A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  “That is diabolical,” she muttered against his neck.

  He was taller than Roger, his arms longer, his frame larger. His everything was more generously proportioned, and thank God for that. Addy surrendered to satisfaction again, the intensity of the moment nearly equaling a loss of consciousness.

  But better, much, much better, than simply fainting.

  “You are a fiend,” she panted, running her tongue along his collarbone. “A devil, an imp of the bedroom.”

  “That sounds more interesting than being an earl.” He was pleased with himself, and well he should be.

  “You look all gentlemanly and predictable in your various blue waistcoats and sober evening wear, but beneath all that fine tailoring…”

  He kissed her temple. “I’m simply a man, Beatitude.”

  She fell silent, accepting the reminder that she must not develop fancies where he was concerned, though ye heavenly choruses, she had much to think about.

  “You are my lover,” she said, scissoring her legs around him. “And you have yet to gratify your own desires.”

  “I have gratified many of my desires in the past hour.”

  “Gratify one more.”

  Of course, he could not be selfish even in this, driving Addy before him into a frenzy of fulfillment. To her shock, he withdrew and spent on her belly, despite wearing the sheath. The loss of him was both a physical ache and an emotional distress.

  That wasn’t how this was supposed to end. “I thought the sheath prevented conception.”

  He levered up a few inches. “Nothing prevents conception for a certainty. This is the safest approach I know short of limiting one’s passion to longing glances and bad poetry.”

  Laughter was a relief, also precious. Early in the marriage—very early—she and Roger had laughed, though most of his mirth had been directed at her inexperience.

  “Shall I untie your ribbon?” she asked, feeling very daring. Roger had never used a sheath, of course, never explained them, never shown her one.

  “I can manage.”

  Grey got off the bed and ambled behind the privacy screen, giving Addy a chance to admire a very well-made man. Sheep farming put the muscle on a fellow, apparently.

  “Will you take off that damned shift?” he asked, climbing back onto the bed. “I understand modesty, but you are beautifully constructed, and I treasure the feel of your skin next to mine.”

  Beautifully constructed. Had Roger ever called anything about her beautiful?

  Addy pulled the shift over her head, stuffed it under her pillow, and curled down against Grey’s side. “Tell me about Dorset, about your tea meadows and your sheep.”

  She liked the feel of his voice rumbling forth as she lay against him, liked the sensation of his hands wandering over her neck, shoulders, and arms. She liked the scent of him, shaving soap and man, and the warmth of his body snug up against hers.

  She loved being able to bask in his company, delighting in a leisurely tumble, complete with a cuddle afterward.

  She did not like at all that some woman would be at his side when he returned to Dorset weeks hence. Some woman would walk those acres with him. Some woman would have years to enjoy his many talents and considerations as a lover.

  And that woman would not be her.

  To hold Beatitude while she slept was sweet, also painful. Her exhaustion was deep enough that she hadn’t stirred for a quarter hour. She curled against Grey’s side, skin to skin, giving him time to list regrets.

  They all came down to the same lament: I wish I were free to simply love her.

  If she didn’t care to remarry, Grey would content himself with the role of intimate companion and dear friend. Widows were permitted to choose their escorts, so to speak.

  “I can feel you thinking,” Addy murmured. “Do you never relax, Grey? Never tell the world to go hang while you doze on a blanket amid the fragrance of your tea meadows?”

  Oh, what memories he could have made with her. “I haven’t napped in my father’s botanical gardens for years. Playing the harp was relaxation. I painted some, until it became obvious Oak’s talent eclipsed my own.”

  She tucked the covers over his arm. “Why should that matter?”

  “Because Oak would not have pursued his artistic education if he thought in any way that his talent cast my own in the shade.”

  “He did not want to compete with you. Would to God that Roger had had more of that sensibility.”

  What etiquette applied for discussing a late spouse with a current lover? Perhaps the etiquette expected of friends would serve.

  “You are still unhappy with Lord Canmore.”

  She rolled to her back. “A widow is allowed to be upset that her spouse has died.”

  The most recent Countess of Casriel had survived her husband by some years. She’d grieved Papa’s passing, but not like this.

  Grey shifted to his side, the better to observe his lover. “Do you miss him?”

  “I miss having a husband, I miss being the countess, not the late earl’s widow. I miss having somebody else who dwelled with me, took the occasional meal with me, provided me the occasional escort rather than trailed at my heels in his livery. In that sense, I miss Roger.”

  Grey took her hand beneath the covers. “But?”

  She stared at the canopy, putting Grey in mind of the stone saints guarding the ruins of the Dorning Hall abbey: eternal long-suffering guarding eternal regrets.

  “But I do not miss him,” she said. “I was the vicar’s daughter. Only a tavern maid would have been a less likely countess than I, and in hindsight, I can see that Roger chose me in part to twit his uncles.”

  “You were dazzled by his charm, too inexperienced to know infatuation from genuine regard, and just well born enough to believe he offered you a love match. I’m surprised you didn’t end up hating him.” Canmore, if he was the typical aristocratic puppy, had not thought of the pain his twitting would inflict on his young, unsophisticated bride.

  Addy shifted again, so Grey was treated to the elegant line of her shoulders and the temptation of her nape.

  “I nearly did hate him at times. One can’t, of course. Once hate gains a purchase on one’s sentiments, it’s like dry rot or creeping damp. Nearly impossible to eradicate. Roger regretted marrying me, I know that, but we tried hard to remain civil, and I respected that about my husband.”

  Grey spooned himself around her, hurting for that young bride, hurting for the widow. “So his death left you feeling both angry and guilty? I certainly felt both when my father died.”

  She peered at him over her shoulder. “You did? Truly?”

  “I would go to Papa’s grave and lecture him on the unfairness of having abandoned me, then beg him to tell me what to do. All very dramatic, though I think my histrionics served a purpose.”

  Addy’s backside fit perfectly against the curve of Grey’s body, just as this conversation—intimate rather than erotic—also fit with his notion of what lovers could share with each other.

  “What productive end could such a display possibly serve?” she asked.

  “I sorted myself out,” Grey said, searching for words that weren’t also pointlessly dramatic. “I admitted to myself, and to a lot of weeds and dead flowers, that I was angry and afraid. From there, I could tackle the matters that were putting me into such a state. I could use the fear to bolster my determination to safeguard my dependents.”

  Addy laced her fingers with his and brought his knuckles to her lips for a kiss. “Hence, the hard physical labor, I suppose. Perhaps I ought to take up hillwalking.”

  The hills of Dorset were beautiful. Grey could not say that to her, could not invite her to the Hall as a member of a house-party guest list.

  “What one quality are you most annoyed with Roger for? What failing or misstep did he inflict on you that you were simply unable to overlook?”

  She was quiet for so long, Grey wondered if she were falling asleep again, then her grip
on his hand tightened.

  “Roger died when his carriage overturned. He was pinned under the wreckage, and the horses could not get free until his friends arrived. His injuries were internal, and it took him some hours to expire.”

  Somebody ought to have spared her that knowledge, ought to have told her that her husband had faded gently from injuries that had caused him no apparent pain.

  “You wish he had not been reckless at the reins?”

  “He was a skilled whip. I learned a lot from him in that regard. He simply had bad luck, but he also had time to send me a note.”

  Did Addy ever drive out? Grey was nearly certain she did not. “He was dying, Addy, probably feeling the effects of laudanum, if not laudanum and drink.”

  “I hadn’t considered that. He could hold his liquor, but laudanum…”

  Grey was not about to let her dodge off on that rabbit trail. “He wrote to you.”

  “He wrote to me: Dearest wife, if you can produce a boy child within the next year, Jason won’t get the title. Even a girl will cost him some wealth. Do it for me. Canmore.”

  Addy was motionless, clearly waiting for Grey to react.

  “You’ve never mentioned this note to anybody?”

  “Of course not. I still have the note, because I cannot fathom… I cannot believe those were my husband’s dying words to me. When I read them, I am again the bewildered bride who could not grasp why her titled spouse laughed at her. The words hurt—reminding me that I had failed entirely as a wife—but even more, they terrify me.”

  Grey gathered her close, the only comfort he could offer. “In his relatively short and vastly indulged life, Canmore had been denied only one thing. He had wealth, a title, a bride plucked from contented innocence on his whim, a father who doubtless spoiled him from infancy, and a mother who doted on him without ceasing. He did not need an heir of his body, he merely wanted one, and rather than accept that God or fate or his own vices made that boon impossible, he had a protracted and stupid tantrum. He did not deserve you. He was not worthy of the privilege of being your husband.”

  Addy turned so she was wrapped along Grey’s length, face to face. “One should not speak ill—”

  “Protect his memory for the sake of others if you must, Beatitude, but we can have truth between us. Roger did not deserve you.”

  She held on to Grey tightly, her face against his throat, and Grey braced himself for tears. She was entitled to cry. She was entitled to shatter expensive porcelain, to hurl foul oaths and spend money at the shops like a sailor on shore leave. Instead, she’d kept her dignity and been more of a lady than her husband had ever been a gentleman.

  “You aren’t wrong,” she said. “Nobody knew him the way I knew him. Jason probably suspects some of what went on, but he and I have kept our distance. At Roger’s wake, in every mourning call, all I heard was what a pity it was that I had nothing to remember him by, as if five years of marriage were nothing, as if only a child could have compensated the poor man for taking such as me to wife. I wanted a child simply to love, because I questioned whether my husband could ever love me.”

  And doubtless, if she’d had a daughter, the lament would have been the lack of a boy child.

  “You remind me why I treasure my estate in Dorset. Why a life of practical challenges, beautiful scenery, and family squabbles is preferable to polite society’s inanities. You should burn that damned note. At best, it was the fearful and fevered wanderings of a young man facing a pointless death. You doubtless have other happier mementos of the late earl.”

  “Burn it?”

  “Crumple it up, toss it onto a blazing hearth, watch it turn to ash.” Grey did not offer to undertake that ritual with her, for he was merely her lover. “Canmore’s foolishness does not deserve to trouble you, and whatever else was true about him, in this Canmore was a damned fool.”

  Addy’s hold on him eased. “Burn it. I will think on this.”

  While Grey had to think of the passing of the hours. He’d left a pile of unopened mail on his desk at the town house, and his evening would be taken up with a soiree. Such thoughts were obscene while Addy lay naked in his arms, struggling with demons she should never have had to subdue.

  Grey rolled, taking her with him so she ended up straddling him.

  She regarded her bare breasts. “I seem to have lost my damned shift.”

  I’ve lost my damned mind. “The view from where I lie is inspiring. If your ladyship can spare the time, perhaps you’d like another turn on the dance floor?”

  She kissed him, her nipples brushing his chest. “A gavotte this time. Cheerful, sprightly, and full of fun.”

  “A gavotte it shall be.” Later, when he was alone with some decent brandy, Grey would allow his heart to sing a silent lament.

  Chapter Eleven

  “This is a disaster,” Hawthorne muttered.

  “It’s simply another leaking roof,” Ash countered, though if Hawthorne pronounced something a disaster, it likely was. Ash’s trip to the posting inn the previous day had proven awkward and ended with Mrs. Pletcher promising to have a discussion with Mr. Pletcher.

  Discussions did not leaking attics repair.

  “This is a roof that’s been leaking for some time,” Thorne said, peering at the attic’s ceiling. “Why the hell doesn’t the housekeeper tour the attics once a quarter as Mama used to?”

  “Because we haven’t a countess on the premises to tour the attics with the housekeeper.” Increasingly, all roads led to acquiring a countess.

  Grey would come home when he had a countess, and the myriad debates and decisions relating to management of the estate would fall to him. The tenants would direct their endless stream of woes to him. The task of calling upon neighbors would be taken in hand by the countess, and no more time need be wasted discussing the weather, the crops, or the upcoming assembly with anybody who cared to demand Ash’s time in the family parlor.

  Oak was too shy to entertain callers on his own and was usually busy with a painting. Valerian worked on his book by the hour. Thorne had no small talk.

  “We might not have a countess at the moment,” Hawthorne said, scowling at the water stains and peeling plaster on the attic wall, “but we have common sense. Dorning Hall is ancient. The house cannot maintain itself, and just because an attic is empty…”

  He stalked off, having to duck beneath the massive roof beams. They at least looked to be holding firm.

  “We’ll replace a few slates,” Ash said. “Clean the gutters, inspect the drainpipes. The roof will stop leaking. The wall will dry.”

  “Do you know what properly quarried slates cost? Do you know what it takes to get those slates up to the rooftop? How many men we’ll need to undertake the labor? And it’s not a matter of tossing a few leaves from the drains and gutters. You think the gutter on this side of the house is causing the problem, but the water has found some means to travel by stealth from the other side of the house. A worn soffit, a bad join between the south wing and the east. One does battle with and for a house this old, and Grey knows where all the latest skirmishes were fought.”

  Latest meaning in the past century, no doubt.

  “Then we’ll have Oak draw Grey a diagram of the problem and an estimate to put it to rights. I’ll tuck in a little explanatory note, and you will add a lecture reminding him that the sooner he finds us a countess, the more likely the house is to be standing when he brings his bride home.”

  Hawthorne ducked through the low door that led to the stairway. “Valerian is our writer. What does that leave for him to do?”

  “He is our charmer. He will recruit assistance from the local tavern and churchyard.”

  “We cannot pay anybody for anything remotely resembling assistance.”

  “Why should we have to?” Ash pulled the attic door firmly closed. “We make hay with our neighbors, we shear with them, we harvest with them and dig out drainage ditches with them. We send anybody who asks whatever exotic medicinals th
ey might need at no charge, and every family in the shire gets a generous basket from us at Christmas whether their rent is paid or not. Every wardrobe in the county is scented with our sachets. Our herb woman has the best inventory in the realm. Name me one other peer whose family does as much for their tenants and neighbors.”

  Thorne pushed the door open. “Let the air circulate, and the wall might begin to dry out. I cannot name you another earl who matches Casriel for generosity and fair dealing with his tenants, and you know it. Papa set a certain standard, and Casriel honors that standard. Times are changing and not necessarily for the better. I respect that Casriel does what he can for our neighbors, but we can’t fix a leaking roof with a tisane.”

  Grey did what he could for the neighbors, the family, the local church, and the staff. “If the House of Lords ever gets him to sit as chairman of some damned committee, we’re doomed.”

  Thorne started down the steps. “Without a countess, we’re doomed anyway, though we needn’t fear the House of Lords will abduct him. Casriel is a countryman at heart, and he’s doubtless doing the pretty, bowing and smiling over perfumed, gloved hands as we speak, but Dorset Hall is his first responsibility. He’ll find us a wealthy countess or die in the attempt.”

  “He shouldn’t have to go to such extremes.”

  Thorne paused on the landing. “As long as you and I and that pair of fops known as Oak and Valerian spend most of our days racketing about the Hall, pretending to be busy and productive, as long as Sycamore kicks his handsome heels pretending to manage a gaming hell while in fact running up bills at the tailor’s and bootmaker’s, Casriel must marry wealth. In his shoes, any man would do the same.”

  “Any honorable man.”

  “And Casriel is honorable.”

  “Do you ever wish he weren’t such a paragon of duty and selflessness, Thorne?”

  They reached the floor of the house where the brothers’ apartments were. Each brother had his own suite of rooms, and all of them had lovely views of the Dorset countryside. The Hall was beautiful, considered from the right perspective, though Ash was growing to hate the place.