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Her Convenient Husband's Return

Page 8

by Eleanor Webster


  ‘Really? Perhaps you should have thought of that before securing any number of mistresses, as well as a wife.’

  Shame, anger and myriad other emotions flashed and flared through him. His shoulders knotted. Heat washed into his face and he felt his jaw clench.

  ‘What? Who told you this?’ he ground out, turning from the mantel. ‘You should not even know of such things.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ He spoke jerkily, startled out of both his anger and sophistication. No one disagreed with him and certainly not with the word ‘fiddlesticks.’

  She shrugged. ‘Your affairs are entirely your own concern, but it is foolish to think I should not know of such things, particularly as you apparently flaunt them openly enough when you are in town. According to Allie, they are frequently remarked upon in the servants’ hall at Graham Hill and Allington.’

  ‘I—You—Allie should not discuss such things.’

  ‘I fail to see why. It would seem to be pertinent given that I am married to you. Talking of which, I think we should clear the air about—about—well—the elephant.’

  He stared at her. She appeared composed. The black silk suited her, a stark contrast to the blonde-gold of her hair. But her conversation struck him as odder than usual. ‘The elephant?’

  ‘My mother had a Russian nurse when she was little. This individual always called something that no one wished to discuss the elephant in the museum. I think it was based on a Russian folk story. In our case I was thinking of the kiss.’

  The word dropped, loud as cannon fire at dawn. Its impact seemed all the greater mixed as it was with folk stories and museums.

  His breath left him.

  ‘Likely,’ she continued airily, ‘you are feeling that I may have been shocked or discomfited and I wished to assure you that I am neither. Indeed, I am not likely to expire in a fit of vapours just because of a kiss.’

  ‘I—’ His smooth, glib words had left him. He felt his hand clench and consciously stretched out his fingers in response. Diverse, complex emotions flooded him. How could she so quickly dismiss a kiss which had somehow shifted his world?

  In that moment, he realised that simple truth. A single kiss had in some indefinable way changed something... He was a man of debauched tastes and concubines. Celeste had draped herself all over the pillows last night and he had felt a bored indifference, his mind circling to this woman.

  ‘I have given the kiss little—th-thought,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You always hesitate over the first consonant of a word when attempting to obscure a fact.’

  ‘I do not and I am not attempting to obscure anything. And you have gone bright pink, by the way,’ he added. ‘A suggestion that you also might be lying.’

  ‘And there I thought sophisticated London gentlemen did not make personal comments.’

  ‘I don’t—’ He stopped, realising that they were sounding more like adolescents trading insults than grown adults. ‘Look, we don’t need to discuss the kiss. It was an aberration. I only ask that you behave with decorum and not dash off to London on a whim and talk of elephants.’

  ‘Likely I can avoid discussing elephants, but I think it unfair that you should expect me to remain at Allington.’

  ‘But you like Allington. You said that was why you never wanted to marry. Your mother said it would be too hard for you to gain independence in a new environment. Must you argue about everything?’

  ‘My mother suggested that it was one of my abilities.’

  ‘And mine said it was one you should curb, if you hoped to succeed in society.’

  ‘Which I don’t.’ Beth grinned, giving one of her spontaneous giggles. ‘Besides, Father said I was likely gifted with great oratory to make up for my lack of sight. Indeed, as I recall, he said my tongue was hung in the middle and clacked at both ends.’

  It was exactly the sort of thing she might have said years earlier and the comment brought with it memories of childhood summers. His tension eased.

  ‘He also said you should learn decorum.’

  ‘Decorum is overrated. Remember how we used to steal the cream puffs from Mrs Bridges?’

  ‘And she always blamed me.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, grinning with remembered smugness. ‘That is the thing with blindness or any disability. It makes people assume one’s innocence and good character.’

  He gave a reluctant chuckle. ‘Indeed, as I recall, you put that to good use. Well, try to practise decorum here or you are quite likely to give some ancient dowager the vapours.’

  ‘I will attempt not to cause any medical incidents.’

  There was a pause. He had forgotten how much he liked talking to her and missed her quick wit. He watched the movement of her thumb on the handle of her cane and the delicate sweep of her lashes, casting lacy shadows against her cheek.

  ‘You find travelling easier now? It used to upset you.’

  ‘It still does,’ she said somewhat ruefully.

  She was pale, he realised.

  ‘Then it was brave of you to come.’

  Impulsively, he sat in the seat opposite, reaching forward and touching her hand as it rested on the cane, stilling her nervous movement. He felt a jolt at the touch and was conscious of her smooth skin beneath his palm and of her quick exhalation as though she had felt it, too. He removed his hand with equal impulsivity.

  ‘Except it can do no good. I cannot change my mind, you know,’ he said.

  ‘But you can. You see, I have to tell you something. I have to tell you that Edmund would want you to keep the estate. That is why I came.’

  ‘You do not know what Edmund would want,’ he said, sharpening his tone.

  ‘I do,’ she said.

  ‘You are communicating with ghosts now?’

  ‘I spoke to Mrs Cridge. She says that Edmund knew about your birth and possible parentage and it didn’t matter to him.

  ‘What?’

  He sat suddenly, the movement heavy, as though physically depleted of strength and energy. He swallowed, feeling young again as though he was that lad in school. ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes, to Mrs Cridge. And if he had not wanted you to have the estate he would have made some form of legal change. I know he would. Edmund was thorough with paperwork. He would not have left for war without doing so, if that was his intent.’

  ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Yes. And I am sure he would not want a man such as the Duke to have the estate. He was working with Jamie to increase crop yields. Actually, Jamie is likely still hunting out those letters. He will give us a full scientific review of the experiment, no doubt, although really it doesn’t matter what they were investigating or their conclusions. It matters that Edmund was so involved. He wanted to ensure that the tenants had sufficient crops. He wanted to be a good farmer. And I know Edmund would have made some form of arrangement if he had not wanted you to inherit.’

  Ren stood again, unable to remain still. He placed his hands against the flat ledge of the window sill, staring into the dull grey of the London street. ‘I wish he’d told me. I wish he’d told me that he knew that Lord Graham wasn’t my father. I always thought I should tell him that I was not his true brother. I felt like such a fraud.’

  An act of cowardice, he supposed.

  ‘You didn’t want to hurt him. You didn’t want him to know that his mother was not faithful. It was an act of love.’

  ‘Or weakness.’

  ‘Love,’ she said, in that firm way of hers.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, your lordship. There seems to have been a mishap.’ Robbins made this announcement from the doorway, pausing after the statement as though for dramatic effect.

  ‘Well,’ Ren said i
rritably, ‘will you tell us the details or is this to be a guessing game?’

  ‘It is her ladyship’s groom. He has hurt himself.’

  ‘What?’ Beth startled upright. ‘Arnold? Where is he? Can I help?’

  ‘He thought you might wish to do so, but assured me that there is nothing you can do. He has had a fall, but nothing is broken.’

  ‘Where did he fall?’

  ‘Down the stairs, my lady. He is currently resting within the servants’ quarters, but wondered if you might—er—remain here for the—er—night, at least?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course she will stay here. She should be staying here anyway. Tell Mrs Crofton to get a room ready,’ Ren directed.

  ‘But I am staying with Mirabelle’s aunt. I wrote ahead.’

  ‘Nonsense. We are married. You will stay here. I will send a note to Mirabelle’s aunt, whoever that might be.’

  ‘Lady Mortley.’ Beth frowned, obviously not liking his tone.

  ‘It would cause comment not to stay here and it would be unkind to disturb your groom.’

  ‘He could remain and Allie could come with me.’

  ‘A ludicrous suggestion. Please make the necessary arrangements,’ he directed Robbins. ‘Oh, and best get in the doctor to ensure that this groom has not sustained a more serious injury.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Robbins said and left.

  ‘You are both insulting and bossy,’ Beth told Ren the second the door closed.

  He allowed himself a brief, somewhat mirthless laugh. ‘That is hardly news. Moreover, it seems somewhat hypocritical given that the entire purpose of your trip is to tell me what I should do with Graham Hill.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, her chin jutting characteristically upward, her ramrod-straight back at odds with that delicate, almost ephemeral quality. ‘I have helped to run the estate and have earned the right to an opinion. You have seen me twice in as many years and have no such right.’

  ‘The law might think otherwise.’

  ‘The law is a product of men and therefore equally fallible,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t mince words.’

  ‘I never have.’

  It was almost refreshing after the platitudes of courtesans and servants.

  ‘You do realise that most of my acquaintance do not argue with me or answer back,’ he said.

  ‘Really? What very dull conversations you must have.’

  He thought of Celeste, with her impeccable taste, her pleasant smiling countenance, her well-stocked wine cellar and soothing tones.

  ‘They are somewhat.’

  ‘It is either because they fear you or seek to flatter you. Neither of which are the attributes of true friends.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He wondered if he even had true friends? People feared him. He had fought two duels. People respected him. His ability with cards, pistols, and even his fists at Jackson’s was never questioned. Some might even admire his daredevil ways, the curricle races and steeplechasing, but was that friendship?

  ‘By the way, I have already asked Robbins to prepare a light repast,’ she added, jolting him from his reverie.

  ‘You are certain? I can send you over in my carriage to see Mirabelle’s aunt if you really wish it,’ he offered.

  ‘She is having a dinner party,’ Beth said flatly.

  He saw her hand again move nervously against her gown and he was reminded of the shy girl who had never enjoyed formal dining for fear she would knock something over and cause a mess.

  ‘Then I will enjoy your company,’ he said. ‘As long as we talk of the weather and not of Graham Hill.’

  She smiled, really more a grin than a smile, and surprisingly infectious. ‘Very well. Although English weather is such a boring topic. Perhaps it might be more entertaining if we lived in a place with blizzards or tornados.’

  ‘We do get the occasional heavy fog, will that do?’

  She laughed. ‘Much too damp. But you could tell me about London, the places to go and all that is exciting about it.’

  ‘Exciting?’ He raised a brow.

  ‘Yes, like Hyde Park or St James’s?’ She leaned forward, enthusiasm rippling through her voice.

  His lips quirked. ‘I hadn’t actually thought of them as exciting. They are fine, I suppose.’

  He could not remember the last time he had gone to either, although likely Celeste had dragged him there on some occasion.

  ‘Fine?’ Beth frowned as though not entirely liking his answer. ‘And the theatre?’

  ‘Pleasant enough.’

  ‘The ballet?’

  ‘Adequate.’

  ‘Good gracious, you are hardly a fount of information.’

  ‘I had not realised that an in-depth knowledge of London’s diversions would be required,’ he said.

  ‘But you must like something?’

  He liked racing down Rotten Row. He liked the release in physical exhaustion and the joy in the wild tumultuous drumming of hooves. He liked going to Jackson’s. He enjoyed the skill of boxing, the weaving, the ducking and the quick hard strikes.

  ‘I will ask Robbins to procure a guidebook so I can endeavour to describe London’s many pleasurable pastimes prior to our repast,’ he said.

  But despite his bland tones, he felt an usual humour and a warmth under his chest. He realised that, for the first time in years, he was almost looking forward to something.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Mr Robbins promises good weather tomorrow,’ Beth said.

  She was sitting at the dining table and had heard him enter. She always liked to be at the table first, to orientate herself to the silverware, the crystal, the location of bowls and plates.

  ‘My butler has taken up forecasting the weather?’ Ren asked, seating himself with rattle of the chair.

  ‘Indeed, he is able to do so on account of his ankles.’

  ‘His ankles?’

  ‘They ache when it is going to rain.’

  ‘And they are not aching currently?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course, I am thankful to be kept apprised of any meteorological trends, but as I recall you suggested that English weather was somewhat boring. Is the weather now of particular interest to you?’

  ‘Yes. I have decided we are going on a picnic.’

  ‘You what?’ She heard a hard metallic clunk as though he had struck a fork or knife. ‘It is only April.’

  ‘It is going to be unseasonably warm tomorrow.’

  ‘Robbins again? His wrists discern temperature?’

  ‘No, it was warm today and he thinks the weather pattern likely to continue,’ she said.

  ‘And where are we going to have this picnic?’

  ‘Robbins suggests St George’s.’

  ‘My butler appears to be having a much greater impact on my life than usual. And why this sudden interest in outdoor living?’

  Beth bit her lip, feeling an unusual nervous fluttering about her midsection. She had struck upon the idea as she had rested on her bed before dressing for dinner. At the time, it had seemed inspired. Now she was less certain.

  Indeed, she recognised an unusual reticence. She didn’t want to spoil the mood by suggesting something he might not like. Their banter was pleasant—more than pleasant, it created a peculiar tingling awareness about her person, a sharpening of her senses and a feeling that everything about her, every sound, every scent and every texture, was heightened. The sensation felt pleasant, but also new and different from anything she had experienced.

  There was also a sense of fragility about it. She remembered how she had once balanced on a low tree stump. For a split second, she had remained upright, perfectly poised, before tumbling into the grass below.

  She stretched her fingers on the fine linen table
cloth, rubbing the tips against the fabric. He was waiting for an answer, she realised, and would not want prevarication.

  ‘When I asked you about Hyde Park, you said it was fine. When I asked you about the theatre you said it was pleasant and when I asked you about the dancing you said it was adequate,’ she said.

  ‘There is something wrong with things being pleasant, fine and adequate?’

  ‘Yes, when there is nothing that is fabulous.’

  ‘And the picnic will be fabulous?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but I hope it might be. I remember when you found things fabulous. I remember when I envied you your world of colour and beauty and drama. In those days, you didn’t speak in a drawl and you were interested in everything.’

  She heard his intake of breath and felt the moment shatter, as though she had gone tumbling face first into the grass.

  ‘That person no longer exists,’ he said. ‘You cannot chase a ghost.’

  He did not drawl, but spoke in hard clipped syllables, like a smith striking a shoe. She swallowed, her hand once more moving against the table linen. She touched her fork, pressing the prongs into her skin, focusing on the pricks of discomfort.

  ‘But I would like to experience London, at least parts of it. Not the busy parts, but the park, the houses or even the shops. And really only you can help. You describe things better than anyone.’

  ‘Describe?’

  ‘Yes, like you used to do.’

  ‘I don’t paint,’ he said.

  ‘And I am not asking you to do so. But this is my first and possibly my only trip to London and I am left with Allie’s descriptions of squished houses and fancy streets. I want you to describe London to me, the way you used talk about Graham Hill and Allington.’

  ‘And if I have something else planned for the day?’

  ‘Your butler does not know of any other engagements.’

  ‘Good Lord, Robbins again. I do not keep my butler apprised of my every move.’

  ‘But you will come?’

  There was a pause and Beth again felt that peculiar heightened awareness. She could feel her own pent-up breath and the rhythmic whisper of fabric as he breathed in and out. Almost, she could feel his gaze on her.

 

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