A Woman of Good Reputation

Tea was a stiff and stilted affair. Abby thought it was because she was so unhappy. Stephen knew it was because tea at Camberley was always stiff and stilted. It occurred to him that Abby should not be around people like his family. It was like putting her proverbial light under a bushel. Their very nearness doused the brilliance of her, made the wonder of her spirit seem slightly wilted. There was much to be done, he thought. Much for him to do. He had no idea how to manage any of it. But he would have to try to figure it out, because he hated Abby this way. She drank her tea with impressive formality and gave one word answers when directly spoken to. She met nobody's eye and kept her head down. If her hair had not been in such disarray, she would have looked like a very impressive duchess.

He was surprised to discover how very much he hated her this way.

Then, to make matters worse, his sisters invited Lady Meredith to stay for dinner as well. The Merritts abided by the old tradition of changing for dinner, and Lady Meredith, pronouncing herself just Abby's size, asked ever so sweetly if she could perhaps borrow a dress for the occasion. Abby, feeling dull and resigned, agreed, leading her up to her bedchamber and allowing Lady Meredith to sift through her clothes.

"You have a beautiful wardrobe," Lady Meredith said, approvingly. Abby watched her. She was a beautiful woman. She should probably be the one with the beautiful wardrobe. "Money does get you the most amazing things." Lady Meredith laughed in a studied way. "La," she said, looking at her impishly, "it has even gotten you Chesham."

"Wear what you like," said Abby, without any real interest in the matter.

Lady Meredith chose a beautiful pale pink silk that Abby knew would set off her blonde curls perfectly. She turned to face Abby. "He was meant for me, you know. It is the curse of not having money, when the Merritts need it so desperately."

"Yes, I know." Abby took a deep breath and hoped she looked cultured and refined and sophisticated. "I wished to tell you that I bear you no resentment. You need not fear that I am going to behave like a jealous shrew and make scenes. We must have children, as you understand. But other than that, I do think Stephen and I will know well enough how to make our own way in the world and not interfere with each other." Abby paused. "Do you understand me?"

Lady Meredith looked astonished. "Perfectly," she said.

"Excellent. I will call my lady's maid for you." Abby departed from the room, closing the door behind her, and turned to fetch her lady's maid, running up against Stephen as he paused on the way into his chamber.

"Oh," he said, looking at her. "I thought you would be changing."

"Yes. I am. As soon as Lady Meredith finishes. I am fetching my lady's maid for her."

"I see," he said. Then he smiled at her. "And what will you wear tonight?"

"I do assure you that I know how to dress myself in such a way as to not humiliate you," she informed him, coldly.

He frowned. "I did not mean it that way-"

"I must fetch my lady's maid." She moved past him. She heard him open his door.

He hesitated on the threshold, then said, "Abby."

She turned toward him, questioningly. "My lord?"

"You may change in my room, if you like."

"I will wait, my lord." She turned, continued in search of her lady's maid. She heard his door close behind him after a moment. She thought of the door that adjoined his chamber to hers, where Lady Meredith was currently waiting for the lady's maid. Time, she thought, for a quick assignation? Was that why Stephen had been returning to his room? Was it a quick flash of guilt that had compelled him to turn back to her?

It is done, she thought. It is done, and I must live with it, somehow. I will find some other path to happiness.

"What luck," Lady Meredith said to him, meeting him in the hallway. "You can take me down."

Stephen hesitated. "I should probably wait for my wife-"

"She won't mind." She slipped her hand possessively into the crook of his elbow.

"But-"

"Once we get downstairs, we can tell her that she may change. And then you can follow her upstairs and take her down, too."

Stephen wasn't sure how wise it was to be seen by Abby taking Lady Meredith down to dinner. Abby was clearly jealous of Lady Meredith. But Lady Meredith began walking, and Stephen, never one to behave against his manners, matched her pace to the staircase.

"Your wife is the most remarkable creature," said Lady Meredith, as they began descending the stairs.

"I am glad you think so."

"She has given us permission, you know."

"Permission for what?" he asked, disinterestedly.

"Permission to become lovers."

Stephen's foot slipped over the next stair. He reached out to grab the banister to keep him from tumbling all the way down, jostling Lady Meredith, who frowned at him in disapproval.

"Do watch where you're going," she admonished him.

"My wife gave us permission to be lovers?" he said, astonished.

"Yes. Enlightened of her, isn't it? May we begin walking again?"

Stephen began walking automatically. "You must have misunderstood her."

"No, she was quite clear. She said she would not behave like a jealous shrew. She said she understood there would have to be heirs, but that you could go your own way and she would not complain."

Abby had said that? Actually said that? "I do not believe you." And even if he did believe her, what did it matter? The thought of bedding Lady Meredith vaguely turned his stomach. The thought of bedding Abby-the mere thought of it-made his heart pound a bit harder in his ears.

"Well, ask her yourself, then," Lady Meredith said, as they reached the foot of the stairs.

But he could not ask her himself, because his wife was not in the gathered knot of people in the dining room. He was convinced Lady Meredith had to be lying. He could not imagine Abby allowing him mistresses. He did not want mistresses, damn it all. He wanted Abby. Had she decided he was never having her? Good Lord, did she want to have lovers? That, he thought, flatly, was not going to be allowed. He needed to have a talk with his wife, and he felt as if everyone was contriving to keep him from finding her. They refused to wait for her for dinner, and he should have taken a stand and refused to eat until she appeared, but he was so lost in worried thought over what it meant that Abby wanted him to take Lady Meredith as a lover that he, indeed, had begun on his soup when she appeared in the dining room doorway.

She looked devastatingly beautiful, and he did not know why people kept saying she was not beautiful. The dress was a deep, vibrant violet that suited her coloring. Her hair was naturally wavy, but she had had it artificially ringleted, and it was caught up dramatically. And she was wearing a dramatic set of amethysts at her ears and around her neck. She outshone, with ease, every other woman at the table. Every other woman he'd ever seen in his life.

Stephen rose, although no one else did. "Sorry," he said, pulling her chair out for her. "The cook didn't want to-"

"It's fine," she said, gathering her train so she could sit.

Stephen sat beside her. Lady Meredith had taken the seat on the other side of him, and he felt uncomfortably sandwiched. He could not, blast it, have a conversation with Abby right now.

There was silence over the table.

Stephen ventured into it, as the soup was taken away. "You look uncommonly beautiful tonight, my dear," he murmured into her ear.

She looked at him in evident surprise. "Thank you."

"What's that?" demanded his mother. "What are you saying?"

"I am courting my wife," he remarked, wryly.

"You have that confused, Chesham," said Pamela, amused. "You do not court your wife after you've already married her."

"Not according to Abby. Am I right?" He smiled at her as he sipped his wine.

She looked at him unblinkingly. He could not even begin to read her thoughts.

"You are looking pale again," commented Pamela. "Is it possible you are already breeding?"

Abby blinked now, over at his sister. "What?"

"Do not-" began his father.

"I have already told you once today not to correct my wife." Stephen glared at him, taking another sip of his wine. "I do not think you look at all pale, Abby."

"I look better than I did this morning, my lord?" she inquired, scathingly, reaching for his own wine.

"Well, she was out in the sun," remarked Lady Meredith, before Stephen could reply. "She will freckle."

"Not if you have your lady's maid bring you some buttermilk," said Lydia, helpfully.

Abby was picking at her food, pushing it about on her plate. Stephen noticed, but he dared not comment on it. His sister would make some foolish remark about Abby's present state.

The table lapsed into silence, where it remained for the meal. The ladies departed. Stephen hastily smoked a cigar and had some port before excusing himself. Abby was not in the ladies' drawing room, and Pamela told him, annoyed, that she had excused herself almost immediately after dinner, ruining their table for whist.

Stephen, debating within himself, walked upstairs. He was uncertain if Abby was sleeping or not, and he knocked lightly on the door leading to her bedchamber. But she called for him to enter almost immediately. She was seated on the chair that had been in front of her fireplace, which she had dragged over to the window. She had her feet on the edge of the chair, her arms hugging her knees as she looked out the window. She looked suddenly impossibly young to him.

"You didn't eat much at dinner," he said, swinging the door closed behind him.

She looked at him, startled. "Oh," she said.

"And you were not expecting me," he deduced.

"I thought it was my lady's maid. It is early, my lord."

"I wanted to talk to you. My sisters said you came upstairs immediately after dinner. Are you not feeling well?"

"I feel quite well."

"Where is your lady's maid?"

"I do not know."

"Stand up. I'll untie your strings for you."

She looked at him for a moment. Then she stood up and presented him with her back.

His hands moved over her dress almost clinically. He did not want to allow himself to think about this. He was going to talk to her before he seduced her. He pulled at her corset strings, and the corset loosened about her. He heard her take a deeper breath.

"What did you want to talk about, my lord?" she asked, into the silence enveloping them.

That damned my lord all the time, he thought. "Did you give Lady Meredith permission to be my lover?"

"Of course," she said, lightly.

"Of course?" he echoed, in shock. "What does that mean?"

She turned to face him. "I did not want you to think that I am a disagreeable wife."

"I do not think you're a disagreeable wife."

"Yes. I can tell you do not by how seldom you argue with me."

"I do not argue with you."

"Indeed, my lord. If you do not wish the lady's maid to interrupt us, you should lock the door."

Bloody hell, he thought. But he did not want her this way. Not this way. Before she had had any idea who he was, there had been so much passion in her, in the way she looked at him. There was something so flat and distant and cold in her. He lifted his hand and cupped her chin between his fingers. "I do not want Lady Meredith. There is no reason to hand her to me on a platter." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Good night," he said, and walked through the door to his bedchamber, closing it behind him.

Abby looked after him, looked at his closed door. She walked over to the bed and curled onto it, looking at the yellow rose he'd given her, resting on her bedside table.

Abby could not bring herself to breakfast with the rest of the family. She asked her lady's maid to bring her a tray, which was done. She then asked if Lord Chesham had asked after her, and was told that his lordship was not at home. Abby sighed at that, looked back at the gently wilting rose by her bed. The one lusciously romantic gesture he'd ever made toward her. And she was clinging to it, because she did not think others would follow. She did not want romantic gestures whose purpose was to get her into bed. The cold unpleasantness of such romance would ruin everything for her. She wondered if she would take a lover. She wondered if she would fall in love with someone. What would that be like?

Abby did not leave her room. She sat at her desk and wrote letters to Lucy and Meg. She tried to make the letters pleasant and upbeat. She did not want to write in the letters that she had given up on her marriage, that her husband no longer desired her now that she had given him permission to look elsewhere, and that he had never been interested in knowing her in any other capacity.

There was a brief knock on the door. "Yes?" she asked, absently, without looking up from the flow of her pen.

"They said you have not left your room today."

She looked up at Stephen. He was dressed casually, and looked so handsome that she felt it like a pang. "I have not."

"Are you sure you're well?"

"Am I pale, my lord?"

"No."

"Ah. Am I freckled?"

He walked into the room, frowned as he peered down at her. "A bit," he said, and then he grinned and kissed the bridge of her nose. "If you're feeling up to it, I have a surprise for you."

She looked confused. "A surprise, my lord?"

He looked as delighted as a little boy in his eagerness. "Yes. I have been all morning procuring it. Can you leave your letter-writing for a bit?"

She was curious, so she pushed the letter away. "Yes."

"Excellent." He took her hands and pulled her to standing. His mood was exuberant, which intrigued her. "Your hands are cold," he noted.

"It is drafty in the room."

He glanced toward the fireplace. "You should have had the fire relit."

She shrugged a bit.

"Well, it is beautiful day outside. It will warm you immediately."

"Are we going outside? Shall I fetch a hat?" He had already pulled her out of her bedchamber.

"A hat? You act as if I care about a silly thing like decorum," he grinned at her.

"What has inspired this mood, my lord?" she asked, responding to it even as the glum thought occurred to her that it had been provoked by her providing him his freedom the night before.

"My wife is the most beautiful woman in Britain," he said. "Always puts a man in a good mood to boast that."

"You are being flippant."

"I am paying you court. Paying court is all about flippancy. Do you know what we have not done?" he asked, as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"What?"

"Do not say ‘what,'" he said, mocking his father, and then suddenly whirled her closer, literally taking her breath away. "We have not danced together." He took her into a brisk, swirling waltz step around the front hall.

"You are a very good waltzer," she gasped, a bit dizzy from the pace of his turns.

"For a man who doesn't attend balls, yes," he agreed, walking her out of the front door. "This way."

She followed him around the house, wondering what could possibly have gotten into him. This jubilant mood seemed very unlike him. And yet she liked him like this. He was so much better like this. How could she keep him like this? Merely by allowing him a mistress?

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think? I don't know much about setting one up but I tried to copy yours."

"Stephen," she said, in delight. Because he'd set up a croquet set on the lawn where they had sat together the day before. "This is wonderful."

It was the first time she had called him Stephen in a while. Stephen decided all the bloody effort of finding the croquet set and setting it up had been worth it for that one moment. He smiled, watching her. "Do you like it?"

"Like it? Yes." She turned to him, dazzling in her happiness. How simple, he thought. Why had he not done this earlier? "Will you play with me?"

"Yes. If you promise to make allowance for my lack of expertise in the sport."

She did not know why he had orchestrated such a charming gesture. But she was willing, for the moment, not to analyze it. She skipped away from him, choosing a mallet and a ball. "You go first," she said, turning back to him.

He shrugged out of his coat, leaving it on the grass, and took a mallet and cricket ball. "Where do I set it up?"

"Wait a moment," she said, suddenly. "Can I go get Rose? She would enjoy this, don't you think?"

"Yes, bring them all outside. Tell the nanny I said it was alright." He watched her go flying into the house, the sun catching the gold in her chestnut hair. He chuckled and practiced cracking his ball through wickets, determined not to appear completely incompetent in front of his wife. She needed to be romanced, he had determined. She needed to be courted. He had never been one to pay court, but he was going to figure it out. And the croquet set, he thought, had been a bloody marvelous idea, if he did say so himself.

"He's started without us!" shrieked Rose, affronted, as she streaked across the lawn to him.

"I have not," he assured her, grinning. "I am practicing."

"He's practicing, Aunt Abby!" she called, indignant, to Abby.

Abby, holding Linus in her arms, was striding across the lawn, carrying the quilt she had sat on the day before. The nanny, holding Seymour, huffed and puffed in her wake. Abby smiled. "Let him practice. Boys are far worse at croquet than girls."

"I see you have thrown down the gauntlet, madam wife," he rejoined, jovially.

Rose was bouncing about him in excitement. "I want a stick."

"It's a mallet. Go and get yourself one."

"Careful with it," said Abby. "It is heavy." She turned to Stephen. "And you. Stop cheating and bring your ball back to the first wicket."

Smiling, he leaned down and picked up his ball and carried it to the first wicket.

"What do I do?" asked Rose, with frank interest.

"Your aunt Abby will have to teach you," he informed her. "I know next to nothing about croquet."

"That's because you're a boy," said Rose. "Right, Aunt Abby?"

"Well, there is no denying he is a boy."

His wife smiled at him, and Stephen briefly considered skipping about the croquet field in joy. He settled for watching her as she helped Rose crack the mallet onto the croquet ball, sending it skidding through a wicket. She took both of Rose's hands in hers and danced her in a circle of triumph. Rose giggled with delight. Abby laughed. And Stephen leaned on his mallet and breathed deep the moment.

"It is your turn, Stephen," Abby told him, looking over her shoulder at him as she danced in the circle with Rose. His gaze on her was steady and sleepy all at once, and she paused in the circle. For one sudden moment, she thought she would walk up to him and kiss him. "What?" she asked, running out of breath.

"I want to remember," he said.

"Remember what?"

"What it feels like to be perfectly, completely happy." He cleared his head a bit and took his mallet over to his ball. "And now I shall ruin it by playing croquet as abysmally as I play it."

A combined team of Abby and Rose won the first game. Stephen, getting the hang of it, threatened in the second but fell a bit short when Abby momentarily wrestled control of the mallet from Rose and sent his ball a long distance from the wicket. Stephen watched its path, and decided his wife had just revealed a competitive streak.

Stephen had had Hassleford procure them refreshments. The nanny sat with the boys on the quilt and poured lemonade and handed it out to them. The boys sat rolling the spare croquet balls across the lawn. Rose, her hair bow askew and her nose red, drank her lemonade eagerly and a bit sloppily, in between turns whacking the ball, and talked non-stop to Abby, who was clearly engaged in the conversation. Stephen decided he had meant what he had said. He was perfectly, completely happy. He would only have been happier, he thought, if the girl and the two boys belonged to him and Abby. The thought of it made his mallet entirely miss the ball he was trying to hit, which sent Abby and Rose into gales of laughter that made his distracted situation even worse.

Eventually the noise attracted the rest of his family, and it was Pamela who swooped out first. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, in horror.

"We are playing croquet, Mama." Rose danced about her as she explained. "Uncle Stephen is horrible at it." This clearly delighted her.

"I do believe I am improving."

"You are," Abby assured him, impishly. "She sells you short."

"Look at you!" Pamela was plainly aghast. "Look at how red you are!"

"Why are the children outside?" demanded Lydia, hurrying across the lawn.

"It's a beautiful day," said Stephen. "Why shouldn't they be outside?"

"Good heavens." Lydia looked on the verge of fainting. She rounded on Abby. "This is all your influence."

"Just a second." Stephen, deadly calm, stepped between his sister and his wife. "Don't think you want to speak to my wife in that tone of voice, Lyddie."

Lydia glared at him. But she did back down, taking a literal step back and away from him. She turned to the nanny immediately. "I do not know what my sister is doing with her children. But we are taking Linus in immediately. Come." Lydia, confident she would be followed, turned on her heel and marched into the house.

The nanny was busy struggling to her feet. Abby collected Seymour from the ground.

"Do not touch my son," snapped Pamela, snatching him out of Abby's arms.

"Pamela," said Stephen.

"Croquet," muttered Pamela, turning and taking Rose's hand. "Come. We are going inside."

"But, Mama," wailed Rose. "I don't want to go inside." She began to cry.

Stephen, feeling a bit stunned by how quickly his golden day had been ruined, stood by Abby and watched them.

"Stephen." Abby turned to him anxiously. "What will she do to Rose? She won't...?"

"Not if she doesn't want me to beat her in return," said Stephen, darkly, and then, more soothingly, "My sisters are quite mad, you know."

Abby worried her lower lip. "Perhaps I was wrong to involve Rose."

"Wrong to involve her? This was the happiest afternoon of her life."

"Yes, it was-"

"The happiest afternoon of my life as well."

She sucked in her breath abruptly. "Stephen."

"What?" He turned his hand into hers, interlacing their fingers.

"What is this foolishness?" demanded his father. Stephen closed his eyes momentarily in frustration. "Are you playing croquet? Where is your coat?"

Stephen glanced toward him. "I am on my honeymoon. I am allowed to engage in a bit of foolishness."

He raked Abby up and down. "You're a mess. You must have the lady's maid bring you buttermilk."

"I think she looks rather well," said Stephen, squeezing Abby's hand in support.

"There is to be a ball tomorrow night."

"A ball? Where? Here?"

"Of course not here. At Southworth's."

"Southworth's?" Stephen repeated, stomach sinking. Southworth was Lady Meredith's father. He did not relish an evening of dodging Lady Meredith. Especially now that his silly, adorable wife had encouraged her. "I don't think we should-"

"It is in your countess's honor."

"In my honor," said Abby. Stephen looked at her. Bloody hell, he thought. "Then we must go. Stephen." She turned to him, eyes shining with eagerness. "You were just saying we haven't danced."

"Chesham hates balls," remarked the Duke. "God knows he has avoided them like the plague all his life."

"But I promise to save you every waltz," she assured him, grinning.

"Chesham also hates to dance."

"I do not hate to dance." His wife looked so unbelievably happy at the prospect of a ball. He sighed a bit. "Fine. We will attend the ball."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a quick but enthusiastic kiss.

"I do hope you plan to behave with a little more decorum at the ball," said the Duke.

"Absolutely not," said Abby. "I love balls."

"Yes, we can tell," drawled the Duke.

"Do you ride?" Stephen asked her, ignoring his father.

Her eyes brightened even more. He would not have believed it possible until they did so. "Yes."

"We are going to go for a ride," he told his father.

"She is not dressed in riding clothes."