Page 29 of His Bluestocking Bride

Possibly she was upset by his reaction to her gift. He’d put the sketchbook in the study’s desk, with no intention of using it, though touched by her thoughtful gesture.

“It is nearly dinner time,” she said, not stepping fully inside.

Marcus beckoned her forward. “Then we should begin our tour here. It will not take long, I’m afraid.”

“It might,” she said, coming three steps inside. “I may wish to take in every detail, you know, as I am to be mistress.” She sniffed and raised her nose in the air, giving him a narrow-eyed look that surprised a laugh out of him.

Relieved, he responded with honesty. “You are mistress here, Ellen. From the moment you agreed to marry me. This is your domain.” He dropped his shoulders and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck while he looked around them. “This is the drawing room. When I was growing up, it was where the family always sat together before and after mealtimes.”

“It’s lovely.” He watched as Ellen took it in, looking from one side of the room to the other. “Though very lavender.”

“I believe it is my mother’s favorite color.”

Her lips quirked upward at that. “Mine is blue.”

“Then we will have it done over in blue.”

If his quick statement surprised her, she didn’t let it show. “The windows face west?”

“Yes.” He glanced around and then came forward, waving to the hall. “Would you like to see the rest of the first floor? Then the ground floor, and the second floor after dinner?”

“Yes, please.” She stepped through the door into the passage and looked both directions. “How many bedrooms are there?”

“Four, on this floor, then two smaller rooms adjoining the nursery upstairs.” Her cheeks flushed and it took him a moment to realize why. Then he felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and stepped into the hall. “But they are all modest rooms. There is one dressing room, between your bedchamber and mine.”

He showed her each of the public rooms and she looked about with interest, asking the occasional question about portraits or what the views from the windows were like. The sun had set shortly after their arrival, preventing him from showing her the grounds. He took her to the ground floor, showing her his study adjacent their small but comfortable library. Marcus could tell his wife would’ve lingered in that room for the rest of the evening, but he showed her a larger sitting room, the dining room, and the conservatory.

Though tempted more than once to take her hand, as that would be a natural way to guide her through the halls, Marcus was careful not to touch his wife. Her reaction to his kiss on the back of her hand, when all he’d meant to do was show how pleased he was she liked the house, stayed with him. She had not seemed to care for the familiarity of his touch.

The butler, Matthews, found them in the hall staring at a painting of a mountain neither could guess the location of.

“How could you not know where this is meant to be?” Ellen asked, hands clasped behind her as she studied the rocky ridges.

“I only spent a few weeks here every year,” he said in his defense. “Mostly as a boy. Why would a boy ask about a painting when there are trees to climb and streams to play in?”

“I shall write to your mother and inform her of your complete lack of knowledge. Shameful.” The pronouncement was made with a grave tone, but when she looked over her shoulder, Ellen’s eyes held a teasing glint.

“Mr. Calvert, Mrs. Calvert,” Matthews said. “Dinner is served.”

“Ah. Thank you. Shall we, Mrs. Calvert?” He offered his arm and she took it after bobbing a curtsy, completely unnecessary and amusing.

“I would be honored, Mr. Calvert.” She threaded her arm through his and Marcus’s heart gave an odd sort of twist that he nearly found pleasant. Maybe not all touches would be abhorrent to her. Maybe she was nervous, or shy.

He led Ellen to the dining room with greater confidence.

Chapter Thirteen

Marcus went through the notes on the growth and harvest of his apple and pear trees, hardly understanding some of them. The accounts had been provided by the farmers he employed to care for his orchards. He owned three hundred acres of apple trees, one hundred acres of pears.

Having grown up playing in the trees and sampling the fruits, he knew the most basic facts of tending to them. His mother never had an interest in the plants, and his father passed on before he could train either of the brothers to take on Orchard Hill. This meant the task of caring for the land fell to his mother’s steward, who never took initiative to try new things and allowed the orchard go on as always.

While he had spoken with each of the three men tasked with ensuring a good growing season, Marcus was lost. They knew their business, but they did not possess many ideas for improving upon it. Marcus must be his own tutor, as no other gentlemen in the area grew trees as he did.

This was a fine time for farming, from all he understood, as advancements in the last several decades had made men wealthy from what had been only fields of food to provide for a family.

A soft knock on the door, characteristic of his wife, interrupted him. “Come in, Ellen.” Her company would be a welcome respite from his studies.

The door swung open and his wife of five days put her head around it. “Tea?”