Love's Tangle

by Goddard, Isabelle

  “He was a bitter and tyrannical man—a despot in fact.”

  The words were stark and she looked appalled. He tried to sugar the pill. “There was very little to like about my uncle but living with Aunt Louisa would make any man surly, particularly if he’d been forced—as now seems likely—to abandon the woman he loved.”

  “He showed you little affection?”

  “None whatsoever. And Aunt Louisa, if anything, was colder. We were nuisances to them, burdens they had been left with by my parents’ death. And they made us feel that burden every minute of every day. To be fair, being an unwilling guardian to two spirited boys is a test of anyone’s temper.”

  “You were very naughty, I imagine.”

  “We were guilty of mischief but only what every boy worth his salt gets up to. I remember we stole one of his guns once which sent him into a paroxysm. Luckily it wasn’t loaded. But we did get to stage a military parade up and down the drive for at least an hour before he caught us.”

  “And then you became real soldiers.” A dark shadow crossed his face. “Tell me about life in the army,” she said hurriedly.

  He began to drum his hands on the carpet. “Strangely enough, it was wonderful. Terrifying for much of the time, but wholly exhilarating. I would not have missed the Peninsular campaign for the world. The privations only served to make me realize I was alive.”

  She looked wistful. “Men may face danger and hardship but in some ways they are more fortunate. A woman could never experience one half of what you have known.”

  “Not always fortunate. There are some things a woman escapes and a man cannot—the bonds of inheritance, for instance. I was forced to leave the army, forced to sell out after Charles decided to break his neck.”

  She stared at him. “That sounds as though you think your uncle’s action was deliberate.”

  “It’s not unlikely. He died two months after the Battle of Vitoria. That was where Jonathan fell.”

  He was seared by the old recurring pain but for some reason he wanted to keep talking. “My brother was always his favorite—far more biddable, far less difficult than me. Charles never had children of his own and Jonathan became his project.”

  “It’s strange he had no children.”

  “Ironic. That hit me the other day. Aunt Louisa must have been barren and the one child he had, he refused to acknowledge.”

  “But I was a girl, so not much use as an heir.”

  “Neither was Jonty in the end. That was Charles’ final disappointment in life, I guess.”

  “Perhaps he lost more than an heir,” she suggested tentatively. “The strict discipline he imposed on your brother could have masked a genuine warmth.”

  “Hardly. It was as though Jonty was a cadet and Uncle Charles his commander.”

  “And you?”

  “I was considered worthless.”

  “But you became a soldier,” she protested, her voice shocked. “That is hardly worthless. And now you are a great landowner with hundreds of people depending on you. If your uncle were here now, he would be made to eat his words.”

  Without thinking, he moved closer. “You have a fearlessness about you that I admire greatly, Elinor.”

  An awkward silence fell between them and her voice was unusually bright when she spoke again. “These old maps are fascinating.”

  “Fascinating,” he murmured.

  “You’re not looking!”

  “Indeed I am.” He was unable to resist gazing at her. Her eyes this morning were of the palest green and her fine black brows a splendid frame. He saw her cheeks fire red and dropped his glance immediately. But he continued to sit beside her as she leafed through a sheaf of old engravings she had found.

  “The land your family owned must have been extensive.” She was pointing to a detailed drawing of the plantation. “Look at the size and number of the fields and see how many cabins have been built for the slaves.”

  She picked up another of the engravings and waved it in the air. It was the image of a black woman dressed in a long flowered skirt and a matching bandana. “She does not seem too unhappy …I wonder …oh but…” And she held up the next sheet of paper for them both to see. It was a sketch of an overseer, his hair matted, his face scowling against the sun, hands large and rough and holding a whip.

  “His body is contorted with anger.” She shivered slightly though the library was already warm from the morning sun. “I would not wish to be under the control of such a one.”

  He remembered seeing that engraving as a child and having nightmares for weeks afterwards. Elinor had a facility for the visual that must come from her mother, he thought. It was the strangest business. Uncle Charles. Who would have thought it? Such an authoritarian! Such a martinet! But he could not always have been so. Once he must have been young and in love and the result was sitting very close, her shoulders touching his, her hands almost touching his. Actually touching if he, too, took hold of the engraving. He did and there was a momentary shock as his skin met hers. She looked up, her eyes startled but unfathomable.

  “Forgive my clumsiness,” he said hastily. “The picture is already fragile and I came close to tearing it. It is as well you are the archivist and not me.”

  He longed to touch her again and a rush of feeling threatened disaster. But before he could succumb, the door opened to admit Celia Frant.

  “Ah Gabriel, you’re here.”

  “As you see, aunt.” It was possibly the only time in his life he had been pleased to see his relative.

  “Summers tells me the tailor awaits you in your room. He has traveled from Brighton and is anxious to return this day. I am sure our little friend is more than capable of spring cleaning alone.”

  Gabriel got to his feet. He had stayed far too long. Over the past few days he had been successful in keeping his distance from Elinor—an hour at dinner each evening, the occasional brief acknowledgement if they passed in the house. But today his carefully constructed defenses had fallen. It wasn’t just that her beauty mesmerized him. He felt at ease in her company, that was the damnable thing. There was something about the girl that made him want to talk, to confide, in a fashion that was wholly foreign to him. That business about his childhood, for instance. He’d told her his parents’ deaths meant nothing to him but she seemed to know differently; she had awakened memories he’d banished long ago.

  Two small boys left to find their way alone in life. He remembered nights weeping into his pillow when only Jonty’s arms around him could lull him to sleep. He remembered dreaming of his parents so vividly that he was sure they were there in the room with him. His mother, small and dainty, her delicate face framed by soft ringlets, smiling down with loving eyes. There she was at the door, kissing him as if she would never stop and his father hoisting him up on his shoulders for a final farewell. But the dreams always turned to nightmares. Time after time he was taken to a very different room. Large trees loomed at the window, their fronds waving wildly from the ocean gusts. It was hot, sticky, and the smell of disease pervaded everything. His mother and father were in the room, lying on separate beds; so many miles from home, so many miles from their children. Their skin was blanched, whiter than the sheets that covered them, white and glistening with sweat. They were ill, dying, and no one could save them. He could not save them.

  Jonty had looked out for his small brother from the moment he realized their parents were not coming back. He had defended him from hostility, protected him from their guardians’ anger. He was strong and courageous and even Charles had felt pride in the heir he had groomed. But Gabriel had been considered a shadow of his brother, one to be ruled by his uncle’s iron fist and treated with disdain by his aunt. He had grown the necessary shell, over time transmuted into physical courage—one could not else be a soldier—but the sorrows of childhood were not so easily forgotten. When Jonathan died, the only good thing, the only true feeling from a miserable past died with him. No wonder he’d felt forsaken.

&n
bsp; For months he’d refused to think about his brother’s death, refused to accept his loss, for then he could pretend that somewhere in the world Jonathan still lived. Instead he had thrown himself into every kind of rout and rumpus. That earlier madness might be over but he never wanted to feel again and Elinor was a danger. Not that he would ever love her, for he had not the capacity to love, but that she might become too important to him. He must not allow that to happen.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning Elinor was alone at the breakfast table when a sharp rap on the window caused her to choke on a half-eaten muffin. To her amazement, she saw Gabriel framed in the glass, urgently beckoning her out of the house. He looked harassed and irritated in equal measure.

  She hesitated. Yesterday in the library she had behaved imprudently, summoning him close and exposing herself to a perilous distraction. He had a body to melt into if one were foolish enough and it had been hard to remember that she was not, and that the bluest of blue eyes would not persuade her otherwise. She could hardly refuse his command, though, and stopped only to fling a wool cape around her shoulders before making her way through the huge oak door that guarded the rear entrance of the Hall. The weather had turned cool and the July sky hung low and grey. She had hardly put her foot on the path when Gabriel grabbed her by the arm and towed her hastily towards the sheltered enclosure of the kitchen garden. Several men were busily trimming the fan of peach trees which clung in delicate patterns to the walls of warm red brick. Planted squarely across the path ahead, Mr. Hepburn, hands on hips, stood implacable.

  “Elinor, do you know anything about this?” the duke demanded.

  “This” turned out to be a wide scattering of earth and two large, ragged holes which between them had managed to upend a cluster of infant camellia bushes. She could have laughed aloud but for the head gardener’s thunderous expression.

  “I don’t generally engage in digging,” she said calmly, “and when I do, I find a spade is very helpful.”

  “It’s not you personally, Miss,” the gardener puffed, shifting his bulk from one leg to another. “It’s the dawg.”

  She looked bemused. “The dog,” Gabriel interpreted. “That benighted scrap of fur and bones belonging to my aunt.”

  “Caesar? What about him?”

  “Apparently you’ve been seen taking him for walks.”

  “Twice, in fact. And…”

  “Hepburn was wondering,” the duke said carefully, “whether on the two walks you took with this animal, you noticed Caesar attacking these bushes.”

  “Naturally, it’s just the kind of thing one does notice.” Her sarcasm was heavy, for she was annoyed she had been pointlessly called from her breakfast. “I stood by and watched with interest while the dog effectively killed them.”

  “I think we can take that as a no, Hepburn. I will speak to my aunt.”

  “You better, Your Grace. If ’tis that narsty little termagant, I won’t be responsible for what I do to ’im.”

  Gabriel nodded brusquely and chivvied Elinor through the brick archway. Once outside the garden, he turned to her with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry to drag you from the house but Hepburn was so incensed I feared he might suffer an apoplexy. I thought it best to defuse the situation.”

  “I defused it?”

  “Your mockery at least put an end to his complaints.”

  Elinor’s lips twitched into a wry smile. “His guess is probably right. Caesar has a penchant for digging.”

  “Why my aunt has to bring her wretched animal up to the Hall!”

  “I believe Roland is at Hurstwood for some days and she cannot leave the dog on its own.”

  “To my knowledge the Dower House has a battalion of servants.”

  “Yes, but Caesar bites their ankles and they refuse to be left with him.”

  “The dog has no discernment. What’s wrong with Roland’s ankles?”

  “Why do you dislike your cousin so much?” It was a question she had long wanted to ask and she received a candid answer.

  “He is sly, manipulative, a born sycophant.” Her face must have expressed surprise at the forcefulness of his response, for he finished by saying in a milder voice, “Let’s just say we don’t deal well together.”

  She thought it best not to pursue the topic and turned instead to the garden. “Mr. Hepburn grows the most amazing hibiscus.” They were passing the deep flower beds which lay beneath the breakfast room window.

  “Just look at that beauty,” and she cupped one of the blooms in her hand and bent her head to study it. “My mother would have loved to have seen these. She enjoyed growing unusual plants. Bath suffers from a deal of rain but the climate is mild and she was successful with all kinds of tropical flowers.”

  His glance was gentle. “You must miss her very much.”

  “I loved her dearly,” she said simply.

  “You have had a painful time of it, Elinor. Not only have you lost your parent but an entire way of life. It was brave of you to leave Bath and make a new start.”

  “You called me brave yesterday. Fearless, I think you said. You may think me such but I am not, and you are someone who must know. You were a soldier—that takes true courage.”

  He moved a little closer and his deep blue eyes were searching. “There are different kinds of courage. To leave shelter and walk into the unknown is to my mind very brave.”

  “Not when the only shelter offered is the poorhouse.”

  He gave a low whistle. “Was it as bad as that? Surely one of your acquaintance, one of your mother’s acquaintance, could have helped you in your trouble.”

  “There was nobody to whom I could confess my poverty.”

  “After all those years in Bath, you had no close friends?”

  “None.” She looked up at him and studied his face, thinking how comfortable it would be if he were her friend. “After she died, several of my mother’s former customers very kindly invited me to stay with them but I always refused.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I never felt it right. I had no way of returning their invitation and I would not have enjoyed playing the poor orphan.”

  He smiled appreciatively. “I’m sure you would not. But anyone less like a poor orphan is difficult to imagine.”

  He was looking at her in a way that made her ache with hardly understood emotions. “Here, have this,” and in an instant he’d swooped down to pick the exquisite flower she had admired. She took the flower and felt his hands enfold hers. For a moment she was pressed to his body, her breasts crushed against him in a tingle of anticipation. His mouth was brushing the top of her head, his lips caressing the tangle of her hair. She was filled with the most intense longing, to fit her arms around him, to pull him closer and closer until she and he were one single body. She looked up and saw in his eyes the same naked desire.

  “Your breakfast will be growing cold,” he said abruptly and ushered her into the house.

  ****

  When she regained the breakfast room, it was to see Lady Frant seated at the table, her face a forbidding mask. Elinor was uncomfortably conscious of the flower she held.

  “May I give you a little advice, my dear.” The honeyed tone was at odds with her face. “As a young and unattached woman, you cannot be too careful. Appearances are everything and it is wise to observe them. The duke has installed me as chaperon to lend you propriety but dukes can be forgetful. They have a habit, too, of getting their own way and that isn’t always good for them or for others. In fact who better than you to know? We must work together, my dear, to ensure we keep Gabriel on the straight and narrow.”

  “I am sure His Grace does not need advice from me.”

  Any more, she reflected, than she needed advice from Celia Frant. She knew only too well the duke was capable of charming her into his arms and just as capable of walking away once he became bored. Ruin lay that way and she was not intending to travel the road her poor mother had trod.

&nb
sp; “You could exert a beneficial influence, Elinor,” the woman said repressively, “while you remain at Allingham.”

  “My stay is unlikely to be long.”

  “How is that?” Celia permitted herself a hopeful smirk.

  “The Morning Post has several advertisements for a governess and I intend making my application today. I am without formal qualifications but with the duke’s name behind me, I am confident I shall soon find a position.”

  “You mean to go as a governess?” Disdain fought with surprise.

  “Do you have a better plan, Lady Frant?” she countered and sailed to the door, looking a great deal more composed than she felt.

  ****

  Once in her room, she was unable to settle. She could still feel Gabriel’s body pressed against hers and she wished she didn’t like the feeling quite so much. From the outset she had been defenseless against his physical charm and the pull was getting stronger by the day. But now she faced a more intractable problem; he was starting to creep into her heart and that would be impossible to defend. Whenever they talked, she felt herself being drawn closer, felt herself understanding more and more clearly the demons that tormented him. He had hardly spoken of his brother’s death but she sensed the depth of his loss and the desolation he felt in stepping into Jonathan’s shoes.

  He had seemed less troubled of late though, exercising his ducal authority more easily and taking pleasure in running his vast estate. But what if he carried out his promise to travel to Brighton and found himself back in the bosom of the Regent’s crowd? She wished he would not go. She wished he would. The contrary impulses played havoc with her mind. She wanted him to stay close but it was a treacherous wish. He was a danger and the better she knew him, the more dangerous he became. It was imperative she leave Allingham as soon as possible, for disgrace loomed if she stayed. She had been dissembling when she’d told Celia Frant that she intended to apply for a post as governess but she must make good the pretense—and do so this very moment. She snatched up her pen and for the next half hour busied herself with the task.

  ****