My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Bullseye,” Gabriel murmured with appreciation. He lifted his own bow and let go an arrow that seemed to strike in the same hole his mother’s arrow had created. “Whom were you imagining when you were taking aim just then?” he wondered with a cocked eyebrow.

  Despite the deep brim of her hat, a red flush was suddenly visible on Lady Trenton’s face and neck. The trouble with having been married to a man who was so universally hated by his family as well as his employees and tenants meant that everyone felt sorry for her. No one would have blamed her if she had used the seventh Earl of Trenton for target practice. “Why did you marry my father?” Gabriel asked suddenly. He closed his eyes for a moment, silently chastising himself for the query. He had intended to ask her when they were alone in the parlor – not when they were on the back lawn with a footman carrying a quiver of arrows within earshot.

  “I fancied myself in love with him,” Charity answered, turning to hand her bow to the footman. “I was in love with him,” she clarified as she lifted her skirts with both hands and made her way to the chairs at the top of the back lawn.

  Gabriel gave up his own bow and gloves to the same footman and hurried to stroll alongside his mother. “So, he wasn’t always so ..?”

  “No,” Charity replied quickly, her head shaking so the ostrich feather that arced out of the side of her hat waved about. “Your father was a perfect gentleman. Very pleasant, very handsome. Very even-tempered.” The last words came out in a whisper.

  Frowning, Gabriel regarded his mother as she seated herself in the nearest chair. “What happened to change him so?” Gabriel asked as he took the chair opposite hers. A maid appeared with a tray of lemonade in crystal glasses, curtsying before offering a glass to the countess. Gabriel wondered if his mother might not answer his question. She certainly wouldn’t as long as the servant was within earshot. “Thank you,” he murmured as he took one of the glasses from the maid. When the servant curtsied and took her leave, Gabriel leaned toward his mother. “Tell me,” he insisted before taking a sip of the lemonade, surprised at the chunks of ice that bobbed at the surface.

  Charity took a long drink of her own lemonade before setting the glass on the small table next to her chair. Positioned as she was, her back ramrod straight and her skirts splayed out and around her legs, she looked as if she sat on a throne. Gabriel thought she might be better suited to a more royal role, but she’d been far too young to be a bridal candidate for King George and probably too old to catch Prinny’s eye. “Your uncle,” she stated finally. The simple words seemed to cause her shoulders to slump.

  Gabriel frowned. “Which one?” he countered, thinking if she meant one of her brothers, there were a half-dozen from which to choose. But if she meant his father’s brother …

  “William, of course,” Charity stated. “I’d already given birth to you and your brother before he …” She stopped, her shoulders suddenly back in place. “I thought we were discrete. In fact, I was quite careful. I had no choice, but William … William was not. He took great delight in informing your father of his impropriety.”

  Gabriel straightened in his chair, alarm bells going off in his head. I was three. “Jesus,” he whispered. His heart raced as he remembered the death of his brother Graham. The baby was still in a crib when his mother found him dead one morning. And despite the volume of her wailing, Gabriel could still recall his father yelling at the top of his lungs that a bastard would not be tolerated in his house.

  Gabriel thought for a moment he would be sick. Father killed my brother. Father thought his wife was guilty of cuckolding him. And the penalty was the death of Graham.

  “Your brother was not a bastard,” Charity stated firmly. “And I was not a willing participant in your uncle’s nocturnal visits, I assure you.”

  Gabriel took several deep breaths, fighting the urge to vomit. “Had I been old enough … had I known … I would have killed them both,” he murmured between breaths.

  His mother cocked her head to one side. “And in doing so, you would have proven yourself worse than both,” she stated quietly. “William died the following year. A hunting accident, but I am quite sure your father saw to it he was mistaken for a bull in the woods. And your father … despite my explanations, despite my assurances that I wanted nothing to do with his brother, your father never forgave me for what his brother had done.” Charity sat back in the chair, a serene look settling on her face. “But I am still a countess. And you are the earl now. Let us hope your wife doesn’t anger you, for I fear she might suffer as I …”

  “Never!” Gabriel stated loudly, causing a nearby footman to nearly drop the parasol he held to shade the countess from the afternoon sun. He struggled to regain his composure. “I would never raise my hand to a woman, even to one who might have stolen from me,” he vowed in a low voice. How could she even think that about me? he wondered, hurt by her assertion.

  Charity Wellingham stared at her son for a very long time. “Perhaps you are not your father’s son,” she whispered in reply.

  “I assure you, I am not,” Gabriel said as he shook his head. He downed the rest of the lemonade, wishing it had been spiked with vodka or rum. He thought of his brief time in London, thought of what others in the ton were whispering about him. Or were they? The ton was fickle. He might have been the on-dit for a few weeks, but someone else had probably captured their attention by now. He pitied whoever that might be, for the ton could be cruel and indifferent. And, at the moment, he could think of only one person he could talk to, one person who might provide perspective, one person who could take away his cares for a night and make him feel …

  Gabriel pressed his eyes together, imagining in his mind’s eye the young woman who had shared her bed with him at the inn in Stretton. Sarah, he thought with a small grin. Sarah, who delighted in running her fingernails through his curls – those on his head as well as those on his chest. And those down below, he thought with a larger grin. Sarah, who, when she should have been asleep from their coupling was instead willing to bed him again, her teasing fingers almost … almost coaxing him to remove his breeches so that he might take joy in bedding her again. Instead, they had talked of chits and marriage and Parliament. Of how he might achieve his plans through marriage. He wondered how many nights he had fallen asleep thinking of Sarah, of her blonde hair, her beautiful breasts, her round rump …

  “A penny for your thoughts,” his mother spoke suddenly.

  Gabriel started, straightening himself in the lawn chair despite the tightness of the space behind the fall of his breeches. “Forgive me,” he said, fighting the embarrassment he felt when he realized his mother had seen the silhouette of his sudden erection. “I was … woolgathering,” he commented as he felt his face redden.

  “Looks like you’ve gathered quite a lot in there. Making a coat for one of your mistresses, perhaps?” Charity teased as she arched a wicked eyebrow.

  Gabriel almost agreed. But he stopped himself. Sarah wasn’t his mistress. She was a barmaid. She was a one-night tumble on his way to London. She was someone he thought about far more than he should have given her station in life.

  And his.

  She was … “A friend,” he finally said quietly. A dear friend, he added to himself.

  Chapter 8

  A Name is Just a Name

  “We need to come up with a suitable name for you,” Julia said as she watched Alistair’s latest attempt at the steps for the English Country Dance. Without at least one more couple to give a sense of the longways form of the dance, Julia found even she had difficulty in remembering the steps. At least they had mastered the Scotch reel.

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. “‘Mr. Comber’ isn’t suitable?” he wondered as he made the turn that would reunite him with Julia in the dance. He pressed the palm of his hand against hers.

  Now that she was partnered with him again, Julia resumed the dance. “You need a name that makes you sound like an aristocrat,” she explained, turning away and then ba
ck toward him, her hand perfectly placed for the next turn.

  His palm finding hers exactly where it was supposed to be for the next turn, Alistair gave her a grin. “You mean, like ‘Lord … Frogbottom?” he teased. “Or ‘Earl of Forgottenland.’”

  Julia nearly lost her place in the dance as she giggled. “I am thinking it should be something a bit more … aristocratic,” she reasoned, pleased she had recovered her place in the dance enough that the dance master, Monsieur Girard, didn’t notice her missed steps.

  “Ah,” Alistair murmured as he made the next turn. “Don’t the names usually invoke a place?” he wondered, thinking they could come up with a locale that wasn’t already owned or controlled by a peer of the realm.

  “True,” Julia agreed with a nod. She made the next turn. “And some are not.” As she paused in the next step, she said, “Winterhaven.”

  Having completed his turn, Alistair shook his head. “I don’t wish to sound cold,” he said with a quirked lip.

  “Summerhaven, then,” Julia suggested, not realizing he was teasing her.

  “Or seasonal,” Alistair countered, thinking that Springhaven and Autumnhaven would be her next suggestions if he didn’t put a stop to it now.

  Julia was quiet for several turns, obviously deep in thought. “What about Whitehall?”

  Alistair frowned. “Sounds ..,” he started to say and then stopped. “I think that’s already been taken by a building,” he said, his brows furrowed.

  “Blackhall, then,” she suggested, her expression suddenly bright.

  Predicting her next few offers would be the colors of the rainbow, Alistair made his face appear as if was considering the possibility. Redhall, Orangehall, Yellowhall, Greenhall, Bluehall, Purplehall. No, none of those would do. “I shouldn’t wish to sound as if I was any kind of hall.”

  Julia sighed. “Have you a suggestion?” she wondered, concentrating on which direction she was to step next.

  The earl’s son had to fight to keep his face impassive. “What about something like … ‘Aimsley’?” he offered, realizing she probably knew it was a real name in the peerage. But when he saw how she pondered the possibility, he held his breath. To be able to use the real earldom’s name meant he wouldn’t have to be concerned about being recognized.

  “Aimsley,” she said, the word coming out in a soft breath. “Possibly,” she whispered before touching a hand to his and making the next turn.

  Alistair had to resist the urge to kiss her just then. The way she’d said his name had been like a soft caress, and the position in which her lips were left after saying the word had him imagining far more than just kissing her. Why, he could easily pull her into an embrace from their current position, slide his hand down her side and allow his thumb to linger along the side of her breast before moving it to the waist he knew was slender, down and around to the back of her round bottom where he would use that hand to lift her gently, up and against his hardening …

  “Mr. Comber, do pay attention to the music,” Monsieur Girard called out just then, bringing Alistair back to the dance and to find Julia staring at him with a look of … was that awe? Or shock?

  “What happened?” Alistair asked in a whisper.

  “You missed a step. Or two or three, actually,” Julia whispered back, raising one eyebrow. “Where … where were you just then?” she asked sotto voce.

  Alistair concentrated on his position and resumed the dance so he matched his partner’s placement. “I was … woolgathering,” he admitted, daring a glance in the direction of the dance master. The man seemed rather bored, one hand holding the elbow of his other arm while his fingers kept time by tapping on his face, their rhythm matching the metronome he had brought with him. “I apologize, of course,” he added a bit too late.

  Julia gave him a nod, but her visage had taken on a look that suggested she was uncomfortable. Alistair noticed, chastising himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander to carnal territory. He could only hope the lesson would end with this dance.

  “Dismissed,” Monsieur Girard suddenly announced, his hands clapping once to emphasize his word.

  Startled at the sudden command, Alistair gave a hasty bow to his partner and another to the dance master. “Same time tomorrow, then?” he asked of Julia.

  The young lady raised her eyes to meet his. “Yes,” she answered simply before giving him a curtsy and hurrying from the room.

  Alistair watched her hasty departure, wondering if she was angry with him for having missed the few steps at the end of the dance. Shaking his head, he headed for the back door, intent on getting back to the stables and the work that awaited him there.

  Chapter 9

  An Earl and an Innkeeper

  Gabriel Wellingham, Earl of Trenton, brought his horse to a halt just before the entrance to the Spread Eagle. Glancing at the façade, he thought it looked no worse than it had the last time he’d been here. A few coaches were parked in the yard, their horses either being fed and watered or being changed out for fresh ones. Given the early afternoon hour, he thought they might be on their way once their passengers had finished their own luncheons inside. A stableboy hurried up to take the reins from him. Gabriel tossed the boy a coin and asked, “Any rooms available for tonight?”

  The stableboy stared at him, apparently surprised that the well-dressed man had asked him a question. “Don’t know, guv’nor,” the boy responded with a shake of his head. “Ask for Miss Cumberbatch. She’ll know,” he said before leading Gabriel’s Thoroughbred toward the stables.

  Miss Cumberbatch? Gabriel suppressed a smile, wondering if the woman the boy referred to was the same Sarah Cumberbatch he had spent an afternoon with fifteen months ago. She’d been a pleasant surprise, that one. Not only had she been a good tumble, but she had been bright enough to participate in conversation. And although her recommendation about whom he should marry hadn’t quite worked the way Gabriel had hoped, she at least had steered him in the right direction.

  Or had she?

  On that particular trip, he had been on his way to London with two goals in mind: dethrone the most powerful men in Parliament and find a chit to marry.

  He had failed on both accounts.

  Although failed was probably too strong a word, he considered. As to Parliament, he had made his displeasure with the old ways known to anyone and everyone who would listen. It was 1815, after all, and it was time to modernize England, time to put aside the old ways of doing things. And put aside the older dukes and marquesses and earls whose continued rule kept England in what he considered the Dark Ages. Industry would be England’s new source of income, manufacturing and inventions would drive the new economy. He was sure of it.

  But his cries for change had been tempered by the lords who argued too much change might derail what advancements had been achieved, advancements that were the result of careful investment and research.

  In the end, Gabriel had taken his seat and resigned himself to what he considered a failed attempt at change.

  He almost … almost didn’t go back to London for this Season. But as an earl, it was his responsibility to appear in the House of Lords on behalf of his earldom. So he did, keeping a low profile – except that one day in Hyde Park when he thought to engage his cousin, Lady Julia, in a bit of conversation, thinking she might show him a bit of interest. But when she didn’t, he went back to spending his free time at his men’s club and eschewing the entertainments that took place at night.

  As to finding a wife, last year Gabriel had been quite sure he would ask for the hand of Lady Elizabeth Carlington, a rather pretty chit whose father was one of those powerful lords in Parliament. Despite a time when the man had lost some of that power – a rumor circulated that he had shared secrets with a mistress who later sold them to the enemy – the Marquess of Morganfield had not only rebuilt his reputation, but also recovered his power in Parliament.

  Gabriel thought that if he married Lady Elizabeth, he could use the union as a me
ans to make the marquess give up his power to his son-in-law. But Lady Elizabeth proved … difficult. Somehow, she had discovered he had a few mistresses, and she seemed rather incensed by the arrangement.

  What did it matter that he had three mistresses?

  Except that if Lady Elizabeth knew of them, who else knew? And what had the mistresses been sharing with the gossips of London?

  Suddenly concerned that his pillow talk might be used against him – he wondered if they were all spies – Gabriel quit two of the mistresses, bestowing them with rather expensive baubles for their trouble. The other one had quit him with the comment that his kisses were not to be accommodated and his penchant for licking was not appreciated. At least she hadn’t cost him any blunt but the rent for the townhouse he let on her behalf.

  In the end, Gabriel returned to his estate in Staffordshire at Christmas. Humbled by his experiences in London, he wondered if he should bother returning when the Season started in the spring. Having spent the winter months meeting his tenants and learning about the land they farmed on his behalf, Gabriel thought London seemed like a million miles away. He had tried to talk to his estate manager, tried to get the older man’s opinion, but Mr. Stockert was more interested in fencing and the cost of seed and the condition of tenant cottages to pay any mind to his lord’s concerns.

  Despite Bilston not having the same entertainments that London could claim, Gabriel found he rather liked the town. But in the end, he had gone back to London in the early spring and was doing his duty as an earl. When this Season ended, he planned to return to Staffordshire and his earldom, thinking he might skip the Little Season in favor of seeing to the harvest and the rebuilding of several older tenant cottages that were in dire need of replacement.

  Remembering Sarah’s ease at conversation, he had made his way to the inn near Stretton with the sole intent of speaking with the tavern maid. Even if she didn’t offer advice, she could at least be a sounding board for his concerns. And he thought a tumble or two with the chit would help his disposition. He hadn’t bedded a woman since the time he employed mistresses, suspecting any other potential bed mates of wanting to undermine him in some fashion.