Six Weeks With a Lord

by Eve Pendle

  Her lids dropped and when she returned her gaze to him, it was carefully neutral. “Like Lord Lucan.”

  One of the men blamed for the slaughter of the Light Brigade. But her family were grocers, not military, so the Crimea couldn’t mean so much to her. Not enough to make her as angry as she’d just been. “You weren’t thinking of someone else?”

  “Are you trying to imply you know what I’m thinking better than I do?” she snapped back.

  “No.” He meant to suggest that she was lying. But perhaps this conversation had taken a turn that wasn’t to his credit or benefit. He looked away, across the lake and there was the perfect distraction. “Look.”

  He stopped and touched her arm to stop her, too, pointing to the water about twelve feet away. On an ash tree branch low to the water, a spot of iridescent teal-and-orange feathers sat, stationary and patient. A brightly colored kingfisher, flanked with hanging ash keys.

  Grace’s frown slowly developed into a smile.

  They watched as it dove off the branch and splashed into the green water, emerging a second later with a fish in its beak.

  “Beautiful.” Her voice was low, as though she was making the comment to herself, her eyes fixed on the little bird. It sat on the branch and swallowed the fish whole.

  “Yes.” His heart skipped when he looked back to Grace. She was just as stunning as the kingfisher, in her own way. Her brown hair as neat, her orange dress as showy as the bird’s plumage, but hers was still an understated beauty. The walking dress clung to her breasts and her chest was rising and lowering just a little bit fast from their walk. It would be contrary to his aims to give in to the temptation to compliment her. He didn’t think she’d take it well. But the impulse to stroke across the soft hair behind her ear or kiss her neck was there all the same. “We’ve shared a special event today. Kingfishers don’t often visit the lake here.”

  His admiration must have seeped out somewhere, as her back stiffened.

  “We share a dowry.” She looked away. “That’s all.”

  “But we could share many other things.” He took a breath and gambled. “A kiss for instance.”

  “Pssh.” She dismissed his proposition with a wave of her hand. “You don’t want to kiss me.”

  She clearly only intended pragmatism in her tone, not uncertainty. But Everett heard it anyway, seeping in at the edges like rain through an old thatched roof.

  “I want to kiss you.” He wanted to see more of the flashes beneath her restraint. “Anytime you ask, I’ll be here, just waiting to provide a kiss that will show how lovely and desirable you are to me.” She was both, her cheeks glowing even as she seemed to have no inkling of how enticing her unleashed self would be.

  “That’s not part of our deal.” She clasped her hands together behind her back.

  “It could be. If you wanted.” It was just a hook and bait that he set out for her. He had five weeks to consider. She wouldn’t take the lure now, but in time she would.

  “I don’t.” She didn’t sound as definite as she had before. The razor edge to her voice, that he was growing to suspect was fear, was absent. “We ought to get back to the house. Better not to disturb the kingfisher with its meal.”

  And yet again, she was walking away from him. But her retreating from a battle was better than her refusing to fight.

  …

  Church was sweet agony. Everett had a rich baritone voice that trembled through her as they sang, “There’s a wideness in God’s mercy.” She had that odd sensation of being part of something bigger, the sound of her voice indistinguishable from the harmony of their voices together, which was just audible amid the sound of the whole congregation. His elbow brushed hers as he turned the page of the hymn book. Her heart jumped, and she fought the urge to feel her arm, as if that miniscule touch would have left an indelible mark.

  Grace refused to fidget while Father Norton gave a long sermon on the value of honesty. This was somewhat because her green silk dress, hastily bought in London and altered by Letty, was partly held by loose tacking stitches that would come undone if she wriggled. An upright position was correct for the Sabbath, anyway. It was a good reminder that she mustn’t be loose.

  Everett was not so disciplined and crossed and recrossed his arms throughout the whole section on how lying to your family was the same as lying to God. In her head, she shouted at him to stop. She screamed that if he didn’t stop looking so guilty, everyone would know they were a pair of liars, deceiving everyone with their sham marriage. But at the same time, it was his restless activity that made him rather different from the indolent aristocrat she had envisaged. He was larger, sitting close to her on the pew, than he seemed elsewhere, like his presence was bigger than his physical form and was drawing her in. Her skin hummed with awareness of him.

  The story he’d told her about his time in the army suggested he wasn’t avaricious for power and even freely gave it away when it would better serve the people he cared about. It was a little knowledge about him that she’d taken out and turned over too often recently. Like a smooth pebble, his actions then didn’t seem to have any edge of selfishness to them. She kept thinking she’d find a fracture in his story that would turn into a shard that would cut her, but his camaraderie with Thompson and his quick attention to matters in the estate provided no cracks. She couldn’t help but admire his evident dedication to the estate and all who lived in it.

  When he eventually settled for crossed arms and ankles and a gaze that alternated between the priest and the Westbury family commemorative panel next to the pulpit, tension in every line of his body, despite herself she felt a pang. Since their marriage, he’d been busy with his own life and had adhered to the letter of their bargain.

  She continued to stare straight ahead, even as Father Norton moved to a prayer for the preservation of the livestock from the curse of rinderpest and then a blessing on the marriage of their esteemed Lord of Westbury. The combination of topics was slightly opaque, but could certainly be interpreted. She surmised that Father Norton felt slighted they hadn’t married at the local church. She would just have to placate him by— But no. It wasn’t her job. Everett would do that once she’d left.

  Eventually, it was over, and Grace took Everett’s arm, the light cotton of his coat barely any barrier against the warmth of him, and he led the way out into the cloudy August morning and the rest of the congregation filed behind them. She started to walk quickly back to the carriage, but Everett’s pace was leisurely. Before they were more than ten steps away from the church door, a call to Lady Westbury brought him to a stop. It took a heartbeat for Grace to connect the name with herself.

  “Lady Westbury, I beg your pardon, m’lady.” A tall, neat woman with dark blond hair streaked with gray approached her. “I’m Mrs. Cooper, and I was wondering if you might be so kind as to come to our little meeting about promoting women’s work outside the home.”

  “There’s a group?” Grace’s interest was piqued. “What a good idea. I’ll attend, though I don’t know what help I would be.” As soon as she said the words, she knew she had revealed her lack in understanding aristocratic convention. A graceless thing to say. Not what a countess said.

  But Mrs. Cooper lit with her success. “Just a few womenfolk hereabouts would like to make sure that women who want to work can do so in safe places, with good pay. I heard that you were involved with Alnott Stores, and I thought you could talk to us about shop work. I know it isn’t common to have women serving in shops, but it would be a good job for any woman. If you would support our cause it would be a very fine thing, Lady Westbury.”

  Unlike most businesses, Alnott Stores had a few shopgirls. They were the most vulnerable to Lord Rayner and whatever changes he might see fit to enact. The girls were just some of many employees of Alnott Stores Grace wanted to protect.

  “Lady Westbury.” A tinkling laugh came from behind her. “You will be embroiled in Mrs. Cooper’s schemes if you are not careful.”

&nb
sp; Mrs. Cooper’s face shuttered, but she remained upright, not sinking down as many women would have done. It dawned on Grace that Mrs. Cooper was an upstart. Like herself, a chancer.

  “Please send me word about the time and place of the meeting. I shall be pleased to attend and do all I can,” she said quietly, but audibly. Then she turned to the lady with the tinkly laugh. Lady Enford, a baroness and arbiter of social standing in the community, she quickly discovered.

  “Well,” said Lady Enford, after niceties had been exchanged. “Since you will be attending the meeting about women’s place outside the home, I do hope that you will defend women who stay at home, too, and attend the military orphans and widow’s charity auction next month. It’s a worthy cause. Women who stay behind when men go off to fight for the empire require greater provision. I’m sure it would be close to your heart, given Lord Westbury’s previous vocation.”

  Grace glanced up at Everett. His face was impassive. She couldn’t tell if he found this admirable, or worthy, or if he was self-satisfied with her being caught into an endless social round. He didn’t look happy, but she thought she could see a tiny bit of a smirk. He found this amusing. Perhaps to him it was. She had put herself into a bind—she could not say no without snubbing Lady Enford, after having said yes with such alacrity to Mrs. Cooper.

  “That sounds lovely. We will both be there.” She was gratified to feel the solid muscles in Everett’s arm tighten under her hand.

  By showing Mrs. Cooper favor, she had opened the door. Emboldened by her achievement, other women requested her presence. By the time Everett handed her into the carriage, Grace had accepted five invitations to tea, agreed to attend the summer fete and judge the flower displays, and even conceded it would be most appropriate if they donated something for the harvest festival church decorations from the kitchen garden.

  What was even more surprising was that they welcomed and seemed to like her. It was outside of her understanding. Even as the daughter of Alnott Stores’ owner, Grace hadn’t experienced anything like this.

  It was a position of responsibility. She hadn’t realized what respect and admiration the Countess of Westbury would have. How the local people would consider her their countess and how she would be looked to for key symbolic events. Westbury was not just a sign of influence, but one of leadership in this community. It wasn’t a job that she was born for, and it wasn’t what she wanted, she told herself firmly. Yet, there was an appeal.

  Chapter Eight

  The Second Week

  Grace’s heart sped up as she descended the stairs. The morning came with contradictory tension that pulled her skin. Morning post brought the potential for letters from the solicitors, Caroline, news about Henry. Or Lord Rayner. There was a nagging worry that woke her in the morning that Lord Rayner could write to Everett. A man who favored pretty housemaids might have some sympathy with him. Morning was also the time for breakfast with her delicious, temporary, aristocratic husband and a walk with him through the enormous estate.

  Grace helped herself to toast and bacon from the sideboard and the footman poured her tea. As she went to sit down, she noticed a newspaper next to her plate. She had a moment of confusion and looked up. Yes, Everett had a partially unfolded newspaper next to him that was sharing his attention with his poached eggs. Grace sat down and sipped her tea.

  Was it for her? She didn’t want to touch it, as if the small kindness might be snatched away, like everything she coveted was. But Everett wasn’t looking at her at all. Pointedly so. She waited for him to mention the newspaper. He didn’t. She ate a piece of toast, chewing it slowly and reading the front page out of the corner of her eye. Then, she picked it up and immersed herself in reading the latest information on the strife in America. She was turning to the commodity prices to check on the cost of tea when she heard Everett’s chair being pulled back. They had spent the last twenty minutes sitting together, reading the paper, and it had been entirely comfortable.

  “Thank you,” she said as he reached the door.

  He turned and the tails of his coat caught around his legs. A smile slowly lit up his face and warmed her. “You’re welcome.”

  Her mind turned over many interpretations of his response. Versions that involved his long legs and a heat that wasn’t just from his smile. The curve of his mouth invited her every imaginative fancy. He looked fresh in his elegantly cut charcoal frock coat and trousers and a white cravat. His jaw was cleanly shaved and looked smooth, in contrast to the dark sandpaper of his stubble that she’d already noticed day after day filled in by late afternoon. Their gazes held beyond the limit of decorum.

  “Shall we walk up the hill today?” Her invitation was issued before she really considered what it meant. But looking into his gray eyes, Grace wanted to prolong this moment, to talk to him about the day’s news. She wanted to walk next to him, with that tingle of awareness whenever they almost touched, and indulge in watching him move, strong and agile as a lion, as he walked up the hill in front of her. And if he said in that rough voice of his that he wanted to kiss her, and leaned in, she wasn’t certain she’d say no. It was foolish when she knew how untrustworthy lords were. One kind act to protect his soldiers no more settled his character as good than one swallow made it summer. But still.

  A gratifying look of appreciation crossed his face. “I’d like that very much. When you are finished reading, shall we go?”

  Her pulse fluttered. “I can read the rest later.” Her walking dress was already looped up so the mud didn’t get onto the hem. She put aside her tea.

  “M’lord.” Thompson appeared at Everett’s elbow. “The gentlemen from the club are here. They are waiting in the blue parlor.”

  The club? That was how men referred to White’s or Boodles, places of male aristocratic idleness. Just the concept was like a door slamming in her face, a place she was unwelcome.

  Everett’s face dropped back into formal repose. “Please tell them I will be there directly.”

  “The dowager countess has requested you visit her urgently,” Thompson added.

  “Of course,” Everett replied with forced calm.

  Thompson shifted awkwardly. “And when you have a moment, may I speak with you, my lord?”

  Everett’s eyes narrowed and he gave a jerky nod to Thompson, who disappeared with a bow.

  Turning to her, Everett sighed. “Grace, I’m sorry. I had forgotten this meeting.”

  How convenient that he had a prior appointment with some of his lordly club chums. Just when she had embarrassed herself revealing her eagerness to spend time with him, it was clear she was less important than his aristocratic pals, his mother, and even his steward.

  All because he’d ordered an extra newspaper. Everett neither invited her to join him, nor tried to rearrange their walk for later in the day. She felt like her ledger was out of balance because she’d added up wrongly. She’d thought he enjoyed their walks together and that they meant something, as they did to her. But as usual, she was disregarded because she was female and from trade. This desire to be close to her husband was bound to end in disaster, just as it had with Samuel.

  “Enjoy your day, Lord Westbury.” She looked down at the newsprint. A few silent moments later, he left the room.

  …

  Bridge Farm was no place for a lady. It was no place for anyone, not even the drooling, restless animals. Still, he wished Grace by his side for the perceived luckiness of their Monday marriage. Mr. Walker, the tenant of Bridge Farm, was getting nervy.

  “It’s a brave and right decision.” Everett reassured him as though Mr. Walker had made the choice himself, rather than having Everett order him. “It will benefit you and all your neighbors.”

  Mr. Walker nodded, but still looked unhappy. As well he might, since Everett was insisting even the healthy cattle, though there were precious few of them, ought to be slaughtered to stop the spread of the disease. Giving instructions that would lead to death had been the most difficult part of be
ing a colonel, and it was proving no easier as an earl. Though in truth, it was the only humane thing to do for the beasts.

  “Good.” Everett glanced at the men, gathering sober looks of agreement. “Let’s get this unpleasant task done.”

  “Will you be staying, my lord?” Mr. Walker trailed off, seeming not able to explicitly ask for the help he wanted. Everett turned to him and saw a bitter expression on the man’s face. There was an expectation he would leave the dirty work to the laborers and never fathom the repercussions of what he ordered.

  It wasn’t Walker’s fault for assuming that. Everett wasn’t a high-ranking general who sat at a desk, either in his army days or here, but these tenant farmers didn’t know that. Even after the year and a half that had passed, they fully expected him to turn into a Westbury like his father and brother. They dreaded and waited for it in equal measure; Everett had seen enough battles in his life to understand that bravado was just fear. He must keep proving he was trustworthy. And besides, however grim a job it might be for him, it would surely be worse for Mr. Walker. The least Everett could do was help.

  “I will be staying. And helping.”

  Walker nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” The farmer hesitated, and Everett knew he was about to be invited to do an awful job. “These animals know me and my lads best, so it’ll be easiest for us to round them up. If you and the club gentlemen could dispatch them? The farmhands can dig trenches for the fires.”

  Dread crawled across Everett’s skin. “Perhaps you could fetch me an apron.” He stripped off his coat. This was just one more battle to endure, even if it was going to be particularly bloody.

  …

  Grace had a productive morning writing to the solicitor with assurances that she would attend church every week and sent notes arranging that tomorrow she would pay several of the social calls she’d committed to on Sunday. After luncheon, she settled to write a ladylike social letter to Caroline. She had commandeered a pretty walnut bureau in her sitting room, but she couldn’t find the tone of gossipy confidences she usually wrote to her friend. Her previous letters had told with hyperbole of how the dowager was a snob. But she didn’t want to tell Caroline about Everett noticing her love of reading the newspaper and providing one. Somehow, that seemed rather private.