“Hester is very patient,” Guinevere replied, taking a sip of her drink. “And yet, it’s difficult…”
Douglas stood with an elbow propped on the mantel, a safe distance from a pretty, if tired, woman in a pretty, if out-of-date, green velvet dress. How did a lady of lively intellect pass the time when her only companion on a dreary afternoon was a small child?
“You don’t want to leave Rose with strangers?”
“Maybe it’s that, or maybe I am the one who feels homesick, and I fret over my child to deal with it.” She took another sip of brandy, which Douglas took for a small concession to nerves.
Interesting.
“I should note,” Douglas said, addressing the drink in his hand, “you look quite nicely put together tonight.” Even he, however, knew the dress Guinevere wore, while flattering and elegant, was not in the first stare—or the second. Still, the forest-green color became her, and the style accentuated the curves she’d kept camouflaged in her drab attire heretofore.
Had she worn that dress for him? The notion was both surprising and… pleasing.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He’d wanted to set her at ease with his compliment, and based on her expression, had failed. Abruptly, Douglas wished he had a fraction of the charm her wealthy cousins could exude, a fraction of their experience with the ladies.
“Shall we take ourselves in to dinner, or would you like to linger here?”
She accepted his proffered arm without protest, gods be thanked. “I am hungry. You must be as well.”
He was nigh ravenous, which seemed to occur more often in her company.
“I suggest we spend tomorrow getting acquainted with the estate books,” Douglas said as he seated her at the small dining table. “Greymoor ordered them readied for our inspection, and the ground will need a day or two to dry before we can safely ride across country.”
In truth, Guinevere would want to stick close to the nursery for a day or two, though Douglas kept that notion to himself. Over the soup course, he instead invited her to list the aspects of the external estate she’d be most interested in assessing. Her list was exhaustive and would keep them in the saddle for days.
“You are not simply self-reliant as a function of your status as mother and land steward, are you?” Douglas asked as he refilled their wineglasses. Guinevere had been right about the cellars, and the kitchen was apparently attempting to make a good impression.
As was he, curiously enough.
The chicken had been excellent, as had the ham. The golden highlights Guinevere’s hair caught from the dinner candles and firelight were also most appealing.
“I was my parents’ only child, as Rose will be my only child,” Guinevere reflected. “My father never enjoyed robust health, and my mother died when I was little. We were not well situated, Father having disdained to remain at Enfield and take over the reins from Grandpapa. My earliest memories are of reminding my father it was time for supper.”
Did she also have memories of reminding of him of what he’d recently eaten? “Was there adequate provision for that meal?” Douglas asked, knowing he could be considered rude for doing so.
“There was—as soon as I learned to cook and to manage the stipend Grandpapa sent.”
A briskness in her tone suggested the time had arrived to change the subject. “How old were you when you came to Enfield?” He ought to be offering her more wine or a bite of pear, except he wanted to take advantage of her willingness to answer questions.
“Eleven or so.”
A girl of eleven might help her mother in the kitchen, or begin to prepare simple dishes with supervision. In a household with any means, she did not cook whole meals on her own or manage budgets.
“You look displeased,” Guinevere remarked as she cut into a pale, succulent pear.
“I expect I frequently look displeased to you. Usually, I am merely thinking.” In this case, about a young girl who’d had an aunt and grandparents, at least, in a position to take her father in hand, and who had neglected to do so.
“While you think, perhaps you can tell me how it is a second son was not educated to take over the entailed estate in case tragedy struck the heir.”
Turnabout was fair play, and to be expected with a worthy opponent.
“I have wondered the same thing,” Douglas admitted, spearing a small, juicy bite of pear. “My grandfather might have had that education but neglected to pass on to his son anything other than the ability to regularly ignore the dutiful reports of an overworked steward. My dear brother Herbert lived for his hounds and horses. He never stood a chance of putting the estate to rights.”
“Was he dear?”
Douglas split the remainder of his pear with one audible slice of the knife. “Why would you question my regard for my brother?” Though how highly could Douglas regard a brother who’d taken better care of his hounds than his wife or his inheritance? And poor Henry, the youngest of the three Allen brothers, had made Herbert seem a saint in comparison.
“I have no siblings,” Guinevere remarked.
Douglas cut each half into quarters, and each quarter into three small bites, noting that the hue of Guinevere’s décolletage was as pale as the fruit—an observation more interesting than the topic of siblings. “Go on.”
“The idea of having a brother or a sister… Well, to my mind, it would be lovely. I surmise it doesn’t always work out that way.”
He considered a lone bite of sweet, delectable fruit. “You surmise correctly. A question for you, however. Why do you insist Rose will be an only child?”
“You listen too carefully,” she muttered, to which Douglas made no reply rather than observe that she’d become too careful in many regards. She tilted her wineglass, peering at the dregs. “I will not put myself in a circumstance where I could make the same mistake twice.”
Miss Hollister was certain of this opinion too.
“And would it be a mistake to fall in love and allow some decent fellow the chance to take away your loneliness?” That Guinevere Hollister would punish herself indefinitely for a lapse committed years ago, when she’d had no mother to guide her and none to avenge the wrong done her, rankled.
Rankled exceedingly.
She set her glass down rather forcefully. “You did not ask that question in a purposeful attempt to hurt me, my lord, but you will see upon reflection it is either a stupid question or a thoughtless one. If by ‘take away my loneliness,’ you mean marry me, then firstly, you already know that is a sensitive topic with me, and secondly, marriage is not a guaranteed antidote to loneliness. Thirdly, a decent fellow would not pursue me for decent ends, and the indecent ends remaining are not, I can assure you, aimed at assuaging loneliness either.”
A veritable rant from Miss Hollister—complete with a my lord—and what she’d admitted by omission was as troubling as the declarations her speech contained.
As troubling as the hurt she tried to keep from her eyes.
“My apologies, Miss Hollister. I meant only to inquire of the possibility, should a man with an honorable suit appear, that you might allow yourself to take the opportunity he presented.” Such a fellow would be a lucky man, assuming he could win the lady’s trust.
“Douglas, I will say this once: I have no interest in marriage. Nothing, nothing about the wedded state could appeal to me as much as having my independence and my daughter to myself. Despite the fact that I am a mere poor relation, I have no need to marry and no desire to marry, and we will not discuss this again.”
Douglas set a bite of pear on her plate, feeling a sense of the lady protesting too much. He ought to desist, but her convictions bothered him—and made him sad for her. “So under no circumstances would you consider providing a step-papa for Rose or a spouse for yourself?”
“The question is moot. But what of you, your lordship? Why
not assuage your loneliness within the bonds of matrimony?”
“Brilliant, Miss Hollister.” Douglas nodded in congratulation, though he well deserved her riposte. “Except I do not recall admitting to any loneliness.” In her company, no admission was necessary. That they shared something even as bleak as loneliness gave Douglas a peculiar sense of connection to the lady. “Now, if I promise to drop this subject, will you join me in the library for a final nip of brandy?”
While he held her chair and escorted her from the table, Douglas wondered: As eminently suited as she was to motherhood, as ferociously as she loved her daughter, as lonely as she must be, what had befallen Guinevere Hollister that she would shut herself away from the prospect of a respectable union and more children to love, even when presented as a mere theoretical possibility?
***
Douglas Allen’s mood was not hard to read; it was impossible to read unless the man himself wished to reveal it.
“I will join you for a small tot.” Gwen let him hold her chair, let him hold the door. When he’d winged his arm at her, she had taken it. Her acquiescence had to be a measure of her fatigue, because on the strength of one shared meal and a short journey, Gwen could not be enjoying his company—could she?
“Guinevere.” Douglas lowered his voice and leaned close enough that Gwen could catch his brisk, spicy scent as they paused outside the library. “Sometimes a simple ‘Shut up, Douglas’ will serve when my questions become bothersome. In extremis, ‘Go to hell, Amery’ will save us both some time and embarrassment.”
She ducked her head lest he see her smile. Her best guess was that this was his version of teasing or apology, though one could not be certain. Not with Lord Amery. They got through their nightcap without Gwen having to resort to Douglas’s suggested stratagems, though she itched to make him admit that he was, indeed, lonely.
That he was lonely, too.
“You are asleep on your feet, madam, and there is nothing more we need discuss tonight. May I light you up to your room?”
“Please.” Before she broached topics a well rested, more prudent woman would know better than to explore. She set her empty glass on the sideboard. “The thought of laying my head on a soft pillow is irresistible—even a lumpy pillow, for that matter.”
Douglas lit a single tall candle and held the door for her. This time, she was grateful for his arm. She was that tired, also a bit disoriented from taking spirits both before and after her supper.
An earlier stray thought about being a poor relation assailed her, along with a startlingly profound bout of homesickness. Coupled with that, she was able, however dimly, to see the years not so far ahead, when Rose would be grown and gone. A twenty-five-year-old woman might spend her day roaming all over an estate, managing this and inspecting that, but what of a forty-year-old woman? A fifty-year-old woman?
When, if ever, could she allow her vigilance to lapse, her penance to end? Desolation welled up, bringing Gwen to a familiar moment of self-doubt. Her life managing Enfield while she raised her daughter worked for now, and she was grateful for it.
But Douglas was right: She needed in the years to come to find other options for Rose, if at all possible, and then where would that leave her?
“You grow suspiciously quiet,” Douglas said, pausing outside her room. He opened the door, and because her candles had not been lit, preceded her inside.
“I am merely tired.” So tired, and on so many levels. Gwen suspected Douglas would understand that—if she could tell him—because he was weary too.
He lit a sconce on either side of Gwen’s bed and a branch of candles on her mantel, then set his light down and came to stand before her just inside the door. He closed the door, likely to shut out the draft from the hall, and regarded Gwen with a frown—a thoughtful frown, perhaps even a concerned frown.
He should not have closed that door, because the resulting privacy tempted Gwen to wonder when Douglas had last been private with a lady in her bedroom.
“Shall I ring for a maid?”
“I’ll manage well enough,” Gwen said, not moving.
“Will you?”
She nodded once. Of all times to disregard propriety, his frowning lordship chose now, when Gwen wanted to indulge in a much-deserved, completely useless fit of the weeps. She was tired, far from home, and just a bit tipsy.
That business he had raised earlier, about marrying some decent man, was to blame for her misery. For the most part, she accepted that she’d made the poorest of decisions regarding marriage, but sometimes…
“Guinevere?” Douglas’s faint frown had shifted toward puzzlement.
Gwen was mortified beyond endurance when a tear slipped down her cheek.
His lordship lacked the sense to flee. Instead, Douglas put a hand on each of Gwen’s shoulders. Gently, he drew her one step closer and took one step closer himself. His arms came around her, and Gwen found, to her guilty pleasure, their heights matched such that she could rest her head on his shoulder.
His hands slipped around her back, and he held her against the warmth and strength of his body. On a sigh, Gwen leaned into him more heavily. The lump in her throat eased, and she closed her eyes and let herself have this moment of… comfort.
“Forgive me,” Gwen murmured against his shoulder, inhaling a steadying breath before she organized herself to regain her balance.
“Hush.” Douglas brought his hand up along her back and pressed her gently closer when she would have moved away. She allowed it. For long, stolen moments, she allowed him to simply hold her.
She’d known the pleasure of a man’s embrace, also the folly and danger to be found there, but never had she felt this sense of sheltering and consolation. Before she began babbling or fell asleep in Douglas’s arms, Gwen drew back, and this time, he let her go.
“You are tired,” he said, picking up his candle before Gwen could offer some trivializing inanity. “It is late, and I will see you in the morning. I appreciate your making this journey, and I wish you good night.”
Without touching her anywhere else, he kissed her cheek, lingeringly, as if asking a question or making sure she grasped the answer to one, then left her in the chilly shadows of her bedroom.
***
Strong spirits consumed in quantity might dampen a man’s ability to act on his desires, but Douglas doubted the entire Linden cellar held enough brandy to erase from his mind the feel of Guinevere Hollister, tired, pliant, and so, so female in his arms.
An hour after Douglas had bid her good night, he lay on his bed, letting her haunt his body and his imagination. She had been in want of a simple embrace, and he had been able to provide that without making advances toward her. Now, recalling her lithe curves and the floral fragrance of her hair, he wondered where his resolve had come from. She was a lush, lovely armful and clearly in want of a man’s touch.
Though she was in want of respect more. To have attempted liberties with her tonight would have been… ungallant. Not only bad timing, but also bad form.
Still, a part of Douglas, a wicked, long-dormant, lusty-young-male part of him wondered if he might have seduced her—if even he could have persuaded her to allow him intimacies. He would have used her fatigue, her loneliness, and her long sexual deprivation to patiently lure her into his bed, and then…
She was a woman who would appreciate patience, in bed and elsewhere. The images aroused by that realization had Douglas closing his hand around his already erect cock as he lay alone amid his covers, and bringing himself to a languorous and gratifyingly intense orgasm.
Guinevere Hollister was not amenable to even discussing marriage, which preserved Douglas from all manner of interesting conundrums, though it also puzzled him. He had no interest in an emotional entanglement, and the begetting of an heir wasn’t something he would take on in the near term.
But of all women, he found him
self attracted to Miss Guinevere Hollister, and he suspected if he were respectful and careful and did not presume on her privacy, Guinevere Hollister might allow herself to desire him in return.
Though only for the duration of a brief, mutually satisfactory affair.
On that intriguing thought, he drifted off, only to dream more of the same lovely, arousing, intriguing thoughts.
***
“Why is Amery writing to you?” Andrew Alexander, Earl of Greymoor, asked as David Worthington, Viscount Fairly, passed him a single sheet of paper.
“Read the postscript,” David said, switching Greymoor’s infant stepdaughter Lucy to his other shoulder.
“My, my, my…” Greymoor murmured as he read. He folded the letter and tapped the crease against his lips in time with the rhythm of the chair in which he rocked. “Our Gwennie has bestirred dear Douglas’s protective instincts—at the least.”
“My reaction precisely, but the woman is your cousin, while neither Gwen nor Rose is related to me by blood. I thought I had best alert you before I take my curious little self down to Sussex.”
Greymoor’s blue-eyed expression was thoughtful as David slowly paced the room with the sleeping baby. “Are you sure you want to interrupt them? I continue to believe Gwen can take care of herself.”
“Just as you believe she can take care of Rose, Greymoor?”
“For your rubbishing information—and Amery’s too,” his lordship retorted, “we established a trust for Rose before I married your sister. Heathgate and I contribute to it regularly in equal amounts. You are welcome to go shares with us, but I have not found the proper circumstance to inform Gwen of its existence.”
“Coward.” David cuddled his niece closer and tried not to feel jealous of her step-papa, who was permitting David the indulgence of putting the child to bed. “Get me the details, and I’ll be happy to contribute. As for the rest of Douglas’s Epistle to the Philistines, I thought your mother was supposed to chaperone this expedition to Sussex.”
Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 7