He shuddered at the thought of her entrée to the demi-monde, even if it was gained in pursuit of her renegade husband, and hoped it never became common knowledge.
Such a scandal would certainly not enhance the standing of his bride-to-be, if her chaperone had come recommended by even a pretend courtesan and, unlike Rob Besford, he intended to make sure his wife never had the slightest excuse to cause a scandal in pursuit of his closest sensual attention. He reassured himself it was perfectly natural to want to watch his Roxanne blossom in her proper sphere and that he was in no danger of falling in love with her. His wife must be a socially assured and adept hostess and serenely self-possessed under pressure, and if she became his passionate lover in the bargain, that would just be a wonderful bonus.
Yet did he want her to change? She was rather magnificent as she was, and he admired her stubborn determination to go her own way—except it would ultimately prove disastrous. If he let her, she’d dwindle into a maiden aunt, neither happy nor unhappy and criminally wasted. Or she’d marry some weak-kneed idiot who’d let her govern both their lives. The very idea of her chancing instead upon some tyrant who’d try to break her glorious spirit made him shudder and drink his tea after all, only realising he’d drained his cup when he looked into it with offended disdain.
‘It’s all right, Charles, some of us drink it all the time and so far have come to no harm at all,’ Caro teased.
‘But you don’t know what it might do to me if I drink enough of it.’
‘I admit I’m not a man and have absolutely no desire to be one, but it’s a risk I’m quite prepared to take as a mere female, even if you’re too much of a coward to take it on,’ she parried effortlessly, and he saw Roxanne shoot her a doubtful look, as if Caro might not know she was supping with the devil and therefore needed a very long spoon.
He smiled into his surprisingly empty teacup and wondered if he ought to inform her that his friend’s wife was perfectly safe from any wiles he had stored up for the unwary. Best not, perhaps, it might be useful to keep her in ignorance of the fact that, unlike Caro, she was very unsafe indeed.
‘You mustn’t do that, Miss Roxanne, it’s no job for a lady,’ Cobbins, formerly head gardener of Hollowhurst Castle, informed Roxanne a week after she moved into Mulberry House. Even Sir Charles hadn’t been able to protest her managing for the time being with the chaperonage of her personal maid, the Castle housekeeper and far too many members of her former household to fit comfortably into Mulberry House.
‘Why not?’ she challenged grumpily, since every time she found a promising occupation to while away the tedious hours, somebody would raise their head from doing nothing in particular and tell her it wasn’t ladylike.
‘’Cause you’ll get scratched,’ he explained with the patience of a responsible adult addressing a child who’d stolen her mama’s best scissors to deadhead the few late-blooming roses Mulberry House rejoiced in. ‘You could even get muddy,’ he added with every sign of horror.
As if he hadn’t seen her muddy and exhausted many a time after a long day spent in the saddle going about Uncle Granger’s business, Roxanne thought with disgust. ‘Right, that’s it!’ she informed him sharply, reaching the end of a tether she’d clung to with exemplary patience. ‘I’ve had enough of this ridiculous situation. In a quarter of an hour I expect you and your many underlings to assemble in the kitchen, where Cook will undoubtedly curse you all for getting in her way, but I plan to address my household and it’s the only place you can all fit without being tight packed as sprats in a barrel. Pray inform Whistler that I expect the stablemen to attend as well, and woe betide them if their boots aren’t clean.’
‘But why, Miss Roxanne?’ Cobbins protested with the familiarity of a man who’d known her since she was born.
‘Do as I say and you’ll find out soon enough,’ she informed him smartly and swept back into the house to issue an edict to the indoor staff.
‘Whatever’s going on, Miss Rosie?’ asked Tabby, her personal maid and suddenly the strictest chaperone the most finicky duchess could require for her precious offspring, whether Roxanne wanted her to be or not, which she definitely didn’t, she decided rebelliously.
‘In ten minutes you’ll find out along with everyone else, and you might as well occupy five of them by setting my hair to rights and give us both something to do.’
Tabby sniffed regally. ‘Some of us can work and talk at the same time, ma’am,’ she claimed but took down the rough chignon Roxanne had scrabbled together when she managed to rise, dress and steal out of the house without encountering any of her entourage for once, only because she did so before anyone but the boot boy and the scullery maid were stirring. Never mind their aghast expressions on discovering the lady of the house was stealing through the side door even before the sun reluctantly rose on a misty autumn morning, she’d managed her wild ride over the autumn landscape at last, and it’d been worth every exhilarating moment.
‘But we undoubtedly work faster in silence,’ Roxanne told her newly dragonlike maid in a tone she hoped was commanding enough to brook no argument and refused to elaborate, even in the face of extreme provocation. Despite her impatience with such finicky and ladylike occupations as fine grooming and pernickety dressing, Roxanne felt better once her hair was neat and she was dressed in a slightly more fashionable gown, so maybe Tabby was right about ordering some new ones next time she went to Rye.
Such frippery notions went clean out of her head when she reached the kitchens and met the eyes of her assembled staff. Just as she’d predicted, Cook looked as if she’d like to beat the stable-boys with her formidable-looking ladle, and the gardeners’ feet were shuffling as if they had a mind of their own and might carry them back to their proper domain of their own accord if something wasn’t done or said very soon.
‘What’s afoot, Miss Rosie?’ Cook asked her with a terrifying frown that would reduce most ladies to a heap of fine clothes and incoherence.
Luckily Roxanne knew a heart of gold beat under that formidable exterior, and it only needed the long line of giggling maids who lined up to be abused by the paper tiger as soon as they were old enough to work to confirm that Cook inspired love and loyalty in all those who served her, which brought Roxanne neatly back to her sheep.
‘I asked you all to assemble here this morning in order that I might tell you how deeply I’m honoured and moved by your steadfast loyalty to dear Uncle Granger and myself and to thank you for following me to Mulberry House in such large numbers. Which brings me neatly to the other reason I wanted to speak to you: by now I think we all realise this house is too small to accommodate a household large enough to run a castle, and I suggest … no,’ Roxanne corrected herself as she saw the stubborn set to Cook’s, Cobbins’s, Whistler’s and the butler’s collective mouths, ‘I insist that most of you return to Hollowhurst and take up your accustomed roles.’
An incoming wave of muttered protests threatened to become a tidal roar, but she held up her hand and it subsided to a few harrumphs of disagreement from the ringleaders.
‘I want you to consider how you all intend to occupy yourselves serving a mistress who doesn’t entertain or visit much and has no need of the exceptional skills required to run a castle or to progress in your chosen spheres.’
The maids and gardeners, grooms and stable boys eyed each other doubtfully, and Roxanne tried to tailor her speech to make the tougher part of her audience return to their proper domains and quit hers.
‘Sir Charles needs skilled staff to guide him in his new life. Command at sea must be very different to life as a country gentleman with a huge old house and a large estate to administer. I was wrong to encourage any of you to leave, but you know my hasty temper and no real damage has been done yet. Stay here much longer and Sir Charles will hire a pack of strangers to run Hollowhurst, and I doubt that’s what any of us want.’
‘Maybe you’re correct, Miss Courland,’ Mereson, the stately butler, acknowledged with a bland look that led