Penmanship was one of the few things that had never come naturally to her. Her letters were neat enough, but it took a great deal of concentration and a tense hand to ensure her writing was attractive and legible. Even as a child, she could recall wishing she was doing anything other than writing.
She peered out of the window that looked out onto the front lawn of her parent’s house. Flowers were beginning to sprout around the window, little flashes of purple tapping teasingly against the glass as if to beckon her outside to play.
There was no doubting that when she had first volunteered to aid with the hospital, she’d rather anticipated there would be a lot less letter writing and meetings and a lot more actual activity. Her feet twitched with the desire to be outside, doing something useful.
But, of course, the letter writing was useful. And if she was going to show the trustees that her idea was an excellent one, she needed connections. Thankfully there would be plenty of people from Town willing to help her, not to mention a few of her parents’ friends. She smothered a yawn and reached for the quill.
“Perhaps you should retire to bed.”
Joanna twisted on the chair, finding her mother in the doorway of the parlor room. Her faded golden hair was tucked under a cap and lacework adorned her shoulders. An apron was smudged with green stains, meaning her mother had been doing her favorite thing in the world—gardening. Creases of concern deepened the lines on her forehead.
Joanna glanced at the clock that adorned the modest fireplace. “It is only two o’clock, Mother. I hardly think it is time for bed.”
“You are still fragile,” she insisted, stepping toward her and pressing cool fingers against Joanna’s forehead. “You should take more time for rest.”
“I am not still fragile.” She clamped her teeth together to avoid another yawn. “I am merely hideously bored with letter writing.”
“It takes a long time for one to recover from an illness such as yours. I really do think you should go to bed.” Her mother twisted her hands together. “And I’ll have Mrs. Giles warm some broth.”
“I only ate an hour ago,” Joanna reminded her. “I have no need of broth.”
Her mother let out a long sigh. “I should never have let you go to Avington. I think it has weakened you.” She tilted her head and eyed her. “You do look wan.”
“Why, thank you, Mother.”
Joanna pinched the bridge of her nose. She did not mean to be snippy with her, really she did not, but all this talking of ‘letting’ her do something made her feel like a child, which she was mostly definitely not.
It was so frustrating how everything had changed drastically all because of one mere moment—one awful accident. She’d been a married, independent woman, running her own household and wondering when she would become a mother. Now, she was back at home, being treated like a child again and any idea of her future had vanished. She was trapped in an indeterminate state—lost and with little to do.
An ache started in her throat and she rose from the chair and gave a little cough.
At least now she had the charity. That would keep her busy until she figured out exactly how she would continue her life.
“Joanna—”
“I think I will go out for a walk, Mother. Perhaps the fresh air shall do me some good.”
“Oh, I really think you should rest...”
Joanna patted the back of her mother’s hand and retrieved her bonnet from the small table nearby. “I will be fine, I promise.”
She headed out before her mother could protest further, walking at a speedy pace until her breaths quickened. She had not opted to wear her spencer jacket, and a light breeze rustled the trees overhead, but her brisk pace kept her warm enough. She hadn’t been certain where she had been heading, only that she needed to get out from underneath her mother’s concerned gaze, but as she followed the country lane to the right, she knew where she was intending to go now.
Her old house. The house in which she had started her married life.
The house that she should really be living in now.
Light dappled the dry, rut-filled road, and she followed the untouched center of the road which was only imprinted with the rings of a few horse hooves. She hadn’t walked down this road since Noah’s death and, somehow, it seemed so different.
The house revealed itself in increments—first the fencing around the garden, then the ivy crawling up one side. Joanna paused before it came fully into view from where it sat at the end of the lane. It was a modest house but large enough to house quite a family and a few servants, left to her after Noah died. The rest of his money, aside from a small income to look after her, had gone to a cousin, a man who Joanna had only met at the funeral and had not seen since.
Drawing in a breath, she took a few more steps forward, coming to stop at the front gate. The flint-covered house offered large windows on either side of the arched front entrance. The ivy had begun to crawl its way from the side to all over the frontage, covering much of the flint and its varying shades of grey and black. The garden was unruly too. She really would have to get a gardener to tend to it before she moved back in.
She put a hand to the gate and froze.
If she moved back in.
Her heart gave a thud against her chest. It had seemed so obvious. She wanted to return home, surely? Wanted her freedom back? Wanted to move forward in her life? But, looking through the slightly grimy windows, all she could recall is standing in the entrance way, receiving the news of her husband’s death and crumbling. She’d wept herself dry on the stone floor until her mother and father had scooped her up and brought her to their home.
Her eyes ached, vision blurring. She pressed a hand to her chest. There was no need for more tears—she’d cried enough.
“Joanna?”
She gasped at the sound of the deep baritone and swiped a hand across her eyes before turning. “Lord Newhaven, whatever are you doing here?”
“Would you believe me if I said I just happened to be wondering by?” He closed the gap between them, coming to stand by the fence.
“Likely not.”
He glanced at the house then her, his lips tilting. “I thought not.” He curled a hand over the edge of the fence. “Truth be told, I saw you from the crossroads and wanted to talk to you, but you seemed a little preoccupied.”
Joanna tightened her muscles, balling her hands into fists and forcing herself to take measured breaths. The last thing she needed was for him to see her cry. It was bad enough anyone else seeing it but certainly not him. Crying was a waste of time, not to mention it might make one blotchy and ugly.
“I was just taking a little air,” she managed to say, too aware of the tightness in her throat.
He peered at her, his gaze seeming to take all of her in with a mere swift sweep of her body. “This is your house, is it not?”
She swallowed and nodded.
“Shall we go in?”
Ice seemed to flood her veins. She shook her head and felt her silly, traitorous chin wobble.
“Joanna?” He put a hand to her arm.
It was all she needed to break her. A small, simple touch of gloved fingers to her arm.
She burst into tears.
Ambrose immediately drew her into him, pressing her head against his chest. It only made it worse. The tears came harder, faster, wracking her until she made horrible, gasping sounds that hurt her chest. But they would not seem to cease no matter how much she told herself how unseemly this was, how it was a waste of time to cry. Noah would hate to see her this way, so would her family. Nevertheless, she cried until her sobs turned into little hiccups and then, finally, she was able to draw a proper breath.
With a hand to the back of her head, the other smoothing up and down her back, he kept her there, letting the remnants of her tears seep into his shirt until she grew aware of that hard chest to which she was pressed and the soap scent of him. Her fingers had curled themselves around the lapels of his jacket at some point and she
clung onto them as though they were the only things keeping her standing. His hand was firm on her back, moving up and down in swift, certain movements that had her believing he may well have comforted many a woman in the past.
Regardless, she found it soothing, allowing her to focus on something other than the ache in her throat and the burning of her eyes. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze through watery eyes.
A soft smile lingered on his lips.
“Forgive me,” she murmured.
“Nothing to forgive.” He let her step away, easing his hold of her and offering a handkerchief.
She gingerly dabbed her eyes and sniffed loudly. She rubbed a hand over her face and tried to stuff an errant curl back into a hair pin. “I must look a state.”
“Not at all.” He took the handkerchief from her and dabbed away a tear she must have missed. “A little red-nosed perhaps but still quite beautiful.”
“I am sorry you had to witness that.”
He gestured to the house. “Is this the first time you have been here since...”
She nodded, biting down on her lips.
“Perfectly understandable then. After all, it has not been that long.”
“I loathe crying,” she confessed.
“It is rather a bore.” Ambrose pushed open the gate and strolled up the path, stopping halfway up where two benches lined either side. “We do not need to go inside,” he called to her, “but perhaps we can at least sit here.”
Joanna hesitated then stepped across the threshold, coming to join him on one of the stone benches. At least here, they faced away from the house, looking out into the gardens that surrounded the house, overgrown but flourishing with flowers.
“Why did you come here today?” he asked.
“I was feeling rather mollycoddled.”
“So you thought a good bit of trauma would be a good idea?”
A laugh bubbled out of her. “Something like that.”
“I am no expert on grief though I will admit it was not fun when my father died—even if he was a bit of a bastard—but I do believe sometimes we need to face up to things for us to move forward.”
She peered sideways at him. “You sound far too clever when you speak like that.”
“For a rakish, roguish earl you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“You just know I’m right.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “I had thought it would be easy to return home but now...” She shuddered. “The thought of living there, alone...”
“Not so appealing,” he finished for her. “But I have no doubt you would do a fine job of the solitude—as you do with all things.”
Joanna smiled wanly. “I hope you are right.”
“Haven’t you heard? I always am.”
Chapter Eight
Ambrose drew in a breath, aware of the tear-stained fabric of his shirt sticking to his chest. He could not deny that upon spotting Joanna walking up the lane, he’d come upon a strong realization. Or perhaps not a realization, but a certainty.
He was attracted to her.
That in itself was perhaps no great revelation, however, he’d also discovered he wanted to act upon it. He smirked to himself. And to think his friends were so concerned he was completely changed.
He glanced at her damp cheeks, skimming up to where her eyes were slightly puffy and red. His heart gave a pang—and it wasn’t even regret. Seduction was the farthest thing from his mind right now and he couldn’t bring himself to care. A large chunk of him wanted to make certain nothing made her cry again.
She sniffled and twined her hands together in her lap. “You...you said you wanted to speak of the charity?”
He waved a hand. “That can most certainly wait.”
“I do not mind,” she said, straightening her shoulders.
He chuckled. “And now she is all business...”
“You think me heartless?”
Ambrose managed not to smile given he had almost been accused of such a thing too recently. “Joanna, I just saw you weep your heart out. I certainly do not think you lack one.”
She exhaled at length. “Crying is a wretched thing and such a waste of one’s time.”
“Crying can also be cathartic and a signal that one is perhaps holding onto some emotions.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “You think you know me better than I know myself, do you not?”
“Our acquaintance has not been long enough for me to claim that, but I do know people.”
“I suppose a man like yourself has been acquainted with a great deal of people.”
He grinned. “That I cannot deny, and it has given me a certain insight into human emotions. That, and some interesting reads by the followers of Confucius.”
She gave a reluctant smile. “There are certainly hidden depths to you, Ambrose. It is a wonder why you do not reveal them sooner.”
He lifted a shoulder. “If a person wishes to see my depths, they merely need to look deep enough. Can I be blamed for the shallowness of society?”
A depreciating laugh escaped her. “I rather miss the shallowness of society.”
“How so?”
“Now, if I am at a ball or almost anywhere, I get asked how I am. Oh, poor dear, Mrs. Lockhart,” she mimicked in sickly tones, “how does she manage after losing her husband already?” She gave a little shudder. “I am so deathly sick of it. I am so deathly sick of mourning. How is one to ever move on when one must wear ugly clothes and refuse to participate in anything useful?”
“Indeed.”
He’d never thought much about the mourning period. It was just one of those things and he imagined for some, it was a useful act, allowing oneself to prepare to face life again. For someone like Joanna, however, whom he’d always recognized enjoyed all the things society had to offer, it must have felt like her entire world had been wrenched from beneath her.
“This is why you are helping the charity, yes?”
She nodded. “If I cannot dance or enjoy all the usual things, I might as well make myself useful. I cannot bear to sit around for another four months, simply waiting.”
“Well then.” He stood and offered her a hand. “We should get to work.”
Joanna blinked at him. “Right now?”
“There must be something we can do.”
“I suppose...I suppose we could speak with a few of the shopkeepers in town. I was hoping to persuade them to sell their wares at the fair.”
“An excellent idea.”
“I shall need the carriage first.”
“We can do that too.”
She frowned. “You shall meet my mother.”
“Mothers love me.”
A reluctant smile curved her lips. “Yes, I imagine they do.”
They strolled back along the lane until they reached a sandstone-colored house. “A charming building,” he commented.
“It was a lovely house to grow up in.”
“And so close to your own house.”
She wrinkled her nose. “My mother was keen for us to be close by. We were lucky indeed to purchase it—the original owner had no desire to part with it.”
“So how was it you managed to persuade them?”
“My mother was actually the one who talked them into selling.”
“That must be where you get your charming manners from then.”
She gave him a sideways look and pushed open the gate that led into the garden. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my lord.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Flattery has got me where I am today.”
The door opened before Joanna could push it and an older woman in a cap and apron gestured Joanna inside. “Your mother has been worrying about you being out in this weather.”
“Mrs. Giles, it is lovely weather!”
“You know what she is li—” Mrs. Giles stilled, her eyes widening when she spotted Ambrose. “Oh.”
“We are just here to collect the carriage. Could you ensure it is made
ready?” Joanna asked.
“Of course.” The woman’s gaze swept over Ambrose from head to toe and he rather felt like he was being sized up like a prize horse. “I shall go inform your mother...”
“Mrs. Giles—” Joanna said hastily, but the woman had already dashed off. Joanna sighed.
“Are we going in?”
“We could wait here,” she suggested.
“Or we could go in.”
“My mother—”
“Joanna!” A woman who could only be Joanna’s mother appeared in the doorway. “You cannot leave Lord Newhaven just standing there out in this weather!”
Joanna peered at the sky. “The weather is beautiful.”
“You could still both catch a chill.” She waved frantically with both hands for them to come in. “Let us get you some tea.”
“Mother, there is really—”
Joanna’s mother ignored her daughter, and took her arm, practically dragging her into the house. Ambrose grinned as Joanna gave him an apologetic look. He was more than happy to see where Joanna lived and to meet her family, perhaps it would give him a few insights into the mind of this fascinating woman.
They were ushered into a parlor room, which was decorated in a pale blue with pristine matching furnishings and gleaming wood surfaces. He was faintly annoyed to have been put in this sanitized room. How could he learn more about Joanna if he could not see how she really lived?
Joanna’s mother pressed hands to her hair and motioned for him to sit. “You shall have to excuse my appearance and the mess. I was not expecting guests.”
“You look beautiful, as does your house, Mrs. Stanton.” In fact, he could see where Joanna got her looks. For a woman of older years, she was a handsome woman indeed, with fading fair hair, smooth skin, and clear blue eyes.
Her cheeks tinged pink. “I must go and see if Mrs. Giles is putting some tea on. Do excuse me.” She bustled swiftly out of the room.
Joanna sank onto the sofa opposite. “You shall have to excuse my mother, she does like to fuss.”
“She seems lovely.”
“She really is, it’s just sometimes she feels too much like...a mother.” She frowned. “If that makes sense.”
“I think so.” He shrugged. “I do not see much of mine and I was raised mostly by nannies.”
Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3) Page 5