“Of course I am. Do you need something mended?”
He briefly slid his eyes closed, during which time she thought he might be counting. “The servants would mend my clothing. You would apply needle and thread to some sort of artistic endeavor.”
“For what purpose?”
“To occupy yourself, as Margaret did. You might also read, pen letters, practice the piano. Genteel pursuits.”
“Is that how Margaret spent her day?”
“Quite so.”
“And you feel this is a worthwhile use of my time?”
“I daresay as much as possible you should give the appearance of being a lady of leisure.”
“Why?”
“Because it is tradition, and without tradition you have nothing.”
Before she could inform him of her opinion regarding his harrowing suggestions, Winston walked into the room and stood beside Devon’s chair. He waited patiently to be acknowledged. Everyone was so polite that sometimes she wanted to scream.
“Is there a problem, Winston?” she asked, unable to stand the suspense a moment longer.
Only his lips moved as he responded, “I do not perceive a problem, milady, but a missive has only this moment arrived for his lordship.”
Devon shoved back his chair. “I’ll take it here.”
“Very good, milord.” Winston passed the letter to him and stood at attention, waiting for whatever else his master might require.
She couldn’t determine Devon’s emotions as he read. Why did everyone here have to keep such a stiff upper lip? Why hide their feelings?
“Alert the driver to ready the carriage. I need to travel to London immediately.”
“Yes, milord.”
Devon turned his attention to her. “The missive is from my solicitor. Someone has an interest in the London house. I need to see to the paperwork.”
“Did you want me to go with you?”
She didn’t think he could have looked more surprised if she’d suddenly stood and removed all her clothes, but he quickly banked down his astonishment.
“I assure you that your presence is hardly necessary.”
“I know it’s not necessary,” she said quietly, “but I thought it might be welcomed. I’m sure this moment can’t be easy for you.”
“I think it would be best if you stayed here.” He stood. “I shall be gone a few days.”
He turned to leave.
“Devon?”
He faced her, his eyes devoid of emotion. For the briefest of moments during their wedding night, she’d thought he’d let down his guard and revealed the man behind the title, but now, standing before her, he was a stranger, keeping his emotions and thoughts in check. She desperately wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know how to reach him.
“I’m sorry things turned out as they did.”
He nodded brusquely before striding from the room. She shoved her plate aside.
She didn’t like the lurid thoughts entering her mind. She’d begun to wonder if his absences were an indication he had a mistress. He had to do something with his days. She was fairly certain he didn’t take needle and thread to cloth.
If there wasn’t a mistress here, was there one in London?
Georgina was surprised to discover that with Devon gone, she felt lonelier than ever. She shouldn’t have even noticed his absence. After all, it wasn’t as though they spent their days enjoying each other’s company or their nights locked in a passionate embrace.
Yet the high-ceilinged rooms seemed to echo a bit more deeply, and the faces in the portraits seemed to glare down a bit more sternly than before.
As a rule, she preferred solitude. She’d been overwhelmed by the balls to which Lauren had dragged her. Enthusiastic, outgoing Lauren simply hadn’t understood how Georgina could prefer the quiet of an afternoon or find contentment in sitting and talking with one person. Lauren was like a rose in full bloom gathering busy little bees around her. The more, the sweeter the honey.
Georgina more closely resembled the dandelion in the garden, clinging to the brick wall, hoping not to be noticed for fear of being plucked.
She didn’t know why she felt as she did. Her parents had been kind and generous. She’d always known they loved her. But they had been older than the parents of most of the children her age.
Her father had often not been at home. He’d always been searching for the best get-rich scheme. She’d thought he’d found it, only to discover riches didn’t last.
Her mother had ached from the years of picking cotton, her joints stiff. She’d preferred staying at home, and Georgina had spent much of her time in her mother’s company. She was glad of it, because she had stories and memories, but she’d hardly been prepared for the swirl of social life in London.
She wandered through the house, surprised to discover that within some of the rooms she couldn’t hear the rain at all while in others its steady downpour was a comfort.
She drew her shawl more closely around her. This drafty old mausoleum was cold. Marble floors and statuettes didn’t draw in any warmth. She thought of her house in Texas—the one in which they’d lived before her father had decided to travel with the wind—so small that she could stand in its center and see every room. Her home possessed warmth that had little to do with the Texas heat. Cozy. Comforting.
As she entered the foyer, she spotted Winston talking with a young serving girl, Martha.
“Winston?”
He turned and approached her. “Yes, milady?”
“While the first Lady Huntingdon was alive, was the house always this cold?”
“Quite so, milady. I believe the chill is a result of all the marble, which has a tendency to absorb and reflect the cold.”
She shook her head. “I’m not talking about the cold in the air. I’m talking about the atmosphere, the…” She waved her hand in frustration. “This house just doesn’t seem to invite a person to kick off his boots and relax.”
“I should be quite glad that it doesn’t.”
“Don’t you ever feel as though you’re walking through a museum where you’re not allowed to touch anything?”
“There are many valuable pieces here. Touching them would risk destroying them.”
“Quite right. We wouldn’t want to destroy anything, now, would we?” she asked with a sarcastic edge to her voice. Heaven forbid that she should manage to wipe out the stuffiness that surrounded her.
“No, milady, we would not.”
“Thank you, Winston.”
“Anytime I might be of service, milady, do not hesitate to call upon me.”
Leaving her frustrated, he walked away, while she headed for the stairs. How could she explain to these people what it was she wanted to create? But maybe what she was looking for came only from the warmth of love.
She stepped into the day nursery. The children were unnaturally quiet, busy at their studies. Young children should romp and play.
“Lady Huntingdon.” The governess greeted her without emotion.
The children’s heads bobbed up, hesitant smiles playing at the corners of their mouth. Thunder resounded, and Millicent’s eyes rounded, her smile completely withering.
Georgina turned to the governess, who sat in a rocker with a book on her lap. “Mrs. Tavers, how are you this afternoon?”
“Quite well, milady.”
“I’ll be glad to watch the children if you’d like to get some tea for yourself.”
“Milady—”
“I know. It’s simply not done, but since his lordship is in London, I think it will be all right.”
Mrs. Tavers set her book aside. “A spot of tea would be nice. Thank you, milady.”
She waited until the woman had left the room before dropping into the rocker and holding out her arms. Millicent immediately popped up from her chair, hurried across the short distance separating them, and clambered onto her lap.
“Are you afraid of the rain?” Georgina asked.
Mill
icent bobbed her head.
“She fears the thunder,” Noel provided. “At night, I sneak into her bed to protect her.”
“Do you?” Georgina asked.
He nodded, although he didn’t look all that brave himself. She held out her free arm. “I’m afraid of storms. Do you think you could sit on my lap?”
He was curled against her in the blink of an eye.
She began to rock back and forth, enjoying the slight weight of the children.
“When will Father be back?” Millicent asked.
“I’m not sure,” Georgina confessed. “How would you like to go on a picnic when the rain stops?”
“A picnic? What’s picnic?” Noel asked.
“You’ve never been on a picnic?” Georgina asked.
Both children slowly shook their head.
“Do you ever go outside?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Noel answered quickly. “We take a stroll in the morning and then in the afternoon.”
A stroll? “Do you ever run?”
“We’re not allowed to run,” he said. “It’s unseemly.”
Georgina was horrified. “Have you ever climbed a tree?”
He shook his head.
She hugged them close. “As soon as the weather clears, I’m going to take you on a picnic. We’ll run and climb trees.”
“Will you climb trees?” Noel asked, obviously not certain whether he should be delighted or affronted at the thought of his stepmother hiking up her skirts and scrambling from limb to limb.
She smiled wickedly. “Of course.”
“Will Mrs. Tavers?” Millicent asked.
“No, I think for our first picnic we’ll leave her here.”
Devon was barely aware of the speed with which the coach traveled over the rough country road toward his estate.
Selling the London townhouse—a house his grandfather had purchased as a young man—and allowing strangers to inhabit it had left a gaping hole in his chest. He had not expected it to be so incredibly difficult to apply his signature to the papers turning his home over to someone else’s keeping.
An American no less. An American with three daughters, whom he wished to see married to someone of rank.
A wealthy American, who had paid the initial installment with cash. If Devon had not been already married, he might have found himself a suitable match with one of the daughters.
Instead he had a bit of the man’s money to replenish his coffers—but for how long?
He’d paid off the debts Georgina’s father had accumulated, because he no longer wanted those hanging over his head. He’d used a portion of the remaining funds to make good on his own London debts. It was unconscionable to force a shopkeeper to wait any longer than necessary for what was owed him.
As they did with most of the nobility, shopkeepers had all extended Devon credit in good faith. He did not want it bandied about London that he was not a man to whom credit could be offered. It was bad enough that news of it would be bandied about the countryside soon.
He glanced out at the passing scenery. The dwindling sunlight of late afternoon added to his melancholy. Life as the peerage had once known it was drifting away like smoke rising from an open fire.
If Christopher had not been investing in some of Kit’s ventures in Texas, that branch of the family would no doubt be in as dire straits as Devon was.
Even with the selling of his London home, Devon felt as though he was only one breath away from drowning.
A sudden flash of waving arms in a tree and a high-pitched yell caught his attention. He stuck his head out the window for a clearer look.
Was that a child dangling from a branch in the tree?
By God! Was it his child?
He banged on the roof of the carriage, and his driver brought it to an immediate halt. Devon shoved open the door and climbed out.
“M’lord, what is it?” the driver asked.
Hands on his hips, Devon stared at the trees. How far had they traveled since his sighting?
“Did you see a child in the trees?” he asked.
“No, m’lord. My eyes were trained on the road ahead. It’s been a bit bumpy, and I was working to avoid the ruts.”
Devon took two steps forward. “I saw something.”
“Probably one of the little farm urchins, m’lord. I’m sure he knows what he’s about.”
His driver was no doubt correct in his assumption. Still the hairs on the back of Devon’s neck prickled with unease. “Wait here.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
With each step he took he felt his muscles slowly knotting from his calves all the way to his neck.
He saw bare arms as skinny as the twigs in the trees and almost as brown from the dirt that had gathered on them. He forced himself to take a deep breath as he neared the flailing arms that were reaching toward the ground instead of the sky. It would not do to startle the lad with an eruption of temper if what he suspected was true.
The child was dangling with his legs hooked over a branch. His chest was bare, and some sort of red markings marred his face, painted across his brow, cheeks, and nose like those on the Scottish heathens of old.
The boy’s blue eyes widened. “Father, you’re home!”
Devon’s heart nearly stopped when his son swung up and shoved his legs off the branch, falling to the ground and landing with a heavy thump.
“Father! Father!” Millicent cried as she came scampering around the tree. Georgina followed closely behind her.
Was that the quill of a pen sticking out from behind his daughter’s head and held securely in place by the abominable red bandanna?
Some of his irritation with the situation must have shown on his face, because both she and Georgina staggered to a halt. Devon jerked off his jacket and tossed it around Noel’s bare shoulders.
“Get into the carriage,” he ordered in a tightly controlled voice.
“But Father—” Noel began.
“Now,” Devon stated flatly in a voice that brooked no arguments. His gaze alighted quickly upon the female members of his family. “All of you. Into the carriage now.”
Standing in the library, Georgina knew beyond a doubt that Devon was furious. More furious than she’d ever seen him. Angrier than he’d been when he’d discovered her father had gambled away his wealth.
The fury had been evident in the cold, hard stare he’d fixed on her once he’d followed her into the coach. As though she was a mother hen guarding her chicks, Georgina had wrapped her arms around the children, nestling them against her sides with the absolute determination to protect them from the consequences of his wrath.
Tiny Millicent had buried her face against Georgina’s breast while Noel had fiddled with a button on his father’s jacket.
Georgina had angled her chin defiantly, but she’d found it difficult to display righteous indignation with any success when war paint decorated her face. As soon as they’d arrived home, Devon had insisted she join him in his study.
She had refused, indicating her need to ensure that the children were seen to. She’d also wanted a moment to scrub her face.
She’d won that argument.
She had a feeling she wasn’t going to win this one, regardless of what it was.
Devon had the look about him of a man who’d suffered far too many defeats of late and would do whatever it took to ensure victory this go round.
With her back as stiff as a poker, she stood before his desk, grateful her skirt hid her quaking knees.
He loomed on the other side of the desk, gripping the edges as though he feared if he released his hold that his hands would find their way to her throat. Anger darkened his eyes. The veins in his neck stood out in stark relief, and the tenseness in his face served to sharpen the angles that usually provided him with a handsome visage.
She could see his chest heaving. It was evident he was striving to tether his anger. She simply wished he’d release it and be done with it.
“What in God
’s name were you thinking to have my son, the heir apparent, the future Earl of Huntingdon, running about the countryside half-naked?” he asked in a tightly controlled voice.
“Half-clothed,” she answered, grateful her voice didn’t tremble.
His dark eyebrows shot together as quickly as a fired bullet. “Pardon?”
She swallowed hard and cleared her throat as quietly as possible. “It depends on how you look at him. You saw him as half-naked. I saw him as half-clothed.”
“It depends on how I look at him? Madam, it is not my looking at him that concerns me. It is how our tenants may have seen him! How the villagers may have seen him! How someone from the peerage might have viewed him! I’ll not have him referred to as the insane heir apparent who runs about the countryside half-naked—”
“Half-clothed.”
“With paint smeared on his face and skinny chest.” His gaze darted to the small stand where his pen usually rested beside the bottle of ink. “My daughter had a bloody quill pen stuck in her head!”
“It wasn’t actually stuck in her head—” She quieted as he jerked his uncompromising glower to her.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?”
“That they could use some fresh air and fun. I’d never heard them laugh, seldom seen them smile—”
“Do you not comprehend the gravity of your actions? Have you no concept of what it is to constantly be looked upon to set an example? Do you not understand the burden we carry upon our shoulders to be better—to always make the right decisions—to do what is best regardless of the consequences to ourselves?”
It wasn’t fury she saw in his eyes, but fear mingling with disappointment and perhaps even a bit of self-loathing.
“This has nothing to do with my taking the children on a picnic.” She placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward him beseechingly. “Devon, what’s happened?”
“Everything is bloody well caving in on me!”
She leaped back as he swept his arm across the desk and sent everything crashing to the floor.
He stormed to the window, banged his fist against it, and bowed his head. His defeated mien caused a surge of compassion in her.
His harsh breathing began to lighten. “Leave, Gina. See to the children. I’m certain the terrifying journey with me in my carriage has left its mark on them.”
To Marry an Heiress Page 18