Discreet Gentleman Book One: A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

by Tualla, Kris

  She nodded, wide-eyed. "You worried about him."

  "Hell yes we worried about him! He's deaf!"

  Jarl stomped around the desk and his rant grew louder. "And then after I contacted Gulbrandsen I believed I had engaged the services of a Lord Olaf Olsen -- at that solicitor's recommendation, mind you. Imagine the shock I received when my long-lost brother blew in here without a word of warning!"

  Arms waved wildly around his head. "And he practices a trade. A trade, for God's sake! What could he be thinking?"

  "Perhaps he was thinking that he had no income of his own," Regin interjected. Jarl's lack of understanding of Brander's situation irked her. "Perhaps he had grown accustomed to eating and sleeping indoors."

  "Accustomed to what?" Jarl's green eyes were dark as pines.

  "Well, what did you expect of him? He had to support himself in some manner, didn't he?" she challenged.

  Jarl waved a finger at her. "I'll tell you what I expected!" He stepped closer.

  Regin leaned back.

  "I expected him to show our father the respect he deserves and surrender to his decision. And I expected him to love his family enough to let us know where he was and that he was well. He had to understand that we worried about him!"

  Jarl retracted his finger and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I expected him to honor my marriage as the Lord of Hansen Hall by staying to attend it once he was here!"

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Regin hoped to stay in her bedchamber until she was summoned to church on the morrow, but Jarl informed her that related Hansens would be arriving at the hall today and a pre-wedding dinner would be served this evening.

  "I'll present my beautiful bride," he said. "They'll be anxious to meet you and be on their best behavior."

  It didn't require a magician to unravel his message: Dress well. Charm the family.

  Regin couldn't have felt less charming if she was covered with leeches and planned to dress in seaweed. She opened the door to her room. Marthe jumped to her feet and swiped her cheeks, giving her mistress only a partial profile to evaluate.

  "Marthe?" she asked. "What's amiss?"

  The maid shook her head and backed away. "It's nothing, my lady. Only smoke from the fire stung my eyes."

  Regin sank deeper into hopelessness. If Marthe was destroyed by the men's departure, then who would hold her up when she married a stranger? More to the point, a stranger in love with another woman while she was in love with another man. That wasn't the most optimistic way to begin a marriage.

  There was no point in telling Marthe the demand she placed on Brander; one so outrageous that it thrust him and his barely-recovered valet on their way back to Christiania. She touched Marthe's arm. "You know then."

  Marthe turned watery eyes to Regin. "Niels came to tell me goodbye."

  Regin pressed a fist against her chest to quell the jealousy that burgeoned at those words.

  "Well, at least you have that," she mumbled, and then changed the subject. "It seems that hordes of Hansens will be descending upon the hall later today. I am to be put on display at the evening meal."

  Marthe seemed relieved to have another task to occupy her mind. "I'll arrange your hair, then. How about the blue velvet bodice and embroidered sleeves? With the black silk skirt?"

  Regin wondered if she could manage to care. "Yes. Perfect."

  October 26, 1720

  The scent of ham seeped under the blankets and tickled Regin awake. One cautiously slit eyelid proved morning had indeed arrived, even though she lay awake most of the night trying to postpone it. Today she would marry Jarl Hansen.

  She wondered if she would ever see him as Jarl and not as an altered version of Brander. At least she wouldn't have the man himself present to make the comparison. After Brander walked out without saying a word she was convinced he would never return to Hansen Hall. Not even to be buried with his family.

  Regin stretched under the blankets, still refusing to surface into the busy day. There was so much for her to do and the burden of expectation pressed her back into the mattress. She curled into herself and hoped Marthe might forget her for a while longer.

  "Lady, I'll come in after you if you won't come out on your own," the maid threatened.

  Regin groaned and flipped the top of the blanket below her chin. There was no help for her. She must push herself through the tasks and pray that this life-altering day hurried by.

  Her first challenge was the tray of food.

  The wedding ceremony was hours away as was the feast that followed. Regin weighed that fact against the sinking feeling in her belly and determined she could manage the poached eggs, the toasted bread, and the summer ale. The ham, fried vegetables and sweetened berry tarts with heavy cream would go back to the kitchen rather than back up her gullet, should her stomach continue to rebel.

  While she ate her bland but comforting meal Marthe prepared her bath, the second task of her day. The hot water soothed in the chilly room and raised gooseflesh over her skin. But when Marthe handed her the chunk of soap, Brander's unbidden words filled her senses.

  Your letters always smelled of lemon soap.

  For the hundredth time since yesterday Regin wondered if she had been wrong to ask the man to prove his love to her as she had. And for the hundred-and-first time she knew she wasn't.

  Again she struggled to push the beautiful giant from her mind.

  Regin sunk under the water and scrubbed her scalp as if she could scrub away the unwelcome thoughts beneath. She held her breath until her chest burned and Marthe poked her. She straightened and gasped while water sluiced over her face.

  "I cannot see how drowning yourself is preferable to marrying a handsome lord," Marthe chided. "With all else that might have happened to you."

  "I'm aware," Regin grumbled. The maid handed her a towel and she dried her face.

  "Have you washed all the important parts?" Marthe prodded. "You'll be a bride this night."

  Regin cringed. She wasn't a virgin so the marriage bed itself didn't frighten her. But Jarl was a stranger to her and the act was so intimate, the extent of which most virgin brides couldn't understand. They feared pain; she feared images.

  There should only be two people in the bridal bed, not four.

  Marthe squeezed water from Regin's hair and wrapped her head with towels, then held out additional towels as Regin climbed from the tub. Regin scrubbed her skin until it was pink. She stepped into her small clothes then pulled her best linen chemise over her head, towels and all. Lastly, she wrapped in the dressing gown against the room's chill.

  Regin sat beside the fire, and flipped her waist-length hair over her shoulders so it hung down the chair's back. Marthe began the laborious process of combing out the snarls and brushing her hair dry. Curling irons were tucked into the coals.

  Regin nibbled another piece of toast and focused her thoughts on her hairstyle. She wanted to look beautiful, perhaps stunning if that might be achieved. Not one guest should be given a reason to feel sorry for Jarl. Rather, they should wonder how he was so lucky as to claim a bride like her. It wasn't pride. It was self-preservation.

  The bedchamber's clock softly pinged the time and Marthe gasped. "Lady, I'm going to have to begin to arrange your hair or we'll not be ready in time. Do you know what you want?"

  It required an hour before Regin was satisfied, but the results were gratifying. She powdered her face, added a tiny touch of rouge to her cheeks and lips. Then she walked to the hanging mirror to scrutinize the results.

  Her skin was pale and thankfully without flaw. The rosy color on her cheeks enhanced the deep blue of her eyes. Dark brown hair was pulled back with a golden cord and cascaded over her shoulders in a froth of iron-aided swirls. Marthe curled thin gold satin ribbons and pinned them throughout her tresses.

  "I look pretty," she stated.

  "Pretty?" Marthe huffed. "I haven't seen you look so well in years, if I might say so."

  Regin's gaze shifted
to the reflection of the maid standing behind her. "Yes, you might. It's your handiwork, after all."

  Marthe looked at the clock. "Let's get you into your gown."

  Regin presented her legs. Marthe pulled on cream-colored silk stockings and tied the garter ribbons over her knees. Regin stepped into her cream satin bodice with the added silk rosebuds and golden embroidery, pulled it up to her breast, and put her arms through the openings. Marthe tied it loosely.

  Next Marthe tied small woven panniers over Regin's hips and helped her into a petticoat that was gathered at the sides to make her hips look fuller. She shimmied into the gold silk skirt and Marthe smoothed it over the petticoat and panniers, and tied it at Regin's waist.

  Marthe tightened the lacing on the satin bodice, its flared hem snug over the waist of the skirt. She held out one sleeve at a time for Regin and tied them in place. Last, she fastened a gold chain with a delicate gold cross around her neck.

  Regin went back to the wall mirror for a final, critical, assessment. What she saw made her smile with satisfaction. "Marthe, you're an artist."

  "I'm no artist, my lady," Marthe murmured. "You're a beautiful woman. You always have been."

  "I haven't felt beautiful for a very long time," Regin admitted, still preening before the mirror. "But no one will feel sorry for Jarl today and that's a fact."

  *****

  Jarl's reaction as Regin descended the stairs was worth every minute of the four hours Marthe fussed over her that morning. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he stopped whatever he was telling Roald in mid-sentence. In the carriage on the way to the church, he kept staring at her.

  "Are you regretting your offer?" she teased. "It's not too late to retract."

  A grin curled one side of Jarl's mouth. "No, Lady Regin."

  He twisted to look out the carriage window and Regin objectively evaluated her groom. The burgundy velvet of his doublet accented his green eyes and blond hair. His long legs were encased in creamy knit trousers tucked into tall brown boots.

  He was a very handsome man; that could not be argued. She wanted to be optimistic but Jarl didn't seem any more excited about the marriage than she was. For the first time -- not considering her feelings for Brander -- her plan to save her family's estate felt much more of a burden than a triumph.

  The carriage rattled to a stop in front of Arendal's stave church where the Reformed religion was practiced. The footman popped the door open and Jarl climbed out first. His gaze swept the area with intensity until he made half a circle. Then he blinked and shot his grim consideration at Regin. He offered his hand.

  She accepted it with the warmest smile she could conjure. "And now our future begins, Jarl."

  He dipped his chin in wordless acknowledgement. His features lifted a little.

  Regin eased from the carriage and he tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. Shoulder by shoulder they moved toward the church's heavy carved door. Well-dressed guests clustered outside, waiting for the groom and his purchased bride to enter for the sacramental ceremony.

  A tall and striking woman -- who appeared to be of an age with Regin -- stood off to one side of the church doorway. Her dark blond hair was pulled back from her temples and looped over her shoulders to her waist. Huge gray eyes claimed Regin's attention, though they weren't focused in her direction. The woman wasn't smiling; her expression was a mixture of anger and despair.

  In each fist she gripped the hands of two young children. The boy looked to be six or seven years of age. The girl, pouty and chewing on her fingers, perhaps four. The boy turned to look at her. His clear green gaze met hers over high cheekbones. Golden blond hair tumbled to his shoulders. Regin's pulse surged with such force she could hear whooshing in her ears.

  The boy was a miniature of Jarl.

  Her step faltered. Jarl's grip on her elbow tightened. Regin looked at him. He gave her a tight smile but turned forward again and didn't look in the woman's direction.

  But Regin did and she saw a heart as clearly broken as her own. She ached to say something to comfort the woman, but what could she say? The truth -- I don't love him and I'm only marrying him for his money. Or: he's only marrying me for my land and my title -- would be worse than believing he simply didn't love her anymore.

  Regin wondered what Jarl told the mother of his children. But her larger worry was Jarl's commitment to his marital vow of fidelity. She wondered if she truly could trust him -- a consistent concern with the men in her life, so it seemed. Jarl walked straight ahead and never once glanced to the side. The stoic set of his features and the rippling muscle of his jaw were the only indications that he knew the woman was there.

  Inside the dark wooden building a crowd had already gathered. Jarl took Regin's cloak and handed it to a servant along with his own. Then he led her to the front pew.

  "Wait here until the service begins," he instructed. Then he walked back to entry.

  Regin strained to hear Jarl's voice. The idea of him speaking to a lover he obviously bedded with regularity for years infuriated her. He had made his choice just as she had. Today was a day for giving those choices a chance to thrive, and that meant suffocating the paths not taken.

  A young man in white clerical robes lit a myriad of candles around the altar bringing more light into the church. An elder man in more elaborate clothing introduced himself to Regin and wished her well on the impending nuptials.

  "Thank you, Father," she murmured.

  Jarl joined them. "Are we ready to begin?"

  The clergyman nodded and stood on a raised platform. Jarl took Regin's arm and pulled her to stand on his left, facing the cleric though he didn't look at her. As soon as they were in position he let go of her arm. Regin swallowed her trepidation; her pride was long gone.

  The bustle of attendees stilled behind them. Roald stepped beside Jarl and Norna beside her. Regin heard most of what the reformist priest said though her mind kept meandering, still wondering if she ever had another course to follow. If so, she hadn't found it.

  Jarl touched her arm and she realized she was supposed to kneel. Norna helped her lower to her knees and arranged her gown so it wouldn't be crushed. The priest offered them the bread and wine and she and Jarl took communion together. As the sacrament was offered to the rest of the congregation Regin wondered if she was already married and had missed it.

  No, she hadn't answered any questions yet. At the very least she would be asked to respond to one question. She focused on her hands, fingers tightly laced and knuckles blanched. Of a sudden she wondered if Jarl had a ring to give her. She wore the silver Viking ring on her right thumb -- the only finger it fit -- but she wouldn't give it to him.

  The young man in the white robes returned the bread and wine to the altar and Jarl helped Regin to her feet. Norna shook out her skirt. As the priest began asking Jarl questions regarding his intentions and vows, a disturbing rumble began at the back of the church. As it rolled toward them it gained strength. Regin pulled a shuddering breath, certain of the source of the disturbance and aching with empathy for the gray-eyed woman.

  "If he was ever going to marry you, he would have done so years ago," she whispered.

  Jarl's head spun toward her. "What?"

  Regin faced the floor. "Nothing."

  Jarl's arm bumped her shoulder as he turned around and blew a long hiss.

  Regin lifted her gaze to his angry profile. "Don't be hard on her, Jarl," she pleaded.

  He looked down at her as if she had grown a second nose and planted flowers in it. "What on earth are you babbling about?"

  She pointed toward the aisle and turned to face the angry woman. "I'm talking ab--"

  There was no gray-eyed woman standing there.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Where Regin expected to see the woman stood a six-foot-five-inch, coppery blond gentleman with eyes that shifted from gray to green to blue. He wore a turquoise velvet doublet pleated to the waist over pale gray trousers. His polished black
boots reflected the altar's candlelight.

  A sword with a brass quillion edged in glittering emeralds hung at his side. The shaft of the sword was encased in black leather, webbed with silver and dotted with the green gemstones. A thick-linked gold chain looped around his neck and rested against his chest; it ended in a Nordic crest of some sort worked in colorful enamel.

  Regin's mouth opened in shock. The rumble became shouts. Men stood in the pews.

  Brander's steely eyes stabbed hers and waited.

  "You shouldn't look better than the groom," she croaked.

  He blinked slowly and drew a long breath that made him appear to double in size. He couldn't hear the uproar around them and his hands spoke only to her.

  Don't marry him.

  She answered in kind: Why not?

  His eyes rolled then met hers again: Because you don't love him.

  "What's he doing here?" Lord Balder bellowed and lumbered to his feet. "I thought he was gone!"

  Olvir pulled his father back onto the bench. "Quiet, Pappa."

  Regin narrowed her eyes. This wasn't how this day was supposed to be. She held up her hands and tried with minimal success to calm the assemblage. She spoke to Brander again, using his language.

  How do you know I don't love him? she challenged.

  I know you love me, he answered.

  "What is he saying?" Jarl demanded. "Regin, what are you saying?"

  She turned to face him, aghast. "I cannot believe that you don't understand your own brother!" she barked.

  Jarl's face twisted in disgust. "Tell him to leave."

  Regin gave an incredulous laugh. When she faced Brander again, she caught Olvir's stare. He winked at her and nodded; he understood everything.

  Jarl wants you to leave, she gestured.