“No,” Elspeth said, “I’m glad to say I don’t.” She poured warm milk from the saucepan into a cup.
Gloriana took the milk and sipped. “I was so happy,” she explained. “I’d fallen in love, which is something we Warrens never do. I loved Philippe, and he loved me, or at least I thought he did. He said so, and naturally I believed him! I was so thankful, I swore upon the Book of Hours that I would love him forever and ever.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to do when you marry someone,” Elspeth said. “Best to save that vow for the wedding.”
“Maybe,” Gloriana mourned, “but I didn’t. I can’t go back on a holy vow. I’d be better off dead.”
Elspeth scooped the hot brick into the warming pan and ran it between the sheets. “That’s foolishness, Miss Glow, and well you know it. Get some sleep, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
Gloriana doubted it, but she didn’t have the energy to argue. She took a few more sips of milk and gave it back to Elspeth, who set it on the table by the bed.
“Be patient,” the maid said, “and maybe in a few years your handsome marquis will have enough money and be ready to marry you.”
Not likely, since he didn’t love her. She loathed him for rejecting her and for his cowardly departure. As Elspeth tucked her in and closed the curtains around her, she murmured, “Is it possible to love someone and hate them too?”
To which Elspeth replied, “If anyone can do it, you can, Miss Glow.”
~ ~ ~
Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are, Elspeth thought as she went up the stairs to her attic room. It was stuffy at this time of year and frigid in winter, for old Lady Garrison would never allow fuel to be wasted on mere servants.
Gloriana has money and position, a comfortable bed, and a man who loves her! What does it matter if she has to wait a few years?
But I mustn’t complain, Elspeth acknowledged to herself. Gloriana was a far more pleasant mistress than Lady Garrison—a miracle in itself for one so spoiled, and yet so unloved. The old bat probably believed she loved her daughter, but for her it was all about money, position, and pride, and nothing to do with genuine parental love. In any event, one couldn’t expect Gloriana to be aware of all the discomforts of a maidservant’s life. At least she didn’t look down her aristocratic nose and say, “Servants are little better than animals,” or “They’re all dishonest and lazy,” like her mother did. For a well-born lady, Gloriana was surprisingly considerate.
But so childish! Surely, with a little attempt to put herself in the shoes of her marquis, Gloriana would appreciate his entirely proper behavior. What I wouldn’t give for such a man! Not that Elspeth would want a marquis—heaven forbid. No, all she wanted was a hard-working fellow with the money to afford a wife. But the chances of that were slim. She would most likely accompany Gloriana when she married and remain with her for the rest of her life or until she was pensioned off.
This, she reminded herself, was far more than most single women could hope for. Still, one could dream, and dream Elspeth did.
She lit a candle and settled herself in bed. Wasting candles on servants was, of course, forbidden by Lady Garrison, but Elspeth and Gloriana had an arrangement. Elspeth got Gloriana’s half-burned candles in return for concealing the romantic novels also forbidden by Lady Garrison. Which meant Elspeth got to read them all, often before Gloriana did! For some reason, this was balm to Elspeth’s soul.
If only Gloriana would be patient. If only Gloriana would be rational about her vow on that Book of Hours. If only . . . But no, Elspeth wasn’t about to catalogue all the faults and follies of her mistress. She would far rather read a novel.
Gloriana’s marquis, poor man, was much better off without her.
Chapter 2
Five years later, at the estate of Lord Garrison, late summer, 1804
Philippe de Bellechasse lounged against the summerhouse in the cool morning, sipping a cup of unexpectedly good coffee. He’d invited himself to Lord Garrison’s house party to make sure Gloriana Warren didn’t marry the insufferable Earl of Hythwick. It had proven a thankless task, but this purgatory was almost over.
Usually, Philippe respected collectors of antiques for both their knowledge and their care for the lovely old items they owned. Hythwick valued his antiques—all his possessions—for their worth in money and prestige, but nothing more. He was conceited and obsessed with propriety, yet rude to all he deemed his inferiors. He boasted relentlessly about his prowess in the hunt. To sum it up: he was thoroughly unpleasant and boring as well. Gloriana would be miserable with such a man.
Unfortunately, Philippe’s presence had only made Gloriana more stubbornly in favor of the earl. Philippe would happily have abducted Hythwick and tossed him off a cliff if necessary—thereby doing the world a favor—but the situation had resolved itself without his interference. The earl had announced that he couldn’t ally himself with the scandalous Warren family and intended to leave today.
Which left Gloriana disappointed and angry, but evidently determined to butter up the earl until the last possible moment. She had moved her offensive ex-suitor to the Dower House, which she had occupied since her brother’s marriage, to be cared for by her own servants while she remained at Garrison House. Why, for God’s sake? Now that he didn’t intend to marry her, she shouldn’t care what the earl said and did.
Speak of the devil! Gloriana emerged from Garrison House and made her way through the rose garden, looking pensive and lovely from this distance. Her auburn hair escaped the confines of her bonnet, and her figure was graceful and charming in a muslin gown. Her bearing was regal, like the queen she’d been named after. She stopped to sniff the flowers, gazed out upon the lake, and took a deep breath, as if she were pleased with life and the beautiful day.
When she spotted him, her posture changed. Rigid and glowering, she marched across the lawn to the summerhouse. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Savoring the coffee. Enjoying the summer morning until you came along. “Reliving pleasant memories.” He chuckled.
She blushed a delightful pink, but the flush was one of fury. She raised her hand as if to slap him but seemingly thought better of it, for she lowered her arm and stalked past him into the summerhouse. She grabbed a sketchbook from one of the shelves and marched back out without another word.
And headed toward the Dower House.
“You’re wasting your time,” Philippe said. “He won’t change his mind.”
“He is my guest.” She tossed the words disdainfully over her shoulder. “I owe him certain courtesies.”
Philippe followed. “You owe him nothing.”
“An aristocrat puts courtesy above all else,” she proclaimed. That sounded like one of her long-dead mother’s absurd dictums. By this standard, few true aristocrats existed.
“Then why did you consider marrying him?” Philippe quipped.
She tossed her head, for this was unanswerable. Hythwick was known for his bad manners, but they both knew her pronouncement was aimed at Philippe. Since that disastrous night five years ago, she had taken every opportunity to express her disdain for his revolutionary views—the very views she had lauded during their brief infatuation. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether she agreed with liberty, equality, and fraternity. He cared greatly that she’d proven to be such a hypocrite. That he’d been so taken in.
She had shown herself to be not only brazen and manipulative, but also imperious, intolerant, and as much of as snob as her mother. In choosing Queen Elizabeth’s sobriquet for her daughter’s name, old Lady Garrison had been inspired—or perhaps merely successful at duplicating her own faults.
He still clenched deep inside when he recalled his first meeting with Gloriana after that night at the summerhouse. It was at a ball in London, and she’
d said to her friends with a derisive laugh, “Here comes the fool who believes the scum of the earth are our equals!”
Judging by her desire to marry Hythwick, she was downright stupid as well. Philippe certainly didn’t love her anymore, to the extent that he wondered what he’d seen in her five years ago. However, seemingly he retained a degree of concern for her—God only knew why—or he wouldn’t have come to Garrison House, nor would he follow her now. If she’d chosen a decent man, he would have kept away and wished her well with a great deal of relief.
But she hadn’t, and Philippe feared for her again. Over the past few days, he’d seen a hungry look in the earl’s eyes when they rested upon her.
Or maybe that was Philippe’s imagination, seeing as he’d wanted Gloriana himself, in the most carnal way, since the very day they’d met.
He didn’t want her much anymore—even his cock seemed convinced of that—but he hadn’t forgotten, and he understood Hythwick’s desire all too well. Sacrebleu! What if the earl thought better of his decision and proposed to her?
“He’s not a good man,” Philippe said now. “He cares for no one but himself. He would have made you miserable.”
“This from you? Go away!” She stormed off, nose in the air, and he let her go. In what way could she possibly compare Hythwick with him? They were about the same age—thirty years—and similar in social status, but quite different in physical appearance. Philippe was dark-haired, tall, and well-proportioned, and without being vain, knew full well that he was a good-looking man. Hythwick was fair and shorter, with bony legs and the beginnings of a paunch. But what mattered most was that Philippe was a man of principle, while Hythwick most certainly was not.
Philippe shrugged it off as irrelevant. He’d lost his respect for Gloriana’s judgment years ago. He watched her go, and all at once he knew what she meant to do: to use her woman’s wiles to persuade the earl to change his mind. She might even try to compromise herself, forcing him to marry her. She’d certainly done her best to trap Philippe years ago.
Philippe waited until she disappeared from view and then hastened after her.
~ ~ ~
Affecting haughtiness may result in a permanent crick in the neck.
Mama’s dictum, were she alive to comment, would have been quite different—something to the effect that a haughty manner sets an aristocrat apart from the rabble. Regardless of either Mama’s version or her own, Gloriana maintained her rigid posture as she walked away. Philippe always won their confrontations, not because he was right, but because he remained calm, with that patronizing French smirk on his handsome French face.
Oh, he thought he knew exactly what she was suffering. So would the whole of society once they heard the Earl of Hythwick hadn’t come up to scratch, but that didn’t matter, as long as Philippe didn’t know the real Gloriana. She felt his eyes on her, and his penetrating intelligence analyzing her. He was a clever man—one reason she’d fallen in love with him—but he couldn’t possibly be that clever. No one understood the convoluted maze that was Gloriana Warren’s mind.
Therefore, he didn’t know. He didn’t.
What a pity she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. Did he continue to watch her? More likely he had turned away now, indifferent.
Five years after their disastrous infatuation, she shouldn’t care. So, she didn’t. Thank heavens he hadn’t gone into the summerhouse and browsed through her sketchbook. It contained drawings of Philippe, not just from years ago, but also from this house party where she’d lurked, sketching him whilst he was unaware. Sketching was her solace, but if he ever saw those drawings, it would become her greatest mortification instead.
She entered the Dower House by way of the kitchen garden, greeted the housekeeper and footman, and went in search of Elspeth. She found that longsuffering woman carrying a tray down the stairs and motioned her into the drawing room.
“How is Lord Hythwick?” she asked. “And why are you doing a housemaid’s work?”
“I volunteered, as no one wishes to serve him, not even his own valet.” Elspeth set the tray, which held an empty chocolate cup, a loaf of sugar, and a pair of nippers, on a table. “Three times he sent the chocolate back, complaining it was not sweet enough, too sweet, and too cold.”
“I’m sorry I foisted him onto you,” Gloriana said. “I didn’t feel I had a choice. He upset everyone yesterday, and it was my fault he had come to Lancashire in the first place.”
“All I can say, Miss Glow, is that I’m right glad you’re not about to marry him.”
Gloriana giggled. “So am I.” What a relief to be frank. She’d had to conceal her true intentions from everyone, even her maid—a good thing, because her plan, if she could call it that, had been stupid from start to finish. She’d been so thrilled and so sure of success when Philippe had come north and wangled an invitation to Garrison House, but evidently, that had nothing to do with her. Philippe de Bellechasse didn’t love her, so he didn’t care if she married someone else.
Elspeth bent a severe gaze upon her mistress. “You never did intend to wed Lord Hythwick, did you?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to see if he would come up to scratch.” That wasn’t the whole story, but she didn’t intend to confess the rest—although she wouldn’t be surprised if Elspeth guessed.
“It’s not my place to say so, but you’ll catch cold one day with such shenanigans.”
“He would have come up to scratch if it weren’t for my cousin Daisy.” Thank God for her dear, disreputable Daisy, who’d appeared out of the blue with her fiancé, Sir Julian Kerr.
Lord Hythwick had already been dithering about whether to ally himself with the scandalous Warren family. He wanted Gloriana with a rather appalling passion, but learning that she and her brother still considered Daisy a member of the family had tipped the balance in her disfavor. “She couldn’t have arrived at a better time, for now it doesn’t even appear to be my fault that he cried off.” She rolled her eyes at Elspeth’s frown. “Daisy doesn’t mind. She’s used to being shunned, and she’s happy to have played a part in discouraging him.”
Not that Daisy had really been playing a part. She’d just been her forthright, unashamed self—not a sham like Gloriana.
Whose years of acting and downright hypocrisy had taken her absolutely nowhere.
Elspeth straightened the sleeves of Gloriana’s gown. “That’s as may be, Miss Glow, but—”
“Enough,” Gloriana said. “What’s done is done.” Now people would see her as defeated—a forlorn, rejected spinster. Not the outcome she’d hoped for, but not far from the truth. She would have to remain that way, for she couldn’t marry another man while she still loved Philippe.
If only she hadn’t made that sacred vow five long years ago.
If people knew about that vow, they would say it was folly. But sacred was sacred. She had vowed to love him forever, and in that one way she intended to remain firm.
“Does his lordship still mean to leave today?” she asked.
“I sincerely hope so,” Elspeth said. “There is nothing amiss with him but a bruise on his chin where Sir Julian hit him, a few scratches from the rose bushes, and another bruise or two on his bottom.”
“And some humiliation.” Gloriana didn’t try to suppress a grin.
“I did not see his bottom myself, needless to say, but Mr. Turner, his lordship’s valet, confided in me last night. Indiscreet of him, perhaps, but he dislikes his master and needed a sympathetic ear.” The maid paused. “He warned me that his lordship may gossip to your discredit.”
Gloriana hunched a shoulder. “Lord Hythwick knows I have male relatives entirely ready to punish him if he slanders me.” She could only hope not to be a complete and utter laughingstock in London . . .
Oh, what did she care? The only outcome that
truly mattered would never happen.
“His lordship insisted on being shown around the house this morning whilst waiting for the second, third, and fourth attempts at the perfect cup of chocolate,” Elspeth said, “and spent the entire time comparing this house unfavorably with one of his lesser estates.” She wrinkled her nose and then added fair-mindedly, “He did admire some of the antiquities.”
Hardly surprising. Hythwick was a notable collector, as had been her father, the previous Lord Garrison, when he wasn’t drunk or ailing due to his excesses related to food, drink, and loose women. Her brother didn’t care much for antiquities, so he let Gloriana keep whichever articles she treasured most in the Dower House.
“He expressed interest in the Book of Hours,” Elspeth said. “I informed him that you keep it in your private rooms, and he must ask you if he wishes to see it.”
Should she offer him a look to appease him? No, let him ask. Beg. Grovel. She chuckled at the thought. Hythwick was incapable of groveling, and in this one way she sympathized. She was just as proud in her own way, although nothing like the way people assumed.
She found Lord Hythwick in the corridor not far from his bedchamber, gazing at a painting of two hounds. Since it was an inferior piece of work, done by one of her ancestors who’d fancied himself an artist, she wondered why he seemed so intent.
“Good morning, my lord. How do you do?” She curtsied, noting with surprise that he was in stockinged feet. How strange that he would leave his bedchamber incompletely attired.
The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4) Page 2
