What followed was not so much a honeymoon as a wild rush of fairytale-like wonderlands. We embarked on a dream vacation across Europe, starting with five days on the Cornish Coast, followed by a trip to the continent via yacht. It wasn't long before the shore appeared before us—but what shore? We started sailing up a river and still I didn't know where exactly we were.
"Where are we landing?" I demanded, hopping up and down at the railing excitedly, squinting into the sun, trying to make out something on the coastline.
"Wait and see," his Lordship answered with a mysterious smile.
And I did see. Only moments later, I caught sight of a towering, pointy shape in the distance, rising lonesome out of a sea of houses.
"Good God! That isn't...?"
"Yes it is."
"Paris?"
From the upper deck, where he was standing wielding the wheel, he smirked at me. "No. We're going to another city with an Eiffel Tower."
I threw my sandwich at him.
We spent two weeks in Paris, sailing down the Sein, touring the wildest nightclubs in the city, climbing on the Eiffel Tower at least a dozen times, and probably committing sacrilege by making out on top of Notre Dame. And do you know what? That nickname Paris has, the 'City of Love'? It's totally justified.
Next, we flew via private plane straight across Europe and took a train up into the mountains. A week spent in the quiet village of Lauterbrunnen in the idyll of the Swiss Alps was more than enough of a respite from our wild nights in Paris. Our next stop was in Italy, but on my request, we made a little detour to the village of Fucking, Austria, just to see whether it was really there. It was, and that night we stayed in a charming little hotel on the edge of the forest and let ourselves be inspired by the village name.
In Italy, we went from Florence to Rome, from Rome to Milan and from Milan to Venice. By the end of the week, I had seen more ancient towering columns, beautiful statues and intricately painted ceilings with naked guys on them than in my entire life so far. Particularly of the letter there was an acute lack back home in Hilly Springs, Alabama. When we finally stood on the bridge of sighs in Venice, it was the most romantic climax to a journey ever—until tour guide came along and offered to tell us why the bridge was called the bridge of sighs.
"Oh yes, please tell us," I sighed, snuggling into my husband and looking out over the canal, imagining all the loving couples who must have uttered sighs on this beautiful bridge. "It has to be the most romantic story."
"Hwell," the tour guide said with a bright smile and thick Italian accent, "Sis bridge, you see, connects se Doge's palace hwith the Prigioni."
"Prigioni?"
"Se old prisons," explained the tour guide, his smile widening. "Sis bridge was se place hwhere se condemned prisoners could utter a hlast sigh before being executed. Sis is how it got its name."
Okay... that wasn't quite the romantic story I had imagined. But it was still a very nice bridge.
After all those cities, I was ready for some time outdoors. A charming little inn somewhere the Black Forest was our next stop, where we spent two weeks tracking, kissing, watching squirrels gather nuts and, at mealtimes, trying to order Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte without tying our tongues into knots.
Last but certainly not least, there came our cruise through the Mediterranean: a week of sunshine, splashing waves and the absolute bliss of being the only passengers aboard the ship. We could do anything we wanted on board. Anything at all. And trust me, we did—particularly at night.
Just before venturing out through the Straits of Gibraltar and back towards "Good old Blighty", as the ship's captain referred to England, we made a little stop in Spain and went up to Cordoba. For three hours, we wandered through the gardens of the Alhambra, marveling at the strange, incomprehensible beauty of the place.
When at last we were back aboard our ship and waving goodbye to Europe, or at least the continental part of it, I felt more serene and fulfilled than I had ever before in my life. Some of that might have come from the three glasses of Spanish wine gurgling cheerily in my stomach, but most of it, I felt sure, came from the man standing beside me, holding my hand.
My man.
My husband.
Now, finally, I would have my happy end.
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When we arrived back at the manor, I thought at first a funeral was happening. All the staff was arrayed outside in some kind of procession. Or... no. Not a procession. A formation. Had they all joined the army? But why, then, was everybody still wearing their servant's uniform?
I wanted to get out of the car, but the butler was there before I could even blink, and opened the door for me.
"Um... thanks, Sam," I mumbled, blushing at the unusual attention.
He winced, and closed his eyes in pain. Leaning over to his Lordship, I asked: "Did I say something wrong?"
He grinned. "Yes, my dear. His first name. In an abbreviated manner, to top it off."
"But I've always called Sam by his first name!"
His smile widened. "That was before you became the lady of the manor. He could tolerate your barbaric colonial ways back then—just barely. Now it's an entirely different matter."
"Oh." I turned back to Not-Sam. He didn't like that name? Damn! Frantically, I tried to remember what the butler's other first name was. Something starting with L. Larry? Lester? No, Lloyd! That was it! Lloyd. "Err... I'm sorry. I meant to say thanks, Lloyd."
This time he covered his face with his hands to shield me from his reaction. Behind me, I could feel my husband's shoulders quake.
"What did I do wrong now?" I hissed at him.
"No first names are allowed for the lady of the manor, I'm afraid."
"None at all?"
"No."
"Well, then, blast it, what should I call him? SL?"
"Pardon?"
"Short for Samuel Lloyd!"
"I'm afraid that won't do it either."
"Are you laughing? You're laughing! Don't laugh, you ass!"
"I'm sorry, My Lady. I'm afraid my inherent assness makes the urge to laugh simply irresistible."
"Ha, ha! What should I call him?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what do you call him?"
"Liverich."
"Liverich?"
"That's his last name."
"No 'Mr'? No first name? Just Liverich?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"That's damn rude!"
He shrugged. "It's the established custom."
"Well, the established custom can go and kiss my ass!"
"No, it can't." Growling, he leaned over and took my earlobe between his teeth, nibbling teasingly. "I'm the only one allowed to kiss your ass, or any other part of you, remember?"
"But..."
"No buts. You're no longer Cassy McKinney. You're Lady Cassidy Farleigh, Baroness Farleigh now. Life will be different for you from this moment on. Are you up to the challenge?"
Damn! Why did he have to put it like that?
"Of course I am!"
"Then show me."
Taking a deep breath, I turned towards the suffering butler again, and smiled. "Thank you, Liverich."
He gave a sigh of relief, and peace spread over his moose-like face. "Thank you, my Lady."
Now it was my turn to wince. "I suppose I can't convince you to still call me Cassy, can I?"
"No, my Lady."
"I thought not. Oh, well..."
Sighing, I slid out of the car.
Sam, or rather 'Liverich', I corrected myself, executed a deep bow.
"If you would please follow me, my Lady."
I could almost feel his Lordship smirking behind me.
"Yes, of course," I groaned. How was I going to live through this? I was an American, for Hot Dog's sake! A firm believer in equality! I couldn't have people bowing and scraping all the time. "Could you perhaps refrain from bowing?" I dared to suggest.
"I am sorry, my Lady. Bows are mandatory."
"Then maybe just not so deeply?" I pleaded.
But Liverich had no mercy. He gave a grave shake of his head. "I am sorry, my Lady. No."
"Oh, damn and blast!"
"Quite so, my Lady." Showing no emotion on his moose-like face, he gestured to the assembled line of servants. "May I introduce you to the staff?"
"But I've met all of them already!"
"Not officially, my Lady. Besides..." he gave a discreet cough. "It has not escaped my attention that, prior to her marriage to my Lord, my Lady had a certain pension for addressing the staff in a familiar manner, in particular—" he closed his eyes in pain for a moment once more "—on a first name basis. Since this will now cease, my Lady will have to familiarize herself with the proper etiquette."
I leaned over to my husband, who, judging by the expression on his face, was having a very good time. "Does he always talk like that?"
"When he's addressing the aristocracy."
"Aristocracy? I'm not an aristocrat!"
"You most certainly are." Encircling me with one arm, he pressed a teasing kiss to the corner of my mouth. "From the moment my lips touched yours in St Paul's Cathedral."
"But... but I can't be an aristocrat! I'm American! Last time we had an aristocracy, we started a war over it and threw them all out of the country, up to and including the king and his tax on tea leaves!"
"You don't say?" Another kiss, even more tantalizing. "I suppose that means you had better stay with me in England, then."
There was a respectful clearing of a respectful throat. It belonged to the respectful corpus of Liverich, the butler.
"The staff introduction, my Lady?" he reminded me.
"Oh yes, of course." Disentangling himself from me, his Lordship leaned against the car, grinning. "Go on. I want to watch this."
Throwing him an I'll-pay-you-back-for-that-later glare, I straightened and approached the line of servants. First in line was Abby Potts, a young kitchen maid who had brought me my lunch to the stables more than once, and with whom I had exchanged dirty American jokes for English ones. Just to have one example:
Lord Farleigh and Sir Jasper are out hunting. Sir Jasper suddenly clutches his heart and collapses.
Lord Farleigh pulls out his phone and calls the emergency service.
"I'm out hunting with Sir Jasper Woodward, and I think he's dead! He needs an ambulance! What should I do?"
"Calm down. Maybe it's not too late. First of all, you have to make sure he's really dead."
The operator hears momentary silence, then a gunshot. Then Lord Farleigh is back on the phone.
"All right, he's dead. What now?"
That was the kind of joke she told. And the kind of girl who told that kind of joke now made a prim and proper curtsy in front of me and said: "It's an honor, my Lady."
An honor? Please!
"Abby!" I groaned. "You don't have to—"
"Potts," corrected Liverich.
"I can't call her Potts!" I protested. "She's not a cookware shop!"
For one moment, I almost thought I saw Abby's lips twitch. But it was gone as soon as I noticed.
"No, my Lady. I am a simple maid, my Lady."
"That she is," confirmed Liverich, giving me a stern look. How was it possible that he managed to boss me around while insisting on being subservient? This just wasn't fair!
"And this is Baker."
"Charmed to meet you, my Lady."
"And Bell."
"An honor, my Lady."
"And Chapman."
"Your servant, my Lady."
Each and every one of them either bowed or curtsied as I went past. Finally, at the very end of the line, I reached Jenny.
"Jenny!" I exclaimed and moved to hug her. The look I got from Liverich prevented me.
"Brooks," he informed me. "Brooks, not 'Jenny'."
I threw him a pleading look. But he was relentless. He was without mercy. Clasping my hands, I turned my puppy-dog eyes on my newly acquired husband. But he was too busy laughing his ass off to notice, the bastard!
"Please?" I beseeched Liverich. He had to have a heart somewhere under that stiff-upper-lip British exterior. "Please? Just one?"
He hesitated.
"I'll be good," I hurriedly promised. "I'll order you around, shout at you, reduce your wages on a regular basis, I'll even throw you into the dungeon if you want, just please let me use one first name! Please?"
One moment more he hesitated—then shook his head. "No. Brooks will be your new lady's maid, my Lady. We cannot have a lady's maid being addressed by her mistress in so improperly familiar a manner! Where would things come to?"
"A much nicer place?" I suggested.
Liverich didn't seem to hear me.
"Very nice to meet you, my Lady," said Jenny / Brooks with a curtsy.
"Please!" Clutching my hands together again, I turned to her. "Please, Jenny, call me by my first name!"
"Oh, I couldn't do that, my Lady. It wouldn't be proper."
"To hell with proper!"
"Just as you say, my Lady."
"So you are going to call me by my first name?"
"I'm afraid not my Lady."
"I order you to call me by my first name!"
"Of course, my Lady. Just as you wish, my Lady."
Behind me, I heard my dear husband trying to conceal a snigger. I gave up. English people! Unbelievable!
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It took quite some time, but after giving me a lecture on all the protocol I would still be expected to learn if I wanted to become a proper lady of the house, we finished with the introductions and Livierich gave me his temporary permission to assume my duties as his employer. I dashed inside, escaping into the the bedroom. When my dear husband showed up there five minutes later he was still laughing his ass off.
"You," I growled, advancing towards him, "are in for a lot of trouble!"
Ripping off his tie, he threw it aside and me a suggestive smile. "Looking forward to it."
I grabbed his collar, and dragged him over to the bed. That night, the manor shook in its foundations. And if there were dungeons here, the chains probably rattled.
The next morning, my muscles felt a bit sore, but the rest of me felt considerably more relaxed and cheery. When I came down to breakfast, his Lordship was already waiting for me, standing at the window, looking out over the meadows.
"Good morning, my Lady." He inclined his head minutely.
"Good morning, Chri—" Breaking off, I cocked my head, gazing at him intently. "You don't still expect me to call you 'my Lord', do you?"
A devious little smile played around the corners of his mouth. "Of course I do."
"But we are married!" I protested.
Turning away from the window, towards me, his smile widened. He took a step forward. "Exactly."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Another step forward. He was coming dangerously close now. I could feel the electricity crackling in the air between us. "Exactly what you said. We are married. You are my lady. I am your lord."
"This is not the middle ages," I informed him, arms on hips, trying to hide the thrill that shot through me at his words. "I may be married to you, but that doesn't make you my lord and master!"
Another step forward. He was close enough to touch, now, the blue steel of his eyes boring into me. "Are you sure about that?"
"Yes!"
Slowly, he leaned forward. His breath brushed my cheek, and I could feel the solid heat of him, only inches away... "Really?"
"Y... ye..."
"Hmm..." With a guttural, appreciative sound he skimmed his nose along my cheekbone and down the arched curve of my neck. "I told you what I wanted you to call me didn't I?"
"Y-yes."
"Then say it."
"Yes, my Lord."
"That's better."
He pressed a quick kiss to the edge of my jaw. Sighing, I began to lean into him—and then suddenly he was gone. Shocked, I ripped open my eyes, which had slid shut when his lips had touched me, and I saw him sauntering towards the breakfast table, a smirk on his face.
The damn, dastardly son of a...!
I sent him a glare, while trying desperately to get my erratic breathing back under control. "So suddenly you're interested in breakfast, are you?"
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, I'm told."
"If it's so important, why haven't you already started?" I asked, just to be saying something, anything to distract from the damn need to run over to him and kiss him.
"Sit down at table before the lady of the house does?" He raised one eyebrow at me. "What kind of churl do you take me for?"
"The arrogant, self-centered kind."
"Truly amazing—you know me so well, my Lady." Drawing back a chair at one end of the huge mahogany dining room table, he gestured with his free hand. "Please, be seated."
"Thank you, my Lord."
Quickly, I slipped into the chair and reached for the platter with the bread. The night's exertions had left me quite hungry. It wasn't until I looked up again, my plate filled with goodies, that I noticed he had sat down too—at the opposite end of the table!
Let me clarify. This wasn't just a normal dining room table. This was a lord-of-the-manor-state-function-royal-wedding-stadium-size dining room table. We were the only two people sitting at it. Still, the servants had covered it with a beautifully embroidered satin table cloth and faithfully put up all three-hundred and seventy-two place settings, including sixty pepper pots, thirty vases overflowing with flowers, and an army of differently-sized wine glasses. From where I was sitting to the other end of the table it was about a mile of difficult terrain interspersed with sharp knives and tangles of wild orchids.
And at that other end my husband was now sitting.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
"Pardon?" he raised a hand to his ear.
Cupping both hands around my mouth, I shouted: "What—are—you—doing—over—there?"
I could just faintly make out his smile in the distance. "I couldn't possibly sit next to you now, could I?"
"Why not? You're my husband!"
"Exactly." Reaching out, he took up another cucumber sandwich. "It'll be good training for you. At official dinners, husbands and wives never sit side by side because they are sick of each other."
"Who says I'm sick of you?"
He smirked. "I figured you would be, me being such an arrogant, self-centered churl and all."
My cheeks flaming, I tried to concentrate on the toast with marmalade on my plate.
Don't look at him. Don't show how much you would like to slap him right now—or even worse, how much you'd like to sit next to him. That's what he wants.
"Oh?" I asked to change the subject. "And when will I ever be attending an official dinner?"
"Hm... It's next Wednesday, I think."
My marmalade-laden toast froze in the air halfway up to my mouth.
There was a long, long moment of silence.
"You are joking, right?" I asked, my toast still suspended in mid-air.
He cocked his head. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
"You had better be joking! Next Wednesday?"
"Ten pm, I believe."
I dropped my toast.
"When, where, who, why and especially what the flying fuck?"
Liverich the butler, who was standing in a corner ready to serve, made a long-suffering face as American expletives stained the air of his noble English domain, but right then and there, I didn't care. My attention was focused on the noble bastard at the other end of the table.
He took another cucumber sandwich. "I already told you when. Next Wednesday, ten pm."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why, then."
Casually, he took a bite. "You remember the hunt?"
My already narrowed eyes narrowed some more. "You mean the one I nearly refused to marry you over?"
"Yes, that one."
"I remember."
"Well, it starts soon. The opening dinner is next Wednesday, and after that, we'll go hunting."
My hand instinctively clenched around a knife on the table, and I opened my mouth, but he was already raising his hand in a placating gesture. "Just clay pigeons, my Lady. Just clay pigeons!"
"Humph." Cheated of a reason to ram the knife into my beloved husband, I speared a slice of ham instead.
"At the dinner, you'll have to use a serving fork for that," he informed me, cheerfully. I sent him a death glare the deadly nature of which he did not seem to notice. For a moment, I considered discussing the importance of a good, solid, marital row with him, but then decided to postpone it. There were more questions on my mind.
"So what do you do at this hunt all day if you don't actually hunt?" I demanded.
He shrugged. "Oh, as I said, we shoot clay pigeons, hold a few small races between friends, and shooting competitions, too—and of course we eat and drink." He grinned. "Particularly drink."
"I assume you're not referring to water?"
"Most definitely not."
"Will your friends be there?"
"Certainly. Even the ones who don't always come will be there this year. This won't just be a normal hunt, you know. It'll also be a sort of welcome-home party for us newlyweds. I'm sure Mac and Dan want to see what's left of me after seven weeks alone with you."
I considered for a moment. It might actually be nice. Apart from the appalling name, the event seemed pretty harmless. I would get the opportunity to get a little closer acquainted with all of his Lordship's friends, and maybe I would even get to beat him at racing.
I grinned.
"I deduce from your facial expression, my dear wife, that you are not averse to the idea of attending the event?"
"No, my dear husband, not at all."
"Excellent." He rubbed his hands. "Then I'll tell the staff to prepare."
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And prepare they did. The moment we were finished breakfast, a swarm, no, a veritable army of servants swept into the room and started scrubbing, polishing and decorating. Was I missing something? I could swear I hadn't met a quarter of these people during the introductions outside the house!
"Do you have secret stashes of minions hidden away somewhere?" I whispered to his Lordship as I watched three maids delve into a mahogany cupboard and start dusting like dust devils.
He raised an arrogant eyebrow. "Of course."
We retreated into the hallway, but it wasn't long before we were banished from there, too. Three maids started polishing the mahogany banisters. Four footmen began to carry the furniture around, so others could scrub the floor, and three ladders were already resting against the windows, just waiting for people desiring nothing so much as to polish and polish and polish. It went on like that the whole day, and the next, and the next. The manor was like a beehive, only that bees weren't nearly as obsessed with cleaning and decorating. They were more into collecting pollen. Much more sensible, in my opinion.
To be honest, I thought the whole thing was a bit over the top. After all, this was just going to be a small welcome-home party, right? Fifteen, twenty people max, and all knew each other. Two of the kitchen maids could probably do the catering for that all by themselves without even having to ask the cook to get cracking.
Finally, the madness abated. When Wednesday evening arrived, I stood with my ridiculously handsome husband on the steps outside the manor, awaiting our guests.
He squeezed my hand. "Are you ready?"
I smiled up at him. "For what? This is just going to be a sort of welcome-home party with your friends, right? Nothing to get worried about."
"Welcome-home party?" One corner of his mouth quirked up. "My dear, I think you misunderstood me. My friends will be there, yes—but this is the Barrington Hunt. It's the society event of the season. Everyone who is anyone will be there."
My eyes widened in shock. "What?"
I swallowed. Suddenly, Liverich's manner lessons, the preparations, even the glittering dark dress and the heels he had insisted I put on, appeared in an entirely new light.
"Oh yes." Lifting my hand, he pressed a kiss to the back of it, gazing at me through long, dark lashes. "The best and brightest Britain has to offer—and they will all be dying to meet the new Lady Farleigh."
That was when the lights of the first car appeared at the end of the road leading up to the manor.