A Gentleman For All Seasons

by Shana Galen, Vanessa Kelly, Kate Noble, Theresa Romain

  Two ways of seeing the matter. Two sides to family loyalty.

  He had let his heart grow hard, hadn’t he? He had never softened entirely toward Eliza since her return. He loved her, but he was not surprised when she rejected him. He expected it, in a way. Expected it with a certainty so deep that he shoved her away as soon as he learned something he hadn’t anticipated.

  A preemptive attack was highly effective during war, for it devastated people who had no chance to prepare themselves. This morning, he had carried out just such an attack on Eliza.

  He had sworn he would not want her to choose between him and her family—yet faced with the slightest inkling of divided loyalty, he turned on her. With the same small, unworthy part that had felt triumph to see the Friar’s House crumbling, he felt righteous in his anger.

  But why? It wasn’t as though she wanted the dowry for her own gambling debts. She wanted it for…

  For them. For herself and Bertie. For a life together.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned, interrupting the chatter about the knitting. “You’re right. All of you. You’re right. Except you, Mrs. Clotworthy. It is dragging on the floor already, whatever you’re knitting.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” said that lady mildly. “You must trust that others besides you know what they’re doing, Bertram.”

  Florian nodded. “She is très intelligente, that one.”

  “I know, I know. It’s true. None of you need me in the slightest.”

  “Maybe not,” said Georgie. “But we like having you about. Usually. So maybe it’s time to think about what you need.”

  “He needs French lessons to help him with that terrible accent,” said Florian. “Maybe he can have them from Miss Greenleaf, eh?”

  Georgie shushed the butler. “Bertie. There’s just one thing to decide. Do you want Eliza, or do you want to score off the people who once hurt you?”

  The question struck to his heart.

  And the answer was clear at once. “There can be no triumph if there’s no Eliza.”

  “Then you’d better try to persuade her to tolerate you.”

  He rose to his feet, chuckling. “When did you get to be smarter than I am?”

  “It’s been coming on for years,” she said. “You just didn’t notice.”

  “There’s a lot I haven’t noticed.” He kissed her on the top of her head, then crossed to the doorway. “Thank you, Georgie. And never mind about the biscuits. I shouldn’t have brought them.”

  “More lunatic speech,” she said. “You absolutely should have brought them. You should always bring biscuits. You’re right, they really are my favorite treat. Please hand me the package, Mrs. Clotworthy, if there are any left.”

  * * *

  Before settling matters with Eliza, Bertie had to settle them with himself.

  And that required paying another call on Greenleaf.

  The older man had exchanged one silk banyan for another, but other than that, he seemed not to have moved from the spot he had occupied earlier in the day. The flush of his cheeks betrayed how he’d spent his time—as did the lower levels in the bottles of spirits at his side.

  “You are no gentleman, speaking to my daughter harshly before me as you did,” said Greenleaf.

  Polite Bertie waved a farewell. He would not be present on this call. “I wasn’t aware,” Bertie said, settling himself again on the sofa opposite the window, “that you ever considered me a gentleman. I probably ought to be honored that you entertained the possibility at all.”

  He stretched forth his feet: one boot, then the second, planted solidly on the heavy carpet. “Look to yourself, Mr. Greenleaf. If men are judged by their actions, you will come up very short. You have neglected your ancestral home and overseen the squandering of your family’s fortune.”

  “And how shall I judge you? You seduced my daughter.”

  For a dizzying moment, Bertie thought Greenleaf knew how he and Eliza had spent last night. Then he realized: The older man, wounded, sought to stab at Bertie’s own tender spots.

  The realization blanketed him in calm. “What your daughter and I did was between us, with our mutual agreement, and with the intention of marriage.”

  That was just as true now, wasn’t it, as it had been when he was a younger man? He’d seen so much of the world, but he’d never seen anyone like Eliza. No one had twined through his heart like she had. No one ever would.

  So she hadn’t been brave enough to flee with him when she was barely grown. He hadn’t then had the courage to stand up to her family, to be open and frank in his request for her hand. They had thought themselves better than he was, and he’d believed them.

  But he had courage enough for anything now. He’d been shot in le foie, for God’s sake. He’d handed his heart away long ago. What could Andrew Greenleaf, with his banyans and medicinal spirits, do or say to undo such a truth?

  When Eliza had jilted Bertie, he’d felt he’d never have a home again. For years, he’d camped in army tents or quartered in crumbling hotels and other people’s houses. When he returned to London, it was to the townhouse of mourning in Kensington. Without his father, it was only a building.

  The Friar’s House was Bertie’s attempt to take the Greenleafs’ home, to get a bit of their steadiness and comfort for himself. To snap up their worth.

  But he really ought to trust in his own.

  “You could have the money,” Bertie said, noting the slow kindle of interest in Greenleaf’s bleary eyes. “There’s more than one way you could get it. There is one thing that I’d like very much—other than Eliza’s hand—if you’ll allow me to propose a transaction to you.”

  Greenleaf set down his glass, then leaned forward. “All right. I’m listening.”

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  It was a day for much traveling. Though Bertie was going nowhere that was unfamiliar, he felt himself in a place entirely new.

  Once his interview with Greenleaf had concluded—tentatively but satisfactorily to both parties—he returned to the Friar’s House to collect an item. But he did not pause in his errand even to exchange greetings with anyone in the household. There was only one person with whom he wanted to speak.

  Thus he turned his steps toward Sturridge Manor.

  Compared to the Friar’s House, the home of Lord and Lady Sturridge was modern and tidy and impeccably kept. The structure was of gray-brown stone quoined in white, with a clever curve outward at the front for a rotunda of an entrance hall, and a dark gray slate roof that no one would ever permit to leak.

  It was too neat, really. There was nothing for a man to do here that someone else had not already done.

  He patted his pocket, reassured that the contents were still there, then mounted the clean-swept front steps. A liveried servant admitted Bertie, granted that Miss Greenleaf was at home—a phrase that gave Bertie a pang—and showed him into the family’s favorite blue drawing room.

  Sturridge was evidently in a charitable mood, for he made himself and his lady scarce as soon as Bertie entered. Only the click of the opposite door into place hinted how quickly they had swept out of the space.

  Bertie folded his hands behind his back. Stood by the fireplace and leaned one elbow on the mantel. Crossed one foot before the other, then uncrossed them.

  Then returned to the center of the room, arms hanging helpless at his sides, waiting for Eliza Greenleaf to enter the room.

  Which, after a few torturous minutes, she did.

  She looked tired and strained. Neither of them had slept much the night before, though the pleasurable reason for that seemed far away at the moment.

  But only for the moment, if he could persuade the lady to forgive.

  She let the door close behind her, then stopped a few feet away from Bertie. For a moment, they simply faced each other—then she spoke.

  “Bertram Gage,” she sighed. “You wanted me to leave, and I did, and now you have followed me. For what reason? Did
you not lambaste me enough? Do you wish to put a complete and irrevocable period to our relationship? It was not necessary. I already received your meaning clearly.”

  “No. Eliza—no. I’m not here for any of that. I’m here to grovel and beg for forgiveness.”

  Her chin snapped back. “You’re here to grovel. Really.”

  “Yes.”

  She arched a dark brow. “You are not kneeling abjectly before me, and I don’t see any bouquets of flowers or lavish gifts.”

  He snapped his fingers. “I do have a gift! Here, one moment.” It hadn’t fit easily into his pocket, and it took a few moments of tugging before he freed it. With more enthusiasm than grace, he took one of her hands and slapped the item into it.

  She stared at it. “A piece of slate?”

  “A very special piece of slate. It’s a shingle. Do you see how neatly it’s been cut? But it’s broken too.”

  She extended her hand, offering it back. “All right, it’s a special piece of slate. Is it meant to be symbolic? Our love is as strong as slate, but it fractured, and…and you ripped it from the place it ought to be?”

  “Good God, no. That’s terrible.” Bertie took the slate from her, holding it lightly in his palm. “I’m too blunt for symbolism. No, it’s one of the broken slates from the roof of the Friar’s House. I’m having them replaced. And the ceiling of the breakfast room repaired.”

  Eliza’s brows knit.

  “You see? Even though it was broken, I can make it better. For you. Damnation. That does sound symbolic, doesn’t it? I don’t mean it. That is—I do mean it, but I didn’t intend to mean it.”

  “You’re babbling,” she said faintly.

  “I am not,” he replied. “I am trying to explain myself.”

  “Wasn’t there going to be groveling at some point? And begging? I’m certain I heard you mention groveling and begging.”

  If she had sounded harsh, he might have given up the matter as hopeless. But it seemed that Miss Eliza Greenleaf was not immune to unwitting symbolism, nor to the frank oddity of having a broken slate tile pressed into her hand. A quirk of her lips and a softening about the eyes betrayed her, and she looked all of a sudden like a woman who could be convinced.

  With a bit of groveling and begging.

  Dropping the slate to the floor, Bertie sank to one knee and put a hand over his heart.

  “Is it to be a serenade, then?” Eliza asked.

  “No. This is how all the best grovels begin. Do let me think how to start, though.” His thoughts were tangled, all returning to a knot of Don’t mess this up. This is your last chance to win the hand of the only woman you’ve ever loved.

  “You could start,” Eliza suggested, “with something true.”

  Well. That made it rather easy. “This is true: I love you, Eliza. I always have, ever since I met you. I loved you so much ten years ago that I thought I would never recover when you decided not to elope with me. And in a way I did not, for I never stopped loving you. It took no more than a moment for me to remember everything wonderful about you when you returned to the Friar’s House.”

  She had tipped her head to one side, listening. “Go on.”

  “Er—what else shall I say?”

  “You haven’t got to the groveling yet. The part where you apologize for believing the worst of me. We cannot spend time together of any nature if you do not trust me. What is to stop that from happening again?”

  Again, the answer was easy. “I am.”

  His knee was becoming sore, so he extended a hand—and wonder of wonders, she took it and drew him to his feet. “Are you saying I am worth standing up for?” Her smile was faint and tremulous.

  “Yes. Always. I will not let an old hurt go unhealed any longer. I will not forsake you, and I will trust you, and I will love you. If only you’ll forgive me and agree to marry me.” He took a deep breath. “You came back to me after saying no to the idea of us. Now I have come back to you.”

  Her hand clasped his firmly. “It took me a bit longer,” she admitted.

  “Be that as it may, we both believe this—us—is right. But could we stop saying no, please?”

  As he watched her face, that lovely face that defined beauty for him, her tentative smile became a bright one. Then it was a beam of pure joy that settled about his heart. “Yes. I say yes.”

  There followed a pleasant interlude of kisses and caresses, whispered assurances and laughter at nothing at all—and then, when practicality returned, dismay at the realization that Eliza’s trunks were on their way to Sturridge Manor and would need to be returned to the Friar’s House.

  “But not quite yet,” she suggested, still within the cradle of his arms. “I can stay here until we wed, and then we shall have a real homecoming as a newly married couple.”

  The idea seized Bertie’s imagination at once. “All right. I can carry you over the threshold. But how long do you want to wait? You see, I have an excellent idea.”

  “I am fond of those. Do tell.”

  “If you’ll wed me before your birthday—and we could, because Sturridge, who is probably listening at the door, will help us get a special license—”

  “No one is listening at the door!” came a voice through the door.

  “—then I will use your dowry to buy the Friar’s House.”

  She gasped. “But it’s been in the Greenleaf family for centuries!”

  “So it would continue to be, through you.”

  Resting her head on his shoulder, she pressed a kiss to his neck. “What if I’m not ready to wed at once?”

  Then I will perish of lust, especially if you keep kissing me like that. “If you’ll agree to wed me in the future, I will still buy it. If you want to live there.”

  She lifted her head. “Think of the cost!”

  “I needn’t. We’re really rather wealthy, we Gages. Comes from those vulgar marriages with trade heiresses,” he mused.

  “And the land and tenants?”

  “Remain with your father and, in his will, would pass to the care of your eldest brother after he is gone.”

  “God help them.” Her palms flattened against his chest. Not pressing, simply resting. Feeling his heartbeat, maybe.

  “Your father wants the money from the sale of the house. I cannot say how it’ll be used, and I know you’re concerned about that. If he stays in Tunbridge Wells and away from the dice, though, it ought to last him several lifetimes.”

  “My brothers, though…their families are in London. Living there would be expensive even if they did not gamble.”

  Bertie shrugged. “We could wed after your birthday and not buy the house, if that’s what you wish.”

  “No.” Her reply was quick and sure. “I want to make sure the Friar’s House will never fall into ruin. It is a home, and it should be lived in and cared for by people who love it. We shan’t shortchange it, or ourselves, merely because we suspect my brothers will shortchange themselves.”

  “And what of their reputation? What of the Greenleaf family honor?”

  “I’ll do my part to uphold it. That’s all I can do. I have often done what was best for my family. But once we wed, my closest family will be my husband. And one day, I hope, our children.”

  “Beautifully put,” Bertie said. “I regret doubting your motives. You cannot know how much.”

  “Oh, please don’t say that. You really needn’t grovel. I regret that I gave you only a part-truth about the dowry, because I suspected my family’s involvement would bother you. But avoiding distress is not a reason to hide the truth. That’s as bad as my brothers trying to cover gambling losses under the guise of paying five hundred pounds for beef.”

  Bertie laughed. “It’s not the same thing. But that reminds me. Do you like working with the ledgers? Because I believe we shall take charge of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. I was a bit high-handed in that I worked out an arrangement with your father. I’ve felt at loose ends si
nce leaving the military, but I think I might like, very much, being an estate manager. It’s not a job I could do alone, though. I really ought to have the help of someone who’s good with numbers.”

  “You really ought,” she said. “And I believe I know just the person.”

  As they kissed again—and then again—and once or twice more for good measure—Bertie heard, through the drawing room door, the faint sound of applause.

  * * *

  A week after Michaelmas, a week after she and Bertie had again become lovers and agreed to wed, six days after they had lost sight of the truth and found one another again, Eliza Greenleaf took Bertram to husband and became Eliza Gage.

  It was a name she could have adopted ten years before, had she found her own courage and placed more trust in her heart.

  But all had worked out well in the end. Maybe she and Bertie had both needed to live in the wrong way before they were so certain of how right they were for each other.

  By waiting, they were married not by a rough, strange Scotsman across the English border, but in the drawing room of the Friar’s House. With a special license, and the friendly local vicar, and the Lochleys and Lord and Lady Sturridge and—of course—Mrs. Clotworthy and Georgie there to witness and celebrate the wedding.

  Eliza’s father pleaded ill health and excused his absence, but offered to raise a glass in their honor.

  “He’ll probably raise two,” Bertie said.

  What did that matter, though? The legal intricacies of transferring money and property would take a while, but in her heart, Eliza considered the Friar’s House her home in a way it had never been before. She came to Bertie that night not in secret through a hidden passage, but through the door that connected their new bedchambers.

  There was no rain that night, but he built the fire up high anyway, stripped her bare, and loved her until they were both gasping their pleasure and the season seemed more like sultry summer than autumn.

  In the morning, they ate breakfast in the breakfast parlor, under a repaired roof and a ceiling of bare lath that was soon to be replastered.