Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 05]

by Gabriel

  “I thought I’d find you here.” Gabriel sauntered into the kitchen, sniffing at the air.

  Polly bent to wipe down the long counter under the window, though she could tell from his gait that his back wasn’t hurting. “The kitchen is forbidden to anybody with a title.”

  “Did your cross moods always provoke you to baking?” In the manner of men who have more curiosity than common sense, he leaned over the cooling racks of sweet buns, peered at the pie, and unwrapped a long loaf of bread.

  “Rainy days,” Polly said, not bothering to correct him for his forward question. It was personal, that question, a small intimacy, and whether he was entitled to it or not, a part of her liked that he’d ask. “It heats up the house, chases the chill away. If you’re going to purloin sweets…” She rewrapped the loaf. “Just do it.”

  “I’m going to purloin sweets.” He came up behind her, and his arms fastened around her waist while his lips settled on the side of her neck.

  “A sweet bun, you oaf.” But she tilted her head, and her hands settled over his muscular forearms.

  “I prefer a more rare and precious delicacy.”

  “Bother, you.” She closed her eyes, letting herself lean back against him.

  “How are you feeling?” He rocked her against him, something his height and sheer muscular bulk made easy.

  “I need to get off my feet, but I’m almost done cleaning up.”

  “You hungry?”

  “I am. A little.” And not only for sweets fresh from the oven.

  He switched to the other side of her neck then petted her hip when he let her go.

  “You finish wiping the counters. I’ll join you in a bowl of stew and a mug of tea.”

  A shared meal, like so many they’d had at Three Springs, just the two of them, right in the kitchen and not at any particular hour. Gabriel would come in for a clean shirt or after spending a long night with a colicky beast, and Polly would feed him, mostly to make him sit down and catch his breath.

  And simply to spend time with him.

  She watched from the corner of her eye as he arranged two place settings at the worktable then sliced up a few pieces of fresh bread. He added a crock of butter to the offerings and poured them each a cup of tea. To hers, he added cream and sugar, and then he stood by her chair until Polly joined him at the table.

  He pulled back her chair. “Get off your feet, Miss Hunt.”

  “Yes, your lordship.” She let him seat her and paused to inhale the fragrance of the stew.

  “Was Marjorie in here with you?” Gabriel asked as he took his seat.

  Polly let him lead the conversation, because she was too busy taking in the sight of him dipping his bread into his stew like the peasant he’d impersonated for two years.

  “Gabriel?”

  He glanced up from buttering yet another slice of bread.

  “Why were you at Three Springs?”

  He set the bread down and directed his gaze to the blackened beams overhead, seeming to come to some decision. “The scar on my back?”

  “I know it.”

  “The blow was intended to be mortal, and was the first of several attempts on my life. I feared my brother was behind the attacks, and I needed a safe place to heal before I confronted him.”

  Such a simple recitation for what was no doubt complicated. “Do you still think Aaron wanted you dead?” The question was put as evenly as she could manage, but God above, she liked Aaron Wendover. Liked him a lot.

  “I do not.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Time.” Gabriel resumed dipping his bread. “His behaviors. He’s been increasingly reckless, and the gossip coming back to me was not about a man relishing his fortunate acquisition of a title; it was about a man dutifully bearing up under a burden he’d never seek. To hear how miserable Aaron was brought me a backhanded relief.”

  And for two years, Polly had thought the worst of his troubles was a sore back or an empty belly. “You didn’t think you could tell us? We would have protected you, Gabriel.”

  “I know that now, but it’s hard to convey how… rattled an injury like that, and the subsequent events, left me. I had much to learn about how most people go on in life.”

  “In what fashion?” While he was willing to talk, Polly would press her advantage, because God knew he wasn’t willing to talk very often.

  “I was… innocent, in some ways, Polonaise. I rarely paid coin for anything before I was hurt. I waved my beringed hand and directed the bills be sent here. I’d seldom saddled my own horse, never washed the dishes I’d eaten off of, never missed a meal unless I was sleeping off a drunk, never had to wash out my own linen because I hadn’t any spares. I’d never taken care of myself, so to speak, and hadn’t a clue how to go on.”

  And more amazing than that recitation—for such as he were the people ruling the land—he could smile at the man he had been. “You were uneducated about life. When I departed for the Continent with Sara and Reynard, I was fifteen, an age at which many girls are engaged to be married. I knew nothing of life either.”

  “You got a swift and difficult education.”

  Polly wished she had the nerve to tell him how swift and how difficult her transition to adulthood had been.

  “I did.” She squeezed his hand, though she wasn’t nearly finished with him. “Tell me why you couldn’t confide in us, Gabriel.”

  “I was ashamed, my dear.” He’d put rueful humor into the observation, though Polly knew it had cost him.

  “Of?”

  “Of not being able to ensure my own survival.” He tore off a bite of his bread and held it poised over his bowl of stew. “Of having many drinking companions and cronies, but not even one friend whom I would trust to keep me safe against my brother’s supposed schemes. I was ashamed of not knowing how to go about proving Aaron’s guilt. I was stunningly helpless, and for the first time in my life, unsure of all I’d taken so easily for granted. Without belaboring the point, I was… afraid. That realization was as novel as it was unwelcome.”

  “Knocked on your arse.” Polly snatched his uneaten bread away and tore off a bite. “It isn’t much fun.”

  “It isn’t,” he agreed unsmilingly. “Then I began to enjoy my work at Three Springs and to enjoy being part of the household.”

  “We were teetering on the brink of disaster before you arrived. Sara started including your back in her prayers, and then Allie did too. I could not help but follow suit.”

  “And my back got better,” Gabriel said. “I should have told you, should have warned you ladies somebody might come calling to put period to my existence, except I’d been declared dead, so I should have been safe.”

  “You were safe. I hope you told Beckman.”

  “I told him.” Gabriel rose and ladled them both more hot stew. “I told him enough to explain why I had to leave. He would have thrashed me silly had I not.”

  “I would have liked to have seen that.” Polly picked up her spoon. “This needs a pinch more tarragon.”

  “You miss cooking?”

  “Painting helps.” She took a cautious spoonful. “But yes, I miss cooking, and I miss meals around the kitchen table and Allie chattering about her day and you standing her on a chair at the sink so you could wash your hands together.”

  “You miss her a great deal, don’t you?”

  “Terribly.”

  She stared at her food lest he catch her blinking, but there was a telling silence before she heard, “Eat your stew, Polonaise my love, and it lacks for nothing, save a little more of your delicious bread to enjoy with it.”

  She bent her head and for once did as he told her without protest.

  ***

  My love?

  My love?

  Aaron backed down the hallway connecting the kitchen to the front stairs and let out a silent breath.

  My love. Obviously, Gabriel and Miss Hunt had a past, one that related to Gabriel’s tenure as a steward for the
previous two years. All thoughts of how to pipe the bathing chamber flew from Aaron’s head as he considered what he’d overheard.

  Gabriel cared for the woman, perhaps even more than he himself knew. Aaron had been on the occasional carouse with his older brother. Gabriel was capable of flirtation, and the women, damn them, seemed to love his brand of imperious banter.

  This wasn’t banter, for all it was tinged with high-handedness. Gabriel’s voice had held a caressing quality, a humility Aaron hadn’t heard previously.

  Gabriel Felicitos Baptiste Wendover had admitted he was ashamed and afraid.

  And he was still lying to his brother.

  Aaron silently made his way to the library, sat at the large estate desk, and stared at the fire in the hearth for long, gloomy moments. When Gabriel had explained his whereabouts for the past two years, he’d been vague—an estate on the South Downs, a cook, a housekeeper, some laborers, their families, and then the owner’s grandson, but no names had been mentioned, save for that of Hildegard, an immense market sow of whom Gabriel had become inordinately fond.

  Sara, Allie, Beck… and Miss Hunt, whose name was not the prosaic Polly, but the more lovely and musical Polonaise.

  And for two years, Gabriel had lied to them as well.

  Out of fear and shame, he could admit to the woman, but not to his brother.

  Which was consistent with the pattern between surviving Wendover menfolk, truth be told. Gabriel’s dalliance with the artist was not the most significant secret the brothers had hanging in plain sight between them.

  ***

  The first Wendover male to turn Marjorie’s head had not been her fiancé. Gabriel had been a looming presence on the edge of her life since her childhood, and Marjorie had tried to like him, tried to find things to approve of about him for as long as she’d understood they’d be married.

  But all she’d succeeded in doing was finding more reasons to wonder how on earth they’d go on together. Gabriel had been impressive to her girlish eyes, but not particularly easy to spend time with. He was impatient by nature and gruff, and so… forbidding. She had dreaded their duty encounters and was no end of relieved to see him trotting off back down the driveway to return to school or university, or whatever young men got up to when their fiancées and families weren’t looking.

  And it hadn’t been Aaron who was the first to charm her, though she’d developed a serious tendresse for him by the time she was thirteen and hadn’t felt the sentiment abate yet. Aaron had been good-humored, reassuring, and not at all cowed by his larger, darker older brother.

  Even before her affection for Aaron became entrenched, however, she’d lost a part of her heart to George Wendover.

  He’d been a handsome, robust man in his twenties when she’d taken a tumble off her pony, and George had been there to pluck her off the ground and toss her right back into the saddle.

  George had winked at her. “Show the little blighter who’s boss, my girl. You can’t be allowing any fellow to treat you like that.”

  Often, riding out with her groom, her path would cross George’s as he saw to the vast Hesketh acreage. Her own father was horse mad, as she’d been, but Papa had eight children and his own estate to see to. George had no children, and the vast majority of the estate he managed would never be his. He’d always had time to listen to Marjorie’s little woes and joys, and now that her papa was gone and her mama was determined to ruin Marjorie’s life, George’s friendly ear seemed the only one to be had.

  “I’ve brought contraband,” Marjorie said when George ushered her into his study. He kept the door partly open, of course, but Marjorie closed it behind her.

  “You’ll let out all the heat,” she scolded, “and you’re family, George.”

  “I’m in the presence of a pretty girl bearing gifts.” George set his pipe aside, because pretty girls were supposedly unable to breathe around pipe smoke. “Whatever’s under that linen smells as sweet as the lady bringing it. Have a seat, and we’ll have the teapot up here forthwith.”

  They chatted about the wet weather and the coming winter, and demolished two sweet buns apiece before Marjorie got down to business.

  “Mama’s going to ruin everything.”

  “She’s only one woman. What can she do to ruin anything?”

  “She’s going to turn her solicitors loose on the task of setting my marriage to Aaron aside and getting me married to Gabriel.”

  George took up his pipe and fussed with it in some ritual known only to men. Marjorie understood this to be a delaying tactic but did not ruin her dinner with a third sweet bun.

  “You’d keep the title,” George said. “And Gabriel’s a good man. A better man for having been out from under the title a while.”

  “Gabriel is… Gabriel. I am married to Aaron.”

  “So tell your mama to desist.”

  “You tell her. She doesn’t listen very well.”

  “She doesn’t,” George agreed pensively. “Have you put this to your menfolk?”

  “I put it to Aaron. He’ll stand up to Mama, as will Gabriel.”

  “Puts Gabriel in a bit of a pickle.” George got up to rummage in a drawer. “He’ll have to repudiate the contracts he signed upon your betrothal.”

  “And Mama can have him put in jail for that?”

  “Mama can go after damages and create scandal like you’ve never seen, my girl. Have a spot more tea. It’s chilly out.”

  George was not being much help. “A cup of tea will hold back all evils.” Except Mama.

  “A good marriage can make them all seem surmountable.” George held up a square nail and resumed his seat.

  “You’ve been married, then, George, to speak so highly of the institution?”

  “It might interest you to know, young lady, I was not discovered among the dinosaur eggs. I had a mama and a papa, and because we are the distaff side of the family, they were a love match. I have hoped for the same for you.” He used the nail to clean out the bowl of his pipe.

  “You’re not that old, George.” Marjorie poured them both more tea. “Why haven’t you married?”

  “A man in service usually doesn’t.”

  “You’re not in service like some footman.” Marjorie added cream and sugar to his tea and passed it over as he tapped his pipe out into his palm.

  “I’m bound hand and foot to thousands of acres of crops, cows, and cottages. You mind?” He gestured with the pipe.

  “Stop asking.” She stirred her tea. “It’s a comforting smell, after all these years.”

  “So you’re sure you want young Master Aaron?”

  “Lord Aaron. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I only wish he were taking Mama on out of similar sentiments, not out of devotion to duty.”

  “What a man says and what he feels are usually two different things. Particularly a young man, particularly regarding his young lady.”

  He was barely twenty years her senior, and talking like some crony of Mr. Danner’s. “You weren’t found among the dinosaur eggs, George. You really could marry and have children.”

  “Oh, right.” George smiled ruefully and looked very like Aaron. “I could if I ever gave up my post. As busy as the land keeps me, my wife would see little of me.”

  “I see little of Aaron.” Which George should have realized, because Aaron spent much of his time out with George inspecting piglets or ditches or heaven knew what.

  “And where are those babies Lord Aaron’s supposed to give you?”

  Marjorie nearly threw her tea at him. “That’s in God’s hands. Will you come to dinner tonight?”

  George lit a taper from the candle on the tea tray, then drew on his pipe to light it. “It’s nasty as Hades out, and you summon me to the manor.”

  An invitation was not a summons. For the first time, Marjorie understood Aaron’s exasperation with dear George. “It’s a good night to be with family, and you know you can always stay up there if you don’t feel like braving the
elements. I keep a guest room ready for you.”

  “I’ll be happy to join you, though if it starts sleeting again, I might take you up on that guest room. When do you think your mother will fire off her guns?”

  Marjorie rose as the scent of pipe smoke filled the room. “She’s already gone up to Town. That doesn’t bode well.”

  “She’s forever going up to Town, which means she leaves Tamarack to the tender mercies of old Pillington far too much.”

  “You say that like Pillington won’t do his job in Mama’s absence. He wouldn’t dare slack when she might catch him out.”

  “It’s cold out, Pillington is as old as dirt, and he would dare,” George countered. “Somebody ought to put him out to pasture before he truly wrecks your brother’s birthright.”

  “Dantry will soon be old enough to take over the duties of the title,” Marjorie said as George escorted her to the foyer. “Pillington can step down as steward then.”

  George passed her a pair of black leather gloves, his expression particularly serious. “A few more years, you mean.” He kept speaking as he helped Marjorie get her cape fastened. “Tamarack hasn’t got a few more years, Marjorie. Pillington follows no schedule for fallowing and rotating his crops, he lets the herds get inbred, he marls when the shells are cheap, not when the land needs it. He doesn’t even set the stone walls to rights come spring unless the sheep are running loose on a neighbor’s land. And the tenants have ceased to stand up to him provided he leaves them in peace.”

  Marjorie lifted her chin while he wound a scarf about her neck. “You’re angry about this. Have I ever seen you angry, George?”

  “When your papa was alive, it wasn’t so bad. For a steward to neglect his duties because he’s serving an earl’s widow and children rather than the earl himself is inexcusable. Now, especially, Pillington should be taking his duties more seriously than his grog.”

  “Mama won’t listen to anybody about this,” Marjorie predicted. “Maybe Aaron can say something to Pillington.” Provided Marjorie found a way to say something to Aaron.

  “Have Gabriel do it. Aaron will try to do Pillington’s job for him to keep the peace. Gabriel will put the fear of Eternity in the man.”