To Tame A Countess (Properly Spanked Book 2) (13 page)

She looked about for her mourning wear. “Those are pretty, but where are
my
gowns?”

“These are your gowns, silly. I sent your black ones into town and had the seamstress do up these new ones based on the measurements. Of course, you shall have more once we get to London, in all sorts of colors, but these will do for a start.”

“But…where are they? My black gowns?”

His lips tightened a little. “I don’t know. I told her to give them to the poor house when she was finished. You don’t need them any longer.”

She stared at him. “I’m in mourning.”

“For whom? For your parents? They died over a year ago, and anyway, you said you hated them.”

“I want my black gowns back.”

She felt curiously close to tears. It seemed a betrayal, for him to take them away without even asking first. They were the mourning gowns the Baxters had so kindly provided when she first arrived from India, the first proper English gowns she’d had. Perhaps they had grown a bit worn, but they suited her and allowed her to avoid such horrible things as grand entertainments.

“It was very wrong of you to give away my clothes,” she said. She couldn’t bear to look at the ones he’d gotten her. “You didn’t even give me a choice.”

“Because you don’t have a choice.” He sounded as irritated as she. “A countess cannot alternate three plain black gowns interminably, and avoid becoming the subject of gossip.”

“I was in mourning!”

“You weren’t in mourning, Josephine. You were in hiding, and you can’t hide anymore. The gray and lavender might be considered half-mourning, if you must cling to this nonsense.”

Nonsense
, he said. It wasn’t nonsense, and the gray and lavender looked nothing like mourning gowns, with their fine trims and ruffles and lace. She
needed
to hide, or else she’d be studied and scrutinized as she was in India for so many years. She stared at the loathsome, beautiful things until tears blurred her vision.

“I thought you would be happy,” he said in a hurt voice. “I thought the dressmaker did very well in the colors, for your eyes and your hair. You’re going to wear these gowns, Josephine.”

He said it in the same way he had said
poor behavior has consequences
that day in the woods. She put her face in her hands and tried to master her feelings, but the tears overflowed anyway. That tone of his frightened her. Balls frightened her, and society, and finely dressed husbands, and exquisitely crafted frocks.

“Wear the gray, if you’re going to get upset,” he said gruffly. “It’s the closest to black. There are new stays too, and stockings, and slippers to match.”

“Thank you,” she choked out.

“I’ll send one of Minette’s maids to help you dress. I suppose you must have your own lady’s maid when we get to London.” She heard him turn to go, but then he came back and took her arm. He embraced her, pressing his cheek against hers while she stood there feeling naked and scared. “I’m sorry. I never imagined you’d react this way.”

That only made her feel worse. Yes, she was so hopelessly strange. He dug in his pocket for a square of linen and dabbed at her cheeks. “Perhaps you only need some fresh air and sunshine. I’ll have them put a team to the curricle, if you’ll come down when you’re ready.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

He tipped her chin up. “Don’t ‘my lord’ me right now, if you please. I’m not scolding.” He bit his lip, staring at her in a disconcerting way. “I’m only trying to understand you.”

Josephine wished him the best of luck with that. Most times, she couldn’t even understand herself.

*** *** ***

Soon afterward, they set out in the curricle on his “surprise” journey. Lord Warren took the ribbons, since there was no room for a groom on the sleek conveyance. He handled the spirited horses with the same nonchalant expertise he displayed in everything else. She sat beside him in her elegant new silver dress. He had called it gray to make her feel better, but it was silver, with iridescent pearl trim. It must have cost a fortune, and she’d sobbed over it like some sort of madwoman.

She still felt unsettled by his words.
You weren’t in mourning, Josephine. You were in hiding.
He dissected her so easily, with his blunt, blasé facility. He dug down to her truths and flung them at her, but she had no such ability to understand him.

No, she only knew that he was rich, and skilled at bed play, and good with horses. Now and again he looked down at her and smiled, but most of the time he kept his eyes on the bumpy country roads. It was a pleasant spring day, not too chilly, but not too warm either. It seemed all of England waited to bloom, with unexpected color peeking out here and there.

“We’ve nearly arrived, I think,” he said, after an hour or so had passed.

“Where are we going?”

“Shall I ruin the surprise?”

“I’m curious,” she said in a pleading tone.

He smiled. “We’re headed to Maitland Glen and the surrounding barony, if I haven’t lost my way.”

She was too shocked at first to respond. “Maitland Glen? My father’s home?”

“Your home now. It’s not so distant from my country estate. Close enough to visit, on any account. Don’t you wish to see it?”

She blinked at him. “Of course I do. I just didn’t know it was so close.” Her voice trailed off at the end. How paltry, to not know where her holdings lay, when she had been the baroness for over a year. She only had the vaguest notion to what part of England Lord Warren had brought her when he married her, but now she realized that yes, their properties must be in proximity. She remembered Lord Warren lecturing her about the Maitland title and holdings. She wondered who had been managing the estate while her father was away.

“It’s not a vast holding,” he said, as if to answer her thoughts. “I could find no record of a steward, nor extended family interest, but perhaps it wasn’t warranted. You’ve ten acres and a manor house, and no tenants I could find.”

“You looked?”

“I had someone look into it, yes. The Maitland barony is a modest estate, but it’s your own, and I thought it might be pleasant to see it before we head back to London.”

The surrounding countryside seemed different now that he’d said where they were headed. She had a house nearby, and no idea what it looked like. She hadn’t been back to Maitland Glen since she was a very young child. She was excited to see it, and scared, and nervous that she wouldn’t remember anything about it. Wasn’t ten acres awfully small for an estate? By the time he slowed and started looking in earnest for the boundaries of her property, her mind was a muddle of hot, anxious thoughts.

He stopped for directions in a village, and was motioned a little ways on, to the rim of the valley beyond the old barrow. It was there they came upon a very decrepit and crumbling manor house on the edge of an overgrown field. It was fenced, with an iron gate and a weather-pocked sign bearing the Maitland family crest.

She had hoped this wasn’t it, that there was some mistake. This couldn’t possibly be her ancestral home, not this sad little pile of rocks. The walls, where one could see them, were light brick, bleached by decades of sun. The cobbled roof looked overtaken by moss, and only half the small, leaded-pane windows were intact. A dense wooded area stretched behind the manor, having encroached along both sides so that the walls and eaves of the house abounded with vines.

“Shall we have a look inside?” he said in a bright voice, as if the home were not a complete disaster. Part of her loved him for it. Part of her felt cold and ill and sickeningly disappointed. Baroness Maitland indeed.

“I thought the estate house would be bigger. That there would be more land,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I gather it’s been sold off in parcels.” Warren whacked at weeds and shrubs as they traversed what used to be a courtyard. “But you’ve plenty of money in the bank. If you like, we can set about buying them back.”

She cast a look at the appalling house. “I don’t know why we would.”

She stopped at the great wood door. They hadn’t a key, but Warren gave a smart shove to the lock and the door’s frame gave way. Windows threw light onto dusty stone floors and disarranged furnishings. White covers glowed ghostly in the dim interior, draped over tables and sofas. Chairs were stacked in corners, and half burned candles waited in lamps, their wicks obscured with many years’ worth of dust. Josephine looked around and tried to remember it, any of it.

Nothing. She had no memories, no connection to this place.

No home.

“Perhaps I’ll look upstairs,” she said, to escape his concerned regard. What must he think of her, coming from this place? She went up the creaking staircase while Warren called out to her to slow down and take care.

She stopped and peered into the first room at the top of the stairs. It contained the same ghostly, slip-covered furniture, including a shabby looking bed. Her mother’s? Her father’s? The adjacent dressing room was empty of everything but some wrinkled bits of lace, and a pair of dusty slippers that looked to be Josephine’s own size. She followed the dressing room through to the next room and found what must have been the nursery.

She heard Warren’s footsteps in the hall, and then his face appeared at the door. They both looked at the cradle in the middle of the room, and the discarded china doll slung over the side of it. She wondered why they had left the doll when they set off with her on their travels. Had she wished for it? Had she missed the comforts of her nursery room?

It was a small space, lit by a high-set window. A cozy room, in a way, with more slipcovered furniture in the corners that might contain baby clothes, or child-sized tables, or toys. A pink and yellow needlework on the wall spelled out
Josephine Victoria
.

She turned to him, the edges of her world turning as black as her lost dresses. “I wish to go.”

He looked once more around the room, then nodded and followed her down the stairs. At the bottom she turned, throwing out her hands to indicate the ghastly, crumbling disappointment of the place. “Did you know what a pathetic pile of rubble this was?”

“It’s not a pile of rubble, Josephine.”

“
Did you know?
”

“No, I didn’t know. I hadn’t spoken to anyone who’d been here.” He gazed at her, his lips tight. “Any house can be fixed up, you realize. This house has good bones. It’s mostly intact. After almost twenty years, what did you expect to find?”

She had found exactly what she hoped not to: more shabbiness and more frustration. Now they would ride back to his own glittering place, with its soaring corridors and smartly attired servants, and this shame would roil in her chest, this house and property that gave even more evidence of what she was not.

“I wish my parents had been proper people who kept a nice home, and stayed in England where they belonged.” Her voice echoed, shrill and angry, against the high walls. “I wish I had been able to grow up like those other ladies. I don’t know why they had to drag me around the world.”

“I don’t either.” He came to her and embraced her. “It’s not your fault, the way you were raised. But you’re in charge now, remember? If you wish to revive this manor—”

“I don’t,” she said, pushing away from the comfort he offered. “I wish it to go to the devil.” They weren’t ladylike words, but in this house, in this moment, she didn’t feel ladylike. She felt as if she were falling apart. “Please, may we leave at once?”

“Of course. I’m sorry to have caused you distress. I only brought you because I thought you might wish to see it.”

She said nothing, just turned and fled outside to wait by the curricle while Lord Warren wedged shut the sagging front door.

*** *** ***

Josephine brooded the rest of the day, lost in private misery. She kept thinking about the gowns, the visit to Maitland Glen, and Warren’s careful solicitude afterward. No matter how polite he was about it all, he must consider her property a disaster. She certainly did. She’d never imagined her baronial home might be a ramshackle shell of its former glory—which had never been much glory at all.

At last, Warren took her upstairs, ordering her out of the clothes that had caused her such distress. They bathed together and had dinner in bed, though nothing on the trays tempted her appetite. Warren told silly little jokes, and flirted, and refused to let her cover herself even when she grew chilled.

“It’s not that cold,” he chided. “It’s only that your hair’s still wet.” He brought over her hair brush to smooth her tangled locks, a ritual she had come to appreciate the past few days. He mussed it up in exertions of the most carnal type, and then fixed it back again, stroke by stroke.

“I would be warmer if you gave me something to wear,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Something black?” he replied acidly. “I want you naked a bit longer. Our honeymoon is not yet over.”

She reached beside her to pluck at the soft bedding. Their honeymoon? She could hardly believe he still desired her after today.

“Don’t frown so,” he said. “Once I’ve tamed your tangles, I’m going to warm you right up.”

“That’s not going to help. I feel awful. I feel I’m nothing but rubble, just like my house.”

“You said you’d be happy to live in a cottage,” he said, working through a snarl. “Now you’re upset that you own a manor house, however rough it is.”

“My cottage would have been pretty, and kept up in good order. There would have been flowers in beds by the entrance, and clear windows without any cracks.”

He put his hand on her cheek to still her head. “Is it your pride that’s hurt?” he asked. “I’m trying to understand you.”

“I’m just angry. I’m angry at them, I suppose. My parents.”

“You have to let go of that. They’re gone now. You’re holding tight to ghosts who never even cared for you properly. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons you’re so frustrated with yourself.”

She twitched as he pulled at a knot. “I’m not frustrated with myself.”

“You said you were nothing but rubble, not even a minute ago,” he reminded her.