Hadrian

by Grace Burrowes

  “Collins is somewhere on English soil, though we’re fairly certain he disembarked in Portsmouth.”

  “Fairly certain?”

  “He’s evil,” Bothwell said, resuming his study of the green, rolling landscape. “I went into the church knowing evil exists mostly because of Hart Collins. He sensed Avie was having second thoughts about marrying him, knew his future was slipping away, and did what he expected would guarantee him her settlements, regardless of the cost to her. As young as she was, if he’d turned up sweet, brought her some damned flowers, promised to honeymoon in the south, she would likely have come to heel.”

  “Evil, ruthless and stupid. Not a good combination. The lady welcomes your suit?”

  Now Bothwell fussed at the lace of his cravat—a wardrobe affectation St. Just recalled seeing on him in Rosecroft village. “She does not welcome my suit, though she’s receptive to my company under some circumstances.”

  “Bothwell.” St. Just kept his tone gentle, for rejected proposals were a sorry habit in this otherwise intelligent man. “Not again?”

  “Fenwick says practice makes perfect.”

  Confession might be good for the sinner’s soul, but the unburdening was hell on the confessor.

  “Emmie worries about you, and thus I must trouble myself with your welfare as well—you have no say in the matter. Have you been indiscriminately offering your hand to the fair damsels of the shire?”

  “Before offering for Emmie either time, there was Rue’s older sister,” Bothwell said, and he was not proud of his recitation. “I tried walking out with Mary, but she laughed at my proposal and informed me I would do for her younger sister, who was admittedly pretty and agreeable. I had little say in that matter, either.”

  “Bad things come in threes,” St. Just muttered, though failed proposals qualified as something more than bad luck. “Will your Lady Avis have you?’

  “Have me, yes. As for marrying me—I’m permitted to offer her arguments on the merits of my suit.” The coach bumped and swayed along the rutted country lane while Bothwell aimed a fatuous smile at his boots.

  “Arguments? Am I to conclude you offered these arguments to my countess?”

  “You are not. Emmie never saw me as a man, St. Just. I was only a means of ensuring she and Winnie did not part, and a way for her to deny you what you needed.”

  “Needed?’

  “You needed Emmie and she needed you, and all’s well.”

  A report after a fashion, and St. Just was pleased with Bothwell’s summary—also with that love-drunk smile. “Does Lady Avis need you?”

  “Not for the right reasons. Maybe need is too strong a word.”

  St. Just had several younger brothers—also half a regiment of younger sisters and female cousins.

  “Bothwell, if Lady Avis needs you in any capacity, you make do, and improvise, and adjust—you argue, if need be. Faint heart never won fair maid, and neither did sitting on your arse waiting for perfect conditions before you join battle.”

  “Marriage has turned you up romantic, St. Just.”

  Marriage had made him happy. “Who’s the English rose?”

  Bothwell peered out St. Just’s side of the coach as a tidy blond woman disappeared back into the house, leaving a pretty dark-haired lady standing on the Blessings front porch.

  “The blonde is Lily Prentiss,” Bothwell said, his tone unenthusiastic. “Lady’s companion and general conscience. She hates Fen and is mightily loyal to Avie.”

  “Avie?”

  “Lady Avis. We’ve known each other since childhood, and one develops a certain informality.”

  A certain tendency to smile at one’s boots, too.

  “Don’t poker up. Am I to charm the companion or put her in her place?” Though what sort of companion abandoned her employer right as guests arrived?

  “If your lordship charms her, she will be put in her place.”

  “My lordship,” St. Just muttered. “Famous. Your saint-ship can see to it we’re not invited anywhere after services, because my lordship’s arse is tired from my journey.”

  Then too, St. Just did not want to be hurried from the company of the woman who had inspired Hadrian Bothwell, former Kissing Vicar of Rosecroft village, not only to propose—Bothwell excelled at offers of marriage—but also to offer the lady his heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  St. Just was in grand good looks and nattily turned out in his country gentleman’s Sunday best. Hadrian tended to the introductions when Lily emerged from the house with a shawl over her arm. The coach was cozy, with two long-legged men on the backward-facing seat and Lily nearly cooing to be introduced to an earl, while Avis was oddly quiet.

  St. Just was charming, but then the man had five sisters, a wife, a step-mother, and a step-daughter, and female cousins. Hadrian knew there was more to Devlin St. Just than the battle-scarred former cavalry officer.

  “We’ve lost our host to woolgathering,” St. Just remarked as the carriage rolled onto the village square. “Bothwell, you haven’t added your opinion. At what age should I permit Winnie to waltz?”

  “It isn’t an age,” Hadrian replied. “It’s with whom. She can waltz with her Uncle Valentine now, provided somebody else supplies the music, but certain other fellows you’d not want her waltzing with when she’s seen her threescore and ten.”

  “Precisely,” Lily jumped in. “I remarked much the same thing to Lady Avis over breakfast.”

  Which probably explained Avie’s subdued demeanor. Hadrian stuck close to her when they arrived at church, making sure she was seated between him and St. Just, with Lily on St. Just’s other side. After church, St. Just took Avis’s arm and kept her near him to make introductions, leaving Hadrian to escort Lily among the tombstones.

  “So you and Lady Avis were discussing waltzes over breakfast,” Hadrian remarked. “A pleasant topic.”

  “We weren’t discussing waltzes, per se,” Lily replied, her tone repressive, “but rather, propriety.”

  “Do I take it you disapprove of our engagement?”

  Lily paused before the oldest gravestone in the entire plot, though nobody knew exactly how old, or who was interred beneath it. Engraved letters had faded into obscurity centuries ago, so all that remained was a lichen-encrusted block of granite.

  “I do not disapprove, but I worry, for her, and also for you, Mr. Bothwell.”

  No, she did not. Hadrian had associated at close quarters with many a worried Christian of the earnest variety. Lily worried for Avis’s reputation, rather than for Avis.

  “Marriage is always a chancy proposition. I will take the best possible care of Lady Avis. You needn’t worry on that score.” Avis would take care of Hadrian too, which thought pleased him enormously.

  “You’ll try,” Lily said, brushing a fallen twig from the top of the stone. “Lady Avis grew up without a mother’s guiding hand, though, and that has created a certain lack she can’t help. I speak only out of concern for her welfare when I say she is destined to misstep if you expect her to assume the role of mistress of Landover.”

  Please, let her misstep enthusiastically and often in the vicinity of Hadrian’s bed.

  “We all misstep,” Hadrian said, leading Lily away from the gravestone.

  “But she suffers so when she does,” Lily protested. “Every time she falters and crosses the boundaries of good behavior, she feels again the burden of her youthful misfortunes. She blames herself for what she cannot help, and in her misery often missteps again. I would spare her this, and if you truly care for her, you won’t ask it of her.”

  Hadrian studied the newer gravestones off to their left. His parents lay there, an infant brother with them, along with grandparents and ancestors beyond antiquity. Someday, he’d be laid to rest with him, and in due time, Avie and their children would find an eternal home in that same churchyard.

  On this, he was determined.

  “Miss Prentiss, if you love Lady Avis, you will not stand between her
and what and who she wants.”

  “You are wrong.” Lily dropped his arm, her tone despairing. “I saw my father hounded from his calling by nothing more substantial than gossip and innuendo. Somebody needs to stand between Lady Avis and her impulsive desires, or she’ll not even be welcome in this tolerant atmosphere on the arm of an earl.”

  She stalked away, skirts twitching, and Hadrian let her go when he wanted to throttle her. Lily Prentiss was perceptive in at least two regards.

  First, Avie hadn’t had a mother’s guiding hand. Governesses, nannies and older brothers didn’t compensate for that lack. Second, Avie did torment herself, ceaselessly, as if every mistake, whether real or simply attributed to her, reawakened her guilt over Hart Collins’s attack years ago.

  But Lily’s insight ended there. Everybody misstepped, everybody.

  When the coach returned to Blessings, Hadrian exchanged a look with St. Just, who’d dumped entire hogsheads of charm over the ladies and the good Christians of the parish.

  “Miss Prentiss,” the earl said as he handed her out of the coach, “could I trouble you to escort me through the stables? I’m always curious regarding the keeping of horses, and Blessings seems to be a well-run place.”

  Lily allowed the earl to keep her hand in his. “Lady Avis? You’ll manage?”

  As if Avie might become lost between the stables and the house?

  “Of course. Hadrian and I can take a turn about the garden.”

  Lily looked unconvinced, but when St. Just tucked her hand onto his arm, she let him lead her away.

  “She’ll dine out on this for weeks,” Hadrian remarked quietly.

  “A handsome earl is worth crowing over, though he seems friendly.”

  “St. Just is illegitimate,” Hadrian said, his voice pitched not to carry. “The earldom was a sop thrown to his father the duke, though bravery in battle made a creditable pretext for bestowing a bankrupt title.”

  “He loves his wife,” Avis said, as they drew even with the rose bushes, “and that child.”

  Could she hear the longing in her own words?

  “Bronwyn. A terror only this high.” Hadrian held his hand at waist level. “I gather Lily terrorized you at breakfast?”

  “Just doing her job, reminding me that engagements are when we test the decision to remain married forever and always to one person, when a lady can change her mind, and so forth.”

  While Lily referred to it as a discussion of propriety. “I got much the same lecture from her. She does not see you clearly, Avie.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  Hadrian paused, because the scent of the roses was soothing, and because Avie’s pace suggested she sought the sanctuary of the house after a trying morning.

  In Hadrian’s company.

  “Lily thinks you’re fragile and confused, lacking proper social instincts. She sees you as you might have been for a short time at age seventeen. I see you as my viscountess.”

  Avis resumed walking toward the house. “Then you don’t see me clearly, either, do you?”

  How easily Lily’s admonitions stole Avie’s courage, though the morning’s sermon had been a good-natured exploration of the Lord’s instructions regarding rest and renewal.

  “I’m sorry for haranguing you.” Hadrian caught up to her and slid his arm across her shoulders, relieved when she didn’t resist. “Now that haying is done, what will occupy your time?”

  “The dower house,” she said, apparently willing to change the subject. “Summer is fleeting. We must work like demons while the light lasts.”

  “You must take the sermon’s sentiments to heart and rest,” Hadrian rejoined. “You worked like a demon all last week and you have staff. Let them use the light while you put the bloom back in your cheeks.”

  “I like to be busy. Lord Rosecroft has finished with his tour.”

  “He’s given us as much privacy as he thinks we want,” Hadrian said, though not as much as they needed. Perhaps Lily’s charms had paled that quickly. “I wish I could cuddle up with you this afternoon. Rub your back, brush your hair, read to you.”

  She studied a cheerful border of pansies, as if puzzled by this impulse, and Hadrian was hard put not to express his exasperation.

  “I’m not a strutting tom cat, Avie.”

  “I never said you were. The heat will soon kill these pansies, though they’ve held up longer than they often do.”

  Hang the bloody pansies. Hadrian laced his fingers through Avie’s.

  “Love, you offered me no insult. It’s yourself upon whom you cast aspersion.”

  He drew her into his arms, knowing St. Just, Lily, the stable hands, and likely half the house servants were looking on. She dropped her head to his shoulder, a small triumph that she’d permit affection like this before others, that she’d let him hold her.

  “Will you ride out with us tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  “Us?”

  “St. Just, myself, Fenwick too, if we can get him past his shyness.”

  “Fen is shy? I must see this.”

  “He’s in awe of St. Just’s horsemanship.” Hadrian tucked a curl behind her ear. “It’s sweet.”

  “I thought Fen was to join us at services today.”

  “He cadged a ride on St. Just’s current mount. He was like a boy with a new puppy.”

  “Well, then, yes, I’ll ride out with you tomorrow, weather permitting, but then you must join us for breakfast thereafter.”

  Hadrian hesitated, for he’d been intent on having her break bread under his roof; but, then, he also wanted to rub Lily Prentiss’s face in this engagement, wanted to give Avis the chance to be the gracious hostess, the lady who knew exactly how to go on in a social situation.

  “Ride first, then feast,” he agreed. “We’ll join you an hour after first light.”

  “Until then.” She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, and that simple, relatively bland kiss was enough to put a smile on Hadrian’s face all the way back to Landover.

  * * *

  Avis was accustomed to Lily’s lectures, could recite them almost word for word, complete with gestures and weighty sighs. She had not anticipated Fenwick pulling her aside after yesterday’s morning ride and warning her not to lead Mr. Bothwell a dance he’d done nothing to deserve.

  Fen had overstepped egregiously, but he’d also made a valid point: Avie should not remain engaged to a man she had no intention of marrying. It was as if Fen had divined the exact course of her thoughts.

  Hadrian’s return to Landover had shifted the balance between Avis’s courage and her fear, a balance that had grown increasingly burdensome over the past twelve years. She had dallied with Hadrian, true, and had the sense if she refused the pleasure he offered, that balance would revert to its previous, miserable stance.

  She had even been tempted to consider his proposal in truth.

  Then she’d returned from church and realized she could not ask that of him.

  With Hadrian’s complicity, she could, however, deal one last, telling blow to Hart Collins and the influence he continued to exert over her life. Hadrian was a lovely, decent, good man. Sooner or later, he’d find the right wife—he’d deserve at least that after Avis was through with him.

  “You’re early,” Avis said as Hadrian strode up the hill to their preferred picnic spot, for here was where she’d face the demons Hart Collins had turned loose in her life.

  “Would you believe I’m hungry?”

  He was gorgeous, his blond hair sun-kissed and windblown, his riding attire showing his muscular physique to excellent advantage.

  “For food?”

  “That too. But Avie…” He kept his pace steady as he ambled toward her blanket, as if he were closing in on an objective. “You asked me to join you for an outdoor repast where we’d be assured of privacy. Why now?”

  Hadrian had never suffered from excesses of delicacy. He could be kind, considerate, and exquisitely polite, but he’d never lacked for
the courage to face an issue.

  Avis was relieved that he understood her agenda for inviting him to another al fresco meal. She was not relieved to see him shrugging out of his jacket and tugging off his boots and stockings.

  “Now we’re engaged,” she said. “If not now, when?”

  He lowered himself to the blankets spread beneath the tree. “You want to get this over with?” His tone was curious rather than angry.

  “Will you run screaming down the hill if I say yes, a little, I do want to get this over with?” A lot, she wanted to put this encounter behind her.

  Hadrian tossed his stockings over the tops of his boots. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I could be unable.” And ashamed all over again, because this time, not even hope would survive the encounter.

  His cuff-links came next, and those he slipped into a pocket. “Unable to what?”

  “I might be unable to join with you.”

  “You’re able,” he said, sounding reassuringly testy.

  “You’re certain of this.”

  He went after his cravat, demolishing the elegant knot without getting it undone. “Sexual congress need not be demanding for a woman.” Sexual congress. His term was neither vulgar nor sentimental.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you could probably lie there, eyes closed, sighing occasionally, and I’d be overjoyed to have that much of a response from you.”

  She pushed his hands away from his neckcloth. “What are you going on about? Lie there and sigh? Surely there’s more to it than that.” She hoped there was more to it than that.

  He lifted his chin so she could divest him of his cravat, staring over her shoulder as she undid his linen. “You’ve experienced sexual pleasure, Avie.”

  “With you, I have.” With Collins she wasn’t sure what she’d experienced, but it had hurt in more ways than the physical. She folded the linen and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. “I liked what I’ve shared with you, though it’s overwhelming. I’m not sure I should like it.” Though Gran Carruthers and some of the other older women talked as if marital intimacies were among their fondest recollections.