by Jane Feather
“You know nothing about it, madame,” he said furiously. “You push your way into my life without so much as a by-your-leave and then assume you have the right to dictate—”
“That is not so!” Gabrielle interrupted, outraged. “I didn’t push my way into your life—”
“Into my bed, you did,” he interrupted in turn.
“Well, that wasn’t without so much as a by-your-leave!” They were getting rather off the point, but Gabrielle found herself simply following his lead, perfectly prepared to give as good as she got.
“I will not tolerate your interference with my son.”
“So what were you going to do, beat the fear out of him?” she threw at him with ringing scorn. “That’s what your father would have done, I imagine. Ensured that you were more frightened of him than the horse!”
A pulse throbbed in Nathaniel’s temples and a dark flush spread over his high cheekbones. Yet he made no immediate comeback to Gabrielle’s searing challenge and she waited uneasily through a long, tense silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, no trace of the previous emotion.
“Yes, he would have, but I’m not about to follow his example.” He turned away from her and bent to throw another log on the fire. There was a heaviness in the room, the residue of the bright, sparking fury that had flown between them.
“I could never hurt Jake,” Nathaniel said, leaning one elbow along the mantelpiece, staring down at the fire. “It would be like striking Helen.”
Gabrielle could think of nothing to say. The statement was too confiding, too intimate.
Nathaniel raised his head from his forearm and looked across at her. His expression was bleak, suddenly open and vulnerable, and then it closed again like the oyster over its pearl. He pushed himself upright. “I must ask you to excuse me. I have work to do.”
It was a curt dismissal. Without a word she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Nathaniel stood glowering for a minute, tapping his fingernails on the mantelpiece. Then he strode to the bookshelves and removed the volumes of Locke’s Treatise on Government, revealing the safe. He spun the tumblers and opened the door. Taking out the papers, he slipped them into the breast of his coat and replaced them in the safe with a sheaf of documents from the secrétaire relating to estate business. Perfectly innocent material for any prying eyes. He plucked a silver hair from his temple and carefully inserted it between the door of the safe and the rim before closing the door. Satisfied that the hair was invisible from the outside, he replaced the books and left the library.
Gabrielle, still disturbed by that angry exchange, went up to her apartments to change out of her riding habit. She passed the housekeeper coming down the stairs with an armful of linens.
Gabrielle paused. “What time does his lordship dine, Mrs. Bailey?”
“At six o’clock, ma’am. His lordship keeps country hours here. He sees Master Jake in the library at five-thirty, in general, and then dines afterward.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“I’ll send Ellie up to help with your dressing, my lady. She’s ironed your gowns. They were rather crumpled from the cloakbag.”
“Yes, I’m not surprised,” Gabrielle said without blinking an eye, even as she wondered what Ellie and the housekeeper had made of the britches keeping company with the more respectable items of clothing in the cloakbag. “I’m expecting the rest of my traps to be sent on in the next few days, so I’ll be most grateful if Ellie can do what she can for now with what I have with me.”
“Of course, my lady.” Mrs. Bailey went on her way, as curious as ever about the Comtesse de Beaucaire. A proper lady she was, despite certain odd items of clothing in her meager luggage, but what was a proper lady with a wedding ring doing in this scandalous situation? The gossip would be all over the county in no time. Not that it would trouble his lordship any.
Since her arrival that morning, Gabrielle had had little opportunity to examine the apartments allotted her. There was a large, sunny bedchamber with heavy winter velvet hangings to the bed and windows, a Turkish carpet on the highly polished floorboards, a fire burning in the grate beneath an elegant carved mantelpiece. Adjoining it was a small boudoir, carpeted and curtained in rose velvet like the bedchamber, furnished with a chaise longue, several armchairs, and a delicate Queen Anne secrétaire. Here, too, a fire burned in the grate.
A door in the far wall connected the boudoir with his lordship’s apartments. Had these been Helen’s rooms? On one hand, it seemed obvious that they had been, but on the other, Gabrielle couldn’t believe that Nathaniel would have installed his mistress-of-the-moment in the apartment of his late, beloved wife. He was a forbidding and frequently ill-tempered man, but he had a sensitivity that perhaps truly revealed itself only during his lovemaking. She knew he would not have insulted his wife’s memory.
She suppressed any further curiosity about the late Lady Praed. It had no bearing on her reason for being there … as did any further interference in Lord Praed’s relationship with his son.
She would remain in her apartments until six o’clock, leaving Nathaniel to conduct his daily interview with Jake in private.
Thus resolved, Gabrielle greeted Elite’s arrival and the offer of hot water for a bath with heartfelt enthusiasm. She had no idea how Nathaniel would behave after the afternoon’s unpleasantness, but she would leave him to set the tone.
At half past five she was sitting in the bay window of the boudoir, watching the dusk roll in from the river, listening to the loud cawing of a flock of rooks settling for the night in a stand of conifers at the end of the garden. Nathaniel’s family estate was beautiful, flanked on one side by the Beaulieu River meandering through tidal marshes to the Solent, the wide body of water between the mainland and the Isle of Wight, and on the other by the primeval majesty of the New Forest.
They’d ridden that afternoon in the Forest, crossing the gorse- and heather-strewn common land into the broad rides beneath the centuries-old oaks and beeches. It was not a part of the country Gabrielle knew, but she felt its tug and had seen in Nathaniel’s relaxed, peaceful expression that this distinctive contrast of sea and forest ran in his blood.
A soft tap on the door disturbed her reverie. Unsure whether she’d really heard it, she turned her head toward the door. The tap came again, more of a scratching than a definite signal.
“Come in.”
The door opened slowly. Jake stood there, his hand still on the knob, a serious expression on his face, his round brown eyes solemn. He was very clean and tidy, his starched white shirt with ruffled collar buttoned onto his nankeen trousers and his hair glistening damply from judicious wetting to keep it lying neatly on his forehead.
“Jake?” Gabrielle rose and crossed the room. “This is a surprise.” She smiled down at him. “Come in.”
Jake shook his head. “I have to go to the library.” But he still stood there, holding the door, staring down at his feet in their buttoned boots.
“Your papa will be waiting for you,” Gabrielle agreed, glancing at the clock.
“You coming too?” He raised his eyes from the floor. “To see Papa?”
Nathaniel had forbidden Miss Primmer to bring the child to him, Gabrielle remembered. Was Jake really so shy of his father that he couldn’t face him alone? It was ridiculous. And yet, perhaps not. Children could be intimidated by many things, and Nathaniel, except in certain very specific instances, was not an inviting person.
“If you like.” She made up her mind. She’d accompany the child, but she’d take no part in the conversation.
Taking the child’s hand, she walked down the stairs with him. “How was Black Rob, Jake? Did you trot with him?”
“No,” Jake said solemnly. “But I rode him without Milner holding the bridle. Tomorrow I’ll trot … but just in the paddock,” he added. “Until I feel braver, Milner says.”
“That’s very sensible,” Gabrielle agreed. “How did you know where to find me?�
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“Primmy said you were staying in the Queen’s Suite. It’s called that ’cause a queen stayed there once.”
“Oh, which queen?”
“I don’t know.”
They’d reached the library and Jake paused, raising his hand to knock on the paneled door.
Gabrielle felt the stiffness in the small frame and smiled down at him. She opened the door before he could knock.
“Jake says a queen once slept in my bedroom, Nathaniel. Which one?”
Nathaniel was reading papers at the big desk. He raised his head and looked at her and was struck anew by the unerring flair that determined her clothes. Her gown of soft, clinging crepe was the color of slate and heather with long, tight sleeves buttoned at the wrist. A triple tier of black lace ruffles at her throat formed the high neck appropriate for an afternoon gown. Her hair was piled in a knot on top of her head, with a cluster of ringlets falling over her ears.
The image of her naked body on the seat of the carriage that morning suddenly obtruded on this vision of understated elegance and it took his breath away, banishing all the lingering resentments of the afternoon and the cold detachment with which he’d set his trap. “I like that gown,” he declared abruptly.
“I apologize for the informality,” she said with a gravity belied by the mocking glimmer of laughter in her eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring any evening wear … not being certain of my destination.”
“We don’t stand on ceremony in the country,” he assured her with matching solemnity, indicating his own unassuming morning dress of buff pantaloons and coat of brown superfine.
“I prefer it that way,” she said, her tongue touching her lips, and they both knew she was not referring to evening dress.
Jake’s hand moved in hers, and she shook herself free of the gossamer strands of arousal., “Which queen?” she asked again, as if the previous exchange had not interrupted the preceding train of thought.
“Queen Caroline, George the Second’s wife,” he said. “She spent a night here on her way from Southampton to London.” He rose to his feet. “May I pour you a glass of sherry? Or would you prefer madeira?”
“Sherry, thank you.” She took the glass he handed her and sat down on the window seat, picking up a periodical from the side table. It was a copy of the Farmer’s Almanac, hardly stimulating reading for a nonfarmer, but it was all that came immediately to hand and would serve to indicate to Nathaniel that she had withdrawn her attention from himself and Jake.
Nathaniel perched on the edge of the desk, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sipped his own sherry. Jake shifted his feet on the carpet and waited for the inevitable questions about his schoolroom progress in his father’s absence.
Gabrielle idly turned the pages of the almanac and listened to the stilted question-and-answer session. It was excruciatingly painful to listen to Nathaniel’s careful questions and the child’s monosyllabic replies, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from interrupting. There seemed no connection, either physical or emotional, between the man and the child. She had an almost overpowering urge to fling her arms around the two of them and push them together.
What was it that made Nathaniel so distant, so chilly with his son? It surely couldn’t just be that he was trying to toughen him up. He’d obviously had a troubled relationship with his own father, but he said he had no intention of following that example. Didn’t he realize that his manner could be as hurtful to the child as any crude physical discipline?
Obviously not. Nathaniel was dismissing the child, sending him back to the nursery with a handshake. It was absurd, Gabrielle thought, watching covertly as Jake’s tiny, dimpled hand disappeared into his father’s large one and the child bobbed his head in a half-bow of formal farewell.
“Say good night to her ladyship,” Nathaniel instructed Jake, reaching to refill his glass, relief clear in every line of his body now that his parenting session was over for the day.
“Good night, Jake.” Gabrielle reached for the child as he approached, put her arms around him and kissed him. “Is Primmy going to read you a story?”
“She might,” Jake said. He stayed for a moment in the circle of her arm, his body leaning against her with a slight ambivalent awkwardness as if he wanted to stay but didn’t know whether he should.
Gabrielle kissed him again. “Tomorrow, I’ll tell you one of my stories,” she promised.
“Do you know lots?”
Something had happened to the room, Nathaniel thought in vague bemusement. The light seemed to have softened, the crackling of the fire to have intensified, imbuing his customarily austere library with a domestic, hospitable warmth and comfort. And it was emanating from Gabrielle. The curtains were still open behind her, and the rising moon hung low over the dark curve of the river, a silver and black background for the vibrant head and pale skin.
“Oh, I know lots of stories,” she answered Jake, gently putting him from her as she became aware of Nathaniel’s silent frowning observation. “Good night, Jake.”
The door closed on the child’s departure and there was an uncomfortable silence until Nathaniel said, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t make promises to my son, particularly ones that will interfere in his routine.”
“Nathaniel, I just offered to tell him a bedtime story,” she exclaimed in soft-voiced exasperation. “If you don’t want me to do it, why don’t you tell him one?”
“I don’t know any,” Nathaniel said crossly.
“Oh, you must remember some from your childhood.” She regarded him in disbelief over the rim of her glass.
He shook his head. “I was never told any to remember.”
“Poor little boy,” she said softly. “What a horrible childhood you had.”
“It was not horrible in the least.” He scowled into the fireplace.
“Were you an only child?”
“Yes, like you.”
“How did you know that?”
“Miles said something.” He shrugged and drained his glass before standing up. “If you’re ready, we should go in to dinner. I don’t like to upset the cook. She’s inclined to fret if her dinner spoils.”
“I can’t say I blame her.” Gabrielle rose and took his formally proffered arm. “Of course I was just eight when I went to live with Georgie’s family and stayed with them until I was eighteen. So I don’t feel like an only child.”
Nathaniel made no response as he held the door to the dining room for her. It was a massive room with heavy oak furniture and dark paneling. The long table had two place settings, one at each end. Candles in ornate silver holders marched down the middle of the expanse, the yellow pools of light merely accentuating the vast distance between the two diners.
Gabrielle opened her mouth to suggest a more friendly arrangement that would be easier on the serving staff, and then closed it firmly. She’d spoken out of turn quite enough for one day. She was still a guest in Nathaniel’s house, however unorthodox the arrangement.
She took the seat Nathaniel pulled out for her and then gazed down the table at him with what she hoped was an expression of intelligent, courteous companionship.
“Do you know Georgie’s family?”
“Not really,” Nathaniel said, taking the scent of his wine before gesturing to the footman to fill Gabrielle’s glass. The man’s footsteps sounded very loud on the waxed oak floor as they progressed the length of the table.
“Georgie’s the eldest of six,” Gabrielle persevered, feeling in some way as if she had to explain her own ease with children to a man who clearly didn’t know the first thing about them.
She smiled slightly. The De Vanes were a large, erratic family, generally happy, tumbling in and out of scrapes that Lady De Vane regarded with vague dismay on the rare occasions she noticed and her husband responded to with indiscriminate clouts and caresses. None of the children were ever much perturbed at finding themselves on the receiving end of one rather than the other for whatever reason. Justic
e was a movable feast in the DeVane household and accepted as such with cheerful pragmatism.
Gabrielle helped herself from a dish of artichokes presented by the peripatetic footman and began to describe life in the DeVane household to her companion. She generally considered herself a lively conversationalist; however, Nathaniel responded to her remarks and stories with at best a noncommittal murmur, at worst, a frown and a vague grunt.
After a while she decided to leave the conversation to Nathaniel, and fell silent. The silence was disturbed only by the footman’s movements and quiet queries.
“I’ll leave you to your port,” she said when the covers had finally been removed, the footman had left, and the silence had remained unbroken through the entire second course.
“That seems unnecessary,” Nathaniel said, filling his glass from the decanter at his elbow. “With just the two of us … unless, of course, you’d rather withdraw.”
“I don’t think it’ll make much difference,” she commented, leaning back in her chair. “Since your dislike of conversation at mealtimes is so profound, I can hardly see that my company could matter one way or the other. My poor efforts at conversation have certainly failed to entertain you.”
Nathaniel glared in the candlelight. “This is a damn stupid way to dine,” he stated. “Who the hell decided to set the table like this? I can barely see you, let alone converse.”
Gabrielle pushed back her chair. “If you’re prepared to share the port, I’ll join you down at that end.”
“I wish you would.” He rose as she came the length of the table and took the chair next to him. “I suppose you’re going to accuse me of being ill-tempered and surly again.”
“Deny it,” she challenged him.
He made a rueful grimace and cracked a walnut between finger and thumb. “I can’t, damn you.” He peeled the nut and placed it on her plate.
“Well, I don’t suppose my conversation was all that stimulating,” she said cheerfully, popping the nut into her mouth. “Shall we try again? What topic would be most suitable? Children and childhoods are clearly forbidden.” She cast him a sideways glance to gauge his reaction to this frank statement.
