“You are very kind. Not many commanders would do as much for their men.” She bit her lip. “I am surprised there were only two in those circumstances.”
Aaron ran a hand through his hair. “There weren’t. There were many.” He kneaded his neck with one hand. “I secured jobs with my friends for as many of them as I could, but there were always more needing help. Soon, I had no more friends to prevail upon.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “You did what you could. You need not feel guilty.”
“Yes, well, perhaps my coming home to take over the family title does have its advantage. Now I can try to help from within Lords.” He sounded more optimistic than he really was. Getting any kind of reform on the treatment of soldiers was an uphill battle. But that did not mean it was not a battle worth fighting.
Chapter 11
Gabby pulled her legs up and under her skirt, settling into the corner of the settee. The fire flamed high, warming everything around it.
She glanced out the window. Snow had been falling yet again since the afternoon before. She and Aaron had not made it back to the house before their shoulders and heads were covered with flakes.
Gabby wondered if they would ever make it back to Dovehaven. She hugged herself. Although lately she hadn’t minded being snowed in at Ivydale. There were worse places to be in weather like this—places without gravely voices and eyes the color of the sky just before a storm raged the sea.
She sighed. She was just being silly. Aaron had given no indication he was partial to her. She was taking his new kindness and interpreting it as something it was not.
She returned her attentions to her book. Her French book. She felt slightly guilty for reading it in secret, knowing that Eleanor would likely disapprove. But the guilt was not strong enough to make Gabby stop. Did that make her immoral or even evil? Her parish priest growing up would surely have thought so.
She shook her head. It was not as if she was reading sinful books. She just did not agree with Eleanor’s notion on the subject.
The library door opened, and Aaron entered, his attention on the book in his hand. He did not see her immediately, which gave her a moment to study him openly. His wavy, light brown hair was cut shorter than most gentlemen she had seen about London, and naturally flowed to one side around his face. Currently, a path of hair down the middle of his head stood on end. She smiled, knowing it was likely from him running his hand through it. What would it be like to be those fingers? Her face heated, even as she imagined the softness of his hair.
She exhaled quietly through her nose, not wanting to disturb him just yet. But she was not quiet enough. He looked up. His eyes sparkled and his lips parted slightly. She thought she detected a hint of a smile. Was it because he saw her or had something else put it there?
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle. I did not notice you there.”
She waved away his apology. “It is your library, my lord. You need not apologize for visiting it.”
He closed the book and dropped his hand to his side. “Nevertheless, I did not intend to disturb you. I will leave you to your reading.” He turned to leave.
“You are not interrupting,” she nearly shouted at him. “You may stay if you wish.” What a dimwitted thing to say. He did not need her permission to remain in his own library. “Er, not that you need my permission. That is to say, it would not bother me if you stayed.”
He raised a brow, his lips pursed, although not enough to hide the twitch. “Do you wish me to stay, Gabrielle?”
She shrugged, even as her muscles went weak. “Whatever you desire, my lord.” Her face pinked. What had happened to her? She could not seem to get a coherent sentence out this morning. Whatever you desire? Some men would take such words as an invitation. But she believed she knew Aaron well enough to know he would not interpret her words in such a way. “We could talk if that is what you wish.”
Zut, she sounded like a complete idiot.
He smiled and sat down on the other end of the couch. “And what would you wish to talk about?”
She lifted her shoulders. What had she done? Now he sat—much closer than Gabby had expected—waiting for her to come up with something they could talk about. Her mind went blank. She did not even know if she could think of something to say in French.
“Why do you not like me?”
That was what her brain came up with? Blank nothingness would have been better than discussing that.
He grinned. “Who told you that I dislike you?”
Was he trying to avoid the question? “I may have misspoken. Why did you hate me?” She should have let it go. He had given her the chance to change the subject, but ever since he had shown her the shelves of books in the library, she had wondered. How had a man, who had obviously once enjoyed French and perhaps even France, come to abhor it so? Was it just the war that had tainted his views?
The grin faded. “I would not say I hated you.”
She snort-laughed and he raised an amused brow. “Abhor? Loathe? Which do you prefer? They all describe the looks on your face when I first arrived. Your nose even curled the first time we met. If that is not hate, I do not know what is.”
He nodded slowly and placed his book on the side table and turned to face her. “Perhaps you are right.” He paused. “It was a misguided dislike”—he grinned at his word choice—“based on a misconception.”
“Because I was French? But you studied French, bought French books. How did you come to abhor an entire nation? Is that what war does?” As the words dripped from her lips, she felt naïve. And yet, she’d lived on the opposite side of that war and she did not dislike all Englishmen. How was it different? She tugged at her ear lobe, trying to group her thoughts.
His head wobbled in a circular motion as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake or nod. “Perhaps I had allowed it to come to that. But I’ve since realized I was not being fair.”
“You realize the majority of the people in France have little say in the government or the military.”
“Yes. I do. I have always known that. But after a time, I saw enough hate it was easy to push that belief aside and assume the opposite.”
She let out a breath. “I thought it might only be me you did not like. I am relieved to know that is not the case.”
He looked away from her, his brow creasing.
Nodding, she pinched her lips shut. She had believed correctly, then. It was in part her that he did not like initially. Gabby hated how much it hurt to know that particular fact. “What was it about me you disliked from the very first moment?”
She watched him as he watched the flames. He was quiet for a long time.
Gabby pushed off the couch. “I see. Then I shall bother you no more.” She turned, proud she had kept the hurt out of her voice. Clutching her book to her chest, she turned toward the door. When had she opened herself up to be hurt by this man? She closed her eyes, afraid she was too late to close herself off now.
His hand wrapped lightly around her wrist, and she looked down. A tingling sensation danced across her skin and up her arm. It was as she feared. She was too late to protect herself.
“Please, wait.” His voice was soft, as was his hand still holding onto her arm. “Let me explain.”
She allowed him to tug her back to the sofa, dropping down closer to him than she’d been before. She bit her lip, trying not to let his closeness distract her. “What is there to explain?” She reluctantly pulled her arm from his hand, scowling down at the spot his hand had vacated. The skin still tingled, but the warmth was gone. She needed to put a stop to these errant feelings. As she had just discovered, she would only be hurt if she allowed them to continue.
“I’m aware that not all the people in France agreed with the Republic and Napoleon. I know many people, mostly in the countryside, felt removed from what was happening—at least until the armies arrived. Suddenly they were thrust into something they did not want and in some cases did not believe in.” His voice remained low.<
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She nodded. She and her father had been among those people. While her father had not much cared for her mother’s family, he had been sickened by their executions. From the time of the revolution onward, he’d been at odds with those governing. Not that he had spoken openly about it. He was smart enough to see that would come to nothing good. But as Gabby grew older, in the quiet of their parlor he would share his concerns—concerns she found she shared.
“I believed one of those people was a woman named Mireille. She came to our camp, cursing Napoleon and all his men. She said when the French soldiers came through ahead of us, they had killed her father because he would not give them his last cow.” He took a deep breath, his brow creasing and his head shaking. His eyes stayed focused on the flames licking at the log in the grate. “I should have investigated her more thoroughly, but she seemed so sincere and truthful. And she was a woman. I had not yet learned that should not matter.” He shrugged. “She was young, although not so young and unprotected as I originally thought.”
A corner of Gabby’s mouth lifted. She knew what he was not saying. “You mean she was pretty.”
He smirked. “Yes. She was that. But that was not the reason we believed her.” His protest was emphatic. Perhaps a little too emphatic. “At least, it was not for me. I truly believed what she told us.”
Gabby knew what came next in this story. “But it was all a lie, was it not? A trick to get close to you so she could send information back to the French army.” Gabby had heard several tales of a similar nature. It was not uncommon for French generals to seek out pretty, young girls to use as spies.
He nodded. “Her deceit cost many men their lives.”
She frowned. “What has this to do with me? I was never a spy.”
“No.” His voice was hollow. “But you sound like her. When I first heard you, that day at the fair, it brought back memories—memories I never wanted to think on again.” His head shook slowly, his thumb rubbing firmly on the back of his other hand.
Gabby watched as it went from red then to white and back to red.
“The inflections and tone of your voice? It’s eerily close to Mireille’s.” He glanced up at her. “I am not the only one who has noticed.”
“Mr. Perkins.” That was why the man had treated her with such disdain.
“Yes.”
She twisted the tip of her little finger. What was she to do? How was she to stay in a country that hated her for nothing she had done or had any control over? It would be easy to dismiss if it was only Aaron and Mr. Perkins whose good opinion she had lost. Unfortunately, it was more common than not. And she could not blame the woman, Mireille, in all the cases of her mistreatment. For many people, it was simply that she was French.
Peter had said there may be some who held her nationality against her. But he’d said most would accept her. Gabby had not found many of those people. Besides Peter and Caroline, Lord and Lady Kirtley and their family had been the only people to truly accept her. Could she add Aaron to that list?
She sunk into the pillows behind her. It seemed a lost cause.
“But that was before I knew you.” Aaron placed a hand on her arm, his face creased with concern. “Now I see very little of Mireille in you.”
Gabby smirked. “But you still see some?” That was not very encouraging.
“Yes. But the similarities are few.”
“What are they?” She straightened her back. Perhaps she could change those things that were not desirable to an English gentleman. She would have to if she wished to have a successful Season.
“You are French.” He grinned.
“Yes. This is true.” Her voice was bland. He was teasing her.
He ticked the similarities off on his fingers. “You are young and beautiful.”
She held his gaze. “You think I am beautiful?” She should not have said it out loud, and if she was not so happy about it, she would have chided herself. Her mouth turned up, but she pushed it back down. If she smiled now, he would think all was well. But it wasn’t. At least not yet. She wanted to know if there were any other similarities which were less desirable than the ones he had listed. Did he think her deceitful? She did not know if she could stay at Ivydale a moment longer if that was his opinion of her.
“Is there more?”
He shook his head. “No. The similarities end there.” His voice was soft and sounded sincere. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze.
Her backbone melted, and her chest tightened.
“I know you are not her, Gabrielle.” He picked up the book she’d been reading. “Les Contemporaines. Are you enjoying it?”
Gabby blinked a few times, her brain trying to catch up to the quick change of subjects. “Er. Yes. My papa had several volumes, but not this one. It is very good.”
He smiled. “I am happy for it. Do you have a favorite story?”
She shook her head. It seemed their previous conversation had come to an end. Gabby was not certain she had received all the answers to her questions. But she believed she could be content for now. “I do not know yet. I will not know until after I have finished and put it down for the day.”
He looked at her, his head tilted at an angle, eyes wide with questions. “Why must you wait so long to discover a favorite?”
She lifted a shoulder. “When I finish reading, the story that keeps coming to my mind—the one that I cannot stop thinking about—that is the story that will be my favorite.”
His head slowly nodded. “Ah. Yes. That makes perfect sense.” He turned slightly. “Perhaps once you have finished, we can come back to this discussion. I am interested in your thoughts.”
“Why?” Why would he care what she thought about a book? Why would he care what she thought about anything?
“Because I think you are an intelligent woman. It has been a long time since I could have a conversation with someone about these books.”
A warmth spread through her. That would mean spending more time with him. She knew it was unwise to get excited about the prospect—the weather could change at any time and they would leave for Dovehaven—but she could not help herself.
It had been ages since she had conversed in French about a French book. She glanced up at Aaron. That it would be with him only increased her excitement.
Chapter 12
Rebekah had only left her rooms a few times since St. Stephen’s Day. And then she’d been subdued, avoiding Aaron’s gaze and only speaking when asked a question directly.
Aaron knew it was his doing. The set down he’d given her had not had the desired effect. Or perhaps it had. She was no longer suggesting the notion of marriage. But he regretted that he had made her feel the need to remain secluded. It seemed as if there was no correct solution where Rebekah was concerned.
He frowned into the mirror as Martin brushed at his coat. Perhaps he should speak with her, at least try to eliminate the awkwardness when they were in the same room.
He tugged on the front of his coat, pulling it tightly over his chest. He’d hoped to have some information back from his solicitor before he’d had this conversation—hoped to have some kind of plan to offer to her. But maybe he should not wait for news before speaking with her.
“Thank you, Martin.”
“You are welcome, my lord.” The valet bowed and moved to clear the room of Aaron’s nightclothes.
Aaron walked straight to his study, intent on summoning Rebekah as soon as he thought her awake and fed. He’d barely sat down when a knock sounded, and Collins entered the room. “The messenger you sent to London has returned, my lord.” He held out a folded paper. “This is the reply.”
Aaron smiled. The timing couldn’t be better. That did not happen often. Perhaps it was a sign that he was on the right path—not that he was a superstitious man.
He would hold off meeting with Rebekah until he read what Mr. Blakely had to say.
“Thank you, Collins.” He cracked the wax seal and unfolded the letter. Seeing his solicito
r’s cramped writing brought back the memory of reading the letter telling him of Henry’s death. Aaron’s heartbeat hammered in his chest. It had been the worst letter he’d ever received—even more so than the news of his father’s death.
He paused and controlled his breathing. Hopefully, this would have better news.
My Lord,
I found your letter of December twenty-third interesting, indeed. As your brother’s widow, Lady Brinton’s jointure is small (a mere three hundred and thirty pounds). Of this she is aware. Do not let her lead you to believe otherwise.
Aaron paused. Had he given his solicitor the wrong idea about Rebekah? She’d not been acting as Henry described her, but Aaron did not believe her deceitful. He rather hoped, once he had answers to give her, that she would become the woman Henry had described in his letters once again. Aaron returned his attention to Mr. Blakely’s words.
As to your other question—there are three other Brinton properties, besides Ivydale. None may be sold or given away outright, however their use is left to your discretion. I have enclosed a list of the properties along with their location, advantages and disadvantages as I see them.
I am at your service however you wish to proceed.
Yours,
Robert Blakely
Aaron leaned back in his chair. Rebekah’s jointure was even more dismal than he’d thought. It was no wonder she was anxious about her future. He shifted his chair to the side, leaning heavily on the arm, and stared out the window. It also explained why she might think marrying Aaron was her only option. How had Henry been so careless as to leave Rebekah with so little?
He lifted the second paper from the letter and looked down the list. Heatherbrook in Shropshire, Payne Manor in Essex, and Peterfeld cottage in Somerset. Hmm. He rubbed at his chin.
Thawing the Viscount's Heart: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 3) Page 10