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“Well,” said Lydia, after a while.

It was what her father had said. It seemed to have a great deal of range.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The carriage had traveled eleven miles before either of them found a subject that was safe. It turned out to be the weather. Tristan observed that the rain had gone off to the west. Lydia agreed that it had, she did not turn towards him. They watched a hedge go past together with the concentration of two people locked in a room with a barrel of powder.

The new springs took the worst of the ruts, but every turn still brought Lydia’s skirt against his boot, and she drew it away, then kept one hand on the fold to prevent it happening again. Her reticule lay closed in her lap. At breakfast she had thanked everyone who wished her happiness; now she would not look at him. He had expected her anger. The care she took to leave no part of herself resting against him was harder to bear.

They had stood through a wedding breakfast in her father’s house. They had cut a cake. They had received the good wishes of eighty people, Henry’s toast—which had contained a joke about grafting that Tristan suspected had been rehearsed on the stairs—and his mother’s embrace, which had been dry and brief and shaking. Lord Pembroke had shaken his hand and said, quietly, “Be kind to her,” in a tone that had made it perfectly clear what would follow if he were not. Now the noise had fallen away, and there was only the steady beat of the horses and the creak of leather and a sixty-mile road, and the plain fact that he was married.

At the last change of horses, the ostler had called her the duchess. Tristan had turned to see where his mother was before remembering. He hoped Lydia had not noticed.

“Everyone will expect a wedding journey,” he said.

Lydia turned her head. Her eyes were bright, and he wondered whether she had been watching the road so steadily to keep him from noticing. It was the first time she had looked at him in two hours. He had missed it, and felt foolish for having chosen other people’s expectations as his first subject.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A honeymoon. It is customary. Lady Pembroke will assume it, and my mother, and Whitmore, who has been drawing conclusions about it since the license was mentioned. We are going home to Ashcombe.” He kept his voice level. “People will say it is unusual. I thought you should know that we shall be seen to be on one, whether or not we are.”

“Naturally.” She worked a finger beneath the clasp of her reticule and stopped. “We must be very careful about what everyone expects. I had thought there might be a moment today when you asked what I hoped for.”

He had meant it as a warning. Instead, it had sounded like another instruction. The carriage swayed, and he braced a boot against the opposite seat, giving himself time to find a less foolish answer.

“Duchess,” he said.

“You have scarcely said my name since the church,” Lydia said. “I know I have a new title. Everyone has been using it. I should like to hear something from you that a footman could not say.”

He sat with that for a moment. He had been trying not to presume on the wedding, not to make her endure another courtesy that might hurt when it ended. From her side it had looked like withdrawal. He could see it now in the way she waited for him to answer. He knew how to give her rooms, money, all the freedoms within his gift. None would answer what she had just asked. He wanted to say her name, but somehow even that felt like a promise he was afraid to make.

“Then we ought to establish terms,” he said.

“Yes.” The reticule shifted in her lap. “I began before our conversation on Monday and in the meantime I have made some alterations.”

“Have you.”

“Somewhere between the fittings. I find it steadies me.” She reached into the reticule and drew out a small folded paper, then added, almost smiling, “I am not a monster. It is only a list.”

“You wrote a list.”

“I write lists for everything. I made one for the mint.” She smoothed it upon her knee. “First. Separate rooms. There is a suite for the duchess, I understand, on the east side of the house. I would be grateful to have it.”

“It is yours.” He looked at the paper rather than her face. “Lydia, I think we should leave the marriage unconsummated for now.”

She raised her head. “For how long?”

“Until we have had the conversation I promised you. I cannot offer you more tonight.”

The edge of the paper bent beneath her thumb. “You kissed me this morning.”

“I wanted to.”

“Then you might understand why I find this difficult.” She looked down at the list again. “I have agreed to give you time. I have not agreed to stop wanting a family.”

“I know.” He had no right to sound relieved. She was allowing him a delay, and he could already see what it cost her.

“Second. No unnecessary touching.” Her eyes remained on the paper. “I will not be kissed one moment and avoided the next. If we are to keep our distance, you must not make me forget it whenever it suits you.”