Page 12 of The Rules of Matrimony (The Matchmaking Mamas #4)

After staying the night at an inn in neighboring rooms, Amie learned firsthand that Ian meant to live by his three rules for the duration of their marriage. It was fine by her since her new husband made her increasingly nervous. The second day of their marriage proved to be just as awkward as the first. She carefully avoided looking across the carriage at him. It would do no good to remind herself how intriguing his aloofness made him or how strong his hands appeared as they rested on the seat next to him—she had to look somewhere, and his hands were supposed to be a safe appendage ... but apparently not.

If she had been intimidated before, it was far worse now that she had kissed him. Her actions had pushed him to reclaim his title as Lord Grumpy. He was more standoffish than ever. Keeping her distance seemed not just necessary but imperative.

Even if her heart had moved during the solemnity of their wedding vows and those exhilarating few moments of their first kiss—and their kiss had been exhilarating—breathtakingly so; she discreetly clutched her chest, the sheer memory of it causing her pulse to race—she was determined to respect their initial agreement forevermore. Though she feared her heart would never shift back to its previous protected position. Why did she keep feeling emotions—imagining yearnings—she couldn’t stop?

This was not love. To be loved was to be known, and no one had ever truly known her. Any dreams of such a future died the same night as Papa, her dowry and opportunities to marry gone overnight. Or so she’d thought. Without her permission, a sliver of hope had bloomed somewhere deep inside her. Maybe somehow, sometime, Ian could learn to care for her. She shook her head. No, no, that was ridiculous.

Ian would never love her.

She had married the wrong person if she wanted affection.

“We’re here.” Ian’s tired, irritated voice more than solidified her thoughts.

Tiny’s yapping had further tried his patience, and blessedly, the little thing had finally fallen asleep on his lap. Her one goal for their marriage should be not to annoy him. Between her and Tiny, that would be challenging enough.

Ian hopped out first, waking the dog and setting him down to scamper about. Ian turned back and offered his hand to help her down. She reluctantly took it, hesitant to start her new life. Once her foot took purchase, he released his grip and stepped away from her like she had some contagious disease.

Focusing on her surroundings helped her not to take offense. They were deep in the North Wessex downs, outside of Marlborough, near a small town called Oakdell, far from anyone she knew. Through the filter of dusk, she took in the house. The two-story hunting box sat tucked against the edge of a forest. Ravens squawked from the trees, and Amie wanted to look everywhere at once. Green countryside stretched for miles on one side, broken up by a rambling road lined with a half dozen small homes and an occasional cluster of trees. She would make a point to meet their neighbors soon. On the other side of the house was a wooded grove, untamed, with wildflowers and ground cover reaching to fill the empty spaces. The unbridled beauty surprised her.

“Welcome to Oak End,” Ian said.

She swallowed. This was her home. Their home. Would her life be better now? Or had she made a terrible mistake? “It’s lovely,” she forced herself to say. “The wildflowers are breathtaking.”

He scratched the back of his head and stared at the flowers dotting the grass. Had mentioning the flowers been in poor taste? “My mother likes the flowers here too,” he said after a moment. “She loves how the purple blossoms on the wild thyme and the small yellow horseshoe vetch look when brought together into a bouquet.”

“You know the names of the plants?” She had not expected it.

“Not all of them. Just her favorite ones. The blue round-headed rampions should bloom soon, and there are purple orchids around here, if you search for them.” Ian gestured with his chin toward the house. It seemed he was eager to end their conversation and hurry inside—away from her. She followed beside him up the path toward some short stairs to a broad door with a heavy brass handle.

They did not quite make it before it burst open, and the household staff bustled out. They were led by who she guessed was the butler and housekeeper. They formed a line followed by a handful of other servants. Ian led her to stand in front of the butler.

“Lady Reynolds.” Her new title clearly took effort for Ian to say. “This is Mr. Hamburg.”

Mr. Hamburg possessed an average face, but his friendly smile endeared her to him immediately.

After his bow, he said, “Welcome, my lady.”

“And this is Mrs. Hamburg,” Ian said. The housekeeper was a stern-looking matron with wiry black hair—an antithesis to her husband in personality, it seemed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the servant said, her words short but surprisingly not unkind.

Mrs. Hamburg had the other servants state their names and positions, and Amie tried to keep track of them all in her head.

“The lady is tired,” Ian said as soon as they were finished. “Please, show her to her room, Mrs. Hamburg.” He turned to Amie. “I will see Tiny settled in the kitchens.”

“Thank you.” Amie wasn’t tired at all anymore, not with so many new things to see. Even so, she was shown to her room on the second floor. She noted Ian’s possessions through the open door of the bedchamber beside her own. They would be sleeping so near each other. It had been the same at the inn the night before, but there had been dozens of other people milling about. This felt far more intimate.

At least there did not seem to be a connecting door between their rooms as was the case at larger estates. On the other side of her room, there were two other bedchambers in the corridor and a set of stairs that led to the attic space. The housekeeper coughed, and Amie forced herself into her new room, where she was left to herself.

Her trunk had arrived before they had and was already sitting at the foot of her bed. She glanced around her spacious room, noting the simple furnishings—a dressing table and a set of drawers beside a narrow closet. The neutral colors blended into the walls and drew her to the stark colors out her window. She pushed the glass panes open and sighed. So, this was married life. It was new and terrifying.

She set to unpacking, needing a project to occupy her mind. A half hour later, her new lady’s maid, Edna, came in to help her dress for a late dinner.

“Good evening, Edna,” Amie said, grateful for a familiar face. She had met Edna the night before at the inn, a talkative young woman who had traveled ahead in a separate carriage with their luggage. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what to wear tonight. What do you think?”

Edna flashed her sweet, toothy smile at Amie. “Let’s ’ave a look, eh?” Her slender body moved lithely about the room as she set aside a dress and pair of slippers for the evening. Amie hadn’t had a lady’s maid of her own before, and Ian had arranged for one without her even knowing. It was a luxury she was not going to complain about. For a man so against marriage, he’d been meticulous in his planning.

“This dress is perfect. Shall we see what you can do with this mane of mine?” Amie lifted one of her stubborn curls by her face. She had never learned to fix her own hair with any talent.

Not a quarter hour later, Amie admired her tamed hair. Edna had as much expertise as Aunt Nelson’s expensive lady’s maid. Ian had chosen well. While Edna fussed over her, she chatted about the staff, but Amie was too distracted to remember the names of the servants to place in her mind who Edna spoke about.

When her toilet was complete, Amie crept from her room and down the stairs, anxious about running into Ian. She took in the nuances of her home. Dark walnut trimmed the walls and the staircase. To the right was the entrance hall, and to the left a small library. She stayed straight and found herself in an open salon. The room on the same side as the library was the drawing room, and she supposed the opposite end of the salon would be the dining room. The house was not overly large and would be easy to learn.

“Are you ready for dinner?”

Her skirts pulled around her ankles as she whirled to face Ian, her hand going up to still the sudden, wild beating in her chest. “I ... I am.”

“Good.” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. He was acting hesitant and not as confident as normal. He pointed to where she had guessed the dining room to be. “This way.”

He didn’t take her arm, but she supposed there was no need to be formal any longer. And beyond that, no one to pretend for. The dining table, covered in white linen, sat eight and was much shorter than the one at his parents’ home. Would they ever have friends to join them? Perhaps some of Ian’s friends from Town would visit, or she would make new friends of her own.

Ian pulled out the chair at the end of the table for her before taking his own seat at the other end. Suddenly, the table appeared much larger with all the open space between them.

They ate quietly, Amie hardly tasting her food.

When they finished, Ian set his napkin on the table. “I’ve been thinking about our arrangement.”

Her heart lurched. Did he want to change it? Did she want him to change it? She forced out the first words she could think of. “You have?”

He fingered the stem of his glass. “I will stay a fortnight and see that you are situated before I return to London.”

A fortnight. That was all they had together? And then she would be alone. But she would have a roof over her head, just as she wished. Why was she not more thrilled with her prospects? “When will I see you again?”

“I will not plague you with my presence too often. I know you wished for a house, not a husband. However, we should probably be seen together over the holidays.”

“Of course.” She poked at her food with her fork. The holidays were months away. By then, the world would know their marriage was a sham, and it would hardly matter if they were together or not. But she would have the house, and that was no small thing.

“I am happy to send for your mother,” Ian said, “if you would like her to reside here with you. We didn’t go over the details, but Oak End will be yours to run as you see fit. Please feel free to have whatever company you desire.”

“Mama would be glad to come.” What would she think when she arrived and found Ian had no intention of visiting? Would she be proud Amie had done well for herself, or would she be disappointed that her only daughter had not found love and never would? Regardless of what Mama or anyone else thought, Amie must stick to the plan. She had a home now. What more could she ask for?

After dinner, Ian handed her a folded piece of parchment. “This is a copy of our verbal contract. It lists the same three rules we discussed that day by the orchard. You may keep this copy. I have my own.”

It felt awfully official written on paper. She fingered it. “Would you like me to sign it?”

“This is a mere formality, so neither of us can claim to forget anything. But perhaps you had better sign it for good measure.”

It wasn’t a very good contract if both of them didn’t sign it. She wondered if he had added any consequences. If he’d been smart, he would have, and she suspected him to be a very thorough man.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and added a curt, “Good night.”

She waited until she was in her bedchamber to read the contract. But when she shut the door behind her, her eyes caught hold of a bouquet of flowers by her bedside. Not just any flowers. Wildflowers. Purple, blue, yellow, and green blossoms tied together with a piece of twine pooled out of the short, white vase.

Had Ian arranged for someone to bring flowers for her? She held up the contract, confused. It had to have been one of the staff members because flowers weren’t a gesture from a man who didn’t want anything to do with her.

She quickly opened the contract and read through the contents. It was short, with the same strange rules and nothing more. He was a particular man, that much was clear, but he had not added anything more to their conditions.

Shaking her head, she found her writing supplies and signed it. This time, she would not venture to forget any of the rules, even if a vicar stood over her and an entire room of people expected an allowance. She tucked the folded parchment into her diary, which she failed to write in more than twice a year, and shoved the book under her mattress, far enough that no maid would accidentally find it when changing the bedding.

There. It was done. From this point forward, she would obey his rules of matrimony.