Her temper rose.
His lordship raised an eyebrow. “I wish words failed you now.”
The reverend gentleman’s cheeks reddened. “Uncle, I will not create a scandal by breathing a word to anyone about you being alone with this jade, so there is no need for you to feel obliged to wed her.”
The earl held up his hand to silence his nephew. “Enough! You are contemptible.”
“Yes, you are contemptible.” Georgianne echoed his words, appreciative of the earl’s swift defence but still wary of his motives.
His lordship chuckled. “We are in agreement about my nephew. Now, say you will marry me.”
Georgianne executed a small curtsy. “I cannot marry a man with whom I am unacquainted,” she replied. Her heart was full of turmoil as her younger sisters’ welfare remained uppermost in her mind. She loved them and had promised her late father she would always look after them if necessary. She knew she must find a way to keep her promise because Mamma…. No, she would not think of it now.
Pennington smiled, revealing stained teeth. “I like you even more for your caution, Miss Whitley. Another young lady might have succumbed to all I could give her.”
She must explain her refusal to marry him. “Papa said I should not marry the first gentleman who proposed to me. He told me I should be certain of my affections, instead of being swayed by society’s determination to see every young lady betrothed by the end of her first season. As you know, I have yet to enjoy the London Season.”
“I hope we will become better acquainted with each other when you come to town.” The earl frowned. “You will do so, will you not?”
She nodded, deep in thought. In spite of his title, and riches, did she want to get to know him better? Could she bring herself to marry an old man for her sisters’ sake? Yet she might enjoy being indulged by him.
Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley entered the drawing room, splendid in their red uniforms ablaze with gold braid and gold buttons. Georgianne saw them glance at each other as though they sensed something disturbing had taken place.
“Lord Pennington.” The major bowed.
“How do you do,” Viscount Langley said. “We met you at the levee when we made our bow to the Prince Regent.”
Pennington inclined his head. “Good day to you.”
Major Tarrant smiled at Georgianne. “What is wrong?” He led her to a sofa on the far side of the room.
Still amazed at the earl’s proposal she sank onto the soft upholstery.
The major smiled and seated himself next to her. “My dear Georgianne—I may call you Georgianne may I not, because although we have not seen each other for a long time, I knew you in the nursery. Allow me to offer you my condolences, this time in person. Your father and brothers were brave, loved by their fellow officers, respected by their men.”
Involuntary tears filled her eyes in response to the memory of the kind letter of condolence Major Tarrant had sent to her as well as the one he sent to her mother. Her eyes swollen with tears, Georgianne had laid it with her other treasures in an oblong, ebony box.
“Thank you. You are so kind. Now, lest sad memories overcome me, please tell me how you are.”
“As fit as any one of the fleas with which I bivouacked on countless occasions.”
Georgianne giggled. “You are droll, major. May I say I know how happy your safe return makes Sarah? The rest of your family must be overjoyed.”
Although he grinned, she noticed a trace of sadness, or was it wariness, in his eyes. She could not decide.
“My wounded leg has healed, but my step-mamma’s solicitude overwhelmed me, so I made up my mind to call on an old and much respected acquaintance, your guardian, Colonel Walton, before leaving the district. Afterward, I decided to visit Sarah before proceeding to London. I am glad I did so, for we have met again.”
“I hope you will not leave the parish without waiting on my mamma.”
“Of course I shall wait on her.”
“Good. Now tell me if you are glad to be back in England?”
“Yes, I am. On our way to stay with Colonel Walton, we stopped at a tavern, where I realised how wonderful it is to be in a country where people are not subjected to the brutalities of marauding soldiers.” The major’s forehead creased. “I am sorry. Forgive me if I offended your delicate sensibilities.” He cleared his throat. “I am not in the habit of sharing my thoughts with anyone other than Langley, least of all a child.”
She straightened her back. “I am not a small girl,” she objected.
“Maybe, but I am still accustomed to thinking of you as a dumpling of a child.”
Annoyed by his response she drew herself up to her full height, and looked at him indignantly. “Do open your eyes wider and look at me properly. I am no longer a dumpling, moreover I assure you, I am most certainly not a little girl. I will be eighteen on the third of February.”
“What did I say to bring tears to your eyes?” Major Tarrant edged closer to her, his face a mask of concern. For a moment, it seemed he would put an arm around her to offer comfort.
“Nothing, at least, and I daresay you will think me foolish. Whenever I remember my birthday, I remember Papa. He always chose my presents with such loving care.” Wiping her tears away with a handkerchief she forced a smile. “Are you going to leave the army? Sarah said your father wants you to.”
“Yes, in my opinion Napoleon Bonaparte is almost beaten. I trust you do not consider me cowardly.”
“Of course not, like my father and brothers I have no doubt you would sacrifice your life to keep the enemy at bay.” She looked up and smiled at him. “I am glad you are safe, and I hope the war will end soon.”
“Thank you, yet despite my father’s wishes, soldiering is in my blood. If Boney presses us back, there will be a need for experienced officers. In such an eventuality, I can purchase another pair of colours.”
Sarah, her severe black bombazine gown only alleviated by the sparkle of jet beads, entered the drawing room. Her husband, who accompanied her, glowered at Georgianne; his eyebrows making lines like furry caterpillars across his forehead.
Sarah beamed at them. “Tarrant, before we dine, allow me to introduce you to Frederick.”
The door opened to admit the nurse and her charge. “Major Tarrant, you are about to have the pleasure of meeting your nephew,” Georgianne said in a low, dry tone.
The nurse approached Sarah with a fretful Frederick in her arms.
“Is he ill?” Cousin Stanton asked with obvious concern.
“No, sir, poor little love’s crying because I woke him.”
Sarah ignored the nurse’s obvious disapproval and looked at Major Tarrant with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You must hold him.” She gestured for the woman to hand the six-week old baby to the major. “Tarrant, holding him will prepare you for when you have your own child.”
Georgianne looked down, not adverse to having a sweet baby like Frederick. She frowned. What would be involved in conceiving a child? Her frown deepened. The earl wanted to marry her so that she would bear him a son. Yet, something predatory about the earl repulsed her despite his gentle smiles.
The infant quietened when the nurse handed him to Major Tarrant. Looking down at the baby, Tarrant smiled. “He is so small. I am afraid of harming him.”
Frederick regurgitated some milk. The major wrinkled his nose.
Sarah dabbed Tarrant’s scarlet coat sleeve with her black linen handkerchief. “Naughty baby,” she cooed.
“No harm done,” said the major in a rueful tone.
Sarah nodded at the nurse. “You may return Frederick to the nursery.”
Cousin Stanton snorted with laughter as he smoothed his black broadcloth coat.
“What are you laughing at?” Georgianne asked.
“At a babe in arms unnerving Tarrant the Hero.”
Georgianne scowled. Could Cousin Stanton be jealous of Major Tarrant’s distinguished military service? She would have spoken in
the major’s defence if he had not spoken first.
“You are to be congratulated on your son, Stanton.”
“Thank you.” Her cousin turned to look at his wife. “Sarah, my love, you must not fall into the sin of pride by thinking our son is of interest to anyone other than ourselves.”
Sarah ran a fold of her gown through her fingers. “I wanted Tarrant to see him.”
Cousin Stanton waved a plump hand at Sarah. “Shush, my dear, I am sure your brother has more important things to think of.”
“My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, dinner is served,” a maid announced.
The earl offered his arm to Sarah, and Viscount Langley offered his to Georgianne. They proceeded into the dining room followed closely by Major Tarrant.
While the unappetising soup—made from dried peas and stock from a ham bone—cooled, Georgianne paid little attention to the man of the cloth’s lengthy grace, her mind being more fully conscious of Pennington’s warm regard and somewhat flattered by it.
After dinner she sat next to Tarrant on the window seat in the music room. Deep in thought, she did not pay attention to Sarah playing the harp while Cousin Stanton sang. When the Stantons concluded their recital, Georgianne applauded politely, and then conversed with Tarrant while Viscount Langley sang in an enjoyable baritone. He gazed at her, the expression in his eyes anxious. “You seem troubled, Georgianne.”
She tried to reassure him with a smile, aware of the earl’s scrutiny. “You are mistaken, sir, although I confess to missing my sisters. With Sarah’s leave, I have decided to return home tomorrow.”
She knew in her heart, she did not want to marry the earl. Despite the temptation to solve the problem of Mamma, and improve her own and her sisters’ situation, she would not let him court her.
When Tarrant raised an eyebrow as though he would pose a question, she realised she must learn to guard her expression.
“Georgianne, my step-mamma told me she will present you at court with my younger sister. Are you looking forward to your debut?”
“Yes, I am.”
With the familiarity of one who knew her from infancy, he patted her hand. “Do not look so worried. I am sure you will be the toast of the town.”
Her heart fluttered and she looked away from him. “You are very good to say so.”
He chuckled. “You are too modest. I am sure you are much too beautiful to be overlooked.”
Gratified, she caught her breath. “Truly?”
“I never say anything I do not mean. Besides, dark-haired ladies are all the fashion,” he said, his tone somewhat husky and his eyes gleaming as he looked at her.
“So you are quite out of fashion,” she teased, referring to his fair hair, “although your skin is suntanned enough for you to be a Moor.”
He laughed good naturedly. “Not quite. Anyway, I do not aspire to make a mark on the town.”
Whatever Tarrant claimed, any gentleman who inherited so large a fortune would be sure to do so. She restrained a giggle. How would he react to parents of unmarried daughters trying to capture him as a son-in-law?
Sarah beckoned. “Georgianne, please pour the tea.”
Resentful, Georgianne complied. She would prefer to continue her conversation with Tarrant. Unfortunately, she had no other opportunity to speak privately to him after they drank their tea. Cousin Stanton conducted evening prayers. Eyes open, her mind awhirl, Georgianne omitted to join in The Lord’s Prayer. Her colour rose in response to the Earl of Pennington’s steadfast regard and a hint—of what? Admiration in Tarrant’s eyes?
“Come,” Sarah said as soon as the prayer concluded and shepherded Georgianne upstairs.
* * * *
Tarrant stood in quiet contemplation by the drawing room window framed by faded velvet green curtains.
Adrian Langley stared at him. “What are you looking at?”
“The wind whipping the leaves from the trees. Oh, what does the weather matter? We have campaigned in worse conditions.”
His friend’s smile made him look younger than his twenty-seven years. It transformed the deep lines of his square soldier’s face and softened his dark eyes. “Am I correct in thinking you favour the beautiful Miss Whitley?”
Tarrant shrugged. “I have known Miss Whitley since her infancy, and admit to a certain fondness for her.”
Langley grinned. “Be careful, my friend, before you know it, you will become a tenant for life.”
Tarrant turned away from the window. “I have not considered marriage for a long time, however, my father wants me to tie the knot and, in biblical terms, beget an heir.” As he spoke, his mind crowded with memories of ladies suffering in the hands of French soldiers, compatriots of those who had cheered each time a head rolled during the French Revolution.
“Dolores?”
At Langley’s mention of the lady to whom Tarrant was previously betrothed, Tarrant’s face contorted.
“I beg your pardon. I should not have mentioned her.” Langley cleared his throat. “You never told me why you broke it off. If you still love her is there no hope of making her your wife?”
“We did not break if off.” His shoulders slumped. “At the time I could not bear to speak of the matter. She was repeatedly raped by French soldiers. She died in childbirth.”
“My God! I did not know, I never guessed!” Langley exclaimed, jerked out of his usual calm.
Every muscle in Tarrant’s body contracted. He was present at the time of Dolores’s death. Even now, her screams, as she struggled to give birth, rang in his ears. He shuddered at the memory of his horror as those piercing cries faded to faint groans when Dolores delivered a stillborn baby. Overcome by grief he had made an impulsive vow never to be responsible for such suffering. He sighed. Since his elder brother’s death, he needed to fulfill his duty to father an heir, yet…
Tarrant clenched his teeth. Despite his avowal of undying love and his assurance that he would marry her after the baby’s birth, he doubted Dolores had wanted to live. Most likely, she had welcomed death.
He crossed the room and stared out of the window into the night. “I must see to my horse,” he said, his voice husky.
On the way to the stable, he paused to look up. Dark, silver-edged clouds raced across the full, lemon-yellow moon. He bent to rub his right leg. Although it had healed, it ached sometimes.
I am feverish, he thought, when he imagined Georgianne and Dolores’s faces merging. Usually, he tried not to think of gentle Dolores, in whose admiration he once basked. He sighed and entered the stable. Corunna, his grey, whickered a welcome. He stroked the horse’s neck, considering past events. After witnessing the consequences of the brutality of Boney’s officers and common soldiers toward the fair sex, like Langley, and many other gentlemen, he believed a nation’s civilisation should be judged by how it treated women. He despised men like Pennington, who thought their rank entitled them to grab anything they wanted without mercy.
Oh, he did not claim or wish to claim the virtues mouthed by men like Wilfred Stanton. Before his betrothal to Dolores, he had always enjoyed the petticoat company whom he treated with respect. At the same time, he had always taken care not to disgrace either his family or his regiment.
Tarrant gave Corunna’s neck a final pat prior to leaving the stable. Outside, the wind had died down sufficiently for him to be able to hear the creak of a window as he neared the vicarage. He looked up. Georgianne, ghostly by moonlight, put her head out of the window.
He bowed from the shoulder. “You should be asleep.” Tarrant looked around to make sure they were not overheard. “I must go.” To be seen or heard talking to her at this time of night would arouse gossip that might harm her, something he would avoid at all cost. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Goodnight, Georgianne. Sweet dreams attend you,” he said with sincere appreciation of her beauty and innocent charm.
“Thank you. Goodnight, Tarrant.”
At the sound of a window closing, he looked around. Had they
been overheard?
* * * *
Pennington fastened the latch and pursed his mouth. Some claimed night air was extremely unhealthy for a man of his years. He took little notice of other people’s opinions. He ran his hand over his stomach. He possessed the trim figure of a much younger man. Anyone unacquainted with him might consider him fifty not sixty.
After he allowed his valet to remove his dressing gown, Pennington sank into a fireside chair, a glass of brandy in hand. He glanced at his valet. “Have the fire built up before you leave.”
Thoughts of Miss Whitley filled his mind. Unable to bear the idea of his pretentious nephew succeeding to his title, he had decided Miss Whitley seemed healthy enough to bear his children. It would be a delight to impregnate her. He smiled. There were means to compel her to accept his proposal. After all, he had never failed before to get what he wanted.
Chapter Three
Although the Earl of Pennington had defended her from Cousin Stanton’s verbal attack, Georgianne wanted to escape his scrutiny. At noon on the day after the earl proposed to her, she bade Sarah a fond farewell, and departed by carriage.
After a maid answered her knock on the front door of Whitley Manor, she stepped indoors. “Where is my mother?”
The girl averted her eyes. Georgianne guessed she wanted to pass judgement on Mamma but did not dare to do so. “In the morning room, miss.”
Georgianne joined her mother, who reclined on a chaise lounge, a compress resting on her forehead.
Her mamma half-opened her eyes, and fluttered a fan. “Georgianne, is it you?”
The smell of brandy wafted across the room. Inebriated again! Georgianne heaved a sigh. Before Papa’s death, Mamma had never imbibed excessively.
“My sweet girl, I congratulate you,” Mamma said, her speech slurred.
Suspicious, Georgianne eyed her mother. “Why are you congratulating me?”
“Come to your mamma, who loves you. Give her a kiss. Do not be coy. The Earl of Pennington waited on me this morning. He asked me if I have any objection to your marrying him. Of course I do not.” Mamma blinked owlishly. “An earl, no less. You are to marry the Earl of Pennington. Clever girl to trap him before you’ve made your debut.”
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 2
