Under the Kissing Bough (13 page)

Oh, no, he does not look as if he is going to like this.

He stared at her from the wide double-doors that led into the stables. The capes on his greatcoat fluttered from his broad shoulders like the cape-fur of a wolf. With the light behind him, his handsome features were half-shadowed by his hat, worn at a rakish tilt. He looked like one of those perfect fashion plates in gentlemen's magazines come to life—and not at all like a man whose face would soften at the sight of a half-grown, injured rabbit.

Her stomach clenched in a sick knot of fear.

The grooms who had been gathered around her fell back a step and she could not blame them. She could not help take a small step backwards herself, her boots scuffing on the brick of the center aisle as Geoffrey came towards her, glaring at the grooms. Even the horses who had leaned their heads over their loose boxes—as if they, too, had wanted to see what was toward—stirred nervously, the straw crunching pungent and sweet under their hooves.

"Please don't kill it," she begged, half-turning from Geoffrey to shield the injured rabbit.

He paused a moment, his faced creased with confusion. He glared once more at the grooms before he looked down at the rabbit that she clutched to her chest.

"Oh, for...is that what they were...they were staring at a rabbit?"

"Well, yes. What else?" she asked, blinking up at him.
He frowned at her, looked as if he might answer, but he pressed his beautifully shaped lips together and shot another glare at the grooms, who darted quick bows in response and recalled work to do elsewhere.

As the grooms scurried away, Geoffrey plucked the rabbit from her, holding the animal by the scruff of its neck. Even with the left front leg splinted, the creature's hind legs kicked out, strong and sharp-nailed.

"Not a bad job, though you would do better to keep him in your room. It's warmer, and no one will think to spirit him from there and into a stewing pot."

Her face relaxed and warmth stole back to her cheeks. She smoothed a hand over the animal's kicking hind-quarters to still it and to reassure herself that all would be well. "I did not want to be a bother. Tully and George and Brian were just going to help me sort out where I might keep him. I thought he might frighten the maids if I kept him in the house."

"Tully and George and Brian?" His mouth twisted down for a moment and he glared after the departed grooms.

Oh, the...the devil take him
, Eleanor thought. What was wrong? He was acting like a...well, like a jealous idiot. But he could hardly be that when he did not really care for her. It must simply be that something had roused his natural territorial instincts.

He turned back to her, a smile curving his lips, and that set her heart fluttering in a different way than it had earlier. He settled the rabbit back in her arms. "I have the feeling that the maids shall have to get used to such as him being around. And I wish you would stop trying not to be such a bother. That bothers me more than anything else."

After a glance around the stables, he strode to a corner near the door. He took up a small wooden crate, pulled two horse brushes out of it and replaced them with a handful of straw from the nearest stall.

"Your pardon, Donegal, but you must share your bedding," he told the gray gelding as the horse nosed first his hat and then breathed into the crate.

Rising, he brought the crate of straw to her, and held it as she settled the injured rabbit inside. The animal stuffed its face into a corner and stayed there, its breathing rapid, its brown eyes peering up from between yellow blades of straw and its white and pink ears pined back.

Looking as frightened as Eleanor had when I came across her
, Geoff thought, and the image left him feeling wretched. Of course, he'd only been worried for her. And for how the grooms seemed to be eyeing that trim figure of hers.

But now he realized that he had done nothing to put her at ease with him, to make her feel as if he would look after her. No, he had been too taken-up with his own dark moods and his own feelings to spare any thought for hers. Well, they would both be better served if the next few days gave them at least a chance to feel comfortable with each other before they pledged the rest of their lives to each other. After all, he did not want a white-faced, trembling bride staring at him from the end of the wedding aisle. A lovely Christmas present that would be.

Glancing down at the rabbit, he absently stroked its ears. "Take him to the house, Eleanor. And when you come back, I promise to have the horses ready so that we can choose this course of yours."

She blushed prettily and he had the impression that she might have reached out to hug him if she had not had a box of rabbit in her arms. But then she was gone, out the door, taking herself and her rescue away.

He looked after her a moment before he turned and shouted for Tully and George and Brian.

* * *

They covered a good deal of land in short order, riding as far east as the village of Albinger, then turning north to Nutley Heath and Horsley, and then west and south to Lostiford. The villages made a rough triangle around Westerley. Eleanor, he found, had some sensible ideas to keep the race within the view of the house and those guests who were not riding, so they settled eventually on a three-mile course that kept the course on either common land or property held by the Earl of Herndon.

Eleanor was, Geoff noted with some relief, an able horsewoman, despite her aversion to fox hunting. He had mounted her on Patrick's old, bay hunter, Bonhomme, who lived up to his name in being a simple, solid sort of fellow. She did not seem to mind her large, staid mount, but he noted that she sat well on a horse, her back straight and not the least twisted by the side saddle, and her hands light and not clutching at the reins for her balance. He would have to see about getting her a less sedate mount than old Bonnie.

She also seemed quite at ease with the tenants and neighbors they chanced upon. Shy, of course. He would have expected no less from her, but that quivering fear he had glimpsed at their engagement ball did not reappear. It must indeed be crowds that bothered her, he decided, and not people in general. Still, he wondered if she would be able to carry off the duties of a countess—or even the responsibilities of acting as hostess for this steeplechase-hunt of hers.

Geoff glanced over to her, fretting his worries, but he relaxed with a smile at the picture she made. Perched on the dark, huge Bonhomme, she almost looked a child, with strands of hair slipping loose from her hat to dance in the breeze around her face. Only those were no childish curves set off by the close fit of her riding habit. Wind and cold had stung color into her cheeks, and she gazed about her with her eyes bright and lively with interest.

As if sensing his stare, she glanced over to him and offered back a smile that seemed an invitation to share her delight with the world.

Heat rose up into his face and suddenly he had to be doing something. Doing something to get rid of the urge that had risen to grab Bonnie's reins and drag him to a halt so he might lean closer and indulge in foolishness.

"Come along, race you to the stables," he said. With a cluck to Donegal, he loosened the reins, letting the gray surge forward into a canter.

"No fair," Eleanor cried out. He heard her urging the placid Bonnie forward.

He checked Donegal to give her a chance to catch him, but then the huge, dark hunter surged past with surprising speed. Leaning forward and tiny on Bonnie's back, her reins loose and flapping, Eleanor flashed back a grin at him. With an oath, Geoff dug his heels into Donegal's sides and galloped after her.

She beat him to the stables by a neck's length, pulled up and leaned down to pat the steaming, dark gelding. "And that is what you get for thinking this old gentleman had no spark in him," she told him.

"I haven't seen old Bonnie make a run like that in years," he said, swinging out of the saddle and tossing the reins to the nearest groom. He strode at once to Eleanor as she unhooked her leg from over the pommel of the side saddle and untangling her skirts.

He reached up for her. She hesitated a moment, and then slid down into his arms.

His hands fit neatly around the trim her waist, his fingers not quite touching, but closing easily around the supple curves. The heat and smell of horse wove around them, holding off the chill. She stared up at him, her eyes enormous, her gloved hands on his shoulders, her touch light but somehow intimate.

He had meant to let go at once. To do no more than provide the courtesy of assisting her, but then Bonhomme turned and shoved his nose into Eleanor's back, rubbing his sweated ears against her and thrusting her full into Geoff's arms.

Devil take it
, he thought, mouth drying and pulse accelerating.
No, devil take him.
She fell against him, all soft curves and sweet yielding, and he could only think of that kiss he had stolen under the mistletoe bough. How her lips had tasted and how he'd wanted to lose himself in her arms.

Donegal's snort and the clop of hooves on the brick stable yard pulled him back to reality, reminding him of the grooms standing about, watching. And that he was not about to risk offending his bride by presuming too much before they were wed. He knew the danger of that.

He put her away from him at once. "Excuse me. I must see to the horses," he said and strode for the stable, his skin still burning and uncomfortably aware of her stare on his back.

Eleanor continued to stare after him. She knew she should not. So dangerous to watch him. So hopeless to yearn after him. Emptiness lay inside her, like a chasm had cracked opened. She had to accustom herself to it, that was all. What was it he had told her at the ball to give her confidence? Ah, yes, she had to learn how not to care. She really, really must.

She knew now, after her talk with Mrs. Cheeverly, that he had had good cause to help him develop his own uncaring heart. But, still, a spark of anger flared in her. Anger at him that she must learn this harsh lesson. However, she had agreed to this marriage. So she put her chin up and turned away from him. She kept her steps firm and refused to even acknowledge the ache that lay deep inside her chest. She would learn how to not let this matter to her. She had to. For she no longer could face the option of having to learn how to live without him.

* * *

The marriage settlements were signed and concluded. Geoff watched as the lawyer held out the paper with the terms of dower for his wife and which outlined her quarterly allowance. He found himself curiously detached, as if he were watching this happen to someone else. That did not surprise him. The settlements had been something for the family solicitors to sort through—though Lord Rushton had expressed his wishes for the financial arrangements to assurance his daughter's future. And the earl had wanted to know what property came to the family through the alliance.

It all seemed so ridiculously reasonable. Nothing of feeling in it. Nothing of passion. Nothing about a request for no fox hunting.

"What are you smiling at?"

Geoff glanced up at his father's scowling face. The earl had dressed for this occasion and had come downstairs to the library, the footmen carrying him in his wheeled chair.

"Nothing, sir. Or perhaps it is just with relief to have it done. Now, if you will excuse me, I do have other duties—and a steeplechase to arrange."

The earl glowered, but waved a dismissive hand at his son. And then one at the solicitors. "Oh, go away. Go away. Not you, Edward. You'll stay and have a glass of something with me, to toast the couple's future?"

Lord Rushton hesitated. "Are you certain you should?"

"Don't you start prosing on at me. I get enough of that from my sons. And if one drink kills me, your daughter is a countess that much sooner."

Coming back to the chairs beside the marble fireplace, Lord Rushton smoothed aside the tails of his coat and seated himself in one of the leather wing chairs. "Ellie's not ready to be a countess, so I would appreciate if you would extend yourself to live a good while longer. Ah, thank you, Bellows," he added, turning to the butler who had appeared with two glasses of port.

The last rays of the setting sun streamed into the room from under dark clouds that had gathered in the west, adding a pale, golden light to the room. A soft click of the door announced Bellows's discreet departure, leaving behind only the quiet of the mantle clock ticking, and the faint hiss and warm aroma of the pinewood fire.

Lord Rushton settled himself more easily next to the fire and raised his glass. "To the young couple—happiness, good health, and strong children."

The earl raised his glass as well, his hand trembling only slightly. "Aye, to grandchildren for us both at last." He drank back half the dark, red wine, and then slumped in his chair, staring into the fire, his gaze absent and his lined face unsmiling.

Lord Rushton gave a small chuckle. "What is it, Simon? You look as cheerful as if you had signed your own death warrant, not your son's marriage settlements."

Rousing, the earl looked up. "But have we done good work today? I worry about this. Have ever since I met that gel of yours. Slip of a thing. Is she up to him, Edward? What if we have just settled them the devil of a future together?"

Lord Rushton's hand stopped with his glass half-raised to his mouth. His face flushed red, and then he slowly lowered his glass. "Are you implying that I'd marry one of my daughters off for no better reason than getting a ring on her finger? That I have not acted with her best interests in mind? By God, if you weren't in that chair, I'd plant you a facer that would put you in one!"

"You would, now?" The earl slammed his glass down on a side table and pushed himself up from his chair until he stood on his feet, steady even if hunched by age. The rug that had lain across his lap fell aside and he raised his fists before him. "Come on, then. Have at me. See if you can!"

Lord Rushton stared at him a moment. Then he gave a laugh, and said, "For pity's sake, let us not be old fools at least. Sit down. Sit down, man. You're about to become my kin, not my enemy. And you may stop glaring at me. I doubt neither your pride, nor your abilities—which is exactly why this marriage seemed such a godsend. I knew you'd have raised your sons to be decent men—despite the rumors about your eldest."

Slowly, the earl settled himself in his chair again, giving out a deep breath as he did so and fumbling to put the green, woolen lap rug back across his legs. "Bah—rumors! I'd have been worried if Geoffrey hadn't earned himself something of a reputation. Young men need their fun—up to a point. But I thought your gel could settle him. Only here she is with these odd notions of no fox hunting, and heaven only knows what else in her head. What kind of girls are you raising to be so hen-witted?"

Lord Rushton flushed. "I am raising, I should hope, young ladies of sensibility as well as sense. Eleanor has the kindest heart of all of 'em—and she has the best mind, as well. So I should thank you not to call her hen-witted. She's a well-behaved girl, and I don't think there is anything to worry over. Which is why she seemed perfect for your Geoffrey, and why we should let these two sort it out for themselves. It is they who must come to an understanding of heart and mind. We can only tie up the legal bits of it."

With a rude snort, the earl took up his glass of wine and stared into it. "How can any man understand a woman who don't hunt?"

"Your son don't seem to be bothered by that. And that gives me reason to have hope there...yes, I have hopes."

The earl looked up sharply. "Just what do you mean? We all have hopes for 'em. My poor Amanda had hopes for 'em—and, by heavens, I'm going to see her wish for them to be happy is fulfilled."

"Then leave off your schemes—and don't turn that innocent, aged stare on me and try to pretend you're a doddering, old man who can't even dress himself. I am not here to put a spoke in the wheels of whatever game you have spinning, Simon, but I caution you that this wedding and this marriage going right depends more on your son and my daughter than on either of us. So leave them to it. I am. It's hard I know, but they have to bruise their own shins. Or do you not trust your own son's instincts in such matters?"

The earl muttered a curse into his glass. He hated to admit it, but his friend was right. And it irritated him enormously, for he could not help but remember how short a time it seemed since he had held his first-born in his arms and had ached with the desire to do anything and everything to protect that wiggling, red-faced babe.

He let out a long sigh. "Damn you. It is up to him. And that gel of yours. So let us both drink to the hope that they know their own hearts well enough before they wed, or that knot will stick tighter about their necks than that of a hangman's noose."

* * *

The morning of the steeplechase dawned bright, with billowing clouds scudding across the sky, driven fast by a cold east wind. Dark and threatening, the clouds scattered fat droplets of rain as they passed over the barren, winter fields and the green hills that lay around Westerley. Those with aches in once-broken bones predicted a downpour before this steeplechase nonsense of the new countess-to-be even started. The more optimistic glanced to the sky, lifted a wetted finger to the wind, and thought that it might yet turn into a bright winter's day. However, all in the neighborhood agreed on one thing—sun, rain, chill wind or none, this event was not to be missed.

The food would be plentiful and free, and the drink even more so. But the larger draw was the chance to see the earl—and possibly see him lose his famous temper over this new start of his son's bride. Everyone knew, after all, how hunting-mad the earl and his countess had been. Why she had even died from a chill taken while hunting. Of course, if the earl did not appear, there was still his son to watch, and the curiosity to satisfy of how this bride of his had gotten him to agree to so foolish a thing as to replace fox hunting on his property with a mere steeplechase. Finally, there would be the bride herself to glimpse and perhaps meet.

The gossip in the neighborhood divided sharply on her, with those who had chanced to encounter her claiming that she was a timid lady with too tender a heart, and the rest proclaiming that she obviously intended to make her husband dance to the tunes she called. In general, all agreed upon one other thing, and that was that this marriage would be as large a disaster as this mad start of hers about steeplechases.

Nothing, after all, could replace the thrill of a fox hunt in full cry across the fields, with the huntsmen's red coat flashing, and the fine horses galloping past and the hounds baying. And nothing could replace the previous Countess of Herndon, with her free laugh and her easy ways and her love of sport. The young lord had gotten himself a bad bargain with this arranged match of his.

So it was that everyone came to Westerley with full expectations of entertainment in the form of watching how badly this new bride-to-be behaved, and with half those gathered hoping some argument might break out and end this marriage before it began, and the other half ready to feel sorry for Lord Staines and the wife he would be obliged to endure.

Eleanor had no awareness of the expectations that hovered around her as she stepped from the house to greet the first guests who had arrived and to take on her role as hostess.

She had not slept well, what with worries of this day and the next, with her nerves strung too tight, and trying to rehearse in her mind a calmness that vanished as soon as she saw how many had already assembled before Westerley.

Almost, she turned and went back into the house.

But Andrew Westerley came out as she turned to the front doors. He offered a smile and his arm and said as a few rain spatters darkened the shoulders of the capes to his greatcoat, "It is an excellent day for a race. The horses shall be fresh as this wind and we should see some good sport from them. Ah, Geoff is already talking to Squire Boscome—he is the Master of the Hunt, you know, and he is to ride in the race as head steward to see that all's fair."

She glanced to where her husband-to-be stood with an older, stocky man whose legs were as bowed as if he had been born on a horse. Then she glanced back to Andrew. "Was the squire very much upset?"

"With what? Not hunting? Oh, he still takes his pack out. He holds a good deal of property south of here. And I cannot think he minds all that much. It was his idea to ride as steward. Said it would give him the best view to be in the midst of things. Personally, I think he wants to see Archie Dunleigh tossed by that red brute of a horse he bought from the Tinkers this fall. Odds are the horse shall finish the course, but not with Archie. Now, come, I shall take you about and tell you which of the riders to bet upon."

He did so, distracting her with harmless tales about the various horses and riders so that she almost forgot the quivering fear that lay just under her pretense of calm control.

Being in a crowd out-of-doors was not so bad. The bite of the wind kept away the terrifying suffocation that had made London ballrooms so dreadful. And while the numbers of those gathered steadily grew until it seemed as if all the front terrace and gravel drive and even the lawn was covered with horses and carriages and milling people, still there was plenty of space to walk and no one pressed too close.

Andrew stayed with her. He introduced so many neighbors that she would never be able to sort out faces and keep the names all straight. He pointed out the best horses: Squire Boscome's raking black gelding, which surely would have won had he entered, and a compact gray thoroughbred owned by a Mr. Josiah, which Andrew assured would finish in the top three at the least.

But while he tried to amuse her, Eleanor found her attention slipping back to Geoffrey.

He made no effort to approach her, and she tried not to mind his neglect. He was busy. He had duties and guests to greet, and he did not need her making demands upon him like a petulant child. She had asked for enough, after all, in asking for this event.

Still, a small voice whispered, the least he could have done was to come over and say good day. And for that her heart ached.

He looked so dashing, with his golden locks left uncovered by a hat, and his wide shoulders displayed in a fitted brown riding coat, and his muscular legs shown off by buckskin breeches and white-topped riding boots. He had to be the most handsome man here. The others had bundled up against the wind and the possibility of rain, but not him. He seemed able to defy the whims of mere weather.

Stopping next to a lady in a sage-green riding dress, Geoffrey paused and bent his head as the lady spoke to him. His gesture and closeness to the lady spoke of shared intimacy, and Eleanor suddenly froze. Oh, why had she not thought of this? Of course a man such as him, with his reputation, would be bound to meet other ladies he had known—and known well.

She glanced away, determined not to care. To ignore the hot churning in her stomach. To pretend indifference.

But she had to look back. She had to know what he was saying to her now.

Then the lady turned and Eleanor saw that he was talking to Mrs. Cheeverly. To his Cynthia.

Gone was the drab brown bonnet and dress of a curate's wife. Her riding habit was old, but in a classic, military style. Its sever lines suited her, offering a provocative contrast to her slender curves. A pert military shako allowed golden curls to peek out at the sides, and a green plume curled next to her face, dancing in the wind and caressing the perfection of her cheek.

Lord Staines held out his hand to her. Cynthia hesitated a moment, looked down at his hand, then glanced up and smiled. Eleanor's stomach twisted into a hard knot and her throat tightened. She wanted to look away, but she could not. They looked too perfect together. Too utterly right. And she was not the only one to think so. For she heard the whispers.

"What a pity they did not make a match of it."

"So striking, aren't they?"

But the final blow came when a woman next to her whispered to her gentleman friend, "Ah, what beautiful children they would have had."

Eleanor turned away then, her cheeks burning. She could not blame Cynthia and Geoffrey for how ideal they looked together. It was as if they had been fashioned to go together, like perfect, matching figurines.

Oh, that stupid, stupid woman. She ought to have married Geoffrey! No, not Geoffrey, she told herself. Lord Staines. Far better to put a proper distance into this arranged marriage and keep in mind his title and position. She must remember this match held no promise of closeness or feeling.

And she was being foolish to care about that. Silly to let this tear at her, like a cut from a rose thorn across her heart. It seemed that she had not yet fully learned her lesson of how to protect herself. But in that instant, however, she knew now that to survive this marriage she must build some sort of armor. She had to or she would destroy herself with this wretched longing.

Glancing up at Andrew Westerley, she saw that he, too, was staring at his brother and Mrs. Cheeverly, a frown pulling down his mouth and worry in his eyes.
Ah, he cares for Geoffrey, too. We all do, and yet none of us can do anything.

But there was something she could do. She could distract herself and Andrew so that they did not have to dwell upon impossible wishes.

So she asked Andrew where his brother Patrick might be, and when he said that Patrick had gone out upon an errand, she asked if he would help her find where Emma and Elizabeth and Evelyn might be in this crowd.

It was better doing something. But it did not do away completely with the ache inside, nor the awareness of how her intended still stood talking with Mrs. Cheeverly.