His mistress, he had called her—but somehow, the words hadn’t rung true.
Come to think of it, surely even a barbarous American would know better than to bring his newly acquired lightskirt to the very doorstep of a duke, especially when that duke had the power to make his life easy—or very, very difficult.
Gavin couldn’t honestly say that he enjoyed his first dinner at Weybridge Castle, but at least the duke’s insistence on formal dress and informal manners kept the evening entertaining. With the numbers of men and women so uneven that all rules of etiquette were suspended, he found himself seated between Chiswick, who talked urbanely of things Gavin knew nothing about, and Lucien, who said almost nothing—still seemingly in shock over the announcement his father had made before dinner.
Isabel, sitting at the end of the table in the hostess’s chair, seemed to have received no relief from her headache powder, for she was pale and jumpy and now and then her brows crinkled up as if she was in pain. Mostly she frowned whenever she happened to look down the length of the table to where her husband was sitting. There was a story, Gavin would wager.
Directly across from him, Emily chattered to the doctor—about nothing, as far as Gavin could tell. If that was what passed for conversation in this society, he’d die of boredom before the week was out. And on Emily’s other side, the Earl of Maxwell chatted easily with the duke and showed not a hint of concern about the dark looks cast at him by his wife…
The whole thing was as good as a play. Gavin was almost sorry when the port was brought in and the ladies rose to leave the dining room. He watched Emily study her sister’s face and then turn to the duke. “If you do not object, Uncle Josiah, Isabel and I will retire directly to our rooms.”
“An excellent idea to seek your beds early, after the long journey,” Maxwell said. “You must get your rest, my dear wife.”
Isabel turned brick red.
Gavin made a small wager with himself about how long it would be before Maxwell found an excuse to join her, while Emily looked at her sister in shock.
Now there’s a virgin’s reaction.
So much for his intention to catch Emily away from the rest and apologize for making that remark in her hearing about his mistress. Tomorrow would have to do—though when he wished her a pleasant rest and got only a stiff nod in return, he wasn’t so certain he wanted to apologize.
After the ladies left and the port was on its way around, Chiswick looked down the table at his son. “Oh, do get it off your chest, Hartford. Whatever is bothering you, if you keep swallowing your fury you’ll explode.”
“Whatever is bothering me? What are you thinking of, to make a cake of yourself by marrying a lady young enough to be your daughter?”
“On numerous occasions, Hartford, you have suggested that I mind my own business—so that is what I’m doing. The continuance of the line is my concern, and since you have shown no initiative in that direction—”
“There’s plenty of time!”
The earl snorted. “I’m tired of waiting for you to stop acting as if you’re still in the nursery and get around to setting up one of your own.”
“If you didn’t treat me like a stripling—”
“What would it take for you to stop acting like one?”
“Enough!” The duke pushed his wheeled chair back from the table and waved a hand at his doctor. “Mason, you’ll come along and see me settled?” His gaze came to rest on Gavin. “I’ll expect you tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, in my room. Time we put some matters in order.”
Gavin bowed assent. After the duke was gone, he said, “Gentlemen, let’s work off some frustrations at the billiard table. Unless you’d rather set up a ring in the stable yard and test who can draw the other’s cork first?”
Maxwell laughed, and to Gavin’s surprise he came along to the billiard room and played with every evidence of enjoyment and not so much as a glance at his pocket watch.
Probably, Gavin thought, only because he felt too sorry for Gavin to leave him alone with the battling duo.
At the top of the stairs, Emily offered to come in and brush Isabel’s hair. “For it’s obvious that you’re still in pain, my dear. Send your maid away, and I’ll take care of you.”
Isabel accepted—not because her head was still hurting, though it was, but for the company. Surely Maxwell wouldn’t press for an answer until she was alone, so the longer she kept Emily by her side, the longer she would be able to think over his offer.
Though why she felt a need to think was beyond her. Why hadn’t she told him right there in the hallway that bartering over a child as though he were merchandise was repugnant?
His words whispered through her mind. It’s no more than you promised me when we wed.
True, a lady didn’t marry a titled gentleman without understanding the bargain: her only task was to provide him with an heir. She and Maxwell had never spoken of it during their brief betrothal, because there was no need; the expectation was clear.
But that had been before the wedding.
Isabel had always known that he found the marriage contract so inviting only because she brought Kilburn with her. Her father had told her as much. But that, too, was a part of their world—money and property were behind many an aristocratic match.
But when Maxwell had vanished from their new home on their wedding night to carouse and commiserate with his friend Philip Rivington—the same Philip Rivington whose betrothal to her sister, Emily, had been announced that very day at Isabel’s wedding breakfast—and then to act as Rivington’s second in a duel at dawn over the well-born lady he had tossed aside when he contracted a marriage with Emily…
It wasn’t that Isabel had expected—or even dreamed of—love. That wasn’t the way of the world; the best a woman could hope for was to be comfortable in her marriage, in the same way her parents had seemed to be before the countess’s long illness.
No, Isabel hadn’t aspired to love.
But she did require that her husband show the same respect for her good name that a bride was expected to show for her husband’s. By standing with Philip Rivington, Maxwell had helped to create the scandal that had so hurt Emily. He had turned his back on Isabel—on every reputable lady, when it came right down to it—to support a cad in his loose behavior.
With that action, her husband had voided all contracts as far as Isabel was concerned—which was exactly what she’d told him on the day after the wedding, when he had finally reappeared. Nothing had happened, in more than a year since Rivington had died in that duel over Lucilla Lester, to change her mind.
Isabel’s decision had been made long since. It was time to move on to other things.
Emily ran the brush gently through the long, heavy strands of Isabel’s hair. “Am I helping your headache, Isabel? Is it Maxwell who’s making you so miserable?”
She had never told Emily that the man who had negotiated the terms of the duel, stood by as Rivington fought, and held him as he died was her own husband. Knowing how Maxwell had betrayed them both would only hurt Emily more.
“Yes, it’s much better.” Isabel sat up straighter. “Tell me, Emily—what do you think of Athstone?”
“Gavin Waring, you mean—because the thing isn’t certain as yet.”
“Not certain? Surely you’re not thinking that Father’s foolishness in planning to marry Chloe Fletcher might inspire Uncle Josiah to do the same!”
“Who’s to know it wasn’t the other way around and the idea was Uncle Josiah’s to start? Now that he’s met his heir…” Emily gave a delicate little shiver. “Did you know when the solicitors found him he was working in a farm field?”
Isabel studied her sister’s refection in the dressing table mirror. “I quite like him. He has rough edges, of course, but Uncle Josiah has a few of those himself. Athstone may grow into the role.”
Emily sniffed, set the hairbrush down, and began to braid.
“What did he do to annoy you so, Emily?”
“He left his doxy tucked away at the inn.” Emily tugged a strand painfully tight, and Isabel protested. “I’m sorry—I forgot your head. You hadn’t come in yet when he told Uncle Josiah that his mistress is waiting in the village.”
“He said as much?”
Emily nodded.
Isabel would have been amused if not for the over-enthusiastic braiding. “Then I would wager there is not a bird of paradise at the inn. It was not well-done of him, of course, to try to gammon Uncle Josiah like that.”
“You didn’t hear him, Isabel.”
“And you’re used to thinking the worst of any man. It’s true that Cousin Gavin is out of his element. But if he were to marry well—”
The heavy tresses slipped through Emily’s fingers and spilled over Isabel’s shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice. “That’s the answer! All we have to do is wave a future duke under Sir George Fletcher’s nose. Hint that his daughter might end up a duchess, and he’ll soon put paid to Father’s notions of marrying her. Think about it, Isabel—we can put a pin in Father’s plans and get Gavin Waring settled all in one swoop!”
Isabel laughed. It was the first time she’d felt like doing so since she’d walked into the drawing room that afternoon and found her husband waiting.
By the time Emily left, Isabel was feeling the tight braid more than the residue of her headache, so she released the ribbon and let her hair flow free. By the time she’d unwrapped the last twist, she was even pleasantly sleepy—too much so to bother to do it up again. She climbed into the big bed, blew out her candle, and snuggled under the heavy wool blanket. But a moment later her eyes snapped open and her gaze focused on the door that connected her bedroom and the adjoining one. The room that the Earl of Maxwell would occupy.
Surely he wouldn’t dare to simply open that door and walk through. Surely he wouldn’t assume that just because he’d offered a bargain she had agreed to it. And surely he wouldn’t break the uneasy truce that had lain between them for more than a year, just because he’d suddenly decided his wife should carry out her duties.
But if he did, Isabel knew, he would be completely within his rights under the law.
She slid out of bed and tiptoed across to the door. He wouldn’t be in his room yet, of course. Knowing that the ladies were not waiting in the drawing room, the gentlemen would linger long into the night, drinking port and smoking cigars and swapping stories. She was perfectly safe—and quite sensible to turn the key in the lock, just in case there had been even more port than usual.
But the key was not in the lock.
Very slowly and quietly, she turned the knob. Reaching around the edge of the door, she felt carefully for the lock, hoping to touch the rounded handle of a big brass key.
Just as she realized it wasn’t on that side, either, the Earl of Maxwell spoke from the quiet room. “How wise of me to pocket the key earlier—for if you were to lock me out, Isabel, I would break down the door, and I cannot think your uncle would appreciate having his castle damaged.”
He rose from his chair by the fire. He seemed taller than ever as he crossed the darkened room, his body a silhouette against the moonlight that poured in through the tall windows behind him. He must have come upstairs some time ago, for he was no longer in evening clothes but wrapped in a dark-red brocade dressing gown.
Had he been listening by the door? Waiting for her sister to go away? Giving Isabel time to get settled, before…
Too late, she realized that the rays of silvery light were focused almost on the door, falling past it to rest on her old plain white nightgown. Her action in reaching around to feel for the lock must have been as obvious to him as if she had shouted her intention.
“All I was trying to do was assure that I will be safe in my sleep,” Isabel said.
“Then you need have no fear—and you do not need a key, for you are quite safe from me.”
Despite his deep, reassuring tone, Isabel had her doubts—especially because he was now close enough to touch if she merely turned her hand.
“While you sleep, at least,” the earl went on, “for what I plan to do will be when you are fully awake.”
Isabel’s stomach clenched. “Are you trying to drive me mad, sir? Are you hoping that I will lose all reason so you can lock me away in an attic somewhere in a far corner of your estates and forget that I exist?”
“That would not get me what I want.” He brushed a stray curl away from her face.
Isabel flinched.
“You are my wife. If I am to have an heir, he must be from your body. Those are the simple facts.”
“How sad for you. Unless you are threatening to take me by force, sir—and in that case, you are truly a monster.”
“No, my dear. If I were to force you, it would be no more than my right and my due. But I have not threatened force, and I shall not. Instead, I have offered you a compromise.”
“A compromise? Is that what you call it when you make insane demands?”
“I am not demanding. And what I ask is not insane. I have made a simple request, in return for a generous settlement.”
His palm cupped her cheek, tipping her face up to his, and he leaned toward her until his lips brushed hers. The contact was so soft, so fleeting, that she couldn’t be certain he was touching her—until he spoke and his voice vibrated through her. “Think it over, Isabel—and let me know when you decide to accept the bargain.”
Emily’s mood was in tune with the morning—remarkably sunny and fine—and she ran lightly down the stairs. Her intention was to nip a slice of bread and a bit of ham from the breakfast room and escape to the stables to wheedle a mount from the duke’s stable master. She hadn’t ridden in months, and the opportunity—as well as the day—was too good to miss.
She pulled up short at the door of the breakfast room, where Gavin Waring was settling himself at the table with a full plate. He leaped to his feet as he caught sight of her. The Earl of Chiswick, sitting across the table and nearly hidden behind a newspaper, only half stood, as though he was reluctant to grant his daughter the status of a lady. Emily decided neither of them deserved more than bare civility. “Good morning,” she said coolly and lifted the lid of a chafing dish.
The earl put down his newspaper, and Emily felt an itch creep over her as he inspected her from head to toe. She braced herself for a comment about the age of her riding habit—but at least he could have no disparaging comment about its condition. Since she had little opportunity to ride in Barton Bristow, the garment bore no signs of wear.
But the earl surprised her. “You’re already dressed for riding. Excellent. We have calls to make. I trust your sister is not planning to lie in bed all morning?”
“When you’re planning an expedition, it would be useful to tell the participants what you expect,” Emily pointed out. “I have my mind set on a good gallop this morning to shake the fidgets.”
“If that is your goal, then you should not mind galloping toward a specific destination.” The earl turned his attention to Gavin. “Weren’t you summoned to meet with the duke this morning, Athstone?”
“Yes, sir, but I thought it prudent not to meet a lecture on an empty stomach. Thank you, Chalmers,” Gavin added as the butler set a tankard of ale before him.
The prospect of a lecture didn’t seem to bother him much, however, Emily thought as he applied himself with steady concentration to his breakfast.
Since her father’s presence seemed to put paid to her plan to roam the countryside by herself, Emily decided she might as well enjoy breakfast. She put a spoonful of shirred eggs, a slab of ham, and a slice of toast on her plate and took the chair next to Gavin. He looked startled at her choice of seats, and she wanted to tell him that she’d opted for that position only because it meant he wouldn’t be in her field of vision and she could ignore him more easily than if she were sitting across the table. But even though telling him would be satisfying for a moment, doing so meant she’d have to admit that she had noticed
him enough to make a deliberate choice.
There were moments, Emily thought, when the simplicity of her life in Barton Bristow looked appealing after all. On the other hand, she hadn’t tasted anything nearly as good as the ham, which had probably been cured right on the duke’s estate, in as long as she could remember.
She sipped the tea Chalmers had poured for her, spread butter on her toast, and addressed her father. “I assume you intend to call on Miss Fletcher at Mallowan this morning and would like Isabel and me to do so as well. But since you are surely not intending to defer to our opinions regarding your plans to marry, I see no point in going through the motions.”
Chiswick’s eyebrows rose. “But my dear, it was your own plan to call on Lady Fletcher. To refuse to do so simply because of her daughter makes you sound like a small child throwing a tantrum.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Lady Emily,” Gavin murmured, “but I think that is what’s known as being hoist with your own petard.” He finished his ale and excused himself before Emily could retort.
“In any case,” Chiswick went on, “what could you possibly find lacking in Miss Fletcher?”
Emily dropped her fork. “What on earth are you thinking, Father, to betroth yourself to Chloe Fletcher? Or indeed any other young woman—at your age?” She wanted to say, “Have you a maggot in your brain?” and was proud of herself for resisting the temptation.
She thought he would refuse to answer, or snap at her not to be impertinent to her elders. Instead, Chiswick replied quite calmly. “You should not be surprised that the idea of starting a new family has occurred to me, since all my children are unsatisfactory in various ways.”
Emily gasped. “And if we’re unsatisfactory, whose fault is that? You matched Isabel with a man who wanted her only for the property she brought with her, and then you wonder why it is not a successful marriage. You tried to marry me off to Philip Rivington, and you didn’t turn a hair when he was shot in a duel over Lucilla Lester just a day after the betrothal was announced. You’ve tried to sell Lucien to each empty-headed ninnyhammer who has joined the ton, so long as she has a pedigree and an enormous dowry.”
The Birthday Scandal Page 6