“I’m certain I shall. But you haven’t answered my question,” the girl said. He released a deep breath and returned his gaze to hers. “You wish to know what life was like for me in Belgium?”
She nodded.
Garrett looked to Sophie for help, but she smiled placidly at him and folded her hands in her lap. “I should also like to hear what your days were like while you were gone from us, Garrett.”
Garrett blew out a whistling breath through his teeth. Sophie and Miranda together—they were a formidable pair, one staring at him with a direct blue gaze, the other with her soft whiskey-colored eyes.
He couldn’t refuse them anything.
And why should he care about revealing an average day? This was his family. Though his memories of his life before Belgium still contained holes, the fragments had now formed into cohesiveness. His memory was a block of Swiss cheese rather than a spray of shattered glass. The biggest remaining gap in his memory had to do with the events surrounding the battle of Waterloo.
He shook his head. There were certain aspects of his existence on the Continent best kept to himself, especially in his daughter’s presence. But a day from his life—why the hell not?
“Well,” he said softly. “I lived in a cottage with four other men. We were the hired laborers on a barley farm owned by Monsieur Lebeck. Lebeck’s wife was barren and his tenants dispersed after Waterloo, so for lack of sons and tenants, he required men.”
“Papa, were you in trade?”
“No, girl. I was far below a tradesman.”
“Really?” Miranda frowned.
“I was sick for a long time,” Garrett continued, “but I suppose Lebeck saw my size and determined I’d be a fine enough worker if I survived. I farmed his fields like a slave, and it was arduous, backbreaking labor. I was outside all day, every day, from dawn till dusk.”
Miranda simply stared at him. No doubt she found it difficult to comprehend the enormity of the difference between his life now and his life of a month ago. A pang of longing for that life struck him full force in the chest. If he were standing, the strength of it would have driven him staggering backward. Catching his breath, he realized for the first time that something about his existence in Belgium appealed to him. Not being under the hand of a petty tyrant, nor the misery of being ordered about and forced to comply with another man’s whim. He’d experienced enough of that in the army and far less tolerable treatment from Lebeck. But in a way he missed the tiredness in his muscles after a long, productive day’s work. The feeling of accomplishment at the end of harvest. Outdoor labor, under clear skies and cool breezes. In contrast, the life of a duke in London seemed rather bland. Despite the endless barrage of legal, financial, and administrative problems that beset Garrett at every turn, he felt idle.
Finally Miranda spoke, her lips twisted in a frown as if she were still trying to understand.
“I should like to be outside every day. But alas, it is not to be. I have my studies, and it’s not fashionable to be out at certain times of day, you know. And Miss Dalworthy says if I go outside in the middle of the day, my skin shall become dark as a heathen’s.”
Garrett cocked a brow at her. “Like mine?”
Miranda studied him, her expression serious. “Perhaps. Although indeed, Papa, you look less of a heathen every day.”
At least the child was honest. Garrett smiled wryly. “I suppose I should be grateful for that, if nothing else.”
Sophie had retrieved the embroidery and had worked silently through the entire exchange, a bemused look on her face. He could not read her, and that bothered him. She used to say he knew her thoughts before she had them. Not anymore.
Feeling his eyes on her, she glanced up at him and smiled. But there was a sadness to her expression that disturbed him. “Despite the hardship of that life, you speak of it with a certain measure of longing,” she said.
“There was something to it—a freedom—that I enjoyed.”
“And yet, by your own admission, you were a slave.”
He gave her a rueful look. “True enough. Makes no sense, does it?”
“On the contrary. I believe I understand completely.” Her expression was shuttered tight, making him want to dive into her mind and pull out the thoughts buried within. For it was clear she was thinking of something specific, relating his admission somehow to her own life.
But her existence, from birth, had been limited in scope. She went from being the daughter of a baron to being the wife of a duke to being the widow of a duke and straight back to being a duke’s wife. Never had she strayed from the structured, glittering confines of her privileged environment.
No, he amended. She was wrong. He must have misinterpreted her expression and her body language. She couldn’t possibly understand what he meant.
“Sophie, darling.” Aunt Bertrice clasped Sophie’s shoulders and kissed her cheek before thrusting her away and taking stock of her with shrewd pale blue eyes. “You are exhausted.”
“No, Aunt Bertrice, not at all,” Sophie said mildly as she turned to Becky. The girl had grown into a woman over the past months. The straight lines of her body had rounded to reveal an abundant bosom and a narrow waist, and Sophie held out her arms. “Look at you, Becky. A woman full grown.”
“Oh, Cousin Sophie,” Becky protested, sinking into her embrace. “I haven’t changed so very much at all. And,” she added, in a low whisper in Sophie’s ear, “I am terrified. Promise you will stand beside me through this torture.”
Sophie couldn’t help but laugh. Most girls spent their childhood dreaming about their first Season. She had, even though she’d known before it began that Garrett would be her husband. But poor Becky, blessed with beauty in abundance, would much prefer to sit in a library surrounded by books.
“You’ll trump them all, Becks,” she whispered back, and she made a mental note to remember to learn enough about Becky’s beaux to ascertain they would be tolerant of a bookish wife who had all the makings of a bluestocking. At least half the potential suitors would tumble off the list right away.
Becky pulled back, frowning as she gazed searchingly past Sophie’s shoulder. Even her frown was lovely. “Where is my brother?”
“He’s been detained, but he’ll join us for dinner.” Sophie didn’t tell them Garrett was hiding in his study, at the last minute deciding he had too much work to do to be bothered with reuniting with his sister and aunt. Sophie knew he was merely troubled by the impending meeting, and she’d let him go without comment. He couldn’t avoid them forever.
Becky’s gaze alighted on Mr. Fisk, who’d just returned from a walk and stood at the edge of the landing, looking upon the group with a friendly smile.
“Oh, allow me to introduce Mr. Fisk,” Sophie said. “Mr. Fisk, this is Lady Rebecca James, His Grace’s sister, and his aunt, Lady Bertrice James.” She turned to Becky and Aunt Bertrice. “This is Mr. Fisk. He served with Garrett in the army and was the first to discover him alive in Belgium.”
The gentleman bowed formally. “A pleasure indeed, Lady Bertrice. Lady Rebecca.”
Becky curtsied. “It is an honor to meet my brother’s savior.”
Mr. Fisk gave a low laugh. “I’m hardly his savior, my lady. I merely happened to be at the right place at the right time.”
Becky flushed and lowered her head. “Nevertheless, we shall be forevermore indebted to you, sir, for bringing him home to us.”
Garrett dragged himself down to dinner. The only reason he did so was that he knew Sophie would be disappointed if he didn’t appear. He didn’t want her forced to make excuses for him.
Still, he arrived uncomfortably late. Everyone else had already been seated when he entered the dining room, and they all looked up in surprise as he opened the door. His gaze fell on Sophie at the foot of the table. She wore a primrose gown that complemented her hair. The gold of the heavy cross hanging from her neck brought out the smooth paleness of her complexion. She gave him a faint, encouraging smile.
He paused, breathless for a moment at her subdued, understated beauty. When a chair squeaked loudly, he realized the moment of silence had gone on too long, and he moved his gaze to the other people seated round the table.
On Sophie’s right sat Fisk, impeccably dressed in a blue tailcoat, with a fancy embroidered waistcoat and blue cravat.
Rebecca was at Sophie’s left. Garrett frowned at her for a long moment. She wasn’t as he remembered. She didn’t take after their father like himself and Miranda. Instead, she had the raven hair and blue-gray eyes of her mother. In fact, she didn’t look like a relation of his at all. She was petite and dark, except for ivory pale skin, whereas he was a hulking blond brute with skin bronzed by the sun.
A flush crept over her cheeks as he studied her. She looked modestly down at her plate.
“You’re late.”
Garrett’s gaze snapped to the woman to Rebecca’s left. Aunt Bertrice—her he remembered well. His father’s younger spinster sister, strict and imposing. Her hair was solid gray and pulled back into a stern chignon. When he was a boy, her hair was tawny, much like his own but with streaks of silver.
A memory whipped through him. Aunt Bertrice, coming into his room after his father had beaten him for some misdemeanor. He must’ve been seven or eight years old. Miranda’s age. Aunt Bertrice hadn’t spoken a word, just gently rubbed a soothing salve over the welts, her face pinched in disapproval. Distant and inaccessible, she hadn’t quite been a substitute for a mother. But between her and Sophie, his sole true source of unconditional affection, he’d managed.
“Aunt Bertrice.” He met her gaze straight on and gave a small bow.
“So glad you could finally manage to join us, Garrett, and in the middle of dinner, too.”
He managed a shrug. “I’ve been busy.”
“Well, you’ve been busy for a long, long time, I daresay, but we thank God you’ve finally come home.” A ghost of a smile tilted her lips. “Well, do sit down,” she continued brusquely. “I’m hungry, and they’re waiting on you.”
He obeyed, seating himself at the head of the table, with Aunt Bertrice on his right and a very proper-looking Miranda on his left. She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “I missed you, Papa.”
He looked at her in surprise as the footmen served the first course. Normally, Miranda was a model of propriety at the dinner table and never spoke unless someone spoke to her first. She gave him a small, secretive smile and folded her hands in her lap. He glanced at Sophie to see her raise a brow at her daughter, but she didn’t say a word of reprimand. Garrett nodded to the footman at his shoulder. As he was served boiled chicken and spinach, he looked up to see Rebecca staring at his scar—her eyes wide. She quickly dropped her gaze, reddening to the tips of her ears. He supposed he had been rude not to acknowledge her.
“I trust all has been to your satisfaction since you arrived, Rebecca?”
Her gaze shot to him. She licked her lips. “Indeed it has, Your Grace. Thank you.”
“Garrett, please.” He couldn’t remember propriety, but certainly he was allowed to give leave to his sister to call him by his Christian name.
“Becky,” she murmured.
“What was that?”
“You always called me Becky… before.”
“Of course.” He tried the odd-sounding word. “Becky.” For the life of him, he couldn’t recall what appellation he’d used to address her. Nor could he reconcile this young woman to the shy little girl he’d known.
Sophie’s quiet smile lit the room, and he glanced at her. He cocked his head in question, but she looked down at her plate to take a forkful of chicken. At least they’d gotten rid of that awful twisted centerpiece so he could see her clearly. All was silent for a long while. The only sounds were of porcelain and silver clinking together, and polite “pleases” and “thank yous” as items were passed about the table. Recalling the raucous dinners at the inn during his days in Belgium, Garrett shook his head and swallowed down half a glass of wine.
“By all means, talk,” he murmured. “Don’t allow my presence to dissuade you from it.”
Aunt Bertrice released a loud breath from between her lips. “Nonsense, boy. Please trust that your presence has absolutely no effect on my inclination to jabber. However, we’ve just completed a long, uncomfortable journey and we’re tired. I, for one, thought you might like to entertain us with your wit.”
He gave her a wry smile. “My wit? My dear aunt, have you forgotten? It is well known that I am witless.”
Miranda giggled. Garrett glanced at Fisk, who’d been unnaturally quiet. He returned Garrett’s gaze, smiled, then focused on separating his chicken from the bone.
“Perhaps we should discuss Becky’s presentation to the king.” Sophie smiled at the young woman as Garrett concentrated on releasing his tension. Sophie planned to present his sister at court in a fortnight, and just this morning, after much debate, he finally had agreed to allow Sophie and Rebecca to attend the theater in a few days and the Countess of Keene’s ball the night after. He hadn’t decided whether he would attend the ball yet, but the thought of their going alone made him feel ill, and Fisk hadn’t been invited. He probably would go, just to watch over them.
“It’s in just two weeks’ time, Becks,” Sophie said. “Are you ready?”
Rebecca grimaced. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
Aunt Bertrice snorted. “Nonsense, the girl is more than ready.” She cast Garrett a beseeching glance. “Please marry her off quickly, Garrett. I can scarcely tolerate her mooning about the house a moment longer.”
He inclined his head. “I shall do my best.”
“I am absolutely in awe of your court dress,” Sophie murmured. Becky shook her head woefully. “No doubt if I sold it, I might feed and clothe a small village for a year.”
“Is it so extravagant?” asked Fisk.
“It is, sir,” Rebecca confirmed. “It is made from the finest silk, edged with gilt, and there are eight hundred pearls sewn onto the skirt.”
“It sounds lovely.” Fisk gave Rebecca a thoughtful look.
“The ostrich feathers they plan to place on my head will make me quite tall.” She turned to Sophie. “Do you think I shall have to duck through the door? Will that be a very gauche thing to do before the king?”
“Not at all, Becky,” Sophie said calmly.
“You’re lucky you’re not cursed with excessive height,” Aunt Bertrice said. “You’ll be fine, though I imagine the feathers will add a good two feet. You might have to bend your knees a bit, but just sink down a little, and His Majesty won’t even see it.”
“When I was a girl, I used to pretend I was a seven-foot-tall giant.” Rebecca frowned.
“Now I truly shall be a seven-foot-tall giant.”
“I daresay you’ll be the loveliest seven-foot giant to ever glide into the king’s drawing room,” Fisk said.
She met his eyes and just as quickly looked away, flustered, making it rampantly clear she was unused to the attentions of the opposite sex.
“Have you decided which gown you will wear to the countess’s ball?” Sophie asked. Becky chewed her lip, and Garrett noticed that Fisk’s gaze had fixated on her mouth. Was the man besotted with his little sister?
Would that be so terrible a thing? Perhaps not. His aunt wanted her married off quickly, after all. And Garrett could hardly imagine a better candidate than Fisk. He trusted Fisk with his life, so why not with his sister’s?
“Aunt Bertrice says I must wear the blue silk,” she said shyly, glancing at Fisk again.
“Wonderful,” Sophie said. “We will go shopping tomorrow to find you the perfect fan to complement the color.”
The conversation droned on. Its content didn’t interest Garrett nearly so much as the people engaged in it. He studied each person in detail—Fisk, his trustworthy friend who for once didn’t seem to have the fortitude to lead a conversation. Rebecca’s appearance seemed to have thrown him off balance. Then
there was Aunt Bertrice, who presided over the proceedings like a queen. And Miranda, who watched with avid curiosity, answering readily whenever anyone posed a question.
But Garrett’s attention kept returning to his wife. The gentle slope of her shoulder. The slender line of her collarbones. The oval shape of her jaw. Her passion, evident in her speech, in her every move. She made everyone feel welcome and comfortable. Even him. He wanted to take her to bed. In truth, he’d wanted her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, despite Tristan’s presence. He remembered everything about the lush body beneath her gown. Had it changed in the years? Had it changed with the birth of their daughter? He thought not, for she looked the same in her dresses as she had eight years ago, despite the changes in fashion.
When she smiled, he was riveted by her straight, white teeth. By her lips stretched wide. How would they feel kissing him again? Not only on his mouth this time, but over his whole body?
He went hard and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His skin was prickly and sensitive. Only the wine warmed him, but not nearly as much as Sophie’s body could. He’d had enough of this torture. It was time to formulate a plan to lure his wife back into his bed.
***
Sophie couldn’t sleep. Loneliness draped her like a shroud. Trying to push away the relentless ache for Tristan, she’d retrieved Robinson Crusoe, a childhood favorite, from Garrett’s study. She’d rekindled the fire in her bedchamber and now sat before the flickering flames, curled up in the faded armchair reading by the light of an oil lamp. A soft knock sounded at her door.
She straightened in the chair and set the book on the side table. “Come in.”
It was Becky, dressed in a nightgown and a sensible wool robe. “Oh, Sophie, I’m so sorry to come knocking at this hour. But I couldn’t sleep, and I hoped you were awake, too.”
Sophie smiled. “Come in, dearest. I couldn’t sleep either.”
Biting her lip, Becky entered and lowered herself into the only other chair in the room—
the wooden chair set behind the makeshift writing desk.
A Hint of Wicked Page 17