Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Shaking his head, Silas said, “No, no, the arm is healing fine. I was, ah, just thinking about Canfield’s death. It’ll come as a shock to my nephew and my nieces.”

  “Would you like me to tell them?” Luc asked. “It would be best if the news is not delayed. I’m sure by now word has spread through the village.”

  “Yes, perhaps it would be best if the news came from you. They’ll be full of questions and I’d have to defer them to you anyway.”

  Rejoining the others in the morning room shortly, at a nod from Silas, Luc said gravely, “I’m afraid that I arrived with bad news. I’ve already told your uncle and we determined that there was nothing to be gained from hiding the truth from you.”

  Both women stared at him with big eyes and anxious expressions; Stanley regarded him with a frown. Taking a deep breath, Luc said, “It is my unhappy task to inform you that Lord George Canfield died last night in a fall over the cliff near the Seven Sisters.”

  The ladies gasped, horror on their pretty faces. Stanley stiffened and stared hard at Luc. “An accident?” Stanley questioned sharply.

  Luc looked at him and nodded. “Yes. He was with Squire Townsend and Mr. Nolles and apparently the three of them had imbibed a bit too freely. Canfield’s horse acted up too near the cliff’s edge and unfortunately horse and rider went over.”

  It was very hard for Gillian to work up much sympathy for Canfield, but while she despised him, she hadn’t wanted him dead and she said softly, “Oh, what a sad fate. I’m sure his family is devastated.”

  “To be sure,” chimed in Sophia, although she suspected that perhaps only his mother would mourn Canfield’s passing. She glanced at Stanley. Her cousin was trying very hard to put a good face on it, but even a fool could see that while he was shocked, Canfield’s death didn’t affect him.

  Unaware of it, Stanley echoed Silas’s remark. “I’m sorry to learn of his death, but I can only be glad that he was no longer staying here.”

  Canfield’s death held their attention for a brief time and then the conversation shifted to the dinner at Windmere this evening.

  Gillian sent Luc a shy smile and murmured, “Lord and Lady Joslyn and Mrs. Townsend have been most generous in offering to host a dinner for us tonight.” A blush stained her cheeks. “They didn’t have much time to plan it, but I understand that the response has been gratifying.”

  Luc laughed, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Refuse an invitation to Windmere? No one in the neighborhood would dare—Cornelia would come after them with her cane.”

  Silas chuckled. “Indeed, her cane is a great incentive to do exactly as she wants.”

  Luc offered to escort them to Windmere, but Silas waved him away. “Oh, pish-posh! With Stanley and myself at her side, your betrothed is quite safe. There’s no reason for you to ride all the way here, then to Windmere and back again before riding to Ramstone. We’ll see you there.” He winked at Gillian and grinned at Luc. “After eleven o’clock tomorrow morning she will be your responsibility. Until then allow an old man that pleasure.”

  Gillian’s ruffled look made Luc laugh, and after agreeing with Silas, Luc said, “Until this evening then.” And departed.

  Emily and Cornelia had drawn up their list of dinner guests very carefully. It was not to be a large gathering, but they wanted to ensure that Luc and Gillian suffered as little ostracism as possible that the sudden marriage by special license might cause amongst the local gentry. Lord and Lady Broadfoot could be relied upon to treat the newlyweds with friendliness—Luc’s activities with young Harlan that night was not forgotten. Sir Michael and his wife, the parents of Barnaby’s house steward and secretary, Tilden, could be counted upon to do whatever they could to smooth the path of Barnaby’s half brother and his bride. And, of course, Vicar Smythe and his imperturbable wife, Penelope, would do everything in their power to ensure the gentry welcomed the young couple to their ranks. Naturally, Simon and Mathew would be present and neither Emily nor Cornelia doubted that they would close ranks behind Luc and Gillian.

  “At least the numbers are even, if not the sexes,” Emily murmured as she went over the guest lists that Friday afternoon.

  “Can’t be helped. Sixteen for dinner is enough for a ‘family’ party.” She smiled at Emily. “Especially with you looking as if you could go into labor at any moment.”

  Emily giggled. “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

  Cornelia stared at her great-niece with deep affection. The pregnancy was well advanced, but except for the impressive mound where her stomach had been, Emily looked as lovely as she ever had. There was sparkle in the gray eyes, her skin glowed and there seemed to be a constant, happy flush to her cheeks. Marriage and pregnancy agreed with her and Cornelia thanked God every day for sending Barnaby into their lives. And Emily, she added with a smile, for having the good sense to fall madly in love with him. It had helped, she thought, that Barnaby had been equally, madly in love with her great-niece.

  Thinking of Barnaby and Emily and their happiness, she frowned. She had a soft spot in her heart for the gambler Luc and had suffered some anxious moments since learning he was set on marrying Gillian Dashwood. Hearing he’d bought Ramstone had pleased her and she’d hoped that a suitable wife would appear on his horizon before too long. Her lips twisted. She hadn’t expected one to appear within days and Gillian Dashwood didn’t precisely fit her idea of “suitable.” But Gillian was the woman Luc had chosen, for whatever reasons, and she had her suspicions about that, and Cornelia would do her best to accept his choice. All she wanted, she admitted, was for Luc to find the same sort of happiness Barnaby and Emily shared and she wasn’t convinced, not yet, that Gillian was going to provide it. Time would tell and by God, she thought, if she makes him miserable ... Her fingers tightened on her walnut cane and her eyes narrowed. I’ll just have to put a spoke in her wheel, she decided, an unholy smile on her face.

  “What are you thinking?” Emily demanded, seeing that smile.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing in particular,” Cornelia replied, her expression changing in an instant to one of guileless innocence. “Now what do you think of some hothouse lilies for the table tonight?” she asked, distracting Emily.

  Gillian had not been looking forward to dining at Windmere. Not only did she shrink from what she feared would be a gauntlet of critical eyes, the news of Canfield’s death had shaken her. Like her uncle, once the initial shock of Canfield’s demise had passed, her thoughts turned to those damnable, damnable vowels.

  Even as she bathed and dressed for the evening, her attention was on the whereabouts of Charles’s vowels. Had Canfield left them in London? Or had he brought them with him? At this very moment, was someone going through his belongings at The Ram’s Head and finding them? Misery balled in her chest at the idea of another person laying hands on them. Charles might be dead, but the thousands of pounds those vowels represented were still a debt to be paid.

  As the carriage bumped and rattled its way toward Windmere, she only half-listened to the conversation between Silas and the others, her thoughts on those vowels ... and Luc. The man she was marrying tomorrow. A horrible thought crossed her mind. As her husband, since she did not possess the means to retrieve them, it would fall to Luc to make good on that debt. Compelled by convention to marry her, Luc might now be dunned for payments of her late husband’s vowels. She faced a wicked dilemma. Should she tell him? Before they married? Or wait and pray to God the vowels never surfaced? Her lips drooped. The latter was unlikely to happen. The vowels existed, and someone, sooner or later, would find them. What a wretched coil!

  Slapping a smile on her face and rousing her failing spirits, Gillian stepped from the coach. Like a soldier girded for battle, she entered Windmere. To her amazement with all the unpleasantness lurking at the back of her mind, Gillian enjoyed the dinner at Windmere and basked in the approval and friendliness being showered upon her. She’d have been an ill-tempered Jade beyond pleasing, she reminded herself, not to
have found the evening delightful.

  Everything was beautifully prepared, from the white linen expanse of the table, to the exotically scented pink and white lilies and lacy green ferns that graced it. The food was superb, each elegant and delicious dish followed by another more elegant and delicious than the first: Beef à la Royal, buttered lobsters, leg of mutton with cauliflower and spinach, pullets with chestnuts and several side dishes. And the company! These people raising their glasses in toast after toast were aristocrats, the elite of the area, and they had come to honor her and Luc, she thought, flattered and much affected. Something approaching joy bubbled through her, and for just a bit she was able to put away her doubts and forget all the troubles that beset her.

  Her eyes bright, a dazzling smile dimpling into view, she pretended that Luc loved her and for a precious few moments convinced herself that their marriage was going to be gloriously happy. Her gaze slid to Luc, and beneath her apricot and champagne silk gown, her heart thumped pleasurably. The candlelight picking out blue glints in his black hair, his teeth flashing in his handsome face when he laughed and wearing a burgundy coat with black lapels, his cravat glistening whitely against the fabric, he looked every maiden’s dream.

  It was late in the evening when Lord Joslyn put her hand on his arm and murmured, “Allow me to steal you away for a few minutes and show you my conservatory.” He smiled. “I’m told that it is superb.”

  With quaking nerves Gillian allowed Viscount Joslyn to guide her away from the others, knowing it wasn’t to see the justly famous Joslyn conservatory that he’d cut her out from the rest. Strolling through the exotic plants—banana trees, orchids and tropical ferns—Barnaby said, “It’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

  Gillian peeped up at him. She was aware that he wasn’t talking about his conservatory, but seeing the kindness in his dark eyes, she muttered, “You must think our marriage is rather sudden.”

  “It is, but nothing my brother does surprises me much.” His gaze intent upon her face, he asked bluntly, “Do you love him?”

  Caught off guard, the truth popped out before she could stop it. “Yes, I do.”

  She could be lying, but Barnaby thought not. He’d sprung the question on her deliberately and the look in her eyes and the huskiness of her voice told him as much as her answer. Gillian Dashwood might come with a questionable past, but the only thing that mattered to Barnaby was whether she loved Luc or not. He’d noted the looks she’d lavished on Luc tonight when she thought no one was looking, and he’d been confident her affections were involved, but he’d wanted to hear her say the words and judge for himself her sincerity.

  He eyed her critically, thinking that she was a taking little thing. Luc was certainly smitten. Barnaby had reservations about the suddenness of the marriage and Luc’s choice, but he was going to have to trust Luc’s instincts ... and his own. From all he’d seen and heard, though she came with some baggage, he decided she might do very well for Luc.

  Barnaby patted her hand. “Good! Luc deserves to be loved.” He winked at her. “Even if at times he arouses within one the most barbaric and unloving urge to throttle him.” Smiling more warmly at her than he had all evening, he added softly, “Welcome to the family, my dear.”

  Chapter 17

  Upon Gillian’s return to High Tower, Silas asked for a private word with her. A spurt of unease darted through her as she followed her uncle into his study and took the chair he indicated. Seated behind his desk, the gentle smile he sent her way banished her unease.

  “Tomorrow you will marry Luc Joslyn,” he began, “and I admit that it is my dearest wish. I am very fond of both of you, and almost from the moment I met him, I thought that he would make you a good husband.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “You wanted me to marry him?”

  “Indeed. I can think of no other man who would suit you as well.”

  “But he’s a gambler! Just like Charles.”

  “No, my dear, Luc is many things, but he bears no resemblance to your late and, I must confess, unlamented husband.” Fixing a stern eye on her, he said, “Luc gambles, but he is not a gambler in the truest sense of the word. I’ve watched him over the months and I know the difference. His success is proof of what I say. He does not play foxed, or throw good money after bad—especially when the cards run against him. I have seen him put a small fortune on the table over the course of an evening when luck was on his side, but I’ve never seen him wager more than he can afford to lose. You’ll not find his vowels scattered all across England.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “It should. Luc may have his faults, but you need never fear that he will place you in the position that Charles did.” His face hardened. “Either leaving you as near to penniless as makes no never mind or expecting you to whore to pay off his debts.” His expression softened. “I don’t bring this up to distress you, my dear, but to make you understand that we are talking about two entirely different men. If I thought for one moment that Luc would use you badly, scandal be damned, I’d do everything in my power to prevent the marriage.”

  She stared down at her hands folded in her lap. “Thank you for that,” she murmured, comforted by his words. Perhaps Luc wasn’t like Charles, but Charles’s vowels certainly haunted their prospects for happiness. Meeting her uncle’s eyes, she said, “The vowels ... with Canfield dead, who knows where they may surface.”

  He sighed, nodding. “We were foolish to think that the problem had gone away simply by your moving in here. The vowels were still out there and we should have done something to wrest them from Canfield’s hands.”

  “Ever since we learned of Canfield’s death, those vowels have been on my mind—I don’t know what to do,” Gillian confessed. “Should I tell Luc? And when? Right before I marry him tomorrow morning? Or right after?” She glanced away. “It is bad enough that I’m marrying him with hardly more than the clothes on my back and under these circumstances, but it seems prodigiously unfair to saddle him with Charles’s debts.”

  “Ah, well, that brings me to the reason I wanted to speak with you tonight.” He smiled at her. “You are not going to Luc as poor as you think. I have settled a nice little sum of money on you, and he and I have worked out a satisfactory settlement.” At her raised brow, he added hastily, “Yes, yes, I know that as a widow you have the right to make decisions, but Luc was very fair and generous. No matter what happens, you will never find yourself without money again.”

  Gillian stared at her uncle, her ire dying away. How could she be angry with him? He was being kinder and more generous than she deserved. “You are too good to me and ... and I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I cannot let you do it.”

  “You can’t stop me, gel. It’s already done.” He wagged a finger at her. “And I’ll hear none of this ‘it’s unfair to my brother and my cousin.’ I’m a wealthy man—wealthier than most people know. I always intended to ensure that you and Sophy, as well as your brother, were well taken care of. Of course, Stanley was always in line to inherit High Tower and I’ll not deny that I had my doubts about the boy, but these past weeks have made me see that he’s got a good head on his shoulders—when he uses it.” He scratched his chin. “His inheritance of High Tower will hopefully be awhile yet, but there’s no reason that I can’t give the three of you an independence now.” When Gillian opened her lips to protest, he glared at her. “It’s my money and I’ll spend it as I see fit. Better all of you have some enjoyment of my money while I’m alive to see it than wait until I’m cold in the ground.” Working himself up into a fine temper, he growled, “And you’re a damned ungrateful little wretch if you dare throw my money back in my face. Denying an old man his happiness, why it don’t bear thinking about.”

  Her heart overflowing with love for him, laughing and crying, Gillian rushed over to fling her arms around Silas’s neck and press a kiss to his wrinkled cheek. “Oh, Uncle Silas! You are the sweetest, most gen
erous man I know. I’ll try not to be an ungrateful little wretch. Thank you.”

  Mollified, he patted her arm. “Now that’s better,” he muttered. “And don’t you be fretting and thinking I gave you more than the others. I didn’t. You’ve each gotten an equal amount.” He gave her a sly look. “Of course, I haven’t told them yet. Intend to do that tomorrow afternoon once all the fuss with your wedding and such is behind us, so you keep a closed mouth.”

  Wiping away her tears, she smiled at him. “It will be our secret.”

  “Good. You run off to bed now and don’t worry about those blasted vowels. If Luc has to buy them up—it’ll be my money that does so. You’ll have no reason to feel guilty or beholden to him over it.”

  Gillian didn’t think it would be as simple or as easy as Silas made it sound, but her heart and her step were lighter as she sped up the stairs to her room.

  As Gillian headed for her room at High Tower, at The Ram’s Head, a man was sneaking into Canfield’s rooms. He’d hoped to make this search the previous night while the inhabitants at the tavern were excited and agitated about the news of Canfield’s death, but an opportunity had not presented itself. He’d fretted all day, afraid someone else would be ahead of him in searching Canfield’s things, but Nolles had indicated that Constable Ragland had locked the door and pocketed the keys pending the inquest and the arrival of the family. It had been good news, but he could wait no longer. Making an excuse, he’d slipped away from his friends and disappeared upstairs. As Nolles had said, the door was locked, but he made short work of it and, opening the door, slipped into the room.

  Shutting the door behind him, he lit a small candle. He worried that the light could be seen beneath the door, but he’d have to risk it—and hope he’d hear the approach of anyone in time to snuff the candle. One ear cocked for the sound of someone coming up the stairs, he searched through the dead man’s belongings. He found little that did him any good until he discovered, hidden behind the lining of a traveling valise, Charles Dashwood’s vowels.