by Regina Scott
Geoffrey shook his head. “I’ll wager you paid too much for them too. If you had your own stable, you wouldn’t have to be at the mercy of ruthless horse traders.”
“Somehow I doubt the sellers at Wells would care for that appellation,” Alan replied. “You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I am. I want the Pentercast stable to be the finest in England.”
“Lofty goal. What does Enoch think of this? He has the best stable going right now.”
“True,” Geoffrey acknowledged, “but he doesn’t wish to raise the draft horses. I’ll leave the riding horses to him.” Geoffrey pointed to the land again, sketching his dream with his hand. “I’ll put the house and barns there, on higher ground, where they won’t be affected by the river’s flooding.”
“Very wise,” Alan agreed, but Geoffrey got the impression from the smile on his brother’s face that Alan was humoring him.
“We’ll have most of it in pasture and some for feed grain,” he continued undaunted. “I’m going to use the money Father left me to buy a pair of draft horses, the strongest I can find. It will be a small start, Alan, but a start nonetheless.” He turned to his brother, defensiveness rising despite himself. “Well, what do you say?”
Alan eyed the pasture for a moment more, then nodded. “It sounds like a marvelous plan. The land is yours. I’ll have Carstairs draw up the papers.”
Geoffrey threw back his head and crowed. “Huzzah! Alan, I cannot thank you enough! You won’t regret it, I promise. This is going to make the Pentercast name famous.”
“Better famous,” Alan grinned, “than infamous.”
Geoffrey grinned back. “Have no fear there! Now, there’s only one thing left to arrange, and it is by far the most important.”
“Oh?” Alan prompted again.
Geoffrey felt his grin deepen. “I have something to offer Allison at last. I was going to wait until she came home from London, but the way I’m feeling, I may just ride up there today. As I said, Alan, I finally know what’s important to me. This stable is only a means to an end. What I want most is Allison Munroe for my wife.”
Alan’s face fell, and Geoffrey felt as if storm clouds gathered around the knoll.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Has something happened to her? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Alan shook his head. “She’s quite well. I’m very sorry, Geoffrey. I knew you were fond of Allison, but I never realized your feelings went beyond a mild flirtation.” He maneuvered his horse closer so he could put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. Geoffrey felt as if it were an anvil. “We received the news from Mrs. Munroe yesterday. Allison is engaged. She is to marry the Marquis DeGuis in November.”
“No,” Geoffrey said and felt a frustrated laugh of denial building inside him. “No, you’re wrong. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She’s mine!”
Alan’s look of pity only served to fuel his anger. With a wild yell, he whirled the horse and sent it galloping down the slope. It couldn’t be true! He wouldn’t let it be true. How much penance could one man bear? He had served his sentence, had even learned from it. Was he to be denied the blessing he craved beyond all things?
He took his case to the one court that might have some jurisdiction. Throwing the reins to a groom who came hurrying up at his sudden arrival at the Pentercast stables, he stalked into the house to find Sister Genevieve.
“Tell me it isn’t true,” he demanded as he crossed the threshold into the withdrawing room, where his sister-in-law was taking a sip of tea.
She reminded him rather frighteningly of her mother as she set the cup down on the teak table beside the chaise lounge on which she rested, smoothed her sprigged muslin skirts over her abdomen, and frowned. “I would probably be happy to, if you would explain what we are discussing.”
“Allison and the Marquis DeGuis. She cannot have chosen to become engaged to him. This must be your mother’s idea.”
Genevieve smiled, obviously oblivious to his pain. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure, Geoffrey. You have never met the marquis. I would say there are few young ladies who could resist his good looks.”
Geoffrey’s heart sank, but he couldn’t let his dream die so easily. “I don’t believe it,” he declared, flinging himself down on the rose-colored sofa across from her. “One of your sister’s foremost qualities is her loyalty. She promised to wait for me.”
Genevieve’s smile faded, and for a moment he wondered if she were going to scold him for dirtying the cheerful room with the dust from his boots. He was relieved when she chose to focus on the matter at hand instead. “Are you saying, Geoffrey, that you and my sister have an understanding?”
Much as he would have liked to tell her so, he knew it to be a lie. He had been too craven, even at the end, to hear the words that would have bound her to him. Leaving it in innuendo, he could not now claim she had made any promises. “No. Nothing so formal as that, worse luck. How could I ask her when I had nothing to offer?”
“And you do now?” Gen asked gently.
Before he could answer, Alan strode into the room. He looked clearly relieved to have found his brother. “Thirty acres of good bottomland,” he declared as if he had been part of the conversation all along. “And the plans for a fine stable of farm horses, something much needed in this area. He has my support, love.”
Genevieve’s smile returned. “It certainly sounds as if you’ve been thinking through what you want, Geoffrey. Your plans would please Allison, I’m sure. You have my support as well. We have only two problems—Mother and the marquis.”
“Do you truly think Allison loves him?” Geoffrey felt compelled to ask. “If he is as magnificent as everyone says…”
“Be assured he is,” Genevieve replied, patting the seat of the nearby armchair to encourage Alan to sit beside her. “But Allison is loyal, as you said, and she is fond of you, Geoffrey, I know. Still, this will not be easy. You must show her that you are as much a gentleman as the marquis.”
“Allison won’t need much convincing, I’d wager,” Alan put in, seating himself and taking his wife’s hand. “The person you will have to impress is Mrs. Munroe.”
“Hang Mrs. Munroe,” Geoffrey declared, buoyed by their support. “If Allison says the word, we’re off to Gretna Green, and no one will stop us.”
“No, Geoffrey,” Genevieve said firmly even as his brother frowned. “Running away to Scotland to be married isn’t the answer. Remember your own words—Allison’s shining trait is her loyalty. Can you imagine what she must feel to be torn between her family and the man she loves?”
Alan nodded. “She’s right, Geoffrey. This dream of yours will die aborning if you divide the families again.”
Geoffrey sighed, hemmed in on all sides. “Very well. I just wish I had a better hope of reaching Mrs. Munroe.”
“Leave Mother to me,” Genevieve told him. “You concentrate on showing everyone how much you’ve changed.” She paused, frowning at him. “You have changed, Geoffrey, haven’t you? I don’t think I’m up to ferrets in the kitchen.”
“Or the ballroom,” Alan agreed.
Geoffrey glanced between the two of them. “I haven’t changed the way I feel about Allison, unless you count how those feelings have deepened. But I think I can comport myself properly in polite Society.” He grinned. “And if I haven’t learned that, God have mercy on us all.”
Chapter Nine
Allison slumped on the brown leather upholstery of the Munroe carriage across from her mother, watching the scenery recede behind them.
“Sit up, Allison,” her mother murmured. Despite the jostling of the carriage, she carefully inserted the needle into the embroidery on her lap so that it did not touch the soft grey of her cloak. “You’ll wrinkle your pelisse. A lady should never look unduly rumbled after traveling.”
Allison glanced down at her own blue pelisse. Part of her wanted nothing more than to rend the thing from end to end if it would serve to ruffle her mother’s implacab
le will, but it was a lovely sky blue with darker blue embroidery along the hem, collar, and cuffs, and the broadcloth was soft and comfortable. It seemed a shame to ruin it simply to spite her mother. Reluctantly, she straightened. Then, seeing the satisfied smile on her mother’s lips, she slumped into an even smaller ball. Her mother sighed and continued pulling the needle along its course.
She was being ridiculous, she knew. Her sullen behavior only served to reinforce her mother’s dismal opinion of her maturity, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She had been so good, pleasant, quiet, and ladylike all Season, hoping it would earn her the right to make her own choices, and now the most important choice she could make was being made for her. She had tried pleading, arguing, and crying. Nothing she had said or done had dissuaded her mother that she would not marry the marquis. It was maddening!
She would, of course, ultimately refuse. She was not in love with Lord DeGuis; it would be dishonest to marry him, not to mention that it would prevent her from marrying someone she did love. But announcing it so blandly would shame her mother, and, despite her anger, she wasn’t willing to do that.
She had even gone so far as to attempt to explain her feelings to the man himself when he had called a few days before they were to leave for the country. She felt she owed him that much. Once she had gotten over her initial shock of her mother’s announcement, she had realized what an honor the marquis had done her. Out of dozens of lovely, accomplished, well-bred young ladies, he had chosen her for his marchioness. She could not deny that Lady DeGuis had a nice sound. But when she considered the staid, proper, utterly joyless life that seemed to go with it, the title rang hollow.
She did not wish to offend him. Surely if he had offered for her, he must feel more than he showed. However, she could not convince herself that he actually loved her. She had a difficult time imagining the marquis passionate about anything. Still, she must find a way to refuse him gently.
Her mother, of course, was unwilling to allow them any time alone. Perhaps it was her usual respect for propriety, but Allison suspected her mother knew what her daughter intended. She tried not to let that deter her as Perkins announced the marquis.
He bowed over her mother’s hand first, then hers. But as he held her hand no longer or more firmly than her mother’s, she was given no clue as to his feelings. His smile as he sat across from her in his navy morning coat was no warmer or personal than usual, his blue eyes above the pristine cravat as calm and candid as always. Allison sighed. It was not going to be easy to tell the man nearly even young London miss wanted to marry that the one miss he wanted did not.
“I trust your sister and the Squire are well,” he ventured.
Allison settled back in the chair, patting down the skirts of her sprigged muslin gown, used to the routine by now. She felt her mother watching her from the sofa and tried not to show she noticed. “They are both well, thank you. You will see for yourself shortly, I understand.”
“Yes.” He smiled at her mother. “Your mother was kind enough to invite me to join you in the country.”
“We are delighted you chose to accept,” her mother replied with firmness that dared Allison to contradict her.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“I understand something else as well,” Allison forced herself to continue. “Mother tells me you have done me the honor of asking for my hand in marriage.”
Something flickered behind the clear blue eyes, but it was gone before she could identify its nature. “I’m glad we no longer need to dissemble in that regard,” he replied calmly. “I would much rather be your fiancé than merely another of your suitors.”
She could imagine how much he disliked being part of the pack. “I own that it was a bit of a surprise.”
He smiled at her, but the smile seemed to Allison to be that of a fond uncle and not an impassioned lover. “It was a bit of a surprise to me as well. I did not expect to meet someone like you.”
Allison bit her lip. That could be his most lover-like statement so far, or it could be a polite way of saying she was an impressive oddity. She could see the faintest of frowns on her mother’s face and knew she was treading the line on impropriety.
“Nor did I expect someone like you to show interest,” Allison hurried on before her mother could stop her. “We are so different, my lord. Do you not fear that we will not suit?”
He leaned forward, and suddenly the blue of his eyes seemed to block out all else. “I think, Miss Munroe, that we will suit admirably. You are exactly the kind of woman I’ve always dreamed of marrying.”
“And you are exactly the kind of man I dreamed of marrying,” Allison told him. “Until last Christmas.”
He frowned, glancing between her and her mother, and the world opened up again. “Last Christmas?”
“She is referring to her sister’s courtship,” her mother assured him. “It has nothing to do with the current circumstances.” As before, her tone dared Allison to disagree.
“I was referring to our last sojourn at the Abbey,” Allison compromised. She found it difficult to bring Geoffrey’s name into the conversation with both the marquis and her mother frowning at her. “Being in the country helps one put things in perspective, I find. Before then, I was looking only to marry the most presentable bachelor on the ton. However, last Christmas made me realize there is more to a husband than his position in Society or the cut of his coat.”
The marquis looked thoughtful. “And may I ask what those qualities might be?”
Allison could not help but look at him in exasperation. Of all the times, why did he have to choose now to converse on a subject of depth? But he had offered her an opening, and she would be stupid not to take it.
“A kind heart,” she started. “Loyalty to one’s family and friends, a joy of the simple things in life such as the sunrise, a good harvest, a child’s smile.”
“Interesting,” the marquis mused. “Those are the very traits I find appealing in you.”
“Really?” Her amazement was out before she could think better of it.
“Really,” he said with a smile, then he sobered. “I’m not sure London has given us a chance to get to know each other, Miss Munroe. I like to think I have other qualities besides the cut of my coat and my title. I hope you will allow me some time in the country.”
She would have been the rudest creature alive to tell him no. She glanced at her mother, but the Widow Munroe was gazing out the window in placid contemplation. Allison had the distinct impression she was being manipulated, but, again, she found it difficult to turn down so presentable a gentleman simply because her mother had been arrogant enough to accept his suit for her.
“Very well,” she allowed. “But I want it understood that the choice is mine. My mother may have accepted your suit, but I am the one who will decide whether we marry.”
Her mother turned, eyes snapping fire. Allison knew only the presence of the marquis was keeping her from getting the scold of her life. She raised her chin and glared back.
The marquis did not seem to notice their hostility. “Of course, Miss Munroe. You must forgive me for being old-fashioned. My own parents had an arranged marriage, and I will shortly have to arrange a marriage for my younger sister Catherine, since our parents have now passed on. I regret that you have not been able to meet her yet. She is quite devoted to an elderly aunt of ours and has been unwilling to leave her all Season. I hope to prevail upon her to return in November before our wedding, should you agree to marry me. I apologize for not coming to you sooner. I should have realized a young lady like you would want to be included in the discussion. We will make no further arrangements without your participation, I promise.”
Allison couldn’t help beaming at him in approval, then turned to smile in triumph at her mother. The Widow Munroe managed a grimace that resembled the look one had with a sore tooth rather than pleasure at his gesture. “How gracious, my lord,” she murmured.
“Anything to sh
ow Miss Munroe how serious I am about my suit,” he replied, rising. “And now, I have kept you too long. Mrs. Munroe, Miss Munroe, always your servant.” He bowed to them both. “I look forward to our time in the country.”
If only she could look forward to it, she thought now as they skirted the edge of the Mendip Hills, putting the bustle of Wells behind them. Each mile they drove grew more familiar; each mile made London seem farther away and longer ago. Soon she would be seeing her sister, Chimes and Annie at the Abbey, the fields and forests of her home. Soon she would have her talk with Alan and make him let Geoffrey out of his prison. She would have enjoyed her return fully if it hadn’t been for the carriages behind them, bringing a piece of London with her.
She was restive enough, apparently, that her mother declared her companionship distracting. When they made the last pause to rest the horses at a coaching inn outside Wells, the Widow Munroe insisted on changing places with Bryce in the second carriage. While Allison didn’t mind a few moments without her mother’s watchful company, certainly Bryce’s company was not much better. She felt as if she had merely exchanged an eagle for a hawk.
“What does Mother think I’ll do?” Allison complained with ill humor as the little, dark-haired maid climbed into the coach. “Take Pippin and convince John Coachman to gallop off to Cornwall without her?”
Bryce frowned. “Why would you want to go there? The Abbey is in Somerset.”
Allison shook her head. “Never mind, Bryce.” She turned to gaze out the windows as the abigail settled herself and they started off once more.
They rode in silence for a while, Bryce mending a lace collar for her mistress. Allison sighed, staring moodily out the window. Why did she have the feeling that her mother was going to make this visit even more unpleasant than their time in London? She tried to remember what it had been like when Gen was having her Season. Had her mother been this managing even then? Then the answer came back to her. Of course she hadn’t been this managing; her father had been alive. Rutherford Munroe had had a unique ability to get his wife to see reason. He was the only person she knew who had been able to get her mother to truly smile. For the first time in a long time, she wished he was with her still.