Candice Hern (49 page)

Finally, after some minutes, he pulled away, leaving Mary breathless and bereft with longing. He looked down at her, his blue eyes dark with passion, the backs of his fingers stroking her cheek with a tenderness that caused her heart to flutter violently in her chest.

"Do you know how eager I am for our marriage, my love?" he whispered against her lips. "Do you know how happy you have made me?"

He found her lips again, and Mary thought she might have discovered at last what it meant to be loved.

* * *

As Olivia strolled through the parterred rear garden, she was convinced she had made a mistake. She had closely observed Lord Pemerton since their arrival at Pemworth Hall, and now felt that she must have misjudged him. She had never understood what perverse reasoning had led him to betroth himself to Mary, but she had not trusted whatever reasoning that might have been. It had never seemed right, somehow, though she could not have explained why. She did not believe he truly cared for Mary, and therefore Olivia had been less than sanguine about their marriage.

But since their arrival in Devon, she had begun to question her earlier misgivings. The marquess lately appeared to have a sincere affection for Mary. When Mary chatted with the marchioness or played with the children, Olivia had often observed Lord Pemerton watching her with a look in his eyes that spoke of more than fondness. Perhaps he was in love with her after all. She certainly hoped so. Mary deserved as much, and more.

Olivia paused at an opening in the tall clipped box hedge that surrounded the garden as she gazed at a new vista through aligned openings in a series of hedge walls that ended at an obelisk some distance away. She wandered through the opening and found herself in a very different, less formal, decidedly overgrown rose garden. Its air of decay was actually very appealing, and Olivia's admiring gaze swept the length of it.

"Do you like roses, Mrs. Bannister?"

The gentle voice nevertheless startled Olivia, who turned to find the marchioness seated on a stone bench in one of the garden's corners, a book open on her lap. Not for the first time, she was struck by the resemblance of Lady Pemerton to Mr. Maitland, mostly around the eyes, though where he was fit and hearty she was thin and frail. She seemed a sweet woman, though, and had shown a generous hospitality. Olivia smiled and joined Lady Pemerton on the bench. "I do love roses," she said, "but I confess to a weakness for gardens of all sorts. I have enjoyed strolling through the Pemerton gardens. You must be very proud of them."

"I am proud of what they could be," the marchioness said, her gaze traveling from one end of the garden to the other. "I am afraid they have become rather overrun of late. I do not understand how Hopkins, our head gardener, has allowed such a thing to happen. I shall have to speak to Jack about it. Perhaps Lady Mary would like to undertake a project to improve the gardens once she and Jack are married."

"She would enjoy that, my lady, I am sure."

"You have known Lady Mary long?" the marchioness asked, closing the book on her lap after first marking her place.

"I have been in her employ for three years, my lady."

"Then you know her well. I find myself excessively pleased with Jack's choice for a bride." She cocked a brow and her blue eyes twinkled. "What do you think?"

"I believe Lady Mary is very happy with the match," Olivia said cautiously. "She would make any man a wonderful wife."

The marchioness laughed. "You are very circumspect, Mrs. Bannister. I suppose you question whether or not Jack would make any woman a wonderful husband. No, no," she said, smiling and waving a dismissive hand, "you need say nothing more on the matter. I am fully aware of Jack's reputation. But do not forget, I have known him all his life and am aware more than anyone of the true man who lurks beneath that rackety notoriety. I believe Mary is just the sort of woman he needs to bring him back to himself, to take him away from the dissolute sort of life he has led for so long."

Olivia was surprised at the plainspoken manner of Lady Pemerton and hoped she was right about her son, but she said nothing. The marchioness chattered on.

"He suffered so over that wretched business with Suzanne, you know."

Olivia, wondering who Suzanne was, gave a puzzled look.

"Oh, I suppose he does not speak of her, does he?" the marchioness said.

Olivia shook her head, still puzzled, and the marchioness sighed. "They were betrothed years ago, but the silly chit threw him over at the very last minute. He was devastated, you see. But, good heavens," her voice rose with frustration, "that was ages ago, and it is high time he found some happiness for himself."

"I know what you mean," Olivia said without thinking. "I have harbored similar hopes for Mary, after all the pain and suffering she went through."

"Good Lord, Mrs. Bannister," the marchioness said, sitting bolt upright and laying a hand on Olivia's arm, "what are you saying? In what way has Mary been made to suffer?"

Olivia felt an embarrassed blush warm her cheeks. There must be something singular about the Maitland family that encouraged her to such intemperate speech. She had said more than she ought to Mr. Maitland, and was now repeating her folly with his sister. She clamped her lips shut, afraid to utter a word lest she blurt out some further confidence.

"Mrs. Bannister?"

Olivia took a deep breath and considered her words carefully. "I am sorry. It is not my place to speak of my employer's private concerns. I will only say that Mary did not have a particularly happy upbringing. If you wish to know more, you will have to ask Mary."

"I will do that, Mrs. Bannister," the marchioness said. "And you must not fear that I will hint of any indiscretion on your part. You have not told me anything specific, after all."

"Thank you, my lady," Olivia said with a relieved sigh. Before she could embarrass herself any further, she changed the subject. "How are the wedding plans coming?" she asked.

"Splendidly," the marchioness replied. "Mrs. Taggert has things well in hand. It is to be a simple affair, you know. A brief ceremony in the family chapel followed by a wedding breakfast in the state dining room. Both Jack and Mary have requested a small party, and only a few friends and family members have been invited. I had asked Alicia and Charlotte and their girls to spend a few additional weeks here, to help Mary adjust to the family. Other guests should begin arriving as early as tomorrow."

"Is Mr. Edward Maitland expected?" Olivia could have bitten her tongue straight off. She could not imagine what perverse notion had caused her to ask such a question. She squirmed uncomfortably on the bench and cast her eyes down to the hands in her lap.

Lady Pemerton's eyes narrowed briefly as she gave Olivia a significant look. "My brother is expected tomorrow," she said.

Olivia made no sign of acknowledgment, continuing to stare at her hands as they twisted the muslin of her walking dress. She wished she could think of something innocuous to say, to change the subject again, but in fact she was too embarrassed to open her mouth.

Suddenly, the marchioness smiled brilliantly and patted Olivia's hand. "Good heavens, my dear, this is wonderful! I had given up all hope for poor Edward."

Olivia blushed.

Chapter 15

Mary strolled arm in arm with her future mother-in-law through the Long Gallery, listening, fascinated, to stories of each of the Raeburn ancestors depicted in the collection of portraits from Elizabethan times forward. The marchioness paused before a more recent painting of three dark-haired young boys shown outdoors in a beech grove: the tallest boy leaning negligently against a tree, another seated on an overturned log, and the third on his haunches with his arms around the neck of a large hound. Mary watched the Marchioness chew on her lower lip as she stared at the painting.

"You will be especially interested in this one," she said after a few moments, composing herself and turning toward Mary with a smile. "It was painted by Reynolds about thirty years ago. The impish-looking one with the dog is Jack."

Mary looked more closely and indeed recognized the intense blue eyes of a younger version of Jack. She smiled broadly. "He looks deceptively sweet, though his eyes do reveal a rather mischievous scamp."

"He was that," the marchioness said, "but sweet-natured as well. That's Frederick next to him and James behind."

"They were all handsome boys," Mary said as she studied the painting. "You must have been very proud."

"I was and am." The marchioness gave a ragged sigh. "It is a horrible thing to outlive one's children. But," she said, brightening somewhat, "I still have Jack. And I am counting on more grandchildren, you know."

Mary blushed, but returned an embarrassed smile.

The marchioness squeezed Mary's hand, which was resting on her arm. "I am so pleased about this marriage," she said. "And I am so very proud of Jack. He has shown remarkable good sense in betrothing himself to you. I believe that you will make him very happy, my dear."

"I hope so," Mary said with conviction. "I will certainly try my best to do so, my lady."

The marchioness smiled radiantly. "It is gratifying to see one's children happily settled and loved." When Mary blushed again, she continued. "You are in love with Jack, are you not? Yes, I can see that you are. How clever of you to see beyond the rather reckless, rakehell reputation he has done so much to foster. He is very deserving of your love, my dear. Ha! Listen to me. You will think me a silly, doting mama."

"Nonsense," Mary said. "I am pleased Jack has such a loving family, my lady."

"You must consider us your family as well, my dear. You are to be a Raeburn, after all. You must feel free to call me Mama if it pleases you."

"Thank you," Mary said, her voice catching slightly. "I would be very pleased to do so. My own mother died when I was born, so I have never had the privilege of calling anyone Mama."

The marchioness patted Mary's hand, and they moved on to the next picture.

"Oh, but this one is you!" Mary exclaimed as she stood before an enormous full-length portrait. A beautiful young woman with long, full powdered hair stood in the foreground of an ethereal, indistinct landscape, a rose in one hand while the other lifted her overdress slightly as she appeared to step toward the viewer. Mary recognized the unmistakable brushwork of Thomas Gainsborough. "How lovely," she said as she relinquished Lady Pemerton's arm and stepped back to better appreciate the painting.

"Yes," the marchioness said, "I believe this is the best—that is to say, the most flattering—of all my portraits. My husband insisted it be hung here in the gallery along with all the previous marchionesses. Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, turning to take both Mary's hands in her own and holding them out before her. "We must commission a bridal portrait of you! You will be required to hang in this gallery along with the rest of us, you know." She chuckled and squeezed Mary's hands. "Have you sat for a portrait recently, my dear?"

"No," Mary said, "I am afraid I have never had my portrait painted."

The marchioness's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Never?"

"Never." Mary smiled at the woman's incredulous look.

"But, your father was an earl. And I gather you were his only child. He never thought to have you painted? Even as a young girl?"

"No, my lady." Mary was becoming decidedly uncomfortable as she always did when the subject of her father came up in conversation. Her instinctive reaction had always been to abruptly change the subject. But she did not wish to appear rude to the marchioness.

"Good heavens, child," the older woman continued, "what can he have been thinking?"

"Is it not obvious?" Mary replied softly.

"No, it is not. Forgive me, my dear, but I do not understand."

Mary took a deep breath. "One only has to look at me to understand," she said. "I am not beautiful, or even passably pretty. My plainness was a source of great disappointment for my father. I cannot imagine he would have ever considered committing my likeness to canvas."

"Oh, my dear," the marchioness said, "you cannot mean that. For one thing, you are not the least bit plain. For another, all parents find their own offspring attractive. It is a result of loving them so completely, and also, I suppose, in seeing them as a reflection of oneself. It is a vanity of all parents, I am afraid, myself included."

"But, you see," Mary said in a low, husky voice, "my father did not love me. In fact, he hated me in part because I
was
a reflection of himself, for in appearance I resembled him and not my beautiful mother." Mary had never before said such a thing to anyone, and could not for the life of her imagine why she did so now. But there was something in the sympathetic blue eyes of the marchioness along with a general warmth and kindness about her that quite disarmed Mary.

"Never say so, my dear!" the marchioness said, an expression of shock and concern on her face. Still holding Mary's hands, she squeezed them tightly. "Surely he did not hate you."

"Oh, but he did. He told me so often. He could barely stand the sight of me."

"Oh, Mary!" The marchioness looked stricken, one hand flying to her mouth. After a moment, when Mary could not seem to move, the marchioness placed a gentle arm around her shoulder and led her to a large, comfortable sofa near the center of the Long Gallery. She seated herself at Mary's side and clasped her hand. "You did not have a ... happy life with your father, then?"

Mary gave a disgusted snort. "Hardly," she said in a sarcastic tone that she instantly regretted. She took a deep breath and went on. "My father was not ... completely sane, you see. My mother's death sent him into an emotional decline from which he never recovered. He blamed me for her death."

"You?"

"It was giving birth to me, after all, that killed her. He never forgave me for that. Or for being ugly. He considered her death a waste when all it produced was me. I have often wondered," she said in a wistful tone, "if he would have loved me if I had at least resembled my mother instead of him."