In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL) (6 page)

“How old were you when you lost your parents?”

“Four.” She had her mother’s jewelry, of course, but nothing else. Aunt Grace had stripped the rooms of all personal effects. Were her parents’ things in the attics? How nice it would be to imagine her mother in one of her Worth dresses.

“So young. My mother died when I was fifteen.”

“Is your father still living?”

“No.”

Captain Cooper did not elaborate, and Louisa left the unhappy subject alone. They were both orphans, and Maximillian Norwich was as well. Killing off inconvenient make-believe people was not difficult, but living with real loss was.

“Our trunks should come up any minute. Do you wish to use the—” A real wife might not be shy about her husband washing and doing other things involving plumbing, but she was not a real wife.

“Ladies first. I’ll wait here.” He folded his long body into her father’s leather chair and shut his eye.

Good heavens. She hoped he didn’t hear her as she relieved herself. To make sure, she turned on the taps and hummed. It was a bit early for a Christmas carol, but she had never kept the rules of Advent and would not now. In her opinion, all those mournful hymns were best left unsung.

After a few rounds of “Good King Wenceslas,” she washed her hands and face and checked her teeth for any remnants of their lunch on the train. It couldn’t be put off any longer. It was time to see Aunt Grace.

But when she returned to her father’s dressing room, she found her “husband” sound asleep in the chair, snoring softly at regular intervals. Louisa didn’t have the heart to wake him up—the past few days had been exhausting for her, too. Tiptoeing out of the room, she decided to make his excuses to her aunt. A few hours’ delay would make no difference. Captain Cooper was hers for the whole month, and would have plenty of time to suffer under Aunt Grace’s gorgon-like stare.

Chapter

7

T
he blue velvet drapes were closed against the thin afternoon sunshine, but the room did not smell of illness or pending death. Aunt Grace sat up straight in bed in a lacy bedjacket, her reading glasses slipping down her nose, her faded blond hair rolled up neatly. A pile of society newspapers were littered across the counterpane. She set the
Tatler
down and stared over her lenses, her dark eyes sharp.

“Ah, niece! So nice to have you back with us after all this time. I suppose we must put an announcement of your marriage in the papers. It is really quite shocking that we have not done so already. I imagine they’ll want to interview you, too, though of course we will shun the publicity. What has it been now—almost four months of wedded bliss?” She peered into the gloom behind Louisa. “Where is your young man?”

Oh dear. Louisa hadn’t planned on announcements or interviews. “He sends his regrets, Aunt Grace. I’m afraid his old injury is troubling him.”

“Injury? What injury?”

“I may have neglected to mention it. His eye was damaged in a youthful boxing match and I’m afraid he gets dreadful headaches sometimes. Travel has been a strain for him.”

“You’ve not gone and shackled yourself to some weakling, have you, Louisa? From your letters, I was under the impression Mr. Norwich was perfection itself.”

“Maximillian
is
perfect, truly. I could not ask for a better husband.”

“Your loyalty does you no credit if the man is unworthy of you and your fortune. All this nonsense about art. What kind of man spends all day looking at pictures in museums? He’s not a molly, is he?”

Louisa choked back a laugh. Captain Cooper was definitely not effeminate in any way. “Of course not. He collects art for his château and is regarded as quite an expert in certain circles.”

“I suppose you’ll want to settle in France then and leave me the running of Rosemont.”

Well, that didn’t take long. “I’m not sure what our plans are.” It suited Louisa to be evasive. If all went according to plan, she’d dislodge Grace and Hugh and make Rosemont her own at last, or at the very least be back on the Continent next year enjoying her freedom. “And I shouldn’t like to tax you, Aunt Grace. Hugh wrote that you’ve not been well.”

Her aunt waved a white hand, her diamond wedding rings glittering. She had married the younger brother of a viscount, although the marriage had not lasted long before the man got lucky and died. “Oh, pooh. A few fainting spells here and there. It was my own fault—I flirted with a new diet for a little while. One hates to lose one’s figure as one ages, as you will one day find out if your reckless behavior doesn’t lead you to an early grave. Dr. Fentress has given me an iron tonic and I’m getting stronger every day.”

Louisa curbed her reckless tongue. “I’m glad to hear it, but it’s time you took care of yourself. Perhaps a smaller house would suit you better.”

“A smaller house? What nonsense! Rosemont has been in my care for over twenty years. You’ll not find so much as a speck of dust under your bed. I hope you do not think I’ve shirked my duty.”

Grace was certainly not crawling under furniture with a duster herself. Louisa did not want to argue quite yet with her aunt, although it was clear she was spoiling for a fight. The woman had never met anyone she hadn’t tried to dominate, and for far too long she’d intimidated Louisa. But no more. Louisa was twenty-six years old, practically ancient. She’d crammed a lot of living into the past year of independence and was not about to cave under Grace’s scrutiny.

“I don’t want to tire you out, Aunt Grace. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! Why, I’ve arranged for a welcome-home dinner for you tonight. I’ve asked Dr. Fentress, the Merwyns, Mr. Baxter, and a few others. I hope your husband’s headache clears up—everyone is just dying to meet him.”

Damn. Louisa had hoped for more time before she threw Charles Cooper into the brine of the Rosemont social sea. Mr. Baxter was her man of business at the bank. He was not going to make some sort of legal fuss about her marriage, was he? She hadn’t thought to ask Mrs. Evensong to forge a marriage certificate for her, not that the woman seemed likely to participate in a real fraud. “Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. Are you well enough to come down to dinner?”

“Of course I am! I hope you can say the same. It’s not as if you’re fresh off the boat,” Grace said. “You spent several days in London at Claridge’s, didn’t you? Hugh heard you were driving around in your awful little car frightening the horses.”

Hugh. Louisa had made a lucky escape there if he was in London and hadn’t tried to see her. It would have been awkward to produce Maximillian at the dock when she hadn’t even met him yet.

“Yes, we stayed in town for a few days. Maximillian had business to attend to.” Louisa had seen the tattered journals he’d tucked under his arm when he left his boarding house, and she was curious about them. They were probably buried beneath his new clothes in his trunk, but it wouldn’t be sporting of her to go digging for them.

Would it?

Louisa acknowledged she found Captain Cooper to be a bit mysterious, and it wasn’t only because of his eye patch. He’d easily confessed to his humble roots, so his past was clear enough, but there was something—

“Are you listening to me, Louisa? Either you’re chattering like a magpie or off in your own little world. I swear you will be the death of me yet.”

No such luck
. “I beg your pardon, Aunt Grace. I was remembering Monte Carlo.”

“Gambling with all those foreigners. How vulgar. What about Monte Carlo?” Grace asked crossly.

“Oh, nothing of importance. I shall see you tonight.” Louisa bent to give her aunt a reluctant peck on the cheek and then made her escape. She didn’t return to her parents’ suite but to her own rather humble girlhood bedroom. Things were exactly as she left them last fall, a silver hairbrush black with tarnish on her dressing table and a stray bit of ribbon sticking up from a drawer. So much for Grace overseeing domestic perfection.

Louisa’s small dressing room held dresses seasons out of date. Aunt Grace had said it was a waste to buy new clothes when Louisa never went anywhere except to church. She had more or less lived under house arrest until her twenty-fifth birthday, going only to the home of the elderly Merwyns for the occasional dinner. There were plenty of people under her own roof, so she she’d never lacked for company—just
select
company.

She’d give all these dresses to Kathleen to sell. Louisa had lots of elegant Parisian clothes now and would be spoiled for choice tonight. But damn. A dinner party to ready herself for, and ready Captain Cooper, too. She really had to think of him as Maximillian, and was wishing she’d named her husband something simple.

Like Charles.

She wandered the twisting corridor and opened the door to her sitting room. Charles Cooper was in his shirtsleeves, both stockinged feet on the gray sofa. He had the illustrated art history book Mrs. Evensong had given him across his lap, but he rose instantly. “Where have you been?”

“Do sit down. I went to see my aunt. You’d fallen asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You should have woken me up. What must she think?”

“She thinks you had a headache from traveling.”

He looked as though she’d insulted his manhood. “From a few hours on a train? What a poor sort of fellow I’d be.”

“I blamed it on your eye, if you must know. I didn’t want her to be surprised when she meets you later and have her ask rude questions about it. She can be very . . . formidable.”

“Is that your way of saying she’s a right bitch?”

Louisa grinned. “What a way with words you have, though Maximillian would never use such a pejorative.”

“I figured she had to be a dragon if she drove you across the Channel.”

“She likes to have her own way, and so do I. Our relationship became more difficult as I grew older. She wanted me to marry my cousin Hugh, and when I refused, things went from bad to worse.”

“So I’ll have competition.” He waggled a dark eyebrow.

“Of course you won’t! We’re already married.”

“Somehow I don’t think that will stop your cousin from paying you compliments. Marriages can be dissolved, you know. Especially ours, as it doesn’t really exist.”

“Which reminds me. My banker is coming to dinner tonight, along with several other exalted personages that Aunt Grace has invited. I’m afraid we’re about to have our trial by fire.”

Not a flicker of emotion crossed the captain’s face. “I’m ready. A whole army brought up our trunks and unpacked everything. That’s what woke me up.”

“Are you? I’m not. I’d hoped to have a few more days to prepare you. Be wary of Mr. Baxter. He’s been in Aunt Grace’s pocket for years. Something fishy is going on with my bank, and I plan on asking him about it.”

“I thought you have control of your inheritance now.”

“I do. But everything goes to Mr. Baxter first, and then he’s responsible for making deposits to my account. There’s not as much there as should be.”

Captain Cooper shrugged. “Some investments lose money.”

“I know that! I’m not some empty-headed nitwit.”

“No one said you were. Well, if we are to impress the masses tonight, who gets first dibs on the bath?”

Louisa knew she was blushing. “You go first. I want to visit the kitchens. I’ll have some tea and sandwiches sent up. Or do you want a whiskey for courage?”

Captain Cooper closed the book. “No whiskey. Wasn’t that one of the rules?”

“
I’d
like one,” Louisa said.

“None for you, either. We’ve got to keep our stories straight. A moderate amount of wine at dinner will have to do.”

“I suppose you’re right. We keep country hours, here, Captain. Dinner will be at six. Oh! I really
am
a nitwit!”

“Why so?”

“You haven’t a valet. Maximillian Norwich must have a valet.”

“Don’t you remember? The poor soul—Antoine, I believe—broke his leg climbing all those stairs at Château La Whatsis right before we were ready to sail. He is recuperating.”

“Lachapelle. You’re rather good at this, aren’t you? Thinking on your feet.”

“Some might call it lying, Miss Stratton. I should call you out.”

“You might not win. I’m very good with a pistol.”

He looked startled. “Are you really?”

Louisa nodded. “Papa had a gun collection.” She wasn’t going to tell him
why
she’d found it necessary to familiarize herself with it.

“You are full of surprises, my dear. Off you go. Find me a valet in your travels, although I’m sure between the two of us we can manage to get me dressed. I take it all I need to do is turn on the taps for hot water?”

“Yes. Rosemont has all the modern conveniences.”

“What a treat.
À bientôt,
Louisa.”

“You don’t speak French, Maximillian.”

“Surely a word or two would not go amiss,
ma belle.
” He winked and gave her a very warm smile.

Oh dear. Charles Cooper was turning into Maximillian Norwich right before her eyes and she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to resist her “husband.”

Chapter

8

L
ouisa had found a ruddy-cheeked young footman who had made Charles as presentable as possible—which, Charles had to admit, was very. The mirror told him he’d never looked more elegant. Hell, he’d never been elegant in his life, not even in uniform.

Elegance wouldn’t get him very far with his brothers. If they saw him now, they’d howl with laughter, then decide to beat him up for rising above his station again. Though they were all much older now—maybe bloodshed wouldn’t be called for. In any event, it was this faux elegance that would keep them comfortable in the future—not only would they have Charles’s salary, but they could sell off all the posh clothes.

Charles twisted a worn gold signet ring Mrs. Evensong had thoughtfully provided in his Norwichian trousseau. There was a horned bull and sheaves of wheat, indicating what he hadn’t a clue. A Latin phrase was inscribed beneath, too faint to make out. He’d have to ask Louisa what his family motto was—“Bread for All”? “Hung Like a Bull”? He chuckled at his inanity and gazed out the window as he waited for Louisa to emerge from her dressing room.

It was full dark, so he really couldn’t see a thing, not even any stars over the sea. The vast blackness suited his mood. But soon he’d have to turn on the charm. He hoped he remembered how.

Louisa had listed the cast of characters who resided at Rosemont—not that he had kept them straight. There was the flirtatious middle-aged American cousin Isobel, who was more pathetic than predatory. The dragon aunt Grace and her feckless son Hugh, who apparently wasn’t at home. A small crew of other relations and connections, all much older than Louisa. She’d said she had a lonely childhood, although with the number of people in the house, Charles could not imagine how.

He supposed one could find lots of quiet corners in a house this size to escape from annoying relatives. There had been no such escape for Charles when he came home from school holidays. After a while, he simply stayed at Harrow with the boys whose families were in India or some other exotic destination.

He’d had exquisite privacy in the modern bath this afternoon, with plenty of hot water piped in. The rest of the house was not as up-to-date, the furnishings harking back to the era in which it was built half a century ago. No one had thought to retrofit it with an electric circuit, either, as far as he could tell. The sitting room was lit by a profuse combination of oil lamps and candles, but it was still damned gloomy. Or so he thought until Louisa cleared her throat behind him and he turned.

She was in blond lace that matched her hair exactly. Unlike so many of the fashions of the day, the dress hadn’t an extra ounce of flounce or trim, but it didn’t need any. Louisa was poured into it, and its severe lines emphasized her narrow waist and abundant bosom. Her shoulders were bare, bands of puffed and pleated lace serving as sleeves. There were pearls and topazes around her long white throat and pinned into her hair. She was, quite simply, the most breathtaking beauty he’d ever been near enough to touch.

And he wanted to. Charles had not felt desire for anyone or anything since his crack-up in Africa. Louisa Stratton, despite her runaway tongue, might prove to be the trigger to dispensing with his self-imposed celibacy.

But no. He was the hired help, and the ground rules had been clear. He couldn’t even find any satisfaction with someone more suitable—one of the housemaids, for example; he was a man still considered to be on his honeymoon. How disloyal Maximillian Norwich would be if he betrayed his lovely heiress. The irony of his sudden lust almost made him laugh.

She waited at the threshold of her parents’ bedroom, expecting her due. Charles unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You look nice, Louisa.”

Her brows were several shades darker than her champagne-colored hair, and they knit briefly, then relaxed. “Thank you, Maximillian. You look nice, too.”

“Any last-minute orders?”

“I haven’t ordered you about, just made suggestions. It will be very like a minefield down there. Cook says the table is set for twenty. You are likely to be grilled like the Scotch salmon we’re having for the fish course. Just be . . .”

Her unfinished sentence hung in the air. “Myself?” he supplied helpfully.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You needn’t volunteer anything, but do speak when spoken to. And mention Lachapelle.”

“Loire Valley.”

“Exactly. Ready?” She floated toward him and held out a kid-gloved hand.

They made it down the central stone staircase without incident. Louisa led him to a reception room the length of a cricket pitch. It was crammed with tapestries, Chinese jardinières, spindly French gilt furniture, and most of the dinner-party guests. At the center of the room, in a throne-like Louis the Somethingth chair, sat a woman whose resemblance to Louisa was unmistakable. Somehow Charles had been expecting a lumpy gray-haired dowager, but this soignée blonde must be the dreaded Aunt Grace. Charles thought she must be more than halfway from forty to fifty, yet her trim figure and unlined face made her look like Louisa’s older sister.

She didn’t rise. “Mr. Norwich! How delighted I am to meet our Louisa’s husband at last.”

Charles knew what he had to do without Louisa’s little push. He crossed the carpet and bent to kiss the woman’s extended hand. “Not as delighted as I am to meet Louisa’s beloved aunt. Do please call me Max.”

“Max, is it? I understand your given name is Maximillian.”

“But quite a mouthful, yes? My friends call me Max. I’ve been trying to persuade Louisa to follow suit, but you know how stubborn she can be.”

Grace gave him her first genuine smile of the evening. “I do indeed. We are depending upon you to teach her all the errors of her ways.”

“I can find no real fault with her, ma’am. One could not ask for a more dutiful or beautiful wife.”

“Very prettily said. Louisa, you claimed he was handsome and charming, and I see that was not one of your usual exaggerations. Do forgive me, Max, for not leading you around to our guests. Dr. Fentress’s orders.” She smiled up at the older gentleman who stood by her chair. “But Louisa will perform the introductions. You haven’t forgotten who we are, have you, my dear, after all your time away from home?”

“Not at all, Aunt Grace. Who could forget such distinguished company?
Max
, darling,” Louisa said with special emphasis, “this is Dr. Fentress, who tells me he’s known me since I was a baby.”

“How do you do, sir?”

“Quite well, quite well, Mr. Norwich, now that I know little Louisa is in good hands. Your wife ran harum-scarum as a girl, you know. Mrs. Westlake had her hands full, didn’t you, Grace? And going off to the Continent unchaperoned except for an Irish maid—I won’t tell you how many sleepless nights we’ve passed worrying about little Louisa.”

Little Louisa bristled next to Charles, but somehow kept her mouth shut, rising in Charles’s estimation. In a minute of conversation, she’d been portrayed as thoughtless and heedless, a liar and a hoyden, all by people who allegedly had her best interests at heart.

“Louisa’s free spirit is what first attracted me to her,” Charles said, earning a grateful squeeze to his arm. “There is no one like her.”

“Spoken like a man besotted with his wife! See, I told you, Grace, all would be well. You raised her right.”

“I did try.” Grace Westlake gave a world-weary sigh, as if to say she wasn’t sure her efforts had been successful. “Max, dear, we don’t wish to monopolize you. Louisa, introduce your husband to our guests.”

They took a grateful step backward. “Dismissed,” Charles whispered into Louisa’s ear.

“She likes you. Or seems to. That’s a first,” Louisa whispered back.

“You sound annoyed. Did you wish her to take me in dislike?”

“No, of course not.” Louisa suddenly gripped his arm in a stranglehold, and it was all he could do not to yelp. “Oh God. How
could
she?”

“What is it?”

“She’s invited Sir Richard.”

“Who’s that?”

“Sir Richard Delacourt. The man standing next to the vicar. He’s a n-neighbor.”

Charles looked for a man in a dog collar, then at the tall, brown-haired man beside him. Sir Richard was a decade older than Louisa, with a neat reddish beard and pale gray eyes. Handsome, Charles supposed. “He doesn’t look especially dangerous.”

“He—I—oh, it’s complicated. I was only seventeen.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, don’t make it sound like that,” Louisa said, objecting to his one syllable.

“Confess later. I promise to be sympathetic. We were all seventeen once. Who is this woman bearing down on us with all the teeth and feathers?”

They spent the next five minutes circling the room, avoiding the vicar’s corner as long as they could. Everyone seemed pleased to see Louisa, but there was an undercurrent of negativity beneath their inconsequential conversation, as if they did not want to appear
too
pleased. Several of her relatives—an odd lot they were—darted nervous glances at Grace Westlake, who sat in her throne surveying all.

Charles could tell Louisa was nervous—there was a light sheen of perspiration at her hairline and her gloves were damp. The introduction was inevitable, and the vicar, Mr. Naismith, pumped Charles’s hand with enthusiasm and kissed Louisa’s blushing cheek.

“We do look forward to seeing you both Sunday. No one has been able to do the altar flowers for us like you, Miss Louisa. All those colors thrown together so unexpectedly! Singular, quite singular. We’ve missed you in these parts.”

“Thank you, Mr. Naismith. Sir Richard, how do you do? May I present my husband, Maximillian Norwich?”

If Louisa had been seventeen when they had their fling, Sir Richard must have been old enough to know not to trifle with a virgin. Charles felt himself carefully assessed by those silvery eyes, and somehow found wanting. Charles couldn’t see the appeal of the man in front of him, either.

Though he was not a sheltered young girl. Perhaps Louisa had been intrigued by his title, or just the very fact that he was a
man
. Sir Richard might even be responsible for the fact that Louisa no longer held men in any kind of awe.

“Norwich, good to meet you.” Sir Richard sounded bored, deliberately so. His handshake was as brief as it was civil. “Do you shoot? It’s a Delacourt family tradition at the Priory on New Year’s Day. You both could join us. It would be like old times, wouldn’t it, Louisa? Your aunt has already agreed to join us.”

Charles had not pointed a gun at anything but a human in his life, and he truly did not want to blow some poor bird to bits to prove himself to anyone. His aim would be off now anyhow. He brought Louisa’s hand to his lips and gave her a heated look. “I’m not sure what our plans are, Sir Richard. My wife might want to return to France directly after Christmas. I have a small château in the Loire Valley and we both may be homesick by then.”

The gray eyes narrowed. “Ah, France. But you are English?”

“Yes.” Charles was saved from dragging out the dead expatriate parents and his odd upbringing by Griffith’s announcement of dinner.

A strict order of precedence into the dining room was orchestrated by Grace Westlake, and Charles was separated from Louisa. He found himself escorting Isobel Crane into a banquet hall big enough for all the crowned heads of Europe and their entourages. There was a blinding array of silver and crystal on crisp white linen, and epergnes filled with lush hothouse flowers and fruit. Quite an impressive show for the boy who once worked in a pottery factory. Charles’s stomach clenched at the heavy scent of lilies. Somehow they always reminded him of death—not that he needed much reminding.

This extravagance was ridiculous. For a mad moment, Charles wanted to sweep the china and glassware to the floor. While these pointless people had been cosseted by such luxury, he had been burying and burning the emaciated corpses of women and children.

But Maximillian Norwich knew nothing of such things. He lived safely in his château in the Loire Valley, surrounded by beautiful paintings. He would think nothing of fishing out the fish fork from the rigidly arranged place setting and sipping fine wine. His pretty young wife was an heiress and his days were filled by one pleasure after another.

But night would come.