Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
They skirted around the rippling shoreline and across another lawn surrounded by manicured hedgerows. He shortened his long stride so she could keep up, especially as she couldn’t resist looking around at the expert gardening and stone follies, including a detailed replica of a Greek temple at the edge of the woods.
“Who created all this?” she asked. “The monks?”
“Oh, no. My mother planted many of these gardens when she ran out of space at the other house. You may change them around as you wish. She wouldn’t mind.”
Gardens, ponds, an old, medieval-looking house. She ought to be excited about such things. A proper woman would be honored to be Lord Wescott’s wife, and mother to his children. One day she would be a duchess. It ought to make her happy, but she mostly felt lonely and lost.
“Shall we stop here?” he asked.
For a moment she thought he spoke of their marriage. Yes, let’s stop here. Then I could stop worrying. But no, he spoke of their picnic lunch in the sun, so she helped him spread the blanket and take the food from the basket.
His servants had wrapped up cold roast beef and chicken, with fresh bread and pickled salads, as well as an assortment of cakes. It was the first meal they’d eaten together since their wedding breakfast, and that hardly counted, since so many other people had been milling around. She felt achingly self-conscious as she picked at the food on her plate.
“The fare isn’t to your liking?” he asked, studying her.
“No, it’s very good.”
“You don’t like the sun, then? I thought the fresh air and light might help you sleep more soundly when you retire.”
“I’m sorry about the nightmares.” She tucked her feet more closely beneath her. “If I could stop them, I would.”
“I don’t blame you for them, I only wish you’d feel better. My mother has always been a great believer in the power of sunshine. She’s Welsh, you know, and believes in all sorts of whimsical things.”
Ophelia blinked at him. Her own mother couldn’t be farther from whimsical. Both her parents were the strait-laced sort.
“She seems a fine lady,” she said. “Your mother.”
“Oh, she’s the best lady and everyone loves her, most of all my father.” He looked away from her. Did he realize how his careless words stung?
“They married for love, then?” she asked.
“Goodness, no. They hardly knew one another when they wed, but they ended up suiting in the end.” He shrugged. “I suppose it happens if you’re lucky. Would you like to take off your bonnet?”
She touched the wide brim. “I’d better not. I might freckle.”
“They never sunned you at your school?” He frowned. “All of you pale and wan, and musically talented.”
Whenever he spoke of her school, he made it sound like a joke. Her whole life, her dreams, her voice, her goals, all of them were meaningless to him. She was nothing more than a woman he’d seduced—in error—and been forced to marry. Perhaps she ought to sing for him, to show what he’d taken away from her.
No. She would not sing for him, not ever. She wouldn’t let him enjoy the voice he’d stifled.
They passed the rest of the picnic with small talk, and lengthy silences neither of them tried to fill. When they finished, they repacked the dishes, and she stood so he could fold the blanket. “Why is that temple here?” she asked, pointing at the Greek folly in the distance. “I thought this was an abbey before, a Christian place.”
“It was an abbey, long, long ago. The gardens and follies were installed later, when this became a residence. My great-great-grandfather built that particular folly in the early 1700’s, after he traveled to Athens and toured the Greek ruins. He was a historian of sorts.” He set the basket on a nearby bench and gestured toward the temple. “Would you like to go see it?”
“I’m not sure.” She eyed the marble structure. “It looks so desolate among the trees, as if it might harbor ghosts.”
“It’s not haunted. No, it’s far more interesting than that.”
His expression puzzled her, moving between gravity and laughter. She replaced her gloves and pursed her lips. “Are there snakes inside it? Rats and badgers?”
He did laugh then. “No, it’s kept locked tight, so no animals can get in. It’s a place for erotic punishment.” He said these stunning words and continued on, even as Ophelia flushed in shock. “My parents forbade me from exploring it when I was a boy, but my friends and I broke our way in as soon as we were old enough to meddle the lock.”
“What do you mean by…by that thing you said?” she asked. “Erotic punishment? Punishment of wh-whom?”
Wescott raised a brow. “In my great-great grandfather’s case, I don’t know. Perhaps it was fitted out later. I know my father made use of it, because he erected an exact copy in the gardens of his town house, and my parents visited it often when they thought we didn’t know.”