Dorothea silently wondered if the rest of the servants truly were as eager to tackle the heavy workload of keeping guests happy. Back home, their cook and two housemaids complained mightily on the rare occasions there was a dinner party. Dorothea could only imagine the tasks involved when a dwelling of this size was filled with spoiled aristocrats and their servants making demands of the staff.

She had already seen many of the manor’s second-and first-floor rooms, but lacking anything specific to do with her day, Dorothea asked to see them again. The rooms were numerous and splendidly furnished, and Mrs. Simpson a knowledgeable guide. Dorothea’s mind could barely absorb the details.

There were two drawing rooms, both cavernous, though one was larger than the other, a music room filled with all manner of instruments, the majority of which Dorothea could not, nor ever hope to, play with any level of proficiency. A formal ballroom, a library, a study, a den, a morning room, a breakfast parlor, a private salon designed exclusively for the lady of the house.

She could barely absorb all the layout, let alone all the details Mrs. Simpson so easily imparted, but somehow Dorothea made all the appropriate responses to the housekeeper’s comments. Yet when they entered the long portrait gallery, Dorothea fell silent. Generations of noble ancestors seemed to stare down their noses as she paraded past them. Disapprovingly, Dorothea mused gloomily, glaring back up at the canvases.

How could she ever measure up to these proud, haughty aristocrats? What had she been thinking when she agreed to be Carter’s marchioness and, someday, his duchess?

Dorothea paused and stared up into the stern countenance of a Tudor lord, the first Duke of Hansborough. Henry VIII used to chop off his wives’ heads if they displeased him. Had that been the kinder decision? A swift end to the constant battle and bickering?

She let out a pathetic sigh. Preferring death to marriage? Oh dear, her gloomy mood truly had gone too far. Silently commanding herself to cease this foolishness immediately, Dorothea narrowed her eyes and glared at the portrait.

She was a resourceful woman. A determined female. This messy beginning to her marriage would work itself out. It simply had to, and she would accept nothing less than tranquility along with a dose of happiness in her life.

Bolstered by her determination not to be so easily discouraged, Dorothea invited Mrs. Simpson to take tea with her. They settled into the private salon reserved for the lady of the house, nibbling on crustless sandwiches and sipping strong, hot tea. It was the first meal since her wedding ceremony that Dorothea actually tasted.

“If I may be so bold as to ask, is there a Mr. Simpson?” Dorothea inquired, knowing the title of missus was often used as a courtesy with a housekeeper.

“Oh, yes, my lady. I was married for thirty years. Mr. Simpson died of the fever back in ’07.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Dorothea cleared her throat. “Though I confess to being interested in hearing any wisdom you would care to impart on coping with a husband.”

The housekeeper looked startled and Dorothea knew she had blundered. Badly. The nobility did not share confidences with their servants. She tried a dismissing smile, hoping to drop the matter, but Mrs. Simpson surprised her by speaking.

“There is no simple answer when it comes to men. Husbands or otherwise.” Mrs. Simpson smiled fondly. “But I can tell you a bit about Lord Atwood. I was here when he was growing up. You couldn’t find a more thoughtful, considerate boy if you tried. He was always kind to everyone, even the servants, and there are not many aristocrats of any age who show consideration to those they deem inferior.”

Dorothea knew that remark was aimed squarely at the duke, a proud and haughty man. Fortunately, his son had not taken on the same superior manner. Her heart gentled when she imagined Carter as a young boy. Mischievous and smiling, always ready for an adventure. “Lord Atwood was an only child?”

“Yes, to his regret. He often expressed the desire for siblings, but it was not to be.” Mrs. Simpson took a dainty bite of her sandwich. “Though he would say he wanted a brother, not a sister. I believe having to endure the antics of the Alderton girls, who were spoiled rotten and always demanding the impossible, prompted that attitude. I daresay, one would need to search far and wide to find two bolder little girls. And they grew into a pair of high-spirited, forward-thinking young ladies,” she added in a lowered, confiding tone.

“Alderton? As in Lord and Lady Alderton?”

“Yes. They are the estate’s nearest neighbors. The families were close friends for many years. For a time there was even talk of Lord Atwood marrying the youngest daughter, but the two families had some sort of falling-out and ceased speaking to each other. They seldom meet now, and only if it is an event that involves the entire neighborhood.”

“Hmm. I wonder what could have caused such a rift?”

Mrs. Simpson shrugged and shifted on her chair. “The gossips have speculated for years, but no firm truth has ever been revealed. Some say it was a dispute over the property lines, while others contend it was Lord Alderton’s failure to honor a gambling debt.”

Dorothea lifted the heavy porcelain teapot and poured them each a second cup of tea. She remembered the dinner when she had been introduced to the duke and his disdainful remarks about Lord Alderton along with his gleeful delight in hearing the story of Alderton’s embarrassment when his corset strings had snapped during the ball. The reason for it might not been well known, but clearly bad blood between the two families existed. She tucked that piece of information in the back of her mind, theorizing it might come in handy someday.

“I suppose I shall learn how to manage my new husband on my own, but I know I will never master the running of this household without your able, expert assistance.”

There was a sound of jingling keys as Mrs. Simpson leaned forward. Her smile was broad and genuine. “I am happy to serve. I know we shall get on famously together, my lady.”

The footman arrived to clear their tea, and Mrs. Simpson left to attend to her duties. In quick succession, Dorothea reviewed and discarded what she would now do with herself. Writing letters to her sister, or even Lady Meredith, would be torturous, for she had no notion of what to say. A nap might be a good idea, since she had slept so poorly the previous night, but her mind and body were too restless for sleep.

She could not visit the neighbors, since she did not know them, nor pay a call on the vicar or the tenants without her husband accompanying her for the same reason. They had passed a prosperous-looking village on the way from Town yesterday, but Dorothea was not in the mood to shop. Nor did she have any coin on her person, though she imagined any purchases could easily be charged to her husband.

She settled on taking a leisurely stroll of the formal gardens. Only the early spring flowers had fully bloomed, but their fragrance and color were a soothing balm to Dorothea’s mood. She noted with an amused smile that the flowers in one particular bed were the exact yellow shade of her muslin afternoon gown.

It was new, as were nearly all the clothes she had brought with her, a flattering design boasting a low bodice, high waist, and puff sleeves. She especially liked the embroidered detail of tiny leaves in a vibrant shade of green around the neckline and hem. When Dorothea stood in the dressmaker’s shop having the garment fitted, Lady Meredith remarked that Lord Atwood would not be able to take his eyes off her when she was wearing the garment.

Yet that had hardly been the case when he had seen her in it earlier today. Carter had barely noticed the gown, except to imply how quickly he wanted it stripped from her body.

Dorothea turned a corner and there he stood, as if her thoughts had conjured him. He was dressed for riding, the polish on his knee-high leather boots gleaming in the sunshine. Her initial inclination was to turn and run the other way, but that smacked too much of cowardice. Instead, she plunged ahead, though she kept her gaze carefully focused on the gravel pathway.

“Lady Atwood.” He bowed.

“My lord.” She returned the formal greeting, punctuating it with a low, deep curtsy that brought a deep wrinkled frown to Carter’s brow.

For some reason, that pleased her.

“Are you having a pleasant day?” he asked.

“Delightful. And you?”

“I’ve been riding, seeing to the condition of the larger planting fields and talking with some of my tenants.”

She blinked in confusion. “I had no idea you took such an active role in the running of your estate.”

“You never asked,” he shot back.

She refused to take offense at his tone. No matter what, they would speak civilly to each other. “Mrs. Simpson has shown me the entire house, from the attic room to the cellar larder. It was all in first-rate order. I must commend you, my lord, on the dedication and diligence of your staff.”

“Carter,” he said forcefully.

Dorothea creased her forehead, hoping to appear deep in thought. Then she smiled. “And how did you find your lands? In as good repair as the house, I hope?”

One side of his lip twitched. “All is in excellent condition. My staff and tenants take pride in their work.” He lowered his head. “And I do pay them well, too.”

Dorothea grinned, the tension inside her easing at his lighthearted manner. “’Tis a very wise decision. I suggest you continue with the practice. From what I’ve heard, you can easily afford it.”

He gave her a crooked smile in return. “In addition to my tenants, I also happened across a few of our neighbors. I was besieged by no less than five invitations from the local gentry. Everyone is very anxious to meet you.”