Chapter 5

There was a surprisingly large amount of tea in the cup Adelaide slid onto the table, considering the fact that she’d tilted the cup to her lips nine times. Trent knew. He’d been counting.

She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. “I suppose I’ll go up to my room.”

Trent nodded, but Adelaide didn’t move from her perch on the edge of the settee. He looked up from his teacup and frowned. Was her glove inside out? He was sure it hadn’t been that way during the wedding.

Adelaide shifted on the settee and wrapped her arms around her middle as if she were trying to shrink into the very fabric of the furniture.

What was wrong? Trent’s gaze flew over the tea service. It wasn’t the most elaborate spread, but given that they’d been traveling all day it seemed adequate. On days when Trent had been boxing or riding all afternoon Mrs. Harris brought out cold meat and bread with the evening tea. Perhaps traveling was more strenuous for a woman than it was for him. “Are you still hungry? I can have something more substantial sent up from the kitchens.”

“What? Oh, no. It’s not that. I . . . well, I don’t know where my room is.”

Her voice was so quiet he almost couldn’t hear what she said, and then he wished he hadn’t because her words made him feel like the veriest dolt. Of course she didn’t know where her room was. She’d barely seen more than the front hall.

He cleared his throat and set his teacup back on the tray. “It’s not that late, yet. Would you like a tour of the—”

“Yes, please.”

Trent chuckled at how fast she’d jumped at his offer. It reminded him of the day he’d taken up residence in the house two years prior. He’d spent the entire first day wandering room to room, trying to adjust to the fact that it was all his now. Granted some of the furniture was shabby and very little of the decor was in the current fashions, but it was his, and that had made him feel like a proper adult for the first time. He’d even set up a study. Not that he did much more than answer correspondence in it, but still, he had one.

He rose, surprised to find his hands were a bit sweaty at the prospect of showing his new bride around the house. What if she didn’t like it? Perhaps he should have spent the last three weeks in London fixing up the house. No, she’d probably want to decorate everything herself anyway. His mother always did. Not to mention there wasn’t much he’d have been able to do sitting on a sofa with his ankle propped up.

“Obviously, this is the drawing room.” He swung his arm in a wide arc, indicating the room they were occupying. As her head swiveled to take in the faded green silk wall coverings, he tried to surreptitiously wipe his hands on his trousers before offering her his arm.

“It’s very . . . green.”

Trent laughed. “It’s at least a decade past needing redecorating. You can take care of that, if you wish. I’ve never had much use for the room before, so I’ve left it as it was when I acquired the house.”

“It’s a very nice place for a bachelor.” She stood and slid her hand into his elbow.

“I know. Griffith inherited it, and since he didn’t need two homes in London, he gave this one to me.” There was more to the story than that, of course, but it all seemed like a bit much to get into with Adelaide right now, so he left it alone.

His wife blinked up at him. “That was very . . . nice . . . of him.”

Wasn’t that the kind of things families did for each other? In his experience it was, but the older he got the more he realized that his family might not fit in with the aristocratic norm. Or any norm for that matter. “Yes, it was.”

He cleared his throat, wondering how to explain his family to Adelaide or if he even needed to. She’d discover it on her own soon enough. His mother and sisters would shower her with more affection than she could handle. Once he got around to telling them he’d gotten married. “The dining room is through here.”

On and on the tour went. It wasn’t an especially large house, but many of the upper rooms had been closed up for several years. “I’m not sure what this set of rooms is supposed to be, but you can turn it into whatever you wish.”

Adelaide, who had been smiling softly through most of the tour, suddenly dropped her gaze to the floor and turned bright red. “I believe it’s the nursery.”

Trent looked around. This couldn’t be the nursery. It was too stark. Not a single thing about the room looked like a child had ever lived in it. “We’ll have to do some extensive renovations up here, then. I remember the Hawthorne nursery as a bright and cheerful place. I’ll want the same for my children.” He darted a quick look at the woman who was now destined to bear those children. “I mean, our children.”

“Perhaps we could find my room now?”

The small, quiet voice was back. She’d almost begun to joke with him as the tour progressed, and one awkward conversation had her pulling back into herself. Trent didn’t know how to handle that, having grown up around women who were more than willing to make their presence and their opinions known. Of course, they’d done so in the most polite and ladylike way possible. His mother would have had it no other way.

His mother would also not have him staring stupidly at his wife after she’d made a request.

“Of course. Your room.” He took her down a flight of steps and escorted her into the small parlor shared by their bedrooms.

“My room is through there.” Trent pointed to his door. “Yours is here.”

“Thank you.” She paused at the door to her room. “Is there, I mean, I . . . good night, er, for now . . . that is . . . I . . .”

Before Trent could make sense of the jumbled words spilling from her mouth, she’d jerked the door open and slipped inside, shutting it just as quickly.

Even if Gentleman Jack himself beat him to a bloody pulp, Trent still wouldn’t admit it out loud . . . but he’d been looking forward to marriage for a long time. He leaned back in the leather wingback in his study and crossed his extended legs at the booted ankles, wondering how things had gotten so messed up and what on earth he was supposed to do to put them right again. True, he’d never sat around with other men at the club chatting about what he hoped his future wife would be like, but he’d spent more than one evening in the same position he was in now, imagining her. Not necessarily of her appearance—he’d never been infatuated with one woman enough to picture her in the role—but of their life together.

Never did those imaginings begin with his wife being a stranger from a family he could barely tolerate. They had never included the uncertainty of whether he would ever learn to like his wife, much less love her. His wildest scenarios had never included him wondering if people would think it anything other than a love match, or if anyone would have the gall to ask him how he felt about the pairing.

And they had certainly never included him sitting restlessly in his study on his wedding night.

He shifted his shoulders against the dark leather, trying to find a more comfortable position in the massive Chippendale wingback. His best thinking was usually done in his father’s old bergère chair, but he hadn’t lasted five minutes in that chair before retreating to this one. His father’s chair, situated as it was in Trent’s bedchamber, was entirely too close to the problem to allow for proper consideration of the issue. A mere six steps from the door connecting his room directly to Adelaide’s. He’d counted, twice, before bursting through the door to the sitting room and retreating to his study.

This was the real reason he’d wanted to get to London tonight. Here, in his own home, with servants he trusted and surroundings he was comfortable with, he could acknowledge something he’d been worrying about since the engagement had been officially announced. Upstairs, in a room that hadn’t been used since he took up residence, slept a woman. Well, he assumed she slept. He didn’t really know because she was up there and he was down here. It had been more than two hours since she’d closed her bedroom door. He really hoped she wasn’t still waiting on him.

Unlike a lot of the boys he’d gone to school with and the men he encountered at his athletic clubs, Trent hadn’t yet participated in the physical side of romantic relations. Griffith had always frowned at the boys swaggering into the room with smug smiles on their faces, getting congratulatory elbow nudges and knowing laughs. His opinion had been that he had no right to expect something of his wife that he didn’t expect of himself, and if waiting weren’t a feasible thing for a man to do, the Bible would never have indicated they should. Trent thought those rather profound and true statements, so he waited. It hadn’t always been easy, but he’d waited.

And now he was married.

He had the wife upstairs to prove it. Well, legally anyway.

But he didn’t feel married, and that was the thing that had driven him downstairs when his normal place of pondering was in direct view of the door connecting his room to hers. After years of building walls around his natural urges and convincing himself to ignore conversations that exhibited the difference of popular opinion, he’d finally gotten his body to align with his mind on the subject. But now they were in a state of disagreement again. His mind knew there was a wife upstairs, one who’d been raised to see marriage as a duty. She wouldn’t understand why he was down here swirling a glass of untouched brandy instead of knocking on her door in his dressing gown.

Part of him didn’t understand it either.

But the fact remained that he’d convinced himself to wait until he was married, to have his wife be the only woman he ever touched. And he’d always pictured that wife as someone he chose, someone he loved, someone he was eager to start a family and build a life with. Instead he was married to Adelaide Bell, and he didn’t love her. He didn’t even know her aside from the fact that she wore spectacles and didn’t like carrots.

He’d always thought he’d know his wife a bit better than that.

What if she wasn’t asleep? Should he send word? What would he even say? There wasn’t a way to word such a message that wasn’t cold, insulting, or both. He’d been counting on her to quietly fall asleep while waiting for him in the bed.

That would save all of the awkwardness for the morning breakfast table.

Trent frowned. Was this marriage going to ruin every breakfast for the rest of his life?

Nothing could be done about tomorrow’s breakfast, but something had to be done to salvage the rest of them.

Tomorrow they would do whatever married people did—well, whatever they did during the day. He’d been fairly young when his father died, so his remembrances of his mother and father together were dim and colored by the mind of a child. Adelaide’s parents, however, were still alive. And while it irked him to model anything in his life after something Lady Crampton did, the truth was that she and Lord Crampton seemed to rub along well enough. Adelaide would know what married people did. He could simply follow her lead.

Once they acted like a married couple, he’d feel like part of a married couple, and then the idea of knocking on the connecting door wouldn’t make him feel so guilty. The whole process shouldn’t take more than a few days, a couple of weeks at the most.

Trent lifted the glass to his lips but never tipped it to drink. There was only one problem with his plan of action. How in the world was he going to explain it to Adelaide?