A Marriage Of Rogues. Margaret Moore

      He led her toward the tall, distinguished-looking older man at the head of the line of servants. Jackson’s expression was as stoic as usual, his manner betraying neither surprise nor curiosity. “Jackson, this is my bride. My lady, the butler.”

      “Jackson,” she repeated with a slight—very slight—inclination of her head.

      “My lady,” Jackson intoned, bowing.

      Dev pressed his lips together and continued toward the housekeeper. As always, Mrs. Wessex was impeccably neat, in a dark dress with not a single spot of lint, her ample waist encircled by a leather belt holding a large ring of keys. A pristine white cap sat atop her equally white hair.

      “Mrs. Wessex, my bride,” he announced. “My lady, this is the housekeeper.

      “My wife has no maid,” he added as Mrs. Wessex dipped a curtsy. “We shall have to hire one immediately. I’ll leave that in your capable hands, Mrs. Wessex.”

      Thea’s grip tightened on his arm and this time, it did not lead to a passionate response. It was painful.

      “I trust I am to be consulted on the selection,” she said with cool authority, a tone not likely to endear her to the servants any more than her behavior.

      This was not the time or place for criticism, however, so he merely nodded and said, “If you wish.”

      “I do.”

      Annoyed, Dev decided it would be better to postpone the rest of the introductions. “It’s been a tiring journey, so the rest of the introductions can wait until later,” he said to no one in particular.

      “Since the servants are all assembled here, I see no reason to postpone,” Thea replied. “If you’d like to rest, I’m sure Jackson and Mrs. Wessex can tell me who everyone is.”

      She made it sound as if he were old and feeble and easily fatigued. Gad, what sort of woman had he married? “Of course if you’d prefer to meet the servants now, you may. Mrs. Wessex, please do the honors, then show my wife to my lady’s bedchamber. I have business to attend to.”

      That wasn’t strictly a lie. As the owner of a large estate as well as a town house in London, he always had some business to attend to, of one kind or another.

      He strode into the house and, without bothering to remove his hat and greatcoat, continued to his study. After throwing his hat and coat onto the nearest chair, he poured himself a stiff drink from the decanter of brandy on the side table, glanced up at the portrait of his father and muttered, “Yes, Father, this time you’re right. I was too impetuous.”

      He downed the brandy in a gulp, then slumped into one of the worn wing chairs.

      He’d married with the notion that he was making amends, but that act could well prove the old adage that two wrongs don’t make a right.

      With a scowl, he rose from the chair and went to his desk. He was no helpless victim. He was Sir Develin Dundrake, baronet, heir to an estate and the toast of the ton. There was no need for him to continue this unfortunate liaison. After all, he had the best solicitor in London and he would write to Roger at once.

      * * *

      After the introductions had been completed and the servants dismissed, Thea was given a brief tour of the main floor of the house. There were two wings leading in opposite directions from the entrance hall. One wing was composed of the formal drawing room done in shades of Wedgwood blue and white, a large dining room with mahogany furniture brightly polished, a slightly less formal sitting room and the morning room, a very pretty chamber papered with depictions of songbirds. Like the room in which she’d first met her husband, this, too, opened onto the terrace. The other wing held the library, study, a large ballroom with mirrored walls and immense chandeliers, an anteroom for refreshments and the billiard’s room. Mrs. Wessex didn’t say the house was set up as if to separate the female members of the family from the male, but it certainly seemed that way. Nor did Thea give any sign that she’d been in the study before.

      Not surprisingly she was not shown the lower level, where the kitchen, pantry, buttery, servants’ hall, laundry and wine cellar were located. Nor would she be shown the topmost level, where the servants slept, no doubt with the maids on one side and the male servants on the other.

      After returning to the hall, she followed Mrs. Wessex up the ornately carved staircase to the family and guest bedrooms and dressing rooms.

      “The guest rooms are to the left,” Mrs. Wessex explained, nodding at the wing over the masculine side of the house.

      She gestured at the first door in the right corridor, on the side that would overlook the garden. “This is the master’s bedroom, with his dressing room just beyond.” She continued to the third door. “And this is your room. I do wish we’d had more notice about the wedding. All Sir Develin said before he left the other day was ‘Make up my mother’s room. It will be needed when I return.’ Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. This room hasn’t been used in years.”

      Thea smiled in response, trying to make up for the way she’d acted when she first got out of the barouche. She was unfortunately sure she had made a terrible first impression. She had been too tense, too anxious, too stiff and unyielding. But she’d also been too aware of the strange nature of their marriage as well as her lack of beauty and fine clothes to be more herself.

      Develin’s attitude hadn’t been helpful, either. He’d been cold and formal, then deserted her.

      Yet she couldn’t lay the blame for her unfortunate first impression at his door. It was her fault, so it was up to her to try to undo any damage her manner had caused.

      “It must be even more shocking that he came home with a wife,” she offered, speaking in her usual tone.

      The housekeeper blushed. “Unexpected, to be sure, but he’s always been an impulsive fellow. His father used to chide him for his heedless ways.”

      Thea remembered the portrait of that stern man in the study and wondered what it would have been like to be chided by him—surely far from pleasant.

      “I can be rather impulsive, too,” she said, “although I more often take time to consider.”

      “Do you, now?” Mrs. Wessex murmured as she opened the door to the lady’s bedroom and moved back to let Thea enter first.

      She stepped into the bedroom of her dreams.

      Tall windows provided ample light and a canopied bed dressed with light green silk coverlet stood against one wall papered with twining leaves. Across from the bed was a fireplace with a marble front, carved with vines and plump little cherubs. A looking glass rested in one corner, and a delicate dressing table boasting another mirror was against the other wall. Silver candleholders rested on the two bedside tables.

      “Oh, it’s lovely!” she cried, clasping her hands as if offering a prayer of thanks, which wasn’t far from the truth.

      “I’ll leave you to rest, my lady, and I’ll send Ella to help you dress for dinner,” Mrs. Wessex said.

      “I can manage for myself,” Thea said, wanting more than anything to be alone. So much had happened today and in the few days before that...and then she saw the furrowed brow of the housekeeper. “Until Ella arrives,” she hastily added.

      Mrs. Wessex gave her a very small smile, nodded and left her.

      Alone at last, Thea wandered around the lovely chamber. This was also what she’d dreamed of when she decided to ask Develin Dundrake to marry her—a beautiful home, evidence of a new and prosperous future. She need no longer dread that she would be all alone in the world, poor, cold and starving, with no home and no family, no husband, no children.

      But what of love, Thea? a little voice inside her queried. Don’t you want to be loved?

      Surely love would come, too, if not from her husband, at least from her children.

      * * *