by Wendy Vella
Although Gabriel had watched his father fall to the floor, clutching his chest as he did so, Gabriel could do nothing more than turn his head and watch with contempt. When he remembered his mother, though, he struggled to get off the floor. He found her on a settee, holding her injured arm and whimpering in pain. And before he could send for the butler and see to a physician, Lady Trenton begged him to forgive his father. “He doesn’t know what he does,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Gabriel remembered staring at his mother in disbelief. How could she forgive a man who had nearly broken her arm? Probably broken her hand? Who raised his voice and his hand against her and her son more times than he could count?
“Never,” he replied with a shake of his head. For your sake and for mine, he thought, but didn’t put voice to the sentiment.
Recalling that afternoon now, Gabriel shook his head and absently felt the ribs that had cracked when his father punched him. Breathing had been next to impossible for several days following that ordeal. The knowledge that he had inherited the earldom hadn’t been made clear until the day after his father’s death, when the estate manager had come to him for his signature on some document.
That day seemed like eons ago, he considered now. Back then, his new power—and the wealth of the earldom—had gone to his head. He’d had tailors, jewelers, hat makers, carpenters and all manner of artisans at his beck and call, making it possible to erase the façades his father had erected in favor
of more elegant surroundings and more flamboyant clothing.
The clothing had been one of his mistakes, though.
In taking the advice of a tailor who claimed personal knowledge of how gentlemen in London dressed, Gabriel began sporting bright colors and rich, shiny fabrics when he would have been better off in more conservative attire.
Who could take a man seriously when he dressed like a molly? Especially in Parliament? Despite the black robes they wore while in chambers, every lord knew what Gabriel Wellingham wore when they were outside of the House of Lords.
Gabriel regarded his reflection in a large looking glass in the vestibule, noting how much older, how much more mature he appeared when dressed in the worsted wool topcoat and Nankeen breeches he now wore. Although his waistcoat was red, it was more scarlet in color, and certainly not as ostentatious as an embroidered silk would have been. He thought of all the waistcoats that hung in one of the clothes presses in the master suite at the end of the upstairs hall. Most were too bright or too colorful for his tastes now; he kept them for special occasions like balls and soirées.
Gabriel recalled the last time he had come from London to visit his mother at Trenton Manor. They had been having tea in her parlor, their conversation light until it was suddenly ... not.
“I was so happy the day you announced you were going to London to find a wife,” Charity said wistfully, one hand cupping the bottom of her teacup as she lifted it to her lips. She took a quick sip, frowning as if she might have forgotten to add the sugar.
“I remember,” Gabriel replied, pausing before he took a drink from his tea. Steam curled up from the surface of the dark liquid, its swirls waving about until he blew gently. His breath sent the tendrils in various directions until they disappeared. “I was surprisingly happy myself,” he admitted. “Although, I soon learned I was in the minority when it came to wanting a wife. Most of my peers seem to wait until they’re nearly thirty, and then they marry debutantes who don’t have an original thought in their pretty little heads.”
Charity’s own head jerked up suddenly. One hand held a spoon poised above the sugar bowl while the other was covering her mouth, as if she was trying to hide her shocked expression.
“Really, mother, you needn’t react so,” Gabriel stated, as if he was offended.
Arching an elegant eyebrow, Charity straightened on the floral settee she favored when taking tea. “I seem to recall you were intent on marrying just such a girl last fall,” she accused with a smirk.
Gabriel shook his head. “I assure you, mother, Lady Elizabeth is not a typical chit just out of the school room,” he claimed in a quiet voice. Had he just paid a bit more attention to Elizabeth Carlington’s comments about charity, and been a bit less obvious about employing multiple mistresses—or not employing them at all –, he might have had the pleasure of marrying the daughter of the marquess he hoped to bring down in Parliament.
Or not.
He knew now that a marriage to Lady Elizabeth would have been the worst possible merger. Two spoiled brats attempting to out-power one another. Blood would have spilled. Hair would have been torn out. Vases surely would have been broken. Thank the gods Viscount Bostwick had come along when he did and saved me from Lady E, he thought as he drained his teacup. And such irony that his mother’s name was ‘Charity’ when it was his original ambivalence about Elizabeth’s own charity, “Lady E’s Finding Work for the Wounded”, that had the chit realizing she couldn’t marry him—mistresses or no mistresses.
“I want you to know that I’m not expecting you to marry the daughter of a duke or a marquess,” his mother murmured between sips of her sweetened tea. “Given your rank, you should at least pursue the daughter of an earl, of course, but ...” She allowed the sentence to trail off as she seemed to stare into space.
“Mum?” Gabriel spoke, wondering at his mother’s sudden silence.
Charity Wellingham finally turned her attention back to her son, her memories of long ago having played out to remind her that aristocratic marriages didn’t always have to involve aristocrats. If men were allowed to marry the women that made them happy, the world would be a better place, she thought. So why make her son think he had to marry a daughter of the aristocracy if another suited him better? “You should marry someone for whom you feel affection,” she announced with a nod, secretly glad they were very far from London. If anyone in London knew she’d said such a thing, she’d be the on-dit in parlors for days to come.
Gabriel stared at his mother, stunned at her simple words. “Do you ... do you mean it?” he asked, thinking she was freeing him from having to marry a blue blood.
Shrugging one shoulder, Charity gave her son a smile and said, “Of course.”
Well, now he knew better. Another few months in London, whilst keeping a low profile, had given him some time to rethink his priorities and his thoughts on marriage.
“Might you know the whereabouts of Lady Trenton?” Gabriel asked of a nearby footman as he entered the main hall from the vestibule.
Surprised at being addressed, the footman stood at attention and nodded. “She is on the back lawn, my lord,” the young man replied with a nod. He returned his head to its previous position, leaving Gabriel with the urge to say, “At ease.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel replied instead, taking the hallway to the back of the house and using the back garden door to exit the house. The weather was surprisingly fine given it was early spring. A mid-afternoon sun lit the backyard and highlighted his mother as she stood with a bow and arrow. Gabriel paused to watch her take a shot, following the arrow as it split the air and landed near the middle of the target. Within a moment, a footman was offering Gabriel his own bow and a quiver filled with arrows. Taking his time, Gabriel strolled down the sloping lawn and stopped next to his mother.
“Good day, my lady,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s a beautiful day, made more so by you,” he added with a smirk.
About to draw back an arrow, Charity Wellingham paused and regarded her son with matching smirk. “Welcome home, my lord. Did something happen in London?” she wondered. Her left arm was bent and held out parallel to the ground whilst her right arm seem to struggle to keep the bow and arrow aimed at a target located at the other end of the back lawn. Despite her wounded wrist, Charity was able to shoot with a great deal of precision.
Gabriel, his gaze on a flock of birds that had just been flushed by one of the gamekeeper’s dogs at the edge of the estate, lifted his own bow
and took aim at one of the birds, realizing almost too late that the small target was well out of range of his arrow.
Lowering his bow, he regarded his mother with a frown. “The usual, I suppose,” he responded, wondering why she would ask at just the moment she was about to let go of her arrow. She did so just then, the arrow whizzing to strike with a thunk into the target, landing just barely off the center mark. “Good shot,” Gabriel added, wondering how often his mother practiced her archery skills. In a large group, say, during a house party, the Countess of Trenton would have feigned inability at archery. But when she was with her son, she didn’t try to hide her expertise.
“And just what do you mean by that?” Lady Trenton asked with a grin as she faced her son. She leaned her cheek in his direction, and he kissed it just before re-aiming his bow toward the target.
Gabriel took a breath, held it and let go his arrow just as a gust of wind passed. Despite the arrow wavering on its way to the target, it buried itself exactly opposite of his mother’s in the second ring of the bullseye.
Shrugging one shoulder, Gabriel considered how to answer. “Balls, soirées, musicales, afternoons on Rotten Row, evenings at White’s ...”
“Do you expect me to believe you actually attended any of those entertainments?” his mother interrupted, her eyes twinkling as if she didn’t believe anything said by her son just then.
Gabriel blinked, tamping down the sudden annoyance he felt at his mother’s teasing. He didn’t dare lash out at the countess over such a slight offense, if she even meant to offend. He found he had become adept at controlling his anger these days. One instance of remembering how his father had reacted to any bit of bad news or a cross word, and Gabriel was suddenly calm. George Wellingham might have been a violent, abusive bully, but Gabriel was determined to behave the exact opposite in that regard. “As a matter of fact, I was a guest at Lord Weatherstone’s ball, I attended Lord Sommers’ wedding festivities ...”
“Sommers is married?” Charity interrupted, her mouth wide open in surprise.
Reaching up with a forefinger, Gabriel lifted her chin before she could pull away. “Indeed. He married Everly’s sister,” he added with a teasing grin.
“The bluestocking?” his mother countered, her mouth open once again in shock. She snapped it shut when Gabriel’s finger once again made its way in her direction.
His grin disappeared at her comment. “Even if she is, she is a rather attractive one,” Gabriel said in Evangeline Tennison’s defense. He hadn’t met the chit at any balls the Season prior; the on-dit suggested her brother’s frequent expeditions to tropical locales meant Lady Evangeline was left without an escort, and rather than make arrangements with a relative to see to her come-out, Everly had just left the poor girl at home alone.
No wonder she’d become a bluestocking!
“Oh, and I did take a phaeton into the park a few days ago,” Gabriel stated suddenly, as if he was still defending himself from her assertion that he had hidden himself from polite society whilst in London.
Charity arched an eyebrow. “By yourself, or ..?”
Gabriel resisted the urge to tell his mother it was really none of her business, but he didn’t have to when he remembered why it was unlikely he could escort an aristocrat’s daughter into the park when driving a phaeton. “Really, mother, if I did have an occasion to escort a young lady into the park, where would I put a lady’s maid on a phaeton? There’s barely room for me on that bench, let alone an eligible lady and her maid,” he remarked lightly.
Lady Trenton merely nodded before suddenly lifting her bow and taking aim at the target. She released an arrow that struck the painted wood target with a solid thump.
“Bullseye,” Gabriel murmured with appreciation. He lifted his own bow and let go an arrow that seemed to strike in the same hole his mother’s arrow had created. “Whom were you imagining when you were taking aim just then?” he wondered with a cocked eyebrow.
Despite the deep brim of her hat, a red flush was suddenly visible on Lady Trenton’s face and neck. The trouble with having been married to a man who was so universally hated by his family as well as his employees and tenants meant that everyone felt sorry for her. No one would have blamed her if she had used the seventh Earl of Trenton for target practice. “Why did you marry my father?” Gabriel asked suddenly. He closed his eyes for a moment, silently chastising himself for the query. He had intended to ask her when they were alone in the parlor— not when they were on the back lawn with a footman carrying a quiver of arrows within earshot.
“I fancied myself in love with him,” Charity answered, turning to hand her bow to the footman. “I was in love with him,” she clarified as she lifted her skirts with both hands and made her way to the chairs at the top of the back lawn.
Gabriel gave up his own bow and gloves to the same footman and hurried to stroll alongside his mother. “So, he wasn’t always so ..?”
“No,” Charity replied quickly, her head shaking so the ostrich feather that arced out of the side of her hat waved about. “Your father was a perfect gentleman. Very pleasant, very handsome. Very even-tempered.” The last words came out in a whisper.
Frowning, Gabriel regarded his mother as she seated herself in the nearest chair. “What happened to change him so?” Gabriel asked as he took the chair opposite hers. A maid appeared with a tray of lemonade in crystal glasses, curtsying before offering a glass to the countess. Gabriel wondered if his mother might not answer his question. She certainly wouldn’t as long as the servant was within earshot. “Thank you,” he murmured as he took one of the glasses from the maid. When the servant curtsied and took her leave, Gabriel leaned toward his mother. “Tell me,” he insisted before taking a sip of the lemonade, surprised at the chunks of ice that bobbed at the surface.
Charity took a long drink of her own lemonade before setting the glass on the small table next to her chair. Positioned as she was, her back ramrod straight and her skirts splayed out and around her legs, she looked as if she sat on a throne. Gabriel thought she might be better suited to a more royal role, but she’d been far too young to be a bridal candidate for King George and probably too old to catch Prinny’s eye. “Your uncle,” she stated finally. The simple words seemed to cause her shoulders to slump.
Gabriel frowned. “Which one?” he countered, thinking if she meant one of her brothers, there were a half-dozen from which to choose. But if she meant his father’s brother ...
“William, of course,” Charity stated. “I’d already given birth to you and your brother before he ...” She stopped, her shoulders suddenly back in place. “I thought we were discrete. In fact, I was quite careful. I had no choice, but William ... William was not. He took great delight in informing your father of his impropriety.”
Gabriel straightened in his chair, alarm bells going off in his head. I was three. “Jesus,” he whispered. His heart raced as he remembered the death of his brother Graham. The baby was still in a crib when his mother found him dead one morning. And despite the volume of her wailing, Gabriel could still recall his father yelling at the top of his lungs that a bastard would not be tolerated in his house.
Gabriel thought for a moment he would be sick. Father killed my brother. Father thought his wife was guilty of cuckolding him. And the penalty was the death of Graham.
“Your brother was not a bastard,” Charity stated firmly. “And I was not a willing participant in your uncle’s nocturnal visits, I assure you.”
Gabriel took several deep breaths, fighting the urge to vomit. “Had I been old enough ... had I known ... I would have killed them both,” he murmured between breaths.
His mother cocked her head to one side. “And in doing so, you would have proven yourself worse than both,” she stated quietly. “William died the following year. A hunting accident, but I am quite sure your father saw to it he was mistaken for a bull in the woods. And your father ... despite my explanations, despite my assurances that I wanted nothing to do with h
is brother, your father never forgave me for what his brother had done.” Charity sat back in the chair, a serene look settling on her face. “But I am still a countess. And you are the earl now. Let us hope your wife doesn’t anger you, for I fear she might suffer as I ...”
“Never!” Gabriel stated loudly, causing a nearby footman to nearly drop the parasol he held to shade the countess from the afternoon sun. He struggled to regain his composure. “I would never raise my hand to a woman, even to one who might have stolen from me,” he vowed in a low voice. How could she even think that about me? he wondered, hurt by her assertion.
Charity Wellingham stared at her son for a very long time. “Perhaps you are not your father’s son,” she whispered in reply.
“I assure you, I am not,” Gabriel said as he shook his head. He downed the rest of the lemonade, wishing it had been spiked with vodka or rum. He thought of his brief time in London, thought of what others in the ton were whispering about him. Or were they? The ton was fickle. He might have been the on-dit for a few weeks, but someone else had probably captured their attention by now. He pitied whoever that might be, for the ton could be cruel and indifferent. And, at the moment, he could think of only one person he could talk to, one person who might provide perspective, one person who could take away his cares for a night and make him feel ...
Gabriel pressed his eyes together, imagining in his mind’s eye the young woman who had shared her bed with him at the inn in Stretton. Sarah, he thought with a small grin. Sarah, who delighted in running her fingernails through his curls— those on his head as well as those on his chest. And those down below, he thought with a larger grin. Sarah, who, when she should have been asleep from their coupling was instead willing to bed him again, her teasing fingers almost ... almost coaxing him to remove his breeches so that he might take joy in bedding her again. Instead, they had talked of chits and marriage and Parliament. Of how he might achieve his plans through marriage. He wondered how many nights he had fallen asleep thinking of Sarah, of her blonde hair, her beautiful breasts, her round rump ...