Bartered Bride Romance Collection (79 page)

She sneaked a peek at her husband—
her husband!
—to find him staring bleakly out the window, resignation dulling his gaze, tension tightening his strong jaw and forcing his posture to be rigid. He had the look of a man on his way to the gallows. And the same noose he faced threatened to strangle her as well.

“Cap—Gregory?” she ventured, her voice sounding small and hesitant to her own ears. “I was wondering …” Her boldness abandoned her and left the question unspoken. Would he elect to have a wedding night, after all? And how could she tell him she’d had no motherly advice … that their aunt had passed down marital wisdom solely to Tabitha. Libby had no idea what she was supposed to say to her husband, and her heart broke at the thought he might bed her while wishing for her sister instead—as he’d done during their wedding that day. Would she ever be more than a weak shadow of her sister to the man she loved?

“Yes?” He turned to her, inclining his head as though encouraging her to speak. As though grateful she was making an attempt to ease the horrible weight of their mutual silence.

“I wondered if”—her courage fled immediately, leaving a spineless heap on the carriage seat—“if there was anything you wanted to tell me about the house. Servants’ names, the way you want things run, your favorite dishes, and so on.” She finished her question too brightly, striving to push aside her discomfort.

Of all the things … I know his favorite dishes. I ask Cook to make at least one of them whenever I know Captain Royce is coming to dinner. After all this time, it was a foolish question. Just look at that gleam in his eye … the faraway glint that says more clearly than words that he’s drawing away. The regret painting his features as he sees the bride he’s bought
.

“Jenson is the butler, Mrs. Farley the housekeeper, Mrs. Rowins the cook. There are three maids—Daisy, Rachel, and Grace.” He rattled off the names by rote, obviously uninterested, while Libby struggled to remember them. It might not be important to him, but it was imperative she, as new mistress of the house, get on well with the staff. “Larken is the stable master, and Mr. Barnett is overseeing the construction of the additions. That should be about all you need to know.”

“The additions?” She closed her eyes, suddenly remembering Gregory’s long, enthusiastic descriptions of the house he was building for Tabitha. She’d forgotten in the press of the wedding and the prospect of marriage itself that she’d be living not only with a man who loved her sister, but also in the house he’d designed and built for her. She’d stepped into Tabitha’s life.

“The house is not finished, yet.” If his terse answer hadn’t conveyed the message clearly enough, his pointed return to staring out the window of the carriage certainly did. The conversation was closed … and so, Libby imagined, was his heart.

Stop it, stop it, stop it!
She chastened herself.
You decided to marry him so you could make his life as good as possible—to make up for Tabitha’s desertion, to show your own love of him. You can’t go thinking maudlin thoughts and being selfish. Someone has to be strong enough to work at this marriage, and it’s only fair that that someone be you!

Having given herself that encouraging, albeit silent, speech, Libby straightened her spine and resolved to make Gregory’s house … no,
their
house—a showplace of her love. She would give it her time, her attention, and her focus, and as she worked to make his life comfortable, he’d become comfortable with her. He’d come to appreciate her efforts, and in time, maybe he’d look on her with something more….

Please, God
, she prayed.
I know I’ve no reason to expect it, perhaps no right to ask that he return my feelings in some small measure as time passes, but I have to try. After my selfishness, my envy of my sister’s fiancé, and the way it’s all turned out, it’s the least I can do
.

Gregory sucked in a breath as Cranberry Hill came into view, his chest tightening—not with pride, but regret. Tonight he brought his bride home … but it wasn’t the bride he’d planned on, and without Tabitha, Cranberry Hill would never be the home he’d envisioned either.

As they ascended the hill, Gregory’s heart sank. There, its Greek Revival architecture silhouetted by the pale moon, Cranberry Hill waited. What had seemed full of promise—a foundation for the future—now seemed stark and bare, cold and forbidding. The glassless windows he’d planned to fill with stained glass chosen with Tabitha now gaped as blind eyes. The sharp corners of the house, which he’d hoped to soften with wraparound porches where he and his bride could sit together in the evening, now gleamed with warning. The house seemed exposed as no more than dangerous angles and barren edges by the lack of trees and flowers, hedges and garden paths he’d thought Tabitha would love to create.

Gregory turned away from the sight of the house he’d loved, seeking solace from the crowding thoughts of loss. He looked up only to be confronted once again with the visage of his bride. No matter where he looked, all he could see was what he was missing. Everything had become a dark reminder of Tabitha’s betrayal and the mockery she’d made of Cranberry Hill—of him.

Libby barely had time to nod at the servants assembled in the great hall before the housekeeper whisked her up to her suite of rooms. As she passed through the corridors, Libby managed to register how, though the house stood empty for the most part, its construction had been seen to with loving detail. Every glance showed luxurious spaces, large windows that would allow daylight to pour into the house. It was a house waiting for its mistress to fill it with warmth and family—waiting for her to make it a home.

And I will
, she promised herself.
Carpets, furnishings, draperies, windows, trees outside…. There’s much to be done. And every project I accomplish, every little thing I add, will proclaim that this house belongs to Gregory and me. I will make my mark on this house as I will make my mark in his life. With God’s help and a little determination, I can make this marriage work
.

“This is the master bedroom,” Mrs. Farley declared proudly, making a sweeping motion to encompass the impressive sight.

“Oh,” Libby breathed. This room was a dream sprung to vivid life, and she was careful to take in only portions of it at once lest she be overwhelmed. Gregory had seen to every detail, from the silk wall hangings in rich cream to the plush carpeting in deep blue and the heavy oak armoire claiming the corner near a cozy stone fireplace. Before the fireplace sat two wingback chairs, turned toward one another as though inviting the master and lady of the house to relax beside the fire. Libby’s gaze followed the graceful lines of the tall chairs and beyond … and she caught her breath. There, against the back wall, protruding into the middle of the room, stood the bed. Mammoth, hewn of the same beautiful oak as the armoire and sporting a carved headboard and four posts, it seemed to fill the entire room, though Libby could see a settee in the rounded corner beyond. The blue silk canopy matched the cream-and-blue patterned coverlet and plump pillows. Without a doubt, the bed was the focus of the room … and it rapidly became the focus of her thoughts as well.

The master bedroom—his bedroom. The room I’m to share with him. Tonight
. Libby closed her eyes against a surge of apprehension. When she opened them, she realized that Mrs. Farley had begun speaking once more.

“The master bath is through the door beside the armoire, here.” She pushed open the door to give Libby a glimpse inside.

She caught the impression of sparkling white tiles and gold-finished fixtures as Mrs. Farley turned a knob and added fresh water to the already steaming claw-foot tub.

“We thought you might like a bath.” The housekeeper’s ears turned red. “A nice, warm soak to relax you and make you comfortable-like. Master Royce went to the study, so you’ll have some time to yourself….”

“Thank you.” Libby gave a short nod, and the woman bustled out of the bathroom.

“Daisy put your things in the armoire and dresser when they was sent over, so you should have all you need. And if you want anything, just use the bellpull and one of us will come straightaway.” The woman folded her hands in front of her apron. “And when you and the master ring for breakfast in the morning, we’ll bring in a tray of fruit and muffins and eggs and such. Master Royce prefers coffee, but do you have a liking for chocolate instead?”

“Yes, please.” And with that, the woman left Libby to prepare for the night ahead.

Chapter 3

W
ith nothing better to do, Libby gave in to the lure of the hot bath, luxuriating in the water until it finally began to cool. She pulled the drain, wrapped herself in a fluffy blue towel, and peeked around the door to see whether or not Gregory had come to her. What she’d do if he had, she couldn’t say. He hadn’t, so she tiptoed to the dresser, searching through the drawers until she came to one filled with familiar, soft flannel nightdresses. She donned one, dismayed to find it was not loose or comfortable, as a nightdress should be, but close-fitting, stretched across her chest and hips in a way that left her feeling exposed. Libby drew it off, quickly grabbing another only to encounter the same problem. The truth of the situation hit her.

These aren’t mine
. Everything in the room belonged to Tabby. When Mrs. Farley said the maids had put away the clothes she’d sent over, she assumed her things had been brought. Instead, she found the garments she’d lovingly packed and sent for her sister two days ago—before everything changed.

Libby carefully folded the first nightgown and laid it back in the drawer before wandering toward the fire and collapsing into one of the overstuffed wingback chairs.
Here I am, in Tabby’s nightdress, in the room Gregory decorated for my sister, in the home he built for her, and all I can do is wait
. And so, she sat and tried to distract her thoughts from why Gregory wasn’t with her yet.

And she waited.

Gregory glowered at the ledger spread before him on the desk in his study. He stared, unseeing, but knowing what it said by memory alone. Neat columns listed dates, prices paid, and shipping arrangements for lumber, tile, railing, cement, windowpanes, shutters, columns, cornices, bricks, and stone—everything required to build the house in which he now sat. A record of how he’d spent his time and money for the past year, preparing for what would never be.