AN Unexpected Gentleman

by Alissa Johnson

  She felt bold and reckless and brimming over with hope . . . Until she spoke to the housekeeper nearly eight hours later and discovered no missives had been sent to Lord Gideon at Murdoch House.

  Connor had forgotten. She’d tried not to draw any conclusions from the news. After all, he was not the first person on earth to have forgotten something. Life was rife with distractions. Only last year, she’d carried a squirming, squalling George halfway back from the village before remembering she’d left Isobel waiting at the butcher’s. In truth, she’d only remembered then because she’d reached into her pocket for something with which to distract George and pulled out one of Isobel’s hair ribbons.

  Everyone was susceptible. Everyone needed a reminder now and again. She’d remind him when he came to bed, he’d be suitably contrite for having forgotten, the letter would be sent, and that was that.

  She fell asleep waiting for him, and she awoke alone the next morning with only the vaguest memory of him crawling into bed with her during the small hours of the morning and crawling out again at dawn.

  It was disappointing, but she refused to give up faith. Connor would remember, she was sure.

  But as the hours passed and Mrs. McKarnin began to deliver the news—in increasingly sympathetic tones—that still no missives had been sent to Murdoch House, Adelaide’s patience began to wane.

  She found reasons to pass—or to be perfectly accurate, stomp—by the study door. But her efforts were for naught. All she heard were voices pitched low in anger and the single phrase, “The bugger’s run off to devil knows where!”

  Oh, she hoped he had. She hoped Sir Robert had fallen into a bog somewhere or taken it upon himself to emigrate to Australia. She was tired of the shadow he cast over their lives and more than ready for Connor to let go of the past and see what was right before him.

  It was high time they all ceased tying themselves into knots over Sir Robert.

  By noon, when it had become apparent that Connor did not intend to take her to see Lord Gideon’s horses, she decided it was also high time she stopped waiting on Connor Brice to remember she mattered.

  Chapter 26

  The bugger had run off to Edinburgh.

  Connor left his study with the thrill of the hunt still coursing through his veins. It had taken the better part of thirty-six hours to track down Sir Robert. Nearly two days of frustration and a fortune spent on bribing Sir Robert’s new housekeeper. The woman wouldn’t think of betraying her new master . . . for anything less than a hundred pounds.

  Connor couldn’t help but admire the woman’s gall, and he’d paid the price without bothering to barter. Now everything was set, and with a perfection that he could not have planned. Sir Robert’s flight to Edinburgh was a welcomed bit of serendipity. The man sought refuge amongst his own kind. He would dine and dance with Scotland’s elite, gathering his peers around him like stones in a defensive wall.

  What a sight it was going to be, to watch those boulders come crashing down on his head.

  Connor grinned. Almost, almost he had reached his goal. A few more weeks and he would be done with Sir Robert . . . Maybe two months . . . Six at the most . . . He’d revisit his timeline after Edinburgh.

  For now, he wanted to savor the pleasure of impending victory with a glass of brandy and the company of his pretty wife.

  The first could be had without difficulty. The second was nowhere to be found—a state of affairs Connor had trouble accepting. How could she not be home? What the devil was she doing, running about the countryside by herself? Granted, she wasn’t alone in the strictest sense of the word. According to his butler, Mrs. Brice had taken a maid, a driver, and a pair of footmen. But she wasn’t with him, and that was the pertinent point.

  Connor had grown accustomed to knowing where she was every minute of the day. Even when he sequestered himself away with his men, all he needed to do was inquire after her whereabouts.

  The missus is gardening. The missus is in the nursery. The missus is on the veranda with Miss Ward.

  He liked that. He liked knowing he need only look out the window to see her or walk down the hall to speak with her. He liked having her at hand. And wasn’t the convenience of having a lovely woman at hand supposed to be one of the benefits of taking a wife?

  She bloody well wasn’t at hand now. And it was damned inconvenient. Worse, not a soul was willing to tell him where, exactly, she’d run off to or how long she intended to be gone. That they knew was obvious. That they were unwilling to tell him was equally clear.

  Don’t know, sir.

  Couldn’t say, Mr. Brice.

  She’s gone out.

  This last came from Isobel, who then proceeded to shut her chamber door in Connor’s face.

  He stared at the wood, torn between bewilderment and a rising temper. Eventually, the latter won out.

  Enough was enough. He lifted a fist and pounded. “I damn well know she’s gone out! Where? What the devil is going on here?”

  The only response was the sound of a key turning in the lock. It sent his blood to boiling. Damn if he’d be locked out of a room in his own bloody house! He spun on his heel, intending to find the nearest bellpull and ring for assistance in taking the door off its hinges, but the soft jingle of keys snagged his attention.

  “Mrs. McKarnin!”

  The housekeeper stepped out of a nearby room and eyed him with poorly concealed distaste, as if he’d stuck his foot in something foul and, like a good and loyal servant, she was doing her utmost not to notice.

  Had everyone turned against him? “It’s a bloody insurrection.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing.” He stuck his hand out and wiggled his fingers. “The key to Miss Ward’s chamber.”

  She took her sweet time, retrieving her enormous ring of keys from her apron pocket, flipping through the keys, studying each one individually.

  Connor tapped his foot, ground his teeth, then tapped his foot some more. “Before nightfall would be—”

  “I don’t appear to have it on my person, sir.”

  He dropped his hand. “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

  “I remember now. I put it away for safekeeping. What if someone should get hold of the ring, I thought? What if that someone should have wicked intentions?” She sniffed and gave him a long, pointed look. “All precautions must be taken to protect a lady’s virtue.”

  “Oh, for the love of . . . I’m not going to ravish my sister-in-law. I merely want a word.”

  “I shall look for the key.”

  He’d wager a thousand pounds she intended to look for it until Boxing Day. He’d wager a thousand more the damn thing was on her ring.

  “Mrs. McKarnin!” He counted to ten as she turned around, then ground out, “Where is my wife?”

  “She’s gone out, sir.”

  He counted to fifteen. “Where?”

  “It was not my place to ask, sir.”

  Twenty. “Did she give any indication as to when she might return?”

  So help him God, if she failed to answer—

  “Before dark, sir.”

  His jaw relaxed, just a little. “Thank you. I’ll take the Review in my study, now . . . No, the parlor.”

  The parlor had more comfortable seating. It also happened to have windows facing both the front drive and the stables, but he refused to acknowledge this as his reason for the change of plans. A man had a right to sit and read the Edinburgh Review on his own damn settee.

  He neither read nor sat. He tried, several times, but each time he settled in to read, he was beset with worry. What if Adelaide’s carriage had met with mishap? What if Sir Robert hadn’t left for Edinburgh as they’d thought? What if two footmen hadn’t been sufficient? And each time, he rose again to pace off the restlessness. Three hours later, when the carriage finally rolled down the drive, he was near to climbing the walls.

  “About bloody time.”

  He marched out of the house, down the
front steps, and waited, hands caught behind his back, for the carriage to stop and Adelaide to emerge. He wasn’t going to shout. He was not going to put himself in the position of having to apologize for losing his temper.

  “Where the hell have you been?” He’d apologize later.

  Adelaide flicked him a glance as she withdrew her hand from the assisting footman’s grasp. “Mr. Cawley’s farm.”

  Surprise temporarily pushed aside temper. “Why the devil did you go there?”

  “Because there is where the stable master suggested I look for a suitable mount.”

  “A suitable—?”

  “He has a fine four-year-old mare. Miss Crumpets. A stupid name for a lovely horse.”

  She headed for the house and would have walked right past him without another word if he hadn’t turned and fallen into step beside her. Her cold manner both baffled and unnerved him.

  Cautious now, he slanted a look at her. “Did you purchase her?”

  “I did not.” She kept her gaze straight ahead as she walked inside.

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Cawley would not sell her to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was uncertain as to whether my husband would approve.” She tossed her reticule on a side table with more force than necessary. “He says he will not sell the mare to me without your consent.”

  “I see.” He felt inexplicably guilty all of a sudden. As if he needed to apologize on behalf of his entire gender. “I’ll speak with him.”

  She rolled her eyes and brushed past him, but he caught her arm and turned her about again. Her color was high, her eyes flashing.

  “Are you angry with me?” What did she have to be angry about? He’d been the one pacing in the parlor for the last three hours.

  “Of course I am angry with you,” she snapped. “It was an insulting and completely unnecessary experience. One I would not have had to suffer if you had sent a letter to Lord Gideon and taken me to Murdoch House as promised.”

  “Letter?” His mind went blank, then . . . Horses. Letters. George’s mishap with the pastry. He dropped her arm. “Oh, hell.”

  “You forgot entirely, didn’t you? Completely dismissed it. I don’t know why I . . .” She pressed her lips tight, shook her head, turned, and headed up the steps.

  Connor watched her until her small form disappeared. It wasn’t hard for him to finish her sentence . . . why I bother . . . why I expected better. He didn’t need the exact words to understand the sentiment.

  An unforgiving weight of guilt, and something that edged perilously close to fear, settled in his chest like a block of ice. Uncomfortable with the sensations on every possible level, he scowled at the stairs and decided that what he really didn’t need was the bloody sentiment.

  So, he’d made a mistake. It was just one sodding mistake, not a statement of his character as a whole . . . which was, granted, a bit murky about the edges, but holy hell, he was only human. He ought to be forgiven the odd mistake.

  And he ought to be trusted to make up for that mistake. Hadn’t he made up for everything else, even the things that hadn’t been mistakes? Hadn’t he given her a fine home and a fortune to spend, a picnic in England, and a brother free of debt and out from under Sir Robert’s influence?

  He damn well had.

  And yet she didn’t know why she bothered? Didn’t know why she’d expected better? Well, if a reminder was what she needed, he was happy to oblige.

  Fuming—and comfortable with that sensation on every level—he stormed across the great hall and up the steps. He took them two at a time and came to an abrupt halt halfway up the staircase.

  This . . . was not a wise course of action.

  Holy hell, what was he thinking to do? Demand an apology? Demand she trust him? He’d done that already. Obviously, it failed to take. Itemizing the things he’d done for her and her family was not going to change that. Moreover, he’d not done those things out of guilt or to gain her trust. He’d done them because . . . well . . . because he had, that’s all. He’d wanted to. No need to go dissecting the matter.

  He rolled his shoulders, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and resumed his progress toward their chambers. This misunderstanding had been blown entirely out of proportion. She’d read far too much into a temporarily forgotten letter, and he was reading far too much into a half-finished sentence. For all he knew, she’d meant to express her regret at not having trampled Mr. Cawley under Miss Crumpets’ hooves.

  This was a small row, the kind husbands and wives were wont to have on a regular basis. He wasn’t an expert on these sorts of disagreements, but he was fairly certain they all played out the same. The husband displayed a suitable level of contrition for one mistake, and the wife forgave him. Because she trusted him. It was as simple as that.

  Feeling settled and confident, he entered their chambers and softly closed the door. Adelaide stood looking out the window. She failed to acknowledge his presence with so much as a flick of her eyes.

  He caught his hands behind his back. “Adelaide, I apologize.”

  She nodded without turning her head and offered no forgiveness.

  He decided a bit of resistance was to be expected. He took a step forward. “Let me make it up to you.”

  “You may speak with Mr. Cawley, if you like.”

  Oh, he intended to have a conversation with Mr. Cawley. One the man would not soon forget. “I can manage better. What do you say to a fortnight in Edinburgh?”

  Finally, she glanced at him. “Edinburgh?”

  It was a brilliant idea, if he did say so himself. He could be present to watch Sir Robert fall and placate his wife at the same time. Even better, he’d have her all to himself. “We’ll go shopping, to the theater.” Spend the week in bed without fear of interruption from her family or his men. “Whatever you like.”

  She looked caught between hope and doubt. “Do you mean it?”

  “I’d not suggest it otherwise.”

  “And when would we have this fortnight?”

  “Next week.”

  She worried her lip. “Could we leave sooner?”

  “I’ve some business to conclude first.” The trap was set for Sir Robert, but he wanted to make certain, absolutely certain, of the details before that trap was sprung.

  “What sort of business?”

  “A bit of this and that. I’ve the final plans for the garden to review, and I’ve something in store for Sir Robert I think you’ll—” He broke off when she lifted a hand.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured. “This trip, it will be just the two of us?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied and meant it. Gregory and Michael would be in town for part of that time, but he’d make certain they understood he and his wife were not to be disturbed. If they needed him, they could send a note. “What do you think?”

  She gave him a hesitant smile. “I think I should like a trip to Edinburgh.”

  He closed the distance between them and ran his fingertips along the underside of her jaw. He was fascinated with the skin there . . . soft, fragile, and infused with her scent. He couldn’t resist bending his head for a quick taste. “Am I forgiven?”

  A shiver ran through her. “I suppose . . . I suppose it was just an honest mistake.”

  Adelaide believed those words as she said them, and she believed in the sincerity of Connor’s apology and promise to make amends. And yet a niggling discontent weighed on her shoulders for the rest of the evening and night. By morning, it had grown as thick and heavy as the blanketing fog outside.

  Hoping to shake free of the mood, she excused herself from breakfast and went for a stroll in the cool, damp air. She wandered aimlessly along the trails that had been cut through the overgrown garden and tried to sort her disjointed thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order.

  It wasn’t difficult to pinpoint the cause of her unsettled mind. She’d forgiven Connor. Again. Was this to become a habit, she wondered, with Connor
charming her one day, disappointing her the next, and she forgiving him every time? Where was the line between reasonably understanding and utterly spineless? And why the devil was she the only one stumbling between the two?

  Because she was the only one in love, she thought with a sigh. It was wildly unfair.

  If only she had a better sense of how he felt. He’d said she mattered, and she believed him. But matter had a vague and varied definition. Revenge mattered. So did routine bathing. Did she fall somewhere in between?

  She didn’t want to fall in between. She wanted to be first. She wanted to matter above all else. She wanted to know what steps she needed to take to see that happen.

  “There’s a long face.”

  Startled, Adelaide turned at the sound of Gregory’s voice. He was sitting not six feet away on a bench, whittling a weathered piece of oak. Lost in her thoughts and the thick fog, she’d nearly walked right past him.

  “Mr. O’Malley.” She chuckled softly at herself. “I thought you were in the study with my husband.”

  Gregory shook his head and shaved off a long sliver. “He’s seeing to business in the library this morning. Reports and manifests and all manner of paperwork I’ve no interest in.” He patted the seat next to him with the handle of his knife. “Have a seat, lass. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “Nothing is troubling me,” she murmured, even as she took the seat.

  “Aye, there is. You’ve had a row with your husband.”

  Her lips twisted in a combination of humor and chagrin. “You shouldn’t listen to staff gossip.”

  “You had a part of it out on the drive,” he reminded her. “You’ve not come to an understanding?”

  “We have. He apologized.”

  “Well now, that’s good. That’s fitting. Have you forgiven him?”

  She absently brushed a thick wood shaving from the bench. “Yes.”

  “And are you regretting now that you have?”

  “No. He was sincere in his apology.” She watched him shape the top of the stick and found there was something soothing in the sure and steady pass of his knife over the wood. “He was very quick to offer it as well.”