by Allison Lane
“Thomas!” she gasped, reveling in the fierceness of his embrace. “My only love! Oh, yes ... please...”
His mouth crushed hers, his last coherent thought a desire to muffle her impassioned cries lest someone overhear.
Much later he slipped from the room, hardly noticing that he had to unlock the door, his concentration focused on regaining his bedroom without encountering someone who might remark his disheveled appearance. Already awash in guilt, he dared not name his other reaction – disappointment. Not due to Alicia, he hastily assured himself when the feeling first surfaced. It was the inevitable result of his own disgrace.
Anger at his weakness surged through him, as powerful as the recent storm of passion. Not only had he committed the unpardonable sin of bedding another man’s wife, thus demeaning his honor, but he had broken a sacred vow. Never mind that much of the ton ignored that portion of the wedding service that pledged to forsake all others. From early childhood he had considered his word to be absolutely inviolable. He could still recall his father’s scold when he had been caught, at the tender age of six, teasing a stable boy to allow him to groom the horses after promising his sire that he would remain in the Abbey as punishment for some forgotten misdeed.
“A gentleman’s word can never be broken, Thomas,” Marchgate declared, his features twisted into disappointment – the memory of that expression had caused pain for years to come. “It is one difference between us and the lower classes. When you ignore a promise, you also give up the right to be considered a gentleman. I will not condone such dishonor in my son. You belong to one of the proudest families in England, directly descended from one of the Conqueror’s chief knights. You stand second to one of the oldest earldoms, bestowed by Richard Lionheart himself. You will never again demean your honor by breaking your oath, is that clear?”
The lesson was reinforced many times during his minority as the lies and half-truths of others came to light. As he grew older, the nuances grew clearer. The hallmark of a gentleman was honor, and the heart of honor was honesty. A gentleman never went back on his word. Nor did he encourage others to break their sworn word or to act without fully understanding the consequences. Thus he never bedded married women of any class, never seduced maidens, never tempted green youths to game beyond their means.
But now he had reneged in an unforgivably spectacular way. Not only had he coerced Alicia into breaking her own wedding vows, he had blatantly ignored his own. It didn’t matter that he did not love Caroline. He had pledged himself to her and she deserved his respect. She had more than upheld her end of their bargain. But infidelity was hardly a form of respect. Nor could he guarantee that he would not again fall from grace if he remained in Alicia’s company. He was weak. His obsession bordered on madness. His brain ceased to function when she was near.
He took the only course left, packing his bags and bidding Graylock farewell. Within the hour he was at the ribbons of his coach, driving toward Crawley as if all the demons of hell were in pursuit. How would he ever live down this disgrace?
If only he had left yesterday!
Chapter 7
Thomas turned his weary horses through Crawley’s gates and headed for the house. Exhaustion numbed his senses. There had been little sleep and no rest the night before, his self-flagellation continuing even into the dream world.
He was weak... weak and dishonorable... dishonorable, disrespectful, odiously undeserving of either sympathy or forgiveness... and he had dragged the world’s most perfect lady into hell. How could he have sullied both Alicia and his own self-respect? The questions wound round and round in his head. As did the recriminations. With each repetition, his own actions seemed more reprehensible and Alicia’s purity more rarefied until he would have expressed no surprise if accused of brutally raping her. What price must he pay for his shame? So grievous a lapse in honor would demand a harsh punishment.
He shivered.
He was nearly to the house before his brain registered the improvements wrought during his three-week absence. The estate wall and drive were in markedly better repair. A rebuilt fence enclosed the meadow where his new horses grazed. Grounds and pastures appeared less derelict. And the house offered a distinctly warmer welcome.
Another wave of guilt deepened the self-loathing he had nurtured since the debacle with Alicia. He should have been supervising Crawley instead of sporting at Graystone. It was unconscionable to stay away so long, leaving only the incompetent Tibbins in charge. Again he had proved himself a useless fribble who left it to others to carry out his responsibilities. His father had rescued him the last time. Who was bailing him out now? The sight of three soldiers working on the stable provided a possible answer. Jacobs must have shouldered more burdens than training horses.
“Mr. Mannering, sir.” Peters bowed as he opened the door. The hall glowed with polish, an unfamiliar deal table and several chairs now gracing its expanse. “Welcome home.”
Thomas glanced through the open door of the drawing room and gasped at the difference. Gold-patterned silk and pale green paint ornamented the walls, uniting furniture, carpet, and ceiling into an elegant whole. Even the worn green velvet draperies looked better. And other accents had appeared – a pair of marble figures, several paintings, Sevrés bowls and vases, wall sconces, lamps, an ornate ormolu clock on the mantle – reminding him of his mother’s London sitting room in his youth. Clearly, Caroline had been hard at work. Guilt intensified. She was more than upholding their bargain. Given the same budget constraints, not even his mother could have produced a more elegant result.
“Thank you, Peters,” he responded. “Cramer will need help with my luggage. Where will I find my wife?”
“Mrs. Mannering took the dogcart out some time ago, sir, visiting tenants. The Griggs boy is still poorly and Mrs. Hendricks was delivered of a daughter yesterday.”
“Who is driving her?” It could not be Willy, as the groom was even then unharnessing his coach horses. Was Jacobs wasting valuable time squiring Caroline about the estate?
“She drives herself, sir,” explained Peters woodenly. “And quite well, I believe.”
Thomas forbore comment, his guilt now tinged with disappointment and a touch of anger. He had promised to teach her to drive, had even looked forward to it. But she had not waited. A lady relied on her husband for direction.
A country nobody, Alicia’s voice echoed.
He stifled the sound, but the thought remained.
“Is Tibbins about?” With Caroline gone, he might as well move to the next order of business – releasing the bailiff. Graylock had recommended a competent replacement who would arrive in a few days.
Peters flushed. “Ah– Mr. Tibbins is not on the estate at present, sir.”
“Why?” Surprised by the butler’s hesitation, his own unstable emotions lent sharpness to his voice. “Come, come, man, what is going on? Did he run off with the silver?”
Peters coughed discreetly and resumed his wooden mask. “Mrs. Mannering sent him on an unimportant errand to Squire Hatchett of Sheldridge Corners. He was becoming a nuisance, sir, raising unreasonable objections whenever she needed cooperation, particularly over the hiring of additional grounds staff and the repair work she ordered to the drive and water meadow.”
His anger increased. At himself for his absence. At Tibbins for short-sighted incompetence. At Caroline for interfering in estate business. He thrust it down. Gossiping with the butler added yet another crime to his growing list of transgressions.
But by the time he reached the library his temper had abated. Whatever her faults, Caroline had not shirked her duties. Evidence of care abounded – clean, inviting rooms in which worn furnishings were overshadowed by judiciously chosen new wallcoverings, upholstery, or draperies. The attics must have been a treasure-trove, for everywhere he discovered objects he had never seen before.
The morning room contained a pair of watercolors depicting Crawley in better days. One showed the manor, its front magnificently set off by manicu
red shrubbery, riotous plots of colorful flowers, and a well-maintained sweep of drive. The other depicted the panorama of lake and hills seen from the west terrace, the view framed by the graceful arch of an elm tree. Again, the gardens and grounds displayed a perfection that would require years to restore. He studied the paintings for several minutes before choking out a gasp of surprise. The signature on each was Caroline Mannering. Shaking his head, he turned his steps toward the library. Her talents had again exceeded his expectations. While not up to Alicia’s standards, the pictures were quite passable, far better than he would have expected from a vicar’s bluestocking daughter. Few dedicated students had the time to pursue female accomplishments.
The library, too, was transformed, its shelves rearranged so that his own books occupied prominent, easily accessible positions. A portrait of one of his Tudor ancestors hung above the fireplace. The estate records lay open on his desk. A glance showed that Jacobs was following his instructions, that the worst estate problems were being addressed, and that several new employees had been added to both the house and the grounds staffs. He nodded approval. Not until he turned to leave did his eyes suddenly fly back to the ledger. Every entry since his departure was in Caroline’s hand.
Anger blazed in a red haze. She had taken control of Crawley. Not only that, she had the temerity to effect more progress in three weeks than he would have expected in three months. His own efforts seemed paltry in comparison. Her dedication to the success of their partnership contrasted badly with his behavior with Alicia.
Damnation!
How dare she overstep her place? he fumed as he stomped upstairs to be greeted by a bedroom glowing with rich reds and blues (his favorite colors), a better shaving stand ensconced in the corner, and an invitingly comfortable chair drawn up to a welcoming fire. New wallcoverings set off a pair of unfamiliar paintings.
He threw himself across the bed, its unexpectedly soft mattress igniting another wave of fury. Curses flowed freely, lurid enough to burn the ears of the soldiers working outside. All his anger and guilt focused on this new target. Insufferably managing female! Ladies did not trespass on gentlemen’s preserves. How many times had his mother uttered that very statement?
“A lady does not interfere in a gentleman’s business, Emily,” she would declare. “You may be intelligent and better educated than most, but you can never understand a gentleman’s affairs. Nor should you try unless you desire the social censure and ostracism handed out to those who choose bluestocking pursuits over proper ladylike decorum. So never question a gentleman’s judgment.”
Crawley’s transformation was amazing, but she had no business meddling in the estate operation. And certainly no business doing it well. He would be the laughingstock of London if this got out. Thomas Mannering and his paragon of a wife! He’d never be able to set foot in his club again.
But guilt returned and he buried his face in his hands. Who else was in a position to run Crawley? demanded his conscience. The incompetent Tibbins? Jacobs, who was performing the work of two or three men already? The Honourable Thomas Mannering who forgot all responsibility once his eyes encountered Alicia, who preferred dishonorable dalliance to duty, who had undoubtedly called the wrath of God down upon his head, and who had made such a miserable mess of his life he could scarce hold his head up in public? Where had he gone wrong? How could his love for someone so noble recoil into something so base?
Anger, guilt, frustration, longing ... Emotion battled in his head until he dropped into exhausted slumber.
He awakened late in the afternoon to numbed unreality. Cramer brought bathwater in answer to his summons.
“Has my wife returned?” he asked, tossing his crushed cravat and shirt onto the chair.
“Mrs. Mannering is in the drawing room entertaining guests,” the valet responded stiffly. “Will you be joining them, sir?”
“Perhaps. Who is here?”
“Neighbors, I understand.”
“Ah.” He slid into the warm bath. “That will be all, Cramer. Lay out the blue jacket and embroidered waistcoat for dinner. I will wear the brown now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thomas tried to calm his mind as he relaxed in his bath. But try as he might, he could neither identify his problems nor decide how to approach Caroline. His brain was in a state of chaos. Wearily, he toweled off and donned clean clothes. Not until he finished tying his cravat did he notice that Caroline’s toiletries were gone. Lunging through their respective dressing rooms, he halted in amazement in the connecting doorway.
Her room was awash in golds and greens. A patterned carpet in those colors set the tone, with gold velvet draperies, green walls, and vibrantly lustrous oak furniture reflecting the warm afternoon sunlight. Not until he had continued into her sitting room did he realize that none of the furniture matched, and she had settled for painted walls. Clearly she had expended no money on herself. Fury again flared, but he could not explain why. He stared for several minutes, unable to discern the cause for either anger or frustration.
The root of his problem, of course, was his love for Alicia. It had precipitated the crisis resulting in his unwanted marriage and had led to his own dishonorable behavior and subsequent guilt. He had abandoned his responsibilities to sit in her pocket, for her presence kept him at Graystone at least a sennight longer than he would otherwise have stayed. She was the epitome of his ideal wife – beautiful, talented, passionate, yet needing the protection and care of a strong male – a prize to engender envy in the breast of every acquaintance. Caroline approached that ideal only in passion. An admitted bluestocking, in his absence she revealed herself to be managing and competent to an unladylike degree. And alarmingly independent.
In his present mood, he declined to join the company in the drawing room, instead stalking off to the stables. He did observe as he passed, that she was entertaining two gentlemen and three ladies. Anger again flared. The men were young, good looking, and hanging on her every word. She had lost no time in ingratiating herself with the local gentry.
Two strange carriages were drawn up in the stable yard.
“Whose are those?” he asked as Jacobs appeared in the door.
“That one belongs to Squire Perkins, guv. ‘E an’ ‘is wife an’ Miz Barlow is visitin’ with the missus. T’other belongs to Vicar Stokes an’ ‘is sister.”
Negligible callers. She should not get too chummy with them, for they were beneath the dignity of her new position. Dismissing them, he turned his attention to business.
“The stables and paddocks are impressive,” he complimented. “You’ve done well.”
“Thank ye kindly, though ‘tweren’t all my doin’. The missus sent Bob an’ Ted down to Willy with orders to start on the fences afore ever I returned. Later she added Jim an’ Mac to the crew. For all their problems, they work ‘ard.”
“Problems?” He beat down another surge of ire at his wife’s meddling. The results were odiously impressive.
“Cor, guv, I forgets ye don’t know ‘em. Bob’s got a bum leg, Mac’s ‘ip was shot up, Jem took a bullet in the chest that left ‘im short-winded, an’ Ted lost an arm. I didn’t much like hirin’ cripples, guv, but the missus talked me into givin’ ‘em a chance, an’ damned if I weren’t impressed. Ye got yerself a jewel, beggin’ yer pardon. She’s got an ‘eart as big as the earth an’ the sense to match.”
Thomas let this remark go unanswered, instead making a detailed examination of the stable and each of his horses. He paused when he came to the one sorry beast who had come with the estate.
“Now that my cattle are all here, we might as well get rid of Dobbin.”
“I wouldn’t just yet, guv,” ventured Jacobs. “The missus uses ‘im with the dogcart. ‘E’s steady an’ too slow to bolt with ‘er. She’s got a sweet touch on the ribbons, but ain’t ‘ad ‘nough practice to let out alone even with Ajax,” he concluded, naming the gentlest of the carriage horses.
Thomas shuddered. He must find something be
tter for Caroline to drive. Having her plodding around the neighborhood with Dobbin and a dogcart would do nothing to enhance his consequence. Nor would it aid the reputation of his stables.
But planning was difficult for he could not think clearly. His head swirled – anger at the disruption of his life, irritation at Caroline’s independence, chagrin that her accomplishments exceeded his own, guilt over his indiscretions, horror at his treatment of Alicia, longing to hold her again. By the time he entered the drawing room before dinner, his internal war manifested itself as chilly formality.
“Good evening, Caroline.” No trace of charm warmed the aloof voice.
“Good evening, Thomas. I trust you had a pleasant trip.” She chose to be cordial, unsure whether his demeanor stemmed from weariness or anger that she was not Alicia. She had hoped that he would join them while her callers remained. It was time he became acquainted with the neighbors. But she had not missed his black look as he stomped past the drawing room.
“Quite productive.” The suspicion that her felicitations harbored both sarcasm and full knowledge of his activities added chilliness to his tone. “You have been busy, I see. The house is improved.”
“Thank you.”
“When does Tibbins return?”
“Tomorrow.” Should she enumerate her problems with the infuriating bailiff? But he hardly seemed receptive so she remained silent.
“Good. I found a replacement. Talbert arrives next week.”
Peters announced dinner, which they consumed in near silence.
Thomas joined her in bed that evening. Resolved to protect her heart, she welcomed him with appropriate enthusiasm but divorced her mind from the proceedings. He hardly noticed her limited response. Each touch sent images of Alicia blasting through his mind leaving guilt and loathing in their wake. Caught in his own hell of recrimination he brought the encounter to a rapid conclusion and thankfully returned to his own bed. Both lay awake long into the night, dissatisfaction clouding their respective analyses of the future.
