Many women resided in the neighborhood of Linden. “Go on,” Gwen said, starting with the brush at the bottom of her hair and immediately hitting a snarl.
“Her name is Claudia Pettigrew, and she could create… difficulties.”
What in all the wide world could Douglas mean by difficulties? “She is a former amour of yours, Douglas? Whatever were you doing, trolling clear down in Sussex?”
“She is not a former amour of mine, and I’ll have you know I do not troll for the companionship of women. Stop ripping at your hair, if you please.”
Gwen looked at the hank of hair she was working on, shrugged, and took the brush to it again. “What about this woman?”
“She is a former amour of Lord Greymoor’s,” Douglas said. “He… disported with her before he went traveling several years ago, however briefly. If she’s as brazen as Greymoor intimates, she’ll no doubt be calling—Would you please stop tearing your hair that way?”
“It’s thick hair, Douglas, and it’s my hair,” Gwen shot back, chin coming up.
“It’s lovely hair, and you jolly well won’t abuse it in my presence.” He got up, plopped down on her end of the sofa, and snatched the brush from her hand. “Turn around, madam.”
She glared at him, sternly, meanly—a glare that would have had her cousins rushing off to see to the press of business posthaste—but he merely held her gaze.
“Please,” he added, nothing of entreaty in his tone.
Then, more softly, “Guinevere, you are tired, and you are upset to be away from Enfield. Because you are upset, Rose is being a handful. You must not take it amiss if I don’t know how to be of use to you, particularly when you are so stubborn you’d rather die than ask for help. Now, for the last time, please turn around. I have the patience for this task while you do not, and there’s nobody to tattle about a small impropriety between nominal cousins. Allow me this, and we’ll both find our beds a little sooner.”
What he asked of her was closer to an outrageous presumption rather than a small impropriety—also a consideration Gwen had never been shown before. She did not yield the point verbally, but she did scoot around on the couch, giving him her back.
“Thank you,” he said, using his fingers to smooth her hair over her shoulders and down her back.
“There’s more to it than that,” Gwen said from her position facing the fire. Long-dormant female intuition chose then to awaken and warn her she’d reached that dangerous stage where fatigue would loosen her tongue rather than send her off to her bed.
Though Douglas would respect her confidences, of that she was certain.
“More to it, how?”
“I resent you,” she said, keeping her face averted, “for the way Rose adores you and the way you seem to manage her with no effort.” And Claudia Petti-Whoever could go hang.
“Ah. You have had Rose all to yourself for five years, Miss Guinevere Hollister, and you are not inclined to share your treasure.”
Another man had made a similar accusation six years ago, also referring to a reluctance to share her treasures, but his tone had been winsomely naughty, not half-stern and admonishing.
“I am not greedy,” she corrected Douglas, his insight vexing but not vexing enough to excuse dishonesty. “I am afraid of losing her.”
“I would be afraid of losing such a child too, but you won’t lose her; you will share her, or you should.” He’d worked out the big snarl Gwen had been swatting at and smoothed the brush down her hair. He soon found another knot and went to work on it.
As lady’s maids went, his lordship was not without ability. Gwen feared he might have potential as an unlikely confessor too. “Why should I share her?”
“If you don’t show Rose you can share her, then she will not learn she can share you,” Douglas pointed out. “She will grow up clinging to her mama, because her mama clings to her, and this will serve you well, provided you can arrange to die before your daughter. Your daughter, however, will be left quite alone.” He drew the brush down in a long, soothing stroke again. “You have lovely hair.”
He delivered the compliment as dispassionately as if he were approving of a well-sprung barrel on a yearling heifer from the Jersey Isles.
“You are saying I am selfish.”
“Maybe a bit. But more likely, you are self-reliant and protective. And the truth is, nobody thus far has been willing to insist you behave in any fashion other than the one you choose.”
“What’s wrong with how I behave?” Gwen hated the note of genuine consternation in her voice. The question of a woman who knew herself to be an outsider of necessity and circumstance both, if not an outcast, but wasn’t entirely reconciled to it.
“The way you behave is quite acceptable, if you are Miss Hollister and you like being the lord of your cousin’s manor. If you are Rose Hollister, however, you might want a few more options—you might want some of the options your mama had when she was a young girl.”
He was speaking gently again, reasonably and even kindly, saying things her titled cousins and their wives had likely thought but never bothered to confront her with. Gwen laid her forehead on her knees. “I hate you.”
This conversation was possible due only to an abundance of fatigue and a paucity of firelight—that, and Douglas Allen’s confounded, infernal, perishing, unflinching straightforwardness.
Or perhaps her own.
“Of course you hate me,” Douglas replied, smoothing the brush down her hair. “You need to hate somebody, Guinevere, for taking those options away from you. I will be honored to fulfill the purpose, if needs must, but while you are hating away your life, please don’t take those options away from your daughter.”
“But, Douglas”—Gwen turned in exasperation—“she is a bastard. She will have no decent options unless her cousins settle substantial wealth on her. When I lost those options, I lost them for both of us.”
And that was a sorrow and shame without end, for Gwen could easily accept the consequences of her foolish actions for herself, but Rose deserved so much better.
Douglas ran his thumb over the bristles of the brush, the way some men tested the edge of a knife. “Might you be seeing things from a slightly narrow perspective? Were she male, Rose would not inherit any entailed land or titles as a function of her illegitimacy, but I would be surprised if Heathgate, Greymoor, and Fairly have not already made provision for her. You should ask them.”
“Hah,” Gwen retorted, glowering at the fire. “And if I ask them, and they haven’t set anything aside, then do you think I want them embarrassed into settling funds on her? Bad enough I am a poor relation, without making demands for my daughter as well.”
At least she was a poor relation who took care of the property she dwelled upon.
“If Rose’s relations, all of whom are indecently wealthy, have not made provision for her, then they should. I can understand that you are reluctant to raise the issue. Would you like me to raise it for you?”
He was scolding Heathgate and Greymoor in absentia, scolding them convincingly.
“What? Of course not. They are my family. I’ll deal with them.” Except, Douglas would charge forth on Rose’s behalf, when Gwen had hung back for years, not knowing where to start such a discussion.
“They are my family too, to hear them tell it. I would casually mention it to Fairly, who is deuced canny,” he went on, as if discussing a strategy for winning at pell-mell. “He will take it up with his brothers-in-law, and then you will have your answer. You really are too shy, you know.”
“I am not shy,” Gwen said, a yawn showing her declaration for the formality it was.
“We will consider the matter settled, then. Do you prefer one braid or two?”
Gwen allowed the change of topic with something like gratitude. “One.”
“There,” Douglas said after several moments of s
ilence. “Off to bed with you.”
He flipped a thick, tidy braid over her shoulder and stood, extending a hand to her with perfect courtesy. She put her hand in his and nearly lost her balance as she both turned and rose in the space between the sofa and the low table.
“You are tired,” Douglas said, frowning down at her. He kissed her forehead and stepped back. “Good night, Guinevere, pleasant dreams.”
“Good night, and thank you,” she said, feeling oddly subdued. “Thank you for braiding my hair,” she added by way of clarification.
Pleasant dreams indeed, she thought as she climbed into bed. There really was very little to like about Douglas Allen, even if he did make an excellent lady’s maid—and nursemaid.
He never smiled; he never made mistakes; he never faltered in what he perceived as the execution of his duty. He lacked anything approaching charm and went charging into conversational thickets Gwen’s family never acknowledged, much less approached.
Finesse was not in his gift. Not to any degree.
Though he was unfailingly kind to Rose, patient, and in his own way, good-humored, even if he didn’t smile… And most intriguing of all, Gwen could trust him to brush her hair—simply to brush her hair—when she was so tired and bewildered her eyes were nearly crossing.
Oh, she really, truly could not find much at all to like about him.
***
Linden was a lovely manor. Purple asters clustered around a fountain in the middle of the drive, and a wide granite terrace fronted the building. The main facade sported eight stately white pillars and twenty-four windows on each of the three fieldstone stories, each accented with white trim and shutters. The whole was brought to a pleasing symmetry centered around a bright red door.
That the place could present well even in a pouring rain reassured Douglas on a level comparable to a schoolboy’s first impression of a smiling new tutor.
After seeing Rose settled in the nursery, Douglas appropriated Guinevere’s company for a tour of the premises. The rotund little housekeeper—Mrs. Kitts, by name—prattled along through all three floors, attics, cellars, and every space in between, putting Douglas in mind of Rose.
“Well,” Mrs. Kitts said after almost two hours of touring the house, “there you have it, your lordship, ma’am. Linden’s grand tour. Will there be anything else?”
“When might we expect a call from the steward?” Douglas asked. “I believe Lord Greymoor alerted him to the purpose of our visit.”
Mrs. Kitts’s smile faltered, the first such lapse Douglas had seen. “Mr. Tanner is away from the property, but we did get his lordship’s note and passed it along to Miss Tanner. When shall we serve dinner?”
Guinevere did not appear to have heard the question. She ran her hand over a sideboard, the top of which bore an inlaid floral design that made the heavy piece look considerably more graceful. “Guinevere, what would suit?”
“You skipped luncheon,” she said, a slight maternal scold in her tone. “Could we have tea in the small parlor, Mrs. Kitts, then supper for his lordship and myself about eight of the clock?”
“Why, of course, ma’am.”
Douglas dismissed the woman with thanks for her time and all the information she’d imparted about the house.
“Rose is fine,” he said as they returned to the small dining parlor.
To his surprise—his pleased surprise—Guinevere slipped her arm through his. “How could you tell I was fretting?”
“You left her in the care of a nursery maid you’d never met before, it has been almost two hours, and you love that child. Hester seemed a good sort though, and as the oldest of a large brood, she’ll manage Rose easily.” He tucked his hand over hers as they passed the main staircase, the better to prevent a detour to the nursery. “What do you think of the house?”
“You’d be a fool not to buy it if the price is reasonable.”
She enjoyed a conviction about her opinions Douglas did not share. “Because I could sell it for a profit?”
“You could do that,” she said, preceding him into the parlor and taking a seat on a blue brocade sofa far more plush than the one in her own parlor at Enfield. “You told me once you were looking for a place to put down roots, to call home. This is that place, Douglas. This house is waiting for someone to love it. Please stop frowning at me and be seated.”
Rather than accept her invitation—her direction—Douglas paced the small confines of the room. “Houses do not await love.”
“This house has a lovely little Vermeer hanging in the front stairway, and nobody ever sees it. The curtains are Flemish lace, the rugs Aubusson, the wine cellar stocked with some of the most appealing vintages ever laid down. If these things convey, then this house is waiting to be loved.”
“They convey.” Though he hadn’t noticed half of them, being instead absorbed with an absence of dry rot, mouse droppings, flaking plaster, dust, and cobwebs. “Why do you suppose Greymoor did this?” He waved a hand to encompass the house, its appointments, the effort made to fill it with grace, beauty, and comfort, right down to this elegant little jewel of a parlor, whose blue, cream, and gold appointments set off Guinevere’s coloring wonderfully.
“Do you believe, Douglas Allen, you are the only man to whom life has been unkind?”
He considered her question while a substantial tea tray—a silver service, no less—was brought in.
“I’ve seen Greymoor’s other properties,” Douglas said when the maid had departed. “Neither Oak Hall nor Enfield is as well-appointed as Linden. The houses are smaller, more manors than country seats, and the grounds not as elegant. Why would he sell his most attractive property?”
Because the simplest hypothesis that answered the question was that Greymoor was taking pity on a poor relation.
Douglas reached for the teapot when Guinevere’s voice stopped him. “Shall I pour?”
Damn it. “Please.”
She gave him the sort of smile young people directed at their dotty elders. “Douglas, you haven’t eaten since breakfast at the last inn. Don’t stand on ceremony. I am not yet hungry and will have to join Rose in the nursery before dinner.”
“Thank you.” Douglas helped himself to a sandwich while Guinevere prepared his tea: strong, three sugars, cream—bless the woman—and piping hot.
“You won’t at least join me for a cup of tea?”
“In a minute.”
“You want to watch me bolt my grain?” He tore into his sandwich, manners be damned.
“I’m considering how to answer your last question, about why Andrew would sell his most attractive property. I should think it obvious.”
“So enlighten me.” And God above, she was right: he’d been famished.
“Linden is the only property that isn’t entailed, for one thing,” Guinevere said, ticking off on her fingers. “For another, I don’t think Andrew was particularly happy here. For a third, his wife has recently given birth to what is likely the first of many children, and this estate is distant to the other two. It being inconvenient to travel with children”—Douglas lifted his teacup in salute to that sentiment—“he would likely have to visit this one on his own, and Andrew is much taken with his spouse.”
Much taken—a euphemism for being head over ears to a degree Douglas could only envy.
“You don’t mention the one reason I might have brought up first,” Douglas said, selecting a second sandwich. Guinevere did pour herself a cup of tea then, adding two sugars and—he was pleased to note—a healthy tot of cream.
“Greymoor can use the money from selling this place to finance the initial expenses of his stud farm,” she said, “but one thing that branch of the Alexander family does not need is more money.” She poured another cup of tea for Douglas, who perused a lovely plate of cakes while making inroads on his second sandwich. “They aren’t going anywhere, Do
uglas.”
“Who isn’t?”
“The cakes. You don’t have to stare them out of their impulse to leap up and leave the scene. I assure you, the cakes will be there when you finish your sandwich. How was the chicken, by the way?”
Douglas patted his lips with his serviette. “Above reproach.”
“Douglas,” she said gently, “you just ate two sandwiches of roasted beef.”
Four
When Guinevere abandoned Douglas to check on Rose, he was left with some time to fill and a backlog of correspondence to address. He took himself off to the library with a final cup of hot, sweet tea, and in his pocket, a pair of smuggled tea cakes.
The big mahogany desk near the window beckoned, the windows affording light and the nearby hearth taking the chill off an otherwise gloomy day. He started with the letter from his mother, though her hand had grown so crabbed and her prose so repetitive, he wondered why he bothered to respond to her carping.
By seven of the clock, Douglas was only halfway through with his correspondence, but he gave up anyway. He was not properly attired for dinner, the tea cakes were but a happy memory, and he was feeling… both peckish and cranky.
Like Rose at the end of a long day.
“How was Miss Rose when you left her?” he asked Guinevere when he presented himself in the family parlor precisely on the hour.
“Fast asleep,” Guinevere said. “She did not nap this afternoon, and so was quite worn out after her supper. Then too, she’d had her bath and could tumble right into bed.”
Douglas poured two fingers at the sideboard and held a glass out to Guinevere, images of the lady at her bath flitting through his damned fool, tired brain. “One can consider a tot medicinal, given the damp weather.”
“Perhaps half that amount?”
At least she wasn’t going to fuss over the consumption of a bit of spirits. “You are content with the arrangements here for Rose’s care?” Douglas asked, pouring a second, smaller drink and handing her the glass—crystal, of course, at once luminous and delicate.
Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 6
