A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  It was maddening.

  And now a tutor was to be added to the mélange. As if her household were not already turned topsy-turvy. All Pevensey Park needed was yet another bedchamber filled by a perfect stranger.

  With the automatic response of long practice, Relia shrugged out of the gown that Tilly had just unbuttoned, allowing it to pool about her feet. Nimbly, she stepped out of it, then raised her arms to allow her maid to pull her chemise over her head. Her mind still fixed on the unexpected disturbances brought to Pevensey Park by her marriage to Thomas Lanning, Relia paid little attention to the bedgown Tilly was offering, merely accepting it with gratitude, for in spite of a glowing fire the room was chill. She would welcome the warmth.

  And yet . . . she was still cold. A fact uncomfortable enough to distract Mrs. Thomas Lanning from her dire thoughts. She looked down, saw an expanse of transparent lawn, bare arms. In December! “Tilly!”

  “Yes, ma’am?” The maid’s eyes, as full of romance as they had been in Tunbridge Wells, gleamed expectantly.

  Relia could not possibly say what she wanted to say. She could not admit she had no need of bridal finery. “The velvet dressing gown, if you please.” She snuggled into the soft dark blue fabric, then settled at her delicate French rococo dressing table so Tilly could braid her hair. Brushing and braiding were so soothing . . . almost, she could dismiss her sulks.

  When Tilly left, leaving the faint drift of a romantical sigh behind her, Relia, wincing, headed for the warmth of the fireplace, where she curled up in a comfortable upholstered chair and forced herself to face a healthy dose of reality. She had been sulking. And all because her world was changing. Changing in the manner she herself had precipitated.

  She had a husband. An enigma, at best, but a far better choice than any of the others.

  If only Alan Fortescue . . . Foolish twit! That was a road down which she could never go.

  And as silly as the barely seventeen-year-old Olivia seemed at times, she had livened up their lives. Indeed, Gussie was more animated than Relia had seen her in years. And Nicholas? Relia suspected the loss of both parents at such a young age had affected him more than it had his sister. And Thomas seemed to have sent him to school and to the homes of friends, seldom allowing the boy into his life. Until now.

  And what had happened to Olivia’s and Nicholas’s mother, who must have been still a young woman when she died? Childbirth? In spite of the fire, Relia shivered.

  A cursory scratching, and her door swung open, the sudden gust of air from the hallway causing the candles to flicker wildly and the flames in the grate to whoosh up the chimney. Aurelia bounded to her feet. “What,” she demanded, “are you doing here?”

  Thomas raised dark brows only a few shades lighter than his black satin dressing gown. “Visiting my wife? Is that not what everyone expects—a grand reunion after my long stay in town?”

  “You cannot come in here,” Relia sputtered.

  “I am in,” her husband told her calmly. “And, I assure you, the entire household would be gabbling in the morning if I had not come. In fact, I suspect that was Nicholas I saw just now, peeking round the corner. You would not wish me to offend his boyish sensibilities.”

  His sensibilities?” Relia gasped. “And what is that?” she added in ominous tones, as Thomas hauled a flat wooden box out from beneath his robe.

  “Chess. Do you play?”

  “You come to my room at this hour of the night and you wish to play chess?”

  “In all truth,” Thomas returned after due consideration, “I would prefer an alternate method of passing our time. I am aware, however, that you would likely prefer to play chess.” Mr. Lanning set the box down on top of a small round table, then carried the table across the room and set it between the two chairs by the fire. Waving his speechless wife back into her seat, and taking the opposite chair himself, he began to set up the chessboard and its pieces.

  “Of course,” Thomas said as he sat back and surveyed the kings, queens, rooks, knights, and pawns, all exquisitely carved of ivory and ebony, “it would seem this game may be superfluous, for I believe we are already engaged in a surprisingly intricate game of chess.”

  “In which you seem to be playing with more pieces than I!”

  “Touché, my dear. The point is yours.” Thomas leaned forward, making his opening gambit with a black pawn.

  Not twenty minutes later he swept his wife’s queen from the board, adding a soft, almost chiding, “Checkmate.” He settled himself against the back of the wingchair, his long legs sprawled in front of him, and drawled, “I do not believe you were paying attention, Aurelia. I understood that you frequently played with your father. I expected a better game.”

  “I have never played chess with anyone but my father.”

  “Ah . . . then he let you win—”

  “He did not!”

  “Then can it be you are distracted because playing chess reminds you of your father, as sleeping in your parents’ chambers offended your tender sensibilities?” said her husband with a sangfroid that was almost cruel.

  Dangerous ground. Relia knew a trap when she heard it. “The renovations are nearly complete, sir. The next time you are here—”

  “Thomas!” her husband snapped. “And Mr. Arnold’s draperies and other gewgaws will be back in place tomorrow. As will my wife. I have given Biddeford orders to move your things as soon as the hangings are once again in place.”

  “You dare,” Relia raged, “you dare to order me about when you cannot even get rid of The Terrible Twyford. You fill my house with—”

  “Stop!” Thomas roared, jerking upright so fast his knees nearly toppled the chessboard. “Trevor was here?”

  “In the drawing room as you arrived,” Relia informed him with great satisfaction. “Though when I turned around, the coward had slipped out. Down the back stairs, no doubt.”

  “And well he might,” Thomas ground out. “Good God,” he muttered, his fury suddenly distracted by a thought more horrifying than Trevor’s mere presence. “Did he meet Livvy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell and the devil confound it!”

  “Mr. Lanning!”

  “Thomas!”

  For all of ten seconds the belligerents glared at each other. Relia found her tongue first. Chin high, she announced, “Twyford said my abandonment was an on dit at a houseparty he attended, and so he had come to see how I went on.”

  Thomas sighed and once again leaned back into the comfort of his chair. If only he’d brought a bottle of brandy. It wasn’t that he had not thought of it, but he had feared the sight of him with a bottle in hand might cause his wife to flee in terror. Frightening her would not further his plans.

  Nor did he wish her ill, even though there were times he longed to pick her up and shake some sense into her stubborn, and deplorably narrow-minded, head.

  Fine. So be it. To the devil with what the servants might think. Methodically, he packed up the chess pieces and the board, locking them into the thin wooden box. “I am uncertain if I have stayed long enough to present the proper picture of a husband rushing to embrace his leg-shackle, but we seem to have reached checkmate in more ways than one. Perhaps tomorrow, when you join me in the master suite,” he added with considerable emphasis, “there will be less frost in the air. Goodnight, Aurelia.” Thomas picked up the chess box and stalked out with all the dignity of a king striding down the aisle of Westminster Abbey.

  And wasn’t he just! Aurelia fumed. Obviously, her hired husband, overcome by visions of grandeur, refused to accept his place in her life. Thomas Lanning was a . . . a gargoyle, straight off the ancient Gothic church in Lower Peven. His Cit soul had been perverted by Commerce. She should have married Harry. She should have waited for Alan. Even a nonentity like Lord Hanley would have been better than . . . this!

  It was full half an hour before Aurelia dragged herself up from in front of the fire and sought her bed. The warm brick Tilly had left there had gone co
ld. Relia pulled the covers high, seeking a spot of warmth. Cold hands, cold toes, cold heart. She heaved a great sigh, knowing quite well what Gussie would say—what Miss Aldershot had already repeated countless times over: You’ve made your bed, child, now lie in it!

  For a few magical moments on her wedding night, she might have been able to do so. And then her husband had run off as if the Hounds of Hell were after him. Abandoned her for London. And Eleanor Ebersley. Instead of a properly humble Cit grateful for his advancement, she had married an arrogant, high-handed monster who did not so much as deign to touch her . . .

  In all truth I would prefer an alternate method of passing our time. Recollection of her husband’s words, the gleam in his eye as he said them, had Relia burrowing further into the covers, wrapping them around the back of her head until only her eyes and nose peeked out. She needed her night cap, but nothing could convince her body to move from under the covers to fetch it.

  She shut her eyes very tight. Dear God in heaven! To think she had assumed that marriage would solve all her problems!

  “A fine day for gathering greens, is it not?” Thomas declared at the breakfast table in a manner Relia found nauseatingly hearty so early in the morning—as she also found the mound of food piled high upon his plate. “You do plan to decorate, do you not, my dear?” her husband added, an odiously benign expression on his face.

  “Oh, please,” Livvy cried unexpectedly, “may we?”

  Relia ceased layering blackberry jam on her toast. Laying down her knife, she cast a swift glance around the table. Gussie’s lips were twitching—the traitor! Thomas was blandly expectant; his sister, eyes shining, breathless with anticipation. Mr. Nicholas Lanning, seemingly indifferent, kept his head down, steadily eating his way through a haphazard pile of food that rivaled his brother’s.

  In spite of almost no experience with children, Relia was not fooled. Nicholas, as would almost any young man his age, longed to go on an expedition to gather greens. Yet . . .

  “I fear the footmen are occupied today,” she responded with grim satisfaction. “A matter of bringing boxes down from the attic, but they should be available tomorrow.”

  “Could not the gardeners or the grooms show us—” At a sharp look from his brother, Nicholas broke off his telltale interjection.

  “Tomorrow will be acceptable,” Thomas said. Another point to you, said the look he exchanged with his wife. “And do you bring in a Yule Log? I should like to be part of that expedition also. It is not something we can do in town, and I find myself intrigued by the tradition.”

  “It is pagan, you know,” Relia said before attempting to hide behind a quarter of toast.

  “One of many ancient traditions adopted by the church,” Thomas agreed smoothly. “And a fine one it is.”

  “It is best managed in a medieval hall,” Relia countered.

  “True,” Thomas agreed, but I trust that somewhere in this vast pile you have a fireplace of sufficient size.”

  Relia did not care for the spark in Gussie’s eye. House of mourning or not, obviously, her old governess did not care to disappoint the younger Lannings, let alone the eldest for whom she seemed to have developed an unaccountable approval. “Very well,” Relia declared, “We can use the fireplace in the entry hall. That is where we put the Yule Log before mama became ill.”

  “And today?” Livvy asked, looking hopeful.

  “Today . . . today, if you wish, you may bring in greens from close to the house,” Relia conceded. “Holly and ivy—although you must not take so much that the gardeners will be complaining to me tomorrow,” she warned with a smile. “And perhaps Nicholas will wish to help you.”

  “If you can work together in harmony,” Miss Aldershot cautioned.

  “I will go with them,” Thomas said. “They have both had experience of decorating for the holidays. I have not. As long as I am rusticating,” he added with seeming indifference, “I may as well join in country customs.”

  Later, when the three Lannings had gone off, bundled up against the cold, and Relia and Gussie were tucked up, warm and cozy under lap robes in the morning room, Miss Aldershot declared, “That was well done of you, my dear. Your papa would have approved, I am certain. You have ensured a happy Christmas for the Lannings.”

  Relia looked up from the list she was making of tasks that must be accomplished if they were giving up mourning long enough to celebrate the holidays. “I confess I am surprised,” she admitted. “I would not have expected Mr. Lanning to show any interest in holiday decorations.”

  “Do you not recall the thrill of gathering greens, my dear? As a child, you always went out with your papa. I believe Mr. Lanning, born and raised in the city, was not able to participate in such family traditions, but he has made sure Olivia and Nicholas spent their holidays with good country families. This has not perhaps“—Gussie hesitated—“not helped make them a family of close-knit bonds, but I believe Mr. Lanning is attempting to rectify that, now that he is married.”

  “Oh.” Chagrined by her lack of sensitivity, Aurelia contemplated her faults. Her husband and his brother and sister were making an effort to become a family group, while she, his wife, sat before a fire and made lists. She should have put on her warmest gown, her stoutest boots, her oldest cloak and bonnet and joined them in their raid on her holly bushes.

  They had not invited her.

  She had shown not the slightest interest.

  Once, she had loved life, Relia recalled; she had been eager and carefree. Now . . . she had become a great glump. It was her duty, as chatelaine of Pevensey Park and wife to Mr. Thomas Lanning, to make an effort to do better.

  But today . . . today was the day she had to move into the bedchamber separated from her husband’s only by the width of their shared sitting room. It was not a propitious moment to soften her attitude. Every instinct warned she should, instead, add another layer of armor before any chink could be discovered.

  When the three foragers returned to the house, with sparkling eyes and red cheeks, Relia was watching from the gallery above. Cits! They were close to staggering under their armsful of greens, yet they had not called for help. Just the three of them, laughing and triumphant, as if the holiday could not happen without their contributions of prickly greenery. And, of course, they did not stop their Cit behavior there. After dropping their burdens onto the highly polished and pristine tiled floor, the Lannings set off a great flurry by descending into the kitchen, where they sat at the servants’ dinging table and enjoyed thin slices of roast beef on fresh-baked bread, augmented by mugs of hot spiced cider.

  Thomas and Nicholas paused their chewing only long enough to bound to their feet with lively grace when Aurelia joined them, making a valiant effort to look as if she sat at the servants’ dining table every day. Once again the goat, Thomas thought. In his wife’s eyes he was guilty of causing so much disruption among the kitchen staff that life below stairs might never be the same again. Perhaps that was just as well. And tonight . . . ah, yes, tonight he would have his wife exactly where he wanted her.

  But in the end, he let the moment pass. For that evening he found himself basking in a strange warmth as he listened to his wife—his wife—play the piano with all the grace and skill he should have expected. And after that, Livvy had actually displayed a talent, which might have been short on technique, but was filled with considerable feeling for the simple tunes she was contributing. And then he turned to discover his little brother actually regarding his sister with something close to appreciation. Remarkable. The holiday spirit must be having more of an effect than he had thought. Perhaps the manner in which he had teased his wife last night was enough for a while. And no one would be the wiser about the distance between them when they were safe behind the closed doors of the newly redecorated rooms.

  An odd little creature, this child-woman he had married. Wise and capable, and at times so infantile and childishly innocent that he was tempted to throw up his hands and walk away from it
all.

  But he could not, of course. There was too much riding on this marriage. And he could no more truly abandon her than he could have sent his sister back to her aunt or failed to bring his younger brother, whom he scarcely knew, to the home he had at long last acquired for them. She would come round, his wife. Aurelia Trevor Lanning, who was so grimly determined to do her duty, even though she felt tainted by her marriage to a Cit.

  When, after the tea tray was brought in and duly sampled, his wife excused herself and followed Miss Aldershot up the stairs, Thomas did not follow. Waving Olivia and Nicholas to their rooms as well, he shut himself in the library and sampled the brandy he had not had the night before. Brandy, and perhaps a good Wassail bowl, it would seem, were the only comforts he would have for the holidays.

  His step on the stairs, very late, was a trifle studied. But he made it through the sitting room without knocking anything over. Opening his wife’s door, he peeked into the room, glumly expecting to find the bedhangings still tied back against the posts and an untouched coverlet.

  Thomas swayed, blinked, looked again. His wife’s bed was solidly enclosed in some material light and shiny enough to reflect the flickering glow of his single candle. Was she actually inside that rectangular tent, or was it all a sham? That was it . . . the minx had had her maid drape the bed, while she slept quite peacefully at the opposite end of house!

  Only one thing to do . . . Thomas crept forward, pausing with a hand raised toward the crack in the hanging at the foot of his wife’s bed. A hard-headed man in more ways than one, he could actually feel sobriety chasing away the brandy fumes inside his thick skull. What in God’s name was he doing here in his wife’s bedroom, about to intrude on her privacy while she slept?