Wenna Read online

  “The mothers and daughters.” Her mouth twisted. “I’m not quite ready to confront Mrs. Brook and Miss Patricia.”

  Dev eyed her, appreciating her fine, narrow nose and the elegant curve of her cheekbone. “When the time comes, I’ll do the confronting. You needn’t worry I’ll let them patronize you. I won’t.”

  “Nevertheless, I need more than a week to learn my new place. I spent more than twelve years as a servant.”

  He paused, curious. “How old were you when you started working?”

  “I worked to support myself from the age of thirteen, but I needed to help Mumma after Da died. That was the year before.” She rose to her feet, collecting the dirty plates.

  He followed her into the kitchen. “What did your mother do?”

  “Laundry. Endlessly. I used to do her damping and starching, thinking I was a great help. Looking back, I spent far too much time rattling about with my friends.” She smiled wryly.

  “I’m sure she understood.”

  She nodded. “Too well. She tried to encourage me to better myself.” Turning, she poured a little of the hot water into the sink dish. “Perhaps, if she hadn’t died, all would have gone as she had hoped. But in the end, I achieved the same household position she did.”

  “In which part of Cornwall were you born?”

  “I was born here in South Australia.”

  “I thought you said you wanted to go back home.”

  “Cornwall was Mumma’s home.” She scrubbed the plates. “This land is flat, brown, and ugly. I want to see the beautiful sea mists and the granite cliffs of Cornwall.”

  “How can you say that? Just step outside and you’ll see two contradictions to your words. And as for ugly, we have blue skies, green hills, and—”

  “Brown water.”

  “You’re too hard to please. The weather is perfect—”

  “It never rains. The dust never settles.”

  “Because it doesn’t rain all the time. Our clothes don’t go moldy and nothing smells of decay. The people here are new, too, with fresh ideas and an enthusiasm that you rarely see elsewhere. Here, it doesn’t matter who your parents were—”

  “Unless your mother was the local washer woman,” she said, her tone bitter.

  “That doesn’t matter here.” He took the hot water off the stove. In winter he would want an evening bath, but they would be gone before the worst of the weather. “Where in Cornwall was your mother born?”

  “Near Falmouth, on the Marchester estate. She always worked for the Marchester family. Before she married Da, she was personal maid to Lady Ann, the earl’s second wife.”

  Dev’s breath caught on a lump in his throat. Her mother had been his mother’s maid.

  He took the big pan of water to the bathroom, filling the hipbath halfway. “What about your father?” he called. “What did he do?”

  She came to the door, a dishtowel in her hand. “In Cornwall he ran a small mine. The tin petered out. He heard about the copper here, and he was instantly snatched up as a mine manager. The job was well paid. He and Mumma had great hopes, but he was killed during cave-in.”

  Dev stripped off his shirt, frowning. “Managers work in offices, not mines.”

  “He ran in to help. He saved two lives before he was trapped by another cave-in, a bigger one. Because of his bravery, Mumma and I lost the kindest and nicest man in the world. Our house, too. That was part of his wages.”

  “Weren’t you paid compensation?”

  “We might have, had he been meant to be in the mine, but he only went in because he heard the miners’ cries. Mumma and I ended up with nothing. She couldn’t take a job as a lady’s maid because she had me. Lady’s maids don’t have children. So, she worked as a washerwoman.” She shrugged.

  Dev examined her expression, which had hardened. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “Your Da was a hero. His widow should have been treated better than that.”

  “In Cornwall, she would have been given a pension.”

  “I doubt it. Compensation would be at the owner’s discretion. Did he do nothing at all for you?”

  “We had free housing. Mumma had too much pride to accept anything less than earning her way. If I had been a boy, I could have taken a job in the mine and earned a good wage. But girls have to lower their expectations.” She stood, wiping the cloth over the plate, her gaze idly wandering over his body.

  “Somehow, I don’t think you have ever lowered your expectations.” He stepped out of his pants and into the bath. “I think my father will be very pleased with you, especially when you give me a child.”

  “What if the child is a daughter?”

  “I would prefer a son for my father, but for myself, I’d just as soon have a daughter. Let’s have both, and be off with you, woman. I’ve lingered long enough and now I have to ready myself for a hard day’s work.” He grabbed the soap and didn’t take long to wash and dress.

  For a month now he’d been carrying bricks, mixing mortar, and generally laboring. A day a week playing cricket relaxed him. She didn’t seem to mind being left alone. He had the idea that he’d married extremely well.

  The next week she made an announcement about her monthly days, giving him to understand that he couldn’t touch her during this time. Nevertheless, he held her in his arms at night, appreciating the scent of her skin, appreciating the shape of her, the way she thought and the way she spoke. She was his perfect fit.

  Yet, his father was the earl of Marchester. Her mother was his mother’s maid. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. First he needed to prepare her. He had to stop hiding her, as if he might be ashamed to present her to his friends. She needed to realize she was more than an equal—she was a delight, and she made him proud.

  Chapter 10

  For the week that Wenna insisted she was indisposed, Dev mulled over siring a girl. From a family of boys himself, he hadn’t considered the matter before. He had expected his firstborn to be a son and heir. Naturally, the entail depended on a living male child. Females didn’t inherit earldoms. Despite the fact that he had married and was diligently trying to make a baby, he may well have been wasting his time. Well. Not wasting his time because he enjoyed his wife’s body.

  Then again, no matter the sex of the child, male or female, Dev would be the earl until he died. He would never be able to come back to this country, and he may as well become accustomed to the fact rather than seeking the ins and outs of his situation.

  He pulled out Wenna’s chair, and she seated herself at the usual table in The Pig and Whistle.

  Snow came over, rubbing his hands. “We’ve got a mutton stew tonight with fresh green peas.”

  Wenna smiled at him. “That sounds very nice, Mr. Snow.”

  “We’ll also have a bottle of wine, Snow.”

  Snow grinned at Dev and moved over to the bar to order.

  “You should stick to ale,” Wenna said with a frown. “Wine is expensive.”

  “The Barossa claret, my little miser, is not as costly as the imports.” He leaned back in his seat, eyeing her. “And I’ll spend my money however I wish.”

  Wenna raised her fine red eyebrows. “If you can afford wine, I can afford a new hat.”

  “You appear to have a roomful of new hats.”

  “I have three constantly refurbished hats. None would have cost as much as one of your handkerchiefs.”

  “You can have a new hat any time you like,” he said, annoyed. She looked as smartly dressed tonight as she always did. Instead of the greens redheads usually wore, she stuck to warm colors or black and white. He admired her taste, but her focus on money irritated him.

  “How long do you think the handout you gave me to buy a wedding gown will last when I need to buy food every day?” She straightened her knife and fork.

  “Since you never asked me for money, I assumed you had as much as you needed.”

  “Oh, I’ll never have as much money as I ne
ed.”

  He suppressed the urge to empty his pockets and thump all his spare cash onto the table. This cool, precise redhead was not the patient Jenny of his dreams. Wenna was a constant exciting challenge. She could slay him with a look and cut him down with a word, and the more she nipped at him, the more he had to quell the desire to conquer her.

  The wine arrived. He filled his glass and hers and noticed she matched him sip for sip, which seemed to be a pattern with her. She would never be the sweet submissive guardian of either his excesses or his morals. She challenged him. Nobody knew better than he how much he needed a challenge in his life, and he wanted her in his life forever-more. He would never get enough of her—of her feisty tongue, nor of her passionate lovemaking. Although he’d casually chosen her as his wife, he couldn’t have made a better choice had he considered for years.

  “It’s becoming a chore to keep you hidden away, you know.” He leaned back, watching her reaction while his stew was put in front of him.

  Her head angled to the side, and her lips pursed. “I thought you were quite happy to go to your cricket matches without me.”

  “I am, and I understand why you don’t want to be there, but you’re not the sort of secret I like keeping from my friends.”

  “Which has me wondering about the sort of secret you usually keep from friends.” Her expression neutral, she began eating.

  She had given him the perfect opportunity to explain who he was. His friends from Cambridge knew him as the third son of an earl. As such, he had no title and didn’t stand out from the crowd. He hadn’t apprised anyone of his new situation. As matters were, if Dev told Wenna, he might embarrass her with the knowledge that her mother had been his mother’s maid. She already nipped at him for being a gentleman. Or she might spread the story and embarrass them both.

  He wanted to stay the man he had always been in this country: “one of us.”

  His gaze lifted as he watched his wife eat. Her table manners were impeccable. Being a lady’s maid had shown her how to act like a lady, except in bed, where she’d had no example to follow. His mouth curled with silent appreciation, although he didn’t want to think about her body in public, knowing how his body would react. The novelty of having a desirable woman in his bed each night had certainly not worn off yet.

  He cleared his throat, putting aside her comment. “If you meet my friends before attending a match, you’ll have their undivided attention while I’m on the field.” He tilted his glass. Tonight, he planned to take her until she begged for more. Somehow, he could never get enough of her.

  She glanced away from him and gulped down her drink. “I don’t like this heavy red wine,” she said in a considering voice. “I think I prefer sherry.”

  “You can sip sherry as much as you like. I won’t force you to drink wine. I won’t force you to do a single thing you don’t want to do. Fortunately, you like doing what I like doing most of all.” His gaze caught hers, and he smiled.

  “I have never said I like doing it,” she said, making a hopeless attempt to look scandalized. Instead, she looked amusingly unfocused.

  “Yet you know to what I am referring.”

  “Your mind never leaves the subject, though I don’t understand why you’re in such a rush for a baby. I think we ought to wait until we get to Cornwall.”

  “Speaking of Cornwall.” He tapped his fingers on the starched white tablecloth. “Your mother worked for the countess of Marchester. Did she ever discuss Lady Ann?” He idly twirled his wine by the stem of the thick glass, wondering what she knew about his mother. Servants gossiped about their employers, and if his mother had been having an affair with his brothers’ tutor, her maid would surely know.

  Wenna blinked and frowned, her soft lips pursed. “When Mumma married, she had to leave Lady Ann. She thought it was a shame that married women couldn’t work. I don’t remember her saying anything else. Why do you ask?” Her last few words sounded tangled.

  “Everyone in Cornwall likes to know all they can about everyone else.”

  “I know she was quite sad about leaving Lady Ann.” Her brow wrinkled with concentration. “Lady Ann was the earl’s second wife. He doted on her, according to Mumma, but not enough to keep Mumma on. He thought her first duty was to her husband.”

  “Duty. Earls know all about duty.” He put his empty glass on the table. His mother would have understood the word. The earl’s sons certainly did. Will knew his duty was to learn all about the estate. John knew his duty was to find a respectable profession for himself in the army. Dev, the spare son, had no duties other than to keep himself scarce.

  Naturally, a proud man like his father wouldn’t ever admit he knew Dev wasn’t his son. The earl would pretend forever, but everything Dev did from the time he could remember had been carefully supervised. First his long education at home. Next his stint on John’s inheritance, the home farm, until a scant two years at Cambridge and the two years in France. The earl certainly had suspicions. However, Dev’s far-from-pampered life had toughened him up and led him to find his own place in the world.

  Maisie took the empty plates, and he rose to his feet. He automatically crossed to take Wenna’s chair as she stood. She stumbled slightly and clutched at his arm for balance.

  All the way across the road she clung to him. The wine must have gone straight to her head. Normally, she didn’t reach out for him. As he unlocked the door to the lodgings, she gave him a nose-wrinkled smile, circling her arms around his waist. “I’ve got a falling-down feeling,” she said, pressing her cheek against the back of his jacket.

  “Good. When we’re upstairs, I’ll fall down on top of you.”

  “Why wait until then?”

  He tried to read her expression. “You want me to take you on the stairs?” Turning into her, he lifted one of his hands to each side of her face. “Tempting. But impractical.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “Yes.” He angled a slow kiss on her mouth. “Upstairs.”

  She moved with him into the foyer, but before he could take another step, she nipped at his bottom lip with her teeth.

  He gave her quick kiss and moved her in the direction of the staircase.

  “Here, Devon.”

  “We’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

  She shoved herself out of his grip and leaned against the wall, her face a picture of obstinacy. “Here or nowhere.”

  “The bed’s only a flight of stairs away. I’m not in the habit of rutting on the floor.”

  “Tonight, it’s your only choice.”

  He tried to take her arm, but she swung out of his grip. Although he had no moral objection to tupping his wife on the stairs, he had a real objection to sex on order. “Walk or I’ll carry you.”

  “Interesting.” With a challenging tilt of her chin, she crossed her arms and stood her ground.

  He sighed, lifted her right arm, bent, and swung her across his shoulder. Without too much difficulty and with a lot of regret, he carried her up the stairs. Tonight, instead of making her beg for more of him, he would be treated to a cold back.

  “I’m upside down and the world is spinning,” she said in a sing-song voice. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it.” He dumped her onto the middle of the bed and went back down to the kitchen to pour her a glass of water.

  In the short time he’d been gone, she’d fallen asleep. He sat her up and she blinked fuzzily at him. “Drink this.” Pressing the glass against her lips, he tilted. With no other choice, she swallowed.

  “I used to think you were kind.” She coughed as the last mouthful trickled from the corners of her lips.

  Without answering, he undressed her and slipped her between the sheets. He didn’t know what had possessed him to let her drink half a bottle of wine. Even he, used to the stuff, obtained a faint pleasant glow from that amount. He lay awake for a while, arms behind his head, finally acknowledging that
he needed to take better care of her.

  Her wellbeing had grown rather more important to him than he had expected.

  * * * *

  Gentle hands smeared across Wenna’s wet face, drying her tears. She’d been dreaming and now half awake, she tried to remember. What? Green fields. Flowers. Two people beckoning her. She should go.

  She snuggled into a warm chest. Lips pressed on her eyelids and a bristled chin rubbed against her cheek. Loved and comforted, she slept again.

  In the morning, she awoke with a slash of pain behind her eyes and a dry mouth. She didn’t want to get out of bed, but Devon would be out running now, and afterward he would go off to his laboring job. As soon as he left, she would prepare her tools for the day, and trudge down the street for her appointments in the back room of a hat shop—if the dull thud inside her head would let her stand.

  For the past month, she’d earned a wage not only for herself, but also for Maisie, who would soon leave her job as a waitress and take on styling full time. Mr. Snow approved. He liked the new respectability of ushering smart women through his establishment.

  With little enthusiasm, she wandered downstairs to prepare breakfast. Her head pounded. Despite her distaste for wine, she’d foolishly matched Devon drink for drink. No inducement in the world would encourage her to drink wine again. Why on earth she couldn’t behave as her husband expected a lady to behave she didn’t know. Or perhaps she did. For reasons she suspected, but tried to keep out of her mind, she wanted him to see the real her, not the impressionable maid he thought he had married. In the time they’d been together, she’d learned to respect him. He didn’t have the same respect for her, though he could certainly be kind. Sometime soon she would have to tell him about the money she earned, but she knew without being told that he would put a stop to her activities.

  Nothing could be surer than he wouldn’t want to introduce his wife to his rich friends as a working woman, but if he wanted to get ahead, he needed her money. At this stage, although he worked as a laborer, having a gentleman farmer as a father put him a step or two above her on the social scale. A step or two was not as lofty as she’d supposed. Before her father had died, he and her mother had mingled with the newly rich and the mine owners. Wenna’s childhood friends had been the sons and daughters of the wealthy. Da’s death had brought her mother down a peg or three on the social scale, but Wenna had reason to assume that her background didn’t make her entirely unacceptable to the gentry.