Chapter 8

Eight

H e could not bear to watch the beautiful child he had just married play with his own child.

She was so lovely that it hurt.

Henrietta's ease and frolicsome nature contrasted so sharply with Nathaniel's reticence and solemnity. And his own. Yes, these qualities—along with her sprightly curiosity—could just be part and parcel of her youth, but he didn't think so. All the Staffords possessed these traits in varying degrees.

And observing her physical perfection was akin to torture. Her round face and the softness under her chin. Her expressive mouth and the slight upturn of her freckled nose. Her big, blue eyes that widened when she saw something she liked or when she was surprised. Her gorgeous, bright hair. Her lush bosom and hips, those decadent curves that inspired fantasies of the most impossibly wicked kind in which he worshipped her for hours at a time?—

Stop it .

How had it come to this? He had promised himself he would never marry again and here he was, destroying yet another woman by making her his wife.

It was a disaster wholly of his own making. With an unassailable logic, Oliver Hartwell had come to know he had no business touching a woman. But that cold logic had melted like so much spring snow when she had touched him, held him, surrounded him with her generous beauty and wished for his happiness.

In her father's study, he had been a knave. He had wanted something, and he had taken it, without a thought for her wants or her well-being.

The next day, he had stood in the Bexton rose garden and watched from afar as her sweetheart berated her. Oliver had been unable to hear exactly what was said but knew the young man's angry words were about what Oliver had done.

In that moment, he had vowed he would always serve those two things first: her wants, her well-being.

And Nathaniel's. But he had no idea what to do for his son. At least, Henrietta should be able to tell him what she wanted, what she needed. And he would provide that. He must. His selfishness had already deprived her of so much.

His young bride would become his polestar. He would look to her for guidance. He would let her be his example in the years he had left, showing him what to do and how to navigate this misbegotten marriage.

He stood in the hallway just outside the nursery door and listened to her laugh and cajole and question and his own son's answering silence. After some minutes, Henrietta's voice subsided, and he could only hear the clicking of the blocks being moved about on the table and Nurse Witherspoon's sighs.

Finally, Henrietta bid Nathaniel and the nurse goodbye, saying she hoped Nathaniel would show her all his toys tomorrow.

She came to the door and looked lost for a moment until she saw him standing there.

"Oh, good." She smiled, but the smile was uncertain. "I thought you had left, and I wouldn't know which way to turn."

He could hear a quaver in her voice. Was she missing her home and her family? She had been quite brave so far, coming to an entirely new place with him as her husband. He knew how he must seem to her—a cold, harsh, forbidding curmudgeon who had buried two wives. An ancient villain who had taken advantage of her sweetness and her innocence. Most girls would be petrified to be married to him. But he shouldn't be surprised Crispin and Georgiana's daughter had pluck.

"Shall I show you to your bedchamber?"

She nodded.

When they went back down the stairs to the warren of bedchambers, he suddenly realized he had no idea which room had been prepared for her. He had some idea she would stay in one of the many rarely-used guest rooms, but he had conveyed no specific request to Mrs. Liddell, his housekeeper.

With a sinking feeling, he surmised Henrietta's trunk had likely been put in the bedchamber next to his. The same one Violet and Emily had occupied, in turn.

He opened the door.

"I'm afraid—" you will be afraid.

He cleared his throat and started again. "You may not like this bedchamber and would prefer another. You may have any room you wish."

Henrietta walked in and looked around. "This is lovely." She went to the window. "Oh, the view is perfect. I can see the corner of the stables and off in the distance, I think that's Woldenmere." She turned to him, clasping her hands. "I love the room. Thank you, Oliver."

He must tell her. "You have been put in the bedchamber of the mistress of the house." He nodded at the connecting door. "Our rooms adjoin."

Her face went from smiling to crestfallen, and for a moment he thought her courage had finally failed.

But she said, "Would you prefer I be elsewhere? Maybe you want this room to stay as it is? In memory of your wife? Wives?"

She did not know enough about men to be fearful. He must keep her that way. Protect her always, including from himself.

"No, no," he hastened to assure her. "I only do not want you to be uneasy."

She tilted her head. "I'm not uneasy if you're not uneasy."

He doubted he'd ever rest easy knowing this beauty was sleeping only a few feet away from him, but his own comfort was unimportant.

"If you like the room, it is yours." He could always change bedchambers himself. He'd often thought he should, if only to quell his nightmares. But he deserved the nightmares.

"Good." She broke into another smile just as a late afternoon ray of sunshine came from behind a cloud and forced its way into the room, lighting up her hair like a halo, allowing her ample figure to be seen through her muslin dress. She looked so much like an erotic pagan divinity, he had to mumble an excuse and flee the room like the craven piece of filth he was.

He went to his study and forced himself to read his letters. There weren't many. He had expected to be gone for much longer, to travel all the way to London and spend some weeks there. But he had difficulty attending to what little correspondence had accumulated. His mind kept wandering to Henrietta and the journey they had just taken together.

It had been a trial to spend three days in such close quarters with his new wife's physical charms. And, of course, there had been his own bruising self-reproach about how he had ruined Henrietta's life and done something unforgivable to his only friends, the Staffords.

But there had been delight in that carriage, too. Delight in her company and her questions about the place that would become her home, what he was reading, whether he preferred this, that, or the other. No one, besides Crispin, had ever taken such an interest in him.

Again, he should not be surprised. Like father, like daughter.

She had been uncomplaining and full of good humor even when she had crossed a muddy stable-yard in the rain or when the wine at an inn had been sour with bits of cork floating in it or when they had been far from anywhere and she had asked for the carriage to stop in a woods.

"For what reason?" he enquired, not thinking.

"For a necessary reason," she said. Simple, straightforward, unblushing.

He found it refreshing a young woman would be unembarrassed about her bodily functions. But, still, he should have anticipated, been more solicitous of her needs. He must pay better attention to her.

While also not paying attention to her.

He was betwixt the devil and the deep sea.

All of his letters at last read and answered in a somewhat coherent fashion, he did what he always did when he was in his study and had some spare minutes. He went to his table and unrolled his map of the area surrounding Woldenmere, weighing down the corners with his ink pots.

He had left his study door open, but absorbed in looking at his creation, he did not hear Henrietta's approach and was startled by her "Good evening."

He straightened from his bent-over posture. "Good evening."

Her lady's maid and most of her things would not arrive until the following week, so she must have enlisted a chambermaid to help her change out of her muslin and into a blue woolen dinner dress. Plain for a duke's daughter, but suitable for a Mrs. Hartwell. Her face was a little flushed and her locks were pinned neatly, but the smallest curls imaginable had formed along the hairline at her forehead and neck. Had she bathed and the steam from the water created those tiny, soft coils? The thought of her voluptuous, bare body in a tub, her skin pink and fragrant, made him tremble.

She came over to where he stood. "What is this?"

He steadied himself by gripping the edge of the table. "A map."

"Oh, I didn't know maps could be so pretty." Her attention was drawn to a place name and she pointed. "Crossthwaite."

"Yes."

Then she saw the pots of different colored inks and the range of quills spread out on the table, and she turned to him, her eyes wide.

Those beautiful eyes. He might drown in them.

"Did you draw this?"

"Yes."

"How long did it take you?"

"It's not yet complete. It takes time to acquire the information. But it gives me an excuse to wander about the district, measuring and sketching."

She turned back to the map. "It's wonderful."

She was sincere. He doubted she could be anything else. A warmth spread over him. Neither Violet nor Emily had ever been interested in his avocation. And he had not known how hungry he was for Henrietta's good opinion.

He offered her his arm, and they went into dinner. He was glad to see she ate well and with pleasure, just as she had at home, just as all the Staffords did.

After the meal, Oliver stood. "In the evenings, I read in the drawing room. You are welcome to join me if you wish. Or you could find your own amusement."

A startled look on her face. She glanced around the dining room and then back to him. "May I take a book from the library?"

He bowed his head. "This is your house."

She found a slender volume quickly, not even looking at the title, and took it to the drawing room and chose a chair by the fire. Oliver sat as well and picked up his newspaper and began to read.

He stole glances at her as he turned pages. She sat, looking at the fire despite the open book on her lap. Still. Serene. A goddess in repose.

He had never seen her father stay still for more than a few minutes. But Henrietta could. So, she had some of her mother's contemplative nature.

After an hour, she bade him good night and went off to bed.

He waited as long as he could. Finally, he went up to his own bedchamber. Hating himself, he put his ear to the connecting door. He heard nothing. She must be asleep.

Goodnight, poor girl .

He was eating his usual breakfast when she came into the dining room in a riding habit, glowing and slightly out of breath.

"Good morning," she chirped as he stood.

He was once more jarred in his expectations. Neither of his wives had ever risen this early. He had heard nothing when he had awoken and pressed his ear again to the connecting door. He had assumed she was still abed.

"I've had the most wonderful morning," she said as she took her seat. "Thank you, Pearson. Zephyr and I had a really proper gallop. The air, the scenery, all of it is truly glorious."

She had been out and about and ridden already.

Pearson brought her tea and toast. Her eyes darted around the room, at the sideboard, at the toast on Oliver's own plate, before she took her toast in hand, spread a good coat of jam atop it, and began to eat.

Only after he had left the breakfast table to go to the stables himself, did he reflect that toast and jam and tea was not an adequate breakfast for a healthy young woman who must have ridden for miles this morning.

He turned around and made his way to the kitchen.

"Mrs. Nixon, tomorrow and all the days going forward, I would like a full breakfast to be prepared. Hot food and plenty of it." Like what was served at Bexton Manor. "You must consult Mrs. Hartwell on menus going forward. And be sure to give her a substantial luncheon today."

"Yes, Mr. Hartwell."

The rest of his day was spent checking on his land, his sheep, his shepherds, his tenants, just as he did after any time away.

When he came back to Crossthwaite, he stabled his horse and walked through the kitchen garden to go back into the house. Unlike Bexton Manor, there were no opulent flower beds here. He was too practical, Violet had had no interest, and Emily had been too weak to even contemplate such an undertaking.

And Emily had said she adored flowers. He should have seen to some plantings if only for the pleasure it might have given her to know something was growing while she lay in her bed, giving all her strength to the son growing inside her. Another failure on his part, but one he would not make again.

He came upon his new wife and his son, both squatting next to a row of cabbages, their attention on the ground in front of them. Silent.

Neither looked up until his shadow fell over them. Then Henrietta raised her head, but his son kept looking at the ground.

"Good afternoon, Oliver," she said. He liked how she lilted his name, how she greeted him with a grin. "We are busy watching a caterpillar make his way."

He hitched the knees of his trousers up a bit and crouched down to join them. The green-purple worm they were observing was an ugly creature he would have dismissed out of hand as a pest.

"I was just saying this is a puss moth." She pointed. "See? It has a saddle. When I was your age, Nathaniel, I thought this kind of caterpillar might be a good mount for a faery."

Nathaniel looked up at her, his eyes wide.

"What do you think?" she asked the boy. "Do you like this one better than the knot grass caterpillar? With the fuzz and red dots?"

A quick nod of his son's head and then he turned his dark eyes on Oliver.

Oliver cleared his throat. "I like this one better, too." He couldn't recall ever looking at a caterpillar in his life.

Nathaniel's eyes went back down to the caterpillar. For long minutes, all three of them watched the little animal inch along, and Oliver felt something strange and unexpected.

Peace.

Later, he was pleased to see the dinner table boasted more dishes than it had the night before, and Henrietta again ate well.

But she asked about Nathaniel. When he had first walked, first spoken. What he liked to do. Where and when and how he took his meals. And what did the doctor say about his health?

Oliver was embarrassed how little he knew about his son. Distress crept over him. He didn't need this girl-wife to point out what an inadequate father he was. He knew it already.

He was vastly relieved when the meal was over. He stood, and she looked up.

"Oh, won't you have pudding?"

Her expression was distraught, her voice pleading, her strong emotion incongruous with the subject matter of her request.

He sat. If it was important to her, it was important to him.

"I will stay while you eat your pudding."

"You won't have any?"

"A small portion," he told Pearson.

He didn't even look at what was put in front of him. Out of a desire to please his new wife, he took a bite of something he didn't want. But as the rich creaminess spread across his tongue, he looked at the plate.

This was a custard of the same ilk he was always served at Bexton Manor.

Exactly the same.

Henrietta must have gotten the receipt from the Bexton Manor cook and given it to Mrs. Nixon.

"This is very good," he said, clicking his spoon against the plate. He turned to Pearson. "I'll have another bit, I think. A big bit."

He couldn't help but notice Henrietta watching him eat every spoonful.

"Tell me, Henrietta." He paused. It was the first time he had ever addressed her without the attached Lady , and he saw her take note of it. A small swallow, a bit more pink in her cheeks. "Tell me, do you like flowers?"