A Proper Lord's Wife (Properly Spanked Legacy 2)

The unkind moniker came to mind, but he stifled it. She was not plain. Her hair was an odd color, yes, a very pale orange that could not pass for blonde, but her face held a quiet animation even when she was silent. Her eyes were a graceful shape, and her pert nose and rosebud lips too dignified to ever be plain.

She led him out a pair of back doors to a vast stone palazzo, surrounded on all sides by slumbering winter gardens.

“There’s a pretty archway this direction,” she said, gesturing down the wide stairs to the left, “if you’d like to go there.”

“Of course.” He offered his arm, but she hesitated, glancing toward the doors.

“How strange to walk off alone. Perhaps your sister ought to join us?”

He nearly laughed, remembering how quickly Rosalind’s desire for fresh air had been rebuffed. “I think our parents prefer us to go off alone, to become better acquainted. It’s hard to get to know one another in a parlor, having tea.”

She bit her lip, a frequent mannerism. “I suppose that’s true.”

At last she accepted his arm, barely leaning upon it as they traversed the palazzo’s grand staircase and descended into the Earl of Mayhew’s manicured backyard. It was a large garden for a city manor, certainly larger than the fenced patch of nature behind his town home, which suited him well enough, since he wasn’t the gardening sort.

Now, he appreciated the space. It felt good to take a breath. Such a farce, to listen to the polite banter in the parlor, as the two families planned a wedding embarked upon by accident. It had taken all his discipline not to bury his head in his hands. That would have been rude, of course, and hurt the feelings of his future bride.

His bride. For God’s sake, things were moving quickly. Upon first impression, the lady was sweet, if awkward. He could barely see her face beneath her bonnet’s brim. Just a bit of delicate nose and that prim, dainty chin.

“There are benches over there, if you’d like to sit.” She led him from the stairs toward an Italianate arch. “Or we could walk beneath that arch into the back gardens. There are paths, and a fountain.”

“Which would you prefer?”

The question seemed to fluster her. She stopped and turned, her eyes searching his as if to divine what he wanted. Then, as he watched her, a corner of her lips turned up in surprise, or delight. “Do you know, our eyes are the same color? Just exactly the same.”

It was unexpected, this artless outburst. She was right. Her eyes were the same pale, gold-flecked brown color as his, perhaps even golder now that she’d lifted her face toward the sun. His mother had once described them as having a copper cast. His sister Felicity likened them to amber. He thought it was probably some chance mixture of his mother’s grey eyes and his father’s dark brown ones.

And here now, yes, was a young woman with the same unusual gaze.

“If we’re still, we might grow too cold.”

It took him a moment to realize she was answering the question he’d posed earlier. “You’d prefer to walk then?”

“Yes, I think so.”

After her exclamation about his eye color, she turned shy again, facing away from him although she still rested her hand upon his arm. She was a bit taller than most women, so he didn’t have to lean down to escort her. He was learning all these things about her now, a mere week or two before they were to wed. He tried hard not to compare her to his memories of Ophelia. There was nothing but misery down that pathway, for he’d adored Ophelia with every fiber of his being. Poor Jane could hardly be expected to measure up.

Do not obsess over Ophelia now, he scolded himself as they passed beneath the stone archway into a neat, landscaped garden of low shrubs and limpid winter flowers. There was, indeed, a grand fountain a little farther on, with a stately Roman maiden holding a pitcher. Lady Jane gave him a small, sideways smile.

“Water flows out of her pitcher in warmer months. There’s a clever pressurized pump beneath, but it’s turned off in winter so it won’t be damaged if the water freezes to ice.”

“Yes, it’s the same at my parents’ manor. The pump is turned off at the first hint of frost.”

They stood and stared at the water, which was clean and clear. “No fish?” he asked, teasing.

“Not here. The groundskeeper treats the water to keep it free of mold and odor, and the fish wouldn’t survive that type of poison very long. Well, I say it’s poison, but it’s not that, it’s only unnatural. When bugs fall in, they die. Frogs used to jump in and die, but I asked my father if we could create a sort of barrier to prevent that and so, you see…”