He did not blame his mother for breaking under the strain, but was thankful her plans had not made it to fruition. He would have been a terrible duke.
But he just might make a decent earl.
It was too bad he had no one to share it with. He would have to remedy that, eventually. But for now, he needed the time, the space, to heal. And St. Ayers would provide that for him. Not only could he come to grips with his own past, but he could put India behind him as well.
His dreams last night had been depressing, his fertile imagination conjuring up the hopelessness and helplessness his mother and grandmother must have felt. Amy, too, figured prominently, her large gray eyes imploring him to save her. Rising this morning had been difficult on so little sleep. At least he hadn’t awakened from a two-day opium-induced stupor with no knowledge of the previous forty-eight hours.
The person looking back at him in the mirror had not been the same person who had awakened to find Colonel Bromley and Lieutenant Teatherton standing over him. He no longer looked gaunt, nor did his eyes have the shadowed, haunted look about them they had in India. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, Colonel Bromley had been right. He needed to come home to face his ghosts and to put his life in order.
His grandfather’s grave beside his mother’s informed one and all that Edward Terrence Geoffrey St. Ayers had been the sixth earl. Despite that the title had been granted to him anew, he would style himself the seventh.
Glancing over the various graves, he mentally traced the St. Ayers’ line back a number of generations. Although not the norm, the family name had also been St. Ayers. No longer, he thought. He would not give up his name. He was proud to be a Waring and someday, so would his children.
That decided, he now knew he should eventually marry. But the notion held no appeal for him. Amy’s loss was still new to him, even if it had been five years. Arriving in England knowing she would not be waiting for him had brought back feelings of guilt. Despite knowing he could not have prevented it, her death was still an open sore on his conscience.
The day before he left London he’d ridden northwest to Houghton Hall. Sitting atop his stallion, he had stared for some time at the edifice in the distance, wondering if he dared ride up to the front door and ask to visit Amy’s grave. He wondered if her brothers and sisters had even mourned her or her mother. He didn’t think it was likely.
In the end, a sudden shower forced him to retreat, and he left without ever making his presence known. He had paid his last respects the best way he could. Perhaps someday he’d be able to stand before her final resting place, but at that moment, he had been too cowardly.
With a sigh, he brought himself back to the present. Turning his back on the infinite horizon, he surveyed the land before him. He stood on a promontory not far from the house, which was to his right. To his left, the land sloped away gradually, ending in a beach that was easily a half mile away.
On approach, he hadn’t known how unusually situated the house was. The formal gardens were to the front and sides because the house sat nearly on the edge of the cliff it was built upon. A tree-lined drive led to the front doors, splitting to become a circle in front of the stairs, a large fountain at its center. At opposite points of that circle, archways led one through perfectly groomed hedges and into the gardens. On the north side of the house one entered the rose garden. On the south side, and the side he could see from where he stood, a topiary flourished, the various trees and bushes sculpted into a variety of shapes. There was also a large greenhouse on that side.
The house itself was simple, but large. A sprawling brick mansion consisting of three wings with three floors each, plus attics. There were no turrets such as Waring Castle sported, but there was a tower rising another two stories from the back of the center wing, that had once been a lighthouse. No longer in use, Brand informed him it was off limits to the children because some of the steps were unstable.
“And they have abided by that dictate?” he’d asked, remembering his own childhood inquisitiveness.
Brand grinned in understanding. “Of course,” he’d answered. Then he chuckled and confessed the door leading to the tower was kept locked, thereby removing the temptation to take a peek.
As if he conjured them up, his niece and nephew suddenly appeared. They came through the hedge bordering the topiary, racing across the grassy, rocky slope up toward the cliff. He hadn’t realized they’d seen him until he heard his name.
“Uncle Edward!” Caroline called, and he winced.
It had been a long time since anyone called him Edward. Eight years, to be exact. It was the name his mother preferred and, after visiting the family cemetery earlier, he understood why. When he received his commission all those years ago, and left England, he reverted to the use of his first name, a name he’d always preferred when away from home.
“His name is Marcus,” he heard his nephew say in disgust. “Don’t you remember what Papa said?”
Glancing behind them, he noticed a figure in light blue swiftly walking in his direction as well. The governess, he thought, and briefly wondered if she bothered to even try to keep up with the twins, who seemed to do everything at full speed.
“Michael,” the governess’s voice floated over the open space, “mind your tone,” she chided.
Marcus grinned as he started walking in the children’s direction. A true dragon.
Caroline spun around and waved at the young woman, then turned to run after her brother, who had nearly reached him. Seemingly out of nowhere, but so fast that it must have been lazing in the grass nearby, a small orange blur shot in front of Caroline, crossing her path. Marcus noted it was only a cat, but moments later his attention was focused on Caroline who lost her balance and tripped, landing face down in the rock-strewn grass with a small cry.
The governess moved faster than he thought she could, reaching Caroline’s inert form only seconds after he did—and he had been closer.
“Caroline!” The cry was ripped from Michael.
Gently turning the child over, he noted her hands had hit first, the palms scraping across the gravel, tearing the skin and embedding small bits of sand and rock into them. A small gash near her hairline was bleeding, but there seemed to be no major injuries.
The governess dropped down next to Caroline. “Caroline?” Reaching out, she brushed the little girl’s hair back from her forehead to inspect the source of the trickle of blood. Caroline struggled to sit up as the governess inspected her hands, brushing off the dirt and debris.
Marcus was amazed Caroline wasn’t screaming. Instead, she sat on the ground, tears streaming down her face, and allowed the governess to check her over for injuries. Unable to see the governess’s face because of the bonnet she wore, he was nevertheless mesmerized by her voice.
“Where does it hurt?” she asked. Caroline pointed to her knee and leg. “Can you move it?” Caroline nodded and bent the limb in question. “Can you stand on it?”
“I-I think so,” Caroline answered.
The woman seemed to have Caroline well in hand, brushing dirt and rocks from the front of her, examining her for injuries as she went.
Marcus looked up into the worried face of his nephew. “Michael, run back to the house and tell your mother Caroline has been injured. She’ll know what to do.” Michael took off, glad for something to do, and Marcus reached out to pick up Caroline.
“Well, at least you haven’t broken anything this time,” the governess said, and Marcus wondered how often little accidents like this occurred.
The woman had yet to release her charge, and Marcus was beginning to feel like an idiot. He didn’t want to have to play tug-of-war with his niece and her protector. Their hands brushed, and he felt the woman stiffen and pull away. It allowed him to grasp Caroline firmly and rise to his feet.
The woman rose also, her gaze firmly locked on his burden.
“If you’ll allow me, Miss…?” He let the silence stretch, waiting for her to supply the introducti
on, but it was Caroline who did.
“Corrie,” Caroline said.
Marcus waited for the governess to supply a more formal name and when she didn’t, acquiesced. “Miss Corrie,” he said, and Caroline giggled.
“Just Corrie,” Caroline admonished.
“Very well, little one,” he responded.“Corrie. I think we should get Caroline back.”
“Of course,” she replied, then turned and started walking.
“I’m sorry, Corrie,” Caroline said meekly, as he fell into step beside her.
Although he couldn’t see her face, Marcus heard the smile in the governess’s voice when she answered.
“There is nothing for you to be sorry about,” she told her young charge. “You had no way of knowing that one of the cats was out sunning in the open. You probably scared it out of one of its nine lives.”
Marcus smiled at that rejoinder.
“But I knew I shouldn’t have been running,” Caroline said contritely.
“Yes, well,” the governess responded, “I’m well aware you and Michael never go anywhere slowly.”
“I’ll be better next time,” Caroline promised, and Marcus was sure he heard a chuckle.
“I’m sure you will,” was the reply, but Marcus heard the amused skepticism in her tone.
Corinna sat beside Caroline’s bed, watching her sleep.
The duchess had met them at the side door. Marcus assured her Caroline had only suffered a few scrapes and bruises and, after carrying her upstairs, left her to the care of her mother and governess. Michael, at loose ends without his sister, trailed out after him.
She and the duchess had quickly undressed Caroline, washed and dressed her scrapes and cuts, checked and noted bruises, then tucked the little girl into her bed with a cup of willowbark tea. Corinna had been surprised that she hadn’t given the little girl laudanum, but the duchess said that her brother had always given the children willowbark tea. Her brother, Corinna learned, was a doctor.
A short time later, Caroline was asleep, and Corinna was left to her thoughts. Rising from the chair beside Caroline’s bed, she walked over to the window and stood staring out, barely noting the rocky cliffs and the sea beyond. Instead her mind was reliving the last hour.
The children had been restless all morning, too excited over the return of their uncle to concentrate, so she had given in to the urge to let them outside before luncheon.
How they’d known where their uncle was, she didn’t know, but they had unerringly headed for the north side of the house, streaked through the topiary and into the meadow—if one could call rocks and weeds a meadow—beyond. Accustomed to the children racing everywhere, she had followed at a brisk pace. She, and the twins, knew that if she needed to, she could catch either of them.
It was one of those unspoken tests she had passed at Collingswood. The Thanet governess had been impressed. And so, to her chagrin, had the collective parents, marveling that she could move so fast in a dress, corset and petticoats. Caroline and her cousin, Shana, moved quickly because they lived in divided skirts, and their parents occasionally allowed them the freedom of breeches. Both had been put on their first ponies astride.
The duchess had explained succinctly. “Girls need to be able to run as much as boys. Dresses are not designed to give them that kind of freedom. So, in the country, they are allowed to be hoydens as much as they want. In the city, or in company, they are perfect little misses and know how to behave.”
Corinna had been surprised yet again. Someday when she had children of her own, she would remember that bit of wisdom. If, she corrected herself, she ever had children.
The idea of children brought her thoughts back to Marcus. She had been unforgivably rude. Not only had she not spoken directly to him at all, but she had never even looked at him, except when he had been looking at Caroline. Then she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
He had changed. It was a trite phrase and did not do justice to how much. His hair had been a dark, glossy brown when he left, now it had lightened a little and had blond streaks in it. While he had never been soft or overfed, he had also not been as lean and muscled as he appeared now. He exuded a strength and virility that no young woman could possibly be proof against, herself included.
A frisson of awareness had snaked through her at his nearness, and when their hands brushed, fire, hot and instant, had engulfed her, shaking her normally calm facade. She had felt the warmth steal into her face and refused to look at or answer him when he blatantly asked her name. She had left Caroline to supply it, relieved when Caroline used the nickname the twins had given her.
He would find out eventually. All he had to do was ask the duchess and she would tell him whatever he wanted to know about “Miss Camden.” Then, she knew, the charade would be over.
She had been dreading a meeting with him since he arrived yesterday. Expecting to be asked to even the table out at dinner, she had been relieved when the summons hadn’t materialized. Then, this morning, when she realized the children were heading toward him standing on the cliff, she had steeled herself for the introduction to follow. Instead, Caroline had been tripped by one of the kitchen tabbies and she had been spared again.
Not that he would have recognized her.
At fourteen she had been nearly half a foot shorter, rail-thin, flat-chested and freckle-faced. That long ago evening, when she had stood beside him in the small, dimly lit church in Little Tympington, the top of her head had barely reached his shoulder. Late-bloomer that she was, she hadn’t even become a woman, in the accepted sense of the word, until the next year.
Except for her eyes, today her mirror showed no trace of that young girl. When she bothered to look, she saw a woman with curves in all the right places, generously endowed, with a narrow waist and gently flaring hips. Would Marcus find her attractive?
She had no doubt that as long as he thought of her as Corrie, he would never connect her with his young bride. And perhaps that was to her advantage.
Turning from the window, she crossed back to Caroline’s bedside to look down at the sleeping child. Straightening covers that did not need straightening, she sank into the chair again. To watch Caroline sleep. And to think.
St. Ayers, she had learned from the children, belonged to Marcus. It had been left to him by his father, and their father had merely been watching over it while he was in India. They were hoping that his return hadn’t put an end to them spending their summers here. If she had anything to say about it, it wouldn’t. But there was the rub.
In order for her to have any say about it, she would have to make herself known to Marcus and he would have to acknowledge their marriage. Suppose he didn’t want to? Suppose he had forgotten all about her after Douglas’s death?
The person she had encountered today was a far cry from the person she had known eight years ago. There was a hardness about him, a sense of power and supreme confidence she hadn’t remembered from her interaction with him and Douglas before. It was likely it had been there all along, but had not impinged on her consciousness. On the other hand…
People grew and changed. She knew and accepted that. But had Marcus changed for the better? Had his time in India hardened him on the inside as well as the outside, or did the carefree young man who had been willing to sacrifice his freedom for a mistreated fourteen-year-old still exist beneath the surface?
Marcus didn’t realize he had a shadow until he reached the first floor.
“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” the small voice came from behind him.
Turning, he found Michael following him down the stairs, worry in his violet eyes. His father’s eyes, Marcus thought. Waring eyes. It was the reason he’d never been accepted as his father’s heir. He did not have the Waring eyes.
The first duke of Warringham had possessed those unusual violet-colored eyes, and so had every Waring heir since. The coloring was distinctive enough that when Brand had made his way back to England after having disappeared as a child, one l
ook at him had been enough to prove who he was.
“Of course, she will,” he reassured him. “She only had a few scrapes and nothing was broken.”
He hadn’t realized how much Michael was counting on that reassurance until the small shoulders slumped in relief. Then the child smiled and perked up. “She broke her arm last year. We were at The Downs and Mama said it was a good thing that Uncle Jon was visiting when it happened,” he told Marcus.
“And why was that?”
“Because he’s a doctor.”
They continued down to the ground floor and out the front doors. They walked for a bit, Michael telling him little things about the house and estate he and Caroline had discovered. Marcus listened with half an ear. He was more preoccupied with his reaction to the governess.
He had not imagined the spark that leapt between them, nor had he imagined the tingling that shot up his arm when their hands had brushed. She had not looked at him at all during the exchange and he thought he knew why. Likely she had been startled as well, and was embarrassed by it.
Questioning Michael, he learned the governess, Corrie, was new, and only with them until the other governess, Kenny, returned. In spite of himself, he was intrigued. He wasn’t looking for a dalliance, especially not with the governess. As a member of the staff, she was out of bounds, but he had not dreamt the instant connection he had felt to her. The question he had to ask himself was what, if anything, he should do about it.
Returning to the house, Marcus was certain that Brand was in the library, so that’s where he and Michael were headed.
The library door opened as they reached the first floor landing and the duchess emerged, looking decidedly disheveled. Noticing Michael, she said, “Since Caroline is indisposed, you may take luncheon with us today, but I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
“Yes, Mama,” Michael responded.
She looked up at Marcus. “Luncheon will be served shortly,” she said, then turned away, toward the rear of the house, but not before he was sure she blushed.
Family Scandals Page 5
