The viscount, his eyes narrowed upon Mr. Redding, did not answer immediately. Betsy had at that moment arrived at the older gentleman’s plate, and she slapped down his serving of pork with such force that the cream sauce splattered across his cravat.
“Idiot!” Redding exclaimed, slicing an irate look upwards. With jerky motions, he dabbed at his neckcloth with his napkin.
“So sorry, I’m sure,” Betsy said loudly, the expression on her face belying the words. “Here, let me help you, sir.” She placed the platter on the table, dipped her serving cloth in Mr. Redding’s glass of water, and made swipes at his cravat until he batted her hands away in irritation. George snorted, then began to cough into his napkin when his father glared at him.
Apparently cheered by these acts of insubordination, the viscount returned his gaze to Madeleine. “To answer your question, Miss Murrow: Yes, we had an older brother, Jonathan. Unfortunately, he died two years before we were born. He was only five. It was a fever that took him, as it does many small children. You should not read any dire meanings into his death.”
Without awareness, Madeleine leaned back as Betsy very carefully laid a slice of pork onto her plate.
His father, she was thinking.
His brother.
His twin.
How far could one carry coincidence?
That was one question she dared not ask. But her eyes were solemn as she looked at him, her heart heavy as she made calculations based on what the viscount had said. The curse was pronounced thirty-three years ago. Three years later, his father died, and the twins were born. Depending upon the months involved, Lord Ambrose had to be twenty-nine or thirty years old.
* * *
By the time Betsy staggered dramatically into the dining room with the plum pudding, Ethan was convinced his chances with Miss Murrow were gravely compromised. After Alice betrayed him by resurrecting a subject he hoped to avoid, Madeleine had scarcely spoken.
In retrospect, he should have cautioned Alice and George to monitor their conversation. But then, someone else would have mentioned the curse, and warning everyone was preposterous. Perhaps it was for the best. He could not in good conscience enter a betrothal with Madeleine without telling her the truth. He would have liked to postpone it a little longer, that was all.
And now, apparently, Madeleine could think of little else. More than once he caught her watching him, her expression morbid. Probably wondering how long he had.
Not long, he wanted to say to her, then laugh to show how little he believed in the ravings of an old woman who had died decades ago.
Lucan had given no credence to the curse, either, an insidious voice reminded him. He swallowed the thought with his pudding.
He wished he could banish his fears concerning Madeleine so easily. Almost as daunting were the wary glances her father kept sending. He, too, seemed unnaturally quiet at table, and Ethan imagined a world of thoughts passing behind his intelligent eyes. The viscount felt certain he was not gullible to the point of believing in witchcraft, but something had dampened his enthusiasm.
With a sense of things falling apart, he had to admit he’d noticed Mr. Murrow’s hesitancy before tonight. Where was he going amiss? The question desperately needed answering, and not only to keep Westhall alive. Somehow in the last few days, the estate had ceased to be his primary concern. Madeleine Murrow was.
She enchanted him. She seemed easily the most caring person he’d ever known. Her conversation, even her questions, illustrated depths of thought unusual in anyone, male or female. Her quiet beauty had seeped through his pores and into his heart and mind. Had he ever considered her ordinary in looks? How blind he had been.
At least he had an ally in her mother, he believed. She would make an excellent mother-in-law, if given the chance; her generous spirit was a striking contrast to that of his own mother, who had died an angry woman six years before.
In all fairness, most of his mother’s anger had been directed at herself, not only at him and the fate that took her husband. It had been her idea to use modern farming techniques, but she had little useful knowledge. Thanks to faulty advice and a run of foul weather for several seasons, she had taken the estate to the verge of ruin. Lucan and he had done their best to redeem the damage, but their resources were too small to make much difference.
Lucan. Sorrow swept over him.
The taste of plum soured in his mouth. He lowered his spoon. The place inside him, that secure place where Lucan had once dwelled—I am not alone; my brother is with me—welled upward into his chest, his throat. His heart seemed a silent tomb now, hard as iron; heavy and deadening as chains pulling a drowning man to the bottom of the sea.
Alone. So alone.
Stop. He had to stop thinking of him, or he would become ill, as he had so many times before.
Oh, God, why Lucan and not me? Was your need of him so much greater than my own?
Perspiration began to bead at his temples, his upper lip. He dashed it away with shaking fingers.
Feeling someone watching him, he looked up. It was Alice, her eyes as filled with sadness as his own heart. She knew the depth of his sorrow because she endured it as well.
Beyond Alice and George, Miss Murrow leaned forward to look slowly from him to Alice, then back again. The tiniest of frowns marred her brow.
Despite his distress, Ethan felt a wisp of good humor. Was it possible Miss Murrow was misreading matters; could she be feeling the slightest bit jealous? What a favorable sign.
Perhaps this dinner had not been a total waste. The thought restored him to a measure of normal feeling.
Afterward, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the library, Mrs. Abbott boldly caught his eye. “Lord Ambrose, what of that baby I’ve been hearing so much about? Might we see it?”
He immediately went on guard. “Have people been talking about my cousin’s child? I’m surprised at their interest.”
“Why should you be?” Redding lowered himself into the viscount’s favorite leather chair. “There’s little enough to gossip about in a village this size, especially as none of us can recall this cousin you keep mentioning. Your father and I were boys together, and I never knew of her family. Must be on your mother’s side, as he was an only son, and his sister never married.”
“My mother’s side, yes,” Ethan said rapidly. “And a distant cousin at that. I’ll have Burns fetch the babe if she’s awake.”
The butler did not appear overjoyed at this assignment, but within minutes he returned with Dorrie held stiffly in his arms. With a cry, Mrs. Abbott rushed forward and took the child. As Burns retreated, she started murmuring endearments in childish syllables bearing little resemblance to the English language, Ethan thought with increasing nausea. Still, he could not fault her assessment that Dorrie was the prettiest child ever to breathe. Dorrie, however, apparently disagreed and began to fret.
“Oh, does dee leedle one not like Elizabuth?” Mrs. Abbott cooed to the child over a cacophony of suggestions from all sides. “Is her scaring dee pretty leedle babee?”
Ethan could bear no more. He shot from his seat on the hearth and scooped Dorrie into his arms. “She likes to be walked,” he told Mrs. Abbott. Within seconds, the infant fell silent, her cheek pressed trustingly to his breast pocket.
“Well, she likes you,” the vicar’s wife said in offended tones.
He could not prevent feeling a ridiculous swell of pride. When he glanced up and saw the interest he was attracting, he quickly turned to Madeleine and spotted a pleasant warmth in her eyes.
“Would you like to walk Dorrie?” he asked her.
“I could, I suppose,” she said, lifting her arms for the babe. “But when she is with me, I’ve found she likes to lie on her back.” She smiled as she laid the child lengthwise on her lap. With her hand cushioning Dorrie’s head, she gently swayed her legs from side to side. Wide-eyed, Dorrie peered upward at her face.
Madeleine will make an excellent mother, Ethan thought. It
was not a stretch to imagine her cuddling a child of their own. Although this might be a child of his own. How would that news settle with her? He could not believe any woman would like it, and his muscles tightened at the possibility that the adorable, helpless bundle on her lap might spell the ruin of their relationship.
“I think the baby just smiled at you!” said Alice, who was again sitting beside Madeleine on the settee. “Oh, may I hold her when you are done? How I love infants, and she is delightful!”
And so it went for the space of the next quarter-hour; while conversations bubbled among small groups, every woman in the room had a turn nesting the baby—with one exception. Only Leah Abbott appeared uninterested in holding the infant. Even stranger, when Mrs. Abbott, who was sitting next to her on the loveseat, made a second, more successful attempt at cradling the babe, Leah shrank away from the child.
Odd behavior for a female, Lord Ambrose thought.
Before long, Dorrie tired of being passed around like a box of truffles and started fussing again. Intent on consigning her to the nursery via Burns, the viscount lifted her from Mrs. Murrow’s arms. A sudden impulse led him to Leah’s side.
“This is your last opportunity, Leah,” he said.
She dashed him a look of dread, then turned her eyes downward and shook her dark cap of curls. “No, my lord, I don’t care to.”
Her voice was so soft he had to stoop to discern it from the murmur of several conversations; and when he understood her words, he could not believe them. Crass though it might be, he could not help asking, “Why not?”
“I just don’t like babies.”
Mrs. Abbott poked her in the ribs, hard. “Don’t go around saying so, girl. That kind of word gets out, you won’t have a chance of marriage.”
“I’ll never get married.”
The vicar’s wife cast her eyes heavenward. “Stop being melodramatic, or you truly won’t.” She gave the viscount a long-suffering look. “Leah’s back less than a week, and already her mood is as sullen as it was before we sent her off. What’s a mother to do?”
“I’m sure I have no idea, ma’am. Have you been away a long time, Leah?”
The young woman glanced at him resentfully and said nothing. Her mother moved into the breach. “She’s spent the last three months visiting her aunt in Wales. We hoped she would snap from this gloom, but you see how successful we were. Some young women are just that way, though. Melancholy. What she needs is a good husband and a family.”
Mrs. Abbott continued to rattle on in the same vein. Ethan could barely contain his excitement. Go easy. Don’t repeat the Annie Farlanger disaster. As unobtrusively as possible, he glanced from Dorrie to Leah. Yes, there was a resemblance. The coloring did not match, of course, but the father could have been blond.
Like himself. He was blond. But there were some things a man didn’t forget, and an illicit tryst with the vicar’s daughter topped the list.
“Lucan would have noticed I had gone,” Leah said when her mother ran out of words. “He didn’t miss things like that. People were important to him.”
“Leah!” Mrs. Abbott cried.
Lord Ambrose straightened. “No, she’s right.” He smiled briefly. “People were important to him.”
In that instant he decided to return Dorrie to the nursery himself. Banishing his suspicions of Miss Abbott for another day, he fled the room.
Chapter 6
Long after the guests departed and everyone had gone to bed, Madeleine lay in her four-poster, propped upright with both pillows, reading by candlelight. She longed to sleep but felt horrendously alert; too alert to read, certainly; but perhaps that was the fault of her novel, which had a heroine so virtuous she simply wanted to shake her. What she needed was a grand adventure; maybe a rousing tale of the sea and buried treasure. Anything to stop thinking about the Ambrose curse, anything to put her wildly growing attraction to the viscount into a more sensible frame. She feared she would soon be beyond logical thinking where he was concerned, and that could prove disastrous for her future. She must remain detached and make this most vital decision with her head, not her heart.
Placing the despised novel on the bedside table, she stepped from bed, swirled her wrapper around her shoulders, slid her feet into her slippers, and lifted the candle. Shielding the flickering brightness with one hand, she walked downstairs to the library. Thanks to the flames of a dying fire in the grate, she found greater light here.
She lifted the candle to eye level and began to run one finger along the spines. There seemed to be a preponderance of histories and biographies. Perhaps she should take one of these; surely that would make her sleepy.
“My kingdom for Sir Walter Scott,” she murmured.
“You will find him on the opposite side of the room, first row of shelves, somewhere near the middle,” said the viscount from the doorway.
She nearly shrieked. “Oh, Lord Ambrose! I didn’t know you were here!”
“I was in my study and saw your light moving down the stairs.” He moved forward a trifle unsteadily. She lowered her eyes to the glass of scarlet liquid in his hand. Her disillusionment was so extreme she dared not look at him but returned to the books, pretending to scan titles.
In the meantime, he crossed the room. Long seconds later, he returned with a novel which he placed in her hands.
“Rob Roy.” She smiled faintly. “Thank you. I—I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. Good night, Lord Ambrose.”
“I wish you would stay.”
She looked pointedly at his wineglass. “I fear that would be an intrusion; you already appear to have a companion.”
“What, this?” He held up his glass. “Sometimes wine helps me to sleep, but it’s not helping tonight. Please don’t go. We have so little opportunity to speak with each other alone.”
Lowering her lashes, she debated. He looked wretched. He looked as though he could use a friend. But if her father found her alone with the viscount in her night attire, he would explode.
“Of course, if you’re too tired ...”
She came to her decision suddenly. “I’m not tired at all, Lord Ambrose.”
“Please call me Ethan. Seems ludicrous to be formal when in this kind of situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
“Don’t be coy; I don’t like it. You know I’m referring to our two-week trial period.”
“I was not being coy,” she said, miffed. “I wasn’t sure whether you meant that or this.” Demonstratively, she plucked at the skirt of her wrapper.
“I see. My apologies, then, and my compliments. You look well in blue.” He gestured toward the fireplace and Madeleine, mollified, went to the settee. To her discomfort, he sat beside her. “Well?”
“Well?” she echoed, mystified.
“May I call you Madeleine?”
“Oh, certainly. Although you may not wish to do so in front of my father.”
“Well said. He is rather formal, I’ve noticed; a stickler for propriety.”
Her chin rose. “Is something wrong with that?”
“No,” he said softly, giving her a half-smile that failed to reach his eyes. “I’m certain everything is right with that.”
“Some people would do well to emulate his example.”
“Ah. You would not by any chance, be referring to me?”
She chose not to answer, but instead gazed into the fire.
“It’s merely a glass of wine,” he said, shaking it slightly to make his point.
“You had more than a glass on our first night here.”
“Yes, and I do apologize for that. It’s not a regular occurrence, I assure you. You have seen me take wine with meals since then, and I’ve not repeated that episode.”
She looked him squarely in the eyes. “This is important for me to know ... Ethan.” How odd it seemed to say his given name. “Do you”—she tilted her head toward the wineglass—"depend upon that overmuch?”
He stared into the mellow liquid. “If
I did, would I tell you?”
Madeleine studied his profile. “Yes, I believe you would say truth.”
“Do you?” His smile was sweet but incredulous. “Then I say to you truthfully: I do not have a problem with drink.”
“That first evening ... why did you do it then? Was it because of me?”
“I tried to convince myself it was.” This cut her to the bone, and she moved responsively. “Madeleine,” he said swiftly, placing his hand around her wrist for an instant. “That didn’t come out well. I didn’t know you then, and you were an easy excuse for my gloom.”
She digested this for a moment. “Do you often have such moods?”
“Not often.” He looked away from her, took a sip of wine, and set his glass on the table.
Very softly, she ventured, “Have these periods of gloom increased since your brother’s death?”
Anger flew into his face, then quickly died. “You have named when they began.”
“I suspected as much. Grief affects everyone differently, I believe. It was that way in our family when Bettina died. Papa preferred to be alone; my mother deteriorated physically, and I wept myself to sleep every night for ages.” She called her mind to the present and leaned toward him earnestly. “The grief never goes away, but it becomes less sharp in time. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this; I don’t have the right, but as someone who cares about you ... Ethan, your drinking is not a difficulty yet, but may very well become so if you do not stop.”
His gaze moved over her face, filling her with odd, pleasurable sensations. “Do you care for me, Madeleine?”
She straightened. “How vexing that you hear only what you want to hear and leave out the important parts.”
“That was the important part to me.” A gleam lit in his eyes when she frowned. “All right, I’ll tell you another important point: drink soothes the pain.”
“How you frighten me! That is precisely the kind of thinking you should avoid.”
The Bridegroom and the Baby Page 7