“I wish you hadn’t witnessed it, that’s all.”
He wanted to kiss her, to convince her that the future was theirs if only she would trust him. But the footman stood to attention by the door, making a valiant effort not to gaze in their direction.
“Maria thinks we make a good pair,” he said, his voice gruff. He wanted her to love him, but this was hardly the time to plead his case. There was so much more he needed to explain to make her understand what he’d only just realized himself. Now with Forney dead and the regent’s commendation, he felt freer, lighter than he could remember. It was a profound experience which almost left him reeling.
“Now that Maria has left home, Mama is having the dower house prepared. She plans to move in as soon as it’s ready.”
He hesitated, measuring her for a moment. “Your mother will be quite comfortable there?”
“Yes, we both shall be.”
“You’ll stay with her until she is settled?”
She refused to meet his gaze. “That part of the garden has been neglected. I look forward to the undertaking.”
“This is what you want?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “It is time Chaloner and Lavinia had the house to themselves. Lavinia has been remarkably patient.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” He took a step closer.
Lady Brandreth entered the corridor. “Sibella?”
“Yes, Mama?”
“We are charging our glasses. Wales is about to make a speech.” She nodded at him. “Strathairn. I believe we are indebted to you yet again, but come, we cannot insult the prince.”
Frustrated, Strathairn followed them inside. He accepted a flute of champagne from a footman. There was no chance of pursuing his conversation with Sibella. Today, she belonged to her family and he must dredge up some patience from somewhere.
“To the bride and groom!” The regent raised his glass to the married couple, and everyone responded. He launched into a speech about his father’s close friendship with Harry’s father, the Duke of Lamplugh, and how sorry the king was he had not been well enough to attend.
“The king cannot walk and isn’t aware that his wife is dead,” Vaughn said at Strathairn’s elbow. He gained a fierce look from his mother.
After Lord Liverpool added his sentiments to the occasion, as eloquent as always, then the musicians tuned their instruments for the first dance.
Strathairn sought out Sibella when the music began. She refused to dance, so he sat beside her. “When do you return to the country?”
“In a few days.”
“I will visit you there.” Her smooth brow creased, and he hastened to add, “I shall be busy for a while, however.” He had no intention of forcing his suit upon her. Maria was right; she needed time.
*
Late November, Tunbridge Wells
Sibella made a mental note to tell the gardener that the rhododendrons beneath the drawing room windows had become too bushy and were shutting out the light. On her garden ramble, frost crunched under her half boots, the fountain frozen over. Gardeners raked up piles of papery brown leaves from beneath the skeletal trees and burned them, smoke rising into the cool gray-blue sky, the color of Strathairn’s eyes.
When she recalled the warmth and determination in those eyes, her body tingled. Her memories of him invaded her thoughts constantly. She twirled the stem of a yellow autumn crocus in her fingers and wandered on, cutters in hand, bending to trim a branch here and pluck a spent bloom there. Twitch, a brown and white terrier puppy from the stables, followed her about on his short legs, deserting her only to chase off the birds. She wanted to make a pet of him, but her mother refused, because he barked at her cat.
In the two months since the family had returned to Brandreth Park, she had busied herself making improvements to the garden. After conferring with the head gardener, they worked to restore the neglected corner surrounding the dower house while inside, workmen hammered and sawed, the smell of paint drifting out. She had chosen the color schemes for the paint, wallpapers, and fabrics for many of the rooms, as her mother seemed a little subdued and disinterested. “I miss Maria’s gay laughter,” she’d said on more than one occasion.
“I do my best, Mama,” Sibella said for the umpteenth time. Not even the most celebrated comedian of their time would rouse her mother to laughter. But Sibella was gentle with her, aware that her mother was having trouble with the move and adjusting to losing another of her chicks.
“Shall we have a family dinner on Saturday evening? I’m sure Maria and Harry will come.”
“Mm. Perhaps.” Her mother stroked the cat and sat eyeing the reams of wallpaper on a table. “Are you sure that color will suit?”
“You did agree to it. I’m sure you’ll like it when it’s finished.”
After she and her mother moved in, Sibella threw herself into organizing the servants. When the house functioned the way she wanted, she allowed the formidable housekeeper, Mrs. Huxley, to manage it.
Her days free, she rode, employed her needle, wrote letters, or read. Thoughts of John, his laugh, the warm grip of his hand in hers, and his kiss made her fidgety. Did he still love her? She re-read a letter from him, smiling at his description of the puppies. His first letter had thrilled her, and now they came regularly, telling her news of his life, but he wrote like an old friend and not a lover. Disturbed by the lack of any declaration of deeper feelings, the days began to drag, except when the weather was fine and her nieces and nephews came to entice her to play cards or shuttlecock on the lawn. She grew annoyed with herself. She really must accept the inevitable.
At least her mother had finally settled. Keen-eyed as ever, she was less sharp-tongued. “I don’t know why I waited so long to move here,” she confessed to Sibella one evening as they sat by the fire and listened to the rain lashing the windowpanes. “How pleasant it is to have one’s own home again, even if it is a humble one.”
Only a select few would call the dower house humble. Built during George III’s reign, it was more modern than the mansion, featuring a pleasing symmetrical exterior with elegant columns and shuttered windows. The rooms were snugger than the big house where the drafts lifted some hall carpet runners when the wind blew fiercely.
Lavinia had grown in confidence as mistress of the house, and even Chaloner seemed more at ease when they called to discuss Christmas, now only a few weeks away. Christmas was always a big affair at Brandreth Park.
Christmas! The crocus fell from her nerveless fingers as she wandered the garden paths. Would John come before then? Would he come at all? Or was there a lady in his life he’d failed to mention? At night, she lay awake thinking about him. He appeared in her mind as she worked in the garden. The horror of Coombe’s death and that awful day at the cathedral faded with time, but the memory of John’s ardor only grew more vivid. When she’d walked away, had she destroyed what he felt for her?
She could examine her feelings with honesty and acknowledged it was John’s physical beauty and the inexplicable aura of danger that surrounded him which first attracted her. She had looked upon him as an escape from her mundane existence. At that moment, when she feared she would lose him, her deep love for him shook her like a powerful ache.
A carriage rumbled through the gates, the wheels clattering over the gravel drive. Maria! Sibella ran, clutching her bonnet, the dog yapping at her heels.
Her sister waved from the coach window, a stylish ermine cap over her dark hair as the duke’s carriage came to a halt outside the dower house.
A footman in the duke’s magenta and light blue livery helped her sister, resplendent in a fur-lined pelisse of olive green, down the steps. Sibella rushed across the frosty lawn to embrace her. “Dearest, what brings you here?” Maria looked as a young bride should, happy and well loved.
“We have been visiting Harry’s Aunt Agatha and spent last night a few miles from Tunbridge Wells. I had to come and tell you…” Maria glanced at the footman and took h
er arm. “Come inside.”
After Sibella ordered tea, they perched together on the blue sofa in the drawing room, now papered in marine blue and cream stripes, blue silk damask curtains at the window.
“I like your color scheme,” Maria said, gazing round. “Where is Mama?”
“She is still abed. I’ve sent the footman to tell her you’re here.”
Maria clutched her hands together. “She should hear my news first, but I cannot keep this to myself a moment longer.” Her eyes glowed. “Sib, I believe I am with child.”
Sibella hugged her. “Are you sure, dearest? It’s so early.”
Maria rested her hand on her flat stomach. “I just know. And I have missed my monthly courses.”
“Mama will be pleased. Another grandchild,” Sibella said. “The very thing to cheer her after such unsettling times.”
A maid brought in the tea things. She breathed in the fragrance of a new tea she had been trying. Maria took a sip and put down her cup. “Delicious. How are you, Sib?”
Sibella straightened the lace edging on her cuff. “I am well. Why? Don’t I look it?”
“Mmm.” Maria tilted her head. “The strain has gone from your face, but…”
“But what?”
“A certain restlessness in your manner has replaced it.”
Impossible to keep secrets from Maria. “Perhaps I am a little restive, now everything is in order here.”
“After Christmas when you return to London…”
Sibella pressed her lips together. “A season does not appeal.”
“No, but I thought…” Maria shook her head and her eyes turned sad. “No word from Strathairn?”
“Yes. He writes often.”
Maria smiled. “Does he? Well then.”
“He is ensconced in his Yorkshire estate, deeply involved with his horses, he writes as an old friend,” Sibella said. “He might have met someone else.”
“You know as well as I do that isn’t possible. He’s in love with you, Sib.”
Sibella’s chest tightened. “I thought so.”
“He has stayed away deliberately. I advised him to.”
Sibella stared at her. “You did? You might have told me.”
Maria’s cheeks flushed. “You would have sent him away forever. You needed time to think.”
Sibella poured them both another cup. “That is true.”
“When he does come, everything will fall into place.”
“If you are wrong, and he fails to appear, I shall be perfectly happy to remain here with Mama,” she lied, with a defiant toss of her head.
Maria grinned. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“I threw myself at him once and he rejected me.” Sibella shrugged. “I shall accept friendship if that is what he offers me. I have my pride.”
“Don’t let pride stand in the way of happiness.”
“I’ve been trying my darndest to forget him.”
“I’m sure you’ve succeeded. When he comes, you’ll treat him like last season’s hat.” Maria laughed. “He’s such a big handsome fellow with his gold-streaked hair and stubborn chin.”
“Not stubborn,” Sibella said, rushing to his defense.
“Ah. Is that so?” Maria laughed again.
“You can be so annoying.” Sibella smiled. “As you are with child, I shall ignore you.”
“Maria! Where have you come from?” Chaloner walked into the room. “How is Harry?” He threw himself into a chair and they were soon catching up on news.
Chaloner interrupted their chatter. “Would you mind leaving us for a moment, Maria? I need to talk to Sib.”
Maria wrinkled her nose. “What can you possibly tell her that I’m not privy to?” When he frowned, she held up her hands. “Very well, I want to see Mama, anyway.”
Sibella handed him a cup of tea. “Whatever is the matter?”
“It’s about Strathairn,” he said.
“What about him?” Her heart began to thump wildly.
“Not bad news, nothing like that.”
She edged forward on her chair. “Thank heavens!”
“I need to make a confession. Last year at Strathairn’s hunt ball, I ordered him not to become too interested in you. At that time, I believed he was not a suitable husband for you. And he wasn’t. He did agree, Sib.”
“Yes, he would have.”
Chaloner sat with his hands on his knees, his dark head drooped, so filled with remorse she instantly forgave him.
“John always avoided talk of marriage. Spies should not marry, you see,” she explained.
Chaloner straightened. “Ah, you understand.”
She perched on the arm of his chair. “I know you had my best interests at heart.”
He rested an arm around her waist, gazing at her with his slow smile. “But everything has now changed.”
“Why?”
“I’ve had a letter from him. He has resigned from military intelligence. He says he intends to settle down, and I have good reason to believe him.”
She gasped. Strathairn hadn’t mentioned it in his letters. “I was thrilled to hear the news of his investiture. No one is more deserving than John. But to leave the military! I never expected that.”
“Becoming a marquess brings more responsibly.” He stood and patted her head. “I’ll go up to see Mama.”
She rose and walked with him to the stairs. “Thank you for telling me.”
“That’s not the only news I bring.” A gleam lit his eyes. “I’ve invited him down for Christmas. Sent Edward as an emissary.”
“My goodness!” She put her hands to her cheeks.
Chaloner grinned at her shocked expression and turned to go upstairs.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Winter in Yorkshire began early and could be bitter, but the day was pleasantly mild as Strathairn rode his horse across the paddocks to the stables. Strange, but he didn’t miss the excitement of Whitehall, although Parnham tried to tempt him back. Their intelligence network had discovered that while Forney lay ill after his rescue from the sinking boat, he was already plotting to return to England and tried to engender interest from his old colleagues.
Most had lost their taste for it and considered Bonaparte a spent force. All but Moreau turned him down flat. When the count regained his health, he traveled to England. He landed in East Sussex where he remained for some months on a Frenchman’s farm. After, taking the Frenchman into custody, with some persuasion, they learned how the plan was formulated. Countess Forney and Moreau first arrived in London to set their plan in motion while Forney remained out of sight. Moreau traveled north to stir up the people, and Countess Forney set about abducting Guy’s baby. Forney came up to London to witness the Prince of Wales’s assassination at Moreau’s hand and to watch Strathairn suffer defeat on that day before Forney shot him.
Strathairn felt more at ease and his troubling dreams of the war seemed to have vanished. He did not attempt to delve too deeply into the reason. It was enough that he slept well and woke looking forward to the day. All he needed now to make his life complete was for Sibella to be here with him. And he must woo her. So, he began to write to her, telling her about his day, the horses, the beautiful place in which he lived, how Vaughn’s romance was progressing or the lack of it, and the puppies’ antics. He talked about Linden Hall, how it sorely needed a lady to care for it.
Men were not domestic creatures, and he hated such a beautiful house to go unloved. He kept his letters light in tone, filling them with humorous situations and descriptions. He resisted waxing lyrical about how much he loved her, nor tried to draw a declaration from her. And he did not say he was coming to see her. Why he wasn’t sure, but perhaps he feared that she would hastily reply and end their association. Time, he thought was on his side. She had loved him, he’d been sure of it. Did she still?
And her letters were much in the same vein as his. About her garden, her mother settling into the dower house, news about M
aria and Harry. And how much more relaxed Chaloner seemed, which she put down to Lavinia liking to have Brandreth Park finally under her control.
Strathairn rode across the cobbles of the stable block and found Edward patting a horse and talking to his younger brother. He dismounted and threw the reins to a stable hand. “Edward! How good to see you.”
Edward shook his hand. “I must address you correctly, my lord marquess! Chaloner witnessed your investiture by the Privy Council.”
“Let’s not make a fuss over nothing,” Strathairn said with a grin. He hadn’t expected to care, but found he did. The work he’d performed over the years had in some way been ennobled, and his contribution to his country valued. Work, considered objectionable by most gentlemen of the ton, which had seared his very soul. He only wished his father could have witnessed the formal ceremony in the Lords and heard Prinny’s fulsome praise.
“I’ve been visiting a friend in Edinburgh,” Edward explained. “How are you both? Still getting on?”
“We’ve become a trifle dull.” Strathairn winked at Vaughn, “And welcome your company.” He resisted mentioning Vaughn’s flourishing relationship with the apothecary’s daughter in the village, although he wrote Sibella about it, because Vaughn told him she knew. He doubted Chaloner would agree to them marrying.
The companionship of the two Brandreths caused him a pang of yearning. If Chaloner had not warned him off marrying Sibella, he might have given in to the impulse last year. But he’d conceded that at that time. Chaloner had been right. He would not have made Sibella happy. But he was confident he could now, and was keen to convince her he longed for hearth and home with her at his side. He seethed with impatience to advise her of it. “Time for a drink, I believe. You will stay of course.”
Edward chatted about that which he’d found inferior in Scottish society compared to the English as they walked along the gravel drive to the front of the hall where his butler waited dwarfed by the entry. “Lord Edward will be staying, Rhodes. Please inform the housekeeper.”
Edward’s carriage stood on the circle, and Strathairn gave orders to have it driven to the stable mews.
Dangerous Lords Boxed Set Page 50