“Good God, girl, you can’t go off like that!” Thomas cried, jumping to his feet.
Relia picked up a candelabrum, whose flickering light played over her look of faint surprise. “And what else is there?” she inquired. “It is you who have set down the rules of our relationship.”
She left him there, gaping after her, the great Thomas Lanning, Prince of the Exchange, outgunned by a chit of one and twenty. His wife.
Was she governed solely by the Trevor pride? he wondered as her door shut softly behind her, leaving the sitting room in almost complete darkness. Or had there been an undercurrent of something more? Did she, perhaps, feel a stirring of tenderness beneath her anger?
Did he?
Damnably foolish question. He had found her appealing from the first moment he saw her, else nothing would have induced him to marry her. He would have found another way to gain a seat in Parliament.
Thomas’s bed was cold. And lonely. For a few fleeting moments the very air had vibrated between them. The world stopped, and his hopes soared. The burning inside him was not anger. And then the clock ticked, and the Beauty beneath his fingers was once again the Ice Maiden; he, the lowly Frog.
A few steps. That’s all it would take to go back, cross the sitting room, enter his wife’s bedchamber . . . end this stupidity once and for all.
And what would she do? Scream the house down, or submit as a good wife should?
Submit. A shiver rocked him, but it was not from the cold. Shakespeare had it right. Oh, what a tangled web we weave. How would he ever find his way through the maze of pride and arrogance, through the morass of nasty surprises and hurt feelings?
The gray light of pre-dawn was tinging the cold January morning before sheer exhaustion overcame the turmoil besetting Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Lanning. Later, each would look back on that evening’s strained conversation as the last quiet moment in the chaotic weeks to come.
~ * ~
Chapter Seventeen
“Colors,” Livvy declared. “Bright colors to catch every eye. Indeed, you must have a whole new wardrobe, Relia, for Nicholas says Thomas cannot possibly win against Captain Fortescue unless you are there at his side, showing your support. You simply cannot go around looking like a raven strayed from the tower—”
“Livvy,” her sister-in-law responded sharply, “you know quite well I have put off my blacks—”
“For grays and lavenders that quite fade into the woodwork. Truly, Relia—”
“Pray do not tease her, Olivia,” Gussie Aldershot interjected. “A lady must always stop and think before she speaks.”
Miss Lanning, who had been standing, arms akimbo, examining her brother’s wife—who, quite out of character, was simply sitting in an armchair gazing out at the frosted park—flounced across the morning room to drape herself artistically across the length of the rose damask sofa. She picked up a book, opened it with a flip that rustled the pages. The corners of her mouth drooped into a pout.
“Olivia.” Relia bit her lip, tried again. “Livvy,” she said, “I know you wish to help, but picture, if you will, what all our neighbors would say if I suddenly donned bright colors three months before the anniversary of my father’s death. I would be condemned out of hand, even if there were many among them who did not themselves observe a full year’s mourning for their departed. That is simply the way of the world. And I understand that the world of politics is far harsher than most. One single mistake could cost your brother the election.”
Miss Lanning slammed the book shut, tossed it at the table, where it missed, falling to the carpet with a dull thud. “You are such a saint, Relia!” Livvy declared, tears springing to her eyes. “I swear I cannot bear it. You are even kind to the Beast, though how you manage it I do not know. I look at you, and sometimes I swear I see a halo shining over your head. You are too, too perfect. I can never live up to your expectations!”
“Oh, my dear,” Relia cried, jumping up and dashing across the room, only to come to an abrupt halt a few feet from the sofa, long years of being alone keeping her from embracing her sister-in-law as she knew she should. “I am so far from perfection that I sometimes think I am doing absolutely everything wrong. Just ask your brother. I am certain he will tell you so.”
“My brother!” Olivia cried. “Thomas quite worships the ground you walk on. Did you not know that?”
Which just went to show how mistaken they could all be, Relia thought. Perhaps it was best to let the girl keep her illusions.
“Ah, good, here you all are,” said Charles Saunders from the doorway. “Mrs. Lanning, Miss Lanning, Miss Aldershot, please allow me to introduce Mr. Hugh Blacklock, who is to be Nicholas’s tutor.”
Even as she examined Mr. Blacklock, Relia was aware of a stirring on the sofa as Livvy came to attention, undoubtedly arraying herself just as she had been taught—back straight, feet together, hands artfully arranged in her lap. She should have done so for any guest, of course, but Mr. Hugh Blacklock was a striking young man in his early twenties, with enough countenance to send flutters through ladies far older and more experienced then Miss Lanning. Of medium height, he boasted locks as dark as his name, melting brown eyes, and facial features just enough off perfection to give character to his face. His eyes were alight with a natural curiosity about his new surroundings, and his lips curved into a friendly smile as he shook the hand Relia held out to him. It was, in short, impossible not to like Mr. Hugh Blacklock.
As soon as everyone was seated, Mr. Blacklock declared, “Please allow me to tell you, Mrs. Lanning, how honored I am to become part of this household.”
“We are all gratified by your sentiments, Mr. Blacklock,” Relia responded with an indulgent smile, “but I would have thought there are many households of greater consequence than our own.”
Practically quivering with enthusiasm, Mr. Blacklock declared, “I assure you the opportunity to work for Mr. Thomas Lanning is much sought after, ma’am. As I am sure you know, he is financial adviser to the cream of the ton. The Prince of Wales calls him friend. Indeed, it is he who termed Mr. Lanning Prince of the Exchange.”
“It is true,” Livvy affirmed. “Thomas is invited everywhere. Perhaps you did not know that, Relia, living so shut away here in the country,” she added, snatching at her moment of smug superiority. Which she promptly followed with an even more unexpected pronouncement. “And I expect you did not know our great-grandfather was Duke of Twineham, for Thomas never speaks of it. Your grandfather, Relia, was only a marquess, was he not?”
“Olivia, I believe this is not the moment for a discussion of respective antecedents,” Mr. Saunders interjected sternly as both Mrs. Lanning and Miss Aldershot appeared to have lost the power of speech. “Come, Mr. Blacklock, we will leave the ladies to their morning tasks. There will be plenty of opportunity for conversation at a later time.” The two gentlemen bowed themselves out.
“Oh, was he not quite splendid!” Livvy cried, clapping her hands.
“Olivia,” said Gussie Aldershot, as Relia was still sitting, looking down at her hands, seemingly oblivious to all around her, “why did you never tell us you were a member of that Lanning family?”
“But I thought you knew. Until I saw the look on Relia’s face when Mr. Blacklock mentioned the Prince.
“Perhaps you might tell us how this all came about.”
“It is quite simple really,” Miss Lanning said, confining herself to only one sly look at her sister-in-law. “My grandfather was a younger son who did not wish to enter the military or clergy. ’Tis said he was a brilliant student, gifted in mathematics, so he searched for a bride in the world of banking and found an only child who was heiress to an entire banking empire. My father did well enough following in his footsteps, but everyone says ’tis Thomas who is most like our grandfather—truly gifted in commerce. He has enhanced the fortunes of all who have listened to his advice. And his personal fortune is immense. It is just that . . . well, he has never had time for anything else. I was
astounded when he wrote to say he was married, for I could not understand where he had found time to court a wife—”
“Captain Alan Fortescue,” Biddeford intoned, exercising his butler’s discretion to interrupt Miss Lanning’s waterfall of words.
Ruthlessly, Relia gathered her wandering thoughts and invited the captain to be seated. In spite of a pronounced limp, Captain Fortescue was a fine figure of a man. Tall, but still too thin from his long days of illness, with honey brown hair and fine blue eyes with the vulnerable look of a man who has seen more of the world than he might have wished.
“I have come to see Mr. Lanning,” the captain said, “but I asked Biddeford to show me in here first, as I wished to express my thanks for the delightful party last evening. My first in many months, Mrs. Lanning, and I truly enjoyed myself.”
“You are very kind, Captain, considering . . .” Relia paused, suddenly at a loss for words.
Captain Fortescue proffered a gentle smile. “I daresay the evening did not end as either of us anticipated, Mrs. Lanning. My father quite seized the bit and ran with it. But I am here to set matters straight. You need not fear that I mean to run in the election. After three years on the Peninsula, I wish only to retire to my own small manor and lead a quiet life. London is not for me. And the thought of standing up in Parliament and making a speech quite sets my knees to quaking. Better to face a whole regiment of Bony’s men, don’t you know?”
“Nonsense. You would make a fine MP,” Relia protested, even as she was swept by a wave of relief. How very odd. She was actually glad the captain was not going to oppose her husband. Which could only mean she wanted Thomas to win.
Which would be perfectly dreadful. Not at all the life she wished to lead!
Should she not, then, be wishing to share the captain’s quiet life—thinking, yet again, what a shame it was that she had not waited for him to come home? But here she sat, rejoicing that the captain was bowing out, leaving the way clear for Thomas. Who wanted political power so much he had been willing to marry a stranger.
My husband, the MP. How utterly mortifying to recognize that sinful pride was tempting her astray!
You are an insidious worm, Thomas Lanning. Burrowing your way into my privacy, forcing me to change . . . grow . . . move, most painfully, into a world I never wished to know.
By some miracle wrought by strict training in good manners, Relia upheld her portion of the conversation with Captain Fortescue. She smiled, wished him well in his continuing recovery. And sighed with relief when he took his leave and was led off toward the bookroom.
There, Thomas Lanning awaited him with considerable curiosity. And, there, the two men drank Madeira and came to a surprising meeting of the minds. Long after the captain took his departure, Mr. Lanning sat at his desk, lips curled into the thin calculating look his colleagues had come to recognize as the sign of intense action to come. There were difficult weeks ahead, but the biggest challenge had just taken himself out of the race. For who else could the Tories find to run?
Who else, indeed?
Relia tripped lightly down the stairs, then followed the various twists and turns of the flagstoned corridor that led to the estate room. Although she carried several sheets of paper in her hand, her mind was far from the gloomy underground hallway. Here, in the late afternoon, were the first precious moments she had had alone since her remarkable interview with her husband the night before. Even though she had no love for entering figures in the household accounts, she welcomed this opportunity to shut herself away from the bustle above stairs and contemplate what had happened in the wee hours of the morning.
She was, of course, furious with him. He had hurt her beyond redemption. And yet . . . her feet slowed, her heartbeat quickened as she recalled the feel of Thomas’s fingers on her shoulders. Truly, she who had never fainted had almost done so. Only the Trevor pride had kept her from swooning at his Cit feet. Who would have thought that being alone with a man could be so . . . overwhelming?
That was certainly not the way she felt when Twyford had held her. And this morning it was as if she had seen Alan Fortescue through a glass darkly. He was everything she had ever wanted in a husband, the epitome of her girlhood dreams. As recently as over the holidays, she had castigated herself for not waiting for him to return. But this morning she had felt only the pleasure of renewing an old acquaintance. She had even been . . . disappointed. Yes, it was true. The great hero of the Peninsula had feet of clay. He wished to run away from life, whereas Thomas was ready to stand and fight—
Unkind. Each man must fight in his own way. Alan Fortescue on the field of battle, Thomas Lanning in the House of Commons.
And while she was being perfectly honest . . . She, Aurelia Trevor Lanning, was a fool. She had searched frantically for a port in her personal storm; yet when safe harbor was found, she had changed tack, turning her back. If anyone had sent her life spinning topsy-turvy, it was she herself. There was no one else to blame.
Relia opened the estate room door and charged inside on a wave of self-disgust. Skidding to an abrupt halt, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Thomas raised his dark head from the ledgers spread out in front of him. “Checking the accounts?” he ventured.
“Should you not be making plans for your campaign?” Relia bristled.
Thomas leaned back in her chair and answered with a slow smile. “I have a veritable army to do that for me. And it is the end of the year. I felt it my responsibility to be certain that all was right and tight.” One dark brow arced in query. “Can it be I am encroaching again?”
Relia could feel her pale complexion turning some horrid shade of puce. “I—I—” She glanced down at the sheaf of papers in her hand. “I have not yet entered the servants’ Boxing Day gifts,” she murmured. “The party . . . the confusion. I am so sorry . . . I fear the household accounts are not—”
“Good God, child!” Thomas crossed the room in a few strides, swept his wife into the leather armchair he had just vacated, then stood looking down at her, frowning mightily. “I have no interest in the household accounts, Aurelia. Before the new steward arrives, I wished to make sure that all was in order in Pevensey’s agricultural accounts. I am well aware it has not been easy for you—”
“You did it on purpose! All these weeks without a steward. You wished to punish me for daring to want to manage Pevensey Park myself.”
Thomas drew a deep breath, shoved aside a large leather bound ledger, and eased himself onto the mahogany desk top. “Good stewards are not easy to find, Aurelia. Particularly one responsible enough to oversee all the enterprises at Pevensey Park.”
“You are the great Thomas Lanning, are you not? Livvy, Mr. Saunders, Mr. Blacklock—all believe you walk on water. “You could have had someone here long since, but you wished to demonstrate I was nothing but a foolish female incapable—”
“Nonsense!” Thomas roared, smashing his palm hard against the mahogany. Relia gasped. “Beg pardon,” her husband muttered. “But how you can so wilfully misunderstand—” He broke off, closed his eyes for a moment, sternly reminding himself that he was on the verge of losing what little gain might have been made last night.
“Firstly,” he pronounced with exaggerated clarity, “good stewards—of the quality you wish for Pevensey Park—must be found, then enticed away from their present employer. After that, at least a month’s notice to said employer is required. That is only common courtesy. It is, therefore, nothing short of a miracle that we have found a man we believe will do. He is expected here within the next few days.”
His wife’s glare was lethal. “You have hired someone without my meeting him. Without my approval?”
“Devil it, Relia! If you do not like the man, you have only to send him away. Turn him off without a character. Let his wife and children starve, after he gave up a most satisfactory position in Yorkshire so he might come to Pevensey Park.”
“You are impossible,” Relia fumed. “No matter
what I say or do, I am wrong!” She went very still as fingers brushed her cheek.
“How very odd, my dear. I feel exactly the same. We make a sad pair, do we not? Do you suppose all marriages have these struggles?”
“Probably not,” Relia conceded. After a pause, she added grudgingly, “I suspect most wives are not quite so determined to have their own way.”
A burning log sputtered in the grate. Wind whistled along the windows high above. “Strange,” Thomas said at last, “but I find I cannot now imagine being married to a woman who defers to my every wish. I should, in fact, probably wish to strangle her from sheer boredom.” He tilted up his wife’s chin, studying her with a long, thoughtful look. “Do you think we might declare a truce, Aurelia, at least for the duration of the By-Election? I need your help, my dear. Your support.”
“But if Captain Fortescue is not running, surely it will be an easy victory.” Limpid blue-gray eyes stared directly into his own. But Mr. Lanning was becoming better acquainted with his wife’s tricks, else he might have been diverted.
“Relia!” Thomas’s fingers tightened on her chin. “Do you never stop arguing?” She ducked her head, leaving his hand dangling in the air. “Well? I want an answer, wife. We will not leave the matter thus.”
Aurelia Trevor Lanning raised her head, stiffened her shoulders. “It will be as my dragonslayer wishes,” she declared. “For the duration of the By-Election.”
Thomas held out one large hand. To Relia, it seemed the size of her face. With ill grace, she grasped it. Suddenly, her imprisoned fingers were moving toward his mouth, lips touched her knuckles, lingered . . . and then her hand was back on the desk and Thomas Lanning was striding toward the door, leaving her in a welter of account books. The Cit, who could read them as easily as Livvy read a novel, was abandoning her to the role she had insisted on assuming.
With a new steward bearing down on Pevensey Park . . . and her personal life at sixes and sevens . . .
A Gamble on Love Page 17
