Page 41 of Loving Mister Stratford
He might have been called aloof and he may have taken little interest in many social niceties, but he was far from deaf to the nasty whispers and tittered comments about the“odd Stratford son.” He had been painfully aware for longer than he cared to admit that he was misunderstood amongst theton; it stood to reason the inundation of invitations and callers was likely owed a great deal to the fact that Society wanted to see what woman would be foolish enough to attach herself to the socially-inept, odd Mr. Simon Stratford. The nature of their abrupt engagement and quick wedding was enough to set the tongues to wagging; the identity of the bridegroom simply added more kindling to the gossip. Give thetona nugget of salacious gossip and they’d drool over it. Give them interesting characters in the play and they’d run rabid.
The last thing he wanted to subject Odette to were the cruel words and whispers of Society and, with every letter that arrived, his need to protect her grew larger in his breast. He was long used to their actions and acidic words, the sidelong glances and smirks, but the last thing he wanted was for his wife to endure them. He told her as much one evening as she sat on the sofa in his study, sorting through a stack of cards and invitations by the light of the candles on the small table before her.
Simon’s quill had sat dry in his hand for some time at that point, unused and forgotten. Despite Odette’s best efforts to remain unobtrusive, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He despaired of getting any work done that evening, settling only for watching her crystalline eyes as they scanned every line, every word offered up as enticement to join this woman for tea or accept a certain invitation to a musicale hosted by another. And to bring her husband along.
“You don’t have to accept every invitation we receive,” Simon finally said as he set aside his quill. She was so lovely when she glanced up at him that it made his heart ache.
“I know that, Simon,” she replied with a smile.“I don’t intend to accept a majority of these; it’s simply astonishing to see who has sent them.” She flipped through the stack until she came to an envelope once sealed with a black daub of wax.“The Countess of Heppelwaite has invited us to dinner. And this one,” she added, plucking an embossed card from another stack;“is from the Duchess of Moreton. Aduchess!”
Simon’s mouth thinned into a grim line.“I’m sure there are one or two in there from earnest individuals, but a great many are simply curiosity-seekers.”
Her elegant brows came together and she was silent for several moments.“Am I a curiosity, then?” she asked softly.
“Not you.” His reply was so gentle she might have missed it had she not been watching him. The room was so quiet they could both hear the ticking of the clock upon the mantle.
There was a rustle as Odette leaned forward and set aside the papers she’d held in her lap.“Surely you don’t believe this many invitations stem from some…cruel desire to make a mockery of you—of our marriage?”
Simon had to avert his eyes. It was the truth. Whether Odette believed it or not, he had spent nearly thirty years as the butt of jokes, the recipient of cruel words and comments. He’d built up a thick hide because of it, but the last thing he wanted was for his wife to have to do the same. Society was savage and he wanted to do everything in his power to protect her from it; he didn’t want this marriage to change her any more than necessary. To allow it to happen would be the verist of injustices and likely dilute some of the things he adored most about her.
“Oh, Simon,” she sighed, not unkindly. If anything, he could hear her heart in her voice. There was a pause where she mulled over her next words before speaking.“The last thing I want is to discount your experiences or make you feel as if I do not believe you…but we cannot hide away from the world.” He watched as she tucked her legs beneath her.“Perhaps we can start small and invite your sister and Meredith? They can help me filter through these invitations, and I promise not to accept any on both of our behalf before consulting with you. Is that acceptable?”
Simon sighed.
As much as he wished to protect Odette, he knew he couldn’t keep her shut away like a princess in a tower. It would be easy for him to cut Society out of his life, but his wife deserved more from her existence. She should have beautiful gowns and jewels, to be appreciated for her sweet heart and infectious smile. He knew, if given the chance, she would be as adored outside of these walls as she was within them.
Because he had…come to adore his wife, that was.
And denying her the opportunity to experience the world and find her place outside of her mother’s shadow was not something he could completely bring himself to do.
“Is that agreeable?” she asked hopefully.
He inclined his head in acquiescence and then pushed himself back from the desk. Holding out his hand, he silently beckoned her into his arms.
Lily and Meredith, along with the countess, had eagerly accepted the invitation to see Simon and Odette’s new home on St. James’s Square. The laughter and gay chatter of the women echoed through the unfurnished rooms as they were led on a tour. It wasn’t long before Odette was whisked away on a shopping trip to decorate and furnish several more rooms, along with adding to her wardrobe before the Season was fully underway and modistes were overwhelmed with orders.
Hours of peaceful silence passed during which Simon was able to work uninterrupted. But several times he’d caught himself staring at Odette’s unoccupied place on the sofa. The correspondence had been cleared away and the pillows replaced and fluffed by their maid, but Simon still caught the echo of her scent, his ears still yearned for the sound of her voice, and his eyes craved the sight of her.
This was a rather unfortunate development.
Frustrated, Simon shoved away from his desk. As he stretched his back and worked a cramp from his hand, his stomach emitted a powerful growl.
And that was another unfortunate development.
It seemed his body had grown used to Odette’s incessant insistence upon regular sustenance. And he knew it wouldn’t let up until he satisfied the craving.
He could easily have yanked on the bell-pull near the door, but it felt quite good to stretch his long legs after hours of sitting. Rather than summon the maid, he decided to make a foray to the kitchens himself and see what he could scrounge up. He and his siblings had spent a great deal of their youth pilfering treats and snacks from the pantries at Bridleton and Aldborough House, so he had sufficient confidence that he would be able to do the same here in his own home. At least now there was no one to chastise him; he couldn’t very well get in trouble for eating his own food, now could he?
It didn’t take him long to locate what he sought—he had only to follow the scent of herbs and smoke, the nutty undertone of browned sugar. He found their maid, Mary, humming to herself as she stirred a heavy pot hanging from an iron hook above the crackling hearth. The cook was busy kneading dough—perhaps for the bread they’d enjoy with supper. The temperature in the room was at least ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house, but the maid, especially, seemed nonplussed as she flitted around the basement room to follow Cook’s orders, her hair tied back in threadbare a kerchief. The back door to the alley had been propped open to allow some of the heat to escape.
Suddenly, the maid turned and jumped, pressing a hand to her chest. The cook spun around, snatching up a nearby knife and wielding her knife like the weapon it was.
“Mr. Stratford! You gave me such a fright!” Mary fanned her flushed face and wiped her hands on her apron. The cook slumped in visible relief before resuming her task.“Did you ring?” She glanced over at the collection of bells on the wall as if one might tell her she’d missed its chime.
Simon shook his head.“My apologies.” He suddenly felt more obtrusive than a horse in the kitchen.“I was merely seeking out something to eat.”
“Oh. Oh!” The young woman perked up as she processed what he’d said.
“Supper won’t be ready for some time yet, but I believe there is some cold roast chicken from luncheon, grapes, a little of Mrs. Stratford’s favorite cheese,” the cook replied helpfully as she covered the ball of dough with a towel and wiped her hands on the broad apron at her waist.
