Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  “Yes, I know, I know.” She adopted a fawning blue-blood sneer. “It is indeed an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Doodyhead.”

  Hastings lifted his head. “She’ll be suitably impressed.”

  “You people have a lot of parties.”

  “You’ve come at a busy time. I assure you, you would find it rather dreary most of the year. Lady Windmere certainly does.”

  “Hastings, what do you know about Grey’s past?”

  “Not as much as you’d like, I’m rather certain.”

  Rachel hesitated. “Was he ever in prison?”

  “Prison?” he said, aghast. “Good heavens, no.”

  After a moment, she said bluntly, “He has whip marks on his back. And he’s rather sensitive about them.”

  Hastings hummed thoughtfully. “That might not be the sort of thing you’ll want to mention when you meet Lady Windmere.”

  She exhaled impatiently, “Oh, don’t be a boob. Why would he resent me knowing about them?”

  “A matter of pride, of course. Such marks are the brand of disobedience. Of—servitude. No gentleman bears such marks.”

  “But—”

  But I’m not the gentry, to look down on him for such a thing.

  “A man with the humble beginnings of Lord Windmere presumably dislikes being reminded of it.”

  Curiosity distracted her, not for the first time. What kind of life had Grey Trelawney lived? He was clearly well-educated, and not without conscience; a man who doted on his daughter as few colonial gentlemen apparently did; yet he’d married a woman who hated children and one he did not love—for a title that he prized little in other men. What sort of life made such a man?

  “Oh, here comes Lord Dunraven. Pray be wary of the man. He has an eye on you.”

  Rachel smirked at Hastings, then turned her attention to the blond who appeared at her side. “Miss Sheppard, I’ve scarcely seen you in—well, quite some time, isn’t it? Will you indulge my company at supper?”

  “Would it be terrible for you to call me Rachel?”

  “Scandalous. How wonderful!”

  She laughed at his adventure.

  “Hastings, old boy, will you excuse us?”

  Hastings’ eyes gleamed with warning. “Have I a choice?”

  Donovan clapped him on the back, then offered her his arm. “So. Shall we begin?”

  “How does one create a scandal?”

  “Dance twice with me. Three times would be better, but I hate to waste a good scandal on a mere dance.”

  She let Donovan lead her into the ballroom, where a minuet was going on. Rachel frowned. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

  “The next reel, then. How do you like Grey’s wife?”

  “I haven’t met her. Have you?”

  “Letitia and I have known each other for many years.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “That she is. But I much prefer the quiet, natural charm and grace I’m gazing on now to her bold comeliness.”

  “You’re quite the talker, aren’t you, Lord Dunraven?”

  He gave a grin and almost blushed. “Shall we ever make a scandal if you ‘my lord’ me to death? My name is Donovan.”

  She conceded, and he glanced toward the dining hall. “Drat; they’re seating for supper. The dancing shall have to wait.”

  “You’re not a very patient man, are you?”

  “You should know by now I’m not.”

  At last she saw the couple. Letitia stood by Grey’s side at the head of the table, wearing a rich teal silk, trimmed with ecru lace. A white wig had been dusted with green powder. Grey’s dark good looks were enhanced by a black suit; frothy lace at his throat and cuffs softened the severity of the black.

  At the end of the table near Letitia, Lord Fairfax waited to sit. Peyton Randolph stood nearby. Across from them, two empty spots stood, where Donovan escorted Rachel. Letitia’s gaze grew guarded as they approached, but she smiled genially. “Lord Dunraven, I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your guest.”

  “Well, I urge you to look around more, dear lady. Miss Sheppard is a house-guest at Rosalie.”

  One auburn eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

  Grey stepped forward, and Rachel steeled herself. Even now, with two dozen genteel guests—including his wife—awaiting supper, with an astonishingly handsome man at her side, Rachel felt as if she were alone with Grey as he gazed at her.

  “Lady Windmere,” he said, his eyes never leaving Rachel, “may I present to you Miss Rachel Sheppard, a kinswoman of Godfrey Hastings. Miss Sheppard, this is …my wife.”

  Had she imagined his hesitation as he spoke those words? She could almost read the lady’s mind as a condescending gaze swept her. The relative of a man who was little more than a servant, at her supper table?

  “Of course. This is Hastings’ impoverished … whatnot. I welcome you, dear lady.”

  Rachel saw the muscle in Grey’s cheek harden as Letitia spoke, and she wondered if all the gentry were so ill-bred.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Trelawney,” Rachel said with a smile. No, she thought absently—that wasn’t quite right.

  Donovan laughed under his breath. “Windmere, dear.”

  She gaped inelegantly at Donovan, who lifted his eyebrows in startled amusement. His twinkling eyes seemed to say, Our scandal’s off to a jolly good start.

  Lord Fairfax hovered uncertainly, and Rachel fumed. How was she supposed to keep track of all these people with all these names, Lord This and Colonel That and Lady the Other Thing? At last, Grey ended their misery by seating the lady, and the fun began.

  “It’s my understanding you lost a horse at the track recently, Dunraven,” Fairfax said.

  Rachel missed his reply, as her gaze went past him to find Grey watching her. Subtly, his attention shifted to Donovan. She saw the golden candlelight catch in his eyes, and he gave in and returned his attention to her, holding her gaze. She remembered last night, his reaction to her discovery of the scars.

  What can be so dreadful that you can’t trust me with it? She silently asked him.

  His eyelids lowered, and he frowned into his wine.

  “I’m partial to a good horse race,” Fairfax went on. “I hope to attend during this session. Do you use a jockey?”

  “Heavens, no,” Donovan said. “That takes the fun out of it.”

  “And the risk,” said the man at Fairfax’s side.

  “Better indeed, to leave the risk to the negro.”

  The young man who spoke sat a few places down, and she vaguely remembered him from the racetrack. George Wythe. A stilted silence passed for several seconds, and Rachel glanced at Grey, who ignored his crab bisque. His eyes were intent on Wythe.

  “Are you saying the blacks in the tobacco fields have a better lot?” Donovan asked lightly.

  “I’m saying no black has a worse lot than those in the southern colonies.” His contemptuous gaze focused on Grey. “I’ve heard a free black man is enslaved on one of our plantations.”

  “Nonsense,” Fairfax said. “Such a thing is impossible. His papers would guarantee his safe passage.”

  “Do you jest? He has no papers with him,” Wythe said. “He was visiting a friend in Henrico, and he never arrived in Norfolk, where his brother awaited him.”

  “Where did you hear of this?” Randolph asked.

  “His younger brother is a friend of mine. Jeremiah Adams. Peyton, you know Jeremiah. What do you propose can be done to help him?”

  “It’s an unfortunate matter, but you must realize a dreadful fate may have befallen him. What makes you think he’s being held against his will?”

  “Jeremiah believes Ashanti lives. And that he may be—” Wythe cut himself off.

  “The man’s staging a rising. Why else would a free man travel through plantations unless he wanted to be detained?” Fairfax said, in slow, angry realization. “The Adamses are free men of several generations, and are infamous for their lawlessness.”


  “Lord Fairfax,” Wythe said, “they only believe—”

  “Do you condone the violence they spread, in the name of their beliefs? Mr. Wythe, the law is on the side of the proprietor.”

  “I condone no violence. Neither do I condone the enslaving of human beings.”

  “Yet your family owns them, well enough.” Donovan flicked at a piece of lint on his sleeve.

  Wythe sighed. “The Assembly’s made it impossible to free them, without a writ from Parliament.”

  “Just what we need in the colony,” Donovan said, raising an amused gaze to Fairfax. “Another attorney.”

  The man beside Fairfax laughed. “Donovan, you speak for the worst of them.”

  “Lawrence, you’re a sailor. You’ve no right to dispute my ill-gotten gains in the Court, busy as you are ill-getting gains at sea.”

  Relieved laughter spilled from those near Rachel at Donovan’s levity.

  “What about you, George?” Donovan asked. “Are you going to follow in your brother’s footsteps and go to sea?”

  “I wish it, sir,” said a grave young man who sat beside Lawrence. “But my mother—”

  Lawrence Washington. Rachel was stunned, and without thinking, she raised her arm and pointed. “You’re George Washington!”

  A half-dozen pairs of eyes focused on Rachel at her astonishment over the obvious, including those of the startled adolescent. “Why—why, yes.”

  Though she wanted to scream in delight, she merely gave a light, nervous laugh. “Imagine that.”

  Letitia’s green gaze settled on her in unsmiling censure. Then, she looked at the boy. “You’ll have to have a word with Lord Windmere. He’s captained his own ship for many years.”

  “Have you? Is it a large ship? A merchant ship?”

  “The Swallow is a snow. Three masts, eight guns,” Grey said quietly. “And a slaver.”

  “A slaver?” Fairfax repeated. “I didn’t realize you had ventures outside Virginia.”

  Grey signaled the girl who hovered near his shoulder. It was Ruth. Rachel caught her eye and smiled as the girl removed Grey’s untouched soup. Ruth gave Rachel a quick half-smile as she reached for Letitia’s empty bowl.

  “You stupid, clumsy fool!” Letitia jerked away from Ruth, who’d spilled a dollop of bisque on the lady’s shoulder.

  The girl stared in paralyzed horror at the ruined silk.

  “Idiot! Don’t stand there gawking like the oaf you are! Fetch a cloth and remove this stain.”

  “’Tis only a spot, my lady,” Grey said with even, meaningful emphasis, handing her his napkin.

  Unperturbed at throwing a fit in the presence of guests, Letitia glowered at Grey. Twin spots of rage glowed on her fine cheekbones. “Are all the kitchen wenches so clumsy?”

  “It’s my fault,” Rachel said. “I caught her eye, and she was distracted. I apologize, Countess Windmere.”

  Donovan chuckled. “Lady Windmere.”

  Ruth returned with a towel, which she dabbed awkwardly against Letitia’s sleeve, all the while attempting not to actually touch the woman and risk further offense. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I din’ mean—”

  “Shut up! The gown is ruined, and you’ll be punished for this.”

  Donovan caught Rachel’s arm as she half-rose in her chair, and his glance silenced her. “Lady Windmere,” he said, “’tis only a gown, one of many I’m sure you have. And one, I might add, that can do your loveliness little justice.”

  Rachel saw the look Letitia gave the marquis, and it startled her. Something passed between them that spoke of more in their past than meetings over the supper table.

  The fury in her gaze softened into appreciation as her eyes moved over Donovan. “Thank you, Lord Dunraven.”

  “I remember fondly a gown you wore in London, several seasons past. I believe it was at the opera.”

  “Yes. A most memorable night.”

  Although Grey sat squarely between the two, he seemed unaware of their flirtation. His gaze was focused on Lawrence Washington, who spoke with his brother.

  The meal went on interminably, as course after course of this shellfish and that soufflé made its way onto the china. Letitia had recovered from her pique and now resumed flirting with Grey, despite his distraction. Ruth had been removed from service, and Rachel was glad when the miserable meal came to an end.

  In the drawing room, she found Hastings observing four gentlemen engaged in a game of loo. She debated telling him what she’d heard about Ashanti. She’d almost approached him before, but Camisha had forbidden her. Now, she considered Fairfax’s accusation. What if Ashanti were planning an uprising? What if—

  This is Ashanti’s business, Camisha had said. He’ll handle it the way he sees fit.

  What if Camisha knew? It was well within the realm of possibility for the woman she knew to risk her life for others’ freedom.

  “How may I be of service?” Hastings asked her.

  “Have you seen George Wythe?”

  “He left just after the crab bisque incident.”

  Sighing, she shook her head. “Thank you.”

  Rachel succeeded in avoiding the reunited husband and wife for another hour, until she passed the ballroom and caught sight of them in the merry steps of a reel. Her heart swelled with the pain of the memories. Grey’s eyes sparkling silver with excitement, the night they’d danced at the governor’s ball. Grey’s concern when he drew her outside to reckon with forgotten memories. Grey’s tenderness as he held her while fireworks exploded overhead, whispering words she could never forget.

  I wish I could remove the bitter memories from your heart, and place only sweet ones there instead.

  And he had—memories so sweet that their unexpected reminder pierced her. She turned abruptly away from the scene, her tears blinding her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The pale fragrance of agapanthus and nerines, transplanted from their native Africa, welcomed Rachel to the gardens. She strolled past, drawn by the aroma of the river, and sat on a white iron love seat concealed in a circle of ancient oaks, watching the moon overhead. The man’s face shone tonight, and his somber, hollow stare intensified her sorrow. In her time, all would be the same; the river, the oaks, the moon. Yet all she loved would be gone. Her old life was now meaningless; the events of her tattered memory held no connection, the man who’d raised her had become her enemy.

  Now, all she loved was in this time. The family she’d once loved, who’d once loved her, were gone—lost for all time, just as their memories were. But here, in another past, in a world that had never held interest for her, there lived a child she loved. There lived her truest, dearest friend. There lived the man she loved.

  And his wife.

  The cry of a bird echoed over the river. Despite his unconscionable failings, she saw only the devotion of a man loving a baby who otherwise would’ve known a more bitter rejection than the one he’d known. And within Emily he’d nurtured the memories of a father who loved her.

  “You left my table without my leave.”

  She closed her eyes against the soft persuasiveness in the unexpected voice behind her. “I apologize.”

  Grey walked silently around the love seat and leaned against a tree, toying with his pocket watch. A brooding discontent blanketed his face as he remarked, “I find that dissatisfies me. Is it not customary to offer something more between friends?”

  Emptily, she asked, “For instance?”

  She tried to ignore the excited thrum of her heart as he came closer, then dropped to one knee beside her. He knelt so near she saw the moon’s glow in his clear eyes and on his smileless lips. “A kiss.”

  “No.”

  “’Tis the custom … in farewells. Or a handshake.”

  “Fine.”

  Grey covered her hand with his. “You’re cold.”

  She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. Slowly, inexorably, he guided her hand up to rest against his cheek, and she feared he saw th
e unhappiness in her eyes. He pressed his lips into the softness of her palm, inhaling contentedly. Raising his head, he gave her a look of regret and longing.

  “And—a soft kiss on the cheek?”

  Though she tried not to, Rachel heard the soft huskiness of his voice, caught the faint masculine scent of him as he leaned near. He was married to another woman; morally destitute; reprehensibly manipulative. And he loved his daughter. Could that love cover his multitude of sins?

  Dark, gentle fingers brushed her chin, and the moonlight filtered through the leaves of the oak and glinted in his black hair as his lips grazed her cheekbone. Then she saw the desire in his gaze, in his expectantly parted lips. He was going to kiss her, and the thought raised excitement in her—and fear.

  “What—do you want of me, Grey?”

  A contented breath escaped him as his eyes, glittering and troubled, searched hers. “To always hear my name on your lips as softly. To always feel you trembling under my touch. To know—to know you’ll never leave me.”

  She laughed wryly. “Is this a proposal?”

  “Rachel—”

  “She’s come back for some reason, Grey. Perhaps she’s changed. What if—what if you fall in love with her?”

  His eyes were soft and dark and unreadable as they moved over her. “What if she falls in love with me?”

  She avoided the enigmatic persuasion in his questioning gaze.

  “For her to have loved me, she would first require a heart. Rachel, if I had never met you, it would be no different. I’ve told you. She’ll never share my bed, nor my heart. I swear you’ll be the only woman who ever knows my loving.”

  For a moment sweet joy swelled up within her until she understood. What he meant was sex. And the joy was replaced by the copper taste of revulsion. He was indeed proposing to her: a future as his mistress.

  “If you’ll only let me, I’ll be ever faithful to you, and a loving father to our children. Letitia will go as soon as I can arrange it. And I’ll never leave Rosalie again. I’m making arrangements to dissolve my trading ventures. I’ll fit the Swallow as a merchant ship, or dismantle her, but I’m not selling her. She’ll never carry another human being against their will. I cannot undo what is done, Rachel. But I control what has not yet come to pass.”