by Kelly Boyce
“I do not mean to say otherwise, Auntie. But truth be told, I have no interest in another Season. Even less in titled gentlemen who act as if proper manners and true character were things they put on and took off whenever it suited them!” The words shot out hard and harsh.
Uncle Arran leaned forward, concern etched into his handsome features. “Judith—”
She cleared her throat and pressed on. Some things she did not wish to address with her uncle. “I understand your reticence in letting me go, but you both misunderstand. I am not asking permission. I am simply informing you of my plans. I am three and twenty and perfectly capable of making my own decisions with respect to my life. I will be leaving following the dinner party.”
If she put departing off any longer, the fear and uncertainty of what she was doing might creep back. She stood and strode from the room, before either of them could change her mind.
* * *
Benedict did his best to hide the smile that threatened as Sir Arran paced the length of the billiards table, forcing the Earl of Huntsleigh to move out of his way lest he bump against him and ruin his shot. A pointless exercise, however, as Marcus Bowen’s skill at the game was far superior to Huntsleigh’s and the earl really didn’t have a hope of winning.
“What is she thinking,” Sir Arran said, throwing his arms out wide as if he could corral the answer from the air around him. Blackbourne dodged and weaved to avoid being hit. “And what is this business about not marrying? What woman does not want to marry?”
“More than we think, I would hazard,” Marcus said, leaning over the table and lining up his shot. With one swift, efficient movement, he sank the last two balls and the game ended. “Not all women take well to the idea of having their lives and futures controlled by others.”
“True enough,” Huntsleigh echoed. “I know my wife was not particularly fond of it.”
Blackbourne leaned against the edge of the billiards table. “Nor mine.”
Sir Arran stopped and faced his son. “Really?”
Blackbourne shrugged in response as if the idea did not faze him in the least. “Would it appeal to you?”
“Well, no but—”
“But you’ve never had to think about it,” Huntsleigh said.
“Then you think I should let her go?”
Benedict set down the cue stick he’d been holding since his earlier trouncing by Marcus. Having Miss Sutherland in London left him unsettled. And excited. Which unsettled him even more.
He refocused his attention on Sir Arran’s concerns. He could not afford such thoughts where Miss Sutherland was concerned. “Do you have a choice? She is of age and short of locking her in her room, I see little you can do about it.”
He liked Sir Arran and considered him a truly honorable man in both word and deed, but when it came to the women in his family—a family only newly reformed after the death of Sir Arran’s brother forced his return to Havelock Manor—he could be a bit shortsighted and overprotective. Benedict, for his part, came from a family of strong-minded women and had spent his formative years being raised in a home where both his parents had equal say. He hadn’t realized until Uncle Henry took them in just how rare a situation that was.
“How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing she is alone and unprotected in London? London! The city is a cesspool of depravity!”
Blackbourne chuckled. “It is hardly that. Not all of it, at least. And I am confidant Miss Sutherland will have no interest in the parts that are. Lord Ridgemont is a good enough sort. I’m sure he will not allow any harm to come to her.”
Though the words were meant to pacify Sir Arran, they did little to settle the disquiet in Benedict’s stomach. Ridgemont was indeed a good enough chap, but he was also a very unmarried chap.
Not that he should care one way or the other.
Except that he did.
“His great-aunt, Lady Dalridge, resides with him,” Blackbourne continued. “I am certain she will ensure all propriety is maintained.”
Sir Arran refused to be placated. “If she is hell bent on working, why could she at least not choose to become the companion to a doddering old widow in some remote country estate?”
Blackbourne clapped his father on the shoulder. “I am of the strong opinion that women were not put on this earth to make our lives easier, only more enjoyable.”
“And interesting,” Huntsleigh added.
Marcus nodded. “And happy.”
Sir Arran arched one eyebrow. “I am not happy.”
“If it will ease your pain any,” Blackbourne said. “Glenmor and his mother will be leaving for London in two days. I am certain he will not mind escorting Miss Sutherland safely to Lord Ridgemont’s home, will you, Ben?”
The tension eased from Sir Arran’s brow as he looked over at Benedict. “Would you?”
He swallowed. He could think of nothing he wanted less. He needed to put this silly fascination with Miss Sutherland behind him and focus on the task of finding a proper wife. But he could hardly say no. It would be ungentlemanly. And, if in Sir Arran’s place, he’d want someone he trusted to afford him the same courtesy. Blast it.
“We would be happy to see her safely to her destination.” Where he would leave her and that would be that.
“And,” Huntsleigh chimed in, “As he is staying in London, he will be there to check in on her periodically to ensure she is safe, happy, and well. Will you not, Glenmor?”
Benedict gritted his teeth. When Abigail married Blackbourne, she’d gained not only a husband, but also her husband’s dearest friends and, as her brother, Benedict was quickly ensconced as one of them. He’d never had close friends growing up, men who treated each other like brothers. At the time, he’d considered this a wonderful boon.
Obviously, he had been out of his mind.
He forced a smile. “Not at all. It would be my pleasure.” Too much so.
And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.
Chapter Three
Judith sat quietly in the Glenmor carriage, the well-cushioned seat protecting her back and bottom from the worst of the bumps on the rutted road as Havelock Manor became a distant speck before eventually disappearing entirely from view. A half-day’s ride ahead of them was another conveyance carrying their luggage, Mrs. Laytham’s maid, and Lord Glenmor’s valet.
Judith had seen little reason to employ a lady’s maid herself, though Aunt Beatris had tried to change her mind to that effect. It had seemed a bit much to have someone in her employ, while another employed her. In the end, she’d brought little with her; only the items she deemed necessary for her newly acquired position. Serviceable dresses and undergarments, several books Lady Henrietta might enjoy discussing, a few gowns—albeit a little out of fashion now—in the event she was requested to provide companionship at certain events. A possibility she dreaded and refused to dwell on.
“Had you met Lord Ridgemont previously during your Season in London, Miss Sutherland?” Mrs. Laytham asked with a smile. The lady was a favorite of Judith’s. A tiny wisp of a thing with the same strong bone structure as her son, though while she often held a smile upon her countenance, Lord Glenmor seemed less prone to do so. Perhaps the tragedies Uncle Arran revealed that had befallen the Laythams had left their mark in different ways.
“I did not.” Judith squeezed her hands together in her lap. She did not care to discuss her previous time in London, not even with Mrs. Laytham. It had not been a pleasant experience and revisiting those memories only served to heighten her apprehension at returning.
Her gaze flicked to Lord Glenmor who had said little beyond initial pleasantries since the beginning of their journey, allowing his mother to carry the bulk of the conversation. Had he heard of her humiliation in London? Did they still snicker behind her back at what good fun they’d had at her expense?
Heat burned in the apple of her cheeks at the thought he might be privy to her shame.
“Benedict has indicated he is a good sort, and Gloria
told me only yesterday that his great-aunt, Lady Dalridge, is quite formidable. I think you should find yourself in good company. I’m afraid to say I know little of Lady Henrietta, however. Do you know of her Ben, dear?”
Lord Glenmor’s gaze landed on Judith then slid away to peer out the window. The motion felt very much like a dismissal, as if she were of little consequence, or not worth looking at. It rankled, much as it had when others treated her similarly during her last stay in London. Did he, like the other members of the ton, believe her so far beneath him that she did not warrant his time or attention? As if the situation of his birth automatically made him a better person?
Oh, how she despised these horrible insecurities that crept in when she let her guard down even a little. They had never existed before London. Then again, before London she had not come face to face with such duplicity. Before London, she’d believed everyone had good inside of them. But Lord Pengrin and Lady Susan had set her straight on that account, hadn’t they? She forced the unwanted memory away. Given her new position, the chance of encountering either of them seemed unlikely. A fact that pleased her quite well.
“I’m afraid my knowledge of Lady Henrietta is limited,” Lord Glenmor said. “Only that she is Lord Ridgemont’s half-sister from his late father’s second marriage. I believe she is of age, but has yet to be presented.”
His mother sat back in her seat. “How odd. One would think as the sister to a marquess, she would be out in society by now and in high demand.”
Lord Glenmor shrugged. “Perhaps they will present her to court this Season.”
The idea, and what it meant for her, made Judith’s stomach roll over. She pressed a hand against her belly in an effort to stop the sickening motion. Would she be expected to participate?
“If so, perhaps you should arrange an introduction and add her to your bride list.” Mrs. Laytham’s tone soured somewhat.
Lord Glenmor’s gaze returned to Judith and she had the uncomfortable sensation of falling down a rabbit hole. There was something in his expression, lurking just behind the soft blue of his eyes. A familiar pain she recognized, having seen it in her own reflection each time she glanced in the mirror. It spoke of loss and survival, deeply imbedded, as if it had resided there for quite some time.
She clenched her hands more tightly together. She did not want to think of him in pain. She did not want to think of him at all. As much as his dismissal of a moment ago chafed, perhaps his lack of interest was for the best. At least when he stared at the landscape, the nest of butterflies in her belly remained dormant, instead of flitting their tiny wings against her insides. But this time he did not look away, nor did he speak, leaving her to break the strange silence that locked their gazes.
“Are you on a bride hunt, my lord?” She need not have asked the question, as Mr. Bowen had already inferred such in their last meeting at Sheridan Park. Nor should she have been so impertinent as to bring the matter up now in such a direct way, but it was the only thing she could think of to break the spell he wound around her.
He cleared his throat and hesitated before answering. “It is time.”
And that was all. No elaboration on the why of it. Nothing that invited further conversation on the subject. Or any subject for that matter. He could not have made his disinterest in carrying on a conversation with her more apparent if he had straight out requested she stop speaking to him.
“I see.” What else was left to say? His short answer lingered in the air between them, doing little to soften the awkward silence. She did not recall it being so difficult to converse with him when she’d attended the Dowager Countess’s birthday party. Perhaps the gaiety of the event had loosened his tongue but now that they had returned to the every day, he cared little about carrying on a conversation with her.
Mrs. Laytham released a long sigh, though whether that was over Lord Glenmor’s plans or his inability to carry on a pleasant exchange, Judith could not say. Regardless, the silence remained until Mrs. Laytham re-inserted herself into the conversation, bringing up the impending nuptials between the Dowager Countess of Blackbourne and Judith’s Uncle Arran. A safe topic and a happy one at that, to see the two reunited after decades apart.
But eventually, even that topic of conversation waned. Judith had not realized she’d nodded off until a sudden bump jolted her awake and the driver’s urgent voice from above called for the horses to stop. She threw her hand outward in an attempt to steady herself, but grasped only air as the carriage came to an abrupt stop, pitching her forward in her seat.
Instead of landing on the floor of the carriage in a disorderly heap, Lord Glenmor leaned forward and caught her in his arms, pressing her against his chest. Once the surprise of her new circumstances receded, she became aware of the merest hint of stubble where his chin brushed her cheek, and the warm scent of sandalwood teased her senses. An unwanted thrill skipped up her spine when his lips grazed against her skin far too briefly before he pushed her back into her seat. She sat dazed, more so by the unexpected physicality of him than by the fact the carriage now listed to one side.
“Are you injured?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Mother?”
Mrs. Laytham reached out her hand and patted Lord Glenmor on the arm. “Fine, dear. Though I daresay the carriage is not.”
The door opened and the driver poked his head in, fear written across his features. “Yer lordship—”
“Everyone is fine, Cutler. The horses?”
“Fine, my lord. But the axel has broke. I can truss it up to get us to the nearest inn, but we’ll have to wait there for proper repairs.”
Lord Glenmor nodded, taking the news in stride. Judith held her breath and waited for him to give the driver a severe dressing-down as if he was somehow responsible for the sudden interruption of his master’s plans. In her experience, most lords treated even the most minor of inconveniences as if the world stood on the verge of ending. But the flare-up never came. Lord Glenmor remained unruffled.
“How close is the nearest inn, Cutler?”
“Not far. Boar’s Head is an hour’s ride due north.”
Lord Glenmor nodded. “Very good. Do you require assistance to implement the repairs?”
Judith raised her eyebrows. Since when did lords ask their servants if they required help in their duties?
“No need, my lord. It was a clean break. Like it’d been sawed straight in half. Odd to see such a thing, but I should be able to make it safe enough until we reach the inn.”
Lord Glenmor nodded and stepped out of the carriage. “Very well. Do what you must, Cutler. The sooner we get on our way, the sooner the ladies can warm themselves in front of a fire. The air grows colder.”
Judith’s skin still tingled, but it had little to do with the cooling temperatures and everything to do with the heat generated where the ghost of his touch on her skin remained. Her heart beat hard against her breast.
Mrs. Laytham smiled, her own calm manner echoing her son’s. “Perhaps we should consider this an adventure in order to keep our spirits up, don’t you think?”
The woman’s ability to stay positive despite the circumstances was a testament to her upbringing, no doubt. Mrs. Laytham had not been raised in society. She was a vicar’s daughter who had run off and married the youngest son of the Earl of Glenmor against the wishes of both families, leaving the couple ostracized and without financial support. The current Lady Blackbourne, Mrs. Laytham’s only daughter, claimed theirs had been a home filled with love and laughter, at least until tragedy came to knock on their door. What strength it must have taken to survive the heartbreak of losing one’s husband and youngest son, and having her world turned upside down in the process.
Was that catastrophic loss the root of the pain she saw reflected in Lord Glenmor’s eyes? Had he been a different man before the tragedy? Lady Blackbourne claimed he had once been full of smiles, as if he had an endless supply and never had to worry about running out.
But he had run out, it seemed. Any smile Judith witnessed from him now never reached his eyes and often appeared strained, as if great effort was required to conjure it up. She would have liked to have known him before, when he was simply Mr. Laytham and not the lofty Earl of Glenmor.
The two women stepped out of the carriage to allow Cutler to do his work. Lord Glenmor removed the two trunks from above for Judith and Mrs. Laytham to sit upon while they waited. They huddled together beneath fur blankets to ward off the growing chill. Judith didn’t mind it overly much. She often spent much time out-of-doors and found the fresh air exhilarating, though her bottom soon grew numb from the hard surface of the trunk.
“It feels as if winter shall arrive early this season. I think I will greatly appreciate a roaring fire and warm cup of chocolate upon our arrival at the inn,” Mrs. Laytham mused, pulling the blanket up farther.
“That sounds lovely.” Judith leaned forward in her seat and stared closer at Lord Glenmor. He stood a distance away from them, silhouetted by the bright blue sky above, a pipe clenched between his teeth as he hunched against the cold. “Does Lord Glenmor know his pipe is not lit?”
Mrs. Laytham followed Judith’s gaze to her son and gave a light laugh. “Oh, yes. He never lights it. It belonged to his father. Ben kept it after he passed away. During times of stress or upset he often takes it out. I think the idea of having a piece of his father still with him helps calm him.”
“And which is he now—stressed or upset?” From her viewpoint, she could detect neither emotion from where he stood staring out into the horizon.
“I suspect a little of both. He carries much on his shoulders. Likely more than he needs to, but he will not listen to my counsel in that regard.”
“Do you mean his bride hunt? Does he worry he will be unsuccessful?” She couldn’t imagine how. He was an earl, after all, and an extremely handsome one at that. Not that she put much stock in either.
“Partly. The Glenmor title is still in a state of repair in many ways, and as such, he is determined to marry for monetary means. Not unusual amongst the ton, I know, but not the reasons he had originally hoped for.”
