by Mary Balogh
Was the other woman beautiful? she wondered. She would wager a quarter’s allowance that she was.
And he was stuck with her, Cora.
She got to her feet and hurried back to the house. He was with his steward in the office wing, the butler told her after she had asked if his new, wider shoes were helping his bunion.
The steward himself answered her tap on his door, but Francis was visible beyond his shoulder. He came striding toward her and took her hands.
“What is it, dear?” he asked her. “Do you need me?” He stepped outside the door and closed it behind him after she had nodded.
“Francis,” she said, “do reply to the Earl of Thornhill’s letter and say we will come.”
He bent his head to look more closely into her eyes. “But you do not wish to go,” he said. “You want to stay here. Your wishes are mine, Cora.”
She shook her head and smiled determinedly. “It was as you thought,” she said. “I am terrified of his title. But that is ridiculous, is it not? You are better born than he since his father must have been an earl and yours was a duke. And I am not terrified of you. It is something I am determined to fight. I am no cringing creature.”
He chuckled. “I had noticed,” he said.
“Then we will go,” she said briskly. “Write and tell him so.”
“You are sure?” He searched her eyes with his own.
She nodded again. “What is the countess like?” she asked.
“She is very sweet and very amiable,” he said. “You will like her, Cora.”
She very much doubted it. And the countess would not like her either. “Yes,” she said, “of course I will.”
“They have two young children,” he said. She could tell he was pleased, happy. “I always play with them. I like children.”
It was something she had not known about him. Something that made her fall a little deeper still in love with him.
“We will go soon?” she said. “I will give instructions now, without further delay. I am looking forward to it, Francis.”
“Liar,” he said, his expression softening. “But you will like them. And thank you, dear.”
She felt a silly rush of tears to her eyes and did what she had never done outside of her bed. She lifted her chin and kissed him on the mouth. And felt herself blush—after three weeks of intimacies at night. What sort of chucklehead would he think her?
He smiled and squeezed her hands.
HE KNEW THAT she was very nervous. As was he. Nervous and guilty. He would have wanted to come to visit Gabe and Lady Thornhill even without other inducement. He had always enjoyed visiting them. He would have wanted them to meet Cora, since she was now such an intimate part of his life. He had kept telling himself these things ever since she had come to him in his steward’s office almost a week ago.
He would have wanted to come regardless.
But of course there had been that other reason. He knew that for a fleeting moment fifteen minutes or so before they reached Chalcote, there would be a view of Highmoor Abbey from the road. He knew exactly between which hedgerows he would have to look, though he was surprised by his own knowledge since he had never before had any particular reason to look at the house from the road. The last time he had driven this route, back in the early spring, she had not even met Carew.
They would be passing that gap in the hedgerows in about five minutes’ time. His heart thumped dully against his chest and in his ears. He tightened his hold on Cora’s hand.
“They married out of necessity, you know,” he said. He had been talking about Gabe and his wife, trying to distract both her attention and his own. “Their marriage had an inauspicious beginning too.” Too. Had he had to add that word?
“What happened?” She turned her head to look directly into his eyes.
And so he told her how six years ago Gabe had returned from the Continent, where he had left his stepmother, and had sought revenge against the man who had ruined her. The man to whom Miss Jennifer Winwood, now the Countess of Thornhill, had been betrothed. He had tried to get at his enemy through her, wooing her himself. But the villain had been only too eager to rid himself of her and had plotted quite ruthlessly to make it appear as if she were having a clandestine affair with Thornhill. He had succeeded all too well—a forged letter purportedly from Thornhill to Miss Winwood was read aloud to the whole ton assembled for her betrothal ball. Thornhill had been forced to rush her into marriage.
“A very inauspicious beginning,” Lord Francis said now. “She hated him and he had meant only to use her. For a while our friendship was on very shaky ground. Gabe had not behaved admirably.”
“No,” she said. “What happened to the other man?”
The other man had been exiled when his father had discovered the truth. He had returned this spring and tried to seduce Samantha. Until Carew had found out and challenged him and beaten him to a pulp at Jackson’s boxing saloon despite a deformed hand and foot. Lord Francis had not experienced anything quite so satisfying in a long while. He had been one of Carew’s seconds. Bridgwater had been the other.
“He has left England for good,” he said. “And good riddance to him. You will see soon, Cora, that bad beginnings sometimes have happy endings. There is a close attachment between Gabe and his lady.”
He did not know whether he was trying to tell her that the same thing could happen with their marriage. But then their marriage had not had a bad beginning exactly. He deliberately did not turn his head to see the distant prospect of Highmoor Abbey. He watched his wife instead. She was biting the inside of her cheek, a habit with her that made him wince. It seemed such a painful habit.
The Earl and Countess of Thornhill were out on the terrace with their two children. It looked as if they had been out walking, Lord Francis thought, and had seen the carriage approaching. Gabe and his wife spent far more time with their children than was fashionable. Lady Thornhill, he noticed as the steps were put down and the door opened, was quite noticeably rounded with child again.
“Oh dear,” Cora muttered to herself, sounding quite breathless.
He threw her a reassuring smile as he vaulted out of the carriage. He directed a quick grin at Gabe and the others and turned to hand her out. She need not worry, he thought. She was looking very smart indeed in a spring green carriage dress and straw bonnet. They would love her.
He did not know quite what happened—whether she stepped on the hem of her dress or whether her foot skidded on the wooden step or whether it was one of those invisible specks of dust that had brought her to grief at the Markley ball. However it was, she stumbled awkwardly, shrieked, and came tumbling forward to land in his arms, sending him staggering backward while breath whooshed audibly out of his lungs. Only by some superhuman effort did he succeed in keeping his footing.
“Oops!” she said loudly. And giggled.
“Oh, dear me,” Lady Thornhill said, hurrying forward. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Gabe hung back, looking embarrassed. Lord Francis met his eyes over the top of Cora’s bonnet. He grinned. He might have known that once they left the sanctuary of Sidley farce would catch up to her.
Cora was straightening her bonnet, which had skidded round to half cover one eye. She had flushed scarlet and was looking acutely uncomfortable.
“I wish I could do this all over again,” she said. And giggled once more.
Lord Francis set an arm about her waist, something he would not normally have done in public. “Cora,” he said, “meet Lady Thornhill. And the Earl of Thornhill. Gabriel. Gabe. This is Cora, my wife.” He felt an unexpected, almost fierce protectiveness for her. If they wished to continue the friendship, let there not be even a suggestion now of laughter or contempt.
Of course there was not. Of course there was not.
“I am so pleased to meet you.” Lady Thornhill clasped her hands to her bosom and smiled warmly at Cora. “We have scarce been able to wait, have we, Gabriel? I thought you might arrive yester
day, though Gabriel said it could not possibly be until today.”
“Jennifer made every excuse she could muster yesterday,” the earl said, chuckling, “to be at the front of the house, looking out the windows just in case. Lady Francis”—he held out his right hand—“welcome to our home. We will do our best to make your stay here a pleasant one.”
“I am not normally so clumsy, my lord,” Cora said, placing her hand on his. “Am I, Francis? Oh dear. But I tripped and fell—over nothing—the very first time I saw you, did I not?”
The earl smiled kindly and held on to her hand. “You fell for Frank at first sight, did you?” he said and laughed.
“I believe,” Lord Francis said, “it was the effect of seeing my turquoise coat, Gabe.”
Lady Thornhill laughed. “That must be a new one,” she said. “Turquoise? Dear me. I do not blame you, Lady Francis. Though they are always very gorgeous coats, of course.”
Fortunately Cora found the remark funny and they all had a good laugh. Good old Gabe and his wife, Lord Francis thought. They had worked hard, seemingly without effort, to take Cora’s mind off her embarrassing entry into their lives.
“Uncle Frank.” An insistent little hand was pulling at his coattail. “Uncle Frank, I bowled Papa out in cricket this morning. The wickets went crash.”
“That’s the boy, Michael,” Lord Francis said. “You must try me tomorrow. I shall see if I can guard my wickets better than your papa can.”
“Uncle Frank.” Another little hand was patting one leg of his pantaloons. “Uncle Frank, may I sit up there?”
“Certainly, Mary,” he said and swung the child up to sit on one of his shoulders. He set one hand on the little boy’s head. “Meet your new honorary aunt. Aunt Cora.”
“Aunt Cora,” Mary said and reached for a handhold on one of Lord Francis’s ears.
“Mary trips and falls lots too,” Michael said, looking up at Cora. “Papa says she has two left feet and twenty toes on each one.”
“Which is a matter entirely between Mary and me, my lad,” his father said hastily.
“Lady Francis”—the countess took her arm—“do come inside. You will want to freshen up before tea. Let me show you your room. Your husband can find his own way. He knows it well enough. How pleased I am at the prospect of having your company for a few weeks.”
“Well, Frank.” The earl was holding out his right hand again. “Congratulations. There is nothing so satisfying as the married state. You will discover the truth of that for yourself soon enough if you have not already done so. She will soon be less nervous about being here. Jennifer will see to that.”
Lord Francis could think of only one thing now that his wife had gone inside. He tried to suppress the thought but it was impossible. She was only a few miles away, he thought. No more than three or four as the crow flies.
And she was on close visiting terms with her cousin, the Countess of Thornhill.
16
T FIRST CORA WAS INTIMIDATED. THE EARL OF Thornhill was a tall, darkly handsome man. The countess was tall by any normal standard, though not nearly as tall as Cora, with silky dark red hair. She was elegant and slender—at least her frame suggested slenderness even though she was quite noticeably with child.
They were the perfect couple, perfectly well-bred, perfectly devoted to each other and their children.
But they were perfect in another way too. They were perfectly amiable and kind. Cora knew very well that they must have been dismayed to hear that Francis had been forced into a marriage with a merchant’s daughter. She knew that her appearance could have done nothing to reassure them—she was the ugly smudge among three beautiful people, five if she counted the children. And she knew that her shudderingly embarrassing descent from the carriage must have confirmed them in all their worst expectations.
But the countess spoke with her as if she were an eagerly anticipated, newly acquired friend. Before they came downstairs for tea on that first day, Lady Francis was Cora and the countess was Jennifer. And before tea was over Francis had been assured that after six years he must finally capitulate and drop the formality with which he had always insisted on addressing the countess. Whether he would or no, she was going to call him Francis. And then suddenly Cora was Cora and the earl was Gabriel.
Before the day was over Cora had relaxed. They really were very pleasant people. She told Francis so when they were in bed together that night, before they got too mindlessly involved in lovemaking.
“They are just like normal people,” she said.
He chuckled. “I shall pass the compliment on to them tomorrow at breakfast,” he said.
“Don’t you dare!” she said in horror.
He chuckled again and kissed her. She shivered with pleasurable anticipation when he rubbed the tip of his tongue lightly back and forth across her upper lip.
“I was not even wearing shoes that were too small for me,” she said, wincing again at the memory that had plagued her all evening. “Oh, Francis, I could have died. Why do things like that always happen to me?”
“I think perhaps for my eternal delight, dear,” he said.
Which was a remarkably gallant thing to say when he must have been so ashamed of her.
The following morning they all went riding. Even the children went, young Michael on his own pony, Mary up before her father on his horse. And then the men played cricket with Michael while the ladies rolled a ball with Mary and Cora helped her make a daisy chain. Cora paid some afternoon calls with Jennifer while Gabriel took Francis to see some new development on one of his farms. In the evening they played cards after the children were in bed.
It was all very pleasant. A very enjoyable holiday. Francis did not seem unhappy—but then he had not seemed so at Sidley either. Perhaps, Cora thought, she had been foolish not to allow herself to be fully happy. Perhaps it did not matter that she had not been his choice, that he did not love her. Perhaps love was not as important to men as it was to women.
Perhaps the same would happen with her marriage as had happened with Gabriel and Jennifer’s. If Francis had not told her, she would never have guessed that their marriage had had an inauspicious beginning. They were very well-bred. They did not embarrass their guests with any show of public affection. But they did not need to do so. It was there for all to see in the faces and manner of both—the fact that there was a deep emotional attachment between them.
Perhaps …
But she would not hope for something that would probably never happen. She would merely learn to accept and appreciate what she had. What she had was not so very bad at all.
But what if it was not acceptable to Francis? What if time only made him less and less happy?
Ah, life was a hard business, she thought, full of ifs, ands, and buts to distract one just when one thought one had it all figured out.
And something else worried her. There was another large estate adjoining Chalcote. Highmoor Abbey was only a few miles away, the seat of the Marquess of Carew. The marchioness was Jennifer’s cousin and the two families frequently visited. At the moment they were in Harrogate for a few days, but they were expected home.
“We will be able to offer you a little more company, Cora,” Jennifer said with a smile. “You will like Sam, I believe. She is more like a sister than a cousin to me. We were brought up together after the death of my aunt and uncle, her parents. Can you imagine how delighted I was when she married Hartley just this year and came to live close to me?”
The prospect of meeting them made Cora feel slightly sick even though she told herself that by now she should be quite blasé about meeting members of the aristocracy. She was even one of them now, she reminded herself. She was Lady Francis Kneller, sister-in-law of the Duke of Fairhurst. She did not feel a great deal better.
She thought at first that she must have met the Marquess of Carew. The name sounded familiar. But think as she would, she could not put a face to the name or remember where she might have met him. And
then she discovered that he and the marchioness had married early in June, when she was still in Bath, and had returned home soon after.
No, clearly she was mistaken.
AT FIRST HE thought he had been saved from himself. They were in Harrogate. But not for long, it seemed. They were expected back every day.
“They cannot be separated from Highmoor for too long, those two,” the earl told Lord Francis. “They are having a bridge built across the narrow end of the lake there and must supervise the laying of every stone. Carew is widely renowned as a landscape gardener, as you are probably aware, and Samantha has embraced his interest with enthusiasm. An unlikelier pair you never saw, Frank, but you can tell that for each of them the world only really contains the other.”
“You mean they do not hide it as well as you and Jennifer?” Lord Francis asked dryly. But in reality his stomach was churning and his heart was thumping and he wished fervently that Cora had not persuaded him to come here. Which was being grossly unfair to his wife, of course.
They came on the fourth day, unexpectedly, quite early in the afternoon just as the earl and countess with their children and guests were about to begin a walk to the lake. Indeed, they would have been on the way if Cora had not discovered as they stepped out onto the terrace that she had forgotten her parasol. Lord Francis ran upstairs to fetch it for her. When he came back down, he found her standing in the middle of the hall looking round-eyed and white-faced—a familiar look. He half guessed even before she spoke.
“Francis,” she said in a loud whisper as if she were afraid her voice would carry to the outside, “there is a carriage coming. Jennifer said it is the Marquess of Carew’s.”
If she had slammed her fist into his stomach he could not have felt more robbed of breath. He smiled at her. “Cora,” he said, “you found the courage to meet and to speak with Prinny himself. This is a mere marquess. You will find him quite unthreatening, I promise you.”