He spoke quietly—his worst insights were always delivered quietly—and then he kissed her cheek, swiped a last tea cake from the tray, and left her alone to… resume watching the flowers bob in the breeze.
* * *
“I will write you a glowing character, of course.”
Dolan strolled along through his perfectly manicured gardens, telling himself the young woman at his side would see the sense in his offer. Miss Ingraham had been hired in part because she was sensible enough to earn coin at honest work rather than starve or accept just any proposal of marriage to come her way.
“Let me understand you, Mr. Dolan. You are warning me that Georgie is about to become the object of a contested lawsuit, in which her uncle, the Marquis of Deene, seeks to take her from your care and keeping.”
“He’ll try his damn—I beg your pardon. He’ll try very hard. The situation will become unsavory, Miss Ingraham. Your character will likely come under scrutiny, as will every aspect of my own. Every time you’ve scolded Georgina in public, every time you’ve seen me be short-tempered with her, every time I’ve stayed out all night…”
He trailed off, though the exact measure of the indignities looming close at hand had kept him up many an hour since Deene’s last visit. Staying out all night, however, was invariably the result of a protracted negotiation rather than of time spent with a mistress of tireless charms.
Dolan could not explain such a thing to his daughter’s governess, of course.
“Sir, may we sit?”
“For God’s sake, woman. You don’t ask me such a thing.”
She cocked her head, a smile lurking at the corners of her full mouth. “You are my employer, Mr. Dolan. It is for me to ask you.”
“On your day off, you were not so prickly, Amy Ingraham.”
His use of her first name visibly surprised her, though he was intrigued to see it did not displease her. When he took the place beside her on the bench, she spoke easily, as if maybe this were another day off.
“I am under the impression, sir, that lawsuits take years to come to a hearing, so many years that Georgina might well reach her majority before you have a decision in the matter.”
“Then Deene will modify his petition to become her guardian rather than her custodian, or guardian of her property. He will not give up on this, though I’m not sure what exactly drives him. I have taken some steps to try to flush out his motivation, but they have been unavailing.”
Miss Ingraham studied her hands in her lap. “You have thought this matter through? You’re not inclined to make any concessions to his lordship?”
If there was anybody—anybody on the face of the entire earth—who might understand his position, it was the woman beside him. This realization was a little sad, but also heartening.
He would miss her, the quiet Miss Ingraham of the fine gray eyes and wonderfully pleasing figure. Georgina would miss her too, and that… gave him a pang.
“I’m not inclined to make any concessions at this point, but there will ensue some period of bargaining—I’m not sure how long. Deene hasn’t filed the papers yet, though he gave me to understand I’m to be served notice any day, likely in an intentionally public manner. You have some time to find other employment before the scandal actually breaks, though as to that…”
He fell silent. If he offered to pension her off, she’d take it amiss. Late at night after a few too many brandies, Dolan had contemplated learning the exact shape of Miss Amy Ingraham’s feminine form, and he had not censored himself for such imaginings. He was… male, single, in good health, and she was an attractive woman near at hand.
He did not admit to himself they were both lonely, but the realization was there. He was certainly lonely—if she was, she hid it well.
But a gentleman did not bother the help.
“I have been in your employ for several years now, Mr. Dolan.”
Dolan mentally prepared himself for a pretty little farewell speech, though the part of him still comfortable with a stonemason’s tools wanted to hit something with his bare, callused fists.
“I will give you the highest possible recommendation, Miss Ingraham, and do all in my power to see you properly placed and well compensated in your next position.”
“Will you?” She arched an eyebrow, her tone so dry and starchy Dolan risked meeting her gaze. “I am touched. Also puzzled.”
“Regarding?”
“Do you intend to win this lawsuit, or lose it? For if you intend to win it, then surely you will want to curry my favor, Mr. Dolan. I am the only party who can credibly testify that you have never in any manner neglected your daughter’s upbringing, that you are a doting—no, a loving and devoted—papa, that you would cheerfully die a thousand painful deaths for this one little girl, and yet you seek to disengage my services. This is quite, quite puzzling.”
She said nothing more, but left Dolan there beside her on the bench, rearranging the chess pieces he’d put on the board between himself and Deene.
“Miss Ingraham… Amy. I cannot allow you to be involved in… I have connections in Dublin, York, Edinburgh, Paris, even Boston, if you’d…” He fell silent, wondering how much she guessed, how much she knew, and if Deene had already tried to bribe her.
“What’s it to be, Jonathan Dolan? Will you win or lose, and don’t think to dissemble with me. I’ve seen you with your daughter.”
It took him long silent minutes to understand that he was being offered a sort of conditional friendship, a cooperation on a level he had not anticipated, from an ally he could never have approached directly, not about this.
He considered prevarications, outright lies, and near-truths, but…
Amy Ingraham had called him Jonathan. His mother had called him Jonathan, and his dear departed wife had—at least toward the end of their marriage—and now this quiet, sensible woman had used his given name and asked him for the truth. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, she’d linked her arm with his there on the bench.
“The truth, sir. I’ll know if you’re lying—just ask Georgina.”
To his very great surprise, and even greater relief, he did indeed tell her the truth.
* * *
“If you could define the problem, I might know better how to advise you to solve it.” Kesmore passed his guest a drink but doubted Deene was even aware of the glass in his hand.
“I’m mucking up my marriage, or my… something.”
“Most of us do, eventually. Unmucking it can be a cheerful undertaking.”
Deene’s incredulous expression suggested he could not envision his host being cheerful in any circumstances, but then, a lack of imagination plagued most new husbands when on the outs with their wives.
“Sit, Deene, and do not ignore your drink.”
Deene tossed back his brandy and dropped onto a sofa like a load of bricks. “Evie and I are civil, but she has it in her head I’m not to hold Dolan to account where Georgie is concerned. Lawsuits, particularly between family, are scandalous to my wife’s way of thinking.”
“They are scandalous to any sane person’s way of thinking, also tedious, uncomfortable, and expensive. Litigation has always struck me rather like tuning a fine watch with a stonemason’s hammer.” Kesmore appropriated a cushion from a wing chair and took a seat on the raised hearth, the better for the fire to cook some relief into the aching muscles of his back and leg. “I’ve yet to meet the Windham who flinched in the face of scandal, though, including most especially Their Graces. The lawsuit itself is not the entire problem.”
Deene scowled. “It took me a week to figure that out, though the lawsuit is certainly part of it. Evie will not countenance such a protracted and public scandal.”
“You endured a week during which, if I might be delicate, you did not enjoy the occasion of connubial bliss in the arms of your bride.”
Deene made a noise a lady would have described as a grunt and another man would have understood as unhappy assent.
“Who is holding out on whom, Deene?”
Deene studied his empty glass. “I’m not sure. I don’t make advances beyond the perfunctory, which she does not rebuff, but she doesn’t make advances either.”
“And a good time is had by all.”
This brought Deene’s head up, a battle light in the man’s blue eyes. “And when the fair Louisa takes you into disfavor, Kesmore, do you go charging forth into the bedroom, saber at the ready, risking all, only to have her freeze you with a look or a word?”
Kesmore pretended to fuss the pillow under his arse rather than smile openly at Deene’s misery. “It might surprise you to know, young Deene, that the fair Louisa, particularly on those rare and mistaken occasions when she has taken me into disfavor, generally wants me to come charging in with my saber at the ready. She is not a woman who finds a propensity for pretty talk a winning quality in her swain, and I am not a swain to disappoint my lady.”
“If I do ask Evie what she wants of me,” Deene said, glowering at the fire, “she will say, if I have to ask her, then I don’t understand what the problem is, or some such rot. Women speak in riddles when you most need them to be clear and direct.”
“Why do you need to be anything? Many a considerate husband goes for a week without pestering his wife, Deene. The ladies become indisposed, they get preoccupied, they… need their rest.”
Deene blinked. “I’m thinking of entering William in the June meet at Epsom.”
“Ah. A show of preoccupation. Brilliant strategy, one heartily endorsed by the most proud and unsatisfied husbands the world over. Why don’t you instead find a cozy, private moment between the sheets and ask your wife not about lawsuits or scandals, but if she’d like you to make love to her? Tell her you miss her more than you’d miss the beating heart torn from your chest, and nothing would bring you as much gratification as seeing to her pleasure.”
“What if she says no?”
“I didn’t say you should necessarily ask her with words—or expect her to see to your pleasure while you’re about it.”
Deene’s brows shot up. He was off the couch in the next moment and heading for the door. “Thanks for the libation. My regards to Lady Louisa.”
* * *
Deene had not filed his blasted lawsuit. Eve knew the papers yet resided in the estate desk, just as she knew with uncomfortable clarity that Westhaven had put his finger on a part of the real problem: Eve had married an honorable man, one who could not simply walk away from an obligation to his niece.
And yet, Eve could not merely accept that another man—however outwardly honorable—had taken her measure, seen how she could be exploited financially and socially, and used his intimate charms to achieve her complicity in his selfish ends.
Then too, she could not countenance Georgie growing into young womanhood amid a cloud of whispers and gossip, dodging the smirks and knowing glances of the other girls, sent invitations not out of graciousness but out of spite. This Eve truly, genuinely could not have endured, and she was certain it was an outcome Deene had not figured into his strategy.
The front door slammed, and Eve glanced at the clock. The hour was late enough that Deene might go straight above stairs, where she might have been waiting for him, but for having lost track of the time completely.
“Belt said you were nesting in here.”
Eve’s husband stood in the library doorway, looking windblown and tired—and devastatingly attractive. Also hesitant.
The hesitance tore at her spirit, and yet she understood it, too. “Deene.” She rose and crossed the room, holding out her arms so he would know they hadn’t yet descended to nodding at each other in greeting. “I thought perhaps you might stay the night in Town.”
His arms came around her, bringing with them the scents of horse, rain, and husband. “A little dirty weather is to be expected in spring.” He hugged her to him, making Eve wonder if he meant to imbue his observation with comforting symbolism. “Shall we have a nightcap? I’ve rung for a tray to be brought in here.”
They were to stay on neutral territory for a bit, which was a relief. “A biscuit or two and some tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
He walked with her to the sofa before the hearth, where Eve had indeed been nesting. Pillows and blankets marked her preferred end of the couch, and a novel lay on the side table.
“I do not expect you to wait up for me, Evie, but I appreciate that you did.”
He was being conciliatory or simply polite. In either case, Eve did not want to fight with him, not silently, not politely, not in any way.
“William was in good form today. Bannister let me take him over some proper jumps.”
Deene came down beside her on the sofa. “Which might have scared me witless, had I watched. Bad enough I let you and that colt hop logs and ditches and streams all over the shire.”
“William is a horse in a million, isn’t he?”
Something flickered across Deene’s tired features. “For you, he is. Kesmore sends his regards.”
“And Westhaven his.”
“They are spies, the lot of them. What did you tell your brother, Evie?”
She picked up Deene’s arm and put it around her shoulders, where it lay unmoving for a moment. When she put her head on his shoulder, that arm curled a little, so the side of his thumb could stroke her neck.
“I told him we’ve hit a rough patch, and it’s tearing at me awfully. He said I must find a way to compromise.” To say this out loud was to take a risk; but with a flash of insight, Eve realized that to keep it inside, to pretend there was no problem worth mentioning, was a worse risk yet.
Deene blew out a sigh. “I said much the same thing to Kesmore, who gave me much the same advice. And I want to, Evie… I want to find a way through this, but Georgie…”
Eve put a finger over his lips. “I want to as well, and perhaps that’s as much progress as we can hope for in one day.”
They ate mostly in silence, exchanging just a few safe comments about the horses, until Deene took Eve by the hand and helped her to her feet.
“Something about this room is different.” He was peering at her as he spoke, the room being mostly in shadows.
“I’ve not been exactly tidy.” Eve kept her gaze away from the far wall, where something was very different indeed. Deene studied her, then took a candle from the mantel, and as if he’d divined her thoughts, he took the candle across the room.
“I had forgotten this portrait entirely.”
Eve’s feet took her to stand beside her husband, when her flagging courage ought to have had her making her good nights. “You were handsome even as a boy.”
“And Marie was pretty. She looks like a child, though, and this was painted right before her wedding.”
“She was a child, Deene. Sixteen? Seventeen? Certainly not a woman grown at that point.”
“And yet…”
The look he gave Eve was inscrutable, and she wished she could just ask him if hanging the portrait served as a peace offering or an irritant. She’d meant it as a peace offering, but now, hours later…
“We can take it down if you think it doesn’t suit.”
“It suits.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then winged his free arm at her. “It suits exactly.”
A tension in Eve’s middle eased, though not entirely. She was coming to expect a subtle dyspepsia to plague her throughout the day, a symptom of a marriage in trouble and a wife who knew not what to do about it.
Deene must have felt the same way, for he was particularly solicitous as they prepared for bed. He did not undress in the dressing room, but remained where Eve could see him and feast her eyes on his nakedness.
Had he lost weight? Were his ribs and the bones of his hips a trifle more in evidence?
“Will you be going to Town tomorrow, Deene?”
“After I watch William go, very likely. Would you like to come with me?”
He hadn’t extended such an invitation in more than week. “Per
haps I shall.”
He shrugged into a forget-me-not blue dressing gown that made his eyes look positively electric, and shifted to stand behind where Eve sat at her vanity.
“Have I told you lately, Wife, what beautiful hair you have? The feel of it…” He closed his eyes and let her gathered hair run through his hands. “I have missed the feel of your hair.” He brought a lock to his nose. “The scent of it, the warmth of it tickling my chin when I hold you.”
He might have whispered these things in her ear two weeks ago. Now he had merely to recite them, and Eve’s insides started churning.
“It wants braiding, Deene.”
He opened his eyes, and in the vanity mirror, Eve saw him smile. There was a hint of mischief in that smile—also a touch of sadness. He braided her hair with brisk efficiency and then laid his dressing gown across the foot of the bed. “I’ll get the candles, Wife.”
So she watched him move naked around the room, watched the play of firelight on his lean flanks when he knelt to bank the coals, watched him stretch up to blow out the candles on the mantel, watched him stalk over to the bed and climb in with no ceremony whatsoever.
“You will keep those cold feet to yourself, Deene.”
“Cold feet?”
Oh, what an opening she’d handed him, and without meaning to. Entirely without meaning to—he had her that rattled.
“You run them up my calves, and then we’re both shivering.”
“I am not shivering, Evie.” He scooped her up and arranged her on her side, so the warmth of his chest blanketed her back. His hairy, muscular legs snugged up to her bottom, and his arm came around her middle.
She loved it when he held her like this, loved the way it made her feel safe and cherished and toasty all over. The only thing that might have made it better would be if she had thought to take off her nightgown so she might be as naked as he.
“You will tell me if there’s anything else I can do to make you more comfortable, Wife.”
His lips grazed her nape. A casual caress, one he’d indulged in many times before, and each time, Eve felt the impact of it in low, wonderful places. She wanted him to do it again.
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