by Mary Balogh
Yet she was Harry’s sister. That meant she was as much a bastard as he was—a baldly spiteful thought.
She was undeniably lovely. She was no girl, a fact that perhaps enhanced her beauty, for hers was a woman’s loveliness. She had a slender but curvy figure, finely carved features with a perfect complexion, large blue eyes, and fair, not quite blond hair, prettily, though not fussily, styled in curls at the back of her head and wavy tendrils over her ears. The upswept hair emphasized the graceful arch of her neck. She was dressed plainly but elegantly in blue, a color that suited her.
She was beautiful, yes. But she looked cold and unappealing. Somehow unknowable behind that expressionless expression. Perhaps that, rather than the stain upon her birth, was the reason she was still unmarried. Perhaps other men found themselves as little attracted to her as he.
Yet for someone who was not attracted, he nevertheless could not seem to stop himself from glancing repeatedly at her and noticing every slight movement and gesture she made. She had elegant hands, which rested quietly in her lap, her fingers interlaced.
The feeling grew on him that he might indeed owe her an apology. Half-naked men, especially hot, sweaty, badly scarred ones hefting axes, were not a decent sight for a lady’s eyes. He was gentleman enough to know that. And Beauty, big softie though she was, had come galloping from behind the stables, barking her head off. Miss Westcott could be forgiven for not having recognized her friendly intent. Or perhaps she just disliked dogs.
His own sense of guilt irritated him and made him like her the less—and feel yet more irritated and guilty. And even as he was thinking it, she looked back at him at last while Lady Jessica was saying something to her, and he realized that he was probably frowning or even scowling. He was sometimes accused of doing both when he was merely deep in thought. She continued to regard him, her eyes steady, even after she realized he was gazing back at her. He was the first to look away.
They would all leave soon, the Countess of Riverdale had assured Harry earlier, even though there were more of them still to come, some from London, and possibly one, Harry’s other sister, from Bath. The countess had been aware that Harry would prefer to be alone and perhaps needed to be. They were probably all aware of it. He could wait them out, Gil thought. He would leave Harry to their mercies while they were here and find some private occupation for himself, especially if today’s fine weather held. Beauty would be delighted by the opportunity for more walks. She had not had a great deal of freedom in Paris, and had had even less during the journey here. Now she was largely confined to his room while the visitors remained.
Afterward, when they had all left, he would take care of Harry. Not with lap robes and potions and soft, sympathetic words, but with windows flung wide and outdoor walks, even rides later on, and hearty meals. Not that he intended to overdo the encouragement to the point of bullying. Harry needed peace and quiet and independence as much as he needed exercise and nourishment. But Gil would not sit idly by and watch Harry languish and expect good health and strength to return as though by magic.
Just as he could not expect his own life to sort itself out unless or until he did something about it rather than hide here in the country, using Harry as an excuse while the wheels of the law creaked around in almost imperceptible rotation. Perhaps he needed to change his lawyer. The man had so far been unsuccessful in persuading Gil’s in-laws even to accept support money for Katy, let alone consider visitation rights. Yet he wanted vastly more than just those two things. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted to take her home to Rose Cottage. He wanted to love her, God damn it.
And damn his lawyer’s eyes for ordering him to do nothing, just the very thing Gil found near impossible to do. He had always been a man of action. Perhaps he needed to go to London to confront Grimes in person. And do what? Grab the man by the scruff of the neck, raise his fist, and turn the air blue with language?
No. Remaining here, where he would at least be welcome and needed for a while, was still his best option. It was not an excuse, though it felt like one. It was a reason. He would not let Harry down. Nor would he let his daughter down by blundering around like a fool, making it more certain by the day that he would never see her again.
Perhaps a quiet stay in the country would somehow soothe his soul and make him a better father when the time came.
When. Not if. When.
But when was when, for the love of God?
A stay in the country might also drive him quietly insane.
Four
The next morning before putting her plan into action Abigail checked that everyone was occupied.
Her mother and Aunt Louise were having their morning coffee with Mrs. Sullivan in the housekeeper’s room. Mama still hoped to persuade Harry to return to London with her and Marcel, but in the meanwhile she was making sure that everything was properly organized to function as a bachelor household if she should fail, as she seemed to know at heart she would. Anna and Wren were upstairs in the nursery with most of their children. Avery had gone out to the stables with Josephine, at age four his eldest, when she had begged to see the horses. Marcel and Bertrand had gone with them. Alexander was in the music room with three-year-old Nathan, the elder of his two sons, who was banging on the keys of the pianoforte as though to prove to the world that he was no infant prodigy. Jessica and Estelle were in the morning room, writing letters.
Only Lieutenant Colonel Bennington was unaccounted for. He had not said anything at the breakfast table about his plans for the morning.
Abigail thought he might be with Harry, who had gone into the library after breakfast at Mama’s suggestion in order to read—and probably to have a nap too, Mama had added after he went. That was why everyone else had found something else to do for a while. The playing of the pianoforte might not be the best lullaby, of course, but the music room was quite far removed from the library. Abigail turned the doorknob slowly, careful not to make a noise. If the lieutenant colonel was there or if Harry was asleep, she would withdraw—without being seen, she hoped.
She found Harry was alone, however, a book open on his lap, though he was not reading it. He was not asleep either. He was gazing through the window beside him. He turned his head as Abigail stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I am not as bad as I look, you know, Abby,” he said when she hesitated and stayed where she was. “I am still me here inside myself, and the outer me will change for the better too now that I am home. I am done with being bled every time I have a suggestion of a fever and of being fed gruel and kept in semidarkness and wheeled about in a bath chair.”
He had detected her reluctance to come close to him or even look at him, then, had he?
“Come and sit down,” he said. “Ring for coffee, if you will. I shall have a cup with you. I have not been allowed to have any, you know.”
“Why not?” she asked as she pulled on the bell rope.
“It is too strong for me,” he said. “It might stimulate me and have me leaping about the room from chair to table to floor and swinging from the chandeliers. And that would not be good for my general well-being.” He grinned at her.
“Are we all a great burden to you, being here?” she asked as she perched on the edge of the chair opposite his. “And more of us still to come?”
“Not really,” he said after giving it some thought. “I must confess that I was a bit dismayed when Avery and Alexander confirmed me in my fear that everyone would probably come. And I still hope nobody stays longer than a few days. But it is good to know that people care, Abby. That one’s own family cares. For a time six years ago I expected that no one would. I am sure you and Camille feared it too. But they do care. Even Grandmama is coming, I understand, though she is surely in her middle seventies by now.”
“Sometimes caring relatives can be a burden,” she said.
“Have they been a burden to you?” he ask
ed.
But she was prevented from answering by the arrival of a maid with the coffee tray. Abigail poured them a cup each and took Harry his along with a raisin muffin on a plate. She sat back down with her own cup.
“You cannot imagine,” he said, “what it feels like to be able to sit here, Abby, in a spacious room in a familiar home. To sleep in my own old bed upstairs. To look out a window—any window—and see sky and grass and trees and flowers. To be in England. And at home. I will be fine now. You need not worry or be afraid to look at me lest I take my final shuddering breath even as you watch.” He ate half the muffin before setting his plate aside.
Abigail pondered trying to coax him to eat the other half but said nothing.
“I can imagine,” she said. “Maybe not as acutely as you. But this is home, and I have been homesick for it since Mama married Marcel and we moved to Redcliffe. May I remain here, Harry, when everyone else leaves? I can make myself useful by running the household, though Mrs. Sullivan is perfectly capable of doing it on her own, I know. I can offer you some sort of companionship, though I would not press my company on you when you would prefer to be alone. I like being alone too. And I think my presence here might reassure Mama, who dreads the thought of leaving you alone when you have not yet recovered your full health.”
“Abby,” he said, “you do not have to trot out a dozen or more arguments to persuade me to allow you to stay. Hinsford is your home as much as it is mine. Literally, of course, it is Anna’s. She inherited it from our father along with everything else that was not entailed. Oh, I know she is always hoping to persuade me to accept it from her as a gift and has already made arrangements to leave it to me and my descendants in her will, but it is not mine yet for all that. If you wish to live here, you must do so. Were you afraid I might say no?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Goose,” he commented, sounding for the moment like the old Harry. “I had forgotten how strong coffee is.” He grimaced and set down his cup, only half empty.
Abigail got to her feet and returned their cups and the plate to the tray. “I daresay you want to rest for a while,” she said. “I will not keep you talking.”
“A nap in the morning,” he said, “and probably another in the afternoon. Just like an old man. But not for long. I am not ready to be old yet. Who is playing the pianoforte, by the way? One of the infants? I can remember doing that when I was small but rebelling mightily a few years later when Mama forced me to have some lessons.”
“It is Nathan,” she said. “Alexander is with him.” She turned to look back at him when her hand was on the doorknob. “Harry, I am so, so glad you are home at last.” And the tears sprang even before she could turn her head away.
“Goose,” he said again as she let herself out of the library.
Harry napping in the morning and probably again in the afternoon. Just six years ago he had been a vividly good-looking, carefree, energetic young man, slightly on the wild side, very often exasperating to her and Camille because they thought he did not take his responsibilities seriously enough. It seemed like something from another era or another lifetime. He had been the wealthy, fashionable, enormously popular young Earl of Riverdale in those days. Would he ever return to being that person? Without the title and the enormous wealth, of course.
But he was twenty-six now, no longer a boy or even a very young man. He was not an old man either.
She ought to join Jessica and Estelle in the morning room, she thought as she stood hesitating outside the library door. She had letters of her own to write, most notably to Marcel’s elderly aunt, who lived in the dower house at Redcliffe. Abigail was fond of her, and had promised to write frequently from London. It was more than a week since she had last done so. She was not in a letter-writing mood this morning, however, and did not want to face the chatter of her cousin and stepsister. She might do something as silly as bursting into tears.
She went out for a walk instead, not bothering to stop to fetch a bonnet or pelisse. The air was fresh but not uncomfortably chilly. There was no discernible wind. And there was no need for formality within the confines of the estate’s park. She considered the summer house to the east of the main building as a destination, but set out the opposite way instead, across the lawn toward the trees and the small lake beyond. As she walked, she waved to Josephine, who called out to her excitedly from high on the back of Bertrand’s horse, where she sat cradled within the safety of Avery’s arms and thighs. Marcel and Bertrand were standing in the large gateway into the stable yard, watching. Who would have expected Avery, Duke of Netherby—elegant, bored aristocrat, who nevertheless exuded power, even danger, through every pore—to turn into a doting papa?
Abigail was soon deep among the trees, her favorite place in the park. She always felt perfectly a part of nature when she walked here, every sense alive. There were tree trunks and leaves to look at as well as the sky scored across by waving branches. There were rough bark and smooth leaves with their ribbed undersides to touch and the distinctive smells of the woods to inhale. There was the wonderful sound of silence except when the wind was sighing through the boughs or rustling through the leaves. She stopped walking for a moment and set her hand against the trunk of an ancient oak. She could almost feel the life in it, old and steadfast and wise—a foolish conceit, perhaps. But she felt the balm of peace seep into her soul.
Harry had said she could stay. She would not have to return to London, where everyone was constantly trying to persuade her to join in some carefully selected entertainments of the Season. And where she had to face the constant disappointment and reproach in Jessica’s eyes when she refused. She could stay here instead and perhaps at last—oh, at last—find some definite purpose for her life, which had changed so drastically when she was eighteen that she still had not fully recovered her balance.
She tipped back her head and looked up through the branches of the great tree to the sky above. She breathed in peace and freedom, even happiness.
* * *
• • •
Gil had considered coaxing Harry into taking a short walk outside after breakfast, but his mother had settled him in the library instead with a fire and a book and a blanket and the point was not worth contesting. There would be time enough after everyone left to supervise a more purposeful convalescence, and he did not believe Harry would resist. For the present, however, it really was good for him to be in the company of his family for a few days.
Gil fetched Beauty and went for a walk. It was a lovely cool, bright morning, and he drank in the sights and sounds and smells of the English countryside with all his senses on full alert. He put the dog on a long leash when they passed beyond the confines of the park. One never knew when one might encounter other people or animals who might be startled, even frightened, by her size and enthusiasm, as Miss Westcott had been yesterday.
Damn it, he owed that woman an apology.
He definitely did.
The walk was sometimes a brisk one as Beauty strained on the leash, eager to break into a run. At other times it was excruciatingly slow, as when she insisted upon sniffing every tree in a neat row along the edge of one field. She had to stop again to bark ferociously at a flock of sheep grazing peacefully in a meadow. The sheep favored her with a steady look through the bars of the stile, found themselves unimpressed, and returned to their grazing. She barked a greeting at a farmer and his lad who passed them in a loaded wagon and touched their hats to Gil.
And he felt a sudden yearning for his own home. For Rose Cottage. His own space on this earth. There was and always had been so little that was his own. And so few people. He had an unbidden memory of taking his daughter, all wrapped up warm in a blanket in his arms, to look at the rose arbor on the west side of the house. There had been no roses to see—it was too early in the year. But there they were, the plants in beds and climbing over trellises, and the promise of their blo
oming had excited him. The warm bundle in his arms had excited him too. He had been filled with a contentment he had never known before—or since. And life, even with the growing difficulties of his marriage, had seemed very, very good.
“Time to go back, Beaut,” he said, turning abruptly, the joy suddenly fled from the morning. He had no idea how long he had been out, but from the position of the sun he guessed it must be close to noon.
Beauty turned obligingly, stopped with ears erect—except for the one tip, which could never straighten up—to contemplate a distant rabbit, which was cheekily looking right back instead of fleeing. But the dog must have decided that even without the leash she would have no chance of catching it or even scaring it badly. She trotted cheerfully homeward. Gil removed the leash after they had passed through a side gate into the park. The dog bounded joyfully forward and dashed once completely around the lake while Gil waited for her.
And it struck him that Beauty belonged to him. She had actually chosen him. And he was glad. There was nothing inferior about a dog’s love. Perhaps it was even superior to human love. It was total and unconditional.
They set out through the woods in the direction of the lawn and the stables and the house. Beauty ambled along, investigating whatever took her fancy. Then abruptly she stopped, raised her head and cocked her ears, and trotted straight ahead, a dog with a set purpose. The trot almost immediately became a gallop and Gil increased his pace. He hoped it was just another rabbit.
