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

‘That is a list of the repairs that I can see, so far.’ Arabella pushed the paper across the desk to Elliott. ‘I’ve been to the cottages where Mrs Fanshawe said the family’s need was greatest, so I may not have seen the worst of the buildings yet.’

Elliott picked up the list and studied it. Not only were faults listed, but often their cause. Damp walls with plaster peeling: dense shrubbery too close and broken guttering, he read against one entry. ‘You would appear to know what you are talking about,’ he commented. ‘I will get Turner on to these repairs at once.’

‘It is merely a matter of observation,’ Arabella said. He could tell she was nervous of his reaction; her hazel eyes were fixed on his with too much concentration. He had hoped, now that their lovemaking was pleasurable and relaxed, that she would relax with him during the day also, but somehow, with those fears laid at rest, she was more, not less, distant. It was as well; this was exactly the kind of companionable, undemanding marriage he could expect from a wife who had been raised for it. ‘And here is the list of men and boys wanting work.’

‘I’m thinking of re-laying the carriage drive and there is almost half a mile of wall needing repair, so I should be able to give most of them some labouring, if nothing else.’ Elliott took the second piece of paper, reached to put it on another pile then focused on one name. ‘Young Trubshaw?’

‘He is only thirteen,’ Arabella said. ‘With his father gone he needs to be working, not hanging around getting into trouble.’

‘He does that. I’m not sure about him. Are you a soft touch for a pair of big brown eyes and an air of spurious innocence, Arabella?’ Her earnest look made him want to go around the desk and kiss her.

‘Willie Trubshaw looks about as innocent as a weasel,’ she said, making him laugh. ‘And I prefer blue eyes,’ she muttered.

‘Are you, by any chance, flirting with me, Lady Hadleigh?’ Elliott enquired, keeping his tone light despite the way his breath hitched suddenly, inexplicably.

‘I wouldn’t know how,’ she admitted with a candour that made him laugh. ‘But I am certain you could teach me.’

‘I don’t think you need lessons, I think you have the instinct,’ Elliott said, wondering if locking the study door and taking her here, now, on the hearthrug might not be thoroughly satisfactory. ‘And you are blooming, my dear.’

And that was no lie. Her bosom was delightfully rounded, the colour was in her cheeks, her hair was glossy and the slight curve of her stomach was unexpectedly attractive. He glanced at the hearthrug, his whole body tightening in anticipation.

‘Oh.’ Now she looked apprehensive at what she must be able to see in his face. Elliott got a grip on his desire. This was no way for a sensible married man to behave, and his wife was not a lightskirt to be tumbled on the rug.

He glanced at the pile of letters and invitations on the corner of the desk. His friends were seeking his company, writing to congratulate him on his marriage, inviting the Hadleighs to stay, hinting that they would be only too delighted to make her ladyship’s acquaintance.

Under normal circumstances, and with any other bride, he would have happily invited a houseful of them. After a couple of weeks of marriage he would have had no qualms about leaving for a day or two to attend a boxing match or a race either. But the thought of inflicting a houseful of sports-mad, fit, exuberant, sophisticated men on Arabella was ridiculous: she would be terrified of them. They would cheerfully flirt with her, which would alarm her, talk about people and places she had no knowledge of and fill the house with noise and activity when she ought to be resting.

Elliott shovelled the whole lot into a drawer. ‘Just do not overdo it, my dear,’ he said and she nodded, apparently meek. How relaxing life was now that he had a compliant wife, regular sex and he was getting a grip on the estate and Rafe’s chaotic affairs. Why, then, did he feel that something was missing?

‘I thought you might like it if we took the gig and a picnic and went and explored the estate today,’ Elliott said at breakfast the next day. Bella looked up, startled, from thoughts about how successful her breakfast strategy had been. She had hardly dared hope she could lure him away from his study every morning, but the delights of a proper cooked breakfast did not seem to have palled on her husband yet. If she could just get him into the habit, she thought, he would begin every day with a proper meal. Men were, in her limited experience, creatures of habit. Perhaps one could train a husband? Her mouth twitched at the thought of trying to tame Elliott.

The pointers had taken up their positions on either side of the fireplace and Toby was sitting on her toes, quivering with eagerness for a titbit. Bella surveyed the room with satisfaction: this was what a marital breakfast should look like. Even her wretched morning sickness seemed to have subsided and it was no longer a matter of willpower to remain in the same room with so much savoury food. Almost thirteen weeks, she thought. Her back ached a little and she was sure that at any moment her condition would become obvious to anyone who looked.

‘A picnic? I should like that very much.’ He smiled at her and she smiled back, a warm, happy sensation that she could not quite put a name to settling around her heart. She loved that smile—lazy and assured and intimate. He really was the most dreadful flirt when he put his mind to it, she thought fondly. Elliott was being so good to her. The odd mood she had sensed in the nursery had not come back, he appeared to be satisfied with her in bed and his teasing kisses kept her in a state of quivering anticipation. She must continue to study to please him; he would not regret his honourable action if she could possibly prevent it.

‘I know a very secluded spot,’ Elliott began, something warm and heavy in his voice that had her looking at him in wild speculation. He couldn’t mean to make love to her outside, could he?

‘The post, my lord,’ Henlow said, proffering a salver laden with envelopes. ‘And yesterday’s Times and Morning Post.’ He placed a much smaller pile of envelopes beside Bella’s plate. ‘For you, my lady.’

‘For me?’ Who would be writing to her here? Papa. ‘Thank you, Henlow.’ She sat regarding the post warily. Her day had hardly started and now she must read her father’s justified reproaches. Doubtless he would have disowned her. Bella turned over the top letter, then another and another until she had reached the bottom. She recognised the handwriting on none of them. The relief was intense.

But who were they from? The wax splintered as she opened the first. Madame Mirabelle, Exclusive Ladies’ Milliner of Worcester, begged the Viscountess of Hadleigh would forgive her presumption in writing to felicitate her ladyship upon her nuptials and entreated her ladyship to summon her to attend upon her at any time with a selection of hats the equal of any to be found in London’s Bond Street.

The next was from George Arnol

d, Shoe and Boot Maker to the Nobility and Clergy, also soliciting the favour of her ladyship’s attention. Then there was a haberdashery store, a portrait painter and a furniture warehouse.

Bemused by the notion that her spending power was great enough to attract so much interest, Bella set them to one side and picked up another with a London frank. The one under it was similarly stamped. ‘London? I do not know anyone in London.’

‘That will be my paternal aunts, Lady Fingest and Mrs Grahame, writing in response to my letters to them,’ Elliott said, glancing up from his own post.

Bella opened the first. Lady Fingest expressed herself delighted that her nephew had married and extended an invitation to visit at the earliest opportunity. Her bride gift was on its way and she did trust dear Arabella would find it of use. The second, from her sister, was in similar vein.

‘They do not sound at all distressed that you have married a nobody,’ she said to Elliott.

‘I told them that you were a daughter of the church and a paragon of virtue. I have no doubt that they are so delighted that I am settling down respectably that the fact they have never heard of your parents is a mere detail.’

‘But I’m not a paragon,’ Bella said miserably after a swift glance round to make sure all the footmen were out of the room. ‘The baby—’