Jo Beverley - [Rogue ]

by Christmas Angel

  "The earl hasn't asked for any, my lady. Being a single man, he's not been entertaining more than a friend now and then." She glanced at Judith and seemed to make a decision. She progressed to gossip. "There was only one old man living here until about five years ago, or so they say. A Mister Delahaye—the earl's grandfather on his mother's side. He was a bit of a recluse, as I understand, though the earl visited here as a boy. When he died, the present earl and his father were abroad and so the place was just shut up. It was cared for well enough, but I tell you, my lady, it was a mite of work to bring it up to scratch."

  "I'm sure it was, Mrs. Addison, but you appear to have done a wonderful job. The house is spotless."

  "Just doing my job, my lady." But the woman preened.

  Judith couldn't help wondering if her manner would be so cordial if she knew that a few weeks ago Judith had been scrubbing her own floors. She silently thanked Leander for insisting she care for her telltale hands.

  She returned to the ground floor thoughtfully. She needed a place to make plans.

  If they were to spend much time in this house, she rather thought she would have a boudoir near her bedroom, but for the moment the nearby rooms were being used by the children. After considering the limited possibilities, she appropriated a small anteroom to the library, and requested that a fire be laid in the hearth.

  She considered her new quarters. The hand-painted wallpaper was faded with age, but did not offend; the curtains were a gloomy maroon brocade, but would do for the winter months; the carpet was tolerable and hardly worn at all. It was the furniture she did not like—a squat, heavy table, four hard wooden chairs, and a couple of low, uncomfortable upholstered Queen Anne chairs.

  A mental review told her that there was nothing more comfortable in the house, except in the library. She rather thought that room, however, had been the old man's haven, and was now Leander's. It would be wiser not to raid it.

  If she wanted a pleasant nest she would have to buy at least a comfortable chair.

  That reminded her of her overgenerous pin money. When would it appear?

  It also reminded her of the money owed to the publisher, and her allowance from Timothy Rossiter.

  Now she was in London, she could easily send a note to Timothy's address to tell him to stop paying the allowance. On the other hand, she could use the money to pay some of the bill for the books. It seemed more appropriate to use money from Sebastian's family for that purpose than money from Leander.

  She wondered how penny-pinched her brother-in-law was. His address, she remembered, was Clarges Street. She would ask Leander what that implied.

  No, the only immediate solution was to pay the bill out of her pin money. She still begrudged such a waste of funds and yet it must be paid. Which meant she would have to remind Leander about the money. She hated that thought, even if she was entitled to it. Especially as she hadn't earned it.

  She shivered. That was a horrid way to put it, but until she really was his wife she wasn't entitled to anything.

  She pushed away those thoughts and raided the library as far as a pen and paper went. She was very tempted to curl up in the big chair before the fire there, but couldn't be entirely sure Leander would not object.

  She lost track of time as she noted down what was needed: two comfortable chairs, in case of company; a lady's writing desk; calling cards; stationery; more books and games for the children; a guidebook to London; a means of transportation...

  She sat chewing the pen. How exactly was she to get to Mister Browne's to pay that bill? The fact of the matter was that she had not the slightest idea how to get along in London. She had always lived in villages.

  Leander would know. He doubtless would discharge the debt for her if she asked. Judith was guiltily aware that she did not want Leander to know anything about it. He could never guess what part it had played in sending her to reconcile with him, but she felt as if it would be obvious on the instant.

  As if summoned by her guilty thoughts, Leander came m.

  "Busy, Judith? You deserve a rest, you know."

  He was so much the pleasant man she had married that she relaxed. "Making lists is hardly work," she said.

  "Lists? Sounds ominous. But why here? Is this room really to your taste? I've always thought it extremely ugly." Then he put his hand over his eyes. "I've done it again, haven't I?"

  Judith struggled to keep a straight face. "I think this chamber charming."

  Incredulous dismay flashed over his face, before being skillfully masked. "I must be pleased, then," he said smoothly, all diplomat.

  "Yes," said Judith, looking around. "The colors are so evocative of past eras, aren't they? And the furniture is so very... substantial."

  He came over, a strange light in his eyes. He raised her chin, and Judith's heart skipped a beat.

  "My Lady Charrington," he said softly. "Are you being so bold as to tease me?"

  "I protest, my lord. Not a word I said was false."

  He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. "You're growing saucy. Here in my grandfather's house women should know their place."

  His lips were hot and skillful, but quickly gone. It was a branding.

  "And what is my place, sir?" Judith asked shakily.

  "Why, beneath me, of course."

  She caught her breath. Had he intended that double entendre?

  He raised her chin again so she had to look at him. "Beneath me in bed," he said. "In case you've forgotten, we have unfinished business."

  Judith swallowed, but was determined not to be difficult. "Now?"

  He was startled. "Here, perhaps? You must have led an exciting life, my dear. No, tempted though I am, I'm not risking disturbances again."

  Deeply embarrassed, Judith tried to stammer a disclaimer, but he overrode her. "I need to talk to you. Let's go into the library. Much though you love this room, my sensibilities aren't up to it."

  Leander walked behind Judith into the library, wondering if he should take up her invitation to bed her now. She must be thinking him the worst kind of fool to be four days into the marriage and it still unconsummated. Doubtless Sebastian had been much quicker off the mark.

  Chapter 12

  There was only the one armchair in the library, and Judith went to a wooden library chair, but Leander insisted she sit in the big chair, then sat on the footstool at her feet. Judith felt a strange urge to stroke his wavy hair, as if he were Bastian. What an unpredictable man her husband was. Dangerous man one moment, boy the next. But it was going to be all right. The warmth was back.

  He took her hand and kissed it. "It's been a strange few days, hasn't it?"

  "A strange few weeks."

  He was serious as he said, "Do you regret it?"

  She met his eyes. "No. Do you?"

  "Not at all." He looked down at her fingers and played with them a moment. "I must apologize for my behavior the other night. I was unforgivably rude."

  This time Judith raised his chin. "No you weren't, for I've forgiven you."

  "You are generous."

  "I am supposed to hold a grudge over a few ill-chosen words?"

  There was a particular query to it and he registered it. "You would be within your rights, but you're right. It was a case of ill-chosen words. I do not want to exclude you from my life."

  "Good, for I wouldn't like it."

  He looked away into the fire. "The truth is that it's a strange story, and must reflect badly on some part of my family...." He toyed with her fingers again. "I'm probably not doing this well. I'm not accustomed to baring my soul."

  "I don't want to intrude...."

  "It's no intrusion...."

  He leapt to his feet, and in one movement, as it seemed, he was in the chair and she was in his lap. "I much prefer this position," he said smugly.

  "Do you?" But Judith felt very comfortable, snuggled against his chest. Then she remembered another time and looked at him warily. He began to sway her back, but she could see the
teasing light in his eyes. "Don't you dare!"

  It was the wrong thing to say. He laughed and tipped her back to ravish her lips most thoroughly. A wandering hand added to the work so Judith was humming with desire when he straightened her, and rearranged her clothes.

  She realized she was gaping when he closed her mouth. Then he kissed her again, a delicate, tantalizing play of lips that left her breathless. "I'm enjoying this," he said softly.

  "You are?" she asked weakly.

  "Having someone to play with."

  Judith choked at that description. "Play with!"

  "Oh, don't worry. I won't torment you forever."

  "But..."

  "Tonight," he said.

  "Tonight?"

  "Definitely." He kissed her again.

  Judith began to wonder if they would wait until tonight. When he released her lips, she said, "Leander, are you avoiding our main concern?"

  "Dear heart, are you saying this is not your main concern?"

  "Leander!"

  Laughter in his eyes, he sighed and capitulated. "Very well." He became serious once more. "I probably was trying to avoid this. Believe me, Judith, I never knew how hard it would be for me to admit someone deep into my life. I'm resolved to be open with you, but I may falter. Have patience...."

  Judith couldn't answer this with words, so she answered with a kiss. They were almost distracted again, but she said, "Leander."

  "Very well, tyrant. Let me see if I can explain my predicament without making my entire family, myself included, sound like lunatics."

  Judith gathered together her scattered wits and tried to pay attention.

  "It started, I suppose, with my grandfather—my paternal grandfather, the first earl. He conceived the desire to have the most beautiful home in England. As his family home, Knollis Hall, was built on a kind of promontory into the River Farnham, he decided, as I once said, to imitate a particular French chateau.

  "This was back in the seventeen-sixties, and he wasn't a young man. All the same, he managed to marry an heiress, and with that money to tear down his Elizabethan hall, and begin the building of Temple Knollis. Rather incidentally, I've always thought, he begot himself two sons—though I suppose an heir to carry on the work was part of his plans.

  "My father was his oldest son, and was raised to his position, which was not so much Earl of Charrington as Guardian of the Temple. My view on this may be rather jaundiced, as it comes from my father, who hated the place. You see, my grandfather was obsessed with his Temple. My father, however, God knows why, grew up obsessed with travel. As long as I knew him, he hated the countryside in any form, and to stay in one city for more than a year or two was tedium. The thought of all the cities he hadn't seen was constant torment to him.

  "Grandfather, however, kept him chained to Somerset and the Temple except for his school days, and even there he was sent to Winchester instead of Eton or Harrow, both much closer to the temptations of London. There was, of course, no question of a Grand Tour, though my father made private arrangements to learn as many languages as possible. He had a gift for it, one that I appear to have inherited. My impression of my father's youth is that it was a constant war, and he regarded himself as a prisoner with a sacred duty to escape.

  "Eventually my grandmother's money began to run out, and the Temple was yet unfinished. A new heiress must be found for my father to marry, so he could carry on the great work. Research threw up Henrietta Delahaye, heiress to two large fortunes, and in the guardianship of her reclusive father. A plum ripe for the picking. The courtship was strictly by negotiating, and my father was commanded to marry her. He dragged his feet, seeing it as yet further confinement, until he realized that Henrietta's fortune would be his. He married her with alacrity, and they immediately went abroad where he found himself a diplomatic position, and almost incidentally, his area of genius."

  Judith had followed this carefully, but saw nothing particularly strange in it. "I would say it served your grandfather right."

  "Oh, probably, but he never saw it that way. I read some of his letters to Father, and they were violently vituperative, bordering on the insane. On one line he would beg piteously for him to come home and bring the money with him. On the next he would threaten to shoot him on sight." He glanced at her ruefully. "I really should have told you this before you married me."

  "For fear of inherited madness? I see only a thwarted tyrant. There is no sign that you have inherited a tendency to megalomania."

  He smiled slightly. "You haven't tested me yet, wife."

  Judith felt a shiver down her spine that was, strangely, largely excitement. "Your grandfather could do nothing to your father, though, could he?"

  "Nothing at all, especially as Father rarely stepped onto English soil thereafter. I, however, was eventually sent to England to school."

  "What happened?"

  "My father gave me dire warnings before I left, the gist of which were that if I ever went near the Temple I'd never be free again. Now I wonder if he wasn't warning me I'd be caught up in the wonder of the Temple, but at the tender age of twelve I thought my grandfather would kill me, or at least throw me into a dungeon. I wouldn't have gone near the place for a thousand guineas.

  "Grandfather tried to draw me down there by every means, which terrified me even more. I was sent tempting invitations, offering sport and horses. When I was older, I was even offered women. Twice I received urgent messages that he was on his deathbed. I felt terrible then, but I kept my word."

  He dislodged her onto the chair and moved restlessly in front of the fire. "He even came to see me once," he said, "and put on a most touching scene. It finally convinced me that my father hadn't been mistaken; Grandfather was mad. It was clear the old man could imagine nothing more worthwhile in life than to cherish the Temple."

  Leander shook his head."It was bizarre, and frightening for a fifteen-year-old. His white hair and yellow nails were long, his clothes were almost threadbare. He spoke in a rambling way, and he spoke of the building as if it were his lover... You can see," he said reluctantly, "that when my father suggested my Uncle Charles might kill me to get the place, I couldn't quite disregard it."

  "Kill you?"

  "That was on Father's deathbed. I was in the army at the time. To be honest, since I was dealing with death and danger every day, a crazy man in England didn't concern me greatly. It was after Waterloo, when I found myself still alive and the earl, that I had to consider the situation." He stopped his roaming and sat down on the stool again. "Let me tell you about Uncle Charles."

  "He was the second son."

  "Yes, and apparently inherited his father's love of the Temple. He willingly stayed on to help with the work. He, however, did not marry an heiress—I suppose it's not so easy for a second son who is merely his father's steward. He married a local girl, Lucy Frome. Good peasant stock. Produced babes like rabbits."

  "Leander!"

  He colored slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm echoing my father who was somewhat bitter that my mother produced only one."

  "Why," mused Judith, "is it always the woman's fault?"

  "Pax!" he cried. "You're right. But in this case, to be charitable, an infusion of yeoman blood was clearly good for the line. I have ten cousins, and eight are boys."

  "Good heavens, that is quite a family. Is the problem that they are hard to provide for?"

  He frowned and looked into the distance. "The problem is that I don't know what the problem is." He laughed and looked back at her. "I'll have you concluding that if anyone's mad, it's me, won't I?"

  He picked up his story. "My grandfather died in eighteen-ten, and at that point the nonsense stopped as far as I was concerned. Shortly after that, I joined the army and had other things to worry about. It was only at my father's death that the matter raised its head again. Father was convinced that Uncle Charles would do anything to have the place for his own, and that the letters he had received begging him to return to the Temple were part of a da
stardly plot. He was also bitter that his requests for extra funds from the estate were always ignored, and believed his brother was stealing from him. As I said, I didn't give the matter much thought at the time, but when I found, to my surprise, that I had survived the war, I had to do something. I am the earl, and it is all my responsibility.

  "I decided the most sensible thing to do was to go and see the Temple for myself, and if possible assess my uncle and his family. Years of warnings had left a residue, however, and I went incognito.

  "As it worked out, I saw only the housekeeper who showed me around, and a couple of young children whom I assumed to be two of my cousins. They looked perfectly normal children but for being rather subdued. I would have thought that echoing, pillared hall ideal for running games, but they tiptoed through it like a pair of nervous mice in a cathedral."

  "They'd doubtless been told to behave when guests were around."

  "I suppose so," said Leander with a frown, "but the thing that struck me about the Temple was its silence. It was like a museum, or a cathedral even—an unused one—though the housekeeper assured me the family was in residence. It felt like this house, but here we have a place that stood empty for years...."

  "So you didn't like it."

  "To be honest," said Leander, "I don't know. It's undoubtedly very beautiful."

  He rose and took a portfolio out of a rack, to open it on a table. "Come and look at these. I commissioned them after my visit. It is a truly awe-inspiring place."

  Judith looked at the watercolors, so much larger and clearer than the small print Beth had shown her. They were of a fairy palace on a promontory, with only a causeway allowing access to an arched gateway. That gateway cut through a wall into a garden courtyard. The walls encircled that courtyard like a modern castle, with a substantial house at one end decorated with fairy-tale turrets.

  It was difficult to pinpoint what made Temple Knollis so striking, but even in the pictures she could feel it. It was, she thought, a matter of perfect proportions.