Under the Kissing Bough (16 page)

For a moment, the earl's shaking hand tightened into a fist. His mouth worked as if chewing on the next words he would spit out. He glared at Ibbottson, but the doctor stared back, his gaze hard and certain.

The earl's stare was the first to waver. He glanced away and fussed with the rug that lay on his lap. "I cannot tell him. It will do no good now."
"And is that how you keep your promise to the late Countess to ensure your sons' happiness?"

The earl's eyes glittered as he glared at Ibbottson again. "You dare bring Amanda into this again and I'll horsewhip you through the village. Oh, devil take you! If this does not go well, I shall ruin you! Now ring for Bellows. Tell him to bring my son up...no, better still, tell him to have Geoffrey wait upon me in the drawing room. And God help us all if this goes wrong!"

* * *

"You look as if you could use this," Andrew said, coming up with two glasses in his hand.

Geoff took one of the glasses of amber liquid. Brandy fumes, strong and potent, wove around him. His empty stomach gave a lurch, but he tossed back the brandy and let it burn a path down his throat and into his stomach.

"Afraid I shall not be steady enough?" he asked.

Andrew gave him a smile. "More like that you'll be as stiff one of those carved effigies in the chapel. Will you stop fretting over what Father wants with you. He no doubt intends to offer some paternal advice, and then to demand a schedule for how soon you will produce some offspring."

"Thank you. It soothes me no end to start thinking of having to set up my nursery," Geoff said, glaring at his brother.

Andrew offered back a grin as Patrick strode into the drawing room.

Glancing at his brothers and the glasses of brandy in their hands, he lifted an eyebrow. "A little early to celebrate, is it not?"

Setting his glass down, Geoff straightened his already straight coat cuffs of his buff-velvet jacket, and then he smoothed his heavy, brocade waistcoat. He wished he could sit down, but his gold, satin knee breeches had been cut to show off his figure, not for comfort.

"Devil take it, but is Father going to keep us waiting all day?" he muttered.

Andrew shrugged. "Do you think he found out about what you put in his wine last night?"

A querulous voice answered from the doorway. "What do you mean what he put in my wine?"

The brothers turned towards the entrance. Patrick's jaw dropped. Andrew spilt his brandy glass, staining the leg of his white satin knee breeches. Geoff stood still, his eyes narrowed and the pulse pounded in his clenched jaw.

In the doorway, stood the earl. He leaned only slightly on an ivory-headed cane, but there was not a sign of any wheeled chair. And while Dr. Ibbottson stood next to him, the earl seemed quite steady on his own feet. Age had bent his figure, and his right hand shook so that he held the cane with his left. His lined face seemed pale, but no more so than usual, and he glared at his sons, his eyes alert and bright.

"Well, say something," the earl snapped. "You look like a trio of landed trout. What about that wine?"

Geoff forced his jaw to relax and he folded his arms. The back seam of his perfectly cut coat strained across his shoulders, reminding him to try and contain his simmering temper.

He ought to have known from the start. His instincts had warned him, but he had put too great a trust in Ibbottson's integrity. He ought to have realized that his father would find a way to bend Ibbottson—and he realized now that that careful letter from the doctor, all the man's words, had said nothing directly about the earl dying. No, he had offered inferences of limited time, of inevitable consequences to the earl's past abuse of his health, and warnings that the earl's shaking palsy was progressing. He had allowed Geoff to leap to the conclusions that the earl had wanted.

The only question was how had the earl finally gotten his way with Ibbottson?

"It seems as if explanations are owed all about," Geoff said. He shifted his glance to the doctor. "How did he induce you to write that so carefully phrased letter to me? That was a masterpiece, Ibbottson. Not a lie in it. But enough suggestion to have me jumping through every desired hoop."

"What hoop?" Patrick muttered to Andrew, who shushed him.

Eyes narrowing, the earl came into the room and faced his eldest son. "Don't blame him. I promised him a hospital in Guildford, endowed with a trust to keep it."

"Ah, I see. Lured him by his own noble intentions. I shall have to remember that trick of using a man's strengths against him."

The earl glared at him. "If you want to blame him for something, do so for my coming to you now to tell you that I am not dying."

A silence settled into the room.

Geoff stood very still. If he moved, he feared that he would do something violent. Something stupid. So he kept himself utterly still.

Finally, he had control enough of himself to ask, "Why tell me that now? Is it so that there is no need for me to marry that Glover girl if you do not wish it?"

Before his father could answer, a movement from the doorway and behind the earl caught Geoff's attention. He froze. His father and Ibbottson both turned. But Geoff could only stare at the sight of Eleanor, standing in the doorway, her face as pale as her gown.

Eleanor could only think that Emma had been right—she should not have looked into the mirror a second time.

She had come back to the house, a cloak thrown over her, her pattens crunching on the gravel and a footman hurrying beside her with an umbrella, for something as prosaic as the call of nature. Standing in the cold chapel, she had felt the pressure build in her body, and the fear that she would embarrass herself drove her to whisper to her mother, and hurry back to the house to find the nearest convenience. Afterwards, she had paused in the hall before donning her pattens and cloak to smooth her hair and her dress, and she had heard the voices from the drawing room.

She had not meant to listen, but the harsh tones had drawn a dreadful curiosity from her, pulling her towards the half-open door. And as she had stood in the entrance, staring at the earl and listening to Lord Staines, she thought only what very bad luck she had.

He would have married me, for we had an agreement.
She knew that with utter certainty. But now he would not need to, for she could not hold him to something he had been manipulated into doing. He had seen her, so she could not even slip away and pretend that she had not heard. She could not take the coward's way out which so beckoned her.

For a moment, Lord Staines's face darkened, and she shrank back. But then he forced a smile and held out his hand to her. "Eleanor, come in. This involves you, so you might as well hear it."

The earl glared at his son. "This is not woman's business."

"Until marriage vows do not involve a woman, it certainly is. Eleanor?"

Her steps slow, she came to his side. "I...you do not have to explain. I had not meant to overhear, but...well, perhaps this is how it is meant to end." Looking up into his face, she tried to memorize the high arch of his cheekbone, the curve of his eyebrows, the color of his eyes. She wanted always to remember how he looked. It would be all she had.

She said, her voice amazingly steady, "I release you from your promise to marry me, my lord."

The earl let out a muffled curse. Andrew started to shake his head, and Patrick let out a low, pained groan. Lord Staines ignored them. Instead, he stared down at her with such an intent expression on his face that she could no longer meet it. Glancing down, she began to fidget with her gloves, which she had pulled off and not yet put back on.

He covered her hands with one of his, making her look up at him again. "It is not just a matter of a promise made. We shook on an agreement. That cannot be set aside."

"But you—"

He cut off his words by laying a finger across her lips.

"I am—I should hope—a man of honor. And what my father has spoken of is something for me to sort out with him, but it has no affect on anything between us."

"Of course it does. If you had had more time, you would not have chosen me!" She heard the desperation seep into her voice and fought not to show such weakness and need.

His mouth twisted down. "How can I answer that? Might I have done different things in different circumstances? Yes, I might—or I might not. Or is this your way of telling me that you do not wish to marry me now?"

That haunted look had come back into his eyes, and it tore at her heart that he must be thinking that she would reject him as Cynthia had done.

"No, that is not it at all," she said, the words falling out too rapidly. She bit down on her lower lip. Why would he not call off this ill-fated match? And the tears stung the back of her eyes, ready to fall if he should do so.

He offered a small, stiff smile. "We shall talk more later. But I think we have kept our guests waiting long enough for a wedding."

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

The rain had lessened, so that the walk to the chapel actually was a walk, not a mad dash through the wet. Once there, Lord Rushton greeted them easily, but Lady Rushton and her other daughters gasped to see Eleanor with Lord Staines. They whisked her aside, muttering about grooms not seeing their brides before the ceremony.

Geoff took his place with Patrick at the altar, and the only thing that stood out in his mind was the sight of Eleanor's pale face as she walked down the aisle to him. Her voice dropped to near a whisper as she said her vows. He muttered his own responses as he ought. And the vicar pronounced them man and wife—it was done.

So why did he not feel relief? Why were his shoulders still knotted and his stomach still tensed? Why did the urge to turn and stride out of the church and keep walking away from this make him unable to stand still?

He led Eleanor to the register to sign her name, he signed his after hers. It all seemed rather unreal and anticlimactic after his father's earlier disclosure. His anger over that had faded, but a simmering sense of betrayal and resentment lay just under his skin, and he did not trust himself to say anything pleasant to the earl.

This was nothing like how he had ever imagined his wedding day, he thought, as he led Eleanor back to the house and the wedding breakfast. And to endless wishes for happiness.

* * *

"Where are my things?" Eleanor asked, staring blankly around the room she had thought of as hers at Westerley. Numb cold trickled through her fingers. "Never tell me they were moved into the countess' rooms?"

The maid stared at her. "Oh, no, my lady. They were moved to the Green bedroom, next to Lord Staines's rooms."

My lady.
It was not the first time that day she had been so addressed, but the oddness of it left her unsettled.
My lady.
She folded a pleat of the white gown that she had changed into for dinner that evening. The day had at last wound down. The breakfast had ended. Most of the wedding guests had departed, but a few members of the Westerley family had stayed on for Christmas Eve dinner, and for Games of Hunt the Slipper and Snapdragon, with Evelyn and Patrick being the best at snatching the raisins from the brandy flames. Eleanor had forced a smile and joined in, but there was also still tomorrow to face, with church to attend, and Christmas dinner with more relatives and neighbors.

Thankfully, Lord Staines had said they were not to go away on any honeymoon, but would stay at Westerley until Twelfth Night. She would have her family with her until then. And she would rather endure an army of Westerleys than have to face awkward days alone with the one she had married.

"Shall I show you the way, my lady?" the maid asked, looking a little worried.

Eleanor thanked her, but said she could find it. Only once in the room, with its pretty green drapery and flowery wallpaper, she found herself eyeing the connecting door as if a tiger lived behind it. Which, given the circumstances, was not far from true.

Lord Staines had prowled the house all day with a fixed smile in place and his blue eyes crackling. She had seen him exchange words once with his father, but she knew quite well that Lord Staines had not forgiven his father for his interference. Would that be a shadow over her marriage? Or were there so many already that one more did not matter in such darkness?

"I will try to make him happy," she had told the earl that afternoon.

He had humphed at her and narrowed his eyes in a gesture so like his son that her heart skittered for an instant, but he had squeezed her hands before turning away.

Andrew and Patrick Westerley had, at least, been very kind. They had claimed the right as brothers to kiss her cheeks, and had gone out of their way to introduce her to all the Westerley cousins and uncles and aunts. And her sisters and her mother had hovered close to her, keeping her distracted with chatter and their own delight. However, it was Lord Staines who had consumed her thoughts and her worries.

He still did.

She drifted through the room, touching the wedding presents that had been left here by the servants, fingering the ribbons on the boxes, glancing at the cards attached and feeling strangely let down. She was not certain what she had expected, but it was not to feel...to feel so displaced.

Her maid arrived, and after changing from her dress into her night clothes and a red velvet dressing gown, Eleanor dismissed the girl and curled up in a chair near the fire with her rabbit on her lap so that she could smooth his long, soft ears.

When would he come to her? Would he come? She desperately hoped so. She wanted this night to be over. At least she would know that she could be a wife to him in more than name. But her insides wanted to turn upside-down at the thought that he would be disappointed with her.

With a sigh, she got up and followed her mother's advice on dealing with her wedding night. She poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter left with two glasses on a side table.

Three glasses later, two hours had passed and still no sign of her husband. She had opened all the presents and had tried to read a book. Even Bother had given up on the late hour, wiggling so in her lap that she had had to settle him back in his crate. She had no one for company except her own thoughts which darted about like frightened birds in a cage.

Glowering at the porcelain figurine given them by Mr. and Mrs. Cheeverly, she wondered if her husband lay in his own room now. And was he thinking of his Cynthia?

She had watched him watching Mrs. Cheeverly at the wedding breakfast, and a worm of jealousy had crawled loose inside. She found herself hoping that perhaps her father knew of a parish living that could be given to Mr. Cheeverly that would take him and his wife to Northumberland. But that would only take Mrs. Cheeverly away from sight, and not out of Lord Staines's heart.

Tucking her robe even tighter about her, Eleanor glanced up at the clock on the mantle. Nearly midnight. Nearly Christmas. She would never forget this Christmas. And then she heard the door open behind her.

She was on her feet in an instant.

He stood in the doorway, so handsome that her heart clenched and a wave of raw longing swept through her. His white lawn shirt lay open at the neck, his cravat and waistcoat had been stripped away. Buff breeches clung to his muscular legs. He would have seemed too intimidating, except that, like a boy on a night lark, he wore white stockings on his feet with no slippers and no shoes. He had thrown on a blue, silk-brocade dressing gown, and it billowed unbelted as he came into the room.

"I did not think you would come," she said. She pressed her lips tight together. She had not meant to say anything. It was his choice, after all, to see her or not. She should not scold him.

He frowned and came into the room, stopping to glance at a jewel-encrusted box that someone had given them. "You have been busy, opening all this."

Her face warmed. "I beg your pardon. Should I have waited for you?"

He shrugged. "No. You should please yourself in these matters."

A hard lump formed in her throat. She wished now that she had had a fourth glass of wine. The pleasant distancing the other three had provided seemed to have vanished when he walked into the room. She wondered if she should offer him a drink, and she glanced up at him from under her lashes. His eyes were very bright. Had he been drinking already? Perhaps trying to find desire for her in a bottle?

"Where have you been?" she asked, and then immediately added, "No, I should not have said that. I beg your pardon. I do not want to be an interfering wife. That was the bargain, was it not?"

He came closer to her. Her pulse raced.

"Do not be nervous, Eleanor. I will not hurt you. I will not do anything you do not like."

But the question was would she be able to do anything that he liked?

He took her hands between his. "You are cold. Did you catch a chill sitting here, waiting?"

She could only shake her head. She did not trust her voice, not with him rubbing her hands between his. She fixed her stare on his hands. So elegant. So warm. So much larger than her own—they engulfed her.

Gently, Geoff reached out and traced the curve of his wife's lips with one finger. It had taken him far too long to work up the courage to come and face her, and still he did not know quite what to do with her.

His wife.

His mouth dried and it took all his concentration to keep his hands steady as he touched her. He knew how to deal with the women of London, but a wife was a new experience. This day had been too full of too many new experiences, too many emotions, and not enough time to sort through them. His father's confession, the wedding, having to see Cynthia and accept her wishes for him to be happy with his bride.

Oddly, Cynthia had been the easiest of all of them to handle, and still he did not understand why that should be. He had watched her at the wedding breakfast—who could not watch such a lovely woman. But something was different about her. Or perhaps about him. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time and noting how she smiled at her husband, but with a distance between them. He had always been intrigued by the serene poise that lay between Cynthia and the world. He had thought of it as a challenge, that some lucky man would find a way to light the fires underneath that cool exterior.

And then the oddest thought had struck him. What if he had never really seen her as she was? What if there were no fires to light? Or what if she did not want them lit?

He had turned away from those thoughts, uncomfortable with them. No, it had been his fault that he could not stir Cynthia's passion. The fault could not be with her. She was too perfect.

Eleanor's fingers trembled as his hand tightened around hers and that brought him back to the moment. He let go of her. He would give her time. He would act a gentleman with his lady wife. He would not make the same mistakes he had made with Cynthia.

Moving away, he picked up a figurine—a country couple who gazed vapidly at each other over a fence railing. "Who gave us this?" he asked, thinking it a useless knick-knack.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cheeverly," she said, her voice so flat that he had to glance at her.

She was not looking at him, but staring into the fire, her arms wrapped around herself. He glanced at the figures again, startled that Cynthia should have picked out such a gift. She usually had such elegant taste. But he realized that perhaps the appeal of the figurine for Cynthia had lain in the safe, chaste sentiment shown. He frowned at that thought.