“You think there’s a chance my uncle’s new will was forged?”
“I do.”
Her eyes misted, but she was quick to tell him she was not going to cry. "I'm just so touched by your concern for and understanding of . . . me. But before we go to the tea company, I want to show you the last letter Uncle wrote me. A man who wrote that letter could never have cut me off as he did."
"We'll go to our house now and read it."
Our house. It was almost as difficult to believe that gracious mansion her home as it was to think this magnificent man her husband. She did so feel like the waif who found out she was a princess.
Chapter 8
At Adam’s house, the staff came rushing into the entry corridor, all starchy and neat, bright smiles on their faces. Studewood bowed to his employer. “I have taken the liberty of assembling the servants to meet the new Mrs. Birmingham.”
At first she thought the butler was talking about someone else. It was difficult to think of herself as Mrs. Birmingham, and equally difficult to imagine herself as mistress of this magnificent house. How touched she was that Adam, with all the duties he’d had to discharge in the past four-and-twenty hours, had thought to notify the servants of his nuptials.
She duly faced each of the nine servants and inclined her head as they were introduced, as each of them curtsied to her. She would endeavor to remember each of their names.
“Now, my love,” Adam said, proffering his arm, “it’s time I give you a proper tour of your new home.”
My new home. She could barely credit it. As happy as she was, she feared someone would come tap her on the shoulder and tell her it had all been a mistake and she must return to Upper Barrington.
During her previous stay here she’d only been able to briefly gawk at this splendid house. Now she would be able to take as long as she liked to peruse each room. The ground floor was of little interest. It housed the usual porter’s room and morning room. From there they climbed up the richly banistered staircase to the floor that had been calculated to dazzle the visitor. The huge drawing room she had so reluctantly been whisked past that first night brought her to an abrupt halt. She was compelled to merely stand there in awe of its beauty.
Everything in the, yes, opulentacious, chamber was palace-worthy from the elegant richly cut, soft green velvet sofas in the French style, to the fine silk draperies in hues of the rising sun, to the Administer carpets which picked up the design on the wainscoting of the lower wall. Huge, multi-tiered chandeliers hung from the ceiling far above.
But the most mesmerizing item in chamber was a large portrait of a beautiful woman which hung over the chimneypiece.
Maria.
She wanted to ask if Maria was the beauty, but she didn’t want to have her suspicion confirmed. Who could ever compete with such an incomparable woman? The woman in the portrait was possessed of dark hair, creamy skin, and a voluptuous figure. All assets that Emma lacked.
She was too curious to remain silent. Never removing her gaze from the portrait, she strove for a casual voice when she asked, “Is that Maria?” She held her breath. Why had she permitted that horrid Maria to intrude on her own wedding day.
He shook his head. “No, that’s a young Lady Hamilton. Romney was obsessed with her youthful beauty.”
“Romney? And Lady Hamilton? This must have cost a fortune!”
He chuckled. “You’re right. The bidding was very steep.” He refrained from reminding her how wealthy a man she had married.
She drew a deep breath and once more attempted to adopt a casual attitude. “So, do you have a portrait of Maria?” Truth be told, her curiosity to see her rival was eating at her like a corrosive acid.
“I regret I never thought to have her sit,” he said somberly.
His words and the melancholy manner in which they were spoken wounded her. Emma did not know if it was good or bad that he hadn’t thought to have Maria’s portrait painted. Did that mean he’d thought of Maria as a disposable mistress for much of their affair? Or did it mean he didn’t need her portrait because he never planned to be away from her? She eyed the Romney and changed the subject. “So this was painted before she was Lady Hamilton?”
“Yes. I believe she was then known as Emma Hart the Tart.”
“How uncharitable!”
“I shouldn’t have spoken in such a manner in front of you. A maiden.”
She moved to him, placed a gentle hand on his sleeve, and lowered her voice, aiming for something sultry. “You forget, sir, I am now a married woman.” Her heart pounding furiously, she gazed into his black eyes, took in the strong planes of his handsome face and was breathtakingly cognizant of how close they were, of the warmth of his flesh, the way he towered over her like a knight protector. Which, indeed, he was to her.