Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (13 page)

"Probably because she's still wearing Rossiter's."

Chapter 6

Leander decided it was definitely time to buy Judith a ring, and bury her first husband's jewels in the bottom of her jewel box. He was disconcerted by just how strongly he felt on the subject. He was disconcerted by a great deal these days. He was achieving a practical marriage based on honesty and respect, so why was he constantly on edge?

The matter of the rings, however, was a simple one to correct. He borrowed Lucien's curricle, and drove down to the cottage. He was accustomed by now to just walking in, using the back door as everyone seemed to, and so he entered the kitchen unannounced—to find his future countess, damn her, stretching precariously on a stool to clean a high shelf.

He grasped her by the waist, and swung her to the floor.

She gave a squeal of alarm, and then collapsed against his chest. "Leander! You frightened me to death!"

"So I should. I thought I hired a couple to help you."

Judith moved back, but he held on to her. "You did, but they can't do everything."

"Of course they can. If there's too much work, hire more."

"It doesn't bother me at all to work in the house. I'm accustomed to it."

"Then become unaccustomed. You will hardly be dusting out cupboards at the Temple."

Judith raised her chin. "If I wish to, I will."

"No, you will not."

It's happening again, he thought.

Then Judith chuckled. "Am I really fighting you for the right to scrub and clean? I'm sorry, Leander, but there's so much to do if this place is to be left neat for the next occupants, and it simply won't be done if I don't help."

He didn't know what to say to this sort of foolishness.

"Besides," she added, "I don't like to see those old folk up on stools."

"And I don't like to see
you
up on a stool." But he could feel his anger fading and other feelings growing. She looked surprisingly fetching, rosy with embarrassment and humor. "Or at least," he said softly, "not for cleaning." He picked her up, and sat her on the stool, then brushed back a tendril of her silky hair. "Was I bullying you?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, I think you were."

"I'll try not to." He wanted to kiss her, but he wanted it so much he distrusted the impulse. He moved away and leant against the table facing her. "The Ardens think you are worried about the power I will have over you as a husband."

Judith nodded again. "A little, but mostly for the children's sake. The children are a weighty responsibility, one I cannot just shrug off."

"I've never thought of these matters. All I can say is that I have no intention of being a despot."

"I sense that, which is why I'm willing to trust you."

"Then I hope you will let me buy you a new ring to symbolize a new start." He watched for her reaction.

"Of course." She did not seem upset.

"It will mean," he pointed out, "that you will have to remove those you wear now."

Judith looked at her rings, so familiar as to be a part of her, and wondered why this had not occurred to her. She was blushing with embarrassment that she hadn't removed the rings sooner. What a fool he must think her. The thin-shanked sapphire came off quite easily, but the broader gold band, which had never been removed since her wedding day, didn't. With a worried look at him, she rubbed some soap on her finger and worked it off.

There was a mark where it had been, and she felt naked without it.

He took her hand and rubbed at the mark. "We will have to find one a little looser."

"Twelve years and two children bring changes, my lord."

"Leander," he reminded her gently. "I doubt I could wear anything bought for me when I was sixteen. I have the curricle, and would like to drive into Guildford now to buy you the rings."

Judith didn't feel able to protest or delay. The Hubbles were here for the children.

Perhaps she should take time to change her gown but there was little point, for they were all as shabby, and this one was not particularly dirty. She put on her bonnet, and took her red cloak off the hook. He placed it around her shoulders as if it were a priceless ermine wrap. Perhaps being treated as a countess would one day make her feel like one. She doubted it.

The matter of the rings was bringing a finality to all this that she should have welcomed. Instead it made her nervous, and scruples assailed her again.

In the end they won and she turned to him. "This marriage is a cockeyed idiocy and everyone knows it. As you've seen today, I'm not fit to be the Countess of Charrington, the mistress of Temple Knollis. I know convention says you may not, but I have no objection to you withdrawing your offer. I'll say it was my decision."

His face had gone blank, which doubtless meant he was trying to hide his relief. She felt a pang of loss, but held to her course. She knew him a little by now, and added, "After all, my lord, if you were to give us a small annuity, we would go along famously, and you would not need to worry about us at all."

"But, my dear Judith, that would be money for nothing. Don't you think that a little grasping?"

Judith gaped at him. He smiled blandly and held out his arm. "Let us go purchase rings."

As they rolled through the crisp autumn countryside, Judith told her troublesome conscience that she had done her best to steer him from this course. What's more, though she had allowed him to retain a misconception, her intent was completely honest. She would do her best to make him a good wife and countess, and she was certainly past the age of falling in love.

She was surprised to find she was given her choice of betrothal ring, and it presented something of a problem. Though the jeweler did not have a large stock, there was considerable variety. She knew Leander would not consider a trumpery piece, and suspected that it would have to be clearly of more value than the sapphire to satisfy him.

The ring that most appealed to her was an antique ruby heart held in two hands, but that would be a disastrous exhibition of romanticism. The other choices were a marquise sapphire, a triad of emeralds, and a large square-cut diamond.

She chose the diamond as likely to be the most expensive. The jeweler's beaming satisfaction argued that she was correct. She felt a momentary qualm, but assured herself that in this marriage, money was the one thing she need not concern herself about.

When it came to wedding rings, she ignored value and picked out a narrow one. Sebastian's ring had shown that wide ones were impractical for an active woman. Leander might think she was going to laze her days away in idleness, but she could not imagine it.

He had been investigating on his own as she chose, and now he added a pearl pendant and a filigree parure set with blue tourmalines. A protest hovered on Judith's lips.

She knew it was ridiculous, but she was feeling
bought
—perhaps because she was not doing anything for all this largess, and was not at all sure what she was expected to do in the future. It was as if a ledger was being drawn up with endless debit on her side.

But she said nothing. It would be pointless.

As he dealt with the financial matters, she stood looking down at her hands, her strange hands. At Leander's urging she had been using an expensive cream on them every day, and trying to remember to use protective gloves when working. They did look a little paler and smoother, which she supposed was how a countess's hands were supposed to look.

Now the square diamond caught the sun and flashed rainbows. It mesmerized her like a child's kaleidoscope.

He came over and gave her one of his radiant smiles. They had the power to convince her that she really was making him happy, strange as that may seem. He raised her left hand to his lips and, holding her eyes, kissed her finger by the ring. Judith's heart gave a warning tremble. She sternly ordered it to behave.

She was ready to return to Mayfield and work, but Leander insisted she show him the town. It was market day and they had to weave their way through crowds, stalls, and animals. The noise, dirt, and smell were overwhelming. She thought this would soon dissuade him from the venture, but he was fascinated.

He didn't seem to know what many of the items were. He didn't even recognize a turnip, and wasn't entirely sure he'd ever eaten any. "Have you heard of Brummell's response when asked if he liked vegetables?" he said. "He replied that he didn't know, as he had never eaten any."

"Are you claiming you have never eaten vegetables?"

"Oh, I am sure a few have passed my lips, well disguised by heavy sauces...."

Judith wasn't sure if he were teasing or not. She paid the tuppence for a turnip, and had the stallholder slice it. She gave Leander a slice.

"Raw?" he asked plaintively. "Surely it's eaten cooked."

"It's palatable raw. Try it."

He bit off a lump, and chewed with a doubtful look. "I prefer melon."

"So do I. What has that to say to anything? Have you had it before?"

"Definitely not raw, and probably not cooked. And," he added pointedly, "I am not in a passion to do so."

"You'll find buttered carrots and turnips an excellent dish," she assured him.

He didn't look convinced, and steered her away from the vegetable stalls.

"I don't understand," she said, "how anyone can not know a turnip when they see one."

He slid her a glance. "Perhaps I find it hard to understand how anyone can mistake beluga for lump-fish, or a Côte de Nuits for a Côtes du Rhone."

Judith stopped and faced him. "And what beluga and the other two?"

"Fish eggs and wine."

She shrugged. "I don't like cod's roe, and elderberry is good enough for me."

"Cod's roe and elderberry wine!" He looked pained, but she could tell that he was teasing.

"Yes, your highness. You can see how unsuited we are."

"Nonsense." He took her elbow to steer her out of the way of a barrow. "We are superbly well matched. If I had married Princess Irina Bagration, neither of us would have known a turnip, and Lord knows what disastrous consequences could have ensued."

"Were you supposed to?"

"What?"

"Marry a princess."

He was momentarily distracted by a man demonstrating the sturdiness of his earthenware by bashing it against his head. "She thought it a good idea," he said absently, then turned back. "Don't look so impressed. Princesses are two a penny in Russia, and I think she only wanted a ticket to London so she could become another Lieven."

He was fascinated by an ironmonger's wares, and picked up a slotted metal cup with a silent question.

"Egg strainer," Judith said.

Another item.

"Potato masher."

Another.

"Sausage stuffer. My lord, have you never been in a kitchen?"

"I've been in yours."

"Apart from mine."

He smiled. "No. You see, you are bringing endless useful knowledge as your dowry. It never previously occurred to me to wonder how the meat found its way into a sausage."

Judith began to feel she had a schoolboy in tow rather than a frightening Lord and Master.

Like a schoolboy, he unerringly detected a cake shop, and they took a table and set to enjoying tea and cream cakes—éclairs, savoys, horns, and sandwiches. Judith was amazed at the number of cakes this slim young man could put away. She must have looked wistful, for he said, "Don't worry. We'll take some home for the children."

She frowned at him. "Do you know everything I think?"

He was suddenly serious. "I wish I did."

"And I most certainly do not."

"Why? Are you hiding something?"

There was a serious tone behind the question. Judith wanted to look away but forced herself to meet his eyes. "Not particularly, but everyone needs privacy in their thoughts."

He nodded. "I don't read minds. I'm sensitive to feelings, that's all. It's a gift I inherited from my father. It's very useful in diplomacy."