by Elisa Braden
Robert sometimes wondered if the same could be said of himself.
In the fourth and fifth years, he had gradually improved until his strength surpassed that of his youth in all but his injured leg. In the sixth and seventh years, his skills as Rivermore’s estate manager likewise progressed until he knew the accounts without looking, understood the estate’s rhythms better than his own heartbeat, and could predict his suppliers’ lowest prices down to the farthing. Crop yields were up year over year. Rents were high and tenants’ complaints were few. Rivermore Abbey was prospering.
All the while, Grandfather’s health was declining. At first, Mortlock had merely taken to napping in the afternoons. Then, he’d ceased riding with Robert, instead spending hours each day corresponding with old acquaintances, an activity he’d previously derided as “the impotent reminiscing of dying men.” Over the past several months, he’d developed an alarming pallor and a rattling, persistent cough that chilled his grandson to the core—when Robert allowed himself to contemplate it.
“A wife will civilize you,” Grandfather said now, eyeing Robert’s dusty coat and shaggy hair. “Bed you. Give you children. A bloody haircut.”
Opening the gate to the east courtyard, Robert grunted and waited for Grandfather to shuffle past. Rusty iron groaned as he pulled it closed behind the old man.
The subject of women and wives was not new—Grandfather had made his position plain over the past few months, often with an irritated tone, as he had now.
“My brother is the heir,” Robert reminded him as they entered the east doors into the abbey’s service corridor. “William is civilized enough for both of us. And he is married.”
Grandfather released a disgusted snort. “For all the good it’s done him. Ten years. No babes. Potent as a raindrop in a barrel of brandy.”
Robert continued along the dark corridor past the archway to the kitchens, which bustled with clanking pots and servants’ chatter. Distantly, he noted one of the flagstones was cracked and would soon need repair.
“It will be years before his lack of offspring becomes a concern,” he murmured, wondering if he should hire the same tradesmen who’d repaired the entrance hall last winter. They’d been slow but reliable.
Behind him, Grandfather’s shuffling steps halted. “Not so many years as you might think.”
Robert stopped. Turned.
Grandfather slumped against the casing for the door to the east stairway. His head hung low. His skin was white. Iron-gray hair had thinned enough to reveal his scalp. Blue eyes once sharp as sapphires were now milky and exhausted.
Robert’s ribs squeezed until breathing was a chore. Grandfather was dying. They both knew it. The thought tinged every moment of Robert’s days like smoke in the draperies—an acrid reminder.
“Earl Conrad inherits first,” Robert pointed out. “Then William. At best, I am third in line.” Leaning heavily on his cane, he shifted closer, moving carefully to avoid a cramp. His leg always pained him worst just after a ride.
“Your father and brother share a weak constitution and a fondness for overindulgence. Typical Northfield get. I’d wager you have fifteen years at most.”
“William could still produce an heir—”
“Stop acting the fool!” Grandfather barked. Stooped shoulders straightened as he shoved away from the wall. “Ten years and not even a by-blow. There will be no heir, apart from you.”
Robert ground his teeth and tore his gaze from the old man’s. Pivoting on his cane, he muttered, “I’ve work to do.”
An old hand, weakened by time but strengthened by determination, grasped his sleeve. “You need a woman.”
Robert tugged loose, but he twisted to meet his grandfather’s gaze. “I need to work.”
“Obstinate whelp. Think I gave you this position because I could not find another to fill it?”
He narrowed his eyes upon the old man. “Rivermore has prospered in my—”
“Bah! You needed a battle to win. Managing the estate gave you one. Congratulations on your victory.”
“The work suits me.”
“The work will not birth your sons.”
Robert shook his head, vexation beginning to burn in his gut.
Heedless, Grandfather continued, “The work will not make this great pile of stone a home.” He clapped the corridor wall. “You spend too much time in the company of old warhorses. Major Colby. Me. Work is a fine thing, my boy. But a man needs more, lest his soul wither like a muscle seldom used.”
Glancing down at his twisted leg, Robert swallowed his reply. Sometimes withered muscles were all a man had. Sometimes the damage was too great to repair.
Cold rushed in like a north wind. He wanted to deny it, but he’d recognized it himself. His nature had always been taciturn, and the grinding struggle of the past seven years had further callused him until nothing seemed to matter any longer. Even his Grandfather’s impending loss was simply another battle he must wage with gritted teeth. He was a soldier without a war.
Or perhaps life itself was a war. Hard men won. Soft men got crushed.
Robert’s lips twisted as he nodded down at his cane. “Know many women who would willingly shackle themselves to this, do you?”
“Don’t need many. Just one. God willing, she’ll have a fine set of bosoms.”
What a stubborn old goat. Grandfather did not understand. Even before his accident, Robert had not found much success with the fairer sex. The handful of times he’d managed to coax a woman into his bed, he’d had John Huxley to thank for it. Hux could woo not only his own quarry but her companions, as well. Since then, Robert’s prowess had not improved much.
He imagined wooing a wife would be doubly difficult. And to be worthy of such herculean efforts, she must be exceptional. In truth, the only female with whom Robert had ever formed a true connection had been a girl, not a woman. He’d loved her as a child loved another child. No, that wasn’t quite right. As a soul loved another soul. Yes, that was closer. The feeling had a purity he’d never been able to explain. Golden, shimmering, inexorable.
Perhaps that was why their bond had eclipsed anything less powerful—which was everything. He might feel simple lust for the Nottingham widow he visited sporadically, or appreciation for the kindly Miss Thatcher, who’d helped her physician father tend his grandfather’s ague last month. But nothing compared, really. Even years after he’d severed it, the bond cast a long shadow
He closed his eyes, forcing golden memories to gray and recede back into their corner. Over the years, he’d found it best to forget.
“What do you want of me?” Robert heard his own voice, tight and graveled.
“To see you married before I go.”
All of Robert’s arguments—with his grandfather, with himself—curled up and disappeared. The stark words, the calm certainty in those milky blue eyes, spoke the truth.
He was going to lose the one man who mattered most. And this was the one thing he could do to bring that man peace. Could he deny him that?
The battle would be misery, just as all the others in the past seven years had been. But Robert’s adversary was not Nathaniel Conrad. It was time. Time was less forgiving than the rocks of the Tisenby.
Robert steadied his weight upon his cane. He glanced to where his grandfather’s hand rested on the stone wall. Then he came back to focus on a weathered, old, beloved face.
“Very well.” His voice was tight. He cleared his throat. “I shall write our new neighbor to the north—Thatcher. The physician. He and his wife are hosting a dinner week after next.”
Oddly, Grandfather’s glower deepened. “Bollocks. Major Colby has more bosom than the Thatcher girl. No, you must go to London.”
Robert frowned. “Why?”
“Proper breeding matters. The woman you marry will be a marchioness one day.” Grandfather patted the wall again, his eyes roaming the corridor with fond melancholy. “Before that, she will be mi
stress of Rivermore.” His gaze came back to Robert, strong and sure. “Most of all, she will have the thankless task of civilizing you. Best find a lady trained for such endeavors.”
Robert let his silence convey his skepticism.
Grandfather gave an impatient grunt. “That scowl of yours is likely to send the civilized chits scurrying for their mothers. Try smiling.”
Robert kept his expression unchanged. Why should he pretend? Smiling indicated happiness, which was the last thing he felt.
Sighing, Grandfather continued, “I’ve been corresponding with an old acquaintance, the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham. She’s agreed to guide you during the season.” He huffed a small chuckle. “Brace yourself, my boy. She’ll not be gentle.” He wagged a half-crooked finger up and down in Robert’s direction. “But, by God, you need her help. That waistcoat should be put out of its misery along with the swaybacked nag you call a mount.”
Robert glanced down at his rough riding coat and woolen waistcoat. Threads were frayed along the waistcoat’s edges. His shirt was worse—holes beneath both arms needed mending. He hadn’t worn a cravat or suffered a haircut in over a month.
Blast. Perhaps Grandfather had a point.
He tightened his grip upon his cane. “So, you want me to go to London for the season and find a pampered aristocrat to marry.”
Grandfather nodded. “A good one. Fertile. Look for ample hips.”
Robert sighed. “Anything else? Blonde hair, perhaps?”
“The sooner the better. At my age, delays are perilous.”
*~*~*
April 20, 1816
Mayfair
After seven days in London, Robert could honestly say the season was not as painful as he’d anticipated.
It was worse.
Lady Gattingford’s fete might be the first ball he’d attended, but it would also be his last, by God. He winced as a tall, thin gentleman who reeked of onions and port slammed into his bad shoulder.
“Oh! I do beg your pardon,” the man slurred before weaving on his way.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Robert moved tighter against the wall of the crowded ballroom. His leg ached in repeating pulses. The air was hot and dense, the ball a crush of bejeweled ladies and black-clad gentlemen. His mouth had gone dry a quarter-hour past, but Lady Gattingford’s lemonade was little more than tart water. Nearby, an obnoxious Scot named Mochrie guffawed at his own jest. Among the dancers in the center of the marble floor, a bulge-eyed fat man ogled a buxom lady. She wrinkled her nose every time the forms of the quadrille forced her to circle him.
Why did Robert continue attending these gatherings? They were excruciating. He could not dance. He loathed the stifling air created by too many peacocks in one place. None of the women Lady Wallingham had urged him to pursue showed signs of being charmed. Rather, they seemed vexed by his silences, intimidated by his frowns, disconcerted by his limp, and disappointed to discover he’d been wounded in a mundane fall from a bridge and not a heroic charge at Waterloo.
Worse, he hadn’t found a single lady he would pursue across a busy street, much less into matrimony. The entire venture was disastrous.
An elderly man with stooped shoulders and iron-gray hair passed in front of the dancing couple. It was a reminder. Everything he had—his very life—he owed to Grandfather. Robert could damn well endure the vagaries of a London season for his sake. He’d promised he would try, and so he would.
He gritted his teeth and gripped his cane. Shoving away from the wall, he began a path through the throng toward the opposite end of the ballroom. As he rounded a group of young gents debating top speeds of high-perch phaetons, he scanned the room for prospects. Some ladies were familiar to him from the spate of dinners and other assorted gatherings Lady Wallingham had insisted he attend. He dismissed them all.
Then, as he contemplated how long a man must remain in a place before he could leave knowing he hadn’t missed anything of value, his eyes snagged upon a pair of hips. He frowned, hearing his grandfather in his head. Ample, yes. Also beautifully rounded and attached to a surprisingly petite frame. The owner of said hips was flanked by two companions—one blonde and wearing large ear bobs, the other plump, dark-haired, and wearing spectacles. The one with the ample hips had bent forward to listen to her bespectacled companion whisper in her ear.
He tilted his head, eyeing the fall of silver silk over her backside. Slowly, he followed the tuck of her waist, the flutter of her gloved fingers. He noted her skin was the same color as the pearls decorating her hair. Brown curls played with her white nape. A gentle pink flush shone on her cheek as she turned toward the thin blonde on her opposite side. She smiled wide. Her lips, too, were pink, he noted. She licked them, her tongue dashing as though she were thirsty.
Then, she laughed. Not a polite titter or a dainty giggle. A full-throated laugh complete with a crinkle beside her dark-fringed eye and a dimple in her gently rounded cheek.
Good God. Why had he not seen her before? Had she recently arrived in town?
Without thinking, he moved closer, using his cane and his size to forge a path. He wanted to hear her. He did not know why, but it seemed important.
When he finally did, the sound moved through him like the flashing burn of good brandy, sweet and head-spinning. Her voice was pitched lower than her blonde companion’s, overlain with a faint, husky rasp. To him, most of these frivolous debutantes sounded like girls. Not this one. She sounded … womanly.
He circled closer. Close enough to make out her words.
“Blackmore? Handsomer than Atherbourne? Lucinda. Dearest.” She shook her head. “Ordinarily, I might advise such false flattery. He is a duke, after all. And male.” She tapped her blonde companion’s arm with the tip of her fan. “But Blackmore shot the man’s brother in a duel. I doubt he would appreciate the comparison. Besides, no man is handsomer than Lord Atherbourne. He is—good heavens, when he entered the ballroom, every female within viewing distance lost the capacity for speech.”
Robert frowned. He’d noticed the crowd’s response earlier when the black-haired viscount had sauntered through Lady Gattingford’s ballroom doors. He supposed most women would find the man handsome. So, why did it irk him that this one did?
The blonde girl with the ear bobs protested, “I would much prefer to become a duchess than a viscountess.”
“Of course,” came the wry reply. “You have never lacked ambition, dearest.”
“Atherbourne may be splendid, and his valor at Waterloo admirable. But Blackmore is also exceedingly handsome. Given the choice, I should think the more esteemed title settles the matter.”
A faint snort sounded from the silent, bespectacled girl, who then mumbled something about lemonade and ducked into the crowd.
The blonde continued as though she hadn’t noticed the departure. “You are friendly with his sister, Lady Victoria Lacey.”
The siren with the ample hips and pearlescent skin and dimpled cheek chuckled. Unexpectedly, the husky sound sent arousal rippling from the base of Robert’s spine down through his groin and thighs. He’d never had a similar reaction merely from hearing a woman laugh. What the devil?
“As I warned earlier this evening, Lucinda, using her as a conduit to Blackmore is a mistake. Lady Victoria is polite enough to listen, but you will doom your chances with her brother in the attempt. They are rather ferociously protective of one another.”
“The finest catch of the season refuses to make himself available to be caught. No, his sister is the key. Margaret agrees.”
The siren shrugged. “She is your twin. You think in similar ways. Which only means you are both mistaken.”
The blonde bit her lip and appeared conflicted. “Your information is usually impeccable.”
“Usually?” The siren sounded irritated.
“That is why we adore you, of course. Nobody has a finer ear for gossip.”
“How you flatter me, dearest Lucinda.”
Her sarcasm made a grin tug at Robert’s lips, but her tone escaped the blonde’s notice.
“Oh, but it is true! When Matilda Bentley claimed Lord Stickley would offer for Miss Meadows, and you suggested that was nonsense because he’d already set his cap for Lady Victoria, it was clear who had the superior sources, particularly in matters of matchmaking.”
The siren squinted suspiciously at the blonde. “You and Margaret already petitioned Lady Victoria about Blackmore despite my warnings, didn’t you?”
The blonde sputtered then protested, “We had to! Now that she is betrothed to Stickley, our opportunities to approach her at events such as this have diminished—”
Popping open her fan with a flick of her wrist, the siren clicked her tongue. “Cross Blackmore off your list, Lucinda.”
“Oh, but—”
“You and Margaret should set your sights upon targets you have a faint hope of striking. Sir Barnabus Malby, perhaps. Rotund and toad-like, yes, but eminently reachable. Surely one becomes inured to offensive odors. Eventually.”
Again, the siren’s wry, matter-of-fact manner brought an unexpected grin to the unlikeliest of places—Robert’s mouth. Even before the accident, he’d not been the smiling sort. But this woman made him want to laugh. And view her face fully, rather than in profile. And draw near enough to decide whether he liked her scent. He suspected he would.
He liked everything else about her.
Working his way around a pair of matrons arguing about opera, Robert sidled nearer to his siren. He wanted to see her face. And perhaps her bosom.
He drew a shuddering breath as he circled her, his gaze caressing the slopes of her shape. Yes, definitely her bosom.
Across the ballroom, an explosion of murmurs near the terrace doors overtook the noise of musicians and conversations. His siren turned away, rising up on her toes to see what had caused the furor.
Blast. Now, she was drifting in that direction—away from him. Frowning, he pushed past an older man chiding his two daughters about the evils of gossip. He planted his cane against gray marble and forced his way through the crowd.