"My pleasure, but please don't option for another war. No relationship is worth the bloodshed."
His mirth fell upon her, picking at the scab covering her battered pride.
She had half a mind to leave without uttering another word, but she turned. "Laugh, if you must, but more people should pray against ill-suited matches. I believe there would be a lot less unhappiness in the world."
Tucking his fist onto his hip, as if he ferried an invisible hat like a shako the militia wore, he marched out of the shadow of the oak. A frown covered his face, his chiseled jaw set into grim lines. His gaze whipped up and down then seemed to settle on her countenance. "So, lass, what makes you an expert?"
"I have eyes, four of them." She tweaked her lenses. "And I use them." Stabbing a few loose pins back into her chignon, she gaped at his polished boots and traced the expensive silver threading of his greatcoat to his thick cravat. She'd just insulted a very rich man; someone Father would try to placate in public, and then complain about ad nauseam at home. "They must also make me forget myself. Sorry."
She bit her lip and loosened the iron grip she had on Timothy's fingers. "I shouldn't be dismissive of the man to whom I'm indebted."
"Such large hazel eyes." He reached close to her ear and plucked a muddy spear-shaped leaf of lousewort from one of her dangling curls. Examining his gloved fingertips almost as much as her locks, he arched his brow. "Very fine. I suppose you see things others miss. I've heard the eyes are a window unto the soul. I think I know now what that means."
He leaned to the side and retrieved her bonnet, wiping off the mud, further soiling his gloves. "Here, misery prayer warrior."
Stepping away, he returned to his horse and swung his mighty legs over the top. "Young man, be kinder to your sister. The lovely lady is becoming quite tanned in this afternoon sun."
With her mouth dropping open, Gaia tried to inhale. She didn't know what to react to first: that the stranger thought her lovely or that he assumed it was Timothy's fault her complexion wasn't snow-white. Maybe it was the combination, which made her pulse race, dull appearance and all. If she spoke her mind to Elliot, perhaps he, too, could see her this way. Hope burned inside.
With a flip of his brim, the stranger set off. Man and horse soon blended into the tree line. Who was he and would he mention her prayers to others?
She blinked, as if the action would push away her questions. None of it mattered. Timothy was safe. She took him in her arms and twirled him. Her quarter-step fell in rhythm to the sway of the oak's limbs.
Gaia hugged the boy again. "Don't run away ever again."
Timothy dropped his head. "Mean boys. Sl-ow wit."
She kissed his forehead. "You're full of wit, no matter the speed. You are so dear. Let's go home." Hopefully, the scolding she'd receive for losing Timothy wouldn't tamp Father's strength.
William St. Landon, the Duke of Cheshire, left his dapple grey at the stables and started to the main house; nothing he enjoyed more than a day-long ride in his native Devonshire. Spring with the spice of pine and freshly-turned soil had to be his favorite season.
The topper of his adventure? Finding a saucy tree sprite praying for misery. Ah, to be young and headstrong. At the late age of thirty-six, he was above such games.
Oh, Ontredale Lodge. He scanned the pinkish-grey stones, a country home to his lineage, and marveled at the place. Smaller than his estate in Cheshire, it was still very large and grand. As a boy, he only visited once, that awkward day his father informed him he was heir to all this. The man never liked the money or prestige, but he didn't like much. Shrugging off the bad memories, William pounded up the limestone steps.
With a blackmailer after his family, he had more serious things to fill his mind than bad memories. Resigned, he pounded up the limestone steps.
His breathing hitched as he entered the main hall. Little Mary's cries wrapped tightly about his heart; another nightmare for the poor girl.
How was he to help the child? What could replace the love of a mother, even an awful one?
"Your Grace, you've returned." His housekeeper, Mrs. Wingate, shook her head. "Lady Mary won't sleep. Her new maid has been unable to soothe her."
He removed his coat and hat and dropped them onto the close table. "The surroundings are unfamiliar; that must be upsetting her."
If only it were true. He ripped off his smudged leather gloves and handed them to Mrs. Wingate, the principal guardian of Ontredale. "I trust that the house will be fully staffed soon."
She nodded her head, fluttering the frill of her perfectly- starched mobcap. "Yes; it's been difficult to meet your needs so quickly, but it shall be done. If I'd had more notice of your arrival, all would've been in place."
Raising a brow at the inflection in her voice, the light admonishing tone, he swallowed and chose to sympathize with the woman clad in stark ash skirts. It wasn't Mrs. Wingate's fault no one could be alerted to his arrival. When his carriage arrived in the middle of the night, the old girl greeted him with a head full of curl papers in her greying hair.
"Sir, don't doubt my dedication," her tone softened, almost absorbed in the ocean of marble lining the entry. "Though the late duke visited often, I thought you'd be more like your father, and seldom come."
To be like him was a curse William wanted no part of. "Mrs. Wingate, I know you will do as well for my family as you did the late earl."
She nodded, and her gaze rose to the top of the stairs as Mary's cries ceased. "What else may I do, Your Grace?"
Absent the blackmailer's head on a platter, nothing. He sighed, thankful his child had calmed. "You will guide us with grace through the transition."
A smile peeked for a moment then disappeared in the aging crinkles of her heart-shaped face. "Should I get a doctor for Lady Mary, my lord?"
"No, she is healthy; physically healthy." What was the best way to ask? He studied the quizzing brown eyes glaring at him. The woman had to know there was a problem with his daughter. "Is there any in the village familiar with caring for a child... with difficulties?"
She looked down at the show table and picked at a pleat on her apron. "The Telfairs; their youngest can now speak, even talk with his hands. With so many daughters, one might need the position of a companion or governess. The quiet one, the one who minds the boy, she definitely has the makings of a governess."
Communicating with hands? That would be better than nothing. He tapped his chin. "Draft a note to start introductions, but, Mrs. Wingate, I'd like to be the final say on any position instructing Mary. And make it plain that my only desire is a governess, not a sly companion hoping for elevation. I'm not looking for a wife."
She nodded, but a wide frown thinned her lips. "Of course, my lord; the quiet one is the one you want. Her hopes couldn't be for more."
There was something ominous in her words, but he'd let the notion fall away. Mary was the only female he needed to puzzle out. In matters of running the house, the stern housekeeper was knowledgeable, but not with concerns to his baby. He marshaled to the stairs to check upon Mary, but pivoted. "Did any correspondence come today?"
"The usual invitations, Your Grace." Wide eyes framed the woman's portly face. Her chin lowered as if to hide them. Those windows to her soul were the only things showing a measure of compassion or feeling from the stoic woman.
Surely she recognized a devoted father. His fingers tightened on the banister. "Anything from Mr. Stelford?"
"None, sir." She brushed at the mud stain on his glove. "Been a quiet day until now."
No word from his confidant?
Or the blackmailer?
William took a cleansing breath; another day of borrowed peace from the blackguard threatening to expose his late wife's infidelity.
He should fall upon his knees and thank God for this respite, but he and God weren't on the best of terms. Maintaining a truce with the Holy Father must be best.
He smoothed his damask waistcoat, splaying its silver button betwee
n his fingers; might as well resign himself. "No, I think it will be another late night for me in the nursery." He walked up to the first landing.
Before he could take a step, a fever-pitched sob descended, bellowing.
Mrs. Wingate didn't flinch, as if immune to the child's misery, but a father's heart could never be so hard; at least not this father's heart.
"Will you have anything to eat, sir?"
How could he, with Mary suffering? "No."
"But you can't sit up with her again. You'll wear yourself thin, catch all manner of ailments. You should let her flail and outgrow this." Mrs. Wingate picked up his hat and coat and headed toward the kitchen, her dark skirts flapping behind her.
He rubbed his jaw. He'd forgive the woman's cruel advice. When Mary felt secure, she'd not be so easily upset. Trudging the final stairs to the nursery, he tried to soften his boot heels, but they banged against the treads. The drumbeat further soured his mood. Except for his father's strict rules, Devonshire with its greenery and rugged coast meant escape, a sanctuary created by God. Mary should love it here.
The babe was all he had left of his wife, Elizabeth. He must do everything in his power to keep the little girl safe from the evils of this world. If he'd kept better care of his wife, given her a reason not to stray, things would've been different. He rubbed his temples.
The babe's shrieks vibrated the threshold, warbling the grain. It was almost as bad as the bellows of dying men on the fields of Zadorra. Images of the river of death, the battle of Vitoria he fought, filled his head. Yes, no one should pray for more wars with France.
He shook his head. Those memories woke him up at night, but what would make a child of four scream in terror? Why would a God in Heaven make her mute, except for these cries? Where was His mercy?
The late Reverend St. Landon would preach his son's fate, widowed with a hurting child, was judgment. Why not, after disappointing his father and his wife? William straightened his shoulders and pushed open the door to the darkened room. Reaching at the top of a chest of drawers, he lit a candle.
As her incompetent nurse paced back and forth, screeching shushes at his daughter, Mary stood in the middle of the crib, tears dribbling down her chin, her face cherry-red. She must've caught sight of him, for she held her arms up.
Rushing to her, he shuttled across the thick puce carpet, the noise of his heels absorbed in the padding. "You are dismissed, woman!"
The nurse backed from the room, half-curtsying, half-running. The door slammed on its hinge.
Mary leapt at his embrace and wound her chubby arms about his neck. Her moans subsided when he snuggled her close. What an unthinking nurse to let this precious girl scream.
He stroked her sandy-brown curls and wiped tears from her sea-green eyes. This little bonbon held his heart within her tiny palms, perhaps the only person to love him unconditionally. "Papa's here. You're safe. We're both safe."
With the child clinging to his lapels, he moved to the rocking chair in the corner of the buttercream-colored nursery.
Mary burrowed deeper into his arms and played with the buttons of his waistcoat. What he wouldn't pay to hear her voice given to words and not terror.
He lifted his legs to the child's chestnut trunk and scanned the carved duck and other small toys on the oak bookcase of the glazed-pear cultured room. "Isn't this a pretty place? I had all your things put in here, just as they were in Cheshire."
The little girl knocked two buttons together, as if they were a gong.
Loosening the metal from her fingers, he held her palm. His wide thumb covered the small soft middle. "Would you like to hear of how I led my forces in the battle of Assaye? My regiment spread across the plains of India."
Wide-eyed, she grinned a toothy sigh.
"Say 'Papa', as you once did."
She smiled again and grabbed his nose.
He hugged her tight to his breast. With everything he had, he'd keep the mother's sins quiet. None of the ugliness would fall on Mary's head. No one would question the child's paternity and ruin her chances.
If someone had prayed for his marital happiness, he'd never have wedded Elizabeth, but then he'd never have this joy. "Rest assured, my girl, I'll keep the nightmares at bay."
A short knock assailed the nursery threshold.
Mrs. Wingate entered. "This just came by post," she waved a letter in her hand.
It wasn't written on paper cream, so it wasn't the blackmailer's handiwork. He released a pent-up breath.
Without another word, Mrs. Wingate set it on the dresser, curtsied, and left the room.
Benjamin Stelford's large garnet seal seemed to glow on the blue tinted stationary. It was unmistakable, even at this shorter distance. If William's friend hadn't discovered the blackmailing blackguard, hiding in Devonshire wouldn't conceal the horrid scandal.
CHAPTER TWO
The Day the World Changed
COLD AIR PIMPLED Gaia's skin. The flames had died in the small fireplace at the head of her bedchamber. At a minimum, she should crawl out of her thick nest of peach and cream covers, stalk over to the bricked hearth, and make it blaze again. However, that would mean leaving the comfort of her poster bed, the soft lawn sheets nestling her cheek, the wonderful gift from her aunt. Father didn't allow many luxuries. For a while, he'd been a little looser with pocket money for Julia's dance lessons, toiletries for the twins. Alas, Gaia was last on his list, but that had to be because she didn't make a fuss like the others. If only Father could enjoy better health, then he could be more tolerant to all, not just the complainers.
Gaia moved an aching limb then gave up trying to rise. Yesterday's frantic search, the cold mud, Father's disapproving tone, it was all too much. Didn't it matter that she'd found Timothy and no harm had come to him? Well, thanks to the stranger, no harm had come, but hadn't all the Telfairs, save her older sister, attended church?
Each one of them, Father or her stepmother, could've chaperoned Timothy. Why was it Gaia's responsibility? Did Father even care about how much she'd suffered, thinking her brother had been hurt? It would take days to get those stains out of her slippers.
Serendip was right. It was time to be selfish, to do something for Gaia's happiness. Toes balling, she wiggled to a new spot on her pillow. She'd found the courage to speak her mind to the handsome man at her oak. Surely, it would be easier with Elliott, her long-time neighbor and family friend.
Gaia closed her eyes again. Every detail of Seren's gossip of how Cousin Millicent threw Elliott away for a baron came to mind. How long would he be sad? A week, a few days? Couldn't have been much sentiment for it to end so quickly. The sunny blue of her bedchamber's walls disappeared once more.
High-pitched screams rattled the floorboards. Must be her youngest sisters, Helena and Lydia, squabbling downstairs. For identical twins, they disagreed over everything.
Another voice joined the girls in the hullabaloo.
Too pitchy for Julia. No, her older sister was still touring London with their aunt. God, let Julia return with an offer. Then her sister wouldn't be so desperate.
"Children, please. Gaia had a rough day yesterday. Don't disturb her."
Ah, Sarah, her stepmother, must be trying to separate the little girls. The woman would have better luck extricating wild hogs. Last time, Gaia had to cut a beautiful ribbon in two to settle the twins.
With a yawn, she pulled from the bed and headed to the wardrobe. Flip after flip of the folded gowns, shades of muted blue and grey, she sighed, nothing drawing her attention. All the fabrics seemed the same; pale, lifeless. If her mother had lived, surely she would've instilled confidence in Julia and maybe some in Gaia, too. She didn't make it to Gaia's eighth birthday.
With a shake of her head, she grabbed a checked-grey muslin frock. Once she finished her toiletries, she'd speak with Sarah right away about bright fabric, something to attract Elliot's attention.
Two whole days of tutoring the children, of chores, of pretending her world didn
't teeter on a precipice and no answer from Sarah. Gaia threw her stained mint-green slipper to the floor and flung herself upon her mattress.
Was the request of fabric too much for Father's pockets, or was it his silly rule of one girl coming out at a time robbing everything?
No more waiting. Sarah must give an answer today. Gaia slipped her slipper back on, smoothed her sprig muslin skirt, and headed down the staircase to the front parlor.
Murmurs filtered under the gap at the bottom of the frame.
She put an ear to the door.
The tones were hushed but heated. A disagreement brewed within, but who would be disagreeable in Sarah's lair? This was a showplace for entertaining, playing music, or endless hours of the woman's craft-making, not arguments.
Maybe she mumbled to herself, as she did when Timothy was born. By his second birthday, it was obvious something was wrong. Gaia's heart clenched. It wasn't Sarah's fault. Who can understand the workings of God?
Popping up, Gaia determined to no longer be passive, and knocked on the door. With the greatest care, she pressed on the door. Its hinges creaked, then swayed, and seemed to halt all conversation inside.
Her father sat near Sarah. Nodding his clean-shaven face, his long ash-blonde sideburns curling to his ears, he waved her forward. "Come in, Gaia."
She hadn't expected him to be in here. He usually took refuge in his study on the far side of the house; that is, if he made it out of bed. This couldn't be good.
Gaia swallowed and almost clasped the pianoforte, tucked in the curved niche at the threshold. Maybe she could lean against it to regain her composure.
Sarah smiled at her before lowering her gaze, and motioned for Gaia to cross the paisley rug framing the sitting area close to the fireplace. "We need to speak with you."
Unmasked Heart: A Regency Romance (Regency Romance: Challenge of the Soul Book 1) Page 2