Love With the Proper Husband (29 page)

Reggie swept a polished bow. “And you?”

The girls studied him suspiciously, then looked at one another and nodded. The tallest and obviously oldest stepped forward. “These are my sisters, Miss Patience Loring”—the girl with the smudge curtsied—“and Miss Hope Loring.” The youngest bobbed. “I am Miss Charity Loring.” The girl extended her hand. Reggie took it without hesitation and raised it to his lips.

“I am most pleased to meet you, Miss Loring,” Reggie said in very much the same tone he’d used with Madame Freneau.

The girl’s eyes widened and an expression of awe crossed her face.

“Are you pleased to meet me as well?” The next child in line, Patience, thrust out her hand.

“Indeed I am.” Reggie’s voice was serious. He took her hand, brushed a light kiss across it, then turned to the youngest.

“Oh, I don’t want you to kiss my hand.” The little girl firmly put her hand behind her back. Her tone was lofty. “A woman who is free with her favors will always come to no good.”

One of the ladies behind Marcus coughed or perhaps choked.

Marcus bit back a grin and stepped forward. “Well done. You’re absolutely right.” He bent down in front of the youngest, Hope. “Now that we have been properly introduced, perhaps you could help me with a bit of a problem. I know your names but”—he lowered his voice in a confidential manner—“I don

’t know who you are. And I suspect that’s very important, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” The child studied him carefully. “Do you like dogs?”

“Dogs?” It wasn’t exactly what he expected. “Why, yes, I do like dogs.”

“And do you like girls?” she continued.

“Indeed I do,” he said somberly. “You may ask anyone if you don’t believe me.”

“I can vouch for that.” Reggie grinned. “He’s always been exceedingly fond of ladies.”

“I don’t mean ladies.” Hope cast Reggie a look of definite reproof. “I mean little girls. Children.
Daughters
.”

“Absolutely.” Marcus nodded. “I was just saying today that I should hope to have a very large family with a great number of daughters, little girls to run around my home.”

“Really?” She stared at him with all the intensity of her young years.

“Really,” he said firmly.

“Aunt Gwendolyn didn’t think you would,” Charity broke in.

Marcus stood. “
Aunt
Gwendolyn?” His gaze met Madame Freneau’s. “Aunt Gwendolyn?”

“They are her sister’s children,” Madame said.

He drew his brows together. “The one eaten by cannibals?”

Patience snorted. “We just told her that.”

“They really drowned,” Hope said with a heartfelt sigh.

“I am sorry,” he murmured.

“Aunt Gwen was afraid you wouldn’t want us. And she didn’t want us to live anyplace where we were not wanted,” Patience added. “It was very nice of her. We haven’t liked her very much but she is rather nice.”

Hope tugged at his sleeve, leaned close, and lowered her voice. “We do like her a bit more now. But I don’t think anyone liked her, or wanted her, when
she
was a girl.”

“It’s really rather sad when you think about it,” Charity said with a thoughtful frown. “Do you want her?”

“Very much so.” Marcus had never said truer words in his life.

Hope narrowed her eyes. “And do you want us?”

Marcus’s gaze slipped from one girl to the next, and they seemed to hold a collective breath. At once he realized he was getting a glimpse of the future. His daughters would look a great deal like…his nieces.

He nodded and then grinned. “Very much so.”

“You’ll have to swear to it,” Patience said firmly.

Hope grinned. “With blood.”

Reggie choked back a laugh.

“We’ll be inside if you need us,” Madame Freneau said with a smile. A moment later the ladies had disappeared into the house.

Marcus raised a brow. “Blood?”

“Nothing else will do.” Charity watched him carefully, and Marcus knew this was a test.

“Absolutely. What was I thinking?” Marcus grabbed Reggie and pulled him to his side. “And I know Lord Berkley will want to participate as well. We are as close as brothers. Closer even. Why, you can call him Uncle Reggie.”

Reggie groaned. “Uncle Reggie?”

“Would you prefer Reginald?” Marcus said under his breath.

“Uncle Reggie it is.” Reggie’s tone was less than enthusiastic. “But I’m not overly fond of blood. Especially my own.”

Hope planted her hands on her hips. “How old are you?”

“One and thirty,” Reggie said cautiously. “Why?”

“I am only ten and blood doesn’t bother me one bit.” Hope smirked.

“You’re obviously a braver man than I am,” Reggie muttered.

“Come now, Reggie, we did the same sort of thing when we were boys.” Marcus directed his words to the girls. “And I still have the scar on my elbow to prove it.”

Patience’s eyes widened. “Do you? Can I see it?”

“Some other time perhaps. Now then.” Marcus looked eagerly around the group. “Who has the knife?”

“What knife?” Charity said uneasily

“Surely you have a knife?” Marcus’s shocked voice belied his relief that they didn’t conceal knives amid their skirts. “How can we draw blood without a knife?”

“We don’t use blood.” Patience shook her head.

Marcus gasped. “No blood?”

“No. We spit.” Hope huffed and proceeded to match her action to her words. She held out her index finger. “See?”

Reggie’s expression cleared. “Well, I’m certainly willing to do that.”

“I don’t know, Reggie.” Marcus shook his head somberly. “Is it really a blood oath without blood? I mean, does it have the same meaning? The same authority? I have some serious reservations about this.”

“We’ve always done it this way,” Patience said firmly. “And it has always worked.”

“It’s still a sacred vow.” Charity’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, if you don’t want to do it—”

“Oh, I’ll certainly do it. Symbolic blood is probably better than no blood at all.” Marcus spit on his finger. “Now what?”

Patience grinned. “Now we rub our fingers together and then we repeat the solemn words.”

“I just knew there had to be solemn words,” Reggie said under his breath and cheerfully spit on his finger.

A few moment later, after much spitting and rubbing, Hope raised her arms like a tiny pagan priestess. “And I promise by all the blood in my veins”—her voice was low and dramatic, and it was all Marcus could do to keep a straight face—“that I shall never break this oath or else suffer the dire, horrible consequences.”

“I promise,” Marcus vowed with all the sincerity the moment called for.

“Amen.” Reggie’s voice rang with enthusiasm and the girls giggled in unison. “Although I would like to know exactly what the dire, horrible consequences are should the oath be broken.”

“They’re bad.” Patience shook her head mournfully. “Very, very bad.”

“It scarcely matters since none of us has any intention of breaking the oath.” Marcus grinned at the girls.

His remarkably good spirits had returned with a vengeance. The discovery of Gwen’s nieces explained a good deal about his wife’s attitude and behavior, possibly even why she had agreed to marry him in the first place. It hadn’t been easy to trust her completely, and admittedly he had known a twinge of doubt. Now he was quite pleased with himself that he’d listened more to his heart than to his head.

“Now what?” Reggie said.

“Now, old man, ladies.” Marcus’s gaze slid from one to the next and his grin widened. “I believe it

’s time for all of us to go home.”

Chapter Fifteen

In spite of the faults of men, or perhaps because of them, we cannot live without them. And what
woman would truly wish to?

Francesca Freneau

There really isn’t anything to worry about.

Gwen had repeated the assurance to herself over and over until it became a refrain repeating incessantly in her head. Marcus’s comments on their ride today and Gwen’s own knowledge of his character had strengthened her resolve to tell him about the girls as soon as possible. Madame Freneau had supported her decision wholeheartedly, although Madame had made no secret of the fact that Marcus should have been made aware of Gwen’s nieces long before now. Gwen hadn’t seen Marcus since her return from the dower house. It had been rather odd being there when Colette’s visitor had arrived. And odder yet discovering his identity. Their situation was terribly sad, and Gwen wished she could do something to help, but apparently there was nothing anyone could do for the couple. And Gwen had her own circumstances to worry about. Marcus hadn’t been home when she’d returned. Godfrey had said he and Lord Berkley had gone out. Odd, she’d thought Berkley wasn’t expected so soon, although it scarcely mattered, she supposed. The viscount was obviously going to be around a great deal. Not that she minded—she quite liked the man—but perhaps it was time someone did something to help him find a wife of his own. Gwen had tried to keep herself busy, going over her planned explanation to her husband a dozen times in her head, but had succumbed to a weariness brought on, no doubt, by worry, and had fallen asleep. Surely Marcus had returned by now, but he wasn’t in his rooms. She headed for the library. When Marcus was in the house, he spent much of his time there and would likely be there now. She’d dressed for dinner even though she was an hour or so early and was determined to find her husband and reveal everything, believing that she might as well get her ordeal over with. She’d originally thought dinner would be an excellent time to casually mention the girls over a cut of good roasted beef or a glass of wine and had considered as well telling him all right before bed, or better still, afterward, but she’d already put off this confrontation as long as possible. Not that it would be a confrontation, she reminded herself, even though, at the moment, she was certainly braced for something very much like a confrontation.

She descended the stairs in a sedate manner befitting the Countess of Pennington, although admittedly her manner was restrained more by apprehension than by any sense of propriety.
There really isn’t anything to worry about
.

Abruptly the thought struck her that regardless of his reaction, she could do precisely as she wished. She had her own money in a London account Mr. Whiting had arranged, as well as her own house. If Marcus didn’t want to raise her nieces, she could certainly provide for them without his help. Madame Freneau might well agree to serve as a full-time governess, tutor, and companion. Gwen could find a house in the city for those times when she and Marcus resided in London, and she could continue to visit every day. It was not an ideal solution but it was an answer of sorts. She reached the bottom of the stairs and started toward the library. A faint laugh sounded somewhere in the dim reaches of the house. No, not a laugh, more like a giggle. Probably a maid somewhere flirting with a footman. Gwen had seen any number of such flirtations in her years as a governess but had always rebuffed advances directed toward her. She was far too aware of the proper demeanor her position demanded. At once it struck her how terribly tired she was of being proper. No, her momentary relief faded. If Marcus didn’t want the girls he wouldn’t be the man she thought he was. And how could Gwen live with a man like that? Even for a mere seven and a half years. She reached the library door, drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and adopted a pleasant smile.

There really isn’t anything to worry about
.

She started to knock, then decided this was as much her library as his, pushed the door open, and stepped into the room. The lamps were already lit against the encroaching sunset, and the room lay in that deep gold and blue shadowed state that marked the end of the day. A half-empty glass sat beside a decanter on the desk.

“Marcus?” She stepped farther into the library.

“He isn’t here right now.” Lord Berkley uncurled his long figure from a chair placed before the desk and got to his feet, his ever-present smile on his face. “But I expect him back any moment.”

“Lord Berkley.” She smiled in spite of a touch of annoyance at his presence. With the viscount here she couldn’t possibly reveal all to Marcus. On the other hand, a third party did offer her a legitimate postponement. She held out her hand with renewed enthusiasm. “I thought you weren’t coming until the end of the week?”

“It is the end of the week.” He laughed and brushed his lips across the back of her hand. “You and your husband have a great deal in common.”

“Do we?”

“You’d be surprised.” He grinned, and she wondered exactly what he meant. Not that it really mattered. The viscount stepped to the desk and refilled the glass in his hand. “Would you care for something? I know where the clean glasses are kept.”

“Then you know more than I.” She shook her head. “I am still learning how to get from one room to another.”

“Shall I, then? Your husband’s brandy is excellent.”

“No doubt.” She shuddered at the memory of her last experience with brandy. “I think not, thank you.”

“No?” He considered her thoughtfully, then nodded. “Sherry, then? Madeira? Something else to your liking, perhaps?”