Females, Lucien thought irritably. He’d only been trying to do her a favor. Surely there was no call to threaten him with violence!
Chapter 6
If it hadn’t been Maxwell who suggested walking in the Fletchers’ garden, Isabel might not have been so quick to turn to Gavin for companionship. But her husband had been playing cat and mouse with her all morning—ever since that incredible moment among the roses at Weybridge Castle when he had agreed to her terms. All through their ride he had been just behind her, and she had felt his gaze every second of the way. He had been the one at her side to help her dismount. He had chosen a seat in the Fletchers’ drawing room that was so close to her it made Isabel’s skin itch.
He was toying with her. He had agreed to conditions no sane gentleman would have contemplated for a moment. He couldn’t have truly meant it, for he had agreed far too easily. If only she understood why, and what his game was, she could counter his moves.
She barely saw Mallowan’s gardens. The soft caress of an autumn breeze against her face reminded her of the way Maxwell had touched her cheek last night, how his lips had barely brushed hers. The soft rumble of his voice behind her, as he walked and talked with Emily, echoed along her nerves.
What did the two of them have to talk about, anyway? Emily had never been particularly close to Maxwell; in the days leading up to Isabel’s wedding, Emily had been busy with her own friends, her own romances, her own budding betrothal. Since then, she had been hidden away in her village. Isabel would have said the two of them were scarcely acquainted. Yet there seemed to be no uncomfortable lapses, no awkward hesitations in their conversation. And once, Emily even laughed.
Isabel wondered if she had made the right choice a year ago, when she had held back from telling Emily about the role Maxwell had played in the disaster.
“Lady Isabel?”
She had the uncomfortable sensation it was not the first time Cousin Gavin had said her name. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid. Such a beautiful day.” How foolish she was, able to think of nothing but sheer nonsense.
She was grateful Gavin didn’t push for more, and even more glad when Lucien and Chloe came up to them a few minutes later. Chloe’s cheeks looked pinker than usual—with annoyance rather than pleasure, Isabel concluded. Had Lucien done something he shouldn’t—or had he not done something Chloe expected? Or was the bride-to-be simply annoyed because she hadn’t received the warm welcome from any of the earl’s children that she had hoped for? More fool she, if she’d expected them to be pleased!
“The tradition of the Mallowan maze,” Chloe said, “has always been for the ladies to go in first, one at a time, and the gentlemen to wait five minutes before they follow. Of course, tradition assumes that the ladies will need—and want—to be rescued, but if you would prefer to stay in a group…”
“What a lovely custom,” Maxwell said.
“We must investigate the maze some other day,” Isabel said hastily. “It is past time to go, for it is a long ride. We will have another opportunity tomorrow to get better acquainted.”
“Very wise, my dear. We do not want you to be exhausted.” Maxwell surveyed the others. “I trust you will not take it amiss if my wife and I leave the group and ride back together?” Isabel felt his gaze come to rest warmly upon her as he went on, “I find myself feeling tiresomely romantic.”
Emily dawdled as long as she could, not eager to get back into the saddle, and by the time one of the Fletchers’ grooms led her mare out and helped her to mount once more, Gavin was the only one still in the stable yard. Lucien had been first away, and their father had followed closely behind—something Lucien must not have anticipated, or he’d have been more careful. Though Isabel had lingered, trying to stick close to her sister’s side, Emily had watched in bemusement as Maxwell cut his wife off as neatly as if he’d been cornering a fox. Which left only her and Gavin.
Emily adjusted her reins and touched her heel to the mare’s side, and Gavin pulled his rangy gelding in alongside her.
They were barely out of sight of the Fletchers’ manor house when she realized that the other riders had pulled well ahead. Gavin noticed as well, for he said, “You are setting a slower pace than before, Lady Emily.”
“My horse seems a bit tired.”
His voice was dry. “I didn’t deceive myself that you were enjoying my company so much that you were attempting to draw out our time together. I was merely suggesting that if you are as tired as your mare is, I will escort you back to Mallowan and ask Lady Fletcher to send you home in their carriage.”
And then he’d be rid of her. Only a few minutes before, riding along next to him had been the last thing Emily wanted, but suddenly she felt both stubborn and perverse enough to refuse to let him escape so easily. “I am not such a pudding heart as that. It’s just that I haven’t ridden in some time.”
“You do not keep a mount at your home?”
“No room for one in the cottage,” she said crisply. “I fear the landlord would object to me turning the kitchen into a stable.” The words were scarcely out before she regretted being so sharp—for his question had been a civil one. “I beg your pardon, Cousin Gavin.”
“Apology accepted, Lady Emily.” They rode in silence for a bit, and then he said quietly, “I wish you would tell me…”
Emily’s stomach did a flip. He must have heard something of the truth by now, and of course he was curious. Sooner or later, everyone who knew anything about her history wanted the details. They all asked, in tones that ranged from gentle to horrified to probing, how it felt when one’s betrothed died in such a horrid way.
“I wish I knew what stories your brother was telling you this morning.”
She turned her head so suddenly to look at him that she tugged awkwardly on the reins. The mare startled, and in an instant Gavin had kneed his horse close enough to lay an iron hand on the bridle, steadying the animal.
“I am quite capable of controlling my mount, sir,” Emily said coolly.
“Under ordinary circumstances, no doubt you are. But you said you haven’t ridden in a while, and you are tired.” He did not back away; the white cuff of his boot top brushed her skirt. Was it her imagination, or could she feel the strong heat of his thigh against her leg?
She bit her lip in aggravation at being treated like a child—but he was right; if she’d been in the habit of regular rides, she would not have allowed herself to be so easily distracted. “If you’re interested in hearing Lucien’s stories, you should ask him.”
He let go of the bridle. “I’m not. But this morning was the first time I have heard you laugh—and it’s quite an engaging sound. You may not be aware of it, but your laugh starts out with a sort of low gurgle and builds to a peal of delight that reminds me of church bells.”
“Church bells?”
“Small and joyous ones, of course. Not the big, deep-toned one they toll for funerals.”
She stole a look at him. Was he trying not to smile?
“I thought we could while away the time more pleasantly on our ride if I knew what sort of things you find amusing.”
“Was it really the first time I’ve laughed in two days?”
“In my hearing, at least. Until then I thought you very high in the instep, Lady Emily. Of course you did have reason to be. The statement I made about a certain lady in the village…”
“That is not my business, and I prefer to hear nothing more of the matter.” She shook her head in surprise. For a moment there she’d sounded as prudish as Mrs. Dalrymple! “The vagaries of gentlemen are beyond the understanding of mere females like me. Fortunately I shall never need to comprehend them in any but a general way.”
“If I may ask—why are you so averse to gentlemen?”
“You have seen my sister and her husband, and you can ask why I do not applaud marriage?” Emily followed his gaze across the valley to where the four riders looked no bigger than nursery toys. Two pairs of riders, rather—Isabel and
Maxwell to one side, Chiswick and Lucien to the other.
“They seem to have settled their differences,” Gavin said dryly.
“I very much doubt that. In all my life I have known of just one truly happy marriage—that of Uncle Josiah and his wife. Their union always seemed very romantic to me.”
“Is that why the duke didn’t remarry? Because he was still in love with his wife? How long is it since the duchess died?”
“Only a few years. They had just one son. It was a difficult birth, and the child was never strong. After that—well, the doctors said she should not have more children.”
“That hardly sounds romantic,” Gavin said dryly. “If a husband and wife can’t—”
“You seem to have a habit of plain speaking, sir,” Emily said sharply.
“I beg your pardon. We tend to be direct, where I come from. But it’s also plain fact. What is romantic about a marriage if a husband and wife can’t take physical solace in each other?”
Hints were not enough to give him pause, and she doubted that even refusing to acknowledge him would prevent him from discussing anything he chose. It would be better in the long run not to try to silence him, for his views might pop out at the least suitable time.
Besides, it would be refreshing if she herself didn’t need to watch every word for impropriety.
“I mean the fact that they remained happy together,” Emily said. “Satisfied with each other. Many an English gentleman would have solved the problem by having a wife at home and a mistress in Town.”
“You seem to know a great deal about how men behave.”
“I’ve had a bit of experience along those lines,” she said dryly.
“Is that the trouble for Lady Isabel?”
“I have to warn you, Lord Athstone—you must be more careful what you say in company.”
He looked surprised. “But I am not in company now; I am alone with my cousin, who understands the rules of society better than I. If I may not ask questions in private, how am I to learn which subjects are better avoided in public?”
Emily sighed. “Very well. You’re asking whether Lord Maxwell has a mistress. I am hardly in a position to know— but if he does, I would not be surprised.”
“Why? Because it’s what gentlemen do?”
“Because he was quite a prize on the marriage mart,” she said finally, “and he took his time about choosing a bride. Before he offered for Isabel, his name was linked to several ladies—some of them already married.”
“You amaze me, Lady Emily. We may be barbarians where I come from, but our young ladies would not be privy to such gossip.”
She stared at him in disbelief. First he nagged her into speculating, and then he blamed her for having done so? He deserved a swift kick to his horse’s flank; if the poor beast threw him, she could ride on alone!
She reined in her temper. “Nor here. I beg you will not consider this a ft topic of conversation with—for instance—Miss Fletcher.”
“But it’s all right to talk to you about it? I’m only trying to figure out the rules.”
“If asked, I should deny having this discussion! In any event, my situation is different. I was betrothed myself at the time, or I probably would not have heard the talk. Isabel’s marriage contracts were already drawn up, and it was too late for her to break off the betrothal. But I always wondered…” Her voice trailed off.
“You wondered if telling her would have made a difference.”
She nodded. She expected him to offer some platitude, and she was grateful when he was silent instead. “Now you understand why I am opposed to the very concept of marriage.”
“I suppose so,” he said slowly, “though you haven’t explained why you were once betrothed, if you’re so against the state of matrimony. But that’s not what I asked.”
Emily frowned.
“I want to know why you’re so disapproving of men in general. It isn’t necessary to marry a man to make a place in your life for him, you know.”
Emily almost dropped her reins. “If you’re suggesting I might wish to take a lover…” Too late, she tried to swallow the words. A real lady wouldn’t have understood what he meant—or at least would have pretended not to follow his meaning. What a horrible effect this man was having on her! “You forget yourself, sir. Let us carry on as though you said nothing.” She took a deep breath. “As long as we’re speaking of marriage, what about yours, Cousin Gavin? Were you impressed with Miss Fletcher today?”
He laughed easily—as though she had not just rebuked him. “Oh, no, you’re not going to draw me into that bumblebroth. It would be as much as my life is worth to get between an earl and his chosen bride.”
Something clicked in Emily’s mind. “That’s what was bothering me. My father didn’t act like a gentleman who’s newly betrothed…or even one who’s about to be betrothed.”
“There’s a certain way a gentleman is supposed to act?”
“Of course. He should have been satisfied to have the negotiations concluded.”
“Satisfied?” Gavin sounded disbelieving. “Are you certain you don’t mean excited or exhilarated or exultant? Or even just pleased? But perhaps the newness has worn off the match.”
She shook her head. “There seems to be nothing firmly settled, or Lady Fletcher would have been…oh, entirely different. She was friendly enough to all of us, but there was no triumph in her attitude as there would have been with her daughter soon to be a countess. If she knew for certain that Chloe was to be our stepmama, she’d have made some clumsy, foolish comment.”
“I’ve been wondering what people who live in a castle find to do all day. Now I know. They study their fellow humans and try to find patterns in their conduct, even if their actions defy all rational explanation.”
Emily ignored him. “I’m sure I’m right. There is nothing firm yet.”
“Perhaps he’s given up the idea.”
“So suddenly, and so soon after announcing it? No—they’re probably still working out the marriage settlements, and of course they will eventually reach an agreement. My father is an earl, after all, and a wealthy one. Sir George must be holding out for a fortune for Chloe. Hoping for any other outcome would be mere wishful thinking on my part.” She took a deep breath and tried to find something good about the situation. “However, at least I shall not have to share a house with the happy newlyweds—and that is something truly worthy of celebration!”
The first gong found Gavin already dressed for dinner, sitting on the stone rail of the terrace just outside the drawing room and gloomily looking out over the valley. Late as it was, the September sun was only starting to cast long shadows across the fields. In the distance, he could see the last of the farm carts trundling along, loaded with golden grain on their way to the—where did they store grain, anyway? Yet another thing he didn’t know about this strange new life.
Lucien peered out from the long windows and came onto the terrace to join him. “Surveying your kingdom, Cousin Gavin?”
Gavin looked out at the valley and the lake, but he wasn’t seeing the estate—or even the farm carts anymore. Emily’s face flashed into his mind instead.
Only because she represented all the bad things about the position he was caught in, he thought. The rigidity, the hypocrisy, the rules. Even though for a little while today she had talked to him like a real person, just minutes later she’d remembered her position and that she was annoyed at him, and once again she had been Lady Emily.
Lucien leaned against the stone baluster. “There’s nobody else out here, is there? Now that you’ve met Chloe Fletcher, what did you think of her?”
“Are you trying to push me that direction, too? Give over.”
“It would be a very sensible match, you know. Sir George’s land adjoins yours.”
“Weybridge is not mine,” Gavin said crisply. “And since what you really want is for someone to detach the lovely Chloe from your father—”
Lucien pounced. “Yo
u think she’s lovely?”
“She’s most likely considered a beauty.”
“Maybe, if she never said a word. Once she opens her mouth, all the golden curls in the world wouldn’t make her pretty. Do you know what she said to me?”
Gavin smothered a smile. “If you’re trying to sell me on the idea of wedding her, you should be rattling on about how sweet she is.”
Lucien snorted. “Sweet? Chloe Fletcher must have been weaned on a dill pickle. It’s a wonder she got through a Season, the temper she has. Though I’m not surprised if my father is the best match Sir George could come up with for her.”
“Give it up, Lucien. I’m not tumbling into that tangle.”
“I grant you that no gentleman of sense would want to marry her. But it’s not necessary to go so far as that.”
Gavin turned to stare at him. “Are you suggesting garden-variety trifling with the lady’s affections, or outright ruination?”
“Trifling, of course. I mean, no—not trifling, exactly. Only making it clear to everyone concerned that a young wife is hardly the best choice for a man in his dotage. What do you think I am, anyway?”
“Not a gentleman, that’s certain,” Gavin muttered. “If you’re so determined to see your father’s betrothal broken that you’re thinking of seducing his bride, Lucien, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”
Lucien sighed. “Are you certain you’re not interested? There’s the second gong. We’d better go in, for Uncle Josiah’s a stickler for promptness.”
Gavin was already on his feet, grateful for the excuse to return to the drawing room—rigid rules or no.
The Birthday Scandal Page 9