Gabriel: Lord of Regrets (7 page)

“Marjorie didn’t want me to go to Spain,” Gabriel recalled. “Nobody did, but his lordship wasn’t going to forbid it, either.”

“I want to say I’m glad you came for me.” Aaron drew his horse down to the walk as they approached the big building housing some of their stored hay. “The situation isn’t so simple anymore.”

“It isn’t so complicated, either. If you want the title, Aaron, I won’t fight you for it.”

“I most assuredly do
not
want it. I will fight you to get out from under it, but not if it leaves Marjorie as the butt of gossip. She did only what she was told was her duty.”

“In all likelihood, your marriage is valid, I have the title, and Marjorie is going to have to tell her mother to take a tisane.” Or whatever a lady did instead of getting half seas over.

“You and I are going to have to tell Lady Hartle to take a tisane,” Aaron said, swinging to the ground. “And we’re going to have to tell her solicitors to take a tisane as well, probably all over the newspapers.”

“A good scandal or two will liven things up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gabriel swung off his horse. He couldn’t reproduce the lithe maneuver Aaron executed, but he got himself safely to the ground.

“So we have a little scandal,” Gabriel said. “That won’t affect how I go through my day one bit, nor likely you or Marjorie. As long as the woman is married to someone, she’ll be received. Was it only the one mow?”

“Beg pardon? Oh, yes, only the hay on the west end of the barn was affected, thank God.”

They climbed up onto the huge beams separating one mow from the next, and peered at the eaves, soffit, supports, and the walls as the morning sun rose higher.

“The one wall shows signs of damp,” Gabriel said, “while nothing else does. What do you make of it?”

“The water sure as hell didn’t sneak in under the eaves,” Aaron muttered. “Somebody dumped a barrel or two right down the wall and let it do its magic. The worst of the summer sun hits that wall on the outside, creating heat on the dampness.”

“Ergo, mold. It wouldn’t be too hard to use the pulley on the crossbeam to get a barrel of water up over the hay. Do you suppose we’re going to have to guard the damned hay?”

“You put it to George,” Aaron said, beginning his descent from the mow. “Seems to me it would be easier to put a lock on the barn.”

“Suppose it would. Would a lock be an invitation to fire the entire lot?”

“The entire lot could have been fired already. What else would you like to see?”

Sound reasoning, and delivered without a lot of dancing about. “Everything, though not all at once. What do you want to show me?”

Aaron led him off over the countryside, down bridle paths, through the home wood, over some of the tenant farms, and into the village. They stopped for a pint, where Gabriel was gaped at and slapped on the back at length and stood to a few rounds of ale. Aaron took it all in with surprisingly good grace.

“One would think I was the one who survived the entire Peninsular Campaign,” Gabriel groused. “Did they at least fuss over you when you came home?”

“Some.” Aaron tightened his gelding’s girth as they prepared to leave the pub for home. “You were still in Spain, and Father taken shortly thereafter, so it was a restrained greeting all around.”

“From one war to another.” Gabriel grimaced as he hoisted himself to the saddle. “Do you ever miss it?”

“The war? God in heaven, how could you ask such a thing? I saw more good men of many nations cut down, and for what? So the Russian winter and the Corsican’s own hubris could do in a few months what we barely accomplished in a decade.”

“The Russians might expect honorable mention in that story too. If it isn’t the excitement and violence you crave, how does one explain all the duels, Aaron?”

Aaron’s boot barely touched the stirrup as he mounted his horse. “You heard about those?”

“The betting books hold wagers regarding how many duels you can survive before your marchioness is widowed and the title forfeit. This disturbs me, Brother.”

Aaron kept his eyes front as they trotted away from the village green. “You tell me where you’ve been for the past two years, and I’ll tell you what compels me to the field of honor.”

A silence went by, broken only by the rhythm of hooves on cold, hard earth.

“Give me a week,” Gabriel said. “I want to set up our meeting with Kettering and give you time to make Marjorie see reason.”

“Our meeting?”

“How many times must I say it? You are legally the marquess;
you
, not me. A succession is delicate. I’m sure there are formalities involved with shifting that burden onto my shoulders.”

“We’ll do this your way,” Aaron said, “though as for talking to Marjorie, I’ve already told her I’d abide by her wishes.”

Gabriel shot his brother a puzzled look. “After two years of bedding the woman, seeing her across the breakfast table, paying her bills, and leading her out? I can’t believe you resent her so much you don’t have any affection for her.”

“You talk to her,” Aaron said. “I have feelings for her, of course, more protective than I’d guessed, but the rest is private, Gabriel. You’ll have to hear it from her, and if you don’t change the subject now, my fourth duel will soon be scheduled.”

“Right. I go to all the trouble to provide a perfect imitation of Lazarus, and all you can do is call me out.”

“Treat Marjorie with anything less than perfect consideration,” Aaron replied evenly, “and I’ll do just that.”

“Of course you will, putting an end to all this academic discussion about the succession. Now, is that fidgety bag of bones you’re sporting about on capable of some speed and stamina, or is he merely for show?”

“To the bottom of the lane.” Aaron grinned and stood in his stirrups, bending low over the gelding’s neck. “Go!”

“Did I leave you to break your fast alone?” Marjorie, Lady Hesketh, looked truly distressed to have discommoded her guest.

“I like the occasional solitary meal,” Polly said, rising from the sofa in her makeshift studio. “Though you’re going to have to say something to your kitchen.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Let’s sit you here, by the window,” Polly suggested, indicating a bench upholstered in blue velvet. Morning sun streamed in the window, giving way to a view of the extensive back gardens.

“Your kitchen has stopped trying,” Polly said, “at least for breakfast. They know you don’t come down, and hungry men will eat most anything. Turn your shoulders two inches.” Polly demonstrated, turning her own shoulders to the left. “Chin up one inch.”

“What should I tell my cook?”

“You should probably take a meal or two in the breakfast parlor.” Polly pulled up a stool and opened her sketch pad. “Then they’ll know you check on them and be motivated to please you accordingly. Otherwise, they’ll think his lordship, or perhaps his brother, peached on them.”

“Peached?”

“The eggs are merely scrambled, not a dash of salt or a sliver of cheese to enhance their palatability. The toast is yesterday’s bread, I’m thinking, and the tea wasn’t exactly kept hot. Wrapping a towel over the pot is a simple thing, something you’d notice and the footmen wouldn’t.”

Marjorie’s spine straightened. “I’ll see to this, but did you run your own household, Miss Hunt, that such oversights are apparent to you?”

“Chin,” Polly reminded her. “I ran the kitchen of a modest manor, though I’m told that’s not to be repeated among my betters, which most assuredly includes you. You have the loveliest hair.”

“Blond.” Marjorie put a wealth of despair in one word. “Mama laments that I should have been anything more remarkable than merely blond.”

“My sister has flaming red hair.” Polly’s pencil flew over the page as she tried to capture Lady Marjorie on her dignity. “Appreciate your blond hair, my lady. Hair color alone can brand a woman a strumpet.”

“A strumpet?” Lady Marjorie’s pretty blue eyes went wide, then she caught Polly’s mischievous smile. “Shall I dye mine?”

“A little henna might bring out the red highlights, but first threaten to do it, and see what Hesketh’s reaction would be.”

“One threatens to use cosmetics?”

“Married to a handsome fellow like that, one does.”

“It won’t do any good,” Marjorie replied, and her chin did not dip, but her expression wilted. “He hates me.”

“Most spouses think they hate each other at some point. It’s part of the charm of marriage, and then a baby comes along and there’s no time for that nonsense. Look out the window, my lady, off into the distance, as if your knight in shining armor were due back from the pub at any minute.”

“You think I’m being silly.” Marjorie said it quietly. “Everybody thinks I’m silly, because I’m young. I think I’m silly too, but one doesn’t quite know what to do about it.”

Rather than mindlessly reassure an insecure young aristocrat, Polly recalled all the times she and Sara had traded ideas, gripes, insecurities, and fears with each other.

“Silly, how?”

“Unless I’m on a horse, I’m uncomfortable. I take a tray in my room to avoid my husband in the morning. I ride about all day so I won’t be home when Mama calls, but can time my calls on her for when I know she’s busy. I dread going over the menus with Cook, and the evenings when my husband dines with me nearly give me hives. I spend hours dressing for him, and he never even glances at me once he’s held my chair and poured my wine.”

“You want him to notice you?”

“Of course I want him to notice me!” The despair was back, more evident than ever. “He married me because Mama said it must be so, not because he chose me, and the least I can do is try to be a good wife to him.”

Polly inspected her sketch, as if scratching lines on a page were a complicated undertaking. “There’s been talk that the betrothal contracts may be revisited because your mama dearly wants to see you remain Lady Hesketh.”

Marjorie’s eyebrows rose. “Already?” She had perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, which was rare. “That didn’t take long. And I can’t tell if Aaron wants me to toss him over or leave Gabriel free to choose elsewhere. Aaron is being the perfect gentleman about the whole business. It makes me bilious to think of it.”

“Bilious?” Polly’s subject had become
animated
, so Polly kept her ladyship talking and kept the pencil moving.

“I feel like a broodmare—put her to this stud; if she won’t catch, put her to another,” Marjorie spat. “But I won’t catch with Aaron, not ever.”

“I can’t believe he’s lacking the equipment. Shoulders back a hair.”

“He has the equipment, or so the gossip suggests, but I’ve never had the pleasure, so to speak.” A hot, very visible blush followed those words. “You won’t tell anybody?”

“Of course not.” Polly’s pencil went still as she beheld a bewildered young wife, not a marchioness, and certainly not a subject. “Men can be idiots, on this we may agree, regardless of station. Why do you suppose Aaron is being so shy?”

“Shy? That man couldn’t spell the word if you told him all three letters,” Marjorie huffed. “I can’t think what he’s about, not now. Two years ago, I would have said he resented his bride bitterly, but if he’s dutiful enough to marry me, then why isn’t he dutiful enough to see to the rest of it?”

“Because he’s an idiot.” Polly made a few more lines on the page, because symmetric eyebrows were not the only lovely feature on the lady’s face. “I have a suggestion, though.”

“He can’t be made jealous,” Marjorie said. “Mama suggested that, and it has been a crashing failure. He can’t be made angry—another of Mama’s brilliant ideas. I’ve spent eons with the modistes to run up the bills, and he merely lectures and pays them anyway.”

Polly grinned, flipping to a new page. “Well done.”

“Well done, Miss Hunt?”

“You’re assessing strategy. One has to sort through one’s choices of weapon before any battle, to see which is most appropriate to the instant challenge. Please stop wringing your hands, my lady.”

“What strategy would you propose?”

“You could always show up naked in his bed. Probably give him apoplexy if you did.”

“In his
bed
?” For all her consternation, Lady Marjorie was fascinated with the suggestion.

“Or in the saddle room. Hands, my lady. Or the still room, or wherever he’s likely to have some time and privacy.”

“In the light of
day
?”

“Men are particularly frisky in the early morning, so I’m told. But all of this assumes you want to woo him. Do you?”

Marjorie bit her lip in thought, and Polly let her, as a thoughtful Lady Marjorie was as interesting as a bewildered Lady Marjorie.

“I do,” she said. “I most assuredly do want to woo him.”

“For his sake?” Polly asked. “Because the poor beleaguered man has been stuck with such a harridan for his wife?”

Marjorie’s shoulders slumped. “He has been stuck with me. Any spouse chosen for one’s brother has to be a bitter pill, but I also want to do this for me.”

Marjorie was pretty; she was by no means stupid, but she was young and lonely. On the strength of those observations, Polly presumed to ask another question. “You love him?”

“That is a… sensitive question. I’d take Aaron over his brother any day.” She shuddered at the thought, and Polly knew it was time to change the subject—or it should be.

A woman with scruples would change the subject. Such a woman wouldn’t swill brandy in the dead of night, pretending to fall asleep rather than be forced back to the solitude of her bed.

“You don’t care for your former intended, my lady?”

“I hardly know him.” Marjorie’s eyes did focus on the distant gardens, as if she could see the past. “Gabriel has changed, that’s obvious, and he wouldn’t be a terrible husband, but he’s so… fierce. He’s dark, inside and out, and while Aaron is also older than I, Gabriel has always seemed remote in ways that do not inspire easy affection.”

“So you were relieved to marry Aaron?” Polly asked gently. “Aaron is a fine man, from what I’ve seen, and I do think he has feelings for you.”

Marjorie gave a wan smile. “Exasperation, mostly.”

“Take him riding. If that’s where you’re at your best, then show him that.”

“It’s less intimidating than your other suggestion.” Marjorie’s smile became more pronounced, and Polly’s pencil moved more quickly.

“Keep thinking what you’re thinking now,” Polly ordered, “about how surprised your husband would be if you beat him in a race on horseback, how he looks when he’s had a good gallop, how you look when you’ve beaten somebody over a half-mile course. Think about your mama, vacationing for months in Portugal, think about… those few, discreet comments you can make to the cook, and watching the respect grow in her eyes when she sees you do notice her work and appreciate when she does it well. Think about—” Polly put her pencil down. “Think about this woman.”

She showed Marjorie the sketch, one of a lovely young woman whose smile sparkled and whose eyes held warmth, wit, and intelligence.

“That cannot be me.”

“That is one image of you. An accurate one, because I do not believe in taking license with my subjects. You can make Aaron Wendover see that this is the woman he married, not…” She flipped the page, to the first image. “Her.”

Marjorie studied the sketch. “She’s young and scared and uncertain and… dull.”

“All of which”—Polly flipped back to the other sketch—“is something this woman can take in stride. Think about it, Lady Marjorie. If you don’t stake your claim now, you might lose your only remaining opportunity to do so. If Aaron will marry you out of duty, he’ll likely also let the solicitors set the marriage aside out of the same motivation. You have to
show
him what you want, if he can’t hear you when you tell him.”

“Men.” Marjorie’s formerly guileless eyes began to dance. “Can be…” She lowered her voice and looked around. “Idiots.”

“They can be.” Polly stuck her pencil into the bun at her nape. “Women can be too. Now let’s do this study from the other angle, which means you shift to let the sun hit the other side of your face. And keep thinking wicked thoughts, my lady. They bring out the sparkle in your eye.”

***

“I need to talk to you.”

Gabriel nodded, because Polly had murmured nearly in his ear as he’d seated her at dinner, and he knew better than to make a fuss. Of course, he’d been sneaking a whiff of her scent by leaning in so close, which was a pathetic comment on the state of his self-discipline.

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant, with both ladies carrying the conversation into all sorts of interesting topics. Marjorie interrogated Aaron about cavalry mounts, and if anybody thought it odd that husband and wife had never discussed such a mutually agreeable topic before, it wasn’t remarked. Polly volunteered some details of her plans for Marjorie’s portrait, and Aaron tossed in the occasional observation about the tenants they’d visited.

“Mr. Danner’s back is acting up.” Aaron turned his claret by the stem of his wineglass. “The man’s eighty if he’s a day. One wonders what he can be thinking.”

“He’s not supposed to be eighty?” Polly asked.

“He’s not supposed to stand up with every young girl at the local assemblies,” Aaron countered. “The last one was this past weekend, and Danner is still hobbling around.”

“And likely grinning,” Gabriel chimed in. “I want to be just like him when I grow up. If a man’s going to have a bad back, he should at least put it to the test flirting with the fillies, don’t you think?”

“When he’s eighty?” Marjorie looked puzzled at such a notion. “One fears for his daughter’s nerves. Miss Hunt, shall we leave the men to their port?”

“We shall.” Polly rose, and again Gabriel assisted. “Or we could repair to your wardrobe and start choosing outfits to pose you in.”

“It makes a difference?”

Aaron answered Marjorie’s question. “Of course it would. That blue-and-cream habit makes your eyes positively snap, and pink makes you look like a schoolgirl. And despite what your mother claims, she puts you in yellow only so you don’t outshine your younger sisters.”

“Forgive him,” Gabriel said. “My brother is tired and not thinking clearly. I’m sure you’d look lovely attired in sack cloth and ashes.”

Polly linked her arm through Marjorie’s. “My lord, you might convince the lady that’s a compliment if you tried smiling as you said it. Come along, my lady. They’ve drinking to do.”

“In the library?” Aaron asked when the ladies had departed.

Bless a younger brother with common sense. “Where there’s a big, roaring fire.”

“I like her,” Aaron offered as they ambled across the corridor. “Miss Hunt. Marjorie is lonely, though I hadn’t noticed it before.”

“And consorting with other women of her station can be trying,” Gabriel added. “They can be such cats. Cribbage or something else?”

“I can beat you easily at cribbage, but it will at least take up the time while we drink.”

The casual jibes and insults took them through about a third of the decanter, until they’d won two games each. Aaron excused himself, pausing at the library door.

“That week you mentioned earlier?”

“Hmm?” Gabriel stoked the fire then shoved the sofa closer to it.

“You’d best talk to Marjorie before we go see the solicitors,” Aaron said. “Talk to her privately.”

“You talk to her,” Gabriel shot back. “She’s your wife and likely will remain so.”

“I don’t talk with her about our marriage, Gabriel.” Aaron’s tone was simply weary.

“Why not?”

This seemed to give him pause, for he leaned back against the closed door. “At first, because I was so angry, and then because I didn’t know what to say. Maybe you can get the truth from her. I’m not sure I ever did.”

On those words, he slipped away, leaving Gabriel to arrange himself gratefully before the fire. He’d dozed off, his head pillowed on the estate book, when the library door opened on a barely audible creak.

“Close the door, Polonaise. You’re letting in a draft.”