He had no idea if it was a pleasure for her too. She always lay quietly beneath him, her body warm and relaxed and moist within, prepared to welcome him. But her arms almost always came about him when he was on her, the fingers of one hand running lightly over the worst of his scars, the saber cut that had almost severed both his arm and his shoulder after first opening up his face. She never commented on the ugliness of it, though she had seen it in the mornings when he got up from her bed, naked, as he always slept. His body was not a pretty sight, he knew. She never flinched from it, though.
He had the feeling she was going to be a good wife. She would probably be a good mother too. He was not sure if he was more pleased than annoyed. His whole life felt . . . invaded.
And his very identity had changed yet again. Earl of Berwick five years ago when his father died suddenly while Ralph was still at Penderris; now Duke of Worthingham. And a married man.
He sometimes wondered where Ralph Stockwood had gone, if anywhere. Perhaps he was still there, lurking and lowering somewhere deep inside. But he was not sure he wanted to search for him. Sometimes sleeping dogs really were best left lying.
9
Chloe was kept very busy during the days following the old duke’s passing and had little time to reflect upon the trials that were facing her, though they were many. Even the original situation had been daunting enough, when she was merely the new Countess of Berwick and had only to face her own relatives and in-laws with the fact of her sudden marriage.
Merely. And only.
Now, in addition, she was the Duchess of Worthingham and must welcome to her home—and yes, that really was Manville Court, no longer the far more modest Elmwood Manor—as many relatives and as many of the crème de la crème of society as cared to make the journey into Sussex for the funeral. Ralph and his grandmother believed that a large number of people would wish to pay their last respects.
These were the same people who had turned their collective back upon Chloe six years ago after Lucy had run away with Mr. Nelson and again last year when it had become painfully apparent that she, Chloe Muirhead, bore a striking resemblance to the daughter of a man once a beau of her mother’s.
She had little time during those days to reflect upon the state of her marriage, which was, admittedly, in its very early stages and was progressing under very different circumstances from what either of them had anticipated. She did not know if her husband liked her or not. She did not know whether she liked him. She supposed it did not matter much either way, though. They were married and would just have to make the best of it. It was not as though either of them had any romantic illusions.
The days were difficult. She threw herself into her new role because she knew she was needed and because she knew too she must begin as she meant to go on—a false step now might forever alienate her servants and mar future relations with her neighbors. But she felt like a usurper, especially as the dowager duchess was still very much in residence. And Ralph seemed to resent her energy and efficiency because, she suspected, he had never had to share leadership with anyone. Not that he ever complained. On the contrary, he frequently thanked her and even complimented her, but he did so in a stiff, cool manner that suggested what he would really like to do was snarl at her at the very least. And she resented his resentment, for she believed he would despise her if she settled into being the timid mouse of a wife he had probably expected.
The whole point of her wishing to be married had been that she would never again have to efface herself and pretend to be placid and bland. Provided she did not have to face the beau monde again, that was. Yet that was precisely what was about to happen, albeit in a limited way. Oh, life was not easy. And what an earth-shatteringly original observation that was.
But she had to admit to herself that the nights made up for the trials of the days. She liked his regular, dispassionate lovemaking, for want of a more appropriate word. She liked it very much indeed and tried her very best not to want more—fond words and tender touches, for example, and . . . Well, and a great deal more to which she could not even put a name because of her lamentable inexperience. But none of that, whatever it was, was a part of their bargain. Indeed, their very absence was a part of it.
No emotional ties.
The Dowager Countess of Berwick, Ralph’s mother, arrived two days before the funeral in company with Viscount Keilly and his wife, Nora, Ralph’s youngest sister. Ralph went downstairs to meet the carriage as soon as he was made aware of its approach, and Chloe proceeded more slowly behind, his grandmother leaning heavily on her arm. The travelers were out of the carriage and standing on the terrace by the time the two of them emerged from the house and descended the steps. The younger lady was in Ralph’s arms, sobbing against his shoulder. The older lady came hurrying across the terrace to hug the dowager and express her sorrow.
Chloe took a step back and clasped her hands at her waist—like the perfect companion, she thought, fading into the background—and wished fervently that that was just what she was.
The gentleman was shaking hands with Ralph and offering words of sympathy.
And then they all seemed to be finished at the same time with that first outpouring of grief and mutual condolences. Everyone turned in a body to look at her. Her first foolish thought was that she was very thankful Miss Rush really was a skilled seamstress and that she worked fast and efficiently. Chloe was wearing a simply designed but well-fitting black dress that covered her from the neck to the wrists to the ankles. She had brushed her hair smooth over her head and dressed it in a tight coil of braids at her neck. It was the best she could do to subdue the inappropriate brightness of its color. She probably looked even more like someone’s governess than she did a duchess’s companion.