“Of course you are, dear.” Stella leaned forward and patted her hand. “But you have a husband and child who need you more. Family comes first.”
Stella exuded sincerity. She truly believed what she said. Ninian thought there might be some truth to it, but in that case, she should never have a child, because she knew the village needed her more. Confused, she didn’t argue.
Stella bustled to her feet and focused her mighty forces on Drogo. “There, that’s settled. I recommend St. John’s. They’ve had experience with Malcolm ceremonies. I’ll take care of that. If you’re planning on having the breakfast here, you’d best find more servants. Your entry hall is a scandal, and the parlor not much better. Ninian has been raised for more important concerns than dealing with servants.”
Ninian was beginning to recognize the dry humor of Drogo’s brittle voice as he accepted Stella’s orders. “I’ll see that it’s done, Your Grace. You need not worry about your niece.”
Ninian didn’t bother seeing her aunt out. With fingers still clenched tightly, she stared into the fire, waiting for Drogo to leave. He didn’t.
After closing the door behind her aunt, he settled into the chair Stella had forsaken. His long legs sprawled across the space between them, shoving aside her full skirts as he leaned forward and tried to force her to look at him. She wouldn’t.
“The child deserves a name.” He took her hands and unwrapped them.
“You believe there is one, then?” She darted a look to his face, saw the thoughtful frown, and knew he didn’t.
“It doesn’t matter much, does it? If there is one, it will be provided for. I’d not meant to marry, so there is no harm done.”
Scowling, Ninian jerked her hands from his. “And what if I’d not meant to marry? Does my opinion not matter?”
Now that he had her attention, he sat back and draped an arm over the chair back. “Who would you marry? Nasty Nate? I sent him to the coal mines to work. He needed something better to do with his time than tickle the lasses. Is marriage to me so appalling?”
“I want to go home,” Ninian insisted. “There is sickness there, and the crops are failing, and someone must do something before people starve this winter.”
Drogo sat perfectly still until his eyes compelled her to stare into them, and she couldn’t look away.
“You cannot replace their crops or sheep. You can brew all the remedies you like, but you cannot force anyone to take them. I am providing work for any able-bodied man who needs it. I will find some way to fund supplies for those who have no means of support. Money can take care of the village’s problems far better than anything you can do. Your responsibility is to your child.”
She felt his words deep down inside her, in the places he’d explored and opened up and made his. She couldn’t tear her gaze away. Could she trust him? She was accustomed to knowing enough of people to trust them implicitly or be wary. With Drogo, she was at a loss.
His eyes promised sincerity. Even if she dismissed superstition and instinct, she had no experience with men to draw on, not with a man like this one.
Shaken, confused, she didn’t know what to do. She dug her fingers into her palms and stared into the fire. The legends had warned about Ives men, but she hadn’t paid heed and the flood had followed. Her aunt dismissed the legends as superstitious nonsense. The unhappy ghost had said Malcolm must mix with Ives before peace could reign. Drogo promised to repair damage she couldn’t possibly hope to fix. All she had to do was go against all she knew, as she had already done—with such disastrous results.
Perhaps if she traded herself for the village’s welfare, the sacrifice would be repaid with Drogo’s bounty. She could not sacrifice the child, however.
Not looking at him, she bowed her head in surrender. “I will hold you to your word, my lord, but if my responsibility is to the child, then you must return us to Wystan after the wedding. I cannot successfully bear children elsewhere.”
He caught her hand and kissed it, and Ninian knew the thrill of physical excitement. They would be married, and she could share his bed again.
He still made no promises.
Seventeen
Drogo stormed in late one evening after a particularly argumentative session of Parliament, threw his hat toward the hall table, and watched blankly as it hit the floor. He was quite certain there had always been a table there to catch it before.
Shrugging, he left the hat where it fell and strode to his study where he kept a particularly potent decanter of brandy. A man was allowed a glass of brandy in the evening. It was practically a social requirement. He just didn’t feel sociable right now.
Entering the study, he halted in amazement at the sight of Dunstan gazing into a potted plant that had miraculously begun shooting out new leaves these past weeks. Drogo wasn’t even certain why the plant was in front of his window or who had first moved it there. It had served as the repository of cigar ashes and leftover brandy in a dark corner of the room for as long as he could remember.
“It’s growing,” Dunstan said in greeting, without turning to see who entered. Evidence that this brother didn’t idle his time behind a desk rippled in the thick muscles of his broad back and shoulders.
Drogo dragged the decanter from its hiding place, noted it was two inches lower than it should be, and shrugged. “Get used to it,” he answered curtly. “You’re married. You know the routine. Give me some pointers.”
Dunstan snorted impolitely as he turned and helped himself to another glass. Unfashionably shaggy, his inky straight locks proved his connection to the legitimate side of the family. Their younger half brothers all possessed their mother, Ann’s, curls. “I’ve been living with our mother. I’m a lot more used to it than you ever will be. But even Mother couldn’t make plants grow in a dungeon like this.”
Drogo dropped into his desk chair and sipped appreciatively of the liquor, eyeing his brother as he did so. Dunstan never came to London if he could avoid it. His brother had grown up with country manners and detested the false politeness of society. He lived for the estate and its sheep and cows and other annoying animal nuisances. “So, have you come to see if you’re being disinherited?”
Dunstan’s wide brow wrinkled in thought. “I could fight it in the courts, I suppose. You have only Sarah’s word that the child is yours, and everyone knows Sarah is non compos mentis.”
“Well, at least one of us got something out of his education.” Drogo took a deeper sip and regarded the thriving plant with suspicion. “Sarah isn’t a total lunatic. She got out from under her mother’s heavy hands and has attached herself and her brats to me by shepherding Ninian.”
“If you want to take her word for it.” Dunstan dropped into a heavy leather chair and tossed back a swallow of brandy. “I’ll still fight it.”
Unperturbed, Drogo picked up a letter opener and tapped the desk with it. “I’ll cut you off if you do.” He’d learned at an early age how to control his unruly brothers. His financial acumen had served them well in more ways than one. “If there is a child—and that’s a matter of some dispute still—it could very well be a daughter. Don’t make a fool of yourself until it’s necessary.”
“There will be a child. Sooner or later, there’s always a child. Women arrange these things.” Glumly, Dunstan threw back the rest of his brandy and reached for the decanter.
Drogo slid it away from him. “Problem at home?”
Dunstan glowered. “None of your business. You’ve suffered female conniving before and emerged unscathed. This one must be more devious.”
Drogo thought about it, bouncing the letter opener against the wood as he did so. “No. You’ll have to meet her. Admittedly, she’s not the simpleton she looks, but she’s not devious. If anyone’s the mastermind here, it’s Sarah. Ninian…” He glanced over his shoulder at the plant. “Well, Ninian makes things grow.”
D
unstan chuckled with a half-drunken hiccup. “In her belly, right?”
Calmly, Drogo threw the sharp steel blade of the letter opener into the shelf behind Dunstan’s head. The handle thrummed with the force of the impact. Dunstan instantly sobered and held up a hand in surrender.
“I apologize. You’re not making my life easier, though.”
Tapping his fingers against the desk, Drogo sipped the brandy again. “The title doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
Dunstan shrugged his rugged shoulders. “Hadn’t thought about it. Maybe not to me, but to my wife, and to any children we have.”
“Celia’s expecting?”
Dunstan looked uncomfortable. “No.” He glared at Drogo’s lifted eyebrows. “It’s Celia, not me. You know that.”
He did. Drogo leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. Dunstan had been overly fond of one of the maids in his youth. He’d been supporting the results for years. Ives men had no problems creating sons. Most of their problem extended from creating legitimate ones.
“I can arrange for you to have the country estate for your lifetime,” he conceded. “You can use your share of the profits to invest in land for your children.”
“Celia would rather invest in a London town house,” Dunstan replied gloomily. “You don’t have any idea how wives can wreak hell with your peace. Yours will probably want the country estate plus a new town house and a wardrobe fit for a queen. There won’t be anything left for the rest of us.”
Drogo’s lips curled reluctantly at that observation. “Ninian will want me to rebuild Wystan, reroute a river, and clothe half the countryside, but she’ll not ask me for anything.” He hadn’t given this much thought until now, but he recognized the truth as he spoke it. Unlike the rest of his demanding family, Ninian asked for nothing. She expected to do it all herself. He wasn’t entirely certain how to deal with that.
“You’re fooling yourself if you think it will stay that way,” Dunstan warned. “They’re all sweetness and light before they get their hooks in you. Once you’re trapped, they turn into demanding harridans.”
Considering what he knew of the forceful powers of Ninian’s aunts, Drogo could see that happening, but he couldn’t quite believe it. He itched to go upstairs to Ninian’s chamber now, listen to her naive description of the day’s activities, and relax in the pleasure of her soothing voice. She could heal with that voice, he’d decided. She didn’t need herbs and magic potions. He rather liked the quaintness that saw nothing wrong with his entering her chamber anytime he liked. And her observations on city life were not only astute, but from an entirely new perspective to him.
“In the past few weeks, Ninian has brought home three orphans, a one-legged beggar, a fifteen-year-old prostitute, and an abused monkey. I’ve had to forbid her to go out on the streets without me.” Drogo grinned in memory of the chaos below stairs with each of Ninian’s little “surprises.” Even his lax staff, accustomed to the fits and starts of his brothers, had been in an uproar. “I don’t think ‘harridan’ precisely suits her.”
“Then she’s probably as crackbrained as Sarah. Between the two of them, they’ll have you jumping out windows.”
Without surprise, Drogo noticed the door opening and knew who it was before she entered. Ninian had an odd habit of appearing whenever he thought of her. But then, he spent a lot of time thinking about her these days.
She wore a pretty lavender wool dress unlike anything he’d seen on ladies elsewhere, but considerably more alluring than the peasant costume she’d adopted in Wystan. He might question his sanity and hers in developing this relationship, but he didn’t question his attraction to her at all. She looked like an angel straight down from heaven, but an angel with a lusty streak that cranked all his wheels.
“Hello, my dear. Come meet my heir, Dunstan. He thinks we’re both crackbrained.”
“All Ives men are crackbrained,” she agreed solemnly, drifting into the room.
Drogo bit back a smile at her riposte, and a delicious heat shot through him as she touched his shoulder, melting the smile out of him. How the hell did she do that?
Apparently oblivious to her effect, she held out her hand to Dunstan. Drogo raised his eyebrows as his brother actually stood up and bowed over it. Dunstan could be rude, crude, and uncouth when he chose to be, but apparently, he wasn’t drunk enough to insult the next Countess of Ives.
“You’re not like Drogo,” she said in wonderment. “You radiate pain and rage and…” She twisted up her nose and pondered. “Spurned love? Is that possible? This city vibrates with so many emotions, it’s difficult to sort it all out.”
Dunstan raised a questioning eyebrow at Drogo.
Drogo shrugged. “She’s trying to convince me she’s deranged so I’ll send her home.”
“A witch, not a lunatic,” Ninian said gently, patting his shoulder but still watching Dunstan. “Drogo won’t believe anything I tell him, so you needn’t think I’ll reveal your secrets. I’d like to meet your wife sometime. I have a feeling the few women in this family really ought to know each other better.”
Dunstan remained standing since Ninian didn’t take a seat. “She loves any excuse to come to town. I’ll bring her for the wedding.”
“Good.” Apparently satisfied, she focused her regard on Drogo. “Offer your brother a room for the night. I’ll have them send up a warm bath and food.”
Drogo leaned back and held her gaze. He loved the way he could command her complete attention. “What happened to the table in the hall?”
“Aunt Stella said we must make the place presentable, so Sarah has ordered the old pieces hauled away. I thought it might be easier to clean before the new ones are brought in. Joseph has a keen eye for design, so he’s picked out a few things.”
“There was nothing wrong with the old table,” he said mildly, more curious than perturbed by this rearrangement of his living quarters. “And Joseph is quite likely to choose something with more arches and pediments and statues than Westminster.”
“Actually, he recommended a housekeeper.” Patting Drogo’s shoulder again, Ninian curtseyed to Dunstan and drifted out.
Collapsing back in his chair, Dunstan looked as if he’d been hit by a brick. “A witch?” he muttered. “My God, she looks like Venus. Too bad she’s got maggots in her attic.” He stopped and thought about that a minute. “I suppose that’s the only way a woman could survive this family.”
Drogo tented his fingers and regarded his brother coolly. “I think you’d best find that room she offered. I would have thrown you in the street.”
Dunstan let that run right off his back. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d leave me here to drink myself under the desk. The food sounds more appealing now that I’ve met your lovely intended.” He grinned his white flashing grin of old. “This marriage will be a pleasure to watch. I have a feeling the immovable object has just met an irresistible force.”
Drogo slowly emptied his glass after his brother departed. He’d never doubted the intelligence of any of his brothers. Dunstan could very well be right. He’d not ever considered himself an immovable object before, but Ninian was definitely an irresistible force. He wanted her desperately. And she didn’t need him at all.
Pain? Rage? Spurned love? What the hell had she been talking about?
He glared at the healthy, uplifted leaves of the plant, as if it could explain.
Eighteen
London, September, 1750
Idly, Drogo stroked his useless telescope and gazed out his bedchamber window. The moon was out there. Even the thick London smoke and fog couldn’t conceal it. But the stars were out of his reach tonight.
As if one thought led to another, he turned his gaze to the closed door between his chamber and the room connected to Ninian’s. Tomorrow was their wedding day. He wondered if his reluctant countess had decided to flee yet. Af
ter these past weeks of patiently enduring the constant quarreling of his fractious family, she may have decided even the barren countryside of Wystan would be preferable. He really couldn’t blame her.
She might be alone and frightened. A young woman should be with her family on her wedding eve. He’d thought he would have to argue with them to keep her where he and his family could watch over her. Ninian must have said something to her aunt because he’d never heard a word of objection. Odd family. They seemed to think Ninian needed no support from anyone. He supposed she was far more independent than the females he knew, but that didn’t mean she didn’t get lonely like everyone else.
He wasn’t entirely certain when he decided to visit her, or if he decided at all. Carrying his wedding gift, he rapped lightly on the door to her chamber, not bothering to wait for her reply. She had never denied him, nor had she ever invited him. She just seemed to exist in here, a possession provided for the sole purpose of his use. He would have to learn to deal with that. He’d not only never imagined having a wife, he’d never imagined having one who didn’t want him for husband. It made things deucedly awkward.
Entering, he saw no candle or fire to light his way, but a silver light illuminated the chamber, revealing an untouched bed. Drogo squelched an instant’s panic. Laying down the gift on a bedside table, he passed the curtained bed and checked the tall window.
She stood with arms outstretched, silhouetted in a square of moonlight on the carpet, her golden hair streaming in a cascade to her waist as she reached for the stars, swaying to a music only she could hear. Oblivious to his presence, she spun and danced and reflected the moon’s light as her gossamer gown drifted and clung and revealed far more than it concealed.
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