Clarissa's eyes were speculative as she surveyed Augusta. "But of course," she said. "If you will follow me I will show you to your bedchamber. I imagine you will want to refresh yourself after your journey."
"Thank you." Augusta glanced at Harry and saw that he was already busy issuing orders to his staff. Meredith was at his side, her small hand tucked in his. Neither of them paid any attention as Augusta was led away.
"We understand," Clarissa intoned as she started up the steps and into the vast marble hall, "that you are related to Lady Prudence Ballinger, the author of a number of useful schoolroom books for young ladies."
"Lady Prudence was my aunt."
"Ah, then you are one of the Hampshire Ballingers?" Clarissa asked with a touch of enthusiasm. "A fine family and one noted for its many intellectual members."
"Actually," Augusta said, tilting her chin proudly. "I am descended from a different branch of the family. The Northumberland side, to be precise."
"I see," said Clarissa. The hint of approval died in her eyes.
Much later that evening Harry sat alone in his bedchamber, a glass of brandy in one hand and a copy of Thucydides' The Peloponnesian War in the other. He had not read a word for quite some time. All he could think about was his new bride lying alone in her bed next door. There had been no sound from the adjoining chamber for some time now.
This was definitely not how he had envisioned spending his first night under his own roof with his new wife.
He took a sip of the brandy and tried to concentrate on the book. It was hopeless. He closed the volume with a sharp snap and tossed it onto the end table.
He had told himself during the journey that he was going to make a subtle point about his self-control to Augusta. Now he wondered if he was being a bit too subtle.
She had as good as thrown down the gauntlet when she had flung the fact of his reckless lovemaking in Sally's carriage in his face. As far as Harry was concerned, she had virtually challenged him to prove he was not a slave to his physical desire for her. He was not going to play Antony to her Cleopatra.
He could hardly blame Augusta for her assumptions, though. After the way he had seduced her in Sally's carriage, she had every right to conclude that he could not keep his hands off of her. No woman was above using that sort of power. And in the hands of a bold, daring little chit like Augusta, such power was exceedingly dangerous.
Harry had therefore decided it would be best to take a stand early on in his marriage and make it clear he was not lacking in self-control. Begin as you mean to go on, he had told himself.
Last night when they had stopped at an inn, he had booked a separate chamber for Augusta, making some excuse about her being more comfortable with her maid. The truth was, he had not trusted himself to spend his wedding night on his own side of the bed.
Tonight he had forced himself to bid his wife an excruciatingly polite good night at the door of her bedchamber. He had deliberately not given her any indication of his intentions. He wondered if she was lying awake even now, waiting to see if he would come to her.
The uncertainty would do her good, he told himself. The woman was decidedly too headstrong and far too quick to issue a challenge, as that whole damn business involving the debt to Lovejoy proved. She had gotten into that dangerous situation precisely because she had been trying to demonstrate to Harry that she was not obliged to bow to his wishes.
Harry got up from his chair and stalked across the chamber to pour himself another glass of brandy. He had been far too lenient with Augusta thus far; that was the problem. Too indulgent by half. She was, after all, one of the Northumberland Ballingers. She needed a firm hand on the reins. He owed it to their future happiness to restrain her reckless streak.
But the more he thought about it tonight, the more Harry wondered if he was taking the right tact by staying out of his wife's bedchamber.
He swallowed more brandy and contemplated the stirring heat in his loins.
There was another way of looking at his current situation, he decided on a flash of brandy-induced wisdom. If one were to be quite logical about this—and he did pride himself on his ability to think logically—one could see that he might do better to assert his privileges as a husband right from the start.
Yes, that reasoning was much more sound than his previous thoughts on the matter. It was not, after all, his self-control he needed to demonstrate, but rather his dominant role in the marriage. He was master in his own home.
Vastly more satisfied with this new line of logic, Harry set down his glass and went across the room to open his wife's door.
He stood in the doorway and gazed into the deep shadows around the bed. "Augusta?"
There was no response.
Harry walked into the bedchamber and realized there was no one in the canopied bed. "Damnation, Augusta, where are you?"
When there was still no response, he swung around and saw that the door to the bedchamber was ajar. His insides clenched as he realized she was not in the room.
What trick was she up to tonight? he wondered as he strode toward the door and let himself out into the hall. If this was another one of her efforts to lead him in circles until he was dizzy, he would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms.
He stepped out into the hall and saw the ghostly figure. Garbed in a pale dressing gown that floated out behind her, candle in hand, Augusta was heading for the long picture gallery that fronted the house. Curious now, Harry decided to follow the wraith.
As he trailed softly behind her, Harry was aware of a sense of relief. He knew then that a part of him had secretly feared she had packed a bag and run off into the night. He should have known better, he told himself. Augusta was not the sort to run from anything.
He followed her into the long gallery and stood watching at the far end as she went slowly along the row of portraits. She paused at each picture, holding the taper high to study each face in its heavy gilt frame. Moonlight filtering in through the tall windows that lined the front of the gallery bathed her in a silvery glow, making her appear more of a ghost than ever.
Harry waited until she was examining the picture of his father before he started forward.
"I have been told I resemble him very closely," he said quietly. "I have never found it much of a compliment."
"Harry." The flame flickered wildly as Augusta spun around, her hand at her throat. "Good grief. I did not know you were there. You gave me a terrible start."
"My apologies. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, madam?"
"I was curious, my lord."
"About my ancestors?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Well, my lord, I was just lying there in my bed thinking that they will be my ancestors, too, now, will they not? And I realized I did not know much about any of them."
Harry folded his arms across his chest and propped one shoulder against the wall beneath his father's stern face. "If I were you, I would not be in too much of a rush to claim this lot. There's not a particularly pleasant soul among them, from all I've ever heard."
"What about your father? He looks very strong and noble." She peered up at the portrait.
"Perhaps he was when he sat for that painting. I only knew him as a bitter, angry man who was never able to deal with the feet that my mother ran off with an Italian count shortly after I was born."
"Good heavens. How terrible. What happened?"
"She died in Italy. My father locked himself in his library with several bottles for a week when he got the news. He drank himself into a stupor. When he came out, he refused to allow her name to be uttered in this house."