Regency Christmas Courtship. Louise Allen

Weybourn appeared to have no reservations about appearing unfashionably in love.

      Grant reached out and pulled the plug out, then, when the bath emptied, he put it back and turned on the cold-water tap. He made himself lie still until it reached his shoulders. It had dawned on him when he reached London that he was a married man again. Which meant that he should be faithful to his wife. It was not something that had entered his head when he made that rash proposal, and sex had not been exactly at the forefront of his mind for at least a month before that, what with the anxiety about his grandfather and then so much travelling, culminating in his accident in Edinburgh.

      Now he lay in the cold water and made himself calculate. This was May. It had been mid-November when he had ended that pleasant little dalliance with the Bulgarian attaché’s wife in Vienna. Nearly six months. Despite the chill of the bath, blood was definitely heading downwards with the realisation of such prolonged celibacy. Damnation. He could hardly sling a towel round his hips and stride off to his wife’s bedchamber to deal with the matter. That was not the way to approach one’s first night in the marriage bed. And what were Kate’s expectations of that marriage bed anyway?

      Grant climbed from the bath and stood in front of the fire while he towelled himself dry. The logical way to discover her feelings and views on any subject was simply to ask her. On the other hand, he hardly knew the woman. Wife or not, he could not just sit down and have a frank and open discussion about sex. She would be shocked.

      He had been away a devil of a long time and he had a guilty conscience about that, he realised as he towelled his back. He could expect to receive, at the very least, some wifely remonstrance on the subject before he was forgiven. Yet when they had met in front of the mausoleum Kate had simply not acknowledged that there had been anything wrong, so he could neither justify himself nor be forgiven. Maddening. The question was, did she realise how awkward that was and was she administering a particularly subtle punishment? Or did she care too little to be annoyed with him? Probably the latter.

      The faint sound of splashing stopped him, the towel still stretched across his shoulder blades. Of course, when the suites had been changed around, the two new bathing rooms had been carved out of a small, little-used retiring room and the walls must be simply lath and plaster. He padded across and applied his ear to the panelling. Definite splashing and the sound of Kate’s voice.

      Grant stepped back with a grimace. The next thing, he would be peering through the keyhole at his own wife. The sounds were certainly exercising his imagination in a thoroughly arousing way, as though his body needed any more encouragement. He gave his back one sharp slap with the towel and went out to the dressing room, where Griffin, his smart new London valet, was laying out his smart new London clothes. If nothing else, his wife would not be confronted by the travel-worn, battered, weary, grief-stricken man she had married. He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he lowered his chin the half-inch to perfect the set of the waterfall knot in his neckcloth, nodded his thanks to Griffin and headed for the drawing room and the start of his new marriage.

      Kate paused at the head of the stairs for one last calming breath, twitched her black silk skirts into order and descended the staircase in a manner befitting a countess. She had waited nearly four and a half months for this evening and the unexpected encounter with Grant that morning had done nothing to make this any easier. The exhausted, kind, patient stranger she had married was now an alert, attractive, impatient, secretive stranger. Nothing had changed for him, it seemed, except for the fact that he’d had nearly four and a half months’ worth of town bronze, the status of an earl and an endless amount of time to regret marrying her. She had her looks back, her confidence as the mistress of a large country house and an inconvenient attack of physical attraction for the aforesaid stranger.

      I want a proper marriage, not simply make-believe for the rest of our lives. But what does he want? She smiled at Giles as the footman opened the door for her and then checked on the threshold as Grant turned from the contemplation of a landscape painting she had placed over the hearth, a replacement for one of the old earl’s more bloodthirsty hunting scenes.

      ‘A definite improvement.’

      For a moment she thought he meant her appearance, then he gestured to the painting. At least he is smiling. ‘I am glad you think so.’ Kate went to her usual armchair by the fireplace. The distance across the room had never felt so long, nor her limbs so clumsy. Grant moved as though he would intercept her, touch her, but she sat down before he could reach her side. With a feeling of relief that she recognised as sheer nerves she picked up her embroidery frame from the basket beside the chair. She wanted this man, but she had no idea how to cope with him.

      ‘Naturally, I would not remove any portraits, but I found that sitting here every evening under the glazed eyes of a slaughtered stag was somewhat dampening to the spirits,’ she said as she found the needle, then dropped her thimble.

      Grant stooped to retrieve it and handed it to her. He moved back, but remained opposite her, one elbow on the end of the mantelpiece. In any other man she would have supposed the pose was intended to draw attention to his clothes or his figure, and it certainly did that, but Grant’s attention seemed to be all on her.

      ‘That is a charming gown. Have you been sending to London for the latest fashions?’

      She had been pleased with it, although a trifle nervous of the low neckline, which the dressmaker assured her was high by London standards. ‘No, merely for the latest fashionable journals. I have discovered a most accomplished dressmaker in Newcastle and an excellent fabrics warehouse.’

      ‘In that case you might wish to accompany me into the city next week and choose something for half mourning. I imagine you are weary of unrelieved black and grey and the six months isn’t too far away. I hardly feel the need to apply the strictest rules, do you?’

      ‘We are mourning your grandfather, it is for you to decide, but I must confess that some colour would be welcome.’ It would be a delight, to be truthful, even if it was only shades of lavender and lilac. She placed a careful row of French knots. ‘Were your friends very surprised at the news of your marriage?’

      Grant’s eyebrows rose at the abrupt change of subject and it seemed to Kate that in moving to take the chair opposite her he was taking the time to compose his reply with care. ‘My three closest friends know something of the truth.’ He shrugged. ‘I could hardly deceive them that our relationship was of long-standing, they know my movements too well. But I would trust them with my life and you may rely on their absolute discretion. As far as acquaintances in town are concerned, I confided in a few incorrigible gossips that Grandfather had not approved of the match, hence a secret Scottish wedding and no announcement. They were titillated enough by the disapproval not to question the date and one or two were obviously on the verge of remarking that it was convenient that his death precluded an uncomfortable confession to him following the birth of our child.’

      ‘How…distasteful.’

      ‘Society can be like that, I find. The prospect of gossip and scandal sharpens even the most respectable tongue.’ He shrugged. ‘But it plays into our hands. They’ll spread the tale and provided no one has the effrontery to demand to know the date of the wedding it will soon become of no matter, and even if some conclude that we anticipated the wedding, no one will hold that against you. It will soon be old history.’

      ‘They won’t hold it against me because too many of them have done the same, no doubt.’ His lips twitched at the tartness of her tone. ‘Did you tell people who I am?’ she asked, trying not to sound as worried as she was. ‘And what is supposed to be the reason for your grandfather’s disapproval?’

      ‘I mentioned that you were from a respectable minor gentry family in Suffolk.’ She managed not to let out a long sigh of relief. ‘The fact that your father was merely a country squire without connections or an established place in society was sufficient explanation for Grandfather to oppose the match. The old man was a product of his generation—nothing less than the daughter of an earl, and one bringing a substantial dowry and influence