The Taste of Innocence (33 page)

Standing on the front porch ready to wave them away, Sarah was sorry to see them go, but also grateful; Serena had been right. All newly married couples did, it seemed, require a few weeks alone to settle into married life.

The last to quit the house was Serena. She wrapped Sarah in a warm, scented embrace and whispered, “Be patient, my dear, and all will be well.”

Returning the embrace, then drawing back, Sarah met her mother-in-law’s wise eyes and smiled, happy and confident. “I will.” Regardless of whether Serena had been alluding to Charlie, the house hold, or both, Sarah was quite certain all would indeed be well.

Serena turned to Charlie; she gave him her hand and allowed him to lead her down the steps to her carriage.

She halted a yard away and looked up at him.

Charlie faced her. And saw, as he’d expected, a slight frown in her eyes. She studied him for a moment, then raised a gloved hand to lay it alongside his cheek. “She’s everything you deserve—take care of her.” Her expression remained gentle but serious, then her lips quirked. “And take care of yourself, too.”

He smiled easily back. “Take care of yourself” had been Serena’s parting words to him since he’d been in short coats.

Patting his cheek lightly, she lowered her hand and turned to the open carriage door. He helped her up the steps, then stood back as the footman shut the door.

With a salute to Serena and Augusta, and a nod to Jeremy, who’d elected to start the journey beside the coachman, Charlie returned to the porch to stand beside Sarah and wave the three carriages off. As the last rumbled away down the drive, he realized he was aware of her softness and warmth beside him. His necessary role high in his mind, he stepped back.

She turned to him, happiness shining in her eyes. “I thought, seeing as you haven’t yet gone riding this morning, that perhaps we could ride together? I haven’t had Blacktail out in days.”

Charlie looked at her, and literally felt a good half of him leap to accept her offer, to seize the chance to relax with her, and laugh and ride and celebrate simply being together and alone, but…

He fought and succeeded in keeping his expression impassive. “I’m sorry—I have various business matters awaiting my attention.” He turned to the house, then remembered Serena’s words and looked back. “If you do go out, take a groom.”

With a vague nod in Sarah’s direction, without meeting her eyes, he continued into the house and headed for the library.

Sarah stood on the porch and watched him go, a frown replacing the happiness leaching from her eyes.

13

She told herself it wasn’t a rebuff, that he was indeed involved with all manner of business dealings. When instead of joining her for lunch in the family dining room he elected to have a plate of cold meats in the library, she reminded herself that such behavior was perfectly normal between husbands and wives in their circle.

Husbands and wives did not live in each other’s pockets. Nevertheless, she’d expected…

Inwardly frowning even more, she left the luncheon table. Feeling somewhat deflated, she retreated to her sitting room and spent the afternoon making a start on the long list of thank-you notes it fell to her to pen.

Charlie apparently made a habit of going riding around the estate immediately after breakfast. As he was also developing a habit of leaving her slumped, deliciously exhausted, in their bed in the morning, by the time she stirred and emerged for the day, he’d already broken his fast and was gone.

The next day she possessed her soul in patience, and was rewarded when, returning from his ride, he joined her at the luncheon table. He was happy to volunteer where he’d been, what he’d seen, to discuss the estate matters he’d been dealing with.

All well and good, as it should be.

She listened, learned, and responded encouragingly.

The previous evening, their first alone, had been spent companionably over the dinner table, with a short stint in the drawing room afterward. The night that had followed, once they were alone together in their bedchamber, had only confirmed, yet again, that there was patently, demonstrably, nothing what ever amiss between him and her. That he and she were as one in what they felt for each other.

Reassured, she waited until they’d risen from the luncheon table and were strolling into the corridor to suggest, “Perhaps this afternoon we could go for a drive?” It was Saturday; surely he could spare a few hours away from his investments.

Halting, she swung to face him, letting eagerness light her eyes.

His impassive mask was back in place. He met her eyes for the briefest of moments before, looking ahead, he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. There are some matters I must attend to.” He hesitated for a second, then inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment but strode away—heading for the library.

She stood and watched him go, eyes narrowing on his back, her lips slowly firming into a thin line.

She was starting to resent the very existence of his library.

By late afternoon her spurt of unaccustomed temper had cooled. A few rational hours spent in the calming ambiance of her new sitting room had suggested that perhaps this awkward attitudinal difficulty that seemed to exist between them during daylight hours was simply the outcome of his having different expectations—conventional expectations—over how they would spend their days.

Although she might wish it otherwise, in that light his behavior was understandable. If she wanted something different, then it was up to her to reshape his ideas.

Knowing his temperament, and his temper, she didn’t expect that to be easy, but, given their continued closeness in the nights—she could almost see him relax, see the aloof barrier he held between them through the day fall away when he joined her in their bedchamber—she wasn’t about to retreat from the task.

The following day was Sunday, which meant they went to church. It was odd to sit in the pew to the left of the aisle, rather than the one on the right, from which her mother, father, and Clary and Gloria smiled brightly at her.

Clary and Gloria especially; she hadn’t seen them since the wedding and had little doubt of the thoughts humming in their minds as they pretended to listen to Mr. Duncliffe’s sermon.

At the end of the ser vice, Charlie took her hand and drew her to her feet; he ushered her up the aisle in the wake of Mr. Duncliffe, ahead of all the others in the church. It was now her place to be the first to take Mr. Duncliffe’s hand.

He beamed at her. “My dear countess!” He squeezed her hand between both of his, then glanced at Charlie, by her shoulder. “What a glad day, my lord, that sees you here with your new bride.”

“Indeed.” Charlie offered his hand, rescuing her from Mr. Duncliffe’s warm clasp.

“Your mother and sister?” Mr. Duncliffe inquired.

“They’ve gone to spend some time with Lady Mary in Lincoln.”

“Excellent! Excellent!”

Before Mr. Duncliffe could embark on further queries, Charlie took Sarah’s elbow, smiled, nodded, and guided her on.

She stifled a giggle as they walked slowly down the path. “He was so pleased to have married us, he would have kept us on the step for as long as he could just to enjoy the memory.”

“Probably.”

They paused on the lawn a little way on to allow her family to catch up with them. The next few minutes passed with Charlie and her father engrossed in county matters, while she satisfied her mother’s maternal curiosity over how she was faring. The rest of the congregation streamed past, heads nodding, hats raised, smiles shy. She and her mother smiled in acknowledgment without breaking the stride of their conversation. Her older sisters, Maria and Angela, and their husbands had come only for the wedding and departed the next day, so there was news to be heard from that quarter, and she passed on good wishes from Mary and Alice, and a reminder from Serena that she would meet them all in London in a few weeks.

She did nothing to assuage Clary’s and Gloria’s curiosity, however, no matter that it glowed in their eyes.

Seeing it, too, her mother bent a stern look on them, then gathered her spouse and departed.

Clary hung back, her eyes on their mother’s back. “Can we come and visit?”

Sarah fought not to grin. “Mama will bring you when it’s appropriate.” Which wouldn’t be for at least a week or more. “After that, you can visit whenever you like.”

Clary’s lips formed an O, then she nodded and hurried to fall in behind their mother.

Charlie turned to her, brows arching.

Smiling, she slipped her hand into his arm; telling him the reason behind Clary’s and Gloria’s wish to visit her would serve no good purpose. “Perhaps,” she said as they turned toward the lych-gate beyond which their carriage waited, “we could go for a walk when we get back? I haven’t been over the gardens at the Park, not for years, and you know them better than anyone.”

She turned to look up at him—and could almost sense the wall of his aloofness growing and thickening.

His face gave nothing away. They reached the gate; he held it open for her. “It would probably be better if you asked the head gardener to show you around.”

Better for whom? Passing through the gate, she turned to stare at him.

Following her through, he didn’t meet her eyes. “I know Harris is eager to conduct you over his domain and discuss beds and bulbs and such. You’ll do better without me.”

That might be true; the gardens were ultimately her domain, her responsibility, and Harris might well feel confused by his master’s presence, yet…

“Meredith—glad I caught you.”

Sarah turned as Malcolm Sinclair opened the gate and joined them.

He smiled and bowed over her hand, greeting her elegantly and deferentially, then he turned to Charlie. They shook hands, and Sinclair said, “I’ve had some news from London. Drop by sometime and I’ll tell you about it.”

Sarah would have sworn the man intended to doff his hat and move on, but Charlie was slow to release his hand. His gaze, she noted, had sharpened on Sinclair’s face, then he glanced briefly at her, his expression as ever unreadable.

Then he looked again at Sinclair, his easy smile dawning. “Why not come to lunch? You can tell me then. I’d like to have the opportunity to sound you out about some ideas I’ve had about the prospective Bristol-Taunton connection.”

“Well…” Sinclair glanced at Sarah.

Charlie looked at her, too, and there was something in his eyes that made her feel this was some test. Summoning her own version of his easy—meaningless—smile, she turned it on Sinclair. “Indeed, Mr. Sinclair, do come. Your presence will enliven the occasion.” She returned her gaze to Charlie’s face. “We’re rather quiet at present.”

Sinclair glanced between them, but when Charlie raised an expectant brow at him, he accepted the invitation. Sarah couldn’t fault Sinclair’s manners.

Her husband’s manners were another matter entirely.

She was not pleased, but an afternoon exploring the extensive gardens with Harris, listening to him expound on the intricacies of shrubberies and arbors, trading views on the colors most appropriate for the flower beds edging the lawns, then enlisting his aid in finding a suitable location for Mr. Quilley, the gnome, had a calming effect. She regained her customary equilibrium, enough for her thoughts to fire her determination rather than her temper.

Charlie was being difficult, but she knew what she knew, knew what she wanted, and was resolved to get it—to secure love as the daily as well as nightly basis of their marriage—for both their sakes.

Over a quiet dinner and the hour they spent in the drawing room afterward, he reading a novel while she embroidered—the very picture of matrimonial domesticity—she covertly watched him, but could find no clue to his strange attitude in his perennially inscrutable face.

She had no idea why he was being difficult, why he shied so completely from letting any hint of his true regard for her show outside their bedchamber, but wisdom suggested that with simple perseverance he would eventually come around.

Consequently, after another sultry winter’s night in their chamber during which she found not one thing in his attitude with which to cavil, she forced herself out of bed at a decent hour, hurried herself through washing and donning her riding habit, then rushed downstairs—just in time to run into him, literally, as he left the breakfast parlor.

“Oh!” She bounced back.

He caught her elbows, steadied her, then released her.

She smiled up at him. “I caught you. I wanted to ask if you would ride to the orphanage with me today. Some of the boys have been asking—”

“I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his face turning to stone. “I…made plans to ride to Sinclair’s. He has some papers I need to see.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t keep her face from falling, could literally feel her happiness draining from her, along with her smile. But she quickly drew breath, tamped down her rising temper, and reminded herself: Persevere. “Well”—she forced herself to brighten—“as Mr. Sinclair’s house is just beyond Crowcombe—Finley House, didn’t he say?—then at least we can ride that far together.”