“Your father will have a fit.”
“My father and stepmother are so busy with all their children, they won’t care. When I wrote and told them I had changed my residence, they didn’t even raise a question. Well, my stepmother wished to know when I could visit again because I’m so good with the children. You know she’s had another baby.”
“Another one?” Aunt Agatha rolled her eyes. “The woman is past the age of reason for such nonsense. Why, it is almost indecent.”
Gillian couldn’t help a bitter smile, struck by the irony. “Yes, I’ve been four years married and no children because I have a husband who doesn’t want me. Meanwhile, my father is three and fifty and he just sired his eighth.”
Aunt Agatha dismissed her concern with a wave of her gloved hand. “He married a younger woman.”
“Who is very fertile,” Gillian added.
The quip startled a laugh out of her aunt. She reached over and patted Gillian’s arm. “At least I did one good thing. If I hadn’t swept you out of there, you would still be tending your stepmother’s babies. I had so wanted happiness for you, Gillian. I’d feared they’d keep you a spinster for their own selfish reasons.”
“Please, Aunt, believe me when I say I am grateful you gave me a Season. And my marriage could have turned out differently. But you see, Wright was never committed to me. And he was honest about it…although after the fact. In a way, I have to say I respect him for loving someone. After knowing his parents and the way they think, I realize Wright probably didn’t imagine I would mind his loving another woman. Both the marquess and the marchioness have lovers. Sometimes several at a time. It’s absolutely dizzying the way they carry on—”
Gillian broke off, embarrassed to be carrying tales. “My father would say they are quite hedonistic,” she concluded.
Aunt Agatha stared thoughtfully up at the bare tree branches over their heads. “Do you believe Wright is?” She lowered her gaze to Gillian.
The question caught Gillian by surprise. “Hedonistic? No. In fact, I believe he is amazingly loyal. I think that loyalty made me the most envious of Jess. To have a man care that deeply for you. Don’t mistake me, Aunt, there is much to admire about Wright. He has a purpose in his life, much more so than his parents. And his brothers didn’t give a care or concern for anyone other than themselves.”
“They both died, didn’t they?”
Gillian nodded. “Yes, last year. Almost within four months of each other. It’s very sad except both of them died of causes that could have been avoided if they had been more moral and upstanding. Their deaths are the reason the marquess had Wright ordered home. He didn’t want to run the risk of the third and last son being shot by the French.”
“Was Wright happy about that?”
Slipping her free hand inside the warmth of her velvet muff, Gillian confessed, “Sadly, I don’t know. I have no idea of how the man I made the mistake of marrying thinks or what he feels.”
“My dear, dear girl. I am so sorry,” Aunt Agatha said. “But perhaps Wright has had a change of heart and wants you in his life, something you should wish. Now that he is his father’s heir, you will be a marchioness.”
Gillian sighed heavily. Aunt Agatha could be very single-minded. “Wright doesn’t care about me.”
“He has been writing you, every week.”
“To order me home.” Gillian turned to watch Andres bring the horse to a puffing halt. “And he certainly holds no passion for me.”
“Are you discovering you are a passionate woman?” her aunt surmised.
“Yes,” Gillian said softly. “I am.” Andres caught them watching him and smiled. She smiled back until her aunt’s new theory intruded upon the moment.
“Or are you attempting to strike back at Wright?” Aunt Agatha wondered. “That’s what this divorce talk really is, isn’t it? You want to humiliate him. If you do, that must mean you still care for him—”
Shocked by her aunt’s conclusion, Gillian interrupted her to insist, “I love another—”
“Or do you just think you do. That silver-eyed Spaniard is handsome. I’ll give you that. But you are better than he, Gillian. If you aren’t wise, you could be making the same mistake all over again—”
“What mistake?” Andres’s accented voice asked.
Both women turned in surprise, neither having expected or anticipated his approach.
Andres was still in shirt sleeves, but a stable lad hurried up to him with his jacket and gray wool greatcoat.
Gillian knew he had to be aware they’d been talking about him. Andres always picked up on the nuances, especially since both she and Aunt Agatha had guilty expressions on their faces. However, he gifted her aunt with his easy, confident smile and bowed over her hand. “Hello, Lady Kensett. Have you had the opportunity to see the lovely new girl in my life?”
“If you are discussing the mare, I barely noticed. I don’t like foreign horseflesh,” Aunt Agatha answered, the undercurrent of unpleasantness to her tone leaving no one to doubt she referenced him behind the word “foreign.”
Gillian wanted to take her by the hand and march her to the house as if she was a willful child but Andres took it all in stride. Unlike Wright, who had been born into privilege and wealth, no one had handed Andres anything. He may have been Spanish nobility but circumstances and the war had robbed him of all that he owned. Yes, he’d lived by his wits but life had taught him compassion—and perhaps that was what Gillian admired the most about him. He was unfailingly respectful in his dealing with everyone, including the servants and noticed the slightest details such as when Gillian changed her hair style or appeared to have had a difficult night’s sleep.
“I have a great appreciation for your fine horses,” Andres said smoothly. “However, for breeding it is good to introduce a new bloodline from time to time. It makes for stronger, more intelligent offspring.”
Aunt Agatha’s gaze narrowed. Her mouth turned down into a set frown, the sort the aged take on when they are certain the young are too foolish to protect themselves. “Be careful, Barón. Lady Wright is not a mare to be culled away from the herd by some randy, less-than-to-be-admired stallion.”
Gillian was mortified by her aunt’s statement. She started to protest but Andres’s hand on her arm stayed her. “Your concern is understandable, my lady,” he said. “But I assure you, Lady Kensett, my intentions toward the lovely Lady Wright are most honorable.”
If Gillian wasn’t already in love with him, she would have fallen so in that moment. Turning to him, she leaned close, her shoulder touching his. She smiled. Their faces were inches away from each other and it was as if the rest of the world, including her disapproving aunt, faded away.
It hadn’t been easy for Gillian to face her desire. She’d wanted to honor her wedding vows and, truthfully, her pain over years of being ignored was so great that when she’d first arrived at Huntleigh, a liaison of any sort would have been out of the question.
But Andres’s presence had breathed new life, new hopes and dreams into her. And he loved her. She could see it in his eyes.
Life was too short to live without love. She’d made a mistake in marrying Wright, but a mistake could always be corrected—
One of the stable lads gave a shout that a rider approached. Gillian glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the drive. As her cousin’s hostess when he and his wife weren’t in residence, it would be her responsibility to welcome this new guest.
However, any welcoming words died in her throat as she realized who the tall rider on the broad-chested bay was.
Aunt Agatha recognized who he was as well. “Thank God,” she said fervently. “It’s Wright.”
She turned to Gillian with a look of triumph. “See, he does care. He’s come to take you in hand at last.”
Chapter Two
By the look of the mud splattered on his horse and his boots, Wright had ridden hard to reach Huntleigh. He’d also traveled alone.
Gillian t
ook a step back, uncertain what this could mean. Her experiences traveling with his family had always meant a contingent of servants, outriders, and hangers-on. The marquess and his marchioness never went anywhere alone…unless it was for a romantic assignation.
Wright dismounted, throwing the reins to a stable lad, but taking a moment to loosen the horse’s girth himself. He gave the animal a pat on his neck, a gesture the horse returned by turning his head for a nuzzle.
Gillian could barely breathe, let alone think. It had been four years since she’d last seen her husband, and yet he’d figured large in her life for almost every day of them.
Gone was the uniform he’d so proudly worn. He now wore boots and leather breeches beneath a wool watchcoat, its military cut flattering to his physique. His wide brimmed hat had been pulled down low over his eyes. He took it off and pushed his dark hair back as he gave instructions for the care of his horse to the stable lad.
Gillian’s impulse was to pick up her skirts and run up to the house, but that would have been the coward’s way, and she was no coward. Not any longer. So, she stood her ground, Andres at her side, and studied her husband with a critical eye.
Wright needed a haircut. The hair at the nape of his neck brushed the back of his coat. And he seemed to have grown taller over the years, if that were possible, and harder.
Then again, there were some things about her husband that were very familiar, such as his square jaw line, his strong nose, and his startling blue, deep-set eyes. His brows were straight and humorless, his lower lip full and sensuous, and he moved with restless energy—until he noticed her.
For a long moment, he studied her with the same critical eye she had just given with him. What he thought was not reflected in his expression.
Gillian realized she held her breath and released it.
He noticed even that small movement. He began walking straight for her.
Andres placed a protective hand in the small of her back. Gillian was thankful for that light touch. It kept her knees from buckling.
If Wright noticed the Spaniard by her side, he gave no indication. His gaze was honed in on her.
“Praise the Lord, he has arrived,” Aunt Agatha said under her breath.
“You didn’t write him, did you?” Gillian demanded without looking at her aunt.
“I should have,” her aunt murmured.
Andres leaned close to her ear. “Amor, you needn’t fear him. Not while I’m here.”
“I don’t fear him, my love. I dislike him.” Years of being treated with indifference had left her cold, unfeeling—and yet, she was very aware of him.
That awareness made her uncertain. She’d thought she was over him.
There had been a time she had expected Wright to come for her.
He hadn’t.
And now that she was happy, when she’d finally discovered a measure of peace and contentment, that would be the moment when he would arrive.
Wright came to a stop three feet from her. Since she stood on the path leading up the hillside to the house, they were almost at eye level. He seemed oblivious to anyone else but her.
She spoke first, pleased she sounded calm and in control of herself. “Hello, Wright.”
“Hello, Wife,” he answered, the set of his mouth grim.
His gaze flicked over to Andres. So, he had noticed the Spaniard. She wondered if he’d heard rumors and if the thought of her with another man had been what had finally roused him to seek her out. Of course, he’d traveled for naught. It was too late for them and now was as good a time as any to ask for a divorce.
Gillian opened her mouth to speak but Aunt Agatha must have sensed her mood because she quickly said, “Perhaps, Wright, you and my niece would like to go to the house where it is more private.” She started to take a step off the path to clear the way for them but Gillian stopped her.
“There is no necessity for us to go to the house.” She smiled at Wright. This was her home, her little piece of England. It felt good to be confident in front of him. “Wright won’t be staying long.”
An angry muscle in his jaw tightened—and for a second, the memory of their last argument hit her full force. She’d been in so much pain, and he’d said he was powerless to help her because he loved another.
His jaw had tightened exactly this way, and then he’d left.
“I have no intention of returning to London,” she informed him, raising her voice so all could hear her. “I will not go. And you are not welcome here, Wright. Not at all.”
Wright’s response was to turn to Andres. He scowled and bit out, “Who are you?”
“The barón de Vasconia,” Andres said, his tone just as insolent. He didn’t offer a bow and she felt the lightning thrill of triumph. Good. Let him know how it feels to have your spouse choose another—
“Do you always stand so close to other men’s wives?” Wright drawled with deadly intent.
Gillian’s exaltation vanished.
She moved between the two men. “You are out of line, Wright,” she said, her heart beating rapidly. His presence was setting off emotions she didn’t wish to investigate closely. What had Aunt Agatha suggested, that her talk of divorce was to humiliate him? To hurt him as he had hurt her…
Wright swung his sharp gaze from Andres to herself. “We need to talk, Gillian.”
“I have no desire to speak to you at all,” she answered, and needing to put space between them, announced to no one in particular, “I’m going to the house.” She started to turn.
“Very well,” Wright said, “I will go with you.”
“That is not necessary,” Gillian stated flatly.
“It is,” came the strong reply.
She wanted to argue. She wanted to lash out at him with her tongue until he bled.
But she wouldn’t. For whatever reason, she couldn’t. Words, angry, sad, broken, bitter—all clogged her throat. Instead, her muff on one hand, she picked up her skirts and started up the path.
He must have taken a step after her because she heard Andres say in his lovely rolling accent, “I am sorry, my lord, but she does not wish you to accompany her.” She turned to see that her gallant Spaniard was blocking Wright’s way up the path.
“And who does she want to accompany her?” Wright wondered, the words almost a snarl of frustration. “You?”
Andres did not flinch. “If I am so honored,” he answered.
Gillian’s feet were suddenly rooted to the earth. She had not anticipated Andres doing battle for her. He was tall but Wright was taller, and more muscular. And far more threatening. “Barón, it is all right,” she said.
He shot her a heart-stopping smile. “But it is not. If my Gillian wishes to be alone, then it is my pleasure to see it is so.”
My Gillian. He had only called her that in their private conversations. Along with amor.
She could have kissed him for his chivalry in protecting her, but he should not have done so. Not in front of everyone. Wright had been correct. They should have spoken in private.
As it was, her husband chose to ignore the Spaniard. He looked up the path at her. “Gillian, we can do this one of two ways. I’ve written. I’ve been reasonable. I have been patient. I’m asking you politely and within my rights as a husband for you to come home with me.”
“And my other choice?” she asked, her earlier confusion concerning him vanishing in the face of his high-handedness.
“I will resort to force.”
Force? That would be unreasonable and Wright never did anything unreasonable—especially for her. Or so she had thought.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she informed him.
“My lady, I don’t make threats,” he answered.
Gillian shook her head. “Why?” she asked, puzzled. “You don’t desire me, Wright. You barely knew I existed after our wedding and we haven’t spoken for four years. Indeed, when you returned from the Continent six months ago, you didn’t search me out. So, why are you doing this now? W
hy have you just remembered I’m your wife and decided to stake a claim?”
A shadow crossed his face, a moment of hesitation from a man she had never seen hesitate about anything. It caught her off guard, made her wonder…until he said, “I want you home.”
Gillian drew back, every suspicious bone in her body sounding a warning. She no longer worried that they had an audience. “I am home, Wright. This is my home. We don’t suit. We never have. Weren’t you the one who told me as much years ago? So, let us be free of each other. Set me aside, do what you will, but I’m not leaving Huntleigh with you.”
“And I say you will,” he countered, one foot already on the path leading up to her. “By law you have no choice. No one can stop me from taking you—”
“I can,” Andres answered, being so bold as to grab Wright’s arm and turning him around to face him. “I will.”
Wright’s eyes narrowed. “Leave it, Baron,” he answered, not bothering to place a Spanish accent on the title. “This is not your fight.”
“But it is, amigo,” Andres said, addressing Wright as an equal. “Gillian does not have to go anywhere she does not wish to be.”
Tears burned Gillian’s eyes. No one had ever stood up for her before. Ever.
“Are you challenging me?” Wright asked, his voice deadly quiet.
“I am,” Andres answered.
Gillian’s tears evaporated, replaced by stunned horror as the meaning of their words sank in.
“Swords?” Wright asked without missing a beat. “I’m afraid it must be done now. I don’t have time to waste. I wish to be back on the road as quickly as possible.”
“Then you may leave now,” Andres said amicably.
“Not without my wife,” Wright answered.
Andres shrugged. “Swords, pistols, knives. They are all fine with me.”
The Earl Claims His Wife Page 2