by Mary Balogh
She did not like it, of course.
She did not argue, however. She merely said no, though Justin suspected she knew her answer counted for nothing. She had turned from marble to … What was harder and colder than marble? Granite? Whatever it was, she had turned to it since he had told her what was about to happen. Like the tyrant his sister no doubt saw him as.
No doubt too she knew that when she left, Miss Vane would not go with her. He did consider asking the woman if she would extend her employment for one month in order to accompany Maria to Everleigh and offer her companionship through her first few weeks there. But it would be unfair to ask, he decided.
The neighborhood family most eligible to offer his sister companionship was the brother-and-sister duo. The twins. Watley’s title, Justin had learned, was a courtesy one. He had suspected as much, actually, from the fact that the man’s sister was Lady Estelle Lamarr rather than simply Miss Lamarr. Their father was the Marquess of Dorchester of Redcliffe Court in Northamptonshire. Justin had a nodding acquaintance with him from the House of Lords. Their stepmother was related in some way to the Westcott family, which boasted among its members more titles than almost any other noble family in England. Those twins were socially connected, even if one of them did choose to behave on occasion with a quite shocking lack of ladylike decorum. And they were of a suitable age to be his sister’s friends. He would guess they were twenty-five or so. Both were single. Watley was elegant and good-looking and had the polished manners of a gentleman of superior rank. It had been impossible to discern in that one awkward meeting Justin had had with the man if he fancied Maria or if she fancied him. But it would not have been surprising. It would certainly be worth encouraging if there was some spark there. Lady Estelle was equally elegant and refined— despite the riverbank incident— with a certain liveliness of manner that must offer some of the light in darkness that Maria seemed desperately to need.
Justin would be happy to encourage acquaintances with brother and sister, but not under present circumstances. Maria should not be here alone and really ought not to have been during the past year while she mourned her mother. He ought to have insisted upon sending someone old enough to lend her countenance, though he could not for the life of him think whom. Lady Maple, perhaps? She was Maria’s great-aunt on her mother’s side, though he did not know if the two had ever met. The countess had quarreled with everyone in her family soon after she married Justin’s father. Anyway, it was too late now.
It seemed that Watley and his sister lived alone at Elm Court two or three miles away as the crow flies, farther by road.
There was no question of his leaving Maria here even though he hated the thought of taking her to Everleigh against her will and without her longtime companion. He had had an idea, however, something that might ease her return to Everleigh and help her settle there during the crucial first couple of weeks or so. He did not particularly fancy meeting either one of the Lamarrs again, as he was fully aware that he had not acquitted himself well when they called at Prospect Hall. He had been a bit thrown at recognizing the woman from the riverbank, if the truth were known, and by the time he had recovered from that it had been too late to greet the two of them as he ought, with a warm smile and a handshake. That failure had set the tone for the whole of the excruciatingly painful half hour or so that had followed. If someone had tied his tongue in a knot he could hardly have done worse.
He would meet them again, though— by choice. Provided they were at home, that was. He learned the direction of Elm Court from the groom in the stables and saddled up his horse one afternoon and led it outside. He decided, perhaps against his better judgment, to take Captain too, since his dog had been leveling a more than usually hangdog expression at him lately, having not had a good run since their arrival here.
He set out to call upon Viscount Watley and Lady Estelle Lamarr.
The grass had been newly scythed and looked neat and smelled heavenly. Then, however, the four large flower beds, which, long before Estelle was born, had been cut into the lawn with geometric precision to form four diamond shapes in a larger diamond formation, had ended up looking sadly ragged in contrast. She could have waited for the gardeners to get to them, as of course they would, but she liked doing a bit of gardening and was out here now pulling weeds and cutting deadheads from among the flowers and dropping them all into the basket she carried over her arm. And what a difference the pulling and cutting had made! The flowers in the three beds she had already done were looking considerably brighter and more fully alive again, and now this one did too. She stood back on the grass to admire her handiwork. But something caught the edge of her vision as she did so, and she looked across two large diamonds to the drive beyond.
A horse and rider were just coming into view, and for a moment she brightened with the expectation that Bertrand was returning from his visit to the vicarage in time for tea. The Reverend Mott had once been his beloved and much-revered teacher and mentor. That was in the days before their great-uncle died and their father succeeded to the marquess’s title and they all moved to Redcliffe Court— she and Bertrand, Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles, and cousins Oliver and Ellen. But not, alas, their father. It had taken another couple of years to bring him home to stay. Bertrand had gone today to discuss the Greek plays he had been reading. It all sounded as dry as dust to Estelle, but her twin had been full of eagerness in anticipation of an afternoon of interesting entertainment.
No, they were not identical twins.
The rider was not Bertrand, of course. He had walked into the village. It was the Earl of Brandon, and now Estelle could not even pretend to be away from home. He had seen her. So had his dog, which took a few menacing steps toward her across the lawn before stopping abruptly at something the man had said. She heard the low rumble of his voice but could not discern the actual words.
How very mortifying and unpleasant. Estelle was terribly aware of her ancient cotton dress, faded from innumerable washes and much despised by her maid, who always told her it was too old even for the ragbag. But it was cool and comfortable and was kept strictly for chores such as this one. Her straw hat must be almost as antique. Its brim was limp and shapeless and wonderfully effective in shading her face and neck from the sun. Her gloves were large and elbow length and bright green and ugly. But they kept her fingers and forearms from being pricked, and they kept the dirt from getting beneath her fingernails and the sap from staining her hands. Her shoes … Well, the less said about her shoes, the better.
She set down her basket, pulled off her gloves, and dropped them on top of the dead blooms and weeds. She could not do anything about the rest of her appearance. Let him think what he would. She did not much care about his good opinion anyway. She made her way toward him, skirting about the flower beds and eyeing the dog warily. It was panting, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. It was looking at her as though it would be happy to make her its afternoon tea if only its master would be obliging enough to ride out of sight for a few moments.
The man looked as morose as ever. Oh, it was wicked, perhaps, to have taken him in such thorough dislike. No, it was not. He had done nothing to make himself likable. Quite the opposite.
“Captain will not hurt you,” he told her.
“Not when you are here to call him off,” she agreed.
“Cap,” he said. “Shake.”
And the dog, still panting, still gazing intently and hungrily at her, sat on its haunches, lifted one of its giant paws, and dangled it toward her.
Oh dear God.
But he had done it deliberately to disconcert her— the man, that was. To make a cringing female out of her, as he had done by the river. How she wished now that she had left her legs dangling in the water and merely tossed her head— and her hair— in his direction. And raised one haughty eyebrow.
She took a few resolute steps forward, grasped the dog’s paw in a firm clasp, and shook it. It was gigantic. It could flatten her with one swat. And it had le
thal-looking claws. Was that what one called them on a dog? Or were they nails?
“How do you do, Captain?” she said before looking up at the earl. Man and dog suited each other. He was gigantic too. And he had those huge hands, neatly gloved at the moment and holding the reins. “How do you do, Lord Brandon?”
He removed his hat. “I wondered, Lady Estelle,” he said, “if I might have a few words with you and Viscount Watley.”
A few words. He had already had them— more than he had ever spoken in a row before now— and she wished he would go away. All the way away. Back home where he had come from. Maria did not like him even though he was her brother, and that fact merely confirmed Estelle in her own negative reaction to him. Perhaps those rumors about him were all true. Perhaps he was as dangerous and evil as he looked. Perhaps he really was an ex-convict. And perhaps she was overreacting, merely because she had embarrassed herself out by the river and called his dog a doggie and was embarrassing herself today. This dress, she remembered now, had been new when she was still living here with her aunt and uncle, before the move to Redcliffe. They had moved when she was fifteen. She was twenty-five now, going on twenty-six. How excruciatingly embarrassing. Never mind the ragbag. The dress was too old for a museum.
“Bertrand is not here,” she said. “He ought to be back soon for tea, but when he gets to discussing classical literature with the vicar, time loses all meaning for both of them. It is altogether possible that eventually they will notice darkness has fallen beyond the windows of the study, though I daresay the vicar’s housekeeper might insist upon feeding him his dinner before then.”
And what on earth was she prattling about now?
“But you may have a word with me if you wish,” she said.
He glanced toward the house. “Perhaps it would not be quite the thing,” he said.
It was what Bertrand would think too. And, of course, Aunt Jane if she were here. Though if she were here, then there would be no problem, would there? And how mortifying that this man had had to point out to her what was proper behavior.
“I will summon my maid,” she said. “Perhaps you would like to take your horse to the stables, Lord Brandon, while I wash my hands.” And change my dress. And my shoes. And comb my hair. “The butler will show you up to the drawing room.”
Please come home, Bert.
She ought simply to have agreed with him that it was not the thing to entertain a gentleman alone. He would have gone away and returned some other time if the word he wished to have with them was important enough. But she could not bear the thought of waiting every day in anticipation of his coming back. Better to hear him out now and be rid of him.
He returned his hat to his head and proceeded on his way to the stables, his dog loping along at his side.
Four
Fifteen minutes later, Estelle entered the drawing room, wearing a sprigged muslin dress she had acquired in London during the spring. Her hair was freshly brushed and twisted into a knot at the back of her head— her maid’s specialty when time was of the essence. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, his legs slightly apart, his hands behind him, his expression stern. Lord of his domain— in her drawing room. Well, strictly speaking, Bertrand’s drawing room. But certainly not the Earl of Brandon’s. Of Bertrand, of course, there was no sign. Olga, Estelle’s maid, who had come into the room behind her, went to sit in the corner farthest from the window and busied herself with some darning.
“Please have a seat,” Estelle said.
She thought he was going to ignore her invitation, but he was merely waiting, it seemed, for her to seat herself first. The man had some manners, then. He filled the chair he sat on, but there was no reason in the world why she should feel intimidated. She clasped her hands in her lap.
“You did not bring Maria with you?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
Well, that was obvious. Her question had been meant as a conversation starter. Why had he not brought Maria? He either had not recognized it as a cue or did not like roundaboutation. Very well. She would be direct.
“What is it you wished to say to my brother and me?” she asked him. Were his eyes really black? Or would she see varying shades of brown if she were closer to him? She had no wish whatsoever to be closer to him, however. She could live very happily without knowing the true color of his eyes.
“My sister is twenty years old,” he said. “It was unexceptionable for her to live at Prospect Hall with her mother, even while her mother was gravely ill. I acquiesced to her wish to remain there to do her mourning after her mother died. They were extremely close, I believe, and Maria had given up several years of her own life to her care. She also had a companion with her, Miss Vane, a lady with whom she was long familiar, originally as her governess. I believed my sister would be so devastated by her loss that she would be content to live a retired existence with few social distractions or none. I judged that her situation would be respectable enough, at least temporarily.”
Her mother. Her mother. Never Lady Brandon or my stepmother.
“You judged correctly,” Estelle said. “Maria was physically exhausted and emotionally drained through much of the past year. She received callers but never returned the calls, as far as I am aware. She certainly never came here, though we invited her.”
But why had he not come sooner to check on her for himself? Why had he not come when Lady Brandon was desperately ill and dying? Why had he not gone to her funeral? She was buried in the churchyard here, not back at Everleigh Park beside her late husband.
“She does get some outdoor exercise,” he said. “She spends time in the garden. I understand the roses owe a great deal to her hard work.”
“Yes,” she said. Tending the lavish beauty of the roses had given some consolation to a girl whose own life had been unendingly bleak, at least in the two years Estelle had known her.
“Lady Estelle,” he said. “She cannot remain here, especially when her companion is herself unmarried and under the age of thirty, a woman who was hired as my sister’s governess. There is no female relative of suitable age and circumstances on my father’s side of the family and only one, probably too elderly, on Maria’s upon whom I could call to live with her here. But even if there were someone, this is no place for the young daughter of an earl. She ought to have an opportunity to mingle with the ton and enjoy the company of her peers. She must return to Everleigh, which is her rightful home. She must take her place in society as soon as it can be arranged.”
Why was he telling her this? Why had he wanted Bertrand to hear what he had to say? Did he merely wish to justify his high-handed desire to take Maria away? It was his decision to make, not theirs. Did he perhaps hope she and her brother would join their voices with his in persuading Maria that it was in her best interest to return home with him? Perhaps it was. But there was the fact that Maria appeared to dislike him, and that was probably understating her feelings. How would she feel if Bertrand had forced her to live with him here but she hated him? No, that was no good. She could not imagine ever hating her twin. And heaven help him if he ever tried to force her to do anything she did not want to do.
“Perhaps it is to Maria herself you ought to be making these arguments, Lord Brandon,” she said.
“Do you believe I have not done so?” he asked harshly. “She will not even discuss the matter. Beyond the one word no, she remains mute. And though she knows she cannot fight me if I insist— and I do insist— she treats me with a silent sort of contempt that is intolerable. To me. And to her, I daresay.”
Contempt?
“You wish me to persuade her, then, that it will be best for her to go with you?” she asked him, anger gathering like a ball in her stomach. “How can I know that, Lord Brandon? Perhaps happiness found in solitude is preferable to misery found in company, especially when one does not like the company.”
Now he had goaded her into being downright rude.
He gazed at her in silence
. He was very good at that. Silence did not seem to cause him discomfort. She ought to wait him out but she could not.
“And you wish Bertrand to add his persuasions to mine?” she asked. “He will not do it. He would consider it the height of impertinence to interfere between a brother and sister.”
The drawing room door opened even as she spoke and Bertrand came in, all haste and smiles— and a glance toward the corner to assure himself that some female servant was there and his twin had not committed the unpardonable indiscretion of entertaining a gentleman alone.
“Brandon. Good to see you,” he said, striding across the room to shake the earl by the hand while Estelle nodded a dismissal to Olga. “I am sorry I was from home when you came. And I apologize to you too, Stell. I promised to be back in time for tea, but the vicar and I got carried away with our discussion and lost track of time. A poor excuse, I know, but the truth, I am afraid.”
The earl had stood to shake hands with him. They were of almost the same height, Estelle noticed in some surprise— it had seemed to her on their first encounter with him that the earl towered over her brother. They were very different in build, however, her twin lithe and graceful, the earl broader of girth and solid with muscle. He was not the sort of man one would wish to come across at night in a dark lane.
“Lord Brandon wishes us to persuade Maria to return to Everleigh Park with him, Bert,” Estelle said as her brother took a seat directly across from their visitor.
“It would seem to be the best thing for her to do,” Bertrand said as the earl opened his mouth to speak. “I have felt some concern over the fact that she no longer has an older relative living with her. Not that Lady Brandon was able to offer any real chaperonage for a few years before her demise, poor lady. She was very ill. Nevertheless, her very presence in the house made everything perfectly respectable. I take it Lady Maria does not wish to leave? I daresay she has grown comfortable here, and Prospect Hall is a pretty place. In what way do you believe we can convince her to change her mind, Brandon?”