“And do not tell us it was a love match,” said Lady Trent, a gray-haired matron whose strident voice belied her wispy figure, “for we shall not believe you. The only glances exchanged between you and Mr. Lanning at table appeared to carry nothing but the gravest animosity.”
Caught. As neatly as a gamekeeper’s trap.
“You cannot know that, mother,” said Jane Edmundson quite unexpectedly. “You know couples are not expected to live in each other’s pockets. And you also know there is a good deal of strain in entertaining. Just because Mr. and Mrs. Lanning have had a falling out is no reason to assert theirs is not a love match.”
Oh, thank you, my dear Mrs. Edmundson.
Solemnly, as if from the witness box, Relia repeated the story of an old attachment between herself and Thomas Lanning that had been given to the Hubert Trevors. Then, in all fairness, since she was speaking to her closest neighbors, she added a bit of the truth. “Pevensey Park is a business. It seemed best to find a man of business to take charge.”
“Your father managed quite well,” Lady Gravenham pointed out. “As do all our husbands. What does a man of the City know about a country estate?”
“He is learning.” And why on earth was she defending him? It was absurd. If only Captain Alan had come home sooner . . .
“Madam.” Biddeford’s voice interrupted the uncomfortable scene. “Master William Stanton has just poked Master Nicholas in the cheek with a billiard cue. The matter is not serious, but I felt you should know.”
God bless all butlers!
Relia and Margaret Stanton dashed off to determine the extent of the emergency, leaving the remaining ladies to continue to dissect their host’s antecedents and their hostess’s good judgment. By the time Mrs. Lanning and Mrs. Stanton returned to the drawing room, the gentlemen had just come bursting into the room on a wave of alcohol fumes and raised voices, the Earl of Gravenham preceding his host through the door. “Ah, ladies,” he boomed, “we have had a splendid idea. What think you, Lady Gravenham, of having an MP for a son? There’s a By-Election coming up for old Yelverton’s seat. The squire thinks our Alan should run.”
“How wonderful!” Relia cried. “You are quite correct. A splendid idea indeed.”
“No, no,” Captain Fortescue protested. “I cannot at all picture myself in Parliament.”
The ladies, their attention totally diverted, protested loudly. The captain would be an ideal candidate for MP They could not imagine why no one had thought of it sooner.
“Surely there would be no opposition,” Lady Trent declared. “Who would dare run against the son of an earl, a wounded veteran of the Peninsular War?”
“I believe that would be I,” Thomas Lanning said as the laughing murmurs of agreement began to die away. “I am the Whig candidate for Marcus Yelverton’s seat.”
~ * ~
Chapter Sixteen
With grim deliberation Thomas Lanning walked down the long corridor toward the suite of rooms he shared with his wife. His feet made no sound on the hall runner; his candle cast wavering shadows against the walls. Except for the silence, he thought, this must be how the condemned felt on their last steps up to the gallows. Pevensey Park’s astonished guests had departed long since; even the servants had sought their beds. But Thomas had lingered in the library, swirling brandy round and round in its glass, holding it up to the flickering firelight, then staring off into the dark corners of the room. He never touched a drop. He had had enough for one night. Enough to make him careless. Enough to bring out the bravado he usually kept well hidden.
In front of the most powerful man in the district—the man whose son was likely to be his Tory opponent—he had announced his own candidacy for Parliament. He had taken a social affair that was intended to enhance his status with his neighbors—his voting neighbors—and managed to alienate them all when it became so glaringly apparent that his wife was as shocked as everyone else. And yet . . . what else could he have done? He was running for Parliament. And concealing the fact under such circumstances would have been worse, making him appear sly and devious—not at all the portrait of the sophisticated, knowledgeable man of the world he wished to present as MP for this particular portion of Kent.
She’d been splendid, of course, his wife. Aurelia Trevor Lanning—a lady to the core, revealing yet again her strong sense of honor. She had recovered swiftly, putting a fine face on it all. Calming Gravenham, who looked as if he were about to have an apoplexy. Bravely exclaiming about what an interesting By-Election this would be. And then there had been that moment in the general confusion following his announcement when Captain Fortescue had told his host, most discreetly, that he would visit him on the morrow. Now, that was definitely intriguing, for Thomas rather thought Fortescue meant it when he said he did not care to be an MP And if so . . . there was no one else who could present a sufficient challenge—
He had arrived at the end of the corridor, where the narrow top of the T-shaped hallway led left and right to nearly invisible doors into their respective dressing rooms. The door to the sitting room, however, loomed straight in front of him. If he were a coward, he would sneak into his bedchamber through his dressing room . . .
But, of course, Thomas Lanning was not a coward. Not in business, not with people . . . but a wife was something else altogether. Aurelia had been avoiding him since his outburst a few days ago. Although he had sent her a written apology the following morning, the sitting room had remained empty each night, the door into her bedchamber firmly in place. For a few precious moments after her near-disaster in Tunbridge Wells, they had hovered on the brink of openness with one another. Then he, who was never open with anyone, had retreated, shutting her out, even before he had fled back to London.
It wasn’t that he did not want more from his marriage. She was a lovely creature. Soft skin, shining hair, eyes alight with intelligence . . . and barely concealed scorn. Pride had demanded he grant her a reprieve from her wifely duties. His body, however, had little use for such nonsense. Each day he kept his promise, he was forced to draw further back. Each day the breach between them grew wider, more difficult to close.
But tonight . . . tonight she would be waiting. He could have lingered below until Hell froze over, but, still, she would be waiting. The guilt was all on his side. And a most uncomfortable place it was, not at all where Thomas Lanning was accustomed to be.
Had Charles not warned him of the risk? Thomas took a deep breath and opened the door.
He was right. She was there, her midnight blue dressing gown a dark swath against the lighter blue of the sofa, her face a pale oval where it rested on a cherry red cushion, her nightbraids catching a glint of firelight. For a wild moment, unworthy of him, Thomas wondered if he could tiptoe on by, save this confrontation for morning. He was never to know what he might have done, for his wife’s eyes flew open, and in an instant she was erect, sitting primly on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap. Gray-blue eyes regarded him with considerable solemnity. She opened her mouth.
“Before you say a word,” said Thomas, holding up his hand, “kindly allow me to explain.”
“Explain?” declared Mrs. Lanning, her voice as steady as it was cold. “I assure you no explanation is necessary. You have used me quite brilliantly for your own ends. ’Tis perfectly plain now why you married me. In my naïveté I thought Pevensey Park was the attraction, but it was Pevensey’s power and prestige you wanted, was it not? In fact, if Marcus Yelverton had not died, you would not have married me—”
“If Marcus Yelverton had not died,” Thomas retorted, stung out of his bemused contemplation of his wife, “you would not have needed me. He was a good man, a strong one. It is one of the reasons I wish to take his place in Parliament.”
She stared up at him, half her face illumined by his candle and the dying fire, half lost in shadows. “Then we are even, I think—you and I,” she murmured, “though how we will manage to go on I do not know. This is a far greater blow than I had
expected.”
“Aurelia—” Her eyes flashed at him out of the darkness. Thomas threw himself into the cherry striped chair, which was angled toward the sofa. He leaned forward, straining to see her face. “Relia, you have a man’s sense of honor. I admire that—immensely—but sometimes I wish you would scream at me. Rant and rave about what a thoughtless brute I am. Tell me that I have turned your peaceful world upside down. Instead, you absorb each blow that comes your way, straighten your shoulders, square that lovely little chin of yours, and determine to uphold your part of the bargain. This, you tell yourself, is the price you must pay for searching out a mate to save Pevensey Park. Well, let me tell you, my girl, even though I am a man who does not like to be gainsaid, your accommodation is positively frightening.”
Daringly, Thomas laid a hand over hers. “Relia, look at me! It is all right to quarrel with me. I am just as much of an arrogant unfeeling wretch as you think I am.”
Her lashes fluttered. A quick peep, then her gaze returned to the large fingers clasped over her own. “I fear I do not know how to shout,” she told him.
Thomas heaved a sigh. “Very well . . . but I still need to explain why I did not tell you I was running for MP.” Slowly, she nodded, but she winkled her hands out from under his, hiding them in the soft folds of her robe. Thomas leaned back in the wingchair, choosing his words with care. “Listen to me, Relia. I have never spoken to you about my life. I should have, but ours was a business arrangement—we both knew that—and our personal lives did not seem to enter into it. You deigned to trade yourself to a Cit in return for the enticement of a vast country estate. That was our bargain. It seemed unnecessary that you should know that I had no need of Pevensey’s income. Or that I did indeed welcome the power and prestige that went with the estate. “An arrogant assumption, I grant you,” Thomas added quickly, “but I have long been accustomed to keeping my own counsel in business arrangements.” He managed a rueful half-smile. “But I had no experience at all in being married.”
His wife’s nod of understanding, however slight, broke the dam of Thomas’s long-held reticence. “I had not had any family life since my mother died when I was nine,” he told her. “Again, a similarity in our situations which you can appreciate. And when my father married again, my life and his became almost totally estranged. I did not care for my step-mother, and when she ran off with Nicolas’s tutor, I felt only grim satisfaction.” Ignoring his wife’s gasp, Thomas continued his confession. “I should have shown sympathy—for my father, for the poor abandoned children. Instead, I did nothing more than duty demanded, not even after my father passed on, leaving me guardian to a girl and boy I scarcely knew.”
“You sent them away to school. And to Aunt Browning.” It was an accusation, not a commendation.
“Yes. And Nicholas to strangers for his holidays as his aunt would not have him in the house. Neither of the children was real to me. They were not part of my life. Which was all the more despicable, as I am not the vulgar self-made Cit you expected, Relia. My family has been in banking for three generations. I came into this world with more substance than most young nobles, and I was given the education and training to make the most of it. Which I have done. But I wanted no part of my father’s other family.”
“And then you received an offer of marriage.”
Thomas allowed his gaze to wander over the delectable vision, so close, yet so far away. “And then I received an offer of marriage,” he agreed. “And I began to think of the advantages for Olivia and Nicholas, as well as for myself. Livvy was growing up, soon to be ready for a come-out. And Miss Aurelia Trevor of Pevensey Park could ensure vouchers for Almack’s and all that went with it. Nicholas was beginning to cause enough trouble that I knew it was well past time I personally shouldered the responsibility. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to mention them to you any more than I could mention my political ambitions . . .” Thomas paused. Devil it, but this was difficult! “Truthfully, when Charles first brought the matter to my attention, I thought him mad. Marriage to some female I had never heard of . . .” One who was such an antidote she had found it necessary to employ a solicitor to find her a mate.
“Then I began to listen, really listen. And I realized the match had possibilities. That we could be of use to each other. You needed a dragonslayer. I needed a family. You needed a replacement for Marcus Yelverton, and I was more than willing to be exactly that. Except”—Thomas shook his head—“by the time I met you and thoroughly embraced the idea, I was unwilling to take the risk of frightening you off. Bad news, I thought, could wait until after the wedding.”
“But you said nothing, even then,” his wife reminded him, unbending in her hurt and anger.
“Our acquaintance was so new, so fragile,” Thomas murmured, “my courage failed me. There was time, I thought, plenty of time.”
“I suppose one could consider it amusing,” Relia noted, “almost as if Fate took a hand in your downfall. For it was then that Olivia ran away from her Aunt Browning and Nicholas got himself sent down.”
“And my wife took them in and gave them a home. In spite of the fact that she was a very private person, who had, until then, led a perfectly quiet life.” Silence held them both as, for a moment, they teetered on the brink of a better understanding. “But we were in the midst of the holidays,” Thomas said, “and I was at last making some feeble progress in becoming acquainted with my sister and brother. You and I were also becoming . . . better acquainted. It seemed an awkward time to talk to you about elections. I told myself that after the holidays would be soon enough.”
Thomas’s voice trailed away. There, he had said it at last. Perhaps now they would be able to find some point of reconciliation.
“Is this you, Thomas?” his wife asked, examining his face with care. “Is this the real person behind the façade? Or is this yet another face you are putting on to cajole your wife into helping with your campaign?”
Thomas blinked, drew in a sharp breath. “I suppose I deserved that,” he observed. “But, truly, Relia, you have heard it all. I have no more secrets.” What an odd child she was. An indomitable spirit inside a porcelain doll. Grimly determined to do what was right. Yet so private, so sensitive. He was not the only one who masked his feelings. Would he ever discover what lay behind the Lady of the Manor?
And she thought him a mystery!
Hell and damnation, she was sitting there still as a stone, contemplating the blasted cushion as if it were the Oracle at Delphi. He had bared his soul, as he had never done with anyone before in his life, including Charles. What more could she possibly want?
One slim hand drifted out, clutched at the striped cushion, traced a seam. “I thought,” his wife said softly, “that after the holidays you would return to London . . . and to your mistress.”
“Beg pardon?”
“To Mrs. Ebersley. Olivia has told us all about her.” Relia’s fingers dug into the cushion as if she wished to do the same to his throat.
Livvy knew about Eleanor? How? Sister or no sister, he’d murder the chit with his bare hands!
And then it struck him. His wife cared. Or was she merely suffering from pride of possession? Was that not how she thought of him? An acquisition, bought and paid for? An upper servant somewhere between steward and governess?
Although Thomas had a bitter recollection of the last time he had lost his temper, his wife tended to precipitate emotions he could not control. Bounding to his feet, he paced the dimly lit room like a panther on the prowl, while his wife followed his progress with wide-eyed wonder, astounded, even fearful, because the mention of Eleanor Ebersley had provoked such an outburst. Truly, she had thought gentlemen tended to be sophisticated about their chère amies. He must love Mrs. Ebersley very much.
And suddenly he was there, hip to hip beside her on the sofa, his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. His fury—or whatever emotion had driven him—was gone, replaced by a look so serious it was clearly visible, even though t
he candles had burned down to stubs.
“Listen carefully,” he told her, “for this is as sincere and truthful as you will ever hear me.”
His hands tightened. Though there would be bruises in the morning, Relia felt no pain. He was so very close. He was touching her. Not as close as in Tunbridge Wells, but he was actually touching—
“It should be perfectly apparent to you by now,” Thomas declared, his face hovering inches from hers, “that I am not in the petticoat line. If I were, I would be much more adept at handling the intricacies of marriage. My life is filled with business matters from morn ‘til night. If a female has crossed my horizon on occasion, it is only because I am, in the end, made of flesh and blood. But from the moment I agreed to this marriage, there has been no one else. Indeed, Charles tells me . . . well, never mind that, but let me assure you I have no mistress except my work.”
“A more formidable opponent, I think.” Where those words came from Relia had no idea. Perhaps from some new wisdom inspired by the intimacy of the wee hours of the morning when, shut away from the world in their own private apartment, they could begin to see each other for what they truly were.
“You have the right of it,” Thomas admitted, his hands loosing their grip, falling to his sides. “The weeks ahead, the chaos of a political campaign will not be easy. I am aware the loss of peace and quiet will be offensive to you. I did not understand that when we were married . . . I never thought—”
“And if you had, you would have married me anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Goodnight, Thomas,” Relia pronounced, rising to her feet, carefully replacing the cushion against the dark velvet of the sofa, hiding her face as she did so. “This has been a most enlightening conversation. I assure you I will do my best to support you in your campaign.”
A Gamble on Love Page 16