Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 05]

by Gabriel

  But she was as stubborn as a goat once her mind was fixed on a goal. Thank God Marjorie had some of her father’s even temperament, else God knew how the girl had put up with Lady Harry’s nonsense.

  ***

  “It’s in Gabriel North’s handwriting,” Sara Haddonfield said, “but it’s franked by the Marquess of Hesketh.” She handed the sealed missive to her husband.

  “Hesketh?” It rang a bell, an ominous, low tolling sort of bell in the back of Beckman Haddonfield’s mind.

  “Marquess of. The estate is a few hours’ ride to the west of us. Will you read it?”

  “I haven’t my spectacles,” Beck said, because he’d been measuring a hallway for the addition of a dumb waiter. “You read it to me.”

  They sat hip to hip halfway up the main staircase while Sara carefully broke the seal.

  Beckman (I assume you will plant me a facer do I embellish my salutation with honorables and endearments),

  I have resumed my role at Hesketh, but whom should I find ensconced in my household but one P. Hunt, portraitist, hell-bent on immortalizing my younger brother and his wife on canvas. To the extent that the hand of Fate was attached to the body of Beckman Haddonfield, you are warned I will someday get even with you for this little joke. Rest assured your dear Polly is thriving, in as much as she can without her family about her. She pines particularly for her Allemande, and wonders what the child is painting and how she fares. I trust you are keeping my assistant steward locked in a garret, living on bread and water, and allowing her only the association of that minor planet known as Heifer for company.

  You will give my regards to little Hildegard and my other familiars at Three Springs, and were you so inclined to pay a visit here, I would be inclined to welcome you. I think.

  Though formerly North, I will end this epistle as merely, yours,

  Gabriel

  “He sounds in fine spirits,” Sara remarked as she refolded the letter. “Will you go?”

  “He does sound like himself.” Which implied a certain fatigue and dissatisfaction with life, still. “Allie will be relieved to know we’ve heard from him.”

  Sara leaned against her husband, which Beck took as an effort to comfort him rather than any neediness on the part of his wife. “We could hold a contest. Who is fretting more about whom? Allie keeps staring down the driveway as if she could will Polly to reappear, and now we learn Polly fares no better, though she’s once again sharing a roof with Gabriel.”

  And Sara fretted for the lot of them. “It’s hard for Allie to understand why Polly had to go.”

  “It’s hard for me to understand,” Sara said. “I’m her sister, and I tried to talk her into staying here, but she muttered things about life changing and married couples needing privacy, and there being some memories she needed distance from.”

  Beck slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Have you ever considered Allie might rather be with Polly now?” Because he considered it as the child became more withdrawn with each passing day.

  Sara nodded, her face pressed against Beck’s shoulder.

  “It’s a puzzle,” she said. “I thought I’d be hurting now for Polly, who left our household and essentially turned her back on Allie, but I hurt terribly for both of them. Allie was more attached to Polly than I knew, and I’m attached to them both as well.”

  “You hurt for them both,” Beck said, kissing her temple. “What about for you?”

  “Allie is not my daughter, and I have always known she was more or less on loan to me,” Sara said slowly. “I love her as much as if she were mine, but now…” Her hand slipped over her womb. “It’s different, now, Beckman. I’m expecting our child, and I can see all the things I missed with Allie because I am not her mother.”

  Beck’s hand covered hers where it rested low on her abdomen. “But Polly hasn’t been a mother to her either.” And he was certainly too late an addition to the child’s life to be a father.

  “I used to tell myself that. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Polly was sixteen when she gave birth. What woman at that age, much less one who has to share a household with the man who seduced her, would be perfectly sanguine? Childbirth was hard for Polly, and she took a long time to recover, but she nursed that child without hesitation whenever Allie cried, fussed, or simply wanted comforting.”

  Beckman loved his wife, but the depths and twists of her reasoning still had the ability to surprise him. “Do you think you sabotaged Polly as a mother?”

  “That’s an ugly word, though I might have, in small ways. I wanted a child so much, and yet I’d never consider allowing my husband into my bed, not after the way he treated Polly.”

  “I know you,” Beck said. “I know you would not have betrayed your sister in any conscious way. Had she fought you, you would not have taken on the role of Allie’s mother.”

  “She had nothing to fight with, Beckman,” Sara said softly. “She was exhausted, heartbroken, dependent on me, and enough my sister to know how much I wanted a baby. I made a suggestion that we present me to the world as Allie’s mother, and Polly couldn’t very well refuse her child legitimacy, could she?”

  Beck was quiet for a while, holding his wife and considering what she said, and what she did not say.

  “We all want what is best for Allie,” he said, “much as it pains me to think of losing her.”

  “We lose our children,” Sara replied, smiling sadly. “If we’re lucky, we lose them to a happy, meaningful adult life with families of their own. I think of Polly, who will lose her daughter without ever really having had her.”

  While Beck had not wanted to let that thought into his mind. “Not for a few years, at least. Can we take some time to consider this, my love? I wouldn’t propose we ask Allie what she wants at this point, but North—his lordship—is amenable to a visit from family. Perhaps we can take Polly’s measure and see if your intuition is accurate.”

  “Part of me can’t believe we’re even discussing this,” Sara said. “Another part of me knows we need to at least discuss this. Allie hasn’t painted much of anything since Polly left, and that scares me.”

  She hadn’t painted, she hadn’t named any of the fall lambs, she hadn’t done much of anything but stare down the driveway. “I’d noticed, but I thought Allie stopped painting earlier, when North left and we didn’t know where he’d gotten off to.”

  “Good lord. You’re right. This is worse than I thought.”

  And wasn’t it a fine thing, when a man heaped worries upon his gravid wife? “Not worse, maybe more complicated. Let’s show Allie the letter. She’ll be so pleased that she’ll read the thing to that pig North doted on so.”

  Beck followed up his suggestion with a protracted kiss to his lovely wife’s mouth. No more work was completed on the dumb waiter that afternoon, and Allie did indeed read the letter twice to that quarter-ton of porcine maternal pulchritude known as Hildegard, and to the eleven piglets who called the fair Hildy mama.

  ***

  Polly had gone to bed with almost as much relief as disappointment, for Gabriel hadn’t come to her. Maybe those broody looks over his wine glass at dinner had been about reconsidering his options and coming to his senses.

  Yes, she was a likely candidate for a dalliance, but as a woman under the Hesketh roof, she was arguably, if temporarily, under his protection as well. Gabriel had a scrupulous sense of honor, and it might be catching up with him.

  Polly had a scrupulous sense of honor too, but not so scrupulous she had to alert Gabriel she was still awake when he silently padded into her room and locked the door behind him. She remained quiet under her covers as he disrobed, methodically folding one piece of clothing after another over a chair.

  He paused when he was down to only his breeches, and poked up the fire. To Polly’s artistic eye, he was moving more fluidly than at any time in their previous two years’ association. When he tossed his sleeve buttons into her vanity tra
y, there was a hint of dash about the gesture, a grace he hadn’t displayed before.

  He was truly coming back to life, coming back to the titled aristocrat he’d been before going to Spain, and while she rejoiced for him—who wouldn’t be pleased for him, knowing how badly he’d suffered?—she was a trifle broken-hearted for herself.

  Gabriel North, grouchy, tired, hardworking steward of Three Springs, had been a man she could dream about. This fellow, with the airs and graces of a title in addition to the brawn and nurturing heart of a land steward, she couldn’t allow herself to build dreams around.

  Except, her scruples pointed out, it was too late. The dreams were built, fully assembled in her heart and resistant to her every effort to dismantle them. Watching him shed his breeches then stand for a moment before the fire, all muscle and lean, virile male, Polly stopped trying to wrestle her heart under the control of her common sense.

  She would not have much with Gabriel, a few nights, maybe, but what they shared, she would enjoy to the fullest.

  “You can stop peeking.” Gabriel addressed the darkened corner where the bed stood. “And why haven’t you let down the bed curtains, Polonaise? The nights are getting beastly cold, and you’re all by your lonesome in there.”

  “I wouldn’t be alone if you’d cease lecturing and come to bed. Or you can stand there, scolding and catching your death.”

  “You’ve warmed up both sides of the bed?”

  “Oh, of course.” She gave a huge yawn.

  “Then I suppose I’d best capitulate to your carping.” He poured a glass of water, tossed his handkerchief on the night table, and climbed onto the bed. “If I leave the curtains back, there will be more firelight, the better to see what you’re about. If I let the curtains down, we’ll be warmer.”

  “I was warm enough by myself.” Polly subsided onto her back. “Suit yourself.”

  “Do you know what would suit me?” Gabriel reached across her to let down the curtain on the side of the bed facing the windows.

  “Spring?”

  “Spring means endless work.”

  “For George,” Polly said, “or his replacement, though my guess is you haven’t confronted him yet.”

  “He’s not acting at all like a man who tried to do me harm.”

  For Polly, it was impossible not to stare at the muscled expanse of chest stretched inches above her face. After a small, frustrating eternity, Gabriel got the damned curtains untied, and she could breathe again.

  “George isn’t about to lurk in corners and announce his guilt. Did you come to this bed to tell me your steward is innocent of wrongdoing?”

  “I did not.” Gabriel leaned back against the headboard. “I was all but chased out of the billiards room, where I think my little brother is teaching his wife how to play the equivalent of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”

  A fine game between consenting adults, particularly if they were married. “So you’ve repaired here, where you needn’t bother coaxing me to get my clothes off.”

  Gabriel peered over at her. “You’re in a mood, Polonaise. Shall I leave?”

  She shook her head, but as seductions went, or dalliances, this one wasn’t launching properly at all, now that the moment was upon them.

  “Are you having second thoughts, my love? A last-minute attack of virtue?”

  “My virtue and I parted ways years ago. You know that.”

  “Were that not the case,” Gabriel said with curious gentleness, “I could not be here. You know that.”

  “I do. But I wish…”

  “Tell me what you wish, Polonaise.” He hefted her against his side. “And stop being coy. It undermines my confidence.”

  “Your… right.” Bless him and his insecurities. “Your confidence. Mustn’t undermine that.”

  “What do you wish?”

  She wished she could fall asleep every night for the rest of her life with a whiff of cedar and tooth powder wafting across her pillows.

  “I wish that for you, tonight, I could have some of my virtue back. Enough innocence to make this new, not enough to remind you this is folly.”

  “This bothers you?” He stroked a hand over her shoulders even as his chin came to rest on her temple. “That you aren’t a dewy-eyed, blushing virgin?”

  She should keep the moment light, because theirs was going to be a brief dalliance. Brief but memorable.

  “It bothers me. I am not a blushing virgin, though I hardly bring enough experience to the situation to merit a mention. I will not impress you.”

  “Good heavens, you’ll not impress me,” Gabriel murmured. “I suppose I’d be better off beating my brother at another game of billiards, then. But tell me this, you sorry excuse for a strumpet, how would I impress you, had you all this experience you lack? Hmm? Do you know how many years it’s been since I allowed myself the pleasure of congress with a willing female, and how all that abstinence is weighing against my own efforts to be impressive?”

  “Years?” She twisted around to assess the veracity of his statement, because she wasn’t always sure when he was teasing. “Years, Gabriel?”

  “Years, Polonaise,” he assured her solemnly. “I cut one hell of a dash when I came down from university, as all the young idiots do. I soon learned that swanning about with a merry widow or some other fellow’s straying wife is a damned lot of work and has consequences nobody really discusses.”

  “Consequences?” Polly knew all about consequences and the havoc they could wreak.

  “Life gets complicated in a hurry.” He worked himself down farther under the covers. “Between the gifts and flowers that must be sent, but discreetly, and the dance cards that must be kept straight—and then you find half the women were merely inspecting you intimately for some niece or goddaughter, to whom they want you to propose marriage… ye gods, it was scarifying to a mere lad.”

  “You were never a mere lad.” But the idea that he, too, at one point had lacked sophistication was comforting. “So are you here to swive me?”

  “Of course not.” He crouched over her. “I’m here to make love with you, if you’ll have me.”

  Thank God. “I’ll have you.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. “Aren’t you going to make me beg and plead and wheedle a bit?”

  “No.” She stroked a hand through his dark, silky hair. “Else you’ll feel justified in making me beg, and I’m not so inclined. Begging would give you a surfeit of confidence and spoil my mood.”

  She realized she’d just mentally set him a challenge he wouldn’t refuse, though some of her earlier melancholy had lifted. He’d called it lovemaking, and that was something. “How does lovemaking differ from swiving?”

  “Were I swiving you, we’d be about done by now.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’d be no begging involved at all,” he went on. “No newness whatsoever, none of this petting and cuddling you seem so fond of.”

  “I’m so fond of—not you?”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’m a man, Polonaise. What use have I for displays of affection?”

  “I’m tattling on you to Hildegard,” Polly said just as Gabriel shifted to kiss the side of her neck. “I saw you scratching that pig’s ears more often than Allie pet Heifer, and you got in your share of affection with that cat too, Gabriel. Discretion alone prevents me from naming the sentiment you attach to your horse.”

  “I’m caught out, a closet fiend for affection, exposed to the ruthless light of day—or night.” He sighed, and she felt his breath against her skin. “You like that, though, don’t you? That I have a high tolerance for affection in the right circumstances?”

  “A tolerance?” Polly shivered as his tongue traced her ear. “You are reduced to petting a pig and her piglets, and you call it a tolerance. You are a sad, sad case, Gabriel Wendover.”

  “Hush, you.” He settled more closely against her. “You’re trying to distract me with your insults, and while I appreciate it, the
effort isn’t necessary. The night will be plenty long enough to see to your pleasure.”

  “You aren’t worried about all those lonely years undermining your impressiveness?”

  “They were lonely,” he said, oddly serious, “and that will inspire me, Polonaise, not undermine my resolve. Now kiss me, and we’ll see about impressing you.” He settled his lips onto hers, and the teasing was over, just like that. He’d coaxed her out of her self-doubt, though, and made her smile—made her shiver, in fact, and when was the last time she’d shivered with pleasure?

  Twelve

  “None of that.” Gabriel lifted his head and brushed Polly’s hair back from her brow. “You’re thinking, Polonaise, and now isn’t the time for it. Kiss me.”

  Polly levered up and kissed him, because it was an entirely worthy suggestion. When she would have sealed her mouth to his and started in with the plundering, he drew back and denied her, insisting on a slower pace.

  Begging was apparently on her agenda, though she’d enjoy it, and they both knew it, too.

  Gabriel’s hands and mouth flowed over her, magically relieving her of her nightgown, and of her fears and insecurities. He inspected every inch of her with his kisses and caresses, until Polly couldn’t lie still beneath him but had to let her hands roam his skin in retaliation.

  She lingered at his back, sketching not just the muscles and bones, but also his scar. When she raked her nails lightly over the puckered flesh, he sighed his pleasure. When she sank her nails into the taut musculature of his buttocks, he started whispering to her in purring, naughty murmurs.

  She counted his ribs and counted his nipples, often, coming back to explore his chest between forays down his sides, over his lean hips, and back up to his overlong, thick hair. While he waited patiently above her, she traced his features, bit his shoulder, and took his earlobe into her mouth.