A Hasty Betrothal (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

O
ne must never underestimate a mother's penchant for meddling.

Elizabeth barely suppressed her sigh as she reached for the next book in the pile she'd created in Grandmother's library. The dowager duchess would not be pleased with the mess, but Elizabeth could not summon the energy to care.

She had just shelved a tome about India when Grandmother sailed into the room.

“There you are.” There was no mistaking the miff in Grandmother's voice. She pressed her quizzing glass against her eyes and scowled. “Hiding in the library. I should have known. And with this riffraff.” She gave the books a disapproving grimace as she waved her quizzing glass toward Elizabeth. “How long do you plan to mope about the estate? Don't think I haven't seen you avoiding me. It's been five weeks since you married, and you're still here organizing. You are dillydallying with these novels as though your entire future did not depend upon your ability to produce an heir. I utterly despair of you.”

That last sentence was Grandmother's equivalent of a dagger aimed at Elizabeth's conscience. Meant to intimidate more than wound, perhaps, but there was still no sense in paying Grandmother any heed when the letter she'd received this morning begged her attention. Her mother was on her way to Windermar.

She barely suppressed a shudder. She'd much prefer the wilds of India to having a conversation with her mother. India was a steaming continent, certainly. Unknown and wild. Filled with dark-eyed men and women, turbans and cobras. Elizabeth searched her memory for any books she'd stumbled across regarding that mysterious country. Foreign scents, scandalous clothing and wide varieties of colors...

“...mind wandering, as usual.” Grandmother's querulous tones interrupted her daydream.

Sighing, she set the book to the side, scooped up her mother's letter and opened it. She scanned the contents, but they had not changed. She was worried. She wanted Elizabeth to come to London with her for the rest of the Season.

Elizabeth could think of nothing more terrible than to run into her husband there.

“Elizabeth, do pay attention.”

“I'm sorry, Grandmother, I truly am, but my mind is occupied.”

“Fiddle-faddle, I'll not have it.” Grandmother plied the letter from Elizabeth's fingers, forcing her to the present.

She focused on her grandmother, a petite woman who resembled a fearsome dragon. It was Grandmother's personality, Elizabeth feared, that had forever ruined her grandmother's ability to be content.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Please, give me that.”

“This piece of paper takes precedence over my opinion?” Grandmother's jowls, well-powdered and soft, shook with emotion. “I hosted your betrothal ball, allowed your wedding to take place here and now you've decided to live here without your husband? I won't have it, Elizabeth. Look how I am repaid? A disastrous library. A timid bookworm of a granddaughter and no elderberries for tarts. Bah!” She shoved the letter toward Elizabeth, who took it quickly.

Clutching it to her bodice, she frowned. “But I clearly wrote
elderberries
on my list before I went into town.”

“And yet they are nowhere to be found.” Grandmother's quizzing glass swept the room.

“Do sit down, Grandmother. I shall remedy this at once.”

The elderly lady sank into the plush couch reserved for afternoon reading and put a hand on her forehead. The quizzing glass lay forgotten against her voluminous skirts. “My constitution cannot take this upset. A dowager duchess has ever so many responsibilities, and I merely wanted a respite from them all. A spot of sugar to calm my nerves.”

“Do not fret.” Skirting the mess on the floor, Elizabeth headed toward the door.

“Stop.” Sternness punctuated the duchess's tone and brooked no argument.

Drawing a deep breath, Elizabeth prepared herself for a dressing down. The look on Grandmother's face was not unkind, however. Her keen eyes studied Elizabeth.

“You deserve a proper marriage. You should be with your husband.”

“Miles does not want me.” Elizabeth controlled her flinch, the knowledge penetrating the defenses she'd so carefully erected. “It was a marriage in name only. I do not care to ever see him again.”

“Because you love him.”

She kept her voice steady. “How I feel for him has no bearing on anything.”

“Nonsense. It changes everything.” Grandmother sighed long and loud.

Elizabeth shifted in the doorway, waiting for permission to leave. She'd instruct a servant to find the tarts and she would retire to her room. It had been such a long five weeks. The mill was almost up and running. She'd visited frequently in the past weeks, reading to the children in the sun. Once she resumed their regular teaching, she'd feel better.

She simply must.

“You are frowning, my dear.”

“Fatigue.” Watching Miles ride away the morning after their wedding had felt like a dagger slicing her heart wide open. Even though she'd said her grandmother needed her, she'd hoped he would refuse to leave without her. But no, he had looked relieved. He had left speedily.

After that day, she spent hours in her bedroom here at Windermar, wanting to cry yet unable to produce a single relieving tear. Sleep eluded her.

“Fatigue? Is that the most you have to say for yourself?” Grandmother straightened into a sitting position, eyes narrowed. “I never would have thought you one to succumb to such a thing. Bah.” She sniffed in disdain. “That young man of yours deserves a strong woman, a lady in the truest sense, not a ninny hiding in a library.”

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. “Grandmother!”

“Do not
Grandmother
me,” she said crossly. “We are made of sterner stuff, young lady. Do you want Miles? Do you love him? Are you willing to fight for your love? Surely the story of your life is infinitely more important than these dusty pieces of leather and paper.”

The story of her life?

And it was as though light sprang forth in her mind, clearing her thoughts, bringing clarity. She was no heroine.

Secluding herself away, licking her wounds, so to speak.

Wilting, she sank into a large chair positioned to the side of the doorway. “You're right. I am not who I want to be.”

Grandmother harrumphed. “I do not wish to tittle-tattle, but you should know something of your new husband.” And then she told Elizabeth about Anastasia, a diamond of the first water who practically disappeared from society the last year of her life.

Elizabeth learned that Miles had exhausted himself trying to make his wife better. He had hired endless rounds of physicians, traveled to Bath to breathe in the fresh air and bathe in the healing waters. In the end, Anastasia was said to have died from a weakness of the lungs, but some whispered that she'd ended her own life.

“Oh, Miles,” Elizabeth breathed. The story of his first wife's plight brought about an empathy for her childhood friend. Perhaps Miles felt the pressure of being his wife was too great for her? After all, why else would he have insisted on those “tasks” she had performed?

His reticence to marry made more sense. How his heart must have broken. Though her chest ached knowing he was disgusted at having to kiss her, she ignored the feeling.

She must persevere and live her life. Not continue hiding. Which meant being his wife and making a home. Regardless of whether they ever kissed again. He might not love her in the same way that she loved him, but that did not matter. All that mattered is that she lived. Well and truly lived. And she would show him that his heart would be safe with her.

She pushed up from the chair, the movement making her head light. Or perhaps it was the sudden optimism filling her soul. “Will you give Mother my regrets that I missed her?”

Grandmother eyed her. “And where are you going?”

Elizabeth could not keep the grin from her face. “To London, for my story has just begun.”

* * *

“The files you requested, sir.” Powell placed a stack of papers on the desk.

“Thank you,” Miles murmured. He studied the contract at hand, a request for funds to order new machines. After four weeks of continuous construction, the factory was almost finished. He needed only to stock the thing and then processing could resume. Finally.

Powell did not leave.

Miles looked up. “Is there something else?”

His valet shifted on his feet, wearing the annoying smile he'd worn ever since he'd begun courting Elizabeth's lady's maid. “Sir, might I ask a personal question?”

Miles bristled. “If this is about Mrs. Hawthorne, then no.” As Powell blanched, Miles gave him a hard look. “You may go.”

Not everyone could be as happy as Powell and Jenna. Though they'd been apart for a lengthy amount of time, no thanks to their employers, Miles had not missed the flurry of letters coming and going between Windermar and London.

He slammed his quill down too hard and broke the tip. Ink leaked out in a messy puddle. Clenching his jaw, he dropped the thing and yelled for Powell to return.

Mrs. Hawthorne.

Suppressing a growl, Miles paced the room, barely registering when Powell came in or who cleaned up the mess. Where was Elizabeth? At her grandmother's, he supposed.

Their wedding day had been a disaster. He'd seen the whiteness of her face after he didn't kiss her. He'd known she wanted more from him. But he couldn't give more. It wasn't in him.

He'd saved her from ruination and, in turn, she'd kept him a wealthy gentleman. That fair trade should have sufficed.

Instead the remainder of the wedding day she hardly spoke to him. Because of the situation with the factory, it had been agreed they'd postpone the honeymoon. A marriage of convenience did not need such a thing, after all. In a few weeks, no one would even remember that they had not taken one. It would be presumed that they were happily married.

The next morning when it was time to return to London, reality set in. Elizabeth refused to leave her grandmother's house. She said the dowager duchess needed her, and Miles promptly agreed. He hadn't spoken to her since.

If that was her idea of housewifery, and perhaps it was what she'd planned all along, then good riddance to her. He had poured himself into work, procuring a new steward and righting the books.

A bleakness followed him about. Emptiness. He prayed and read his Bible, which helped, but something still wasn't right. He had altered things, he supposed, by not kissing Bitt.

For the best, he told himself, going back to his desk. The room was his alone again. He scratched out numbers, signatures, losing himself in his work. Until somewhere in the house, a door shut. And then voices echoed in the hall.

He looked up.

Bitt entered his office with a flourish, tossing a huge satchel to the floor. It made a thud like thunder. Or perhaps it was only his heart, stuttering to a halt at her presence.

She wore her anger well. Two spots of pink rouged her cheeks and her eyes flashed at him as she came nearer. Or should he say strode, for she practically flew to his desk. No small feat for a woman of her stature.

She slapped her palms upon the myriad of papers. “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Hawthorne?”

Glints of reddish gold highlighted her hair, which she had put up in a messy bun atop her head. Her bonnet hung from her arm. Had she been in the sun? His eyes narrowed.

“Regarding?” he asked.

“Oh, are you to be that way with me, then?” She straightened, folding her arms across her bosom and fixing him with a glare she'd certainly learned from her grandmother.

“I'm working, Elizabeth. If there is something you wish to speak to me of, then say so.” Though he delivered the words in a calm manner, his palms had suddenly turned to sweat and his throat tightened. With a start, he understood that he had missed her.

The realization stiffened his shoulders.

“I hired Grandmother a companion who excels in conversation and who is a poor relation to Prinny. She shall be taken care of and quite entertained. I am here for the rest of the Season. I shall accompany you when you visit Littleshire. In the meantime, I wish for you to show me our home.”

Miles did not know if he had been struck mute or if his tongue simply stopped working. His Bitt, library mouse, had just barged into his home as if she owned it.

“In the meantime,” she continued in a tone a little too priggish for his liking, “I've seen that you are putting my fortune to good use. I have been out to the mill and noticed that you repaired the cottages, as well.”

“You've been busy,” he finally managed. That explained the highlights in her hair. Which, he conceded, were rather attractive. Like burnt gold.

“Did you expect me to wither away in the country simply because you could not bring yourself to kiss me? I'm made of sterner stuff, Miles, though perhaps I just realized so.”

Miles frowned. He wasn't sure he liked this Bitt. Aggressive and demanding and yet...she was not withering away, as she pointed out. The fire in her words warmed his temper.

“What has crawled up your corset, my dear?”

Her brows rose. “Wouldn't you like to know? But you shan't, for it is obvious that you are far too busy signing papers to be bothered with the likes of a wife. I shall leave you alone while I explore the household. Alone. If you have need of me, simply send word. Oh, and be ready to leave at eight o'clock this evening. I've accepted a dinner invitation.”

“Now, that's nonsense.” Miles stood quickly. “I am too busy for social niceties.”

She waved a hand. “Don't wrinkle the starch out of your spine, husband. It is an event we shall both enjoy. A soiree at Lady Compton's. She is a great student of astronomy, if you remember. I am here to do my duties as your wife, Miles. We shall retire to the country soon enough, I suppose.” She bent over and hefted up that ridiculous bag she'd dropped on the floor earlier. “In the meantime, do not think to evade our societal duties.”