by Jenna Jaxon
“Are you fatigued? Would you prefer to retire, my dear?” Leaning close, he nudged her ear and gooseflesh rose on her neck. “Make your excuses now. I will follow in half an hour’s time.”
Gazing into the handsome face filled with desire for her, Fanny’s resolve strengthened. If she shared her bed with another man it might make it easier to understand her mind regarding her feelings for Matthew. Make it easier to remain independent. Or perhaps allow her to discover once and for all if independence was what she truly desired. “A capital idea, my lord. I will say good night, then.”
“A very good night to you, my lady.” His cocky grin split his face as he bowed and turned toward the refreshment table.
Fanny rose and immediately glanced about for Charlotte, who proved to be nowhere in sight. Drat it. Where was her hostess? She must make her excuses for leaving the party at such a wretchedly early hour. Ten o’clock had scarcely struck. Still, she must leave now so Alan’s departure would not be remarked upon as too soon after her own.
Jane. As Charlotte’s companion, she could stand in as hostess. Keeping her strides short and slow, Fanny ambled toward her sister-in-law. “Jane, dear. Please make my excuses to Charlotte. I have a sudden headache and think it best I make it an early evening.”
“I am so sorry to hear that, my dear.” The soulful look of concern that deepened the lines on Jane’s face were immediately replaced by one of annoyance as she steered them both toward the door. “If you are thinking of a tryst with Alan Garrett, Fanny, you’d best be on your guard. The rogue has been bedeviling Charlotte for months. If he’s moved on to different game, I say good riddance, for the man is a scoundrel.” She grasped Fanny’s hands at the threshold. “However, if there is anyone here, other than me, who can sheathe the lion’s claws, I will wager it is you. Enjoy your evening, my dear.” Jane rapped her furled fan smartly on Fanny’s arm and turned back into the room.
Mouth open, Fanny resisted the urge to call Jane back. To be given dispensation to bed Alan Garrett and outright approval of the deed stunned her. Was independence always this thrilling? If so, she’d begin planning a long and healthy widowhood.
* * *
By the time Fanny reached her room, she’d decided to call off her assignation with Alan Garrett at least three times, though currently she’d decided to allow the tryst to take place.
Needing to be alone as quickly as possible, she dismissed the maid saying she didn’t need further assistance, and all but pushed the girl out the door. After pacing the room several times, she’d at last settled down to brush out her hair, though somehow she’d managed to tangle the bristles in her hair so badly she had to yank some of her thick locks out to free it. Why was she nervous? She wanted this rendezvous with Alan. Didn’t she?
Banging the brush down on the table, she rubbed lotion on her hands and arms, then climbed into the pristine bed and stretched out, stiff as a ramrod.
Relax. She must relax. Taking a deep breath, she lay back on the soft mattress, the crisp linen sheets and beautifully embroidered counterpane pulled up to her chin, her gaze firmly attached to the door. Waiting for Alan.
She’d never had such qualms about Matthew coming to her bed. In Brighton, they would have been in each other’s arms constantly had she not insisted on discretion. If the wretched man had just appeared this weekend, they’d be here together now. Her heart gave a lurch at the remembrance of Matthew’s strong arms cradling her, his big body covering her, entering her, loving her. That was what she wanted.
Thoughts of Alan Garrett touching her that way made her clutch the covers closer. This was wrong. She could not go through with this assignation. Head clearing for the first time since she left the drawing room, she threw off the counterpane and sheets and slid to the floor. She would write a note to Alan telling him she’d become indisposed in earnest. A weak excuse, but at the moment, with his knock about to sound at any minute, she wasn’t going to try to be inventive.
Seating herself at the toilet table, she rummaged through her case in search of her writing materials. Paper, pens, ink, penknife, she spilled the implements onto the table, seized a pen and paper and began to scratch across the smooth cream surface, so frantic she didn’t stop to mend the pen. How he’d ever read the splotchy words she didn’t know. But she mustn’t lose a second. Scrawling her name at the bottom, she grasped the sheet, ink still wet and dripping, and raced to the door.
Charlotte had told her all the gentlemen had been housed conveniently down the opposite corridor from the ladies. Ironically, Alan now occupied the room Matthew would have had. Brushing that aside, she grasped the latch just in time to hear a soft scratching and whisper.
“Fanny?”
Gritting her teeth, she slowly turned the key below the latch, praying it made no sound. Gaze locked on the handle, she held her breath and stepped slowly backward until she bumped into the foot of the bed.
The handle rattled and her heart seized as though the hand on the other side of the door had it in its grip. The chattering of the latch sounded as loud as gunfire.
Please go away. Just go away.
One final jiggling of the latch that almost started a scream out of her, and the handle went slack. The faint sound of footfalls faded to nothing and Fanny slumped onto the end of the bed. She drew a deep breath after what seemed like an eternity, and lay back on the counterpane, still clutching the note to Alan.
Somehow she didn’t think she’d lived up to Jane’s expectations in this affair. However, her heart and conscience were clear.
Groaning, she sat up and tore the note into shreds. Striding to the fireplace, she tossed the scraps on the cheerful blaze and watched the hungry flames devour the evidence of her folly. At peace now, she returned to the toilette table, straightened her writing accoutrements, and went about the business of mending the pen. There was one more letter she needed to write tonight.
CHAPTER 11
Sunlight poured through the bank of windows, flooding the breakfast room of Hunter’s Cross with a pearly morning brightness that made Matthew’s spirits soar after three days of unrelenting rain. Sipping his coffee, he gazed outside at the dazzling day and smiled. He’d already called for Spartan to be brought around front. Morning rides were most invigorating here on the estate and he’d missed his sorely these last few days. It would be even better with a companion, but Kinellan had continued to his estate in Scotland after accompanying him this far from London. He wouldn’t see his friend again until he went north for the grouse shooting in September.
He’d have to look in on Lord Skelton, his longtime neighbor, and let him know he’d returned to Buckinghamshire. If Skelly was home, he’d at least have a companion to knock about with while he sorted out the mess his estate agent had left him. Mr. Farrow had given his notice not quite a week ago, which had precipitated Matthew’s unexpected return to Hunter’s Cross when by all rights he should have been heading to Kent for Lady Cavendish’s house party.
And Fanny.
It had hurt abominably to write to Lady Cavendish at the last moment, bowing out of her invitation—Fanny’s invitation so she’d told him in Brighton—and the chance to see his love again. The ache in his heart whenever he thought of Fanny only stiffened his resolve to see her ensconced here, mistress of his estate. He gazed at the empty place beside him, imagining her sitting there, his countess talking with him, laughing, teasing him as she sipped her tea and they spoke about their plans for the day. He must write to Fanny as well, explaining his absence this past weekend and perhaps inviting her to come to Hunter’s Cross for a visit. Once here surely he could persuade her to say yes to his suit.
“Good morning, Matthew.” His sister, Lady Beatrice Hunter, sailed into the breakfast room, dressed in a deep red riding habit, and sat down in the very seat he’d been thinking of as Fanny’s, bursting that bubble of whimsy.
“Good morning, my dear. You are riding this morning?”
“Of course. Aren’t you after three dull days o
f sitting around?” Bea raised her eyebrows, giving him her don’t be a fool look from crystal blue eyes. At the impossible age of seventeen, his oldest sister had insisted on leaving the schoolroom and taking her place next to him and their mother in the household and in local society. God help her suitors next year when she made her come-out.
“Yes, I’ve called for Spartan and am about to ride out to the Downs, to see if Lord Skelton is at home.”
Beatrice wrinkled her petite nose and waved her hand in dismissal. “Do not worry on that account. Lord Skelton hasn’t gone anywhere in an age. His sister Sarah complained to me last week that he never goes anywhere after the Season, making her life a misery.” She paused to signal the footman. “James, a plate full with tea and toast, please.”
“How can Lady Sarah’s life be a misery? Skelly dotes on her and their mother.” Matthew swallowed the last of his coffee.
“Too much doting is not a good thing. He’s always underfoot, she says. She can’t pay a call but he’s escorting them, then holding them to his schedule. The same thing if they go into Aylesbury, he tags along. Why can’t he take himself off like you do and let them have some peace?”
James entered with her plate and Beatrice eagerly slipped her napkin into her lap. “Thank you, James.”
“More coffee, James, please.” Matthew indicated his empty cup. “Well, Bea, I was going to ask to accompany you on your ride this morning, but now I dare not for fear of making your life a ‘misery.’”
“Brother, you would have to remain here longer than two weeks for Mama and me to even realize you are in the house.” She forked a bite of eggs and sausage into her mouth and chewed vigorously.
“Well, I may have to do just that. Mr. Farrow’s departure has made it impossible for me to leave until I can get a new manager installed here. The estate will not run itself, you know.”
“You cannot blame Mr. Farrow, Matthew. I’m sure he would have prevented his wife’s father dying so suddenly if he could. As it was, they had to go and quickly, for her mother was in such a state of grief Mrs. Farrow believed she would die herself if they did not assist her.”
“I don’t fault the man. Family needs do come first, however, it could not have come at a worse time.” Both for the estate and his personal life. Matthew accepted his coffee and savored the hot bite of the dark brew. “Ahh.”
“Ugh, how can you drink that without anything in it, Matthew?” Beatrice shuddered and grabbed her teacup, sipping her well-sugared tea avidly, as if in fear someone might force coffee down her throat instead.
“It is an acquired taste, I grant you, but I enjoy its invigorating effect very much. Do you wish to ride with me to Skelton’s?”
“Yes, please. Sarah will be happy for the visit and your company is always much better than riding with a groom. I will tell Perkins to tell Mama when she wakes so she will not fret about me.” Her plate almost empty, Beatrice patted the napkin to her lips and rose, bringing Matthew to his feet as well. “I’ll meet you in the front hall.”
“In ten minutes or I leave without you. We’re missing the best part of the morning.” He grinned as she strode out of the room. Bea was a dear and he’d be sorry to lose her next year. He couldn’t help but think some gentleman would snap her up before the first month of the Season was out.
“The post, my lord.” His family’s butler of twenty years presented several letters on a silver salver.
“Thank you, Gates.” Picking up the lot, Matthew glanced at each before setting them on the table. Time enough for them after his ride. The handwriting on the last one, however, caught his attention. No one of his acquaintance made their Ls with that swooping elegance save Fanny. He plopped back into his chair and popped the seal, his heartbeat speeding inside his chest, and began to read.
* * *
Matthew seethed during the entire, interminable ride to the Downs, anger and fear warring within him by turns. Fanny’s letter, while gently admonishing him for his absence at the house party, had made one thing abundantly clear: She held no loyalty to him whatsoever. The woman he loved, who he knew loved him, had made an assignation with one of the worst rakehells in London. That she had not gone through with the tryst was immaterial. The shock of the betrayal had hit him so hard he’d sat in a daze until Beatrice had come in search of him.
The letter made it absolutely clear that Fanny was determined to live an independent life, one in which he would figure only as a lover, not a husband. He wanted nothing more than to curse loudly into the refreshing morning air that washed over him as they galloped across the fields of Hunter’s Cross. Beatrice’s presence precluded him from such a wild display, so he urged Spartan on to greater speed. How fortunate his sister rode as well as any man and therefore kept up with him easily, though he might have to answer a pert question or two about his hell-bent flight when at last they arrived.
That Fanny might never become his countess twisted his heart. He’d wanted nothing more ever since he’d first met her, at her come-out ball over ten years ago now. Ten years of bitter hurt beginning with her refusal of him and her marriage to Lord Stephen. God, but he’d been patient. With the war raging, he’d bided his time the first few years. Tarkington had been a reckless fellow, a known risk taker within his unit, so there was every chance Fanny would end up a widow sooner rather than later.
When she’d come to him three years into the marriage, her tender heart gravely wounded, he’d comforted her in every way possible, and rejoiced anew. Divorce was unheard of, a scandal to ruin them both, still he’d begged her to run away to the Continent with him. With any luck, Tarkington would divorce her, then they could marry and live quietly at Hunter’s Cross. The ton’s censure meant nothing to him if Fanny would be his wife.
Instead she’d returned to the blackguard after four months of absolute bliss spent with him. Her family had contracted measles in the epidemic that had raged that year, dying one after the other. In her grief, guilt over her affair with him had overcome her and she’d broken with him and returned to Tarkington. He’d understood the reason for her actions at the time, still, her desertion had cut to the bone. Returning to his estate to recover, he’d eschewed London in fear of seeing her again. Out of sight, out of mind, they said. They’d been wrong. Not a day had gone by that he hadn’t thought about her, missed her with a depth of longing that had harrowed his soul.
By rights he should have moved on with his life, taken a wife and done his duty to the earldom by putting an heir in his nursery. But the hope of winning Fanny simply wouldn’t die. So he’d avoided entanglements with the daughters of his neighbors and thrown himself instead into the pastimes he loved: shooting, riding, racing, and boxing. When Kinellan had sent word of Stephen Tarkington’s death at Waterloo, he’d been mad to race to London and declare himself, but his friend had counseled caution, which Matthew, once again full of hope, had heeded and bided his time throughout Fanny’s year of mourning.
Now it seemed his patience had, in the end, come to naught. He’d declared himself to Fanny time and again in these past months to no avail, yet still he’d hoped. This latest betrayal, however, had finally killed hope. Fanny would continue to refuse him, more enamored of her freedom to flit from man to man than of the one man who loved her. At last, it was time to let her go.
As they approached the winding driveway to the Downs, Matthew pulled Spartan down to a smart canter, then a quick trot, and finally to a walk.
Beatrice rode up beside him, a perturbed frown on her face. “What hellhounds did you think were chasing you, brother? I’ve never seen you push Spartan that hard outside of a hunt.”
“He’s in fine fettle after three days of no exercise. I gave him his head, is all.”
“Well, you could have had a care for my welfare. I was hard put to keep up with your breakneck pace.” Bea’s reproachful look might have touched his heart, had not her eyes been shining with the exhilaration of the ride.
“You do not seem unduly distressed, sweet sis
ter. But if your riding skills are lacking, do not blame me. You are perfectly capable of riding when you will. If you’ve lately taken to mainly indoor pursuits, such as reading those dreadful romance novels, you can scarcely be surprised.” Matthew grinned, and narrowly managed to avoid a blow from his sister’s riding crop.
“Wretch. What else am I supposed to do when it rains?” Beatrice settled back in her saddle, walking her horse alongside him. “I can hardly play billiards by myself when you are gone. Mama won’t play and the younger girls are too silly to learn.”
“Give them a chance, Bea. They are scarcely ten and twelve.”
“I am certain I was never so giddy when I was that age.”
“You have never been giddy, I grant you that,” Matthew said as they came in sight of the Broadmans’ stately manor house. “Stubborn, yes, giddy, no. I shall be sure to tell your future husband that when he asks for your hand.”
Bea dismounted, then glared at him. “I’ll thank you to keep your observations to yourself where my ‘future husband’ is concerned or I’ll thwart you and elope to Gretna Green.”
“And then I’ll take a riding crop to you, my girl. Just see if I don’t.” Chuckling, Matthew swung down from Spartan, good humor restored by their always spirited banter. Despite his words, he’d sorely miss Bea when she did marry.
The butler showed them to the drawing room where the family had gathered for tea.
“Lady Beatrice, what a lovely surprise.” Lady Skelton beckoned to her, smiling warmly. “Good day to you, my lord. It is good to see you again.”