The next week was a blur in Gillian’s mind. There was always something to be done and Wright hired a host of workmen to do it.
She knew how to set up and run a household and didn’t shy from doing so, in spite of Mrs. Vickery’s dark mutterings.
Wright had an agency send her servants to be interviewed. She reasoned that in a household of this size, she needed a cook, a scullery maid, and two maids.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Vickery did not want to leave their employ and offered to serve as cook. After tasting a few of her meals, Gillian agreed to the change. The food Mrs. Vickery made wasn’t fancy, but it was delicious and she was already wise to Anthony’s many needs.
As for maids, the agency sent over Alice and Kate, a pair of sisters fresh from the country. They were good, hard-working girls, the sort Gillian liked. She would teach them what they needed to know.
It would be nice to hire a nurse for Anthony but until his feeding schedule became more routine, she and Wright agreed they would manage it.
She had to admit she was impressed with Wright. He didn’t shirk from feedings or changing a nappy. He’d obviously been seeing to the bulk of Anthony’s care before she arrived, but he assumed a partnership with her now.
The first day of their truce, she was on guard to his wrangling, but he didn’t try anything other than to treat her with respect and consideration. Slowly, day after day, her guard came down and they fell into an easy pattern of living together—especially as Anthony started to improve.
He still had colicky moments, but he was gaining weight and the terrible hunger began to leave him. His body took on flesh and he could sleep longer between feedings.
Come Sunday, Gillian and Wright felt confident enough to leave the baby with Kate while they attended a church service. Gillian was absolutely certain Wright was not a regular churchgoer. She assumed he was attending for her. So she was surprised when the rector greeted him by name and the two of them had a good conversation.
Of course, she was introduced as his wife. If the rector wondered where she had been all this time, he kept his own counsel.
Standing beside her husband during the service, sharing a hymnal with him and hearing the conviction in his voice as he repeated the prayers, she felt humbled. Reflecting on her attitude and reactions to her husband, she could silently confess to God and herself, she’d been a bit shrewish at times. It was her only defense against a man who had proven himself unerringly kind over the last several days.
I mustn’t care for him, she argued with God. I will leave. I must.
God’s response was Divine Silence, Gillian’s least favorite answer.
Mrs. Vickery served an early dinner that day since the servants customarily received a half day off. Gillian and Wright usually ate every meal together. They talked of Anthony or plans for the house or schemed of how they were going to curry Liverpool’s favor. Then, they would go off to their separate rooms.
However, today was different. The meal was served and done and there was a good portion of the afternoon and the evening left.
Gillian found herself at loose ends. Anthony was sleeping, there were no letters to write—the only chore she would allow herself on the Sabbath—and there was nothing to do save read a book of poetry that she wasn’t truly enjoying.
“Would you like to play backgammon?”
Wright’s question surprised and intrigued her. “What is backgammon?”
“A game of dice and strategy,” he assured her.
“I’ve never played it.”
“I played it on the Peninsula. It will challenge you, depending upon your luck. I’ll set up the board and you may try your hand.”
He set it up in the sitting room before the fire. A cold wind blew hard outside, but here, everything was cozy. While Wright was teaching her the game, Anthony did wake. They fed him and brought him down to be with them. Wright held the baby on his lap. Anthony was strong enough now to hold his head up or grasp a finger held out to him. He seemed to watch the proceedings of the game with interest. He knew them now. When they came to feed him, he would wave his fists and kick his legs.
Of course, Wright won the first game, but Gillian saw where she could have an advantage.
She won the second.
Her husband laughed at her. “Best two out of three,” he challenged.
Gillian lost, but quickly said, “Best three out of five.”
In that manner they passed the evening, and the next, and the next. Wright was a good competitor. He played to win and expected her to do the same. Usually Anthony was with them. Gillian liked to see babies on the floor where they could move around as they pleased. Anthony didn’t move much but he was starting to investigate his fingers and his feet.
One evening, Gillian clapped her hands because she’d won a particularly close game against Wright. Anthony turned toward the sound and smiled at her.
It was the most charming smile. Stunned by the suddenness of it, Gillian said, “He smiled.”
“Anthony?” Wright picked the baby up from his lap and turned him around to face him so he could see for himself. He started making the silliest noises to make Anthony smile at him.
But then their baby did something completely unexpected—he laughed.
For a second, neither Wright nor Gillian could breathe. No sound on earth could be closer to that of an angel’s voice than Anthony’s first laughter.
It brought tears to her eyes. She leaned across the backgammon board and kissed his forehead, and he smiled again.
Wright reached out his hand. “Thank you,” he said. His jaw was tense but his eyes had gone soft and she knew he was as deeply touched by the sound as she was. “He wouldn’t be this strong if it wasn’t for you.”
Gillian sat back. “He’s blessed that you went in search of him.” She didn’t hide the admiration in her voice. “You saved his life. Few men would have defied someone like the marquess or tried to save another man’s baby.”
Wright lowered his eyes and a dull red rose up his neck over her compliment. “Others would have done the same.”
“No, Wright. Anthony was a trial with his constant crying. Not everyone would have stood beside him as you have.”
Her husband smiled, pleased with her compliment.
The laughter marked a new beginning for Anthony. A new awareness about his surroundings and his reactions to them. Day by day, he became more responsive and showed more personality.
Wright began making plans for wooing Lord Liverpool—a step Gillian found she was reluctant to take. She was enjoying their winter evenings spent by the warmth of the fire playing backgammon. They didn’t talk about the argument they’d had when she’d first arrived, and sometimes she found herself imagining they could go on this way forever.
It was foolish of her, but there all the same.
She tried to focus on Andres, but even though it had only been two weeks, she found she could not completely recall his features.
Instead, her mind’s eye pictured Wright’s secret smile of pleasure as he moved a game piece to block hers. Or the way he held Anthony with such tender care it twisted her heart.
One night, she heard singing. She rose from her bed and tiptoed across the hall. The nursery door was slightly open and she could see Wright singing to Anthony. He stood in the middle of the room while his body rocked to the bawdy tune he was softly sharing with the baby.
She backed away from the door, not wanting to disturb the moment.
Andres would do these things, she repeatedly reminded herself. Andres was kind and good. He was heroic. He would have searched for an illegitimate half-brother and treated him like a son.
Except it wasn’t Andres who had been called upon to accept this responsibility, but Wright, and Gillian couldn’t help but admire him for it.
She also knew she should write Andres. She owed him a letter explaining the events of the past weeks and to give him reassurance. She framed the letter in her mind. Once, she even took out paper a
nd ink…but she hadn’t written. The words in her mind didn’t translate well on paper. Perhaps because what with the baby and the servants and all the cleaning and painting she was organizing for the house, she didn’t have time to give a letter her proper attention.
Or perhaps any reassurances or promises she would make to Andres in the letter wouldn’t be honest.
The truth was that in spite of her best intentions, she had fallen in love with Wright—again. As often as he’d broken her heart, she still carried an infatuation for him, and probably always would, except this time was different. Seeing him with Anthony, watching him nurture the child while struggling to meet her expectations gave her a new measure of Wright as a man. Their years apart had brought a new maturity to him and seemed to have made him into all that was good and noble.
He just didn’t love her…or not as much as she loved him.
There was a terrible danger in loving so much. It made a person a bit mad with wanting. And if it wasn’t returned measure for measure, life could become a hell on earth.
Gillian knew. She’d almost been there before. In many ways, Wright’s going off to war had saved her.
But now he was back. Bolder, handsomer, kinder, and more thoughtful than she could ever have imagined.
Yes, she had to write Andres…but not quite yet.
She blamed her decision on cowardice, fearing the truth.
Brian was falling in love with his wife.
His growing respect and admiration for her was coloring his understanding of love in ways he’d never imagined. He’d thought he had been “in love” with Jess, and he had been—but it had been the love of youth, of responsibility, or having no choice but to care for her.
He had not respected Jess’s intellect or admired her courage. He’d known nothing of her personal resourcefulness because he’d managed to see to all her needs. She’d been a defenseless lamb in an uncaring world…much as Anthony was, and her willingness to toss Anthony aside was all the more puzzling to Brian.
In contrast, Gillian would fight for her children, just as she battled for Anthony’s life.
What man could not fall in love with such a woman?
However he’d broken Gillian’s trust not once, but twice, and if he wasn’t careful, she’d be gone in two weeks’ time. His backgammon games had gone a long way in laying siege to her defenses but he knew better than to grow complacent. The time had come to prove himself worthy of her.
With that thought, he set off for St. James Street and the gentleman’s club called White’s. Sooner or later, every man of importance in London graced the doors of either Brook’s or White’s.
Brook’s was a Whig establishment and his father was one of its leading members. White’s catered to a Tory clientele—and Lord Liverpool was a Tory.
When Brian had defied his father and moved from under his roof, his father’s first step had been to cut off all resources, including his club privileges. Brian had not been threatened by this. He did have an income of his own and acquaintances willing to bring him into any club he wished as a guest.
All he had to do was find one of them, which was easy enough to do. Within minutes of approaching White’s, he saw Lord Harlan Royce, “Digger” to his friends. Digger was almost as round as he was tall, moved with exceeding haste in everything he did, spoke in abrupt sentences, and was one of the brightest minds Brian had ever met if one wished to discuss physics. He knew little on any other topic. He was hurrying up the street now, his head down against the wind, his coat flapping in the breeze as he headed for White’s entrance.
Brian stepped in his path. “Digger?”
His friend paused just in time to keep from mowing Wright down. He squinted up at him. “Wright?”
“Yes, it is,” Brian said with a surplus of male bonhomie. “How have you been?”
“Good. Married. Like it. You?”
“I’m back from the Peninsula. I commanded a regiment there.”
Digger was impressed. “Worked for Wellington?”
“I was on his staff at one time.”
“Tell me about it over lunch,” Digger demanded.
“I’m not a member.”
Digger’s head swiveled to him. “Not a member?”
“Been to war and all that. Not kept it up,” Brian replied.
But his friend was too intelligent for that. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Heard about you and your father,” Digger said. “Impressed you had the bollocks to tell him what is what. I hear he is angry.”
“Foaming at the mouth.”
Digger laughed. “Is he now? He used to make your brothers dance to his tune. Didn’t care how they looked in front of everyone. Would chew them right down to their boots in front of a crowd.”
“He’s learning I’m not so amenable. Even if he does cut off the funds. I have money of my own.” Not a fortune, but he was keeping ahead of the game.
His friend nodded. “I barely speak to my father. Can’t stand the man. Of course, he doesn’t care because I’ve got three brothers ahead of me. Why couldn’t I have been born a girl?”
“You wouldn’t want that,” Brian said, knowing that Digger especially would be miserable.
His friend gave a sharp laugh. “You are right!” He waved Brian ahead through the door the doorman held open. “Come, let’s have a good healthy drink and a hearty lunch while you tell me all of your adventures.”
And in that manner, Brian gained entrance to White’s.
He was greeted with warm respect by the staff and old acquaintances followed by an enjoyable lunch. Several other gentlemen, most friends of Digger’s, curious about the war, joined them. They asked intelligent questions and Brian was happy to give them answers from his perspective—especially to Lord Taggert, who wondered if Napoleon could be defeated.
“He can and he will be by good British steel and bullets,” Brian answered and could feel the mood of the gentlemen around him sway in favor of the war.
Brian also made a point of speaking highly of his wife, letting everyone know that Lady Wright was under his roof. Men were bigger gossips than women. By evening his marital happiness, appearance of obvious good spirits, and opinions on the war would be circulating through the ton.
Digger had another appointment. He apologized to Brian that he could not stay but left him in the capable hands of his comrades. By the end of a half hour’s conversation, Brian had received three invitations to dinner and another to a ball. Everyone knew of his father’s displeasure. Instead of making him an outcast, he was revered and respected as a bit of a rebel.
The hour approached two and Brian debated whether he should leave or not. He chose to linger and was rewarded for his patience by the appearance of no less a person than his quarry, Lord Liverpool.
Although Liverpool carried the cabinet title, “Secretary of State for War and the Colonies,” he was of the same age as Brian and had also served in the military. However, their paths had never crossed.
Now was the time to be bold.
Excusing himself from the knot of men with whom he’d been discussing the war, Brian made ready to leave, using his approach on the door as his opportunity to have a word with Liverpool.
His lordship was of average height with a long nose and the dark eyes people attributed to his part-Indian mother. He was capable and competent, exactly the sort of man Brian liked working for.
Liverpool was accompanied by his secretary, a man named Robert Blount, who had also served under Wellington, and by Lord Chester, a personal friend.
Brian approached the door. As he came shoulder to shoulder with the great man himself, he stopped. “My lord, how fortunate it is to meet you.”
Liverpool had been speaking to Chester. He turned to see who addressed him and his brows rose in a lack of recognition.
Brian bowed. “Brian Ranson, Lord Wright. We’ve met but I don’t know that you recall the acquaintance.”
His lordship frowned. “Know your father.”
Damn the bad luck! Brian waited, not speaking.
“I heard you fought well. You were at Talavera?”
“I was, my lord.”
“Bloody mess.” He studied Brian a moment. “Wellington wrote me. He likes to hand-pick my staff.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“I wish only to serve my country, my lord.”
“Your father has other plans. I’ve heard talk he wishes an ambassadorship for you.”
“Based upon what experience? I know little about the intricacies of diplomacy. I’m a military man, my lord. I understand warfare, supply routes, and what will keep an army marching. What good would such information do for anyone if I were posted to Holland to drink tea and share gossip?”
“Unfortunately, the gossip an ambassador shares could mean the protection of our country,” Liverpool countered. “A wise man should not refuse such a post.”
“A passionate one must go where he feels his comrades-in-arms need him,” Brian dared to answer.
Liverpool conceded his opinion with a shrug of his shoulders. “How far do I dare to challenge your father?”
“It’s a new order, my lord. My father is of the old. But we can discuss all of that later,” Brian said, smoothly changing the subject. “You are familiar with my wife, Lady Wright? Her father is the Reverend Isaac Hutchins.”
“And a good friend of mine,” Lord Liverpool said, all reserve leaving his manner. “One of the best lecturers I had at Christ Church. Made me think. I haven’t seen him in years but we correspond regularly. I knew you had married his daughter, but I have not had the pleasure of meeting her. Her father speaks highly of her.”
“As well he should,” Brian answered. “Indeed, I know my wife would be delighted to meet you. Her father has spoken of you often to her. Whenever she visits, one of his first questions is if your paths have crossed.” Brian didn’t know if this was true, but from his knowledge of Reverend Hutchins, it could be.
“Now that I am back from the Peninsula,” Brian said, “and we have our household set up, we’d be honored if you and your wife would be our guests for dinner.”
“I would be delighted,” his lordship said. “Reverend Hutchins is the sort of man one could trust with his soul. I assume his daughter is of the same ilk.”
The Earl Claims His Wife Page 14