“Begetting an heir is, of course, one of the main reasons I’m required to marry,” Val continued, his voice a little rough now. “Though I’ve no plans to get you so frequently with child that you spend the next twenty years wishing me to go to the devil. You will find me quite willing to do what I can to prevent conception after we’ve got an heir and a spare in the nursery.”
“We should perhaps have discussed this before the wedding,” Caro said wryly. “Not that I didn’t already know the expectations. Or that the notion of frequent childbirth would have changed anything about our need to marry. It just occurred to me that so many conversations like this one—of true import—don’t happen until the proverbial horse has gotten out.”
“Then let us agree to make an effort to have these conversations while the horse is still in the barn,” Val said with amusement. Leave it to Caro to put such a delicate matter in such a matter-of-fact way.
“Agreed. And to answer your question”—she turned red again—“I don’t wish to wait.”
She leaned into him and he brought his forehead to hers. “Let us begin as we mean to go on,” she said.
Tenderness blended with relief as he took her lips.
He couldn’t wait for their first adventure as man and wife.
Chapter Eighteen
When the carriage rolled to a stop before Val’s townhouse, Caro was struck with a rare feeling of nervousness. She’d been here only a few days ago, but she hadn’t viewed it with any kind of proprietary air, though they’d been betrothed at the time.
It occurred to her that she was about to enter her new home, the first in which she would preside as mistress.
Grateful for Val’s strong arm beneath her hand as he guided her up the steps, she looked up to see his butler—now her butler, too—Foyle, standing with solemn dignity at the open door.
Bowing deeply, the handsome man of middle years smiled far more cheerily than on her previous visit. “Lord Wrackham, Lady Wrackham, may I offer my congratulations on your wedding.” It was clear from the way he beamed at Val that he held his master in some affection.
To Caro he said, “Welcome to your new home, my lady. I hope you will be happy here.”
At the man’s heartfelt words, Caro felt a pang of gratitude. He had no need to be so kind. Indeed, knowing that servants could enforce the rules of social hierarchy as strictly as, or even worse than, their employers, she’d feared the response of Val’s servants. They had every right to expect a noble mistress and might scorn her.
It was a relief that Foyle, at least, welcomed her.
Once they entered the house, an even more heartening sight greeted her. Every servant in Val’s employ, from groom to kitchen maid, stood in parallel lines leading up to the main staircase.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Oakes, dipped into a curtsy. “Congratulations, my lord, my lady. On behalf of the staff of Wrackham House, it’s my pleasure to welcome you to your new home.”
It took every ounce of self-control Caro possessed to maintain her calm while she surveyed the array of people before them. She no doubt clung more tightly than necessary to Val’s arm as one by one, Mrs. Oakes introduced each of the twenty-five servants. Knowing how much she had valued being treated as an individual when she was at school, Caro made sure to repeat each name as it was given to her and ask each person a question that would make them feel valued. It may not be the way of the aristocracy—once, she had overheard the daughter of a marquess say staff were barely people—but Caro was determined to treat them as she would wish to be treated.
At the end of the line, there was only the cook, Mrs. Stevenson, and the two kitchen maids flanking her.
“My lady,” the ruddy-faced woman said breathlessly, “I cannot tell ye how honored we are t’have ye here. I’ve read every one of yer books, and the recipe for trifle in volume three of Hardcastle’s Guide to English Cookery is one of the master’s favorites.”
Caro stared stunned at the beaming woman. Was ever there a more welcome compliment than to have one’s own cook praise your recipes?
Val’s eyes widened—apparently he hadn’t known the recipe was one of Caro’s. “She’s telling the truth.” He laughed. “That’s one of my favorite puddings.”
She’d stepped out of the carriage afraid she would muck matters up with her lack of aristocratic origins, but instead, she had been presented with a houseful clearly intent on welcoming their beloved master’s new bride. To finish matters off like a gorgeous ripe strawberry atop a perfectly glazed sponge, here was the cook telling her that her new husband favored a recipe she’d developed years before they’d even met.
“Mrs. Stevenson, I cannot tell you how delighted I am to hear you’ve found my books useful,” she said, trying to ignore the effervescent lightness in her chest. “That his lordship counts my trifle among his favorite desserts, however, is simply beyond anything I’d imagined.”
“Oh, he’s quite fond of several recipes from all three volumes,” the cook assured her, “but he’s got a sweet tooth, does the master, and never turns down a pudding.”
This was the first Caro had heard of Val favoring any sort of food, she thought, giving him a sidelong look. Clearly, there were many things they still had to learn about one another.
“I hope you won’t mind if I venture into the kitchen from time to time to try out new recipes, Mrs. Stevenson,” Caro said to the still-smiling cook. Given how the rest of the servants were watching them in amazement, she suspected that the mobcapped woman was not generally known for her merry disposition. “I haven’t written any new cookbooks in some time, but perhaps a home of my own will inspire me to develop some new ideas for publication.”
“I would be delighted, my lady.” Mrs. Stevenson curtsied. Then, emphasizing the sentiment, she said, “It will be a pleasure, my lady. A right pleasure.”
Mrs. Oakes stepped forward then and informed them that Caro’s maid was waiting upstairs. “And your cat has settled into your rooms, my lady, but if you wish him to stay in the kitchen, we can have him moved.”
Val turned to Caroline with surprise and, if she didn’t mistake his expression, some alarm. “I thought Ludwig was staying with Miss Deaver until our return from Brighton.”
“So did I.” Caro frowned. “How did he arrive here, Mrs. Oakes?”
“Miss Deaver brought him this afternoon,” the housekeeper said. “She said that she was called away on family business and would be unable to care for him as you’d agreed.”
Caro had never heard Flora speak of her family before. In truth, she’d assumed the girl to be an orphan, though she realized now that had been a foolish thought. But the fact that she’d come in person to deliver Ludwig eased her mind. Given that both Effie and Mr. Thorn were missing, she had no wish to lose track of Flora as well. Besides, she had doubtlessly given more information to Kate, who was, after all, her employer.
“Thank you for letting me know, Mrs. Oakes,” she told the housekeeper. “Ludwig can remain in my chamber for the time being. I’ll have to arrange something else for him for the duration of our journey.”