to consummate their marriage last night, and his behavior this morning was hardly encouraging.
She couldn’t very well broach either subject with him now. Not when he’d gone out—to spend money, or so he’d claimed. Drat the man, and how were they to make any headway in this marriage or Battencliffe’s finances if he didn’t stay home and sort through them with her?
I have faith in you. I’ve taught you all I’ve learned.
Her father’s words floated through her mind. “Papa, where does your confidence in me come from?”
A throbbing started behind her left eye. She rammed the heel of her hand into her temple, but to no avail. The pulse continued its merciless rhythm. She contemplated the decanter of brandy. Less than half full, which meant her husband had likely helped himself to it last night. At any rate, she wasn’t at all sure she could stand such strong stuff. Not when her palate was more accustomed to the subtleties of fine wine.
A constitutional might serve her better, but one look out the window showed rain pounding down in sheets—which no doubt meant her husband wasn’t about to return any time soon.
Miss Conklin would have prescribed a nap. As much as Emma hated to lend credence to her former teacher’s notions of what was ladylike, this one might do her some good. So she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, but in the sitting room, she paused.
The journal lay on the writing desk, its bright red cover nearly mocking her with its cheery color. If Battencliffe had been friends with Lydia’s husband, there might be some indication of whatever Cecelia had been hinting at between those pages.
Emma might take a look, and then she’d know.
You’re here to set the man’s finances in order.
Simple, easy, emotionless. Prying into the man’s past might imply a sentimental attachment, and her marriage was never intended to include anything so untidy as sentiment. Business, ledgers, pure fact. Emma dealt so much more easily in those domains.
And look at the mess Battencliffe had made of his finances. Perhaps he couldn’t arrange his life any better.
Despite her internal arguments, the journal beckoned. Emma sat and ran her palm over the cool leather. The binding was smooth and supple, the very highest quality.
Emma opened the cover and scanned the first pages. They gave the impression of a breathless girl, excitedly preparing for her wedding to a viscount. A long-anticipated offer. Ball gowns, ribbons, laces, all the trappings a young bride might need. A glimpse of pre-wedding nerves. A fit of pique at her mama, who insisted on inviting her great-uncle Walpurgis in spite of his unfortunate propensity for pinching young ladies in scandalous places.
Perfectly ordinary, the entire account—everything Emma’s wedding to Battencliffe was not. From all appearances, Lydia had known her intended well. They’d grown up in the same social circles. She might have even fancied herself in love…
Barely a mention of Battencliffe at all. No, the entries were all about Lindenhurst. Nothing to be gleaned here, then. In setting the journal aside, Emma dislodged a loose paper. Mr. Hendricks’s letter, the one Battencliffe had all but forbidden her to answer.
But she needed to formulate some sort of reply to placate Mr. Hendricks. The truth would do quite nicely. It explained her silence as well as the difficulty she would face in pursuing the correspondence. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her. Dipping the quill in the pot of ink, she considered before scratching out the beginnings of her reply.
Dear Mr. Hendricks,
I pray you will excuse my silence this last week. I have quite unexpectedly found myself wed, and amidst all the preparations, I have sadly neglected your most recent letter. I beg your forgiveness. At the same time I must advise you that I shall be obliged to cease our correspondence.
—
It was far too early to head to his club, but Rowan set his feet in that very direction. An icy
She couldn’t very well broach either subject with him now. Not when he’d gone out—to spend money, or so he’d claimed. Drat the man, and how were they to make any headway in this marriage or Battencliffe’s finances if he didn’t stay home and sort through them with her?
I have faith in you. I’ve taught you all I’ve learned.
Her father’s words floated through her mind. “Papa, where does your confidence in me come from?”
A throbbing started behind her left eye. She rammed the heel of her hand into her temple, but to no avail. The pulse continued its merciless rhythm. She contemplated the decanter of brandy. Less than half full, which meant her husband had likely helped himself to it last night. At any rate, she wasn’t at all sure she could stand such strong stuff. Not when her palate was more accustomed to the subtleties of fine wine.
A constitutional might serve her better, but one look out the window showed rain pounding down in sheets—which no doubt meant her husband wasn’t about to return any time soon.
Miss Conklin would have prescribed a nap. As much as Emma hated to lend credence to her former teacher’s notions of what was ladylike, this one might do her some good. So she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, but in the sitting room, she paused.
The journal lay on the writing desk, its bright red cover nearly mocking her with its cheery color. If Battencliffe had been friends with Lydia’s husband, there might be some indication of whatever Cecelia had been hinting at between those pages.
Emma might take a look, and then she’d know.
You’re here to set the man’s finances in order.
Simple, easy, emotionless. Prying into the man’s past might imply a sentimental attachment, and her marriage was never intended to include anything so untidy as sentiment. Business, ledgers, pure fact. Emma dealt so much more easily in those domains.
And look at the mess Battencliffe had made of his finances. Perhaps he couldn’t arrange his life any better.
Despite her internal arguments, the journal beckoned. Emma sat and ran her palm over the cool leather. The binding was smooth and supple, the very highest quality.
Emma opened the cover and scanned the first pages. They gave the impression of a breathless girl, excitedly preparing for her wedding to a viscount. A long-anticipated offer. Ball gowns, ribbons, laces, all the trappings a young bride might need. A glimpse of pre-wedding nerves. A fit of pique at her mama, who insisted on inviting her great-uncle Walpurgis in spite of his unfortunate propensity for pinching young ladies in scandalous places.
Perfectly ordinary, the entire account—everything Emma’s wedding to Battencliffe was not. From all appearances, Lydia had known her intended well. They’d grown up in the same social circles. She might have even fancied herself in love…
Barely a mention of Battencliffe at all. No, the entries were all about Lindenhurst. Nothing to be gleaned here, then. In setting the journal aside, Emma dislodged a loose paper. Mr. Hendricks’s letter, the one Battencliffe had all but forbidden her to answer.
But she needed to formulate some sort of reply to placate Mr. Hendricks. The truth would do quite nicely. It explained her silence as well as the difficulty she would face in pursuing the correspondence. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her. Dipping the quill in the pot of ink, she considered before scratching out the beginnings of her reply.
Dear Mr. Hendricks,
I pray you will excuse my silence this last week. I have quite unexpectedly found myself wed, and amidst all the preparations, I have sadly neglected your most recent letter. I beg your forgiveness. At the same time I must advise you that I shall be obliged to cease our correspondence.
—
It was far too early to head to his club, but Rowan set his feet in that very direction. An icy
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