Jack nodded, his expression unexpectedly serious. Folding her gloved hands over his arm, Nessa regarded him curiously. After a walking a minute or two in silence, he spoke.
“Nessa, were you… very much looking forward to Paris?”
She immediately noticed his use of the past tense, and swallowed. He meant to go without her. Perhaps he had intended it all along. Despite a crushing sense of disappointment, pride forced her to say, “A bit, but not so very much. Why?”
He regarded her for a long moment, but she refused to meet his eyes, afraid of what her own might reveal. Instead, she gazed ahead as though trying to spot the brook and held her breath.
“There has been a change in plans. The Duke of Wellington is to leave Paris for Vienna shortly, so my presence is no longer needed.”
Nessa released her breath and lifted wide eyes to his face. “You're not going to Paris?” He shook his head, and relief washed through her. He wasn't leaving her behind after all! “That visitor, just now,” she exclaimed with sudden insight.
“It was the message from Wellington, yes. So you don't mind too terribly?”
She smiled up at him. “I did rather wish to see what all the fuss was about, but I'll be happy to stay in England, as long as I am with you, Jack. Thank you for telling me right away.”
His nod was rather brusque, she thought, as though something in her answer displeased him, though he only said, “Good, good.” He lapsed into silence then, as they continued on their way, leaving her to wonder at his reaction.
Had she been too outspoken about her happiness at being with him? Though they'd spent hours getting to know each other physically, little had been said between them of feelings. While she felt certain that Jack's fondness for her went beyond simple lust, perhaps he was not yet ready for emotional declarations—which she had come perilously close to making just now.
To demonstrate that it had already passed from her mind, she made a general comment about the extent of the orchard, and he replied in kind. She would not allow herself to brood upon the subject. No talk of love had ever entered into her agreement with Jack, nor his with her. 'Twould be absurd to allow sentiment to mar the happiness she had found thus far in marriage.
Compared to her first marriage, to countless marriages she'd seen, theirs had the potential to be exceedingly pleasant, not to mention exciting. That should be good enough for anyone.
Shouldn't it?
~ ~ ~
THAT EVENING, after supper, Jack decided to bring Harry and Peter into his confidence, as part of his decision concerned them. Ushering them into the library, he poured a small measure of brandy for each of them before beginning.
“I received another missive from Wellington today. He's had wind of my title, and now feels I can serve him better here in England, as I have property interests to attend to.”
Harry sat up straighter than Jack had believed him capable this late in the evening. “The devil he did! Rescinded your invitation to Paris? Oh, hard luck, old boy! And after you already got yourself leg-shackled and everything. Well, at least you got the money signed over—didn't you?”
Jack nodded, smiling at his friend's genuine distress on his behalf. “Havershaw signed it over on my very wedding day. I'm not nearly so devastated as you seem to be, I assure you. And you won't be, either, once I've told you the sequel.”
He settled himself into a chair near the fire. “Wellington is going to Vienna, and asked my recommendations for a post or two with him there. I've already dispatched my suggestions. I doubt not you'll be hearing from him before many weeks have passed.”
Harry choked on the sip of brandy he'd injudiciously taken as Jack dropped his bombshell. Coughing and sputtering, eyes streaming, he nevertheless managed a grin. “Damn, that was good of you, Jack,” he said when he could. “Even if Old Nosey laughs and tosses your recommendation in the fire, which is not unlikely, it was a handsome thing for you to do.”
“That it was,” agreed Lord Peter, getting up to slap Harry on the shoulder. “I congratulate you, though I doubt not you'll make poor use of the opportunity. Vienna's even worse than Paris, from what I hear.” His tone was only half jesting.
“All depends on your perspective,” Harry retorted. “I intend to make very good use of some of the opportunities to be found in Vienna—if I get the chance.” He couldn't seem to stop grinning.
Pleased with the result of his news, Jack grinned back at him, then turned to Peter. “You could always go along to keep an eye on our boy, you know. I did mention your suitability as well.”
Lord Peter looked alarmed, then thoughtful. “Should the offer come, I'll give it some consideration. But tell us, Jack, what has Wellington in mind for you to do here in England? Tending your fields is all very nice for the economy, I suppose, but surely it's not all he mentioned?”
Caught off guard, Jack hesitated, then decided against dissembling to these two who knew him best. “No, he seems to think I hold a degree of influence over someone who may have information on certain traitors. He wishes me to exert it.”
“Miranda Dempsey, I'll be bound!” exclaimed Harry, startling Jack with his perspicacity. Drink clearly hadn't fuddled his wits completely. “Heard she was thick with Jameson and Cranshall, who I never trusted a hairsbreadth.”
Jack merely inclined his head slightly. “I'm impressed. It appears my recommendation was more astute than even I guessed.”
But Lord Peter was frowning. “You didn't agree, surely, Jack! You've been married but two days, after all.”
“Puts a new twist on the term 'affairs of state,' don't it?” quipped Harry, earning a glare from both of the others.
“I didn't agree to a dalliance with Miranda, no. But I did offer to find out what I could,” Jack admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his well-upholstered chair.
Peter regarded him shrewdly. “Still can't bear to let the Iron Duke down, can you? He can't have known about your marriage, though, or he'd never have suggested it.”
“Yes, I know. Still… I thought perhaps I could find out something of use, without, er, resuming a relationship with Miranda. She hasn't given up, you know.”
Peter snorted. “That I can well believe. If she can't have your name, she'll settle for your money. But think, Jack!” He was all earnestness now. “How will it look to your wife if you remain on friendly—if not intimate—terms with a former mistress?”
That was the very problem that had plagued Jack since first reading the Duke's letter. “I'll simply make certain she doesn't hear of it,” he replied, with more confidence than he felt. “In any event, I needn't do anything about it one way or the other just yet. We don't return to London until after the holidays.”
They seemed content with that, and the conversation turned back to the Congress of Vienna and the latest news to come out of it. Jack was just as glad. Weighty matters of national security were far less unsettling than those pertaining to his marriage—and his feelings about it.
~ ~ ~
THE NEXT TWO WEEKS passed almost too quickly for Nessa, so enjoyable was this Christmas season, unmarred by the heavy puritanical overtones of all her previous ones.
She found preparing gift baskets of food and other necessities for the poorer villagers particularly satisfying. Together, she and Jack drove or walked about the lands beholden to Foxhaven, delivering the baskets along with well wishes, in what he told her had long been a Foxhaven Christmas custom.
At Fox Manor itself, she reveled in the baking, the roasting and the hanging of greenery, which reached a frenzied peak on Christmas Eve. Prudence, however, voiced some reservations.
“Ought you really to condone such things, Nessa?” she asked as they watched the hanging of yet another enormous kissing bough, this one in the morning room. “Father always said such things were pagan barbarisms.”
“He said that of the yule log as well, Prudence, but we intend to have one tonight—in fact, here come the men now from their expedition to find a suitable one
. Why do you not ask Philip what he thinks of these traditions?”
Prudence obediently approached her husband, where he had paused under the just-hung mass of greenery, ribbons and mistletoe. To Nessa's delight, her brother-in-law was not at all slow to take advantage of time-honored custom, reaching up to pluck a mistletoe berry before claiming a resounding kiss from his startled wife.
“Philip!” Cheeks scarlet as the ribbons above them, Prudence glanced wildly about at the appreciative onlookers.
“I believe you may take that as an answer to the question you were about to ask,” Nessa suggested wickedly.
Prudence sent her a speaking glance, but then she smiled shyly up at her husband. “Have you felt deprived of Christmas traditions these past few years, my lord?”
Philip encircled his wife's shoulders with an arm and gave her a quick hug. “Only a bit, my dear. Not enough to make you uncomfortable over. I know you were not brought up to them.”
Prudence's brow furrowed prettily as she considered his words, but she said nothing. Shortly thereafter, the men went back outdoors to strip the remaining branches from the yule log before bringing it in, and Nessa took the opportunity for a few more words with her sister on the subject.
“Are you still opposed to celebrating Christmas, Prudence? Everyone else seems to enjoy it enormously.”
Again her sister looked thoughtful. “Yes, they do. Even Philip.” Nessa had been pleased to note that she often called her husband by his Christian name now, unless many people were present.
“Perhaps 'tis not such a pagan thing to do after all,” Nessa suggested. “It occurs to me that many of the traditions Father despised involve charity to one's fellow man—Boxing Day, gift baskets to the poor, that sort of thing. How can such customs possibly violate the spirit of the season?”
Prudence nodded. “I believe you may be right, Nessa. Father, for all his virtue, was not a particularly charitable man.”
Though she said nothing more, Nessa took great hope from that statement, the first one critical of their father that she'd ever heard Prudence utter. Yes, her sister was well on her way to becoming her own person—and a far happier one, she suspected.
Celebrating with the villagers and servants in the biggest of the barns on Boxing Day, Nessa found that Jack and Philip enjoyed children as much as she and Prudence did. She watched with delight as they carried a succession of little boys about on their shoulders and danced with every little girl old enough to stand.
When the motley group of local musicians struck up a waltz, Jack charmed the assembly by dancing it with his wife. Nessa was pleased to see that most of the local lasses appeared to have accepted her already. Glancing to her right, she was even more pleased— and amazed—to see Prudence and Philip waltzing!
“You were splendid!” she declared to them when the dance was over. “However did you convince her to learn, Philip?”
Her brother-in-law chuckled. “Actually, it was her suggestion. It began with a private lesson in a corridor at the Hightower ball, followed by—” But at this point he was silenced by a poke in the ribs from a blushing— but smiling— Prudence.
“No matter. I'm happy for you both,” said Nessa sincerely. For a moment she felt the faintest twinge of old envy, but pushed it aside.
Time enough once the festivities were over to worry about the emotional state of her own marriage. For now, she was content with the novel joys of the season—and of the marriage bed, where her education continued apace.
At times, Nessa almost wondered how she could ever have found lovemaking distasteful. Then she would remember Lord Haughton and shudder, turning to Jack with renewed gratitude for everything he'd shown her marriage could hold. If a tiny voice murmured, everything but love, she ignored it. She and Jack had affection and trust, which was surely more than many couples shared.
Throughout the Twelve Days of Christmas, they discovered more and more interests in common. Nessa beat Jack at whist, and he taught her to play vingt-et-un and euchre. When the weather permitted, they took more and longer walks until she felt familiar with most of the Foxhaven estate and longed to see it in other seasons. Never much of a horsewoman, Jack taught her some of the finer points of riding until she began to enjoy the exercise and even earned his grudging praise.
When sleet drove everyone indoors, they discussed books. To her surprise, Jack had read most of the same ones she had, with both professing a fondness for the tales of Walter Scott— novels of the sort Nessa had always been obliged to read in secret.
All too soon, Twelfth Night arrived. On the morrow, January seventh, they were all to head back to London. The decorations were taken down and, after dinner, the Twelfth Cake was brought in to close the holiday season.
Jack raised his glass. “To good times and good friends. May we often gather again in the future.”
All drank to that, Harry draining his glass as was his wont and signaling the servant to refill it. He then lifted his own goblet for a toast. “To our host, Jack, the best of good friends. May Wellington's faith in you be justified, as well as yours in me. I wish you the best of both worlds,” he concluded, with a broad wink.
Though Nessa didn't understand the reference, she drank with the rest.
~ ~ ~
JACK COULD SEE that Nessa was not as impressed by her first sight of his London house as she had been by Fox Manor. Though she politely refrained from making any criticism of Foxhaven House, she looked about at the dark front hallway with its nude statuary, gilt ornaments and hunting trophies with something akin to horror.
Seeing it through her eyes, he was inclined to agree. In the first flush of excitement at his newfound wealth and title, he'd filled the Town house with various things he'd collected over his years of wandering, in an attempt to make it feel like home. The result was… tasteless, to say the least.
“You'll, er, want to redecorate, most likely,” he said cautiously. “I rather threw things in any which way after I inherited last autumn.”
Nessa seemed to breathe a bit easier. “I believe I would prefer to make a few changes, if you won't mind terribly.”
Jack grinned at her diplomacy. “Oh, it's dreadful and I know it. I should have left well enough alone, of course, but now I give you free rein to do what you like with it. I've no doubt you'll do me proud.”
She colored slightly, but lifted her chin. “I'll do my best. But perhaps I should see what other atrocities you've committed before making any bold claims.”
Jack took her through the four story house, holding his breath each time he opened a door, trying to recall what might be waiting on the other side.
“Never tell me this belonged to your grandmother,” exclaimed Nessa, holding up an extremely sheer scarlet negligee she found in her own wardrobe. “Nor these!” Reaching in again, she produced a pair of lacy black garters adorned with saucy red ribbons.
Vividly remembering the evening— and the party—that had occasioned those particular garments being left in this particular room, Jack could only groan. Had it really been only four months ago? What a wastrel he'd been!
But Nessa was chuckling. “Oh, come, Jack. I'll not hold you accountable for everything you did before we married—or even met. 'Twas the fact that you were a rake which first fascinated me, if you recall. Don't worry that I'll become missish now, when I find occasional evidence of it.”
He managed a crooked grin, remembering his promise to Wellington. “Not many wives would be so understanding, I suspect. Shall we have a ball to introduce the new Lady Foxhaven to Society, and to show off the house when it is done?”
The twinkle in her eyes told him she was aware he had deliberately changed the subject, but she answered readily enough. “Of course. It will be an essential step in restoring you to respectability. I'm not certain how long these renovations will take, however, so let's not send out the invitations just yet.”
~ ~ ~
OVER THE NEXT week or two, however, Jack had occasion to wonder more tha
n once whether respectability was worth the cost. A continuous stream of tradesmen came to call, with samples of wallpaper, fabrics, carpet, and every other item that might conceivably play a role in redecorating a house. Nessa reviewed everything, made choices, and directed the resultant workmen.
Soon, no room was safe. Bolts of fabric, rolls of paper, tubs of glue, and boxes of pins were everywhere. The furniture went missing or in pieces as it was reupholstered, windows went uncurtained, and all was in disarray.
At first Jack felt like a coward taking refuge at his club, but soon even that offered scant relief. Wellington had written asking Harry and Peter to precede him to Vienna, and they had gone at once. Few of his other erstwhile cronies had yet returned to Town. Staring morosely out The Guards' front window at White's across the street, he decided he needed a change.
Back outside, he considered White's again, wondering whether his reputation was restored enough to attempt entry there. Deciding not to risk it just yet, he turned to stroll aimlessly down St. James Street, considering various other clubs. Brooks', Boodle's, Arthur's, Graham's— none really appealed. Instead, he found his steps turning to Jermyn Street, home of some of his old, disreputable haunts.
“Jack, m'boy!” exclaimed a once-familiar voice as he passed one of the more notorious gaming hells. “Didn't know you were back in Town. Let me buy you a drink, for old times' sake.”
“Hello, Ferny,” he greeted the obviously tipsy young man. “How have you been?”
Lord Fernworth shook his head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “It ain't been the same with you gone, and that's the truth.” Jack did not resist when he took him by the arm and led him inside. “And then to take Pete and Harry away as well! I ask you!” He signaled for wine and a pretty serving wench obliged.
“Now you're back,” he continued as their glasses were filled, “things are bound to improve. Look at this lot.” He gestured around the large room in disgust. “Not a decent card player in the bunch, or none willing to play for decent stakes. How much fun can one have in a hole like this, anyway? But with you back at Foxhaven House…”
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