Further down the road, he twisted in his saddle to look back at her one last time but was shocked to find her looking back at him as well. She whirled back around as soon as she noticed him looking, but not soon enough. Was her interest merely morbid curiosity? Surely it was, for what else could it be?
Perhaps she’s shocked at my rudeness in not greeting her.
He could think of nothing else but her until he reached his home once more. His muscles ached from even the mild exertion of his ride. While his fever may have broken and he was able to take food –provided it was not too rich– the affects of his illness were still acute. He plodded up the stairs, eager to collapse into a settee with a book and pretend to read while he actually succumbed to a nap.
“Good afternoon, Mother,” he sighed as, upon entering his house, she appeared in the hallway outside the parlor.
“There you are. Your butler told me you went out riding, of all things.”
“Yes, I did, Mother.” He gave his hat and overcoat to the aforementioned butler and stepped into the parlor. A tray of tea and small cakes was arranged in the center of the room and he wondered how long she had been waiting for him.
“Well, Jeffrey. I’m glad that you are feeling up to such excursions, but I must say that you should not be wasting your energy on such solitary pursuits. You really ought to call on your friends and begin to let people know that you are here for the season at least. If you want to be invited to any parties or social gatherings, people must know that you are here.” She sat down on the settee that he’d been dreaming of napping on.
My friends? What friends?
He didn’t say it aloud. He could already imagine her customary click of the tongue that signaled her displeasure and had no need to actually hear it from her mouth. He sat down in a high-backed chair, leaning his head against the dark wood.
“I am meant to be convalescing,” he said wearily. “Not out gallivanting at balls.”
The absurdity of the thought of himself gallivanting under any circumstances nearly brought a smile to his lips.
“If you’re well enough to ride, you’re well enough to be pleasant in company. There are some ladies just coming into their debut this season. Very sweet girls.”
Jeffrey narrowed his eyes. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?” His voice was firmer than before, darker, with all traces of weariness gone. He stared at her with hard, unforgiving eyes.
He saw the color rise in his mother’s cheeks, and he was reminded of the fact that, after all these years, even his own mother was frightened of him. Even his own mother thought of him as some kind of monster.
“Your disastrous turns at matchmaking have wreaked enough havoc on my life, Mother. I’ll thank you to never bring up the eligibility of ladies in my presence again.”
“Lady Lydia was a mistake—”
Jeffrey barked a mirthless laugh. “A mistake!”
“Jeffrey, I thought it for the best. I’ve told you this a thousand times. I was sure that if she got to know you first before seeing you that your appearance would not be enough to deter her.”
Jeffrey’s lips twisted as the old pain reared its ugly head. He remembered the piles of letters. Lydia’s flowing script that grew larger and loopier as she grew excited about what she was writing. How her signoffs had changed gradually from “Sincerely” to “Lydia” to merely “Yours.” And how he had stared at that word, his chest tightening.
“Mine.” He had thought.
The look of fear and disgust on her face when they had finally met would be branded in his memory until his dying day.
He could not seem to make his mother understand. It was one thing to be rejected by people he was just meeting. But to be rejected by someone who had said that she loved him, someone on whom he had hung his hopes for domestic happiness…it was more than any man could bear.
He thought of the girl on the street. The memory of her loveliness mixed with his lingering heartache over Lydia, and the darkness in his heart threatened to spill over in fury at his mother. He rose to his feet and turned his back on her, crossing to the other side of the room.
“If I marry, it will be without your interference. Your meddling has brought me nothing but trouble, and I won’t stand for it. Not anymore. Not again.”
“Jeffrey.”
“That is the end of it, Mother.”
“Just promise that, if you do receive any invitations this season, you will at least consider going.”
“I’ll do as I please,” he said firmly.
“Of course.” Her voice was small and placating, but he knew that her humbling under the force of his displeasure would not be lasting. She would return, as she always did, with news of this lady or that.
He tried to be understanding. Her own difficulties in bearing children meant that he was the last of the Pemberton line. If he did not have children, the family ended with him.
Considerations for something as ambiguous and ultimately meaningless as a family name softened his disdain for her meddling only temporarily.
“Mother,” he groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’m sorry. I’m just very tired. I want to rest.”
She rose to her feet and crossed the room toward him. She slid her hand into his and squeezed it.
“I only want what’s best for you,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, though inwardly he had his doubts.
“I will come back tomorrow to check on you again. You do seem better already.”
Jeffrey forced his lips into a thin smile. “I’ve written to my superior to contest the length of my furlough.”
Her smile back at him was just as disingenuous as his. The family resemblance was strong then, even through his scars.
Chapter 6
Her father was seated in his favored chair, which faced the door. The visitor was opposite him, with his back to her. When her father greeted Barbara, the visitor rose to his feet and turned around to bow politely.
He had dark hair, nearly black, and was quite tall, though not too thin as tall men can tend to be. When he straightened up from his bow, Barbara was taken aback by his appearance. He was a singularly attractive gentleman, with high cheekbones and warm eyes. When he smiled at her, straight, white teeth gleamed. Barbara felt her face grow warm and she glanced at her father. He was watching her reaction carefully.
“Ah, there she is now. Lord Brookham, this is my daughter, Lady Barbara.
“Lord Brookham,” she said, dipping into a curtsy. “How nice it is to meet you.”
“Your father has been telling me all about you,” Lord Brookham said, still smiling at her. His eyes stayed locked with hers, not wandering down her body the way that some other gentlemen did.
“Oh dear, what a frightful thought,” she chuckled, coming round to sit in a chair. She folded her hands in her lap, glancing down at them. Lord Brookham may be disarmingly attractive, but she still wanted to keep her guard up.
Good looking is not a moral commendation, after all.
“All good things. Have no fear,” he said, sitting down near her.
“I was just telling him how you used to wear your brother’s trousers to go riding,” her father said, with a gleam in his eye.
Barbara’s jaw dropped as her cheeks reddened. “Oh Father, you didn’t!”
Lord Brookham laughed. His laugh was light and airy, almost boyish, and he fought to conceal it behind his hand. “I found the image most endearing,” he assured her. “I’m sure the Duke had no thought to embarrass you. Merely to illustrate your whimsicality.”
“Oh, yes I’m sure that’s exactly what he intended,” Barbara said, with a sarcastic lilt to her voice.
“Do you not think so?” Lord Brookham asked, leaning toward her slightly. There was a scent of stale tobacco in his waistcoat.
“It’s possible, My Lord, though perhaps he meant it more as a warning.”
Her father arched an eyebrow and laughed, tipping his head back.
“A
warning?” Lord Brookham asked. “Do you think that there is cause for your father to warn people about you?”
He was watching her with such careful interest that it made Barbara feel slightly off balance. He was smiling, but his friendliness was almost too overbearing. She wondered what he and her father had really been discussing before she came into the room.
There was something distasteful about the whole situation, knowing that this gentleman had been groomed and primed to appear here and woo her. The scene felt false, as though they were each playing a role. Perhaps, Barbara thought, if she had met Lord Brookham under more natural conditions, she would not feel the urge to lean away from him when he leaned closer to her.
“I’m sure there are those who find me altogether too unrestrained. Whatever you and my father have been discussing, I’m sure he’s told you about my love of freedom and independence.” The statement fell like a hammer in the room. The Duke coughed and, though she didn’t look up at him, Barbara knew that if she did he would be frowning.
Lord Brookham said nothing, but his lips parted as though he was grasping at some way to reply. Barbara felt a pang of guilt at making the situation awkward by bringing up the elephant in the room, but she held her chin up anyway.
“Yes, Lady Barbara. Your reputation as a lady of action does precede you,” Lord Brookham said at last. “I, uh…” he cleared his throat. “I take it you have just come from the orphanage?”
“Yes, I spend time there every day. The orphanage means the world to me.”
“You must be kept quite busy. Of course, I understand that it is not unusual for ladies of your standing to be involved in charitable work, but they are not normally so married to their work as you seem to be.”
Barbara shot the suitor a sharp glance. His word choice there seemed strange to her, but she didn’t know quite what to make of it. He still had that friendly smile on his face, but she wondered if it was genuine, or if he was criticizing her.
“Yes, well, just because I have not a retinue of gentlemen about me doesn’t mean that any suitor of mine shall have no competition.”
Just then, dinner was announced by a servant in dark gray.
“Thank heavens,” the Duke muttered under his breath. Barbara had to stifle a laugh at that. It did not please her to vex him, usually. But when he vexed her first by trying to play matchmaker, she counted it as fair play.
In the dining hall, Barbara and Lord Brookham were seated next to each other, with her father across the table. Candles burned amid the platters of food laid out on the table, casting the space in a warm, comfortable glow. Barbara wished that it was a normal night and that she could enjoy a normal meal with her father.
The seams of her sleeves which ran along her underarms itched, and she longed for the privacy to scratch it. She wriggled in her seat, trying to relieve the sensation by rolling her shoulders back.
The food, at least, was a consolation for the uncomfortable situation.
“I must commend your cook, Your Grace,” Lord Brookham said to her father after a few minutes. “This lamb is quite the best I’ve had since returning to England.”
Barbara swallowed a bit of vegetables. “Do you travel much, Lord Brookham?”
“Oh yes. Quite often. My parents curse my adventurous spirit for so often taking me far from home, but I couldn’t stay in one place indefinitely. I must have excitement, and a change of scene.”
Barbara’s annoyance at her father softened with this speech from Lord Brookham. This must have been why he had thought that the lord would be appealing to her. She glanced up at her father and found that he was grinning at her.
He did try, bless him.
“I don’t know how anyone can stand to stay put and not travel,” Lord Brookham continued.
“We have our diversions here in England too. I haven’t had the chance to see as much of the world as I would like, but one can experience many things through good books, do you not agree?”
“Oh yes,” Lord Brookham said. “Yes, of course. Do you like to read?”
Barbara smiled. “Very much. I’ve just finished the latest adventure by the mysterious Lady X.”
“The mysterious Lady X,” Lord Brookham repeated, smiling and leaning back in his chair.
“We must have your guess as to her true identity,” Barbara said. “I’m of the opinion that she must be a noblewoman.”
“Is that so? And what makes you think that?”
Barbara smiled, confident in her reasoning. “A woman of common birth would have no reason to publish under a pseudonym. To go to such lengths to keep her identity secret implies that the author is someone to whom the reputation of writing adventure stories would be most disastrous. She must be a duchess or someone very important like that. Or perhaps a nun.”
“A nun!” Lord Brookham laughed. “I think you are mistaken, dear lady. I have read one of these stories by the so-called Lady X, and have determined to my satisfaction that the mysterious author cannot be a woman at all.”
Barbara furrowed her brow. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, forgive me for saying so, but I think you must agree that the works of women writers are limited by the scope of women’s experience. Domestic tales of romance and family are their purview. Adventure stories are the domain of traveled men.”
Barbara narrowed her eyes, annoyed that the literary success of a woman would be so challenged. “But why would a male author disguise himself as a woman? Would he not be better served by a masculine pseudonym?”
Lord Brookham smiled again, but this time Barbara found it neither friendly nor attractive. He looked rather smug. “The market for novels is nearly entirely made up of women. They have the leisure time to spend reading these tales, having no work of their own to attend to. I suspect that ‘Lady X’ is merely a man with a very clever business sense.”
“No work of their own to attend to?” Barbara repeated, and from the corner of her eye she thought she saw her father wince.
Lord Brookham, seeming to notice his misstep, smiled placatingly. “Yourself I must exclude from this generalization, of course. It’s well known that you keep yourself very busy.”
Barbara took a gristly bite of lamb, hoping that stubborn chewing would prevent her from making a snappish retort and being later accused of petulance by her father.
“Well! Lord Brookham, do tell us of India. You’ve recently returned from there, have you not?” the Duke broke in, eager to diffuse the tension.
Lord Brookham launched into a lengthy description of his recent trip to the Orient. Normally, such a topic would be of interest to Barbara. She had long wished to see that part of the world, but her responsibilities to her charitable work kept her close to home. She found it hard to pay attention to him now that her opinion of Lord Brookham had soured.
She began to notice little things about him that irritated her. She thought that his voice was rather nasally, really. And he wasn’t really quite so attractive as she had thought at first glance. His face was asymmetrical, and his hands were pale and feminine.
It was a great relief when the meal was over, and the sun was set. Lord Brookham said his goodbyes, and Barbara was as polite and amiable as was required of a lady.
As soon as he was gone though, and she and her father had returned to the cozy parlor, she looked over at him and raised an eyebrow.
The Duke shrugged. “He’s not a bad gentleman, Barbara. He could take you places. Show you the world.”
“He won’t allow me to continue my work, Father. I know he won’t.”
“Now, why would you say that?” he answered, crossing the room to pour himself a small glass of port before sitting down in a chair near the fire.
“You heard what his opinion of ladies was. That they don’t work. That they lie about frittering their energy away.” She slumped into a chair next to her father and gazed into the fire.
“He excluded you from that,” he countered.
Barbara sighed. “Ye
s, but I do not believe that most gentlemen would be happy for their wife to be an exception to what he thought of as a lady.”
The aging Duke shook his head thoughtfully. “You judge too quickly. It’s beneath you to be so critical of people who mean well.”
“It’s not that I hate him, Papa. I’m sure he’s a perfectly fine gentleman. But as a husband? I don’t know. I must take everything into consideration if I am to put the rest of my life into someone else’s hands.”
“But it takes time for someone’s true character to be revealed, Barbara. I know that you will settle for no less than a love match, and you know that I have always encouraged that for my children. But if you turn your nose up at the faintest sign of imperfection, you’ll never have the chance to fall in love because you’ll never grow close enough to someone to see them for who they truly are.”
A Seductive Lady For The Scarred Earl (Steamy Regency Romance) Page 4