Smiling with genuine delight, Frederick remained beside Stacie as she waved the Cormanbys off. The rout had been even more comprehensive than he’d imagined possible—and his new marchioness had accomplished it in style.
Five halcyon days later, Stacie accompanied Frederick on a visit to the estate’s cider mill. As they rode past ripening fields and down lanes that overarching trees had turned into tunnels of dappled shade, she marveled at the simple happiness that seemed, these days, to be her permanent state of being.
Her declared purpose of establishing herself as a hostess of musical evenings for the haut ton—and through that, advancing the careers of worthy local musicians—had been intended to absorb her and give her life a continuing focus; in reality, given the episodic nature of such musical evenings, such a purpose could never have filled her days.
Becoming Frederick’s wife—his marchioness—had. The role fitted her so well, it was almost uncanny. Quite aside from the unending delights of the nights spent in his big bed, wrapped in his arms, running a large household and supporting Frederick in managing the estate—being the lady by his side—was all but second nature, and everyone on the estate had welcomed her and, indeed, actively sought to please her.
There had been not a single hiccup or unexpected hitch; she and the staff at Brampton Hall had, within a day, taken each other’s measure and had embraced the other with a certain relief.
She was coming to believe that Fate had designed the role of Frederick’s wife expressly for her.
He rode beside her on a powerful black gelding, idly looking about him as, having galloped earlier, they walked their horses down a shady lane.
When, apparently sensing her gaze, he turned his head and met her eyes, then, after surveying her expression, arched his brows in gentle question, she smiled and faced forward. “I’m not sure I should tell you this”—your arrogance needs no encouragement—“but I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for suggesting we convert our sham engagement into a real one.”
When he made no lighthearted riposte, she glanced at him and discovered he was studying her in a more serious and intent fashion than she’d expected.
After several seconds searching her eyes, he asked, “Does that mean you’re happy—and content—being my wife, my marchioness?”
Surprised, she blinked at him. “Do you really need to ask?”
His lips quirked, and he shrugged and looked ahead. “As I’ve mentioned before, I’m too wise to believe I can read—or even accurately deduce—the state of any female’s mind.”
“Well,” she said, nudging her mare to keep pace with the black, “I am—content and quite happy.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the curve of his lips deepen.
“Good,” he returned. “And as for your gratitude…” His glanced at her, and she felt the warmth in his gaze. “I’m sure that, between us, we can negotiate a suitable way in which you might demonstrate it.”
Pleasurable anticipation coursed through her; they’d discovered they were both adventurous spirits when it came to their sensual encounters. She grinned and shot him a deliberately provocative glance. “You may be sure I’ll put my mind to it.”
He laughed, and smiling delightedly, she rode on by his side.
The cider mill proved to be far more absorbing than she’d imagined. The brewer, a Mr. Tranchard, was a keen enthusiast, and when she expressed an interest in learning about the process by which the larger part of the estate’s apple crop was converted into a brew well known throughout the local area, he was only too happy to escort her around the mill and explain all the stages from the washing and crushing to the fermenting and eventual bottling into jugs.
A thin, wiry man, Tranchard clapped his hands together and assured her, “We supply the Hall and all the tenant farms and have enough left over to sell to several local inns.”
She assured him she’d already sampled his wares. “It was the delightful taste that made me inquire as to the source. I was fascinated to learn it was from the estate.”
Although Frederick knew everything there was to know about the cider-making process—the mill had been in existence since he’d been a boy—he’d trailed Stacie and Tranchard through the building, amused by the impact Stacie’s genuine and unaffected interest had on Tranchard, who could sometimes be standoffish. During the two weeks since they’d arrived at Brampton Hall as man and wife, he’d come to appreciate her innate ability to interact with anyone regardless of social rank, to know just how to approach people and draw them to her.
She seemed intuitively able to convince people that they all shared the same goal; he recognized her actions as a form of subtle manipulation, yet her intent was entirely benign.
She put people at ease to the extent they wanted to help her in whatever way she needed. Given she was a noblewoman, now a marchioness, that wasn’t a skill to be scoffed at.
He waited and watched, and when they finally rode away from the mill, they left Tranchard utterly captivated.
A week later, Frederick felt a tug, a compulsion he hadn’t experienced for years.
It drew him to the music room, to the grand piano that stood in pride of place by the windows.
Stacie was busy at a meeting with Mrs. Hughes, discussing household matters and expenditures to do with refurbishing several rooms. Other than himself, there was no one around that part of the house.
He contemplated the piano for several minutes, then surrendered. After raising the lid and removing the felt covering, he sat on the stool, stared at the keys, and felt his mind empty, his active thoughts flowing away, then he raised his hands, placed his fingers on the keys, closed his eyes, and played.
Sometime later, he paused, rose, crossed to a side table against the wall, and from the table’s drawer, retrieved a bundle of sheets ruled for scoring music and two pencils, already sharpened.
Returning to the piano, he sat and scribbled, then set aside paper and pencil and, now driven, continued refining the lilting melody.