by Mary Balogh
“Oh, dear.” She laughed. “She has told you that too, has she?”
“But she is enormously grateful to you,” he said. “And even if she marries Tucker or someone else not of the ton, she will always remember what it felt like to dance at a ton ball and to stroll in the garden of an aristocrat. And she will remember that she might have married one of their number but chose love and happiness instead.” “And she could not find either with a gentleman?” she asked him.
“She could.” He sighed. “And indeed she may. As you say, she has choices. She is a sensible girl. She will choose, I believe, with both her head and her heart, but not one to the exclusion of the other.”
And you? she wanted to ask him. Will you choose with both your head and your heart? She said nothing but patted her hands against his chest.
“I am going to have to take you back to the house soon,” he said, “if you are to have any sort of rest before dinner. Why are we wasting our time talking?”
She gazed into his eyes.
He bent his head and kissed her openmouthed. She slid her hands to his shoulders and gripped them tightly. A wave of intense yearning, both physical and emotional, washed over her. This was his home. This was where he would spend much of the rest of his life. Would she be here with him? Or would this prove to be just a weeklong episode and nothing else? Not even a week, in fact.
He lifted his head and brushed his nose across hers.
“Shall I tell you my deepest, darkest dream?” he asked her.
“Is it suitable for the ears of a lady?” she asked in return.
“Not in any way whatsoever,” he said.
“Then tell me.”
“I want to have you in my bedchamber in my own house,” he said. “On my bed. I want to unclothe you a stitch at a time and love every inch of you, and make love to you over and over again until we are both too exhausted to do it anymore. I want to sleep with you then until we have our energy back and start all over again.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, “that really is unsuitable for my ears. I feel quite weak at the knees.”
“I am going to do it too,” he said, “one of these days. We are going to do it. Not yet, though. Not in the house, anyway. Not while I have guests. It would not be proper.”
Not in the house, anyway.
“It would not,” she agreed. “And Hugo? I cannot have children.”
Now why had she had to introduce reality into fantasy?
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“I did not conceive in that cove at Penderris,” she said.
“I mounted you once,” he said. “And I was not even trying.”
“But what if—?”
He kissed her again and took his time about it too. She slid her arms about his neck.
“That is the excitement of life,” he said when he was finished. “The not knowing. It is often best not to know. We don’t know that we will ever actually make love all night on my bed at the house here, do we? But we can dream about it. And I think it will happen. There will come the time, Gwendoline, when you will be drenched with my seed. And I think at least one of them will take root. And if it does not, at least we will have fun trying.”
She felt breathless again and considerably weaker about the knees. And she could hear the sound of children’s voices approaching from a distance. Typically of children, they all appeared to be talking—or, rather, yelling—at once.
“Explorers,” he said, “heading this way.”
“Yes,” she said and took a step back from him.
He offered his arm and she took it. And the world was the same place.
And forever different.
Hugo had worked hard during his years as a military officer, probably harder than most since he had so much to prove—to them, to himself. He had worked hard during the previous few weeks, learning the businesses again, taking the reins of control into his own hands, making it all his own. Yet it seemed to him during the course of the stay in the country that he had never worked harder than he did now.
Being sociable was hard work. Being sociable when one had all the responsibility of being host was infinitely harder. One had everyone’s enjoyment to see to. And it was not always easy.
He doubted he had ever enjoyed any week so much.
Providing entertainment was actually no trouble at all. Even a rather barren park was like a little piece of heaven to people who had lived their lives in London, and a very small piece of London at that, as was the case with Fiona’s relatives. And even to his own relatives, most of whom had traveled a little more widely, the chance to wander about in a private park for almost a whole week without the press of work and the continuous noises of a large city was a wonderful thing. And the house delighted everyone, even those who could see its shortcomings. Hugo, who had never been able to explain to himself what exactly was wrong with the house, now knew. His predecessor had furnished and decorated it all-in-one, probably using the services of a professional designer. It was expensive, it was elegant, and it was impersonal. It had never been lived in—not until he moved in last year, that was. Those of his guests who could see the problem amused themselves by wandering about endlessly and making suggestions. His relatives had never been shy.
There was a billiard room that proved popular. There were no musical instruments. There was a library, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, all of them filled with great blocks of books that Hugo was almost certain no one had read or even opened before him. He had read precious few of them himself, not being particularly partial to books of sermons or books of the laws of ancient Greece or books of poetry by Latin poets he had never heard of—and in Latin too. But even those books amused some of his relatives, and all the children loved the moving stairs and darted up and down them and stood together to push them to different locations and made imaginary carriages and hot-air balloons out of them and even a tower from which to screech for rescue from any prince who happened to be passing below.
Fiona’s family tended to huddle together for confidence—for the first day or so, at least. But with Hugo’s help Mavis and Harold discovered common ground with the other young parents among his cousins, and Hilda and Paul were soon drawn into the company of those of the cousins who were not married or who did not yet have children. Hugo made sure that Mrs. Rowlands met all his aunts face to face, and she developed something of a friendship with Aunt Barbara, five years younger than Aunt Henrietta and rather less of a regal matriarch. Mr. Rowlands fell in with some of the uncles and seemed reasonably comfortable with them.
Fiona did not once mention her health in Hugo’s hearing. It must have become clear to her after the first day that the Emes side of the family was not looking upon her with contempt but actually deferred to her as his hostess. And obviously she was the grand, adored one of her own family. She bloomed before Hugo’s eyes, restored to health and mature beauty.
And he would be very surprised if a romance was not developing between her and his uncle.
As for Tucker, he was a young man who would be comfortable in almost any social setting, Hugo suspected. He mingled easily with everyone and seemed particularly popular with the younger cousins, both male and female.
Constance flitted everywhere, brimming over with exuberance. If she fancied Tucker, and if he fancied her, they were certainly not clinging to each other and making it obvious. And yet, Hugo would be willing to wager, they did fancy each other.
And Gwendoline, with quiet grace, fitted herself in wherever she was able. Aunts who half froze with apprehension at first, soon relaxed in her company. Uncles welcomed her conversation. Cousins soon included her in their invitations to walk or play billiards. Little girls climbed on her lap to admire her dresses, though she dressed with deliberate simplicity during those few days, Hugo suspected. Constance chatted to her and linked arms with her. And she made the deliberate effort to get to know Mrs. Rowlands, who regarded her with almost open terror at first. Hugo found th
em one morning at the end of an upstairs corridor, their arms linked, discussing one of the paintings.
“We have just spent a pleasant half hour,” Gwendoline explained, “going up one side of the corridor and down the other, looking at all the paintings and deciding which one is our particular favorite. I think the one with the cows drinking from the pond is mine.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Rowlands said, “mine is the one with the village street with the little girl and the puppy yapping at her heels. Begging your pardon, my lady. It looks like heaven, don’t it, that village? Not that I would want to live in it, mind. Not really. I would miss my shop. And all the people.”
“That is the wonder of paintings,” Hugo said. “They offer a window into a world that entices us even if we would not want to step into it if we could.”
“How fortunate you are, Hugo,” Mrs. Rowlands said with a sigh, “to be able to gaze at these paintings every day of your life. When you are in the country, anyway.”
“I am fortunate,” he said, gazing at Gwendoline.
And he was. How could he have foreseen any of this even just a few months ago? He had gone down to Penderris, knowing that his year of mourning was at an end and with it his life in the country as a semirecluse. He had hoped his friends could offer some advice on how he might find a woman to marry, someone who would suit him without interfering too much with his life or in any way ruffling his emotions. Instead, he had met Gwendoline. And later he had gone to London to wrest Constance away from the evil clutches of Fiona and find her a husband as soon as possible, even if it meant his having to marry a woman chosen in haste. And he had found Fiona to be not quite the villain he remembered from his youth, and Constance with firm ideas of her own about what she wanted beyond the doors of her house. And he had proposed marriage to Gwendoline and been rejected—and invited to court her instead.
The rest was all a little dizzying and was proof enough that it was not always a good idea to try to plan one’s future. He could never have predicted this.
His house without all the dust covers looked very different. It was elegant but without heart. Yet somehow his visitors made the place cheerful and livable, and he knew that he would spend the next several years adding the heart that was missing. His park looked bare but full of potential and really not too bad as it was. With a lily pond and a curved flower bed and some paths and seats, and with a wilderness walk with more trees and seats and a pavilion, it would be transformed. And perhaps he would plant some tall elms or limes on either side of the driveway. If one must have a straight drive, one might as well accentuate the fact.
His farm was the warmly beating heart of his property.
He was happy, he discovered in some surprise during those days. He had not really thought about happiness with reference to himself since … oh, since his father married Fiona.
Now he was happy again. Or at least, he would be happy if … Or rather when …
I love you, she had said.
It was easy enough to say. No, it was not. It was the hardest thing in the world to say. At least for a man. For him. Was it easier for a woman?
What a daft thought.
She was a woman who had not known real happiness, he suspected, for years and years—probably not since soon after her marriage. And now …
Could he make her happy?
No, of course he could not. It was impossible to make someone else happy. Happiness had to come from within.
Could she be happy with him?
I love you, she had said.
No, those words would not have come easily to Gwendoline, Lady Muir. Love had let her down in her youth. She had been terrified since then of giving her heart again. But she had given it now.
To him.
If she had meant the words, that was.
She had meant them.
His tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth or tied itself in a knot or done something to make it impossible for him to reply.
That was something he must put right before the end of their stay here. Typically, he had talked quite freely about making love to her. He had even enjoyed being quite outrageous. But he had not been able to say what really mattered.
He would.
He offered an arm to both ladies.
“There is a litter of puppies in the loft in the stables about ready to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world,” he said. “Would you like to see them?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Rowlands said, “just like the one in the painting, Hugo?”
“Border collies actually,” he said. “They will be good with the sheep. Or at least one or two of them will. I will have to find homes for the rest.”
“Homes?” she said as they made their way downstairs. “You mean you are willing to sell them?”
“I was thinking more in terms of giving them away,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, “may we have one, Hugo? We have the cat to keep the mice out of the shop, of course, but all my life I have wanted a dog. May we have one? Is it very cheeky of me to ask?”
“You had better see them first,” he said, laughing and turning his head to look down at Gwendoline.
“Hugo,” she said softly, “you really must laugh more often.”
“Is that an order?” he asked her.
“It most certainly is,” she said severely, and he laughed again.
Chapter 22
The anniversary celebrations had been planned for two days before the return to London. It would be best that way, Hugo had decided, so that everyone would have the day after to relax before the journey. Besides, it was the actual date of Mr. and Mrs. Rowlands’s anniversary.
There was to be a family banquet early in the evening. Then neighbors from the village and the surrounding countryside—neighbors of all social classes—were to come for some dancing in the small ballroom, which Hugo had expected never to use. He hired the same musicians who always played for the local assemblies.
“Don’t expect too much,” he warned Gwendoline when he was showing the ballroom to her and a few of his younger cousins on the morning of the celebrations. “The musicians are renowned more for their enthusiasm than for their musicality. There will be no banks of flowers. And I have invited my steward and his wife. And the butcher and the innkeeper. And a few other ordinary folk, including the people who lived nearby when I had my cottage.”
She stood directly in front of him and spoke for his ears only.
“Hugo,” she said, “would you find it a trifle annoying if every time you attended a ton event I spoke apologetically to you about the fact that there were three duchesses present and enough flowers on display to empty out several greenhouses and an orchestra that had played for European royalty in Vienna just the month before?”
He stared at her and said nothing.
“I believe you would be annoyed,” she said. “You told me to come to your world. I believe I can remember your exact words: If you want me, if you imagine that you love me and think you can spend your life with me, come to my world. I have come, and you do not have to apologize for what I am finding here. If I do not like it, if I cannot live with it, I will tell you so when we return to London. But I have been looking forward to this day, and you must not spoil it for me.”
It was a quiet little outburst. All around them cousins were laughing and exclaiming and exploring. Hugo sighed.
“I am just an ordinary man, Gwendoline,” he said. “Perhaps that is what I have been trying to say to you all this time.”
“You are an extraordinary man,” she said. “But I know what you mean. I would never expect you to be more than you are, Hugo. Or less. Don’t expect it of me.”
“You are perfect,” he said.
“Even though I limp?” she asked.
“Almost perfect,” he said.
He smiled slowly at her, and she smiled back.
He had never had a teasing relationship with any woman—or any sort of relationship, for that matter. It was all new and strange to him. And
wonderful.
“Gwen,” Cousin Gillian called from a short distance away, “come and see the view from the French windows. Do you not agree that there should be a flower garden out there? Maybe even some formal parterres for ball guests to stroll among? Oh, I could grow accustomed very easily to living in the country.”
She came and linked her arm through Gwendoline’s and bore her away to give her opinion.
“There will be ball guests here maybe once every five years, Gill,” Hugo called after them.
She looked saucily back over her shoulder and spoke to him—loudly enough for everyone else to hear.
“I daresay Gwen will have something to say about that, Hugo,” she said.
Oh, yes, his family had not been slow to realize that she was here not only because she had introduced Constance to the ton.
It was a busy day, though looking back later, Hugo realized that he might just as well have lain back on his bed all day, his ankles crossed, his hands clasped behind his head, examining the design on the canopy over his head. His butler had everything completely under control and actually had the effrontery to look annoyed—in a thoroughly well-bred manner, of course—every time Hugo got under his feet.
He had even produced flowers from somewhere to decorate the dining table. And when Hugo glanced into the ballroom again just before dinner to make sure the floor was gleaming again after being walked over during the morning—it was—he was astonished to see that it was decorated with flowers too, and lots of them.
How much was he paying his butler? In all good conscience he was going to have to double the amount.
The dinner was excellent, and everyone was in exuberant spirits. There was conversation and laughter. There were speeches and toasts. Mr. Rowlands, who had got to his feet to thank everyone, impulsively bent from the waist and kissed Mrs. Rowlands on the lips, setting up a boisterous cheer around the table. Then, of course, Cousin Sebastian, not to be outdone, had to get to his feet to thank everyone for their congratulations on his looming anniversary, and he had to bend to kiss his wife on the lips and set up another roar of appreciation. Hugo wondered fleetingly if any ton dinner would include such raucous displays and put the thought firmly from his mind. Gwendoline was leaning forward in her chair and clapping her hands and smiling warmly at Sebastian and Olga. And then she was turning her head to talk animatedly with Ned Tucker at her right.