“But you want to go home.” While Addy wanted him to stay, which was very foolish of her.
“I am the earl. When I mutter and muck about at Dorning Hall, my tenants and family know that all will proceed in a predictable fashion. I’m not shy about getting my boots dirty either.”
“You work in the hayfields?” She’d like to see him, chaff in his hair, coat off, a touch of sun burnishing his complexion.
Shirt off…?
“I typically fork the hay up from the wagon to the stacker because height is an advantage for that task. Ash and Willow are also forkers, Thorne has the knack of stacking, Valerian hangs about in the shade and gives orders, while Oak prefers to drive a team. You must never tell a soul that the Dorning brothers labor beside their tenants. We also assist with shearing, though I leave plowing to those born to the art. We brothers compete, but it’s friendly competition. I’m sorry your husband and his twin were not close.”
He was offering Addy an opportunity to share a confidence. He was also refusing to let a difficult subject drop.
“Roger died in a curricle accident.”
“My condolences. They are notoriously unstable vehicles.”
Also very light, which made them ideal for racing. “He was trying to beat Jason to Brighton, and he had a substantial lead. He would have won, though he took a curve too fast at the bottom of a hill. He lived for a few hours, long enough to pen me a note. I kissed him good-bye one morning expecting he’d return within the week, and I went to bed that night a widow.”
Addy often recounted the circumstances of her husband’s death—an unfortunate, though not uncommon, accident—but she’d never brought up Jason’s role in the tragedy.
“That is a stupid, irresponsible, unpardonable way to die. Are you still angry with him?” Casriel’s vehemence revealed a sternness behind his polite conversation and pretty gestures. Sternness was attractive on him, damn the wretched luck.
“One doesn’t speak ill of the dead, my lord.”
“One doesn’t dissemble before one’s friends, Beatitude.”
She liked it when he used her name, liked it rather too well, and yes, she had been furious with Roger, but not for an accident that might have happened to anybody.
“My husband thrived on taking risks, testing limits, and breaking rules, else he’d never have married an unsuitable woman. Shouldn’t you be searching out Mr. Tresham?”
“Tresham is easy to find.” Casriel rose. “One simply looks for Mrs. Tresham, and there he’ll be, simpering witlessly at his wife.”
“Are you envious?”
He smiled and extended a hand. “Torn up with jealousy. You?”
She took his hand and stood. “Witless simpering has never been my preference from a man, but Miss Quinlan might find it attractive.”
“That would be unfortunate for my aspirations,” Casriel said, tucking Addy’s fingers over his arm. “I’m good with a hay fork, can coax a tune from a harp, and hold my own in the shearing shed, but the witless simper has eluded me.”
“That is not unfortunate.” Addy had to stretch up to kiss his cheek, but she managed it. “I’m sorry about your dower house. I won’t say a word to anybody.” She gave him a squeeze, because some of his dearest memories were now charred ruins.
“Thank you.” He held her for a moment, a bit closely considering the embrace was merely a friendly hug. “We’ll manage. The Dornings always do.”
She stepped back and passed him the rosebud. “Best of luck, my lord. Safe journey to Dorset.”
He tucked the rose into his lapel. “I don’t suppose I’ll be traveling to Dorset after all. That would announce my bad fortune to all my prospective countesses and their mamas. They’ll disdain my addresses in favor of the handsome baronets.”
He was half joking; Addy was half angry at him for that. “Heaven forbid that a woman should see you as worth marrying, despite your lack of a cottage or two. Good day, my lord.”
She did not hurry, or flounce, or stomp away—only young women engaged in such foolish dramatics—but neither did she turn around to take a final, admiring glance at the rose garden.
“The dower house is the first edifice a visitor sees when calling on Dorning Hall,” Grey said. “I wanted the interior to live up to the promise of the exterior.”
Mrs. Fredericka Beauchamp twitched at a paisley shawl of green, gold, and blue. “In my youth, I spent a few days with your grandmother. She was the countess then, very much in love with her earl. I was the unfortunate, untitled, unwealthy young woman who had failed to merit Society’s notice in either of my first two Seasons. The countess was quite kind.”
Mrs. Beauchamp had received Grey in a little parlor that felt rife with memories. Sketches adorned the walls, a sampler or two among them. Above the fireplace, cutwork had been framed behind glass, the paper yellowed with age, the glass dingy. The carpet wanted beating, and the hearth was overdue for sweeping. The room smelled of dust and ashes, making Grey wish he’d brought fresh flowers.
“Grandmother was a dear,” Grey said, “and she loved the dower house. The third earl had it laid out in the Elizabethan E, though she used only one wing.”
Now, visitors would see a scorched pile of bricks, stone, and lumber when they turned through the front gates to the Hall. Ash had sent another letter, detailing the damage. The building was gone, not a wing left standing.
“Can you rebuild?” Mrs. Beauchamp asked.
“Not any time soon. We have a handsome cottage, Complaisance Cottage, that my sisters claim will do should we need a dower house.”
Grey’s hostess gestured to the tea tray. “Perhaps you’d pour out. That teapot is heavy.”
The teapot was delicate porcelain, very likely antique Sèvres, based on the glazing. Grey obliged, serving the lady a cup not quite full. Her hand shook minutely, a characteristic Grandmother had developed toward the end of her life.
“You must first find a countess before anybody can need a dower house,” Mrs. Beauchamp said. “I hear you are seeking to address that oversight.”
Had Beatitude told her that? Lady Canmore, rather. Grey must not think of her as Beatitude. He did, however, think of finding a countess as remedying an oversight, which flattered neither him nor his prospective wife.
“The earldom’s finances needed improvement before this fire, a goal marriage can often address. I had planned to let out the dower house later this year, and the attics contained considerable inventories of furniture, art, and appointments.”
All gone, and the loss was sentimental as well as financial. The greatest blow, though, was to Grey’s pride.
“You blame yourself,” Mrs. Beauchamp said, pouring half her tea into the saucer and then back into her cup. She set the cup down without taking a sip, a few drops having splashed onto the tray. “You are a dutiful man, so you feel responsibility for what can only be called an act of God. Why do the great minds of the day tell us women are the fanciful gender?
“I always thought dower houses were uncivilized,” she went on. “A woman gives her best years to raising a family, and then, just as the grandchildren come along, she’s relegated to a moldering pile out of sight behind the stables, with only the lazier servants for company.”
“You say that to be shocking, madam. I owe my countess a dower house, a place of quiet respite when her children are grown.”
The old lady fished around between her hip and the chair, producing a set of knitting needles trailing blue yarn.
“Oh, right. Did you ever ask your grandmother if she’d prefer to dwell where her grandchildren were growing up, rather than at the foot of the drive? Did you ask her whether she wanted to be parted from her firstborn son and sent packing just as he took a bride who could have used an ally? Of course not. Your grandmother went quietly into old age, because she was another dutiful Dorning. Your mother let her go, because God forbid a young woman new to marriage should enjoy a bit of decent company among strangers. Have some tea.”
Grey poured himself half a cup, casting around for a change of subject. He had not devised the customs of the aristocracy regarding aristocratic widows. He was merely heir to them.
“Your harp should be ready next week.”
“That harp actually belongs to Beatitude, though she prefers the pianoforte. I gave it to her when she was twelve, and nobody has looked after it.”
The harp had been in sorry condition when gifted, then. “Why pass along an instrument that’s not at its best?”
“You haven’t heard that harp, my lord. A humble appearance can hide a mighty soul. I suggest you indulge in a few airs before you return it to me.” Her knitting needles moved in a steady rhythm, while her conversation was becoming a series of lectures.
“Do you know of a Miss Sarah Quinlan?” he asked.
Mrs. Beauchamp whisked the scarf or shawl or whatever she was creating across her lap. “An Incomparable, by all accounts, which usually means the lady is pretty, vain, and well dowered, also in her first Season. When all those assets fail to win her a match, she must cede the field to the next Incomparable, to whom she will invariably be compared. You should drink the tea if you pour it out. Only old women dwelling alone on limited means pour tea back into the pot.”
Grey took a sip. “So you don’t know Miss Quinlan personally?” He hadn’t yet been introduced to her, Tresham and his lady having left yesterday’s Venetian breakfast by the time Grey had abandoned the rose garden.
Mrs. Beauchamp’s needles stilled. “Oh, I know Miss Quinlan. Her poor mother sits among the dowagers and wallflowers while Miss Quinlan reigns on the dance floor. The girl is spoiled, immature, and not that pretty. Her eyes are an interesting color, granted, but they look out on the world without kindness or joy. I suspect the bills she runs up at the modiste are incomparable. She will develop some humility over the next few years, if the bachelors are sensible enough to avoid her.”
Sensible and bachelors did not strike Grey as a likely pairing. He mentally shuffled Miss Quinlan to the bottom of his deck of potential countesses and felt ungentlemanly for even that much selfishness. If needs must, he’d marry the devil’s handmaiden, lest innocents suffer because he’d shirked his duty.
Though what sort of mother would the devil’s handmaiden make for his offspring? “What of Lady Antonia Mainwaring?”
Mrs. Beauchamp resumed knitting. “Lovely woman. She’s refined, gracious, of an appropriate station, and wealthy in her own right. Quite well read too.”
So why did the notion of winning her favor leave Grey so unmoved? “I ought not to be discussing this topic with you, but a man likes to know the particulars before he attempts to socialize.”
And he could not ask Lady Canmore.
Mrs. Beauchamp snorted. “Your grandmother would have scouted the terrain, cleared out the hostile parties, and saved you a good deal of waltzing and whist.”
Grey had yet to waltz with Lady Canmore and had promised himself he’d avoid that torment. “You’ve been very helpful, ma’am. Shall I ring for somebody to take the tea tray?”
“No, thank you. Just about the time it’s cool enough to drink, the maid will come for it. If you are determined to repair the earldom’s fortunes through an advantageous match, you must be considering the Arbuckles.”
They figured in Grey’s nightmares. “Lady Antonia seems more likely to find happiness dwelling in Dorset.”
Mrs. Beauchamp yawned behind her hand. “I have not met such a gentlemanly specimen as yourself in quite some time. You put me in mind of my dear Romulus. Such a fine man, but it wasn’t meant to be.”
What was she going on about? “I’ll take my leave of you,” Grey said, rising. “Thank you for your time.”
“Dash off if you must, young man, but mark me on this: There is more to life than duty, and marriage is for a very, very long time—especially if you make the wrong choice.”
“I’ll remember that.” He bowed his farewell and saw himself to the front door, finding no servant on duty there. In more modest households, the housekeeper often answered the front door, and it might be half day for Mrs. Beauchamp’s butler, porter, or footman.
Grey retrieved his hat and walking stick and took himself out into afternoon sunshine, which could never match the Dorset sun for brilliance. At least today’s breeze blew the stench of the river away from Mayfair rather than directly at it.
Please God, let the courting soon begin, for Grey honestly detested spending time in London.
Lady Antonia Mainwaring was lovely, in her way, and of a suitable station to become his countess. The Arbuckles were a more daunting prospect, and—based on Mrs. Beauchamp’s advice—Miss Quinlan was not to be considered.
Grey set his mind to planning out a courtship of Lady Antonia, complete with whist and waltzes. His good intentions were repeatedly nudged aside by the memory of Lady Canmore kissing his cheek, then leaving him alone in the garden to practice his witless simpering.
Chapter Five
“I know now why you considered a repairing lease in Hampshire,” Addy said.
Theodosia Tresham opened her parasol. “The charms of London can pale.”
Addy opened her own parasol, linked arms with Theo, and set a course for the ornamental lake at the foot of the grade. Lady Brantmore’s fête was an annual institution, and Addy usually enjoyed a day away from London.
The gathering began with a luncheon al fresco, graduated to an afternoon of outdoor entertainments, and finished with a ridotto. Guests arrived and departed throughout the festivities, depending on whether their tastes ran to archery, picnics, dancing, or gambling.
Through it all, people laughed, flirted, and wandered in couples and small groups along the nature walk and into the vast, rambling Brantmore country house.
Addy was wandering as well, along the edges of melancholy and annoyance.
“The Season always arrives as such a relief,” she said. “After the dreariness of winter, London comes back to life. Parliament sits, the menfolk argue their politics, the dancing begins, and…” And she watched another crop of young people make the same mistakes she and Roger had.
“And then you realize,” Theo replied, “that the discussions at the formal dinners closely resemble the discussions held for the past five years. The gossip all begins to sound the same as well, and you’re listening mostly to make sure your own name doesn’t come up. How are you, Beatitude?”
Lonely. Upset. Unable to stop searching the crowd for a certain tall, determined earl.
“I am well.” Addy didn’t need to ask how Theo fared. Marriage to Jonathan Tresham had put a bloom on Theo’s cheeks worthy of a debutante at her presentation ball. “Aunt Freddy is fading.”
“I’m sorry. She has been a fixture for so long, it’s hard to imagine her spirit diminishing. She will be much missed.”
That response was characteristic of Theo: kind, pragmatic, less comforting than Addy might have wished.
“Her situation makes me realize that I don’t want to become a fixture myself, Theo. You kept your hand in with the social nonsense because you have a daughter and sister who will eventually make their bows. I look around at the same inane activities year after year, see most of the same people, and wonder: What am I doing here?”
She fell silent as Mr. Fortunatus Tottenham strolled around the turn of the path, Lady Demeter Montgomery on his arm. They made a beautiful couple, though the lady was a good ten years her escort’s junior.
Tottenham bowed, and as always, his gaze made Addy uneasy. She smiled and curtseyed, plagued by the same thought a Tottenham sighting always provoked: How much had Roger told him about the realities of marriage to a vicar’s bumpkin daughter? How much had Roger told any of his endless legion of cronies and intimates?
The couple continued on their way. Rather than resume progress around the lake, Addy took the side path that led to a shady bench.
“You don’t like him,” Theo said. “Mr. Tottenham seems agreeable, but then, a certain va
riety of male excels at seeming agreeable.”
“I have no reason to dislike him. He and Roger were great friends, and Mr. Tottenham was solicitous during my period of mourning.”
Theo settled on the bench, and even in that casual movement, she displayed more grace and relaxation than she’d had as a widow on the fringes of polite society. “Did you consider marrying Mr. Tottenham, Beatitude?”
“Never.” Nor will I ever.
“Are you considering marrying Lord Casriel?”
Addy had not allowed herself to ponder that question. “One cannot consider marrying a man whose only interest in one is friendship. Attempting to do so embarrasses all concerned.”
Theo closed her parasol and propped it against the bench. “I recall a certain widowed countess telling me that we’d grieved our first husbands long enough, that we were due for a little adventure. Can Casriel serve in that capacity?”
“I haven’t inquired.” Addy had made a passing joke, and Casriel had not been amused.
“You want to.”
Wasn’t this what a close friend was for? Sorting out difficult emotions, offering well-intended advice?
“I watched my husband racket from one adventure to another, Theo. He had a talent for embracing life, ignoring talk, and leaping into every day. His joy remained unabated, whether he won or lost, looked a fool, or prevailed against daunting odds. I loved that about him.” At first.
“While you were the sensible one. Sense makes a dull bedfellow.”
“This is true.” Had Roger felt that way?
“You are tempted by Lord Casriel.”
“Casriel is not merely dutiful, Theo. He’s honorable. He will try his utmost to be a worthy husband to any woman he marries, whether she sincerely esteems him, or has accepted his suit simply so that her daughters will have the title of lady.”
“A fortune hunter with a conscience. A rare breed.”
A Truly Perfect Gentleman Page 7
