Margaret Moore - A Marriage Of Rogues

He shrugged a shoulder. “They’re used to my impulsive decisions.”

“That is not quite the same as bringing home a wife they know nothing about.”

“I’m sure they’ll manage.” His brow furrowed. “You did say you knew how to run a household.”

Although there were some things her husband should never know, it was probably better to be honest about this. “Yes. I’ve just never actually done it before.”

* * *

She’d never run a household?

He really shouldn’t be surprised, Dev supposed. After all, there was much he didn’t know about her and little that he did. And of course, if her family had their income drastically reduced in recent years, she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn the intricacies of running a manor.

Yet she seemed so supremely competent, he still found her admission unexpected.

He also began to wonder what else the woman who was now fully, completely his wife had been less than forthcoming about. What other things might he learn that would make him even sorrier he’d agreed to her proposal and made love with her last night?

He should have ignored her shining, longing eyes, the temptation of her body, the sultry sound of her husky voice and stayed away. He should have used his head.

One of the liveried footmen stepped forward to open the door. Dev disembarked and took a better survey of the gathered servants. No doubt they all wanted to see the new Lady Dundrake, who was still wearing that horrible pelisse and bonnet. Gad, even the scullery maid was there.

He shouldn’t have been in such haste to leave Gretna Green. He should have insisted she get new clothes made before they returned—another mistake it was too late to correct. All he could do now was pretend not to notice.

He slid a glance at Thea and caught her furtively straightening her bonnet and adjusting the collar of her pelisse. Perhaps she wasn’t as completely impervious to the call of vanity as she had seemed and seeing the servants arranged like soldiers on parade might be intimidating even to a woman not easily intimidated.

A memory suddenly arose, strong and vivid, of the day he’d been waiting outside the vicarage while his father criticized the rector’s last sermon. Some of the boys from the village had been taking turns jumping over a mud puddle. When he’d wandered closer, the oldest studied him a moment, then shrugged and let him join the game.

He’d slipped and fallen headlong into the puddle. When his father had seen him, dripping and muddy, the knee of his trousers torn, he flew flown into a temper, charging him with acting like a little ruffian and looking like one, too. He’d made Dev wear those torn, muddy clothes for a week.

He had thought he’d never forget that humiliation, but he had, until today.

He opened his mouth to say something encouraging. Before he could, though, Thea’s expression altered. It was like seeing her transform from vulnerable young bride to impervious Amazon.

Obviously his wife didn’t need any reassurance from him, he thought as he got out of the barouche and reached up to help her from the carriage.

Thea disembarked with the poise and expression of a visiting empress, and as if she were attired in the finest Paris fashion.

The pride he could understand, but her haughty demeanor was unexpected and unnerving, and not the way to impress the servants.

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.