Chapter 5

“Wherein wedded bliss is… elusive.”

23 rd October 1820.

“Good morning, my lady.”

Bea groaned into her pillow as Rachel’s cheerful voice rang out. They had gone to bed late last night, for Lord Rutherford had been in high spirits and insisted they celebrate. As Bea had refused to celebrate alone with him, just in case he forgot it was a marriage of convenience and thought to enact a wedding night, he had invited Rachel and John to celebrate with them. She had to give him that much; he was not the least high in the instep.

It had pleased Bea to have Rachel with her, for she was the closest thing she had to a friend, and the meal Rachel had conjured up had been excellent. The champagne Rutherford provided especially for the occasion had also been quite delicious. So delicious, in fact, that she’d drunk more than she ought and now had a thudding headache. Served her right.

“I’ve brought your hot water and done what I can to freshen your gown up, but we really must see about ordering you a new wardrobe. It was time anyway, now that you are almost out of mourning.”

“What time is it?” Bea grumbled, sitting up in bed and pushing the tangle of her dark hair out of her face.

“Eight o clock.”

“Eight!” Bea said in dismay. “Oh, drat and bother!”

She leapt from the bed and hurried to the washstand, shivering on the cold floor as she began her ablutions. Now she’d have to break her fast opposite her husband, curse him. She stilled with the soap in her hands as the flash of gold caught her eye. Through the soap bubbles, her wedding ring glinted, and Bea’s throat tightened. Last night ought to have been the happiest day of her life. She ought to have married a man she loved and respected with her friends and family beside her. Instead, she had tied herself forever to a man reviled by society, whom she had only known a matter of hours, and who would no doubt bring her nothing but trouble and embarrassment in the years to come.

Resolutely, she ignored the ring and carried on washing. She would not let him make her miserable. He would not be allowed to make a wreck of her life. It might not be easy, but she would learn to manage him, and to keep him in his place. Then she could carve a life for herself out of her of new circumstances. It might not be at all bad, after all. She had freedom, far more freedom than any other woman she had ever known. A home and money of her own to spend as she desired was an unheard-of dream for most ladies of the ton , and many of them would have given a good deal to have a life in which their husbands played no part. She was really splendidly fortunate.

She dressed as fast as she could, fidgeted as Rachel did her hair, and then Bea flew down the stairs, hoping against hope that her indolent husband was still abed. Fate was not smiling on her this morning, but the Earl of Rutherford was. He looked up, his wicked grin greeting her as she entered the room.

He set down his knife and fork and rose to his feet. Bea cursed inwardly, wishing he was not such a handsome devil, that his smile was not the kind that made you wish to smile in response, no matter how little he deserved it. He came to meet her, taking her hand and bowing over it, before pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“Lady wife, how charming you look this morning, and how delightful to have the prospect of sharing the morning with you.”

“Breakfast, my lord,” she said firmly. “We shall share breakfast. Not the morning.”

“Well, there’s no rush, is there?” he asked, his blue eyes twinkling merrily.

Bea steeled herself, reminding herself that her husband was at his most dangerous when he was being charming. She did not doubt the number of women who could attest to that fact were legion, and she had no intention of adding to their numbers.

“I find I have little appetite today,” she said repressively, comforting herself with the fact it was true. She hated behaving like such a misery though. Lord, she sounded just like her cousin Dorothy. The idea vexed her, and she relented a little. “I suppose I could manage some tea and toast.”

“Tea and toast?” Rachel exclaimed, bustling into the room. “Nay, my lady. You know you get crabby late morning if you don’t eat a proper meal first thing. Now, I’ve made porridge, just how you like it, and there're crumpets and jam and I can do you a poached egg should you fancy it.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” Bea said meekly, determinedly ignoring the smirk on her husband’s handsome face. The rat.

“It’s a lovely day.”

Bea glanced up at Rutherford, who had spoken. His attention was on the thick sirloin he was cutting up and so she replied politely. The weather ought to be a safe enough topic after all.

“Indeed, it is. We have had a fine autumn so far.”

He chewed thoughtfully, glancing across the table at her before regarding his plate once more. “I have not dared investigate the gardens since I arrived here. They were lovely when I was a boy, but they’ve been let go. I wondered if… if you might take a turn about the grounds with me. Just a one off,” he added hastily before she had the chance to reject the idea. “I understand we shall not be in each other’s company as a rule, but it occurs to me that I would not like to make sweeping changes and discover too late that you hate them.”

Bea frowned, seeing the sense in this but disliking the idea of spending more time with him. She stirred the bowl of porridge Rachel had placed before her, taking a spoonful and blowing on it before cautiously raising it to her lips to discover it sweetened with honey but with salt on the top too, just the way she liked it.

“Are you considering significant changes to the garden, then?” she asked.

“Well, perhaps. There’s a rose garden, which I thought might be better as a simple lawn, and then the ornamental pond probably ought to be filled in and—”

Bea set down her spoon with a clatter. “Dig up a rose garden?” she exclaimed in outrage. “And fill in an ornamental pond?”

“Well, I have not made any definite plans,” he replied, sounding offended.

“Indeed, I should think not! Dig up the rose garden indeed,” she said, shaking her head and glaring at him. “Very well. I shall take a turn about the garden with you, and we shall see what needs doing, but I think the most urgent matter is to employ staff. It is all well and good making plans but if there is no one to do the work—”

“I sent John into Tunbridge Wells this morning to go to the servants’ registry office and see what he could find.”

“Oh.” Bea considered this as she picked up her spoon once more. “I dislike procuring servants from such places, for one never knows what one will get, but I suppose, in the circumstances, I can hardly ask my friends for recommendations.”

“Do you have friends?” he asked, surprising her.

Bea stiffened, sensing an insult, and then thought about the question. “I thought I did,” she said slowly. “I thought I had a great many friends. Yet when my father died and my uncle took me in, no one contacted me to ask if I was well, or if… Well, no one did,” she said, resolutely determined not to cry though the familiar pain of rejection was a weight in her chest.

“I find that very hard to believe,” he replied, his tone gentle.

Bea glanced at him and then wished she had not. His eyes were soft with understanding. She shook off the warm feeling the look gave her and shrugged. “Well, it’s the truth.”

“Perhaps, but did you ever consider that your uncle kept such correspondence from you? He wished to isolate you, did he not? If you felt alone and vulnerable, you might be easier to manage.”

Bea stared at him, wondering why she had not realised the truth herself. Dorothy had told her stories of how busy her friends were, and how they wished to allow her to grieve in private, knowing how close she had been to her father. She had been so miserable she had taken the words at face value, but perhaps her uncle had put those words in her cousin’s mouth. “He kept them from me,” she repeated numbly.

Rutherford nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Bea set her spoon down again, her appetite deserting her. “You must think me a fool,” she said in disgust.

He laughed at that, making her look sharply up at him. “I think nothing of the sort,” he said, looking amused. “You have the wickedest rake in England dancing to your tune, do you not?”

Bea harrumphed, not at all convinced of that, but glad he had not taken the opportunity to mock her. She stared down into her bowl again, wishing she did not feel so very stupid. Any friends she’d had must think she had abandoned them. “It was not until he presented me with Mr Runcible that I truly understood the depths of my uncle’s wickedness and ambition.”

“He was your family, you wanted to trust him. You should have been able to trust him,” he said, a note to his voice that made her look back at him once more.

For a moment she wondered what his family had been like, for surely there was a reason he had turned out the way he had. If he’d had a loving family to guide him, surely he would not have sought to hurt and embarrass them so deeply with the way he’d carried on. His face was impassive, his attention solely on his plate as he made his way through the sirloin.

“Do you have no family living, my lord?”

He shook his head. “Call me Justin,” he replied, glancing up and smiling at her. “We are married, are we not, Beatrice?”

Bea frowned. It felt odd, hearing her given name on his lips, giving their conversation an intimacy she did not like. “I mean no offence, but I prefer to keep things formal. I think it is for the best.”

“I do not,” he said, taking a large bite of sirloin and chewing thoughtfully as he stared back at her. “Beatrice,” he added, once he had swallowed the bite.

An irrepressible grin followed her name and Bea’s jaw tightened but she held her tongue. She was not about to allow him to see how much he vexed her, for he would only enjoy tormenting her even more. Instead, she turned her attention resolutely to her porridge, finding she was hungry after all. Indeed, she managed the porridge, two crumpets with jam, and two poached eggs, discovering that if she concentrated on eating with enthusiasm, it was easier to avoid conversation. She had the disquieting sense that Rutherford knew exactly what she was doing and found her delightfully entertaining. The idea was a frustrating one, but better than indulging his desire for conversation that would no doubt give him a means to cause her further unease.

After breakfast, Bea donned her cloak and bonnet, drawing on her gloves as she walked to the front door. Rutherford was waiting for her and opened the door for her to walk outside. Bea paused on the threshold, drinking in the fresh air and letting out a breath that clouded around her. It occurred to her in that moment that she had done it. The revolting plans Uncle Charles had made for her had come to nothing, she had thwarted him, beaten him at his own game. Now, she was safe, or at least safer , she thought, slanting a glance at her husband, who she did not trust further than she could throw him. Her uncle could not yet have discovered where she had gone, else he would have been pounding on her door. She was not only married but married to such a notorious libertine that the idea he might not have bedded her should scotch any thoughts of having the marriage annulled.

She had won. The idea cheered her immensely.

Rutherford held out his arm for her.

“There’s no need for that,” Bea said, unsettled by the notion of putting her hand on him, even with layers of linen and wool and leather between her hand and his skin. The man unnerved her more than she liked to admit.

“No need, but is it such an unreasonable demand? I am behaving like a gentleman, am I not?”

“Yes, but you’re not one in anything other than name,” Bea replied frankly, determined to make him see she would not be charmed. “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and there’s little point in pretending otherwise.”

Emotion flashed in his blue eyes, making them look suddenly cold, his expression aloof. “What an elegant turn of phrase you have, wife,” he said crisply. “As you wish. The rose garden is this way.”

He stalked ahead of her, making her hurry to keep up with his long strides, but better that than some awkward enactment of marital harmony when the whole thing was a sham. For a moment she regretted having spoken quite so harshly. He had been kind enough to her, after all, but instinct told her that any show of weakness, of wavering in her resolve, would be pounced on by such a man. He knew how to make women love him, how to weasel his way into their affections to get what he wanted. Bea had to presume he was an expert at such tactics too, or else how had he come by his reputation?

The weather had been mild so far this year, and Bea was surprised but not astonished to discover some roses still blooming. They were leggy and running wild, weeds choking their roots and prickly brambles weaving among the thorny stems. Getting the beds back in order would be an unenviable task, but not an impossible one.

“Some of them may need replacing, I suppose,” she mused, daring to reach over the tangle to draw a blowsy pink bloom towards her. She lifted the flower to her nose and inhaled. “Oh, that’s heavenly,” she said with a sigh as the decadent, heady perfume filled her senses.

“It was a delightful place when I was a child. I used to come her often, with a book or a sketch pad,” Rutherford said, watching her with an oddly intent expression. He laughed at the look on her face. "You might imagine I was depraved even at such a tender age, but I didn’t start my career of wickedness as early as all that."

Bea’s eyebrows rose, still finding it hard to imagine him as a boy with a book. She supposed if anything she had imagined him as a devotee of hunting and sports, even the kind of boy to pull the wings off butterflies. Perhaps that was unfair. There was certainly gossip enough about his exploits, and telling some poor cuckolded man of his infidelity with his wife in public was hardly a kind thing to do, but she had not heard of him being excessively cruel.

“My mother planted many of these,” Rutherford added, gazing at the overgrown mass with a frown. “I used to wonder if she looked down on me while I was here.”

“Oh.” Bea did not know what to say to that but, before she could think of anything, he gave a mirthless snort and shook his head.

“Foolish, I know. The dead are simply dead and have no care for those they leave behind.”

“Do you believe that?” she asked, curious despite herself.

“Certainly,” he said, turning away from her. “This way to the ornamental pond.”

Bea hurried after him. “I think you are wrong,” she said to his back, for the path was too overgrown to allow her to walk beside him, even if she could have kept up. “Since my father died, I have once or twice thought I felt his presence at my side. It… It was comforting.”

Rutherford stopped so suddenly she almost ploughed into the back of him.

“A delusion,” he said, not unkindly, but with certainty. “If anything lives on past death, then it cares not for those who are left behind. We are forgotten, as we ought to forget them.”

“That’s not true. I don’t believe that!” Bea said angrily, shocked by the sudden flare of fury, but her temper only increased as she discovered hot tears pricking at her eyes.

Rutherford stared at her for a long moment and then let out a breath. “Forgive me, that was a… a callous thing to say. It is only what I believe, and I have no right to convince you of it. I have no desire to destroy such ideas if they comfort you.”

Bea blinked hard, wrong-footed by his apology and the apparent sincerity she heard in his words. “Why?” she asked him, hearing the quaver in her voice, and frustrated that he had disturbed her peace so easily but wanting to know why his view was so bleak despite herself. “Why do you believe that?”

Rutherford shrugged. “My mother died when I was a babe, but there is a portrait of her hanging in the salon. I would gaze at it for hours as a child, and I would have given anything, everything, to have felt for a moment that she was standing beside me, that she had not forgotten me. Surely, in those circumstances, a mother would comfort her son? As for my father, he took his own life rather than spend a moment longer in my company and I certainly never felt he stood beside me, guiding me, however badly I might have needed that guidance. Though, knowing my father, he would have set me on precisely the path I took. But perhaps I am simply undeserving of such comfort. Perhaps my mother knew what I would become and turned her back before I could disappoint her. Either way, I decided a long time ago that the dead don’t care, not for me, at least.” He took a step closer to her and touched her cheek, his gloved finger moving with care. “You, however, were no doubt the centre of your father’s universe, so it stands to reason that he watches over you still. I had not considered that.”

He turned away and walked on, making Bea feel abruptly shaken and out of sorts. She frowned, forcing herself to follow, though she did not wish to. Just as she had known, spending time in his company was dangerous. She did not wish to think of him as a real person, as someone who had once been a lonely boy desperate for his mother, as a young man who must have wondered why his father ended his life rather than stay with him. She did not wish for him to be anything other than the wicked libertine she could not trust and did not like. If she did not keep him painted in those colours, she might discover something in him to like. She might find something in him to care for. That was the road to misery, and she would not set foot on it.

Thankfully for her peace of mind, he was silent as they traversed the gardens. Bea concentrated on what she could see beneath the disorder, discovering the bones of what had once been a formal garden, beautifully laid out with paths and deep borders, with walls and hedges and places to sit and gaze at the stunning views. Excitement stirred inside her as she imagined what the place could be once again, supposing she could keep a rein on Rutherford’s ideas about tearing up rose gardens and filling in the pond.

Except why would he wish to tear up the rose garden when he had spoken about it so fondly? With a curse of frustration, she realised he had tricked her, fooled her into spending this time with him. Were his words about his parents so calculated, too, designed to touch her tender heart and make her soften towards him? The devil , she thought angrily.

The ornamental pond was thick with weed and slime, but the large rectangle was elegant, and she could see at once it would be a lovely, tranquil spot to spend time in. Still seething, she walked up to Rutherford, who was staring into the murky water.

“You never had the slightest intention of pulling up the roses, did you? Nor of filling in this pond?”

Rutherford straightened and turned to look at her, a slow smile curving over his wicked mouth. In that moment, he looked every inch the heartless rake he was purported to be. “Ah, but how else to get you to walk in the garden with me?”

Bea glared at him. “Well, you may be certain I shall not fall for such tricks again. Good day to you, my lord,” she said, and turned and stalked away.