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The decision was out of Dara’s hands. Three months later, after four brief visits to Lord Coleman’s house at Willowby, she had been successfully cajoled by her sisters, bullied by her father, and pleaded with by her
mother. The wedding was witnessed by her parents and her eldest sister, who wolfed down the banquet, then hastily retreated into the carriage with the earl. The wedding disappointed Dara, but not as much as her husband’s frequent absences. Another night of loneliness followed the wedding night and the white shift remained untouched by him. The third night, she could not be bothered to wear it.
A week after the wedding, Dara was still a virgin.
Lord Coleman called upon her in the morning room. “I am away for a week. Business in London.” He frowned. “Make yourself useful about the house. The ledgers are dire. The housekeeper cannot do numbers.”
Neither could Dara, but she kept quiet. Her forte was words, but it seemed Lord Coleman was not interested in hearing her speak or read to him. A man her father would greatly, and probably did, admire.
She cried into a cushion. Her maid, Estelle, handed her a handkerchief. “He’s having a difficult time with tenants, I believe.”
“And with me, it seems. He hates me. He can’t bear to touch me. One kiss on the cheek at bedtime. He didn’t even grace me with a kiss on my lips in the church.”
“Romantic twaddle,” Estelle said. “No man kisses a woman in a church.”
Dara hurried out of the room and threw her slender weight on the bed. Was she ugly? Her hair suffered with knots and was not happy being tamed. Her legs were perhaps too long. As for her nose, she was blessed with a straight one with an end fashioned like a button. Her ears were even and tucked out of sight by the bonnets she wore. Her stomach was flat, as her mother once noted with envy. Her ankles dainty. What was wrong with her?
His servants were unhelpful with her questions. His lordship was the only son of the first Lord Coleman, a brilliant statesman and soldier, who lived most of his life abroad and died suddenly of the ague. Coleman’s mother had remarried and vanished from her son’s life. Left to his own devices, his lordship had adopted a solitary style of living with a minimal household. As well as the butler and housekeeper, there were five manservants, two maids, a cook and kitchen help, the stable hands, and a gamekeeper. Everyone had their place and allotted tasks and had little time to gossip with his lordship’s new wife.
She embroidered. It was very boring.
A week later, he returned. She greeted him with a curtsy, and he pecked her cheek.
“I have made some purchases for you.” He waved over his travelling companion, a man who said nothing. The servant carried a box, which he placed on a table.
Dara unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a silk dress woven into a colourful floral pattern.
“The latest fashion,” Lord Coleman said with a smile. “The queen wears cloth like this.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Oh, and these too.” He removed a small pouch of velvet from his pocket. He tipped the contents onto his gloved palm. The little stones twinkled in the candlelight. “Gems, a mixture. I thought you could have them made into a necklace of your choosing. My dear,” he added, as if the endearment came late to his mind. “I know I’ve not been much company, and I must confess I might have to leave soon, but it is not my intention to ignore you. I wish you to know that I care about you, and that when the time is right, we will make fine children, and raise them together. But not yet. I fear my travels will increase in the coming months.”
She took the colourful gems from him. They were beautiful and valuable. She clutched them to her chest. For now, it seemed this was all he could give her. It was not enough, and he must know it was unsatisfactory. However, she smiled, and thanked him again in her sweetest voice.
He did not come to her bed that night. But at least she knew why. Miss Bramhall had warned Dara about making of babies and how it might happen as a consequence of one night with a man. She could not hide her disappointment from him at breakfast. He frowned at her scowl.
“Patience. Was that not a virtue your mother taught you, Dara?” he asked.
“Sadly, her measure of it is too great for me. I would ask when you will be ready to visit me at night, husband,” she said with greater emphasis.
He put down his fork. “When the matters of my business affairs are complete. Do not cause a rift between us. The habits of the night are only one aspect of marriage. You must learn the others too. Obedience. Respect.”
“And love?”
“Is for lovers. As you will come to appreciate, there is more than one way to be a lover. I shall be away for three months—”
“What!”
He glowered. “Three months in Europe. In that time, I expect you to have mastered the accounts of this house, arranged for new carpets in the drawing room and library, had the silver polished, the chandeliers cleaned...” The list was comprehensive, and she listened with her mouth hung open.
“And if I refuse to do any of this?”
“You, my dear, won’t be doing any of it, as the servants shall. But you will be responsible for ensuring they do so in a timely and thorough way, or I can assure you, I shall deal with your failures thoroughly.” The stern tone in his voice was a mirror of her father’s.
Dara snapped her mouth shut.
The carriage was laden with boxes. He took his faithful manservant and chief mastiff with him. The kiss he offered her was perfunctory, it lasted no more than the briefest second. She shivered in the cold air. The horses neighed, pulling on their harnesses. When the carriage disappeared at the end of the drive, she spun on her heel and ran indoors, weeping hot tears.
