Trapped at the Altar

“Very,” she returned, not looking at him. She would not let him put her out of countenance, any more than she already was. At least he couldn’t read her mind.

“Would you like me to wash your back?” he inquired kindly.

She ignored the question, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on some point in the middle distance. “Tilly, would you bring me some towels?”

Ivor laughed and backed away from the screen as Tilly came around it with an armful of towels. Furious, Ari stood up, gathering towels against her dripping body in case he decided to pop his head over again. She was used to his teasing, but this was too much. Given everything that lay between them at the moment, he had no right to behave with the humorous camaraderie of their usual encounters . . . not that he’d ever invaded her modesty before, she amended. Not even in jest, so this was some kind of revenge, she supposed. Hastily, she pulled her nightgown back over her still-damp skin and stepped out from behind the screen.

Ivor was leaning back in a chair at the table, his legs crossed at the ankle, grinning with a deviltry that she knew too well. In other circumstances, she would have fallen upon him in mock combat, but not now.

“There’s bacon and fresh eggs in the pantry, Tilly,” Ivor said. “Would you be good enough to make us some breakfast?”

“Aye, sir. And I’ll fry up a few potatoes in the bacon fat.” Tilly moved the fire screen away. “I’ll just see to the tub first.”

“No, I’ll do that. It’s too heavy for you. You cook.” Ivor unfolded himself from his chair, hoisted the heavy, water-filled copper tub, and carried it outside, pouring the contents on the grass. He left the tub outside to dry in the sunshine. “So, did you sleep well, wife of mine?” He took a jug of mead from a cupboard and set it on the table. “You were out like a light when I left this morning.”

The mischief seemed to have disappeared from his mood now, and there was an edge to his voice. “Where did you go?” she asked in neutral tones.

“Hunting for pheasant. There’s a brace hanging in the shed. They’ll make a good stew when they’ve hung for a day or two.” He poured mead into two tankards and pushed one towards Ari.

She took it with a nod of thanks, noticing that his arm was a little stiff, the bulge of the makeshift bandage pushing against his shirt sleeve. She glanced at Tilly, who was working at the range, her back to them. “Would you come up to the bedchamber for a moment?” she asked softly.

He looked at his arm. “It’s fine.”

“I’d like to see,” she insisted, soft but determined.

He shrugged, rose from the table, and went ahead of her up to the bedchamber. He glanced at the sheetless bed. “Tilly’s done her work, I see.”

Ari ignored this. “Roll up your sleeve.”

He obliged, holding out his arm for her inspection. She unwrapped the red kerchief and lightly touched the small wound. She gave a sigh of relief. “It’s not red or hot; there’s no infection. We won’t need to consult Tilly. How does it feel?”

“A bit stiff. Tie it up again, Ari.”

“Have you a clean kerchief?”

“In the bottom drawer of the dresser. Your belongings are in the top two.”

She took out one of her own linen handkerchiefs. “This will be less bulky.” She tied it around the wound and examined her handiwork. “There, that’ll hold until tomorrow.”

“Somehow I hadn’t realized you were a competent healer,” Ivor remarked, rolling down his shirt sleeve.

“I’m not . . . I listen to Tilly, that’s all. I’ve never had to do anything myself before.” She stuffed the stained kerchief into the pocket of her nightgown. “I’ll wash this out later.”

“Well, I remain impressed nevertheless.” He gestured to the stairs. “Will you go down, ma’am?”

“You go. I think I’ll dress before we eat.”

He raised an eyebrow, and a flicker of amusement crossed his countenance. “Don’t worry, I won’t insist on any aspect of my conjugal rights as yet, my dear. You may dress in private.”

His tone was sardonic, and her temper, as so often, rose to meet his challenge. “You are too kind, sir,” she snapped.

His mocking laughter came up to her as he went down the stairs. Ariadne stood frowning for a moment, before going to the linen press for her clothes. Ivor’s pride was hurt, she understood that. It seemed he felt cuckolded even before the marriage was consummated. It didn’t make much rational sense, given that neither of them had engineered the situation, but then emotions were rarely rational. She must try to rise above her own, she decided, if they were to muddle through this tangle with some pride and dignity intact.

She tied the ribbons on her chemise and petticoat and dropped a simple muslin gown over her head, tying a plain white apron at her waist. She thrust her bare feet into a pair of slippers, and feeling at much less of a disadvantage, went down to the living room, where Tilly was setting laden plates of fragrant fried potatoes, eggs, and crisp bacon on the table. She was starving, she realized, as she sat opposite Ivor, who was hungrily spearing fried potatoes.

“So I presume this transfer of my belongings occurred during the wake last night?” Ari said, folding bacon into a piece of bread as Tilly disappeared into the scullery with the greasy pans.

Ivor swallowed his mouthful. “Lord Daunt gave the order, yes.” He speared another forkful of potato on the tip of his knife and dipped it in egg.

“And did he also give order for the decoration of the bridal chamber?”

Ivor’s laugh was caustic. “What do you think?”

“My uncle lacks the sensibility for such a sensitive act.” She sipped her mead, regarding him thoughtfully. “So I have to assume it was you.”

“It seemed necessary to me to go through the proper motions,” he responded.

“Even for such a travesty of a wedding?” She could hear the challenge in her voice, despite her earlier resolution.

He set down his knife and said evenly, “Yes, even for that. Sometimes, my dear, observing the courtesies is all we have to combat frequently brutal situations. I have learned that in my time among your family.”

She could not deny the truth of his observation. “Are Chalfonts so different? They’re a branch of the same trunk, after all.”

He shrugged. “You’re right, of course. The tree itself was always rotten. We must face it, Ari, we’re descendants of a tribe of rogues and vagabonds who still haven’t learned the manners of civilized folk.” He tried for a light tone as Tilly returned from the scullery. He leaned back to give her room to fill his plate with more bacon and potatoes.

“It’s no laughing matter,” Ari stated. “It’s all too true . . . No, thank you, Tilly, no more for me. That was delicious.”

“Right, then, I’ll be away to fetch some water for the washing.” Tilly picked up the two wooden pails and left the cottage.

Ariadne leaned her elbows on the table as the door closed behind the girl. “But if my grandfather’s plan is to work, at least you and I will have to learn the manners of civilization.” She shook her head with a disbelieving laugh. “Can you see us at court, Ivor? All dressed up, bowing and simpering, and flattering and pretending all the time? I won’t be any good at it, I can tell you that now.”