Would that Theo was not lying to him. Or to the Brighton hack.
The innkeeper was less cooperative.
“I know a lady arrived by hired coach, sir.” Theo was in no mood to argue with the burly little man.
“She wishes no company, milord.”
“I guarantee you, she will wish mine.” He gave the keep the hauteur that always moved a man to grant Theo what he wanted. “She is my friend.”
“Is she?” The man was a stubborn soul. “Why would she run from you on Christmas day then, eh?”
“We had a misunderstanding. And she did not wish to argue with me any longer. I’ve come to apologize.”
“How do I know that?”
“If you will open the door to her room, sir, I will hope you come stand beside me as I offer her my regrets for poor behavior.”
The man’s large brown eyes scrutinized Theo’s. “Come on, then. If you’d be right quick about it, milord. Me wife is tending a roast goose and I imagine you and your lady will be hungry soon.”
“We will,” Theo said in relief.
He followed the roily poly man up his wooden stairs and stood behind him as he rapped on the rough-hewn door. “Milady? Milady?”
She opened the door, her gaze darting from the keep to Theo. Her shoulders sagged in weary acceptance.
The man took that as permission to let Theo near her. “Me wife will serve her goose soon. Do you want yer supper here or in the public?”
“Here,” she said, allowing Theo to walk past him and into her room.
They were well into the plum pudding before she had more than three words for him. “What did you do with your horse?”
“In the stables. I believe he’s well taken care of.”
“You gave the boy extra coin, I suspect.”
“Rightly so. It’s frightful out there.”
She sighed and glanced from where they sat at the little trestle table to the rough glass window. There the dark blue night was filled with falling snow and howling winds. “I wonder how many were able to attend Gertrude’s ball. She wanted this party to be such a success.”
“It is in many ways.”
“With all the chaos, yes.” Her brown eyes brightened. “An affair to remember for years to come!”
He took a sip of his surprisingly good red wine. “I am grateful for it.”
Forlorn, she locked her gaze on his. “We didn’t get to dance with each other.”
He controlled the smile he sent her. His consolation should not be too strong. “We will.”
Her eyes flashed at his words, but she did not address the promise in them. “I suppose you want to be my friend.”
“Oh, I definitely want that.”
She shook her head. “And that’s all?”
“Must a condemned man incriminate himself?”
She tipped her mug at him. “No need. The jury knows the answer.”
That night, they slept in the same small bed. Narrow and lumpy, at least it was clean. The pillows were good eiderdown. And they slept, his arms around her because first and foremost, it was the only way to find any comfortable rest.
Along the road, he’d vowed not to touch her in any other way. That he would do another day, another time, after he had proven to her that they could be friends. Lovers lost in carnal pleasures, he suddenly understood, might not see all the characteristics of the other. But friends understood much, accepted much and found the assets in the other that lovers might not take time to note.
His two wives had been his lovers. In the first, he’d hoped for a passionate partner. To some degree he’d been naive and hoped he’d have a desire for her and she for him to match the one he’d had with Penn. That hope did not materialize. And so he’d wished to cultivate her as a friend. But he found her to be untrustworthy, especially with money, hiding her pin money to buy extra clothes and jewels far beyond her clothing allowance. That galled him because he was a rich man and no miser.
With his second wife, he thought he was wiser in his choice. But she, young and lovely as she was, had a darker side. She did not hide money but demanded it. A lot of it. Often. He was generous, accommodating her and driving himself to earn more to pay her debts. Yet her spendthrift ways irritated him. Her disloyalty to her friends, her ridicule of them, added to his dismay. When she died, he was in grief as much for her passing, a young woman gone in her prime in the pain of childbirth no less. Later, as months went on and his grief lessened and his perspective increased, he was in despair for how poorly he had chosen his mates. He also wondered if somehow the fates had decreed that his wives, poorly chosen, should also die early of some spell his failures had engendered.
Penn was different. Very. The woman in his embrace loved her friends. He’d read that she was often invited to social events and the theater, and she was considered a charming guest. He’d seen that first hand this week. As a man who had performed diplomatic duties from time to time, he also valued those who could navigate a room with ease. She did that, conversing with all and never once appearing condescending or bored. If she had financial struggles, she did not mention them nor did she appear impoverished. He knew she lived in a modest little house on the edge of Mayfair and if he could take her from it and give her everything her heart desired, he would count himself the most fortunate man in the world.
By dawn when he awoke and recounted all this in his mind, he considered the view out their little window. The sky was still full of snowflakes. His arms were still full of her. And his heart was full with gratitude she was no harpy who wished to argue with him. Nor had she sent him away.
He’d kept her warm and she, him. It was a new beginning.
* * *
He rose the second morning of their seclusion and noted that the snowfall was abating. By tomorrow, if the snow did not pack tightly and freeze, they might be able to leave here. He had little time to make his case.
That morning, at a breakfast of coffee, prunes and rich dark bread, she asked him to tell her about his trips to St. Petersburg. Like a child eager for a story, she sat upon their bed, her knees up, in her stocking feet and listened to his tales. “Is Alexander handsome, truly?”
“I suppose you might say he is. I am no connoisseur of men.”
She challenged him with a look. “You know a beautiful woman when you see her.”
He lifted his mug in honor of her. “I do.”
“Rogue. Tell me about the Russian troops. Are they vulgar?”
“Is that what you’ve read?”
“It’s what people say. Are they?”
“In appearance they are hulking creatures. But as diplomatic as the French. As haughty, too.”
She chuckled. Then sobered. “Will we have peace?”
“For a long time.”
She hugged her knees closer and smiled. “A good thing. We can devote ourselves to growing cattle and feeding our people. Helping our soldiers and raising our orphans.”
“I’d like to help you with your orphanage.”
“I’d welcome that.”
“What do you need first?”
Her dark brown eyes gleamed with gratitude. “Clothes. Teachers.”
“You shall have them. Shall we say, after we return to London?”
“Thank you, Theo.”
“You are very welcome, my dear.”
“Are we,” she said with a grin, “going back to London?”
“Together, yes. We are. Soon I’d say. The snow stops.”
“What will the ton say?”
“They’ll say that it’s clear the Marquess of Tain bears an affection for Lady Goddard.” He noted she accepted that without argument. Thank god. “What will you say?”
“That Lady Goddard loves the Marquess of Tain more today than she ever did.”
Wishing he could sweep her up in his arms and kiss her, he nailed himself to the bench. “And will the lady marry him?”
She cast her face toward the window. “She wishes she might give the marquess ever
ything he desired.”
“He desires only her. Just her. Always her.”
She faced him, tears on her lovely long lashes. “And if she needs time to accept that, will he grant her that?”
“He would give her anything in this world or the next.”
She struggled not to cry.
This, he saw, was his moment to proclaim his earnest dedication to her. He got to his feet and went to his traveling satchel in the far corner. Fishing to the bottom, he extracted the small flat case he’d brought with him from home. This he laid by her side and returned to his place on the bench.
She searched his gaze, then reached for it and opened the lid. One hand to her mouth, she sniffed. Then she ran her fingers over the long strands and the delicate ear-bobs.
“Those are the pearls of all the duchesses of Harlow. Worn at each marchioness’s wedding, they are now yours, my darling.”
And with a cry, she ran to him and kissed him. Her lips were sweet apology and his were kind understanding.
He stood and led her to the bed where he took his time removing her clothes, blessing all her skin revealed to him as he went. And in silence, she did the same for him.
Their union was slow and sensual, a bonding of body and mind.
That afternoon, the storm cleared.
The following morning, Theo hired a messenger to ride to Marsden Hall in Brighton. He ordered his coachman to prepare the carriage, get Penn’s maid and come for them at the Royal Swan.
Chapter 9
Taking his seat in Parliament was usually the reason for him to spend the winter in London. This year, he could give a fig about making laws. No indeed. He was interested in gaining a wife and making love to her.
The means to do it was his problem. And for days, he walked his study and pondered what his new plan must be to get the job done.
He’d collected his daughters from his sister’s where they’d spent their Christmas and repaired to his Mayfair townhouse in London. When his youngest Suzanna came down with a fever and chills, he’d called in his favored family doctor. The man, as ever an expert, had prescribed lots of hot tea, broth and cold compresses. Within a week she was better and Theo trained his focus once more on Penn.
When days later he once more walked into his study and took up his correspondence, he saw a letter marked with the escutcheon of his father.
He tore it open, vowing not to allow his anger to dominate his response. If his father was not willing to bless his marriage, Theo had made his position clear. He would not budge.
But the words in his father’s bold brash handwriting sustained him.
“‘I am sorry, Theo. I was wrong to deny you what I myself enjoyed. A woman to love who loves you in return is a blessing. I should never have stood in your way. I do not now. Nor ever again.’”
Theo had to read the letter three times before he could smile.
Then he put it away in his special drawer with the seal of the marquessate and the deeds to his properties. That letter, he wanted to show his children when they were old enough to fall in love and marry. He sniffed back his sorrows and straightened the points of his waistcoat.
He was ready to devote himself to his other project with his whole heart.
As in any diplomatic maneuver, he knew allies would be key. But precisely whom could he enlist in a campaign to persuade a stubborn lady to marry him? His father, long his best friend in most matters, had not been that when it came to marrying Penn. Besides, in a second letter from his father yesterday afternoon, the duke told him that he was about to marry Gertrude Harlinger, the Countess of Marsden. Shocking and delightful as that news was, he knew his father would remain in Brighton for the next week or more. The ally Theo needed for this venture should be one who was in town.
So who?
Men were good conspirators but they usually frowned upon working with a man besotted by a woman. Though men complained and many even objected to marriage, if a man wished to get himself leg-shackled, he could jolly well do it by himself.
So. A woman it was.
He’d require one who did not argue with him. Dear god. Was there any woman in the world who did not pick a man apart? He snorted. Only his Penn. He’d been married to two different women, each opposite in temperament, but both had always argued with him…or rather given him their best opinion on anything from tenant rents to curbing their dressmakers’ bills.
But there was one gem. Not a perfect woman by many standards. She liked to gossip. She spent money like it grew in her rose garden. She drank. Oh, my, like a bawdy, she did. But she could hold her liquor…and her tongue. She’d proven it at the Countess of Marsden’s house party when she’d often spied him with Penn, but she’d never spread a word to cause a scandal. She also had been a good friend of his mother. Acid-tongued but always had used her acerbic words to back those she befriended and those she loved.
Two weeks after he arrived in London, he called upon the lady in question.
“Lady Bridgewater, I am honored you have received me.”
“I gather,” she said with an impish glee and urged him to sit near her in her salon, “you wish to speak privately.”
“I do.”
“What fun!” She clapped her hands, her little grey eyes twinkling amid all her finite wrinkles.
“I hope so. I am in need of assistance.”
“A project!” She leaned forward in her chair and cocked an ear. “And I can be useful. How delicious.”
“I would hope you would begin your winter tea parties again.”
“Hmmm. I’ve not held them in years. Five, to be exact.”
“I am aware.”
“Your mother always came. After she took ill to her bed six years ago, I had not as much joy in my little gatherings.”
“I know you were fond friends,” he commiserated.
“The very best. A fine woman, your mother. Never a sour word about anyone. If she didn’t care for someone, she didn’t have to mow them down. She’d simply cut them.” The lady ran a finger across her throat. “Gone.”
“I hoped you might make as much ado about your tea parties as ever you once did.”
“Ah. Yes. Cream of society. No fops or half-wits. No ladies of sour disposition.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Notes to the newspapers about who is invited. Who attends.”
“No notoriety. Just good tea and conversation with bright Englishmen and women.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed.
”Dare I hope we have an objective in mind?”
“We do.”
“Ah.” She nodded a few times, regarding him with benevolence. “You will attend, I assume?”
“Promptly. Each Wednesday at four.”
“A bit early, don’t you think?”
“I wish to be home to have dinner with my daughters.”
She extended a hand. “I cannot argue with that.”
“Thank you.”
“I would assume I am to invite a few of your friends.” She tapped a finger on her cheek. “Say…the Home Secretary. A few fellows in the foreign service.”
“That would be appropriate.”
“And our objective.” Her little grey eyes widened in merriment, then disappeared into her voluminous little wrinkles. “The lady you adore.”
He mentally applauded her perspicacity. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Always did like the gel.”
He rejoiced at that. “Many do.”
“Your mother did.”
“Is that so? I never knew.” He wished he had.
“Your father did. She told me so. She was not happy he’d denied you, you know.”
“No. I did not know that, either.” That sad note unraveled his good humor. “But he has apologized.”
“Good for him. Harlow always did display good judgment. Most of the time. I’m happy to help you to a happier state, Tain. Delighted, actually, that I can. That you trust me to help you.”
“I pray I can find the way t
o convince her we are right for each other. I have many plans to turn her around.”
“Why does she not accept you, Tain? One look at her at Gertrude’s house and I could see she loves you with the finest passions.”
“Ah, my lady,” he said with exasperation. “Her objection is that old one.”
“Ba. The gel thinks she is not worthy? That’s silliness. She has much to be proud of. She married three men and made each an excellent wife. Any scandals from their homes were of the men’s making.”
Anger blossomed in his chest that so fine a soul as Penn should have suffered so. “I wish to give her the perfect mate she should have always had.”
“And I will help you make it so.”
Two weeks later in Lady Bridgewater’s serene blue salon, he had the privilege to greet Penn once more. She wore a green concoction trimmed in ivory. All complimented the subtle blonde and red highlights in her glorious hair. He ached with wanting her. “You are ravishing as ever, darling.”
She gazed at him cheerfully over the rim of her little green china cup. “You are a rogue to corner me so.”
He tried to appear nonchalant. “Shall I speak of the weather?”
“You might.”
“Not those pearl ear-bobs that complement your alabaster skin?”
“Which I could not resist wearing.”
“Might I assume their use indicates a change of heart?”
“I continue to ponder the matter.”
He grinned at her and reluctantly turned toward the unwelcome fellow who’d appeared at their side. “May I introduce you, Lady Goddard, to one of my good friends, Lord Willoughby? We served in St. Petersburg years ago when we attempted to persuade the czar to our thinking.”
She spoke with Willoughby with as much detail as if she’d studied the dossier they’d carried with them to Russia. The woman seemed as informed of points of diplomacy as the ability to make him hot and hard with one smoldering look into his eyes.
He walked home. In the rain. Alone. Cursing his solitude.
Vowing to make short shrift of her recalcitrance.
The Marquess's Final Fling: Christmas Belles, Book #4 Page 7
