Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5)

by Mary Kingswood

  “Oh, but it is quite a famous county,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I had supposed that everyone had heard of Kent.”

  That made him laugh again. “I meant the village, as you know perfectly well. Is it near London?”

  “We are sixty miles from London, but only three miles from Canterbury.”

  “Canterbury,” he said, wonderingly. “Whatever am I doing near Canterbury?”

  “Now that is a question I cannot answer,” she said briskly. “You arrived on my doorstep in the snow the day before last, all in a heap, with no sign of any horse or carriage, so if you do not know how you came here, I am sure I do not. Are you in any pain? There is laudanum if you wish it. It might help you to sleep.”

  He accepted the laudanum, and when next he woke the room was filled with light so bright he could barely open his eyes. She was there at once — did she ever leave his side?

  “Ah, awake at last, you sleepy creature. The snow has stopped, the sun is shining and there are diamonds all over the garden. It is quite magical. Although very bright.” She drew the curtains a little way across the window, so the worst of the glare was gone. “There! Is that better?”

  “Diamonds? Oh, you mean the snow is sparkling. That must be delightful.”

  “It is indeed, although it would be a great deal more delightful if they were real diamonds. Just think how rich I should be!”

  “What would you do with your riches?” he said.

  She sat down on the chair beside his bed, and tipped her head to one side. “Let me see…”

  Now that he looked at her closely, he allowed her to be very pretty. Not beautiful, for her features were not quite regular enough, and not handsome, which is what one might say of a woman with more style than beauty. No, she was pretty, with softly rounded cheeks and a kissable mouth, and eyes of a deep blue quite unlike any colour he had ever seen before.

  “I should like to go to the theatre,” she said eventually. “And the opera, and musical recitals, and… and Bullock’s Museum and the Tower of London. And Bath… oh, and Brighton. Or anywhere on the coast. I should dearly like to see the sea.”

  “Should you not like to live in a great house and wear silks and jewels and feathers, be waited on by servants, and live on quail’s eggs and partridge and roast peacock?” he said in surprise, for most women that he knew thought of little else, and devoted their lives to obtaining such things.

  “Oh no!” she cried. “That would be quite dreadful. What could be cosier than this place? We have everything we need in that way. But I have never been further abroad than to Canterbury, and I should like to see other parts of the world. Scotland is said to be very beautiful, in a wild sort of way. It is covered with mountains, which is a thing I cannot quite imagine. Have you ever seen mountains, Gil?”

  “Once, when I stayed with a school friend in Wales. They are most disagreeable, mountains. Very steep, and when one reaches the top there is nothing there at all except perhaps a goat or two, and not a drop of claret to be had, and so one is obliged to descend at once. And the sea is disagreeable, too, let me tell you. It tastes appalling and if one is foolhardy enough to want to swim in it, one is liable to be hurled about a great deal. And Bath— no, you do not want to go to Bath. A very dull sort of place, full of dowagers and the sick, who somehow believe that drinking noxious waters will cure them of all ailments. But the theatre and opera are entertaining, that I will grant you.”

  He stopped, suddenly exhausted. To be laid so low, when he had always prided himself on his energy! It was more than a man could bear. And talking of the sea reminded him of Dover and his irate colonel who would cashier him if he failed to turn up at Drummoor.

  “Is there anywhere to send a letter in… your village?”

  “In Elversham? No, only from Canterbury. You wish to write to someone? Will she be worrying about you?”

  She… What she did she mean? “Colonel Jefferson,” he said. “He will think I have absconded.”

  “Oh dear. Army?”

  “Hussars.”

  “Well, there is no possibility of getting through this snow until my father returns with the horse,” she said. “Your colonel will understand that snow brings everything to a standstill.”

  “He might. Or he might not,” Gil said, closing his eyes. “Why am I so tired?”

  “You have been very ill. You nearly died, Gil. You need rest and sleep and plenty of chicken broth, so do not worry about letters or colonels or anything else for a while. Let me get you some more broth, and then I’ll draw the curtains and you can sleep again for a while.”

  Having no energy for anything else, he did as he was bid.

  3: Backgammon

  Genista liked to watch him sleep. Gil. Gilbert Something-beginning-with-an-M. Mansfield. Manchester. No, those were places. Impossible to guess at a name. Gil the Hussar, whose colonel might cashier him if he were thought to have absconded. Gil with the light blue eyes and the impossibly long lashes. No, this was foolish. She must stop thinking of him in that way. He was a patient, just another patient.

  All that day, he dozed, woke again, ate a little broth, dozed once more. Late in the afternoon, when she was sitting by the western window to get the most light to read by, he woke again and she could see by his eyes that he was more alert. Before she could take the few steps to his bedside, he had pushed his pillows up and raised himself to a half-sitting position.

  “You’re feeling better,” she said. “Would you like to eat a proper dinner tonight?”

  “Chicken?” he hazarded. She laughed, and nodded. “The roast swan is finished, then?” That made her laugh again. How long was it since she had laughed in that unforced way? “No music today? I enjoyed your playing yesterday… or whenever it was.”

  “Today is Sunday, so no music, but I shall play again tomorrow, if you like.”

  “This is an unusual bedroom,” he said. “A spinet, and a backgammon table, I see.”

  It was a casual remark — he could not know the grief she still felt. But she answered composedly. “It was my mother’s room, latterly. Her legs failed her, so Father had this room made for her, and she lived out her last few years here. The chair with wheels is hers. We took her to the dining room or into the drawing room in that, for as long as she was able. But eventually, she could not leave her bed.”

  “I am so sorry,” he said politely. “I did not mean to stir painful memories. But I think, if I were compelled to live my life in just one room, this would be a pleasant place of confinement. There is music here and companionship, for one cannot play backgammon alone. There are windows that catch both the morning and evening sun, and from the darker patches of wallpaper, I can see that there were paintings on the walls. And there were books on these shelves once, I feel sure.”

  “You are correct,” she said quietly. “Father sold the books, for they were frivolous types — novels and such like, not suitable for me, and he did not care for them. The paintings have gone back to her brother. They were her family’s, not ours. But the spinet is still here, although I only play it when Father is away. It grieves him too much.”

  “Does your father leave you alone a great deal?”

  “Only when his distant patients summon him, and usually he is back the next day. He is a physician, you see. The snow keeps him in Canterbury, I dare say.”

  ~~~~~

  She found that her patient healed quickly. On Sunday, he was sitting up. On Monday, he was well enough to sit in the wheeled chair and be pushed through to the kitchen to eat his dinner with Genista and Betty, and after that, he persuaded her to play backgammon.

  “I usually play such games for money,” he said. “But I suspect that is not your usual habit.”

  She looked up from setting out the pieces. “No. We never place wagers. The only reward worth having is the satisfaction of the play. Shall you play red or black?”

  “Black, then you may take red, which matches your gown so well.”

  She made no reply,
for it was such a frivolous comment that she couldn’t find anything sensible to say.

  “If we may not stake money, let us make the play amusing in another way,” Gil said. “If you throw a double, you must tell me something interesting about yourself.”

  She laughed, but shook her head. “That is still gambling.”

  “Not at all, if no money changes hands.”

  “Who decides if it be interesting or not?”

  “That is a good point, for I can see that such discussions might become disputatious. Let us say then that whoever throws a double must tell something about himself or herself, whether it be interesting or not.”

  But this was not very appealing to her, for he would undoubtedly tell her something dull like the name of his horse, when really she wished to know about the lady who had given him the locket. “I have a better idea,” she said. “Whoever throws a double may ask a question of the other.”

  “Oh, excellent idea!” he said, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. “And if the one questioned refuses to answer, the next throw is forfeit.”

  She laughed in delight. “Very well.”

  They played for some time before either of them threw a double but then a whole spate revealed that he had five brothers and a sister, that they were all older than he was, and that he lived in Yorkshire. She in her turn told him of her two brothers and two sisters, all much older than her, that she had no sweetheart or secret lover, and that she had never yet received an offer of marriage.

  “What, never?” he said, then went on teasingly, “No one has lain awake at night longing to kiss that pretty mouth of yours?”

  She blushed, but said, “It is to be hoped not! Indeed, why should anyone think of marrying me? My role as the youngest daughter is to look after Father, and help him with his work.”

  “And are you content with that?”

  His blue eyes were fixed on her with an intensity which made her heart beat fast. He was so handsome, and when he looked at her that way, as if her answer was the most important thing in the world to him… it was flattering. She was quite unused to such attention, and lowered her eyes before answering.

  “Of course. Marriage is merely to exchange one sort of servitude to a man for another, with the added burden of children.”

  “Not if the man should happen to be rich or titled, or preferably both. Then the children would be no burden at all. Every woman wants to marry a lord.”

  “Well, I do not!” she cried. “I can’t think of anything worse! All those lords and ladies who think they’re so grand and quite above the rest of the world, with their idle, selfish, immoral lives — I want nothing to do with any of them.”

  He seemed taken aback at her vehemence, and for a moment he made no reply.

  “I beg your pardon for my intemperance,” she said. “You think me irrational, perhaps, but there is… some family history on the subject. One of my sisters was betrothed to a baron, but he… he took advantage of her and then abandoned her. She was lucky to find a farmer’s son to take pity on her situation and marry her. The experience has left us wary of the nobility.”

  “That is very bad, but not all nobles are so despicable,” he said mildly.

  “True, but their lives of idleness and dissipation, together with a belief in their own superiority, make them disinclined to show consideration for those of our kind. I could never marry such a man. I don’t want to marry anyone, but least of all a lord.”

  “How curious! I never met a woman before who had no desire to marry,” he said. “In my experience, it is all they think about, and very tedious it is too, trying to evade their wiles. You are an original, Genista.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Hardly that! It is commonplace for a younger daughter to stay at home. Besides, my life here is all that I could wish for. Am I not well provided for, with a comfortable home and enough to eat, and my father’s companionship? My work here is enjoyable and not too arduous. What more could any woman ask for? Shall you make your play?”

  “I am bored with the game,” he said abruptly. “Will you give me some music?”

  She agreed to it, and as she settled down at the spinet, it occurred to her that such conversations were dangerously intimate, and best avoided. It was not wise to become too friendly with a man who was young and distractingly good looking and very, very charming.

  ~~~~~

  Gil slept well that night, and the next morning was up and in his chair before Genista came into his room.

  “Well, you’re looking much brighter today.”

  “I feel better — up to exploring a little. Will you show me around? Pleasant as this room is, I should like to see the rest of the house.”

  So she wheeled him into the dining room and drawing room, silent and cold, her father’s surgery, an oddly impersonal room, with its cabinets of instruments and a single shelf of medical books, and the mixing room, where the ingredients were kept for the various mixtures and lozenges and drops that her father prescribed.

  “Does he remember the ingredients for each one, or does he have a book to tell him?” Gil said, gazing around in awe at the cabinets and drawers, all neatly labelled.

  “There’s a note book, although one gets to know the quantities for the commonest mixtures,” she said. “I still look them up, though. Think how dreadful it would be to put ten times as much arsenic in a compound.”

  “Oh, you make them up sometimes?”

  “Always, nowadays. It leaves Father free to concentrate on the important matters. Would you mind if I tend to the leeches now? I can take you back to your room if you had rather not watch.”

  He had no great love of leeches, but he had no objection to watching her as she checked each jar, removed one or two that looked sick to a separate container and changed the water on one jar. Then she made careful notes in a large book, while he admired the curve of her neck as she leant over to write. She hummed in a low tone as she worked, clearly happy in her employment.

  She intrigued him, there was no doubt about it. He could not decide whether that resulted from his position as her virtual prisoner, or the strange intimacy into which they were thrown, or whether perhaps it was because she was so utterly different from any woman he had ever known before. There was not the least guile about her. His very mild questioning, which would have been taken as flirtation by anyone more worldly, she treated as honest enquiries, and answered with a directness that he found refreshing. And she spoke no less than the truth of her contentment with her situation. Seeing her absorbed in her work, humming almost like the purring of a cat, he could not imagine her in any other setting. Certainly her plain, high-necked gowns and the simple way she coiled her hair on her head would be outlandish in any society setting. But that hair! It looked as dull a brown as her gown that day, but when the sun caught it, it shone like spun gold — all reds and fiery ambers and gilded yellows. And so much of it. He had a yearning to unpin it, to feel it falling through his fingers like silk. He sighed in delight at the thought.

  She looked up at once. “Are you tired? There! I have finished now.” She set down her pen and quickly sanded the page. “Let me take you back to your room.”

  “Backgammon?” he said optimistically, when she wheeled him back into the bedroom.

  She laughed. “Not before breakfast. I have to help Betty in the kitchen, and then there is the pig to see to. But later, perhaps, I shall have time. Shall I bring you a book to read?”

  “Please. And give my regards to Marmaduke.”

  He read a little, walked around his chair for exercise, his bad leg stiff but free of pain, ate breakfast in the kitchen with the two women and was glowered at by Betty, then he returned to his room, read a little more, and walked all the way to the window. The sky was an angry grey, but the snow was still beautiful, even without its sun-induced diamonds. The faint scuff marks of birds and the trail of a fox were all that marred its perfection.

  “Don’t put too much weight on that leg of yours,”
she said.

  He had not heard her come in, but he turned with a smile. “I feel better for being up and about. Where are my clothes?”

  “In the wardrobe over there. I hope you don’t object, but I went through your pockets, in an attempt to find out who you were. Your cards were unreadable, so I still don’t know your surname.”

  “Marford,” he said. “And yours is Hamilton. There was an inscription on the flyleaf of the book.” He opened the door of the wardrobe and closed it again. “At least I shall be able to dress for dinner tonight.” He laughed at himself, for normally dressing for dinner meant a full hour at least spent with his valet, and here it would be an accomplishment merely to set aside his nightgown. “This must be your father’s nightgown I think, and I do not remember undressing at all.”

  “I undressed you,” she said, not quite looking him in the eye. “You were soaked and frozen, and would likely have died without being wrapped up warm and dry at once. Besides, if I had not done so, I should not have known about your leg and it would have gone on festering. It was a nasty injury. How did you come by it?”

  “I was shot.”

  “Ah. Then you have been in battle.”

  “Sadly not. It was a duel.”

  Her eyes widened but she asked nothing more. Instead she said, “Shall we play?”

  “Do you not want to know? Why I was in a duel?”

  She shook her head, pulling her chair resolutely to the backgammon table. With a sigh, he wheeled his chair to the other side of it, and sat down. He had already laid the pieces out, so she picked up the dice cup and threw at once. He picked up his own dice cup, then set it down again, and reached across the table to take her hand. She looked at him with wide, startled eyes.

  “Thank you for saving my life, Miss Hamilton,” he said quietly. Then he threw his dice and the game began.

  For a while they played in silence, but then she threw a double. They had not discussed whether they would continue their game of the day before, and she had been so subdued by the mention of the duel that he had imagined she would want to know nothing further about him. However, she gazed at him, with those mesmerising dark blue eyes.