Six Weeks With a Lord

by Eve Pendle

  That was her defining characteristic, naturally. Everett had tried to portray Grace as sympathetic, but there was no room in the aristocracy for her. “As Everett says, my—”

  “Lord Westbury,” the dowager snapped. “His name is Lord Westbury.”

  He’d told her to call him Everett, and now she was being chastised by his aristocratic mother for it. She dug her nails into her palm. It was so entirely typical of lords and ladies. They didn’t want the likes of her to be familiar, even if they were supposed to be a newly married couple, in love.

  Everett’s face tightened. “Mother, that name is still unfamiliar to me. My friends call me Everett. And my wife may call me whatever she likes.” He looked across the table at Grace, a tender apology in his eyes.

  The dowager raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Just because you have no respect for the proper forms and address, does not mean that they do not matter. I believe in plain speaking. Plainly, you are the Earl of Westbury. And plainly, she is from no family at all. Is that correct, young lady?”

  A simple yes would be the most appropriate answer. Shame and denial of the months she’d spent sustaining Alnott Stores had been forced into her during her season and recently at the finishing school. But she was proud of the success her family had made of Alnott Stores.

  “My father is dead. My mother is dead. The fortune I bring to this marriage is from shops. My grandfather and father were plain Mr. Alnott and in trade. So yes, if having a dowry paid for by commerce, a family that is honored to serve for communities, then I am from no family at all.” Her heart beat against her corset as if trying to escape. Her words were insanity. There was a stunned silence.

  The footmen and butler cleared away the plates and served a dinner of roast lamb and vegetables. The dowager took a sip of wine, and dinner resumed in a clink of implements.

  Everett cleared his throat. “What did your parents sell?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Alnott Stores are grocers.”

  “I see. And did you like, as a child, seeing all the cabbages and things?” He corralled the finely sliced courgette on his plate onto his fork.

  “Not a greengrocer. A grocer.”

  His mother stared pointedly at her wine.

  Everett put down his knife and fork and spread his hands in defeat. “I’m not sure I exactly know the difference.” His smile was disarming. “I have never done my own shopping. There was never any need in the army. Or here.”

  They were from such different worlds. She had spent much of her childhood in Alnott Stores. “You have probably never set foot in a grocer.”

  “Well, educate us. What is a grocer’s shop like?” There was genuine curiosity in his question and a little dare. He leaned back, like a man settling down to be entertained.

  Grace looked sidelong at the dowager, who was eating as though each mouthful were uncooked flour in her mouth and appeared not to be listening. It was difficult to describe something she knew so well to an outsider.

  “When you walk into an Alnott Stores, you’ll smell tea. We sell dry foodstuffs, but usually the tea smells the strongest. Behind the counter, there are drawers and shelves full of different types of tea and coffee. Underneath, there are bins of sugar, flour, and dried fruit. There are smaller containers with spices, pepper, and salt. Some of the shops also sell butter and eggs, but they are usually local and aren’t bought in bulk. The counters are pale varnished oak. Father preferred it to the dark stained fittings that shops usually have. He said the light made people more positive in mood. The countertop is kept very clean, as it has to be because of the pale wood. There are usually two scales, and all the scoops and measures and knifes are kept along the counter.”

  “So Alnott Stores are clean and bright. Is that the secret to its success?” Everett smiled at her.

  That was a frivolous sort of reason for a shop’s success. “Not just that, no. Father realized that if he bought in much larger quantities, directly from producers, he could sell a better product at a lower price than other grocers.”

  It was a story her father had liked to tell her. Her parents had started off buying from wholesaler traders like other shops. When Grace had been a toddler, a supplier let them down. Rather than disappoint their customers, Mother had suggested they take a gamble, charter a ship and send it out to trade for the tea and sugar. With a warehouse full of goods, they needed to sell quickly, and she rented two extra shops and sent apprentices to sell the items. It had been successful, and they had worked that way since, being both trader and merchant, opening four, then ten, then dozens of stores. The key, Mother had explained to her, was to take a difficult situation and turn it to your advantage. That, and a good deal of luck.

  “She liked to say that Alnott was excellent quality at a reasonable price.”

  Everett nodded thoughtfully as she concluded the story.

  “She?” The dowager leveled a contemptuous stare at Grace.

  “I said he,” Grace retorted, then regretted the transparency of the denial. She ought to have acted confused. It was always a bad idea to reveal how much her mother had been the main force in running Alnott Stores. It cast aspersions on her own childhood, and whether she was even slightly respectable or completely mired in the muck of paid labor.

  Her father had been competent, in his own way. Her mother, though, had been clever, and as soon as Grace was old enough to talk, she’d gone to the stores with her parents, sitting quietly, listening, and reading while her mother worked. Mrs. Alnott hadn’t had any time for governesses. Once Grace had finished in the nursery, she’d learned her numbers on a ledger and her letters in an order book.

  The Season in London her father had insisted on had taught her she preferred her role taking care of Alnott Stores. It had also shown her that society was disgusted with a lady who worked. It was bad enough for her father to be in trade. For her mother? Or Grace herself? Unthinkable.

  “You definitely said she.” The woman regarded her like a fox considers a rabbit. “Was that your mother?”

  “You must have misheard.” Everett smiled blandly.

  The dowager, tilted her head at her, sneering slightly, then turned to Everett. “How is Lord Osborne? Presumably, he has resisted the temptation of commerce?”

  Grace had been dismissed on her own wedding day. Worse, she still had to sit through this dinner with no distraction from thinking of the night ahead.

  Chapter Six

  Grace excused herself as soon as she could. She sent Letty away when she tried to linger. Anna’s replacement was not someone she wanted around at this moment.

  The door between her room and Everett’s had no lock, and she couldn’t see a way to effectively block both that door and the one leading to the corridor without arousing the suspicions of the servants.

  She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she went to her trunk and from a concealed panel, picked out her little dagger in its leather sheath and examined it. Simple, functional, it was heavy in her palm. Maurice had given it to her when she’d asked, with a quirked eyebrow and advice not to be silly. When she’d hidden the blade in her trunk, she’d thought of Lord Rayner, and he rose again in her mind.

  She imagined them side by side, Lord Rayner and Lord Westbury. Light haired and dark haired. Force and choice. They were different, there was no doubt. But could they be so different? They held the same rank of earl. They both selected pretty maids to work for them. Everett knew all his servants’ names, but was she so sure of his gentlemanliness that she could put the knife back, sure he wouldn’t attempt to visit her and…

  No. He would visit. If only on the pretense of saying good night. It would be foolish to risk not being able to protect herself, even if she thought she might be able to trust him. She slipped into bed, wriggling down into the covers as though they could keep her safe.

  She arranged herself into a semblance of her usual sleeping position on her side, knees tucked up level with her hips. But it was as though all her muscles were trying t
o hold her an eighth of an inch off the sheets. Each time one muscle tried to relax, there was the image of Lord Rayner and she seized up. She had to remain tranquil, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t be.

  The knock on the door was quiet. “Grace?”

  Her fingers tightened around the knife handle, but otherwise, she lay completely still. Hiding in her own body. The doorknob made a click as he turned it, and there were light footsteps that grew slowly louder. Then stopped.

  She was asleep. She was asleep. She willed him to believe it.

  “You can stop pretending to be asleep.”

  The knife felt hot beneath her fingers. He wasn’t Lord Rayner, but just the thought of him made her fear deeper. He was an aristocrat and would never be held responsible for his actions. She tightened her grip on the weapon.

  He sighed. Then the bed dipped as he sat down on the edge. “Grace, you’re holding your breath. It’s erratic and shallow because you’re panicking. There is no need to worry.”

  Uncertainty raced through her. Should she acknowledge him? If she continued to pretend to be deep in slumber, would he reach out to her, to try and “wake her up”?

  She swallowed, hoping her voice would come out even. “If you touch me, it will be the last thing you do.” Her voice sounded foreign to her. High, with a tremor.

  “Yes, I see there is something in your hand.” He paused, as though he was waiting for her to confirm it. “I imagine you know that a gun would be foolish at this close range, so perhaps it is a knife.”

  She didn’t credit his good guess with an answer.

  “I hope we might be friends. I don’t mean to scare or harm you. I wished only to spend my wedding night with my wife.” His voice was soft and weary.

  She kept her fingers tight around the knife. He could be beautiful and sometimes kind and still be a villain. Lord Rayner was, after all.

  “I am sorry for my mother’s behavior. She is bitter after the deaths of my brother and father. I could have brought home a princess, and she would have found fault.” He hesitated and seemed to be working up to something. “This was not how I wanted our marriage to start. You have every right to be angry, but I will make it up to you, I promise.”

  His weight moved off the bed, then his steps receded. She didn’t reply to his “Good night” before he closed the door. He moved around his room and she kept gripping the knife. After there was silence for a long time, her limbs, one by one, eased into repose. Her breathing evened to a steady, slow rhythm.

  Only then did she allow herself to mull over his words. They seemed honest. Part of her wanted to believe that he just wanted some illusion of normality and happiness. But as inviting as his tone had been, experience said she couldn’t believe it.

  …

  In contrast to her evident terror last night, his wife was carefully amiable the next morning. Everett nodded when she made polite talk about the clouds turning into either rain or shine.

  When he’d gone to her room last night, she had evidently thought he was somebody else entirely. For him, a simple “no, thank you,” would have sufficed. He was beginning to see that his wife’s outward expression had little relationship with her inner thoughts. It made this job of persuading her to stay tricky. Nevertheless, the charm offensive must begin.

  “Would you like to walk together today? You mentioned you liked water, and there are some excellent vistas of the lake.” A walk would be just the thing to build trust between them.

  “I’m sure that you are much too busy with your work to worry yourself over me,” Grace replied into her teacup.

  Was that deference? A pulse of disappointment went through him at her lack of spirit. “I would not want you to get lost on your first day on the estate.”

  “That’s quite unnecessary.” Grace regarded him, her gaze guarded. “I have an excellent sense of direction. Besides, I won’t go far. I must to go to the library.” She added sotto voce, “To plan my trip to Europe.”

  Her eyes had been cast down not in deference but defiance, and she had slipped in a reminder she was leaving.

  “Grace.” When she looked up, he raised his eyebrows.

  She bit her lip. She’d evidently forgotten her agreement to pretend to be in love. “I’ll fetch my shawl.”

  As they set out toward the lake, Everett kept up a light chat about the weather as they followed the flat path away from the hill with the large oak. The lake was an opaque blue gray this morning. They lapsed into silence as they skirted around the boathouse and approached the trees, and he wondered what she might respond to. How could he draw her out? She would need something to make her comfortable and understand her better.

  And the answer was obvious. “How old is Henry?”

  “We don’t have to talk.” Her brows were puckered together.

  He’d thought this would be an easy distraction from the day ahead. He would deliver the dues for the culled animals to Cottley Farm, confirm with them about arrangements, check on all the farms north of the river, then have the difficult conversation with the Walkers about the grim necessity of culling their animals. But as it turned out, this was no easier.

  “In love, remember? Besides, it will be a dull six weeks in silence.” He pointed across the lake to the house. “There’s a clear line of sight from the house to this path.” Except when they were in the woods, of course.

  She looked back at the house. “Four years old.”

  “So young.” His teeth gritted at the memory that she didn’t want to visit him. At least with an attitude like that there was no chance he’d ever fall into the same trap his mother had, and love someone who didn’t love him back. A woman who had no tenderness for a little child, her own blood no less, was not someone he could ever love. But he had to lure her in, and for that they needed a connection. “Does he like his lessons?”

  She sighed and her mouth tightened. “I don’t know.”

  Well. Not everyone thought education was as important as he did. He swallowed his reservations.

  “The nursery has a rocking horse that he might enjoy. Two, actually.”

  “Two? That seems a bit excessive.”

  “Peter didn’t share very well.” It was disproportionate, though. His father had occasionally become guilty and brought back gifts for them all. “Sometimes three boys required three set of toys.” Mostly, though, Everett had been expected to share or yield his toys to George. “There are three sets of tennis rackets, shuttlecock, bowls, who knows what else.” He hadn’t sold them, since they wouldn’t fetch much, and because of a twist of nostalgia.

  They were approaching a gap in the trees. Using the back of his hand, he touched her upper arm. “Look. The view is lovely from here.” He gestured toward the vista to the house.

  Her eyes widened for a flash. But she turned to look at the view, leaving him looking over her shoulder. She was so flighty, a cautious wildcat, and allowing him to be behind her was a tiny sign of trust.

  “It’s your house now.” He walked away rather than crowd her. “And Henry’s, if you wanted.”

  “For six weeks,” she corrected him.

  “There’s an excellent school nearby where I was educated. Clifton College is just outside Bristol. He could come home for exeats.” He’d loved those brief stays to see George and be fussed over by the housekeeper.

  “Exeats?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He’d forgotten she wouldn’t know that. “A leave of absence from school. Usually a Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Henry won’t go away to stay at school.” She shook her head firmly, as if he could force her to send her brother to school.

  “I went there as a child.” He shrugged. “I liked it there.”

  “You liked it because being at home was worse.” She slanted a wry look at him.

  Her comment was a slap. Was it true? He’d spent many years away in the army and hadn’t been sentimental about stripping the house to protect the people his father and brother had let down. Moreover, how had they change
d to talking about him? “Is it just the two of you? You and your brother, Henry?”

  She nodded.

  “I missed my little brother when I went up to Cambridge, then into the army.” She hadn’t shown any sign of caring for her family, but surely, he could persuade out of her some feeling. “I always wanted to look after him, and I imagine you feel the same about Henry.”

  “And you had your elder brother to care for you.”

  He laughed. “No, Peter wasn’t like that.” An enormous understatement. “The heir doesn’t concern himself with the spare.” Why would Peter bother looking out for Everett when he was constantly told by his parents he was the perfect center of the universe? “Occasionally, I was deemed a useful play fellow. As long as I knew my place.”

  She gave him an assessing look. “What was your elder brother like?”

  Guilt chased up his spine. His brother had been a feckless idiot who had put the estate into a debt that meant he now had to seduce Grace. Anything he revealed about him could build toward her understanding of what Peter had done. “Very much like my father,” he said eventually.

  “They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Maybe not, but with enough determination an apple could grow legs and run away from the tree. He wouldn’t, couldn’t ever be like either of his parents. Or his brother. But most people didn’t feel so disconnected from their family. “Is that the case for you? Are you like your mother?”

  She jerked her head aside as though something had caught her eye. “It’s going to rain.” She stopped walking.

  He looked up at the white cloud patches above them. “I don’t think so.”

  “It is. Can’t you feel how close it is?”

  “No.” Because it wasn’t.

  “I’m going back.” She walked away from him, back toward the house.

  He’d mortally offended her in some way, or pricked a sore spot. Her shawl was stretched taut between her elbows. She was so tense and his heart twinged. He replayed their conversation in his mind. Her mother. What had happened to her mother?