A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  He’d been a fool to make such a careless promise. Trying to out-noble a nobleman, was he? Or had he truly been so focused on what he would gain from this marriage that he simply had not cared how soon he bedded his wife? Women had never been more than a casual convenience, colorful beings to add grace and beauty to his surroundings and occasional spice at nights.

  But this one—his wife, Mrs. Lanning, there! he’d actually said it—added spice even without warming his bed. If he weren’t careful, he might actually like the arrogant little she-devil. As well as desire her.

  Thomas broke off his reverie to discover that one hand was already covered in strips of cloth, and the other, slick with some mysterious ointment, was fast disappearing under a similar cover. “I won’t even be able to eat!” he protested.

  “Yes, you will. I’ve left your fingers free. But the basilicum salve will not stay on without the cloth, so you will simply have to make do.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said, hunching his broad shoulders and looking as if he had never thought to give an order in his life. “I suppose I should have stayed home and tended to my knitting—”

  For a moment he thought the bowl of bloody water was headed straight for his face. But, obviously, his wife did not care to douse her handiwork along with his head, for she dumped the contents into the cast iron sink instead. “I will send Higgins to help you dress,” she told him. “If only you had a valet!”

  Another black mark against the vulgar Cit. Of that accusation, at least, he could plead innocent. “I have a valet,” he told her, “but I sent him home to his family for the holidays. Oddly enough, I had thought our relationship might benefit from a bit of privacy.” Thomas stood up. “I will welcome Higgins, however. Obviously, I had not thought of doing something so foolish as to injure myself bringing in a Yule Log.” He bowed and left her there.

  By the time Thomas made his appearance in the festively decorated entry hall, he was once again himself. Confidant, smiling, slapping backs in spite of his bandaged hands. A man of the people, waving farewell to the last lingerers with a grin on his face and strength in his step. His plans were all in order, and tomorrow was another day—

  Ah, no. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the lighting of the Yule Log for the twelve days of Christmas. Although two footmen and a bevy of maids were already at work cleaning the hall under Biddeford’s watchful eye, Thomas paused in the middle of the tile floor, feeling very much alone. He was the stranger here. He had taken a great gamble—nothing so unusual for Thomas Lanning, of course—but this was the biggest risk he had ever allowed himself. And only the good Lord—or was it the Devil?—knew how it would turn out.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Fourteen

  Relia knelt on the tiles before the cold hearth of a hall almost as freezing as the winter night outside. Behind her, and above on the gallery, stood every member of her household, solemnly observing the first lighting of a Yule Log at Pevensey Park in five long years. Biddeford stepped forward, proud and erect, to hand her the hotly glowing brand that was the last remains of the Yule Log her mother had lit the Christmas before her illness had descended upon them all.

  Relia’s breath caught in her throat. Her grip tightened on the slim remnant of wood, even as her hand shook. Pevensey. Hers now. Her responsibility to maintain tradition, even while lighting a symbol of the beginning of a new era at Pevensey Park.

  Everyone was here. Watching. For, somehow, from Biddeford to the youngest tweeny, they all seemed to care. Gussie, Thomas, Olivia, Nicholas—gathered close in front of the hearth, as if she were rekindling the heart of the house instead of a huge green log that might be expected to catch and burn with great reluctance.

  Relia blinked, forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. With great care she set the brand to the piles of shavings, twigs, and larger kindling that had been placed around the great log. It must burn, and burn well. Fire—that age-old symbol of warmth and light, prosperity and good fortune. A pagan ritual adapted to the bright new world of the nineteenth century. And still casting its spell, Relia thought, for it was plain all present were caught up in the ancient magic, as huffing and puffing could be heard from all around her, as nearly every last soul joined the two footmen who were wielding bellows, coaxing the great log into life. A peek at her husband revealed that Thomas Lanning looked as eager as the rest, watching the softly licking flames with an encouraging eye, as if, by sheer authority, he could help the kindling do its job instead of being consumed to ashes, leaving the giant log untouched.

  A third footman rushed forward with an armload of leftover greenery. Suddenly, Relia found herself swept up and away from the fire as the greens the footman was laying on top of the log burst into leaping flames. The pungent odor of pine filled the room, but Mrs. Thomas Lanning was too disconcerted to notice, for she was held hard against her husband’s chest, and he showed not the slightest sign of letting her go.

  Indeed, he was worse than The Terrible Twyford. How dare he display such intimacy in front of her entire household?

  “It’s a-catching, ma’am!” Tilly cried.

  “I do believe she is correct, madam,” Biddeford declared, but not before casting a minatory glance at the outspoken maid.

  “See, there!” Nicholas pointed. “The bark’s glowing—that little patch on the left.”

  Olivia, completely forgetting the ladylike manners Miss Aldershot had been attempting to instill, squealed with delight. The circle of servants in the hall and those lining the gallery leaned forward, nearly in unison, attempting to confirm the good news.

  “Twelve days for sure,” proclaimed the footman who had contributed the pine boughs. In triumph, he glanced at his mistress, encountering Mr. Lanning’s eye instead. “Sir?” he inquired, stepping close in response to the unspoken order from the new owner of Pevensey Park.

  “Mills, is it?” Thomas asked in a tone intended to be heard by as few people as possible.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mills, I hold you personally responsible for seeing that this fire burns for all of its twelve days. Do I make myself clear?”

  The footman grinned. “Yes, Mr. Lanning, you surely do. Twelve days it is. Watch it like a hawk, I will.”

  “Good man.” Thomas released his grip on his wife. “Come, my dear. If we are to live without frivolity this Christmas, let us at least remove ourselves so the servants may enjoy their fun and games. Olivia, Nicholas, come along!”

  “May we not have a glass of wassail?” Livvy protested.

  “And I want to play games!” declared Nicholas, reverting on the instant to the sullen, wilful boy who had descended from the coach only a few days earlier.

  “Pevensey is still a house of mourning,” Thomas informed him in the tone that reduced his junior clerks to little more than grease puddles melting into the office floorboards. “Your new sister has graciously allowed the servants to enjoy the old customs for Christmas Eve, but we will join her and Miss Aldershot in a quiet evening in the drawing room. You may, if you wish, Nicholas, retire to your room.”

  The younger Mr. Lanning, mumbling words Relia was relieved she could not hear, bolted up the stairs, scattering servants in his wake.

  “My apologies,” Thomas pronounced stiffly to his wife and Miss Aldershot. “He has much to learn yet.”

  “He, too, has lost his parents,” Relia responded, surprising even herself. How odd. Instead of censuring the boy, she had no difficulty understanding how lost he must feel. His parents, his home, even his school taken away, only to be thrust into a house of mourning when it was Christmas and he was only twelve years old. “I think you should go to him . . . Thomas,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “There are, perhaps, things you, as brothers, should know about each other. And tell him”—Relia paused, her gaze drifting briefly toward the Yule Log—“Tell him I will arrange a party for the young people in the neighborhood for Twelfth Night. And he and Olivia may help me plan the games and pantomimes and the food.”r />
  “It’s discipline he needs,” Thomas declared grimly, “not cosseting!”

  Relia peeped up at her husband with a look that took his breath away. Intimate. No . . . wheedling, that’s what it was. The wench!

  “But it is Christmas, Thomas. And he is only a boy.”

  Thomas threw up his hands in the classic gesture of defeat. Not only was his wife being kind to his brother and sister, she was calling him by his first name. Deliberately, of course, manipulating him as easily as a puppet. Controlling little chit that she was.

  “A party!” Olivia threw her arms around Relia. “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

  Disengaging herself from her sister-in-law’s embrace, Relia smoothed her lavender satin gown while composing her features. She had touched, and been touched, more times in the past week than she could recall since she was a child. It was . . . not unpleasant. There was surprising warmth in the human touch, like the glow spreading from the great log in the fireplace, licking at the icy edges of the frozen world of Pevensey Park. Yes . . . lurking at the edges of her vision she could see the ice cave that had formed around her. Like Merlin, she had been trapped inside. Seemingly forever. Yet now, by her own doing, she had cracked a chink, let in a breath of fresh air. A slice of light that threatened to grow and spread until . . .

  Relia scrambled to regain her composure, ruthlessly blocking out the insistent brilliance of that narrow ray of light. “To show your gratitude,” she said to Olivia, “you may play some Christmas tunes for us, while your brother speaks with Nicholas.”

  Reminded of his duty, Thomas headed for the stairs, albeit a bit reluctantly. What did he know about children? It was nearly twenty years since he had been Nicholas’s age. Perhaps football or cricket? Did the boy hate Greek as Thomas had? Did he miss his mother—of whom no one ever spoke? Should he tell the boy of his new half-sister, born to his mother and her lover in Italy?

  Yes, he should. Nicholas was old enough for reality. Perhaps, together, they could decide what to tell Livvy. They were, after all, the only remaining males of the Lanning family. As he walked down the hall to his brother’s room, Thomas’s step was far lighter and faster than when he started up the stairs.

  Christmas morn was marked by a journey into Lower Peven for church, with Nicholas grandly perched on the box with the coachman, rather than being thoroughly humiliated by being squeezed inside between his brother and his sister. His spirits rose still further when, during their sumptuous Christmas dinner, he pulled the coin from the plum pudding and was promptly rewarded by a golden guinea from his brother’s pocket.

  In contrast, Miss Aldershot turned an unbecoming shade of puce when her portion of pudding was found to contain the traditional ring. “Absurd!” she muttered, carefully setting the tiny ring aside. Then, with the cool calm she had attempted to instill in her pupils, she picked up her fork and took a bite of the steamed pudding.

  “Oh, no!” Livvy wailed, as she withdrew a miniature thimble from among a dark nest of raisins, fruits, and nuts. “That is not at all fair. Why should Miss Aldershot get the ring and I the thimble?”

  “It only means you will not wed this year,” Relia interjected hastily. “And that cannot possibly offend, as you will not make your come-out until a year from this spring.”

  “And I,” said Thomas, “seem to have the button, which, as Miss Aldershot has pointed out, demonstrates the absurdity of this particular tradition, as I am already married, so can scarce remain a bachelor this coming year.”

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Thomas heartily wished them unsaid, for his wife was staring at him, open-mouthed, in one of her rare unguarded moments. Devil it! It was plain as a pikestaff what she was thinking. They did not have a true marriage . . . and this sad state of affairs was to continue for another whole year!

  Only if he were dead and buried, Thomas vowed.

  Yet . . . he bent his head to his pudding, lips twitching. It was not altogether unpleasant to discover that his wife had been stricken by the thought of continued celibacy.

  If, of course, he had interpreted her expression correctly. Possibly, she had merely been appalled by the thought of Thomas Lanning across the table tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and was wishing him a bachelor forever, as, indeed, finding the button in the plum pudding was said to indicate in some parts of the country.

  Though none would ever admit it, of those at Pevensey Park’s Christmas table, only Nicholas truly tasted the rich ingredients of plum pudding on which Cook had expended both labor and love.

  Neither the four Lannings nor Miss Aldershot had time for reflection on Boxing Day, as each of the servants, both inside and out, received a purse, with a little something extra this year for those who had helped with the Yule Log. And this year Relia was able to give all the servants a day off, as there were enough members of her new family to help distribute the boxes to the poor, as well as the gifts she gave each year to her tenants and, particularly, to their children. If the sound of hunting horns or the sight of red-coated riders in the distance disturbed any of the Lannings, not a word was said. But, truthfully, Relia had been angered by the looks on people’s faces when her husband had refused the squire’s invitation to the Boxing Day hunt, delivered after church services the previous morning.

  “I fear I do not hunt,” Thomas had told Squire Stanton, managing to look both properly regretful and suitably honored by the invitation. “And I believe my wife wishes me to accompany her on her Boxing Day visits. There are, I believe, a few of our tenants whom I have not yet met.”

  “You do not hunt?” the squire barked, looking as outraged as if Mr. Lanning had told him he did not eat meat.

  “I am greatly honored to be invited, I assure you, but I am a man of the City, born and bred. I promise you, I should make a great fool of myself if I went out with the hunt.” Mr. Lanning offered his best smile, which, as Relia well knew, was formidable. “And probably be brought home on a gate.”

  “Well . . . can’t have that, of course,” the squire had mumbled, obviously making an heroic effort to hide both scorn and irritation. “Good day to you, sir.”

  Which was all well and good, Relia thought, for she herself was not fond of hunting, but she had looked around to discover condemnation on the faces of many who were just leaving the church. Obviously, the incident was an all-too-clear reminder that Thomas Lanning was not one of them, but a Cit, who had married far above himself.

  The hunting horns died away in the distance, and Relia’s wandering thoughts were soon back to the duty at hand, as she introduced Thomas to the manager of their hops farm and processing barn and to his wife and promising family of four boys and three girls.

  That evening the family dined on a cold collation, which they dished up for themselves, while the servants enjoyed the remainder of a well-earned day of rest. The following day was devoted to creating a guest list and to considerable haggling over plans for the Twelfth Night festivities, most of which Relia rejected out of hand. Livvy coaxed, Nicholas sulked, Thomas persuaded. Somehow the group of older guests—“But you cannot fail to invite the parents, my dear”—grew out of all proportion to Relia’s original plans. The squire and his wife and children, of course, could not be forgotten. And the parents of the Trent children, Gussie added, and didn’t they have a sister at home, widowed at Talavera?

  “Is there not a earl about somewhere?” Thomas inquired blandly later that evening as Relia sat at the delicate rosewood bureau de dame in their sitting room, nibbling the feathers of her pen and muttering over the scribbled additions to her guest list. “Are you on visiting terms with him, and does he have children?”

  “Gravenham,” Relia returned shortly. “And, yes, we visit, and, yes, he has children of a suitable age. But his second son is just home from the Peninsula, recovering from severe wounds, I am told. I doubt they will wish to come.”

  “It will do no harm to invite them. Perhaps they will do us the honor. After all, I am anxious to meet
my neighbors,” Thomas added suavely. “Attempting to fulfill my obligations, do the pretty, don’t you know.” He sketched a flourish with his hand, a salute in the style of a courtier of an earlier era.

  He was mocking her again! That curl of his lips, the enigmatic gleam in his eye. If only she might peek beneath the façade for only a moment . . . and discover if the man she had glimpsed in Tunbridge Wells for so short a time after her near accident was truly inside.

  Why she bothered to wait in her sitting room each evening she could not imagine! It was a lovely room, of course. Relia was pleased with her first attempt at decoration. No longer a ladies’ boudoir done up in delicate silks and pale colors, the sitting room was vibrant in shades of cherry and rose, accented with dark blue and cream—colors selected to match the fine new Axminster carpet. There was a sofa in French blue velvet, brightened by loose pillows in the same striped cherry and rose satin as the two wingchairs. The wallpaper was cream, flocked in dark blue, the draperies and deep swags of cherry damask. It was a room designed not simply for the lady of the house, but for a man as well.

  Though why she should consider pleasing her husband Relia could only ascribe to her determined efforts to uphold her part of their bargain, even if Thomas Lanning was quite, quite impossible. To her, he was blasé, indifferent. Amused, but not amusing. Yet somehow each night, after dismissing her maid, Relia found something to do in the sitting room they shared. Lists, letters, a book to read before the fire. All while charmingly en déshabillé in the fine dark blue velvet dressing gown she had worn in Tunbridge Wells, or in one of several other equally charming confections she had acquired in London.

  And although she shied from admitting the truth, even to herself, Relia ended each day in her sitting room because her husband must pass by on the way to his bedchamber. She had found him not averse to a few moments conversation before retiring, even though she found herself wondering if he ever felt as awkward as she, as they moved cautiously, tentatively, in a game more complex than chess. Exploring—