The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  “In particular, well … feelings, I suppose.” This was far more difficult than she’d ever imagined.

  “How we feel about one another.”

  “Does it matter?” His gaze searched hers.

  “Of course it matters. We are going to be married.”

  His words were measured. “It didn’t matter in the beginning.”

  “No, but it matters now.”

  “Why?”

  Because I love you. Because I want you to love me.

  “Because everything has changed since the beginning.”

  “Has it?” he said casually. Too casually.

  “Why, yes, I believe it has.”

  “How?”

  She took another quick sip. “Are you going to answer every question with a question?”

  “Are you going to offer me something to drink?”

  She looked at the glass in her hand with surprise. She’d obviously forgotten to give it to him. “This is yours.”

  Amusement curved his lips. “You have the oddest habit of drinking my drinks for me.”

  “Do I? Well, I don’t really drink much,” she murmured.

  He raised a skeptical brow, stepped to her, and plucked the half empty snifter from her hands.

  “Now then, was I doing that?”

  “Doing what?” She shook her head in confusion.

  “Answering a question with a question.”

  “You know perfectly well you were.”

  “Oh, well, if I was,” he shrugged, “I do apologize. Go ahead then.” He sipped at the brandy. “Ask me a question, and I shall endeavor to answer it without hesitation.”

  “Very well.” She drew a deep breath. “How do you … feel about me?”

  “Feel about you?”

  She frowned.

  “Oh. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” A wry smile quirked his lips. “Sorry. Well, let me think.” He stepped around her, circling her as if considering a purchase, his gaze assessing and quite annoying.

  “You’re intelligent. I do like that in a woman.”

  “Do you,” she said, wondering why that should surprise her.

  “Indeed I do. I find women lacking in intelligence to be quite boring.” He narrowed his eyes.

  “You, my dear, are never boring.

  “In addition, you are lovely to look at, you have a ready wit, and,” he flashed her a wicked grin, “you are not adverse to hard work and practice.”

  A blush warmed her cheeks, and she ignored it.

  “That’s all very well and good, but it really doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I thought I answered it quite nicely.”

  “Well, you were wrong.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “I’m not asking for a list of my charms—”

  “I quite like your charms.”

  “And I like your charms as well, Richard,” she snapped, “but what I want to know is if you … if you …”

  “Care for you?”

  “Exactly,” she said with relief and looked at him expectantly. A second passed, and another, and another. “Well?”

  “Well …” He chose his words with care. “Of course I care for you.”

  “Is that all?” The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to think. “ ‘Of course I care for you’? That’s it? Nothing more than that?”

  “What do you want me to say?” he said slowly.

  “I want you to tell me that you love me! “I don’t know exactly,” she lied. “Something, well, more, perhaps?”

  “Shall I get down on one knee and pledge my eternal devotion? Shall I clasp my hands to my heart and vow my undying love? Shall I throw open the windows and proclaim my everlasting ardor to the world?”

  “Yes, I should quite like that!” This was not going at all the way she had envisioned it.

  “Is that what Charles would have done?” His words were cool, but there was an intense gleam in his eye.

  She drew her brows together in confusion.

  “Charles has nothing to do with this.”

  Doesn’t he?” He drained his glass and set it on a table. “Hasn’t Charles had a great deal to do with everything from the moment you first approached me?”

  “No, not at all.” She shook her head. “Oh, in the beginning, there was a certain amount of guilt, but I’ve gotten over that.”

  He snorted. “Indeed you have.”

  She glared. “That’s what comes of hard work and practice.”

  “I am not at all like Charles.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “Then why did you choose me?”

  “I had a list!”

  “A list.” He fairly spat the words. “With me at the top. A position I occupy only because you see in me the very same noble qualities your beloved husband possessed.”

  “Yes, I suppose if you wish to—”

  “Then is it me you want or a copy of what you once had?”

  “That isn’t at all—”

  “But you didn’t want a husband in the beginning, did you, Gillian? Not a real husband. You wanted nothing more than a means to an end.” He stared at her. “What do you want now?

  You. “I don’t … know.”

  “Don’t you?” He was silent for a long moment. The air between them simmered thick with tension. With fear. With questions unasked and unanswered.

  “Your husband was a fool.”

  “Why?” Anger rose within her. “Because he thought it was important to serve his king, his country? Because he gave his life for what he believed in?”

  “No.” Richard’s dark gaze bored into hers. “Because he left you.”

  Chapter 17

  Richard turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  His words struck her like a blow. She stared after him, her mind reeling with the import of his charge.

  Because he left you.

  She sank down on the settee.

  Because he left you.

  His voice thundered in her mind. An unrelenting echo. And at once she understood everything. About Richard and more about herself.

  It wasn’t love she feared. It was loss and the devastating anguish it carried. She’d given her heart to Charles fully and without reservation, and regardless of the nobility of his reasons, he’d left her. Forever.

  How could she be certain Richard wouldn’t?

  “Honesty between a man and a woman is as important as trust.”

  Honesty? And trust? To this point they hadn’t had a great deal of either. Certainly he had his secrets, but whatever they were, he was an honorable man and she could trust him. Implicitly. And she could trust him with her heart as well. She could see it in his eyes. She might never completely eliminate her fear of loving him and losing him, there was nothing she could do about death after all, but she had to trust him enough to know he would never leave her of his own accord.

  She had to love him enough. It was a risk that would take far more courage than she’d ever thought she had. Or ever thought she needed.

  She had to tell him how she felt with no more hesitation, no more delay. There was no need to wait for his declaration of love. No need for him to actually say the words. Doubtless he’d never said them before, and possibly he even couldn’t. But he did love her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. And if he possibly didn’t, she shrugged, she would cross that road if she came to it. It was a risk. Probably the first of many with this man. But the rewards would be glorious.

  She jumped to her feet and headed toward the door. She’d have to go to his rooms at once. The thought pulled her up short. She had no idea where he lived. She was completely at his mercy as to where and when they would meet. She could send a note through his solicitor as she had done when she’d invited him to their first meeting. But that may well take a day or more, and she didn’t want to waste so much as an hour.

  If she could find that boy who’d brought his note … . Hadn’t Wilkins remarked that it was
the same youth who had delivered Toussaint’s messages? Obviously, Richard’s rooms and the artist’s studio were in the same area of the city. Toussaint would know how to reach the boy, and she could have him deliver a note to Richard. Better yet, she would insist on being taken there in person. She’d surprise Richard and pour out her feelings. And hopefully, allow him to reveal all his secrets in return.

  This would give her the chance to end these silly games with Toussaint. She’d tell him in no uncertain terms there would be no more of that nonsense about love or lust. And there would be no more night sittings. She strongly suspected that the attraction he’d held for her had had very much to do with the slightly exotic atmosphere of his studio—with its chaos and odd scents of oil and turpentine—and, of course, the mysterious magic of the dark.

  There would be no magic in the daylight. Not with Toussaint. But there would be revelation: she’d finally get to see his face. Not that she really cared. It was a matter of nothing more than idle curiosity.

  She started toward the door. She needed to go at once before she lost her nerve. She’d have Wilkins hire a carriage and—

  The door swung open, and Robin stepped into the room. “Gillian, we need to talk.”

  “Not now, Robin,” she waved him away. “I’m in something of a hurry.” She sidestepped him and continued toward the door.

  He grabbed her arm. His gaze pinned hers. “Now, Gillian.”

  “Goodness, Robin, I have neither the time nor the inclination for whatever it is you want.” She tried to pull away, but he gripped her firmly. “Now, do let me go.”

  “No.” He studied her with an air of resignation, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her, long and quite thoroughly.

  Shock coursed through her, and she was too stunned to so much as breathe.

  He drew back and looked down at her cautiously. “Well?”

  “Well … what on earth was that?” She stared up at him.

  “It was a … a testament. To my undying devotion.” He released her and stepped back. His chin raised slightly. He looked like a man facing a firing squad. “I love you, Gillian, I have always loved you. I cannot allow you to marry a man you do not love. Marry me.”

  “You’re not serious.” It was all she could do to keep from laughing aloud.

  “I have never been more serious.”

  “But you don’t especially want to marry me,” she said slowly. “Or do you?”

  “Of course I do.” He squared his shoulders.

  “I can always tell when you’re lying.” She studied him carefully. “Now, what are you up to?”

  “I want to marry you,” he said staunchly.

  She raised a brow.

  “Well, I would rather like to marry. And it might as well be you.”

  “Do be careful. You’ll turn my head with your compliments,” she said dryly.

  He ignored her, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the room. “You need to marry in order to get your inheritance. I want to marry because I’m bloody tired of my entire family throwing young women in my direction, not one of whom has your wit or looks, for that matter—”

  “Now, I truly am flattered. And rather touched. I had no idea you thought so well of me.”

  He stopped and stared in surprise. “You didn’t? My apologies then, Gillian, I have always regarded you highly.” He considered her for a moment. “I will confess, I was a bit disappointed all those years ago when you decided to marry Charles.”

  “Robin.” She widened her eyes in disbelief. “I had no idea.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “I got over it.”

  “No doubt.”

  He cast her an amused look. “I didn’t say I was heartbroken, merely disappointed.”

  “Thank you for making that clear.”

  “At any rate, Gillian”—he stepped closer and took her hand—“I have always loved you in my own way and I feel certain you have always loved me.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And even if it’s not precisely the same kind of love you had for Charles, I know we would get on rather well together.”

  “Very likely, but—”

  “Therefore if you were to marry me, it would be for love, of a sort, and you won’t have to marry Shelbrooke.”

  At once she understood. “So that’s what this is all about.”

  Robin nodded. “If nothing else, Gillian, we have been friends for far too long for me to allow you to marry a man, any man, simply to get your inheritance.”

  “Robin,” she said gently, pulling her hand from his, “I’m not marrying Richard simply to get my inheritance—”

  “You’re not?” A grin broke on his face. “Excellent. I knew you wouldn’t go through with it. I can’t tell you how—”

  “—but I am marrying him.”

  “You are?” He stared at her in confusion. “Why?”

  “I love him.” She smiled apologetically and wondered why it was so much easier to tell this old friend of her feelings and so hard to tell the object of her affection.

  “You love him?” Robin’s eyes widened. “How can you possibly love him? I don’t even like him.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re not marrying him,” she said with a laugh.

  “Are you certain of this, Gillian?”

  “I am.”

  “Does he return your feelings?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s exactly what I hope to find out.” She whirled and started toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “Could you lend me your carriage?”

  “Of course.” He stepped to the window. “My driver should still—”

  The doors flew open, and Kit burst into the room. “Gillian.” He started toward her, and instinctively she backed up. “I love you, Gillian, I have always loved you. I cannot allow you to marry a man you do not love. Marry me.”

  “What?”

  Kit moved closer. “I love you, Gillian, I have always loved you.” His words had the ring of a well-rehearsed recitation. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. “I cannot allow you to marry a man you do not love. Marry me.”

  She stared up at him. “You’re not going to kiss me, are you?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it …” Indecision sounded in his voice. “But I suppose … if you think I should.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you should.” She raised her voice. “What do you think, Robin? Do you think he should?”

  “I suspect it would be somewhat pointless,” Robin said wryly.

  “Robin?” Kit peered around her. “I thought we’d agreed to do this separately?”

  Robin crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame. “That was the original plan.”

  “Yours is not the first offer of marriage I have received today.” She bit back a grin. “You may release me now.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Kit’s hands dropped as if she were on fire. “Sorry.”

  “Perhaps one of you would explain exactly what the original plan entailed?” She glanced from Kit to Robin.

  “It’s really quite simple, my dear,” Robin said with a sigh. “We’ve decided—”

  “Last night, actually,” Kit said helpfully.

  “—that this farce of yours with Shelbrooke had gone on long enough.”

  “Did you?”

  “And it was up to us, one of us anyway, to save you.” Kit’s gaze slid from her to Robin. “So … you beat me to it, old man. Thank God.” He collapsed onto the sofa and blew a long, relieved breath. “I don’t mind telling you I was willing to go through with it—”

  “Yet another compliment. How will I keep my head?”

  “—but I’d really rather not.”

  “I won’t be able to stand much more.”

  “It’s not you, Gillian,” he said quickly. “Well, not entirely. I just think you and I get on much better as friends, dear friends, of course—”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  “Than we ever would as somethin
g more. Besides,” he said, leaping to his feet as if he couldn’t bear to stay still, “there really is someone else I’d rather marry.”

  Gillian and Robin traded glances.

  “You see, Gillian, she’s the real reason why I stayed in London. With you and of course her brother gone, I thought—” He paused, and his eyes widened. “Blast it all. When you tell Shelbrooke you’re marrying Robin instead of him, you don’t think he’ll hold it against me, do you? I really don’t think he likes me.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t.” She smiled sweetly. “Not in the slightest.”

  “And we’re not getting married,” Robin added.

  “You’re not?” Kit frowned. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t really surprise me. I never thought she’d accept either of us.” He directed his words toward Robin. “Emma thinks Gillian’s in love with Shelbrooke. I told her she was daft. Gillian was far too practical—”

  “She is in love with him,” Robin said glumly.

  “Really? That does change everything then, doesn’t it?” Kit thought for a moment, then his expression brightened. “I daresay, this will work out in everyone’s favor. If you could put in a few good words for me.”

  “I shall see what I can do.” She laughed. “After I put in a few good words for myself.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Kit said confidently. “Emma’s fairly certain he loves you as well.”

  Gillian stilled. “What makes her think so?”

  “Because he hasn’t married you yet.” Kit cast her a smug smile. “Emma thinks if all he wanted was your inheritance, he would have married you by now.”

  “Emma knows about the legacy?” Gillian said.

  Kit winced. “I’m afraid so. I am sorry, Gillian, I couldn’t help myself. Besides,” he looked down his nose in a lofty manner, “we don’t think two people who love each other should keep secrets between them.”

  “No, they shouldn’t,” she murmured. “So do you know all her secrets?”

  “I know about her painting.” He turned toward Robin. “She’s quite wonderful, if I do say so myself.”

  “High praise coming from someone whose idea of great art is a well-rendered painting of a horse and hound,” Robin said.

  Kit ignored him. “However, Gillian, you do need to do something about Shelbrooke’s attitude about that as well.”