Nineteen

They left for Timberscombe Park after luncheon on Friday. Devonworth paced on the first-class platform at Paddington Station. Cora was to arrive with their luggage for their short trip to the country. She wasn’t late by any means, but he found himself walking back and forth and checking the time repeatedly. He had been this way ever since she had seen him after his bath. He felt on edge and anxious. Every time someone walked into his study at home, he thought it would be her . . . hoped it would be her. He’d gone from having to relieve himself of an excess of arousal once a week to every bloody day, though he did it in the privacy of his own chamber now. It was the one place she had not graced with her presence.

But she was there in every other way. She was in his thoughts when he was awake and his dreams when he was asleep. He’d pocketed every ribbon that had tied off her plaits the nights he had gone to her to continue their ruse of sleeping together, so her scent was with him, too. In the morning, when he woke in discomfort, he’d take himself in hand and her lavender perfume would surround him as he found his release.

His near-obsession with her had come on much faster than he could understand. In the space of a fortnight, he’d gone from tolerating her presence to lusting after her. That last part was a novelty to him. The only woman who had come close to inspiring this intensity of feeling was Sofia. That had been understandable because he had known her for years. She was beauty and grace, and their affair had been somewhat inevitable.

The situation with Cora wasn’t like that. He didn’t know her as well. He had always felt different because he didn’t enjoy the indulgence of casual sexual interludes. After a few vaguely satisfactory attempts in his youth, he’d not seen the point of risking pregnancy, disease, and blackmail for so little. Then Sofia had come back into his life.

She was only a couple of years younger than he and had lived on a neighboring estate, which meant they had known each other since they were children. As an adult, he spent most of his time in London and they had lost touch. It wasn’t until he had reconnected with her during the London Season a couple years back that things changed from friendship to something much deeper. They had quickly become lovers, and when he asked her to marry him, she agreed. He was almost certain her parents intervened, because it wasn’t a handful of days later when he read about her engagement to Sir William in the papers. She hadn’t even had the decency to tell him in person.

Just when he thought he had rid himself of those feelings, that blasted weakness, here was Cora, presenting him with temptation. It made even less sense because he had chosen a wife who did not rouse those wild feelings in him. He had chosen her because he thought he could keep her at arm’s length. But he had tried and failed. The worst part about that was he was slowly losing his grip on his determination to keep trying.

People bustled around him. Trains stood noisily on several tracks as they waited for passengers. Smoke billowed from the engine of the eastbound train that was pulling out of the station. It was a chaotic scene, but he was still able to pick Cora out of the crowd as soon as she stepped onto the platform.

She wore a traveling costume in navy with black velvet piping for the trim. A hat sat askew on her head above the mass of red hair she’d pinned up beneath it. Monroe followed along behind her with Crawford, his valet. A young Indian woman he had never met walked beside her. They were in discussion about something. The woman was dressed in a plain brown suit and looked to be around twenty years of age. She had what appeared to be a camera case looped over her shoulder. What was his wife up to?

He started toward the group. Before he arrived, they all went off to find their seats, leaving Cora standing there.

“Devonworth!” she called out to him, and waved as he approached.

She smiled and walked toward him, happy to see him. He found himself smiling back at her. This woman he had married was an enigma to him, but he liked that about her.

They both stopped when they reached the other, unsure of the newfound closeness of their relationship and how that translated to greetings at train stations.

“You came,” he offered her.

She nodded. “I did. I said I would.”

Perhaps it was the fact they were getting out of London, or it might have been whatever she had planned with the unexpected guest in tow, but she seemed to glow. Her happiness illuminated her entire being, and he found himself content to stand there and admire it.

“Do you have the tickets?” she asked after an absurdly long pause.

He patted his coat where the tickets were tucked away in the breast pocket. “Yes.”

“Oliver is taking care of the luggage.”

“Well, then, shall we board?”

She nodded and he reached for her valise and walked with her to the first-class car. All along the platform, people shifted and moved for them as they walked. As if they were a real couple. As if they were truly man and wife and meant to traverse the world as one. It was a simple but heady feeling, and he liked it very much.

Once on the train, she slowed. Several people were in the process of finding their seats, but no one was directly in front of them. A glance at her face confirmed that she studied the interior. Her gaze roamed from the plush seats upholstered in emerald-green velvet to the dark walnut woodwork to the brass lighting fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

“Have you never been on a train?” he asked, keeping his voice low and near her ear. It was hard to fathom, but possible.

She shivered and looked up at him, an attractive flush staining her cheeks. He felt an answering tug deep in his groin at how he could so easily affect her. “Yes, but . . .”

The second her eyes dropped from his, he knew the rest of the statement she had left unspoken. “But you’ve never ridden in a first-class train car.”

“No.” She dipped her head, possibly embarrassed by the admission.

A porter approached, effectively ending the exchange. He took their bags, and it was only when Devonworth handed off their tickets that he realized they were not direct to Exmoor. Edgecomb had sent his and Cora’s tickets over to his office earlier that morning, and he hadn’t even thought to take them out of the envelope to check them. The man led them to their seat, and Cora gave him a speaking glance over her shoulder. She knew something he didn’t. It must be to do with that woman with the camera case. Devonworth waited for Cora to settle herself by the window before he joined her.

When they were alone, he said, “The tickets are—”

“I’ve arranged for a stop,” she explained, smiling up at him. “I hope you won’t be angry. I thought we might take a couple of hours in Clarkston. You mentioned that town in your speech, and I thought it would be a good idea to see it and document the current state of things. I spoke to August since Crenshaw Iron has an iron works there, and she arranged for one of the managers to guide us around the factory. He also knows other workers in the area who are willing to speak with us.

“I brought a photographer, Miss Sharma. I met her at the London Home for Young Women. She’s another volunteer there and has an interest in photography. I spoke with her about your speech and she was moved. She’s brought her own camera to photograph the lack of sanitation and the living situation of the typical worker. I plan to take a lot of notes that we can use in your speech. Hopefully, by bringing in personal accounts, we can appeal to the empathy of those who will be voting.”

“Cora . . .” He couldn’t find any words that would adequately express how not angry he was. “Thank you.”

“I know how important the bill is to you, and it’s a noble thing you are doing. I want it to succeed as much as you do.”

He couldn’t look at her. Instead, he took in the bustle on the platform outside their window. Couples moved through the fray, sometimes followed by children. Groups of men in suits hurried about, undoubtedly on their way to or from a meeting to conduct very important business. This wasn’t the time or place to give in to sentimentality, but he couldn’t seem to swallow the lump in his throat or blink away the sting behind his eyes.

“Devonworth?” Her voice was a mere whisper as she gently put her hand on his cheek and turned his face toward her.

How had he ever thought her merely passably pretty? She had the kindest, deepest eyes he had ever seen. They were like a storm-swept sea, boundless, infinite in the secrets they kept. He wanted to discover every one of her secrets and savor them all. The prominent slope on the bridge of her nose rendered her unique and gave her a look of confidence he had come to appreciate more and more. Her mouth had a lovely shape. That morning he had found his pleasure imagining how those soft lips might feel on him.

She was beauty.

“Are you . . . ?” she prompted him.

“No,” he finally managed, his voice rough as it scraped across the ache of his throat. “I’m quite all right.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her gloved palm before he even realized what he was doing. She startled, looking at her palm. He gently took hold of her wrist and lowered her hand to her lap. He couldn’t help but notice how she closed her fist around the kiss.

This was all wrong. This wasn’t what they were.

He had to explain, but he was having trouble finding the words. Realizing he had somehow leaned indecently close to her in the ensuing minutes, he straightened and squared his shoulders so he faced front. His coat pulled, so he gave it a tug at the lapel to set it to rights. “I’m unaccustomed to people going out of their way to assist me.”

“Beckham—”

“Yes, Beckham does an admirable job.” He hoped it might end there, but she was too observant and curious.

“You mean . . . family?”

He nodded, cursing that damned lump in his throat.

“You take care of everyone,” she continued. “No one takes care of you.”

He couldn’t look at her again. If he allowed himself to study the tender expression he knew would be evident on her face, he’d lose the battle of his composure. “I can hardly complain. Valets, footmen, housekeepers . . .”

“But no one who cares for you.” She hit the nail on the head and then drove it in even harder. “No one helps you shoulder the burden.”

How was he to last under this onslaught of caring? He stared at one of the brass buttons on the steward’s livery. If he stared hard enough, the pain would ebb.

It worked and he was able to look at her without shattering. “Cora . . .” Inexplicably, that was all he could say.

She smiled at him and wrapped her arm around his, her palm settling on his forearm. Wordlessly, he covered her hand with his, and they sat there in silence as the train whistled its warning and slowly chugged out of the station.

---

—

Cora and Devonworth arrived at Timberscombe Park that evening. The sun had set but the moon was nearly full, giving Cora her first glimpse of the late medieval home. She sat up straighter in the carriage as they crossed the moat and passed the walls. They were mostly fallen into ruin now, but his father had put great pride into maintaining the stones near the drive. Devonworth agreed that driving through the high arch lent a certain ceremony to coming home.

The servants had come along without them, so it was just the two of them in the carriage.

“I wasn’t expecting a genuine moat.” Cora smiled as she craned her neck to see more of the estate.

They passed the old gatehouse before driving through a field with several barns and stone outbuildings in the distance. The house loomed before them, backlit against the moonlight.

“Is it a castle?”

“No, it was built in the late medieval period. Not a castle, but close. There’s a great room and a courtyard with wings on either side.”

Devonworth had spent a lot of time lamenting how much his father spent on the upkeep of the place. Most of his father’s time had been spent courting his own ego, so it had been no surprise that most of the funds diverted to the maintenance of the estate had been cosmetic. He hadn’t reinforced the structure on the north side where the rainwater had been diverting to the cellar. Devonworth had done that himself. His father hadn’t spent money on roof repairs, preferring to fresco the ceiling of the solar and add new carvings to the wood ceiling and moldings in the great hall. His entire life had been making things appear one way, while they had been quite another, all to seem better than he was.

Devonworth had been left with the hard tasks. For the first time ever, he found himself thankful for his father’s frivolity. If Cora liked the place, then it might be worth it.

The carriage came to a stop and he helped her down, watching her take in the house. The exterior was stone and brick with two gables on either end and oriel windows. She smiled up at him. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours now,” he said, though he knew she didn’t see it that way. She still behaved as if everything she used was borrowed, and he supposed it was, were they to adhere to their original plan. The problem was that he was coming to like her quite a lot. The scent of lavender brought her to mind. Any redheaded woman made him think of her. He had even started to dream of her. Saucy, naughty dreams.

The servants who lived on the estate had come out to welcome them. They lined up at the steps, and Devonworth took a moment to introduce her. They kept a skeletal staff in the country, particularly since one entire wing had been closed down due to the roof repairs. His mother waited at the top step.

“Mother.” He greeted her with a kiss to her cheek.

She accepted this mildly and looked to Cora. “Good evening, Cora. Welcome to Timberscombe Park. Mrs. Sims will show you to your room. I’m certain you would like a moment to refresh yourself before supper.”

Cora returned a greeting and accepted the offer. The housekeeper came to collect her and they set off. Devonworth regretted not being able to show her around himself, but he understood that his mother wanted to talk.

“You’re very late,” she said as soon as Cora had disappeared inside. The rest of the servants dispersed to get back to their duties.

“We made a stop.”

The excursion had been a fruitful one. They had toured the hastily built neighborhoods of terraced housing that had been constructed over the past two decades. They were overcrowded and often lacked adequate ventilation. Several families could be found living in one narrow home. Miss Sharma had photographed one of the homes that had recently become vacant. It was a dark and dingy place, and Devonworth couldn’t imagine one family living there, let alone several.

Then they had toured the rubbish heaps that had been relegated to the edge of the small manufacturing town. The smaller ones were piled nearly to his shoulders with discarded household items, scraps, and what smelled like sewage. The sewer system had long been overrun with the rapid population growth. A local authority had been put in charge some years back, but the people they spoke with strongly hinted that corruption had led to funding being diverted. Oversight was badly needed. The bill he was pushing would make certain that happened.

The trip had not only solidified his determination to see it passed, but also today, he had noticed Cora’s resoluteness. She had taken fastidious notes and asked all the right questions. He had expected a shallow wife when he approached her. Someone who was willing to exchange her money for his title. A fair exchange given how his own need for money could be viewed as shallow on its surface. But he had got so much more in the bargain.

Cora was everything he could have asked for in a wife. As the day progressed, he’d found one particular thought nudging at him. He wondered if he might be able to figure out a way to keep her past the two-year deadline she had set.

His mother made a noncommittal hum and turned to go inside. “Let us talk before we eat.”

He rolled his eyes—he smiled as he realized it was a gesture he must have picked up from his wife—and followed her.

They settled in the small drawing room tucked behind the stairs. It had an arched window that overlooked the topiary garden and was a room his mother had claimed as her own years ago. It was where she kept all of her embroidery, her only known hobby besides churning the gossip mill. He loved her dearly because she had always taken care with him and tried to guide him in what was best, but they were not very close. She preferred to keep a distance between them, something he had always assumed he enjoyed as well. Until Cora had made him yearn for more.

“I’ve read the gossip sheets.” She wasted no time in getting right to the point as soon as she sat down.

He took a breath to control his suddenly rising anger and shut the door firmly behind him.

“And?” he asked, but he knew.

“The consummation.”

“That’s old news, Mother.”

She didn’t care for his tone, that much was evident in the look she gave him. “I didn’t see the papers until yesterday, but it’s given me an idea. It’s not too late to get the thing annulled.”

He held up his hand. “It is too late, Mother. You haven’t read the current newspapers. They would have told you it’s all been taken care of.”

She pulled a face and turned her head toward the window.

“You might as well come to terms with this marriage. The new roof is because of this marriage. The fact that our tenants won’t starve, the fact that we can purchase new sheep is because of this marriage. Cora is not so bad. Give her a chance and you’ll see.”

“It’s not Cora. It’s that woman.”

He sighed, resigned. “Fanny Dove.”

“She is making a mockery of us. They say she broke out in song at the Hoffmans’ ball, some bawdy tune I’m sure I cannot repeat. She overly indulged at the Ferguson dinner. She is trading in social favor because of our name, and they are only inviting her to see what spectacle she might pull that night.”

“Well, which is it, Mother? Is it our name or the spectacle she creates that gets her invited to these things?”

Her eyes narrowed. “They say she is Bertie’s mistress.” She whispered the last word.

“The Prince of Wales?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Mother, Bertie isn’t even in town.”

She waved her hand as if that was irrelevant. “They talk and people believe it. That’s all that matters. Our respectability will mean nothing in the face of this . . . this . . . woman.”

He sighed and sat beside her on the sofa. “If our respectable reputation as a family cannot withstand one brash American, then it was a questionable reputation to begin with. This will pass. There will be another marriage next Season and another family to enter the fray. There are more Americans every year.”

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. “There will be more to come from her.”

“That may be, but Cora is my wife and I will stick by her. She has done nothing but support me, and I will do no less for her.”

His mother frowned, but this time she appeared less angry and more intrigued. “You care for her?”

That moment on the train came back to him, bringing with it the tender ache in his throat. He wanted so badly for her to be happy here. “I do.”

“Tread carefully, son. I don’t know what it is, but there is more to that family than we know. Mark my words.”

He wanted to ignore her, but he couldn’t. There was something Cora wasn’t telling him.