The Marquess Tames His Bride

His taste.

She set the cup down on the saucer with a snap.

‘Apricot silk? Do you think that is appropriate?’

‘The trimmings are all black. There is no harm in wearing just a touch of colour, when dining in private, on what is, after all, your honeymoon,’ replied Nancy with exaggerated patience.

‘Very well,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘By all means, bring me the apricot silk.’

‘Shall I just help you off with your carriage dress?’

The carriage dress he’d complimented her upon. Telling her she’d outdone Lady Harriet. Which had pleased her no end, at the time he’d said it.

She supposed she ought to be grateful to Nancy. Left to herself, Clare would have purchased far cheaper, more hard-wearing clothing which he would not, she’d discovered earlier, have approved of at all. Nor would she ever have thought of changing to eat dinner in a private inn room, either, let alone into a silk gown.

‘Yes, thank you, Nancy,’ she said, trying to inject the gratitude into her tone of voice which she was striving to feel.

‘I shall have hot water brought up directly, your ladyship,’ put in the chambermaid.

Because of course she would have to wash off the grime of travelling, before donning the silk. And, yes, she did want to have a wash. It was just that afterwards she would much rather have curled up on the window seat and gazed down at the bustling inn yard. Or simply flung herself onto her bed, to rest. Neither of which she’d be able to do in the apricot gown, which was cut far lower than she was used to and therefore required the kind of underpinning that not only kept her decent, but meant there would be no flinging herself onto beds, or lounging upon comfy seats, or, if she ate too much, breathing too deeply, either.

She sighed. It was harder work being a marchioness than she would ever have imagined.

* * *

‘You look very appetising in that confection,’ said Lord Rawcliffe as he handed her to her chair at the table set for two. From this position, leaning over her from behind as she settled on to her seat, he had a very intriguing view down the front of it.

It made him want to slide his hands down and cup the delicate white mounds and squeeze the raspberry-pink nipples between his fingers.

Which would shock her. And be highly disrespectful, considering the waiter was still in the room, fussing over the chafing dishes on the sideboard.

And so, while the fellow’s back was turned, it was exactly what he did, swiftly delving down her bodice, locating the tightly furled bud, pinching it and withdrawing his hand in the time it took her to stiffen and gasp in disbelief.

Hopefully she would now be too angry to remember whatever it was she’d been thinking of discussing with him over supper. Whatever it was that had made her look wistful, before rendering her teary-eyed. And too aware of the waiter to launch into a tirade upon his manners, either.

She was certainly angry enough to grasp the handle of the gravy boat in a very threatening manner. He had a hunch that his dignity was only spared because the waiter turned round at the very moment she lifted it from its stand. So that instead of throwing it in his face, she poured it over her plate. But she then started sawing at her food with such savagery he could easily interpret what she would rather be doing with her knife and fork.

Her ill humour was so thinly disguised that even the waiter began to grow nervous and made a strategic retreat far sooner than Lord Rawcliffe would have liked.

Still, he had not played his last card. Not by any means.

‘Did you not like the food?’ he enquired politely, eyeing the mangled remains of what had once been a perfectly innocent slice of steak and ale pie on her plate. ‘I chose this inn particularly because the cook has a sterling reputation…’

‘I have no complaints about the food,’ she retorted.

He leaned back in his seat and put on his most patient, enquiring, innocent expression.

‘Then you do have some form of complaint?’

She almost hissed with fury. ‘You know very well I do.’

‘And are you going to tell me what it is?’

‘I shouldn’t have to! The way you…’ She glanced down at the front of her bodice. Went bright red.

‘Ah,’ he said and smiled. ‘Forgive me, my dear, that I did not have time to meet your needs before supper. But with the waiter hovering…’