While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (39 page)

“Do you like it?” Ethan asked.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, enchanted.

She saw him smile and could have sworn a look of relief flickered across his face.

The coach slowed, and Francesca turned frantically to Ethan. “Quickly! I’ve forgotten the name of your steward. Remind me!”

“Francesca.” He didn’t even try to disguise the note of irritation.

“Oh, Mr. Brown!” She nodded vigorously to herself.

Brown was the steward and the housekeeper was Mrs. Carbury. Pocket was Ethan’s valet, of course, and the butler was—oh Lord!—now she couldn’t remember the name of the butler.

She clutched Ethan’s hand. “I’ve forgotten the name of your butler. Help me!”

His warm fingers closed around hers and, with mounting panic, she felt the coach pull to a stop. He leaned forward trapping her against the back of her seat.

“Take a deep breath.”

She nodded and gulped air, a fish thrust from the sanctuary of the water and plunged onto the treacherous shore.

“Everything will be fine.” His eyes stayed focused on hers, his expression calm and confident.

She nodded again, her lungs expanding like gills. The wave of dizziness began to pass, and Ethan sat back. She took another deep breath, just beginning to feel that she might not drown after all, then made the mistake of glancing from the coach’s windows.

What appeared to be the entire staff was lined up on the front steps of the house, and the sheer size of their numbers rivaled that of the house itself.

She was doomed. She would never, never remember all of their names.

But she did, floating through the introductions in a haze of wonder and apprehension. After each member of the staff had been presented to her, the butler, Grendell—in the end she had no trouble recalling his name because he looked as fearsome as she imagined the beast from the old Anglo-Saxon legend had—opened the door of the house for them. Francesca was immediately swept away on a tour led by the indomitable housekeeper Mrs. Carbury.

As Ethan had promised, the woman was a walking textbook. With only the smallest encouragement, Mrs. Carbury proceeded to point out the various rooms of the house as they passed them and to give Francesca the history of those she had missed. She learned all she wanted and more about the dining room, library, billiard room, China room, music room, watercolor room—even with Ethan’s tutoring, Francesca could not keep them all straight.

After the first half-dozen rooms, Francesca didn’t need to. They were all the same—cold and formal, beautiful but almost completely devoid of all warmth. She dutifully followed Mrs. Carbury from room to room, and in each she was reminded how different this place was from her own home at Tanglewilde.

As far back as she could remember, Tanglewilde had been filled with the sound of her father’s bellow and her mother’s prattling. John and Lucia were forever scampering from room to room, laughing and teasing one another. She couldn’t imagine anyone scampering or teasing at Winterbourne Hall. Lord, she was almost afraid to breathe.

She knew Ethan hadn’t grown up here. He’d been raised in London after his mother had married the late Earl of Selbourne. From all accounts, that marriage had been a disaster, and Francesca wondered if the lack of warmth in Ethan’s home stemmed at all from the coldness of the union between his mother and stepfather.

But the house was beautiful, Francesca thought, as Mrs. Carbury showed her the delicately carved pianoforte in the music room. It was not without potential. This was to be her house now, as well as Ethan’s. Together they would bring warmth and light to its barren halls. They’d infuse it with life and love. And they’d be happy here.

Finally Mrs. Carbury paused before a door on the first floor and opened it. She waved Francesca into the prettiest room she had ever seen in her life. The chamber was done all in white—white carpets, white bedclothes, and billowing vanilla silk drapes. The blond wood furnishings were so pale they looked almost ivory, and there was a large, pure white marble fireplace along one wall. Accenting the white decor were sashes and flounces and ribbons of emerald green and gold. Mrs. Carbury motioned for Francesca to enter the room, and she floated inside, going first to the tent bed and running the soft, satiny green- and gold-tasseled sashes through her fingers. The dark color of the green reminded her of Tanglewilde.

“I hope it meets with you approval, my lady.” Mrs. Carbury glanced at the chambermaids silently unpacking Francesca’s trunks. Francesca realized that at some point all of her things had been unloaded from the second coach.

“Oh, it’s absolutely perfect, Mrs. Carbury. Perfect.” As much as she loved her mother, she knew now she would never miss the frilly pink of her bedroom at Tanglewilde.

“I am relieved to hear you say that, my lady. We had so very little time to effect the changes Lord Winterbourne ordered in his letter announcing your arrival.”

“Changes?” Francesca gave the housekeeper a puzzled frown.

“Yes, your ladyship. This room was Lady Winterbourne’s. Oh, I suppose I should call her Lady Selbourne as she remarried, but she spent the last years of her life here, and I have always thought of her as a Winterbourne.”

“She was Lord Winterbourne’s mother.”

“Yes, my lady. A wonderful woman, though I’m afraid that in the last years of her life she was much given to melancholy and sadness.”

No doubt as a result of her husband’s philandering, Francesca thought. Her marriage would be different. It would be happy and filled with joy. Three days in the coach had already brought her and Ethan closer together.

She watched Mrs. Carbury survey the room, a plaintive look on the woman’s lined face. Francesca wondered if the older woman was imagining the room as it had been. Then the lines around the housekeeper’s face brightened, and she smiled again.

“Of course we could not put such a pretty young girl as you in that dark room. Lord Winterbourne ordered it done in white and emerald green, and now that I meet you, I think it was the perfect choice.”

Francesca smiled with genuine warmth. “I do too.” But a small part of her wondered at Ethan’s choices. It was almost a fairy-tale room, and she felt like a storybook princess standing inside it. But she was not a princess. She was a real woman, and she wanted Ethan to see her as such.

Pushing her silly worries away, her gaze swept the room again, and she was more moved than she would ever admit by Ethan’s thoughtfulness. She didn’t know how she would ever thank him, but she blushed at the few ideas that came to mind. Her eyes lighted on a door artfully concealed in the paneling on the chamber’s far side, and she felt her cheeks heat further.

Mrs. Carbury, no doubt trained from a young age to anticipate the wishes and desires of her employer, offered, “That door adjoins to Lord Winterbourne’s room, my lady.”

“Of course,” Francesca squeaked, certain that her face resembled a big red tomato. Finally, she managed, “Thank you for all your assistance, Mrs. Carbury. You have made me feel very welcome.”

Mrs. Carbury puffed herself up in the manner Francesca was beginning to associate with pleasure. “We’ll leave you alone now, my lady. Please call on me if you need anything further.”

“I will.”

Mrs. Carbury and the maids trooped silently out of the room, leaving Francesca to contemplate the door between Ethan’s room and her own. She didn’t know why the sight of that door should so unnerve her, except that it reminded her of her new status as wife. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed being a wife thus far, but, as she gazed at the door in the paneling, she knew she wanted more from Ethan than a romp in his carriage or free access to his bedroom.

She wanted his trust, his devotion, and, most of all, his heart. And no one—not the very capable Mrs. Carbury or even a battalion of dedicated servants—could help her with that.

I
t was as if she’d always been there, Ethan decided one night after dinner, which he and Francesca had taken in his library as had become their habit. In the two and a half weeks she’d been at Winterbourne Hall, she’d become such a part of the house, insinuated herself so well into the inner workings of its each and every aspect, that he was beginning to have difficulty remembering what it was like before she’d been there.

Cold
and
lonely
were two words that came most readily to mind as he gazed at her now. She was curled in her regular spot—a crimson-and-gold armchair—and her hand was wrapped around her cup of tea. Her eyes were on the fire and her mind was probably a thousand miles away.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly, unable to resist.

She glanced up at him, and he took his seat in the matching armchair beside her, glass of wine in hand. She gave him a sheepish smile that intrigued him. She seemed quiet and pensive tonight, whereas her custom was to greet him at the end of the day full to bursting with all that she’d seen and done. Lately he’d found himself watching the clock on his mantel as evening neared, waiting for the sound of her tentative knock. She always waited for him to ask her to enter—though he’d told her half a dozen times that she needn’t even knock—then poked her head around the doorframe to ask if he was busy.

He never was, having made sure to complete his work and send his steward away well in advance of her predictable arrival. But he would set down the papers he was pretending to peruse anyway, and tell her no, he was never too busy for her. Each evening, from her first night at Winterbourne Hall to the present, had begun in this same fashion.

After dinner they’d talk more, play at cards, or read. Sometimes Ethan would look over more accounts, but he never became so absorbed that he wasn’t aware of Francesca. He was achingly aware of her—the book she perused, the sigh that escaped her dusky lips, the way the tips of her fingers rested on her teacup as she traced the rim absently. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he’d go to her—or when her resolve reached its limit, she’d come to him—and they would make love. Sometimes they managed to hold off until they reached her bedchamber, but at times the rug in front of the fireplace served as their temporary bed. Then he’d carry her to her white bower, tuck her under her ivory sheets, and they’d begin all over again, savoring each other well into the early morning hours. The next morning they’d wake, still tangled in each other, and the day would begin again.

His life, as far as Ethan was concerned, was perfect. Francesca was beside him, safe and protected. She loved him and, though he hadn’t yet told her, he was growing to love her more each day. Growing to trust her more. Ethan was beginning to believe that this happiness could last, that he might have found the one woman who would not betray him.

He took a sip of his wine and wondered at the enigmatic expression now on her face.

“I was thinking about Mary,” Francesca said. She set her teacup on the tray Grendell had left on the table between them. As a matter of habit, Ethan glanced at it, noting it was still half-full of sweet, milky tea. He insisted on pouring her tea and doctoring it as he knew she liked it. She rarely took a second cup, but he was prepared to be of service if she were so inclined tonight.

“Mary?” It wasn’t an idle question. He knew half a dozen Marys.

“Mary the still-room maid,” she clarified. “I was thinking that when my hospital is built I might train her to help me care for the animals.” She looked quickly into his face. “If that’s acceptable to you, that is. I know it will take her away from her duties in the still room.”

Ethan took another sip of wine. “It’s your hospital,
cara
. You don’t need to ask my permission for anything you do there.”

She beamed at him. As usual, her smile warmed him through, made him want to take her into his arms and sink down into the plush Turkish rug and her lush body right then and there.

“Mr. Brown says construction on the building can begin next week, if the weather holds.” He heard the familiar eagerness in her tone. “And Mr. Johnson and I discussed the best flowers and shrubs to plant outside when spring comes.” She frowned. “I do like Mr. Johnson’s ideas, but Pocket disagrees with a few of his selections. I think I’ll write to Mr. Rogers at Tanglewilde ask his opinion.”

“Pocket disagrees with my gardener?” Ethan asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

She nodded. “Mr. Johnson suggested planting daffodils, but Pocket says they are far too mundane. He recommends primroses.”

He tried not to smile at the serious look on her face. “I see.”

Perhaps the strangest turn of events since Francesca’s arrival had been the bond she’d forged with his valet. As he’d anticipated, she had won his staff over in a matter of hours, the really stodgy servants capitulating after a day, but his valet, it seemed, had become Francesca’s constant companion.

Apparently, her efforts at persuading Mrs. Priggers to be more generous with her cleaning supplies at Tanglewilde had gone a long way in raising Francesca in Pocket’s esteem. The valet had become Francesca’s most devoted follower and, though Ethan still found it slightly jarring when he saw the stiff-necked valet bending to speak to his free-spirited wife, he had to admit that he liked the arrangement.

When they’d arrived at Winterbourne Hall, Ethan immediately began to consider who to assign to protect Francesca when he was not with her. Ostensibly, she was safe here in Yorkshire, but Ethan wasn’t taking any chances. He couldn’t be with her all the time, which made Pocket’s attachment to Francesca convenient. He had not relished the task of explaining a bodyguard. She seemed so happy at Winterbourne Hall now, and he didn’t want to frighten or alarm her.

And there was probably no need for him to do so. She’d been at Winterbourne Hall for two and a half weeks, and nothing had happened. He’d quietly instructed his staff to watch for anything unusual, any unexpected visitors or arrivals in the nearby town, but nothing had been reported. He had no reason to believe anything other than that she was safe.

He was cautious by nature, which was one reason he felt uneasy having accepted an invitation to Lord and Lady Nitterling’s ball two nights hence. He didn’t want to expose her to any dangers by having her appear in public and, up until this point, he’d declined every other invitation they’d received from the local gentry. Indeed, he could have continued to do so for probably another month as newly married couples were expected to go into seclusion for a time, but Ethan knew he was only putting off the inevitable.