Ever His Bride (13 page)

Giving up on the notion of sleep before dawn,
he bathed in the adjoining room, dressed in his crispest linen, put
on his coat, and hurried downstairs to his breakfast.

Ernest met him at the dining-room table with
the usual dry toast, a plate of stew, and a steaming pot of tea.
The young man seemed even more skittish than usual.

“Uhm, sir . . .”

“Yes, Ernest. Speak.”

“Will she . . . be joining you, sir? I mean
your wife . . . I mean Mrs. Claybourne—”

“I have no idea what my wife will do for her
breakfast.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ernest bowed and started
for the pantry.

“Ernest, come back here.”

“Yessir?” Ernest skidded to attention,
shielding his chest with the tarnished breakfast tray.

“Whose nightshirt is my wife wearing?”

“Nightshirt? Oh, God!” The tray clattered to
the floor and Ernest followed after it, sputtering. “Curse me,
sir—I didn’t mean anything by it! She brought no clothes with her.
Mrs. Sweeney said. . .”

“Never mind, Ernest.” He should have turned
the man out years ago. Loud noises seemed to send him over the
edge. “Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

Ernest leaped to his feet clasping the tray,
embarrassment staining his cheeks. “Sir, I would never presume to,
that is—”

“To the kitchen, man.” He watched his young
valet plow through the pantry, nearly taking the door off its
hinges. When he turned back to his breakfast, his wife was standing
across from him on the other side of the table. She looked fresh as
the day, her hair tucked into a springy bundle, her eyes sparkling
with the same kind of mischief that had mocked him in his
half-awake dreaming.

“Good morning, Mr. Claybourne. Did you sleep
well?”

“Like a rock.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind that me asking for
a loan.”

He was in the midst of swallowing a mouthful
of tea when she threw this challenge at him, and the tea went down
the wrong way. He spun out of his chair to deal with his fit of
coughing, and when he finally recovered she was kneeling at the
table, ladling blackberry preserves onto a square of his toast.

“I’m sorry to have startled you, Mr.
Claybourne. But, as you rightly pointed out yesterday, I was
blindsided by an enterprising young urchin and now I haven’t a
penny to my name.’’

“And you want a loan? From me?” He sat again,
amused at her brazen request.

“Ten pounds should do it.” She rose from her
kneeling and studied the stack of crates along the pantry wall.

“Ten pounds?”

“I have only the outfit I’m wearing, Mr.
Claybourne.” She fingered the dingy blue folds of her skirt. “And
it will fall to shreds long before this year is out.” She carried a
small crate back to the table, placed it on the floor, then sat
down on it. “What would your business associates say, if your wife
was discovered in such a threadbare state? I don’t want to give you
cause to blame me for tarnishing your precious reputation. And I
also need travel money to cover my expenses until I can be paid for
my articles.”

If he hadn’t been looking so closely at her,
he’d never have seen it: a glossy piece of straw caught up in a
strand of hair just behind her ear. Where the devil had she been
this morning? And when? She’d been asleep in his bed when he left
her not a half-hour ago.

“You’ll not be traveling any time soon,” he
said more sharply than he’d meant, but his mind was fixed on that
damning piece of straw and the sudden intake of her breath.

“Article Two, Mr. Claybourne,” she said with
equal sharpness. “I can travel as I please. My business is
reporting on interesting travel spots, country inns, natural
wonders, festivals. In order make the money I need to support
myself, I must travel by train and coach to various locations
across—”

“Why would anyone want to read about such
things?” The only place that piece of straw could have found its
way into her hair was in his stable. And what in blazes had she
been doing in his stable? Meeting someone? Ernest? Or that skinny
reporter fellow from the
Times
? A shaft of pure jealousy
pierced him; the shock of it set his head spinning.

“Do you ever travel, Mr. Claybourne?”

“As my business requires.” His fingers itched
to pluck the straw from her hair and present the evidence to her.
He wanted most of all to know how it got there.

“Have you ever stayed in a
comfortable-looking inn, but discovered upon retiring that the beds
are saggy and the food indigestible?”

“I learned a long time ago which places to
avoid.”

“Exactly. And my job is to see that the
traveler doesn’t make that mistake in the first place. In any case,
I’ll be going to London today.”

“What were you doing in my stable this
morning?”

“In the stable?” Her headlong confidence
faded; her gaze flitted its meadow green across his face, then flew
off to appraise the ceiling.

“What were you doing in my stable?” he
repeated slowly, his hand shaking as he reached for the straw.

She dodged his hand, then glared at him.
“What are you doing?”

“Fetching this.”

“Fetching what, Mr. Claybourne?”

He steadied her with a hand to her shoulder,
and then worked the stiff piece of straw from its refuge among the
softly curling silk. Would have tarried there if he could, would
have run his fingers through it and touched it to his cheek to
study its textures and ease the burning in his chest. But he took a
steadying breath and produced the length of straw.

“Now, Miss Mayfield, why were you in my
stable this morning? This didn’t come from my bed. My mattress is
made of fine French wool.”

A frown of concentration touched the corners
of her captivating mouth. Whatever she was about to say was going
to be a lie, carefully prepared to deceive him. He watched her lips
part, watched her moisten them with the tip of her tongue. The heat
left his chest, headed for his belly, and lodged in his groin.

“I took a walk around the estate yesterday
evening, Mr. Claybourne, after my bath. And I soon found myself in
the stable, looking at your horses. They’re very nice. I must have
gotten straw on my bonnet when I fed the big grey.” She crunched
down on her toast and came away with a dab of preserves on her
upper lip. She wiped it off with a fingertip, licked the dab from
her finger, then looked up at him.

“Well, Mr. Claybourne, do I get my loan?”

He heard her question, but he’d begun to
imagine his mouth on the end of that finger, and on her lips, and
wasn’t sure he was prepared to answer. His throat had gone dry.

“Ten pounds on loan, Mr. Claybourne. Do you
agree to it?”

He was about to mindlessly agree to anything,
but he caught himself in time. Damn the woman for keeping him from
beginning his day! And damn her for being right. She needed
clothes. He couldn’t very well have a wife traipsing around London,
looking no better than a Ragged School missionary.

He stood up from his congealed, uneaten
breakfast. “I’ll have a letter of credit drawn up for one of
London’s best dressmakers.”

Now the chit had the gall to look annoyed.
“Sir, there’s no need to force me more into debt. I’ll never be
able to repay you. And I will not spend the rest of my life owing
you.”

“What of that fortune your enterprising uncle
is to make in the California gold fields? Or have you come to doubt
he’ll succeed?”

She glowered at him. “Uncle will return with
plenty of profits, Mr. Claybourne. In the meantime, three simple,
ready-to-wear dresses will suit me and my finances just fine.”

“You’ll see the dressmakers, or you’ll get no
money from me at all. You’ve a role to play, Miss Mayfield, and
you’ll play it in the correct costume.”

“I can’t afford it, Mr. Claybourne.”

“When our year together has ended, Miss
Mayfield, and I own the Drayhill-Starlington railway outright, then
I will consider the dressmaker’s bills paid in full. You will owe
me nothing.”

“I’ll take your charity for the term of our
marriage, after which I shall donate my entire bespoke wardrobe to
some charitable union for the benefit of impoverished women, who
wish only to clothe themselves in a bit of dignity.”

The room became suddenly stifling; sweat
began to bead at his temple. Charity be damned. This was a business
decision, nothing more. “When the time comes, you may burn the lot
for all I care.”

“Very well, then. I’ll see whatever
dressmaker you choose.”

“Do it today. Branson!” he shouted. “We’re
late!”

“Sir.” Branson met him at the dining room
door and handed him his case and his hat. “The carriage is
outside.”

Miss Mayfield caught his arm, blocking his
way. “I’m coming with you, Mr. Claybourne. I must talk with Mr.
Dolan, today.”

The woman could pierce solid rock with her
determination.

“You will see a dressmaker, Miss Mayfield. If
there is time, Branson, you may take her to this Dolan
character.”

“Yessir.”

“And what about a bed, Mr. Claybourne?” she
asked, her eyes blazing with unwarranted triumph. “I can’t very
well keep using yours, can I?”

“Purchase a new mattress and a suitable bed,
Branson. And see that a chamber is arranged for my wife.”

The woman smiled grandly and let him pass. He
strode down the hallway as he shrugged into his top coat.

He hoped the rest of his day wasn’t the
contest his morning had been.

What a very closed off man you are, Mr.
Claybourne, Felicity thought as he sat in silence at an obtuse
angle beside her, hidden behind the crinkled wall of the
Times,
all the way to Cornhill Street. He muttered
occasionally, shifted in his seat, shook out the crease a dozen
times, and finally folded the newspaper only as the carriage came
to rest in front of the Claybourne Exchange.

“See that your business is finished by noon,”
he said as he opened the door.

She felt the rear of the carriage shudder,
and hoped that Mr. Pepperpot’s escape from the luggage boot had
gone unnoticed. She also hoped he’d been discreet in his thievery
at the manor. Not that anything would be missed from among the
crates.

“By the way, Mr. Claybourne, if you’re
lunching at your club today, you may want to shave before you go.”
In jest she ran her finger across the stubble of his chin. His jaw
tightened, a tremendously solid edifice. “You look a bit scruffy
this morning.”

Claybourne scrubbed his hand across his
cheek, then sent her a look that promised murder. “You should have
said earlier.”

“Shall we amend our contract, Mr. Claybourne?
Article Six, I will remind you to shave before you leave the house
each morning.”

He looked thunderous and turned to his
footman. “Keep her out of trouble, Branson. Here is a letter of
credit that will send the bills my way. Good day.” Claybourne left
Branson standing beside the carriage, and Felicity glaring after
him.

“Do you know Fleet Street, Branson?” she
asked, watching Claybourne’s doorman greet her husband and grovel
as if Claybourne were king.

“Enough to know that you’ll find no
dressmakers there.” He started to close the carriage door, but she
held it open with the toe of her shoe.

“Please, Branson. Let me see Mr. Dolan first.
It’s urgent.”

“Impossible. Mr. Claybourne gave strict
orders to—”

“Mr. Claybourne can sit on a tack. Let me see
to my business with Mr. Dolan, and then I’ll quite happily visit
the dressmaker.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, miss. Please
don’t ask again.” Branson seemed terribly distressed and she
finally relented. The footman and all his staff seemed frightened
to death of Claybourne; she didn’t want them thinking the same of
her.

“To the dressmaker’s, then, as quickly as
possible.”

The ordeal at Madame Deverie’s Apparel Shoppe
took hours and hours, and promised even more hours of flaying and
punctures when she returned for fittings and to choose accessories.
Claybourne’s letter of credit included instructions to outfit his
wife for every eventuality. Felicity stressed comfort and
durability, and gave in to elegance only on a few items that she
might wear to one of Claybourne’s financial events. Such a waste of
money. Such a waste of time.

She ought to be hiking the sheep trails above
Conniston Lake right now, or sitting in a Shropshire tea room,
chatting with the proprietress about the upcoming village cycle
play, or about Founder’s Day. In any case, she certainly wouldn’t
be in London right now, with her arms stuck full of pins, and her
ears full up with advice about how her curls might be better
harnessed by the proper use of lacquer and wire mesh.

Her father would be dismayed. He’d never had
much use for society. What would he think of this muck she’d become
mired in? He would surely be blazing angry with Uncle Foley, and
he’d probably have changed his will to keep her from stumbling into
such a marriage with a man like Hunter Claybourne.

Now she was anxious to see Mr. Dolan and
explain her new situation. She would then present him with her
grand idea for a new kind of travel guide, and be gone from
Claybourne’s dismal manor on a new adventure.

Hours later, she was finally free of the pins
and Madame Deverie’s chattering, and on her way to Mr. Dolan’s
office.

“You’ve married Hunter Claybourne?” Thomas
Dolan gripped the arms of his chair and held on as though fearing
he’d be tossed from it headfirst.
“The
Hunter
Claybourne?”

“The very one, Mr. Dolan, but—”

“The richest man in all England?”

“He’s not
the
richest man, Mr. Dolan.
At least, I don’t think he is. But that’s not why I came.”

Felicity had known the man for nearly a year,
but had never seen him in such a state.