Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘That is the heir’s cradle,’ Elliott said. ‘It is Tudor, I think. You’ll see it in several of the portraits in the Long Gallery. See the coat of arms on the back of the hood?’

Bella shifted round to see. The carving was strong and bold and she could read it easily. A falcon held an arrow in its grip, its head turned arrogantly to face the watcher. ‘I hold what is mine,’ she read. ‘I will have it taken downstairs and polished.’

‘If the child is a boy, that will be his. If it is a girl, she will have another cradle.’ It seemed Elliott held fast to tradition.

‘Of course.’ A cradle was not worth fighting over, but the location of the nursery was. ‘I will have a look at the rooms close to mine and decide on a nursery.’

‘This is suitable. It will be cleaned and repainted and you can choose new furnishings,’ Elliott said.

‘No, you do not understand.’ Bella straightened up and faced him. ‘It is too far away.’

‘We will employ a competent nurse. You will need your rest, not a crying child.’ His face showed no sign of any sympathy.

‘Elliott,’ Bella said, keeping her voice even with an effort, ‘either the nursery is downstairs or I will move up here.’

‘An ultimatum?’ One eyebrow rose. Bella fought the urge to edge away. It was not that she was frightened of him, but there was something else going on here, something more than a disagreement over the position of a nursery and she did not understand it. What she did understand was that she was feeling extremely emotional all of a sudden. It was not grief, it seemed to come from nowhere, filling her with an overwhelming desire to weep.

‘If you like,’ she said. ‘I am sorry, Elliott, but I feel very strongly about this and I am afraid that if we have to stand here arguing about this any longer I am going to cry. I don’t know why. I just feel very…very…’ She gulped.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ he said, striding into the room and scooping her up in his arms. Toby, who had followed them into the room, let out a volley of barks.

‘Put me down!’

‘No.’ He smiled at her ruefully. ‘I expect it is your condition making you feel weepy. I tell you, Arabella, pointer bitches in pup are a lot less trouble than women.’

‘Really, Elliott!’ She tried to struggle, then gave it up as futile as he walked along the corridor and down the winding flight of stairs at the end, the terrier skirmishing around his feet and making him swear under his breath. It was rather pleasant to be held in his arms as though she weighed next to nothing and the shift of muscles as he moved was intriguing. There was something about being carried that made her feel extremely feminine and her head rested against his shoulder in a most satisfactory way.

It was weakening to the will and the constitution of course, being carried about like a child. She must assert herself. ‘About the nursery,’ she began as Elliott reached her bedchamber door.

‘Yes?’ He set her on her feet and regarded her with what looked like resignation.

‘It will be down here.’ They watched each other in silence. He looked unyielding, but he did not actually refuse. ‘Please.’

‘I wondered how long it would take,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Very well—but out of my earshot, mind.’

‘Yes, Elliott.’ Bella felt smug, then saw the shadows in his eyes as he turned away. No, this wasn’t a game, this learning the boundaries of a marriage.

‘And rest,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘Can you do as you are told in that respect at least?’

‘I am going in now,’ Bella said. She opened the door and stepped into the room. Toby shot in before she could prevent him.

‘Good.’

She shut the door and leaned on it. She had said she was entering her room, not that she would rest there. Elliott would be riding out soon, she was sure, and then she was going to explore on her own and find her perfect nursery.

Elliott had wished that Arabella was less compliant; it seemed he was getting his desire. Whether this would prove to be a good thing remained to be seen. One could not dismiss an argumentative wife as one could a demanding mistress.

Elliott swung up into the saddle of his bay cover hack and turned its head towards the Home Farm. Turner was going to wonder what had happened to him today. He had been spending virtually every morning with the estate manager since he had come here, trying to get the land and the tenants’ cottages back into the state they had been in when Rafe had inherited. His brother had shown not the slightest interest in the property that earned him the bulk of his revenues, but neither would he delegate sufficient power and resources to his steward to allow him to do what was necessary in his stead. It seemed he was as unwilling to yield any authority to an employee as he had been to his brother.

Even when Elliott had dealt with the lack of investment and neglect it would still be a long way behind Fosse Warren where he was experimenting with the latest techniques and had been spending heavily for several years. At least Turner was happy now, with authority to lay out money and an employer who was taking an intelligent interest.

Elliott held the bay back to a walk despite its fidgeting. He was in no hurry to discuss the value of turnips in crop rotation or whether they should buy some orchards down in the Vale as Turner was suggesting. Thinking about Arabella was more absorbing and thinking about Arabella and sex kept the other, darker, more difficult thoughts at bay.

She was naturally sensuous, he was certain of that, although after last night, it was hard to see why he was so certain. Elliott shifted in the saddle as he thought. She enjoyed kissing, he could feel her body’s response to him, her innocently provocative exploration. His body was in no doubt what it wanted, uncomfortably so, and whenever he touched her it seemed that this time he was going to have her yielding, completely. But as soon as things became more intense, she either recoiled, or, as she had last night, passively submitted.

It could be that she was responding instinctively to him and then being brought up short when her natural modesty and her duty to him as her husband were in conflict, or it could be something else. Her pregnancy? Something about him? Rafe?

Arabella was proving an infuriating enigma. She was apparently dutiful and meek—and yet she dug her heels in over the location of the nursery and he was sure that, however many sleepless nights they had when the baby was born, she was not going to be convinced that it should be on the upper floor. She knew he did not take more than toast for breakfast, yet she had somehow cajoled him into eating a veritable feast. She was pregnant with his brother’s child, and yet she seemed as nervous as a virgin. She was deliciously, provokingly sensual and yet she recoiled the moment things moved beyond kisses.