the time to discuss it with him, she thought better of it. “I didn’t bring Watkins. She has family in London, so I left her behind.”

He continued to frown. “What will you do without her?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

She chuckled. “Oh, Ritchfield, I can dress myself,” she said before pausing. “Mostly. But one of the housemaids here does a decent job with my hair, so it all works out.” She paused a moment. “Did you bring your valet?”

He shook his head. “I did not. I, uh, I might regret it, but?—”

“Well, if you need help shaving…” She allowed a shrug. “I recall a time I did a decent job of it,” she murmured. “At least, I don’t remember there being any bloodshed.”

Chuckling softly, Robert rubbed a hand over the side of his face, deciding he would do it himself before dinner. “Perhaps in the morning,” he replied, moving to the door. “Have a good afternoon, Ivy.”

“You as well,” she replied .

Ivy watched him depart and let out an audible sigh of relief when she no longer heard his footsteps in the corridor.

This next fortnight would be a long one, it seemed, but at least she would have a project to do on the morrow with seeing to the decorating for Christmas.

As for the rest of the time, well, she had planned to spend some of it writing correspondence and the rest reading in the library. Other than at meals, she probably wouldn’t see her husband.

Which was probably just as well.