In looks he was not extraordinary, and yet he had presence. He seemed like a creature from another world, more so even than the marquess. Lord Arden was very handsome and had the air of the haut ton, but he was somehow comfortably English. Without ever having met a foreigner, Judith sensed that Lord Charrington was foreign.
He also appeared to be completely in control of the situation. The impetuous young man of the day before had gone, and in his stead was this polished aristocrat.
"I am twenty-five years old," he said calmly, "wealthy, of equable temperament, and with no particular vices. I was born in Istanbul, raised in many places with English attendants, and educated at Harrow. I did not go up to university here but spent brief spells at Utrecht, Lucerne, and Rome. I served with Lord Silchester, mainly in Russia, before joining the Guards. I fought in the Peninsular, and then at Waterloo. I was wounded three times but only slightly. I have scars but no lingering disability."
Judith looked at him during this astonishing recital thinking that this surely must be a fevered dream.
Matching his tone, she said, "My dear sir, I am twenty-nine. I will be thirty in two months. I have two children and have never been more than fifty miles from this spot. I have no remarkable features or accomplishments other than housewifery. What can you possibly want with me?"
He was undisturbed and even smiled. He gestured to a chair. "Please, Mrs. Rossiter, be seated." When they were settled he said, "As I told you yesterday, I wish to marry you. I cannot explain my reasons in full but I assure you there is nothing in them that will be to your disadvantage. To be blunt, I wish to marry and settle down, and I do not want a bride who will expect more from me than I am able to give."
Judith's instincts told her he was telling the truth insofar as it went, but she could hardly believe it. She was almost afraid to believe it. She had not admitted to herself how much her situation frightened her until now when a door was just possibly being opened, being opened to a blindingly bright future. "And what is it that you are able to give, my lord?"
He considered it carefully. "Respect, care, and kindness."
What more could anyone want? "And what will I be expected to give in return?"
"I hope for the same, but the bare minimum of good manners will suffice."
She took in a deep breath. "You ask so little. I must question this."
He raised his brows."Very well then. You will curtsy to me when meeting, prepare my food with your own hands, and dance naked before the fire for me every night."
She thought she saw teasing humor in his eyes, but she wasn't entirely sure. It was nervousness that made her laugh at his words. "Can you not make it make better sense of it for me, my lord?"
He raised a hand in an expressive gesture of helplessness. Really, he spoke with his hands in a way she had never seen before. "It makes me sound a coxcomb," he said. "But... I have always had the talent of putting people at their ease. It was partly inherited, for my father possessed it, but growing up in diplomatic circles honed it. That upbringing also gave me, I am told, a Continental air which Englishmen distrust, and Englishwomen admire. I did not realize until recently, however, that my talent and my air appear to have a somewhat devastating effect on susceptible young Englishwomen."
"They swoon at the sight of you?" she asked skeptically. He was an attractive man, but hardly stunning.
"That, thank heavens, happened only once. But they lose their hearts with alarming frequency."
She stared. "Someone actually swooned at your feet?"
He smiled in self-derision. "Devilish embarrassing. I was escaping an amorous heiress and thought I'd be safe with a very dull-looking wallflower. I asked her to dance. She stood, took two steps, and passed out."
"Well at least you are trained to handle the vapors," she remarked, and his lips twitched in acknowledgment of her sally.
He shook his head. "In this case, I flunked. Her chaperone rushed to attend her and I slipped away. In fact, I slipped away to Hartwell."
Judith felt sorry for them both. "You do realize she had probably been watching you from afar, weaving private romantic dreams, safe in the knowledge that you would never even notice her existence. The reality was just too much."
"I suppose that's how it was," he said with a grimace, "but you can see why I fled. Apart from anything else I have no taste for hurting people. In fact I have an aversion to it. In the circles in which I grew up, hurt feelings and arguments could lead to massacres."
Judith was becoming fascinated. "Strange then that you became a soldier."
"Oh, fighting's not the same," he said, with a dismissive gesture. "In fact, I welcomed the honesty of it. It's hurting people's feelings I can't abide. That's why I want to marry a woman who won't expect too much."
How does one hurt bodies without hurting feelings? Judith wondered. "And you think I am such a woman?"
"Are you not?"
Judith considered him thoughtfully. It all rang true, and though she couldn't quite understand this devastating effect he appeared to have on the beauties of Almack's, she didn't find it incredible. He was having something of an effect on her with his moments of mischievous humor, his aura of sophistication, and those sleepy, catlike eyes.
It was still ridiculous. She had never even dreamt such a man existed and she was supposed to marry him?
But if this was an honest offer it was an answer to a prayer she would never even have dared to send on high.
She sickeningly realized that he was only offering this golden opportunity because of a misapprehension, and she had always been an honest woman. What was she to do?
"So you wouldn't want me to fall in love with you," she said.
"Absolutely not."
"And you don't believe you will develop such feelings for me?"
He hesitated but then said, "Correct. That is no reflection on you, Mrs. Rossiter. I simply seem to lack the faculty of romantic love."
Could she believe anything so unlikely?
Why should he lie?
She had once been a mad romantic, which was how she had ended up married to Sebastian, who had shown her that romantic love left a great deal to be desired. It wouldn't bother her at all to be free of such foolishness, especially when promised respect, care, and kindness.
And freedom from want.
She still felt there must be a fly in this sweet-smelling ointment.
"You will care for my children?" she queried.
"It will give me pleasure to do so. They seem excellent specimens."
Judith was very aware that in considering this match she was, in a sense, considering it on her children's behalf. Her marriage would give Leander a father's power over them. Even sweet-natured Sebastian had turned petulant occasionally, said hurtful things to them, and even hit them. He had once spanked little Rosie with what Judith thought most uncalled for severity.
"They are not above being naughty, my lord. What are your ideas on discipline?"
He considered her question carefully. "Being a parent would be completely new to me, and I assure you I would listen to your advice, Mrs. Rossiter. You are much more familiar with the business than I. As I see it, however, there would be two ways of dealing with such things. I could leave the management of Bastian and Rosie entirely up to you, but would not expect to do so with my own children. You do realize that I would hope to have children with you?"
"Of course." She had never expected otherwise and yet could feel her cheeks heat at the subject. It was very difficult to imagine the intimacies of marriage with this elegant stranger. This young, elegant stranger.
"However," he continued, "it doesn't seem to me desirable that Bastian and Rosie be made to feel different. I think I should counsel and discipline your children as I will those we have together."
"That seems wise," she said from a dry throat, aware of that word discipline. "Er... what form would any discipline take?"
Leander was aware that this question had some importance, and guessed it came
from a mother's tender heart. Doubtless the poet had been softhearted, too, but Leander would expect to raise children, particularly boys, as he had been raised.
"You are wise to raise this before any decision is made, ma'am. If you are asking if I believe in corporal punishment I would have to say yes, particularly for boys."
Judith felt a sinking feeling. She should have known this was too good to be true. Despite some angry slaps and spanks, Sebastian had never really hurt the children. Was she now to hand them over to a man who would flog them?
"It would be cruel," she said.
"My dear lady, I think it cruel to do otherwise. With luck and perfect behavior Bastian might get through school unscathed, though I know no one who has managed it, not even the Rogues. The simple fact is that if Bastian is mischievous he will be beaten at school, and had best learn to take it like a man. I can assure you, it is not in my nature to be cruel."
Judith was distracted. "Why on earth should rogues escape?"
He laughed. "The Company of Rogues—a schoolboy group. We protected each other from unfairness, but our leader, Nicholas, was very firm that we were not allowed to gang together to escape just punishment."
The magic word school was beginning to penetrate Judith's mind, and her certainty that she must reject this offer wavered. "You would send Bastian to school?"
"Of course. To Harrow, I would think." Then he looked at her with a frown. "My dear Mrs. Rossiter, I know it will be a wrench for you to part from him, but it would be for the best."
Did he think her that much of a fool, that she would cling to her son rather than see him given such a magnificent start in life? It had been her worry and her dream ever since Sebastian's death.
But school, she now realized, was where he would be up against masters, and even senior boys, armed with birch and cane. Her brothers had gone to school, though a much less grand one than Harrow, and brought home horrendous tales.
"Oh dear," she said and stared at him, seeking some kind of reassurance.
He seemed to read her mind. "All I can say, Mrs. Rossiter, is that I will treat your children as I will my own, as I was treated. My father permitted physical punishment only for serious wrongdoing. Unless a child is steeped in wickedness, I'm sure most crimes can be handled by admonition and a suitable penalty. However, if I think a caning is called for, I will administer it, or order it when Bastian has a tutor. In fact," he said with a rueful smile, "I remember as a boy I was generally quite glad of it, for it made me feel I'd paid and it was quickly over. I found it far more hurtful to feel under a shadow of shame for hours, or even days."
Again she wavered. "And Rosie?"
"I will leave to you. Perhaps girls have purer souls. They seem to get up to mischief much less often."
Judith raised her brows. "I think you said you had no sisters, sir. That is obvious."
"Then flog her if you wish, but I won't do it for you."
Judith looked at her work-worn hands. This impossible, ridiculous plan was taking on an almost irresistible reality.
But it was still ridiculous.
Leander rose and came to her, took her hands, and raised her to her feet. "It comes down to trust," he said. "You are going to have to trust me as I am willing to trust you. Bastian cannot inherit my title or estates, but in every other way he will be my son. I will cherish him, give him every advantage, and ease his way into whatever life he seeks. Rosetta will be my daughter. If, that is, you will be my wife."
Judith bit her lip, still afraid to take the step. "I'm older than you."
"That matters not. Grasp fate, my dear. It is here before you, and I have been scrupulously honest in presenting it."
And I have not been honest with you, she thought. How could a marriage prosper based on lies? Judith sought the conventional escape. "I need time, my lord."
He looked a little disappointed, but nodded. "Of course. Shall I call on you tomorrow?"
She would like to ask for weeks, but she sensed he would refuse that. "Why is there such hurry?"
A hand expressed unease, but he answered. "It's past time I took up my responsibilities as earl and settled in my home at Temple Knollis. I've spent too long abroad, however, and I need both a chatelaine and a helpmeet by my side there. But my land cannot abide delay. It has been neglected too long."
Helpmeet. It was a lovely word and implied a real need that she could fulfill. "Tomorrow then," she said, looking into his mysterious eyes.
"I will come to your cottage at eleven o'clock." He raised her hand and kissed it. "I hope you are going to say yes." He seemed to mean it. He tucked her hand in his arm. "Let's walk down to the paddock to find the children, and then I will arrange for a carriage to take you home."
Chapter 4
Judith was aware before she was back at her cottage that she really had no choice. When she'd seen Bastian's face as he fed apples to the marquess's magnificent horses, and the wistful longing on Rosie's, she'd known she couldn't reject this miraculous opportunity.
Again she was glad of the kitten. Magpie obligingly played with some tangled yarn and distracted the children from their delirious reflections on horses, cake, and lemonade.
That evening, when she'd settled them in bed and begun the ironing, she admitted that she couldn't even claim that their present life was tenable. Because there had been no alternative she had persuaded herself that she could manage, but the fact was that they always needed a little more money than they had, and she was eating into her small savings at the end of every quarter. Heaven help them if anyone fell sick.
Could she risk the poorhouse just because of foolish qualms about total honesty? All the same, she would feel a great deal easier in her mind if she could tell him the truth.
That, however, would be to ruin everything.
Lord Charrington had sought her out as the Weeping Widow, the inconsolable one. He would withdraw his offer immediately if she confessed the truth: that she had fallen out of love with her husband many years ago; that she had been only slightly sad for his death, as at the death of a mere acquaintance whose life had been cut short.
When she was sixteen—the daughter of an impoverished curate and living a very simple, country life—Sebastian Rossiter had entered that life like a vision from heaven. With his flowing hair, his gentle brown eyes, and his elegant, romantic clothing, he had seemed straight out of a novel.
She had met him when he stopped to view the tomb of Sir Gerault of Hunstead, their crusader and only claim to fame. She was in the church laying out the prayer books, and directed him to the marble effigy, relating what was known of Sir Gerault.
Sebastian visited the parsonage that evening to present her with a poem he had composed about her.
Sweet angel by the tomb, about you glows
The everlasting beauty of the rose.
A virgin standing in a holy place,
With sapphire orbs in alabaster face.
These days she didn't think it one of his better efforts, but at the time it had practically made her swoon with delight. Nothing so utterly romantic had ever happened in her life before, and at that tender age she had been primed for romance. From the wisdom of almost-thirty Judith shook her head at the foolish girl she had been.
Her parents had been confused, and a little awestruck. They did not quite like the reference to a virgin—her mother because she thought it indelicate, her father because it smacked of popery—but they were not about to object to such a wonderful suitor to their daughter's hand. Any lingering doubts were soon soothed by his impeccable behavior, and his assurance of his firm adherence to the Protestant faith.
They had married six months after their first meeting. She was wafted off in dreamy delight to Mayfield House, a solid modern structure of red brick with five bedchambers and a conservatory.
She knew now it was not a particularly grand house, but coming from the crowded, ramshackle parsonage it had been heaven. She'd been mistress of a comfortable home with money to purchase all
that was required, married to a man who took endless pleasure in looking at her, and composing poetry about her.
It began to pall.
At first, in her youth, she thought she was at fault. How could anyone object to being adored, even if it meant sitting for hours under a particular sunbeam as he contemplated her? Perhaps it wasn't reasonable to want to entertain, to visit neighboring houses, to dance, to laugh, to have friends.
All Sebastian wanted was peace and quiet and her company.
Even if she played the piano, which was not a favorite occupation of hers, she must only play slow, dreamy pieces. Lively music, laughter, and running were all forbidden for they would disrupt the flow of words in his head.
It took her some months to find the courage to question the physical side of her marriage. Though she was hazy as to details, she was country-bred and knew there had to be more than kisses if there were to be children. Children had become increasingly attractive as something to occupy her time.
The subject had embarrassed him, but he had come to her bed that night, and at regular intervals thereafter, and eventually she had conceived a child.
At first Sebastian had been delighted by the thought of children. He wrote a number of anticipatory verses about sleeping cherubs and tender mothers. Not long after Bastian's birth he had written "My Angel Bride." But children are not by nature peaceful. They are noisy, and as they grow, they are naturally energetic. Bastian was no exception. Nor was Rosie when she arrived.
The children were a great joy to Judith, but they did not improve her marriage. Life became a constant struggle to allow them the necessary freedom, while maintaining tranquility in the house. It was an impossible situation which led to fretful complaints from her husband, and increasingly sharp bursts of his peevish temper.
It wore away the romance until there was none left.
Judith had realized one day that she didn't love Sebastian anymore, and perhaps never had. She didn't even like him, and perhaps never had. She thought his precious poetry sentimental nonsense, and his affected looks ridiculous. When she saw him in his curling papers she was hard-pressed not to laugh.
Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Page 5