Airborne - The Hanover Restoration by Blair Bancroft

battle it out. Common sense won. Plus the sheer impossibility of rebelling against anyone’s plans when flat on my back in bed, weak as a newborn housemouse, and irrevocably married.
    However Rochefort had planned to use me—and our hasty wedding proved the matter urgent—I had failed him. No matter how valid my excuse for being confined to bed, his plans were now askew. And since I, Araminta Galsworthy, was an acquisition, bought and paid for, I owed my husband good service. I was, therefore, ready for him when he strode into my room directly after an early morning visit from the doctor. A curt nod to Tillie, and she scuttled out. He seized the chair from my desk and set it down beside me, a scant two feet from my face. Before he could utte r a word, I burst out, “I am sorry, so very sorry. You married me to play hostess to your guests and now—”
    “I did not!” Rochefort roared, causing my head to clang like a bell, sickening echoes surging from ear to ear. My pain must have been apparent, for he continued in less strident tones. “Pay close heed, Minta. “It might have been convenient to have a wife to entertain my guests, but I did not marry you for that reason.”
    “You need protection from your mama and her schemes.”
    “I was protected the moment you signed you marriage lines.”
    Silence. My head had stopped ringing, leaving my mulish tendencies in charge. “But you are expecting a houseful of guests and the doctor says I must stay in bed for a week.” Mortifying to hear my voice rising into a wail. Even worse, Rochefort appeared to be struggling to keep his face straight. We’d nearly been killed and he found it amusing ?
    Oh, yes, he’d told me the gist of it last night. Someone had shot at us with a rifle. A single shot that grazed my head and took Rochefort in the fleshy part of his upper arm. He gave no explanation beyond saying that his work seemed to have aroused unknown enemies. Whether from pain or innate caution I know not, but I failed to mention I had overheard his conversation with Drummond.
    “Minta,” Rochefort said, “the doctor is right. You have a head wound. No matter how slight, we must be cautious. I assure you our guests will understand.”
    “But—”
    He held up a hand as imperious as an emperor silencing a petitioner. “No buts . You will do as you’re told.”
    “I was to meet with Mrs. E this morning.”
    “Mrs. E has been running this household since her mother gave up the post eight years ago,” he returned smoothly. “One more day will not matter.”
    If I had not already realized Rochefort wasn’t Papa, I knew it now. He ran his household with as much steel as he put into his machines. The possibilities of wrapping him around my little finger, as I had with Papa, were all but nil.
    Rochefort—the latest events had chased all cosy thoughts of Julian from my head—leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and fixed me with a dark gaze that didn’t quite conceal a simmering annoyance. “We seem to have strayed from my intended reasons for visiting you this morning. First of all, how are you feeling?”
    “Better than last night.” I tried for a touch of his own nonchalance, but I doubt it rang true.
    “ Better than last night ,” he mocked. “My dear girl, if either of us felt as we did last night, I would indeed be quailing before the thought of my mother’s arrival.”
    Almost, I smiled. For Rochefort to admit any vulnerability was a step in the right direction.
    “Listen to me, Minta. You are quite right that I have need of you when our next round of guests arrives, so you will follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter. He’s no London society doctor, but Edinburgh trained and worthy of respect.”
    “Very well,” I murmured. For a moment there I’d almost hoped he cared about something besides my usefulness. Undoubtedly, the silly maunderings of a scrambled mind.
    “I have had word that my mother and her guests are delayed until