“Hmm.” Gabriel nodded along, though he failed to understand how Americans could claim a pie filling as their own. “My mother is on her way home to Thornbrook Park, Grant. She’s going to expect us to have her house ready. The Dower House. I can assure you that my wife won’t want to be under the same roof as my mother.”
“Be that as it may.” Grant shrugged. What was it to him, the wrath of the Dowager Countess of Averford? “We have it reserved for the next six months.”
“Six months?”
“Bringing in a tidy sum, my lord. Profits. Or I suppose you could always sell some land…”
Grant, the clever bastard, let his voice trail off suggestively. If the man knew anything about Thornbrook Park, he knew that selling land was not an option Gabriel cared to consider.
“You know quite a bit for a secretary, Grant. I daresay more than even Mr. Kenner seems to comprehend. Which one of you is going to inform me of the truth?”
“The truth, my lord?” Kenner pushed his spectacles up his nose again.
“Your loyalty to my wife is commendable, but even she wouldn’t recommend that you endanger your positions by lying to me. I’ll have the answers from her when she gets home, but I have things other than business I prefer to discuss with my wife. I can see that Lady Averford has been industrious in my absence. More ambitious than I imagined possible for her, if I’m being honest, and I’m impressed.” More impressed than he cared to admit to his hired help.
Apparently, she’d taken a remarkable interest in the maintenance of Thornbrook Park. Was he to believe that she’d developed a keen sense of management affairs too? Or had Grant taken her under his wing? Or worse, in his arms. Gabriel closed his eyes tightly, eager to shut out the vision of Sophia in Lord Ralston’s embrace that had haunted him for the past year. When he opened them again, he found Wesley Grant focused on him with an intent stare.
“Who are you really, Mr. Grant?” Gabriel asked, leaning forward. “Who are you to my wife?”
* * *
The next morning, Sophia could not get home fast enough. In her head, she imagined her husband sitting down with Cornelius Kenner as Kenner stumbled through his answers, making his own incompetence more obvious with every word. Had Grant stepped in? Coached Kenner in her absence? Had Gabriel discovered her ruse? Could the train not go any faster? She knew she shouldn’t worry about what she couldn’t control, but right now her worrying was the very thing out of control. Thank goodness Mr. Dale was waiting for her at the station.
She tapped her foot impatiently as the chauffeur drove along at a snail’s pace. Upon arrival, she didn’t even wait for him to open her door. She flew out of the car and up the walk, leaving the man to handle her bags.
“Mr. Finch.” He greeted her expectantly at the door, though he had failed to go out in time to meet her car. She handed him her hat and gloves. It was warm enough that she hadn’t needed a coat. A bit too warm, actually, for June. “Where’s my husband? In his study?”
Perhaps speaking to Mr. Kenner even now, discovering her deception, determining that he would divorce her…
“He’s not here, Lady Averford. Perhaps he went shooting.”
“Shooting? Next will be fishing and deer stalking. Home for a day and he’s at it again!” She didn’t stand a chance. Her husband was already up to his old activities. Anything but staying home alone with her.
“He couldn’t bear to just wait for you. If you’ll excuse me, he said that it didn’t quite feel like home without you.”
She felt her heart fluttering back to life, a wild bird in her chest. “He said that? He said Thornbrook Park was not home without me?”
“He did. I expect he will be back some time later.”
“Later.” Her spirit soared and then landed at her feet with a thud. Later. She had some time to prepare, to think how she would explain her actions. Or provide ample distractions. “Speak to Mrs. Mallows about preparing his favorite foods.” His favorite foods were anything he could hunt or fish, of course. Meat he could kill with his own bare hands. “Or, whatever she has at the ready.”
“Mrs. Mallows is already preparing, no doubt.”
“Have Jenks see to my unpacking, and bring me some tea in the drawing room, please, Mr. Finch.”
“Very good, my lady.” Finch bowed.
“No, wait. It’s a beautiful day.” If a tad warm. “Forget the tea. I’ll have some lemonade, and I’ll take it on the terrace.”
A while later, she had made it out past the terrace and all the way to the garden before the footman came carrying her lemonade on a tray with some of the Tilly Meadow cheese tarts she adored. He found her beside the arbor, examining the roses just beginning to bloom. “Just set it on the table there, Bill. Thank you.”
Bill looked taken aback. Had she ever thanked him before? He placed the tray on the round wooden table near a chaise longue in the corner of the arbor, someone’s private escape. Perhaps this was where Kenner ran off to when she couldn’t find him in the house.
“Can I get you anything else, my lady?”
She shook her head. “Tell Finch not to be concerned if I don’t hasten back inside. I plan to enjoy the outdoors.”
Again, the footman’s eyes widened in surprise. Lady Averford? Enjoying some time outdoors? It wasn’t like her. Not at all. But the arbor provided cool shade and the birds were singing. The chaise longue at the edge of the grass looked like the perfect place to stretch out and plan what she would say to her husband. Or simply fall asleep, as it happened.
She woke some time later, disoriented until she glanced over at the dewy lemonade glass and what remained of her tarts after the birds had gotten to them. Sleep had done her a world of good. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so soundly. The sun was low in the sky, and the birds had stopped their chirping, but there was a faint sound of music coming from across the orchard. A guitar? Someone not too far off strummed a guitar.
She rose to look around for the guitarist, pausing at the low wall to glimpse out beyond the garden. There in the distance, a man with a guitar walked toward the house. How odd!
He wore black trousers and a black jacket, something like a bolero, with a hat cocked at a jaunty angle on his head. Was he a troubadour, a wandering rogue? A pirate separated from the sea? He played with passion, his skilled fingers flying over the strings as he walked along. She’d never seen the likes of him in her quiet countryside, but her imagination went wild. Perhaps he was meeting a lover in the twilight. But the only one who seemed to be around to meet him was Sophia. And she had no lover. Not that her husband would ever believe it.
She peered into the increasing dimness, trying to make him out. Now she could see that he wore a billowy white shirt, open at the neck under his bolero, and his head was wrapped in a red silk scarf beneath his hat. She considered ducking around the corner of the wall to avoid being seen, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him long enough to make her escape.
And as he closed the distance, he began to sing, his voice rich and low, rolling over the foreign words of his tune. Spanish? Italian? The song sounded sweet but tragic, and the apparent pain of his lyrics contorted his features so that she barely recognized him as he came closer and closer, stopping only inches from her on the other side of the wall.
“Adesso che son priva dell’ amore,” he sang. “Abbasso gli occhi, e convien ch’io more, Adesso che son priva dal mio bene, Abbasso gl’occhi, e morir mi conviene!”
She listened, enchanted, until the very end, when his voice hushed on the last word and he lowered his guitar.
“Greetings, signorina.”
Her heart raced. It was all so unexpected. She was more than willing to play a part, drawing up to full height but keeping her eyes downcast, as if shy. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know you. Allow me to get my husband…”
“Ah, this man, he is not at home.” A
statement, not a question.
“How would you know?” She met his gaze. Those soulful brown eyes. As if he could ever fool her. What was he trying to do? “He’s at home, I tell you. And more men are not far off, tending my garden. No fewer than ten will come running to defend me if I scream.”
He smiled, his lips full and soft and begging her to touch them. It had been so long. “But you won’t scream, signorina. I trust you not to betray my secrets.”
His accent remained strong and thick.
“Then you don’t know me well. My own husband doesn’t trust me.”
In a swift bound, he leaped the low wall, causing her to shriek in surprise as he took her in his arms. “He is a fool. A fool not to trust you, a fool to leave you alone. Allow me to show you what it is to love.”
He dipped her low, his lips hovering over hers.
Barely containing her laughter, she slipped a hand between their faces and tried to push him away. “Oh no, sir. As I’ve said, I don’t know you. My kisses are only for my husband.”
“Fool that he is?” He cocked a golden-blond brow.
“Fool that he is.” She allowed herself to laugh at last, unable to keep her joy at seeing him bottled up any longer. He was home! And he was hers. Wasn’t he?
“I’m glad to hear it.” He laughed as well, the single dimple making its appearance in his left cheek. He only had a dimple on the one side. She’d always loved that one dimple when he smiled enough to bring it out, which wasn’t often enough. At last, he released her and straightened up before pulling the hat and kerchief from his head. “My minstrel costume. I bought it in Italy. Do you see what I’m reduced to? Pulling a masquerade to get a kiss out of my own wife.”
She reached for him, twining her fingers with his. “You don’t have to act with me. I’m glad you’re back, Gabriel. I’ve missed you.”
He studied her as if uncertain. “Honestly? After I ran off and left you on your own?”
“You had your reasons.” She hadn’t been blameless, and yet it seemed that they could put it all behind them at last. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, savoring the warmth of him, the softness, the rugged scent of leather and tobacco. Had he taken up smoking, or was it all for the part he played?
He closed his eyes, possibly also savoring the feel of her next to him after such a long separation.
“What was the song? You’ve perfected your Italian. It certainly wasn’t your accent that gave you away.” For all she’d agonized over what to say when she was with him again, words came easily between them, and she was glad.
“An Italian folk song,” he said. “‘C’era Una Volta.’ In English, ‘There Was a Time.’ It’s about love and loss and the agony a lover feels upon his abandonment.”
Had he been in agony too? “The agony is that we never talked about it, Gabriel. You just…left.”
“I left. But you can’t deny pushing me away. I no longer knew if you even wanted me.” After seeing her with another man. She was grateful that he didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he took her in his arms and held her so close that she couldn’t help but look up at him to see the genuine pain in his eyes. “Tell me,” he said. “Can we find our way back to each other? Do you even want to try?”
“Of course I do. I want you, Gabriel. I want—”
She didn’t complete her thought before his lips came down on hers, insistent, fierce, nearly crushing, then soft and light as a whispered plea. She opened her mouth to him, drawing him into her, her tongue curling with his, laving him until she felt quite dizzy in his arms and the familiar flames of passion licked at her core.
Breathless, she broke the kiss and leaned against him, her head resting on his solid chest where she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. “Gabriel.”
“Sophia.” He stroked her hair. “My beautiful wife.”
“You didn’t go shooting after all. You were waiting to surprise me.” She looked up at him.
“Why would I go shooting when you were on your way back to me? I mean to stay here with you where I belong. If you’ll have me. I understand you’ve become quite possessive of the place.”
She drew back from him. “Where did you hear such a thing?”
“From Kenner. And Mr. Grant. I know all about what you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone.”
“All? They gave me up so easily?” Her most loyal servants, or so she’d thought.
“With their jobs on the line? Of course they did. They told me everything. I’m impressed, really. I never thought you had it in you, Sophia.”
“You threatened them?” No, he didn’t think she had it in her, did he? And that was at the heart of their problems, not so easily solved with his return after all. “Never? You never believed me capable of running your precious estate? Vapid, beautiful Sophia. She looks good on my arm, but I wouldn’t trust her to function without guidance.”
“It’s not a fault of yours, darling. Women aren’t created to deal with business affairs.” His fingers curled on her shoulder. She yanked away, arms crossed. “You should have better things to think about, and now that I’m home…”
“Now that you’re home, I don’t have to worry my pretty head? Typical male misconceptions. What are women made for? Your pleasure? Bearing your young?” She turned away to conceal the tears hovering on the brink, the pain of their loss still too raw. “I’ve found great enjoyment in business affairs. You’ve never believed in me, Gabriel. Have you ever really known me at all?”
“I—” He paused before going on the defensive. “Maybe not. Fair enough. I fell in love at the first sight of you, your beauty, your charm.”
“My figure.” She’d always had an enviable figure, tall and elegant, graceful. Pert breasts, narrow waist. Even when she was a girl, just old enough to attend her first ball, she knew what men wanted when they looked at her. Inevitably, they would try to dance her out to a terrace or a quiet corner and attempt to kiss her. Gabriel alone had been a mystery to her, at first. He’d looked at her like he wanted what the others had wanted, but he hadn’t tried to get her alone. He didn’t kiss her until she practically begged. And even then, he’d asked her permission first.
“May I kiss you?” She’d thought him silly and old-fashioned.
“Yes, your figure,” the present-day Gabriel agreed readily enough, his eyes settling on the curve of her waist nipped in by her ivory blouse tucked into a slim-fitting blue skirt.
Perhaps he imagined the corset beneath her clothes. Designed to serve a purpose, it was unadorned by lace and of an inconsequential gray, yet still perhaps enough to drive him mad to think of it against her skin, holding her intimately as she longed for him to do. Even after a nap, Sophia fancied herself impeccably put together as always, but how she longed for him to be the one to slowly pull her apart.
He breached the distance she had put between them and dared to slide his hand under the soft point of her chin, tipping her face up to look at him. “I knew that you were the one I wanted to marry, and I planned to convince you at all costs. Somewhere along the way, I failed to realize that keeping you was worth the effort it took to win you over in the first place. I failed. I failed to show you what you mean to me every day. Every hour.”
“I failed as well.” She uncrossed her arms and shrugged. How hard it must have been for him to admit a shortcoming, and she cherished his candor. Still, she couldn’t let him accept all of the blame. “I failed to tell you what I needed and how your negligence hurt me.”
He tipped his head. “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘negligence.’”
“Negligence.” She clung to the word. It was the right one. And she’d learned to be too sure of herself to back down. “It’s about time that you discover I have a sharp mind too. A rather clever one. With a surprising penchant for business.”
For years, she’d failed to understand Alice’s and Eve’s demands fo
r respect and rights for women. What was wrong with letting men run the world? Now that she’d had a taste of managing on her own, she knew exactly why they were always so insistent on progress and equality. Women were every bit as capable as men. England had been successfully ruled by queens, no less! Who could doubt women after that?
“With Mr. Grant’s help,” Gabriel added, as if he couldn’t help himself, stealing away at the credit she’d earned.
“The smartest men surround themselves with good help. You’ve always said so.”
“True.” He nodded. “Clearly, I have a lot to work on. We both do.”
“Both?”
“You work on letting me get to know you better. I’ll work on being the man you need me to be. I’ve changed, Sophia. Italy has changed me.”
“I’ve changed too. Being in a position of power has changed me. You’ll find me a formidable force, Lord Averford. I do hope you’re up for a challenge.”
His mouth curved into a crooked grin, an expression she hardly recognized on him. “I’m up for anything you can dish out, cara mia.”
Four
Were they friends or enemies? Gabriel couldn’t tell. His homecoming hadn’t gone off exactly as he’d planned. In his imagined version of events, his singing won her over instantly. There were no words or questions between them. He simply set down the guitar, swept her swooning into his arms, and made mad, passionate love to her. Why had he made the mistake of talking? Talking always led to uncertainty.
He refrained from saying more as he led her back inside, his hand at the small of her back. Dare he drop it lower? One small caress to the curve of her backside? Or would she slap him? Too soon? He glanced at her pert, luscious curves, which tempted him from under the white linen skirt that clung admirably to her frame. She’d always had an incredible figure…
“Gabriel.” Her tone reflected her surprise and perhaps just the barest hint of a reprimand.
The Great Estate Page 4