Alexander felt the awkwardness of his situation. “I cannot in all conscience make grandiose plans for the spending of your money, Wren,” he said.

“But it is our money now,” she told him. “Not mine, not yours, but ours. We must always decide together what ought to be done—at Brambledean, at Withington, at Riddings Park, at the Staffordshire house, even at the glassworks if you are prepared to take an interest in it. I shall feel uncomfortable about the money if you do, Alexander. I hope you will not. We are us now.”

“It sounds ungrammatical,” he said at the same time as he was jolted by the idea of it—we are us now. “But I shall try. It will take a little getting used to, though. I have stood alone since my father’s death and managed my own affairs. In the normal course of things, I would have continued to do so after my marriage, and I would have provided for my wife too.”

“Then our marriage will be good for you,” she said briskly. “It will be a necessary lesson in humility. I need to have a say in all the decision making, Alexander, not because the money has come from me—I wish it could be otherwise—but because I want to be involved and like and need to be involved. I am not anyone’s idea of a typical lady, as you may have noticed. I can work cooperatively with other people. I did it with my uncle, especially during the last few years of his life when he was a bit weary. We worked together, and it worked well—is that a pun?”

“Probably,” he said. “Very well, then, let’s talk about Brambledean. Everything hinges upon the farms, Wren. Without them, the estate cannot prosper and we cannot prosper. Poor us, one might say, when we have all our other properties and sources of income. But there are many people dependent upon me—upon us. And it is for their sakes that the farms need to be made prosperous.”

“Then give me your ideas on what needs to be done first,” she said. “I know very little about either farming or the running of a vast estate, but I will learn. Be my teacher.”

And they talked and planned for a whole hour—dry, dull stuff that would have driven most brides into hysterics or a coma on their wedding day. She listened, sitting back in her chair, her arms folded beneath her bosom, her head tipped slightly to one side. And occasionally she spoke, either with a pertinent question or with an intelligent comment or suggestion. It was like talking to another man, he thought as he relaxed back in his chair—until he caught himself in the thought and was very glad he had not said it aloud. She was nothing like a man, except perhaps in her willingness to use her mind to its full capacity without fear of being considered unfeminine.

She was very feminine actually. There was something surprisingly appealing—sexually, that was—about a woman who demanded to be taken seriously as a whole person. Though whether that was deliberate on her part, he did not know. He would guess not.

Their discussion came to an end when Lifford brought in the tea tray and lit the candles and drew the curtains to shut out the heavy dusk of evening. They talked on more general topics after that until the conversation lagged as they finished their tea.

“I get security with my marriage,” he said at last, “and the wherewithal to repair the neglect of decades to what I have inherited. And an intelligent wife with a good business head. What do you get in exchange, Wren?” He wished he could rephrase his words as soon as they had been spoken. An intelligent wife with a good business head. It was hardly a complimentary way to describe one’s bride on her wedding day.

“Marriage,” she said without hesitation, her head tipped slightly to one side. “It is what I wanted, remember? It is why I invited you to Withington.”

“I passed the tests you set me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

It was impossible to know what else lay beyond the simple answer. Was marriage the be-all and end-all to her? The security of being a wife, of having a shared home and a family? Sex? He knew that was part of it. She had admitted it in so many words before they ever came to London. It was impossible to know what her feelings were for him, and he could not ask, because she might ask the same question of him, and he did not know how he would answer. He did not know the answer. Liking, respect, even admiration did not seem enough.

“Are you ready for bed?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

The final chapter of their wedding day still had to be written. He got to his feet and offered his hand. She took it, and he drew her arm through his when she was on her feet. They proceeded upstairs without speaking and stopped outside her new dressing room, which was beside his and linked to it, her new bedchamber on the other side of it.

“I will come to you in half an hour if I may,” he said.

“Yes.”

He took her hand in his and held it to his lips before opening the door and then closing it behind her.

No, he did not know how he felt about her. Perhaps it did not matter if he could not find the appropriate word. She was his bride. That was really all that mattered tonight.

Fifteen

Maude helped Wren out of her dress and took the pins from her hair while telling her that her aunt would be the happiest woman in the world today if she were still alive.

“Well, the second happiest woman, I suppose I mean,” she added. “I suppose you are the happiest. And I am the third happiest, though since she is not alive, God rest her soul, I daresay I am the second.”

Wren laughed, wiped away a few tears, and hugged her startled maid before dismissing her. She donned her nightgown, a new one of fine linen Elizabeth had helped her select, and brushed her hair until it shone. Then she waited in the bedchamber to which her belongings had been moved this morning after she left for church. It was a lovely room, large and square and high ceilinged and decorated tastefully in various shades of fawn and ecru and cream and gold. It did not look down upon the garden at the back of the house, as her other room did, but upon the street at the front. It was a pleasant view nevertheless. Even an urban scene could have its charm—just as an industrial workshop could. Beauty came in many forms.

She was not nervous. Perhaps she ought to be. A typical lady would have been, she supposed. But she was filled with elation and expectation. She could hardly wait. And even as she was thinking it there was a light tap on her dressing room door. She had left it ajar, and Alexander came into her room without waiting for her summons. He had looked splendidly handsome in his black-and-white wedding clothes with a silver embroidered waistcoat and lace at his neck and wrists. He looked no less so now in a wine-colored brocaded dressing gown and slippers. It was certainly obvious that the breadth of his shoulders and chest owed nothing to padding.

He looked around the room. “I have never been in here before,” he said. “It is lovely, is it not?”

“It is,” she agreed.

“It is a great pity,” he said, “that my predecessor, the beloved Humphrey, did not lavish the same care upon Brambledean as he did upon Westcott House.”

“Ah,” she said, “but then he would have deprived us of the pleasure of re-creating it for ourselves.”

His eyes came back to her. “That is a striking thought,” he said. “So I may remember the late Earl of Riverdale with some fondness after all, may I? Ah, Wren, I have wondered how long it is.” He was moving toward her.

“My hair?” It was thick and almost straight and nearly waist length and a rich chestnut brown. She had always thought it her best feature.