Under the Kissing Bough (9 page)

Evelyn gave a rude snort. "But of course he will love her? How could anyone not love Ellie?"

Elizabeth stopped brushing Evelyn's dark brown hair, and Emma exchanged an exasperated look with her over their younger sister's head. Emma let out a sigh. She had known tonight that it was time to take a helping hand in this matter. She had seen over the short time of Eleanor's engagement how her sister looked at Lord Staines—with her heart in her eyes. And she knew, down to her bones, that if Eleanor married without love, well, they might as well simply take food, water and air from her as well. For what woman did not need love?

Pushing aside the pillow, Emma sat up straighter. "I am not saying we have to do very much. Just...help a touch. It is the season of love and good will, so that should aid us. But if Lord Staines is not given the chance to really know Ellie, how can he possibly come to love her?"

"And if he starts to know her and does not love her?" Elizabeth asked, the silver-backed brush held still in her hand and her voice tense.

"Well, better that Ellie should know that before they are wed rather than after, when it is too late to do anything about it."

"It already seems too late," Elizabeth said, and she sat down on the bed and stared at the bush in her hand.

"Rubbish," Evelyn said, and glared back unrepentant when her sisters frowned at her.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Really, Evelyn. Your language."

"That is not the topic in discussion," Evelyn said, her chin up and starting to braid her long hair. "It is Ellie we are helping. So what must we do?"

Sitting forward, Emma smiled. "It is simple, really. We must offer Ellie more opportunity to be with Lord Staines. Alone. After all, how could he not fall in love with our Ellie once he realizes how sweet and kind she is?"

Elizabeth started to say that it was quite possible for men to fall in love for many reasons, none of them having to do with sweetness or kindness. However, Evelyn leaned forward, eager-eyed to agree with Emma. She glanced from one sister to the other, and decided it would hurt nothing for Lord Staines and Eleanor to become better acquainted. But, oh, how she wished her Captain Singleton was here to give her a gentleman's point-of-view.

But he was not, and so she joined in with her sisters in starting to make plans for how they could more often throw Eleanor and Lord Staines together, even as she worried that this was not enough to help Eleanor avoid making a mistake with this arranged marriage.

In another part of Westerly, a similar council of war had convened.

Patrick and Andrew Westerley stood in the billiards room, their coats off, their waistcoats unbuttoned and their cravats tugged loose. The fire in the hearth lay in dying coals and embers, but fresh candles in the wall sconces gave plenty of light for their play, while a full decanter of brandy stood open on a side table besides two crystal goblets.

Silent and concentrating, Andrew circled the table, eyeing the possible shots. Patrick stared into the dying fire, nursing his brandy, his eyes darkened with thoughts and one dark lock of hair falling forward on his brow to curl over his left eye.

Just as Andrew had lined up his cue on his target, Patrick turned. "We have to do something."

Andrew's hands tightened on his cue and his shot went wide. He glanced up at his brother, and wished that it were still possible to thump the fellow. But Patrick had always been fast, and now he was tall and broad in the shoulder. Not a good idea to try and thump a fellow who might thump back even harder.

Leaning on his cue stick, Andrew took up his own drink and downed a warming gulp. "So you keep saying, but you have yet to say what we must do."

Patrick set down his brandy and came around the table to take his shot. "Affairs of the heart are supposed to be your territory, vicar."

"I am not a vicar, yet. And this is about the least hearty affair I've ever seen. And Geoff will not welcome our interference if he learns of it."

Patrick made his shot, and straightened. "You are indeed a man of cloth—cloth-headedness. The trick of it is to make certain Geoff don't learn about. And if we have to help Geoff through the next two weeks, who will?"

Andrew started to circle the table, looking for his next shot. "Geoff wants this all proper and right."

"Yes, I know. I saw him tonight, polite as a nun."

"Painfully so."

"Exactly. How long do you think he can keep that up?"

Andrew frowned. Much as he hated to admit it, his brother had a point. Geoff could do the proper, but he had a fuse as short as their sire's. Geoff was a man to get things done, whether they wanted getting done or not. The strain of entertaining the Glovers, of trying to keep all reasonable, was bound to tell on him.

Growing up in a house without a mother and with their father often ill, it had been Geoff who had managed things. He had measured out the discipline and the praise and most of the lessons. They owed him much.

And what, after all, would Lord Rushton think, if Geoff ripped up at his future bride over something? It might not happen, but then again it might.

Andrew made his shot, pocketed a ball, and he moved to make his next shot. "What do you suggest?"

He missed his shot and straightened as Patrick came around the table. Instead of taking his turn, Patrick leaned on his cue, his eyes only the slightest bit heavy from drink and the late hour.

"I'm not saying we do anything to interfere in Geoff's choice of bride. Just that we offer a little buffer to keep him and his intended from seeing more of each other than is good before a marriage. Dovecott married his bride with no more than a day spent with her, and look how well that's turned out."

"Dovecott is an idiot."

"Yes, but a happy idiot. And just how happy do you think Geoff would be if this girl takes a shunner to him? We've both agreed that he cannot go through what Cynthia put him through again."

Andrew scowled. "I am not certain this would be at all the same. He was in love with Cynthia. Now, will you finish the game? It is your shot."

Hefting his cue, Patrick made his shot—and another and another, rapidly clearing the table. He racked his cue and held out his hand. "That's fifty quid you own me. And while Geoff may not love his bride, he's still a man with pride."

Racking his own cue, Andrew eyed his brother. He drank back his brandy and said, "You know, of course, that it is going to be damn hard to keep Geoff from spending too much time with his intended when we have a house full of Glover ladies and the season of celebration upon us."

Patrick clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. "My dear fellow, the day that I cannot occupy the attention of three ladies, one of them a schoolgirl, that is the day you may see me in my grave. Which leaves you well able to occupy Miss Eleanor's time. And then we shall all have a happy Christmas, and be able to wish our brother well on his wedding day."

* * *

Geoff came downstairs the next morning to find his brothers in a suspiciously cheerful mood. The Glovers were downstairs to breakfast already. He greeted them and sat down to drink his coffee and watch his brothers entertain everyone. Patrick was full of amusing political stories, and Andrew seemed to be monopolizing Eleanor's time, Geoff thought, a touch of irritation lacing through him.

Devil take it, what had Andrew said to her to make her smile that warmly? And how had he gotten her to talk so much? He wanted to know, but with Andrew on one side of her, and Patrick on the other, and her sisters and family surrounding them, Geoff had no choice but to sit at the far end of the table and bide his time.

At last she rose and glanced shyly up at him. He rose as well, his now cold coffee forgotten. "Would you care to pick out your ring now?"

"Ring?" Patrick said, rising. "Excellent idea, Geoff. A shopping expedition to Guildford to get a ring. And I'm certain the Misses Glover would like to do some Christmas shopping. We have a tradition at Westerley of exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve, you know," he said, glancing down to the glowing eyes of Emma and Evelyn Glover.

"Oh, may we, Mama?" Emma said, turning to her mother. "May we go shopping in Guildford?"

Lady Rushton looked uncertain, but Lord Rushton chuckled and said, "Best take a pair of footmen with you to carry all the packages."

With that Eleanor found herself swept into a shopping expedition. She glanced at Lord Staines as plans were made by his brothers and her sisters, and she had the fleeting impression that this was not what he had had in mind when he had asked her about a ring. He had offered to allow her to choose a ring from the Westerley jewels, and she could not decide if she preferred a ring all her own, or something that had long been in his family. But the choice did not seem to be hers anyway.

Her sisters took her away to dress for the weather—for while the sun had come out, frost lay on the ground and a sharp wind blew from the northeast.

Within all too short a time, the carriages were at the door, and she was helped into a coach, but not by Lord Staines.

His brother, Andrew, claimed the honor of helping her. And with a smile, he took her hand and guided her to the forward coach. She had only time to glance back at Lord Staines, and to see the scowl on his face. For an instant it flashed into her mind that he was jealous. But that was absurd. Jealous of what? It must be that he did not want to go to Guildford. Yes, that made sense. He wanted her to choose a ring from those in his family.

And she determined then and there not to like any rings in Guildford.

It turned out to be easier than she expected to keep to her resolve. Lord Staines disliked all the rings to be had at Findlay and Firth's, the main jewelers on Guildford's High Street. He waved away the diamonds, which he found too small and colorless. Eleanor let out a relieved breath at that, for she thought the same thing.

But Lord Staines found the rubies too cloudy, the sapphires lacking the true violet color of an excellent stone, and the emeralds—which Eleanor actually preferred—to have too plain a setting. Mr. Findlay, desperate to please, offered a tray of less precious stones—topaz, aquamarine, garnets and pearls. But Lord Staines scorned them as unsuitable for his future countess.

"Have you nothing else?" he asked.

Eleanor rose from her chair and began to wander the shop. Emma and Evelyn, restless and bored with the task of selecting a ring had already dragged away Lord Staines's youngest brother, Patrick, taking him with them to show them Guildford, and taking Lady Rushton with them as well. They had promised to meet up at The Rose for refreshments before they returned to Westerley. Now Elizabeth had pulled Andrew Westerley into helping her choose a watch fob as a present for her father.

Poor Mr. Westerley
, Eleanor thought, as Elizabeth asked to see tray upon tray of fobs, and sought his opinion on each.
He doesn't want to be here either.

Then the door to the shop opened with a gust of cold air and a tinkling of the bell that hung from the door.

Eleanor turned and saw framed in the doorway one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen in her life.

Golden curls peaked out from a green velvet bonnet that was lined with a cream satin that perfectly matched the cream of her skin. The curls and bonnet framed a heart-shaped face as perfect and symmetrical as any Eleanor had ever seen. She caught her breath at such beauty. Eyebrows and lashes of darker gold lined wide, pale silver-gray eyes. The green velvet of the lady's cloak lay back over one shoulder to reveal a graceful, slim figure.

Eleanor turned, thinking to remark to Elizabeth on the lady's beauty. But as she turned she caught sight of Lord Staines's face. Her heart caught in her chest at the wretched misery etched into deep lines around his mouth and across his forehead.

That wounded look was back in his eyes, as sharp and clear as shards of shattered crystal. And the sight of this beautiful woman had put it there.

The hole inside him opened again, the one he had spent the last nine months filling with drink and other women and anything to obliterate her image. And the last strand of hope snapped like a cut string.

What a fool he had been, he thought bitterly, disgusted with himself. He had allowed himself to believe in the fantasy of how he had wanted this meeting to go. He had pictured the regret that would cloud her eyes and the smile she would offer. He had imagined how his arms would enfold her, and the lemon and spice and woman scent of her, teasing and familiar, would encircle him, and she would say at last that she loved him.

But the illusion that she might ever open her heart to him vanished in that small step she took backwards.

She looked down and away, as if seeking some escape. Anguish rose up from his chest and flooded his throat, almost choking him. She regretted nothing, had forgotten nothing. He still frightened her.

He wanted to die.

Manners saved him.

He must be polite. Introduce everyone. He had to bow and smile, and he would be damned to hell before he showed any of the raw agony and simmering anger that swirled in him in a poisonous blend. He wanted to slam his hand into something. Instead, he bowed. He wanted to take hold of her and force her to realize that he loved her. Instead, he clenched his jaw, and smiled and did what was expected of him, a lord, an earl's son, a gentleman who had been rejected by the woman he adored.

"Mrs. Cheeverly, it has been sometime," he said, his voice sounding strained and hollow to himself. He turned away from her. It hurt to look at her and not be able to touch her.

"Miss Glover and Miss Eleanor Glover," he went on, still civil and in control. "This is Mrs. Cynthia Cheeverly..."
the woman I love—but cannot have
. He did not say the words but they echoed inside him like stones down an endless well.

The ladies exchanged stares as if the words he had not spoken lay in the air between them, visible as white paint. He watched Eleanor and Cynthia eye each other, his heart still tangled with his head and all of him ached with bitter, hopeless regrets.

Why the devil did I not elope to Scotland and take my bride anywhere else in the world?

But he knew the answer. Those damned hopes had snared him, trapping him into this. That and his promises to his father to bring his bride to Westerley and marry there. He'd had no choice about this.

Cynthia came forward, graceful and gracious as ever, her voice melodic and only a little shy as she shook hands with the other ladies. His gaze devoured her, as if he had been released from prison into sunlight and fresh air for the first time in years.

Look, but do not touch. She never wanted your touch.

Devil a bit but how was he supposed to get through a wedding ceremony and this Christmas smiling with good cheer when what he wanted to do was act a savage, surly brute?

A soft touch on his arm drew his glance down to Eleanor.

"Please, I hate to be rude, but may we leave? I have the most awful headache. Shopping sometimes does that I fear."

In truth, Eleanor felt fine, other than for the sick churning in her stomach. That awful look had come back to Lord Staines's eyes, and she had also noted the recognition in Mrs. Cynthia Cheeverly's eyes. She had watched enough of the London world to know when two people shared an intimate past and were both made uncomfortable by it. And her only thought was:
How do I get him from this place before he cannot bear it any longer?

She did not understand what had come between these two, but she could see that whatever it was still had the power to wound. And she only wanted to get him away from here.

In his glance at her, Eleanor could see relief flicker in his eyes for an instant. It vanished as his mask and control fell into place. Ah, but she had done the right thing to offer him an escape. Him and herself.

He offered apologies, swept the ladies to the door, but a man, thin, dressed in sober black stepped through the entrance. "Cynthia, my dear, I forgot…"

What he had forgotten stopped on his tongue as his glance took in Lord Staines and the ladies. He swept off his tall, black hat and a smile lifted his thin mouth.

He had a narrow face and body, thinning brown hair and vague brown eyes. His shoulders sloped slightly, and he dressed with precise neatness. He looked a man with no dangerous, hidden depths. A man with no raw passions simmering in blazing eyes. In fact, he could not look more opposite, Eleanor thought, from the man who stood beside her.

"Staines, well met, and greetings of this happy season. I see, Cynthia, that you have already exchanged a welcome with your old playmate." He gave a warm smile to his wife, as if inviting her to tell him that he had just made a most excellent joke.

Eleanor felt the tension in Lord Staines bleed into her, filling her mind, tightening her nerves until she wanted to shift from foot to foot.

The man before them—Mr. Cheeverly it must be—went on as if nothing were amiss. "And which of these lovely ladies is to be the bride—ah, she must indeed be the blushing maiden here. But you must not be shy with us. We are to be neighbors. Cynthia's mother told us of your coming nuptials, Staines, but what is this that you marry at Westerley? It must be that the village chapel is too small for your invitation list, eh?"

His smile widened, and he obviously intended his remark as a jest, but Eleanor found herself clenching her back teeth against such forced, awkward humor. Mr. Cheeverly had to be an utter block not to see the daggers in Lord Staines's eyes, not to notice his own wife's nervousness. But he greeted everyone in turn, happy and convivial, and Eleanor could only think that he was a rather frightening clergyman. She could just imagine him coming cheerfully to a deathbed, offering platitudes and good wishes, insensitive to the distress of others.

Lord Staines gave Mr. Cheeverly back some vague answers, exerted his skills and got them out of the building with a muttered excuse of not keeping the coach horses waiting.

But on the drive back to Westerley, Eleanor noted how silent Lord Staines was. And she wondered just what stood between him and Cynthia Cheeverly?

* * *

"You call this hall decked? Decked with what? A scrub of pine and a branch of holly? Bah! I want some proper greenery, as my poor Amanda used to do. Ivy and holly, and branches of bay as well. And that sweet smelling stuff—what it is—rosemary. Rosemary for remembrance, ain't it?"

Eleanor heard the booming voice echo up the stairs. She paused at the turn of the stair, one hand on the carved oak balustrade. She could not mistake that voice even though she had only heard it once and it had been far softer. But what was the dying earl doing downstairs?

She had come down early for breakfast, unable to bear her room an instant longer. Dinner last night had been a strain for her, although to judge from the chatter about the shopping expedition no one else had noticed. However, she had been too aware of the tightness around Lord Staines's mouth and of how he would at times fall silent, a distant look clouding his blue eyes. And she could do nothing for him.

She spent most of the night staring at the canopy of her bed, thinking of the day, picking it apart as if it were embroidery miss-stitched. She could not doubt that Cynthia must be the lady that he had honestly loved, but that love had gone awry. Now he simply wanted a wife. A complacent, sensible, undemanding wife. Eleanor hated that she had been cast in that role.

"...
to marry a gentleman who loves elsewhere. That is always disaster.
" All night, Lady Terrance's words had echoed in Eleanor's mind.

A sensible girl would turn away from this marriage. Now. Before it was too late.

But Eleanor feared it already was too late, for she found herself unable to even think of breaking this off. She could not be the cause of more pain for him, even a mere bruising to his pride.

The voice—a deeper, more aged version of Lord Staines's own—drew Eleanor's attention back to the moment. "Take 'em down, damn you! All of 'em. I want this house decked in fresh, proper garlands! There is less than a fortnight to Christmas! Even less to the hunt meet, and this house looks as if a damn miser lives here."

Curiosity stirred, Eleanor started down the stairs again, her steps muffled by the carpet. She must be mistaken. This must be an uncle, or some other close relation, come to visit for the wedding and the holidays. Surely, it could not be the earl. Turning the corner of the stairs, she stopped in the middle of the final flight of stairs, astonished.

The hall looked as if a tree had fallen into it. Pine boughs lay on the floor, or hung like limp, dying branches from the walls as footmen scurried to pull them down. To Eleanor there seemed to be no reason to complain of a lack of greenery.

In the middle of the flurry, the earl, shrunken, his hands shaking, sat in a wicker-backed, wheeled chair. A green wool blanket covered his lap and legs, and a purple dressing gown swallowing up his form. A footman stood behind the earl, stone faced and alert, waiting for his orders.

Worry for the earl's health tightened in Eleanor's chest. And, yet, what could she do? She was a guest in this house. She tried to turn away, to go back to her rooms. Only she could not. She had heard of conditions that afflicted the elderly, leaving them confused and apt to do themselves harm. What if that were the case? She was, after all, soon to become much more than a guest here.

Pulling her shawl even tighter against the morning chill, she started downstairs. "Good morning, my lord. May I offer my help to look after this while you go back upstairs?"

For an instant it seemed as if surprise flickered in the earl's eyes—and a touch of worry. But all emotion vanished under a daunting scowl.

He folded his trembling hands in his lap. "You're not yet Countess of Herndon, miss. So you may put it out of your mind that you'll send me back to my rooms with a bowl of damned gruel. These decorations your idea as well?"

Now she remembered what Geoffrey had said—his father would like her better if she could not be cowed. Well, she had no wish for his approval, not if he were such an insensitive, horrid man. But she was not going to allow him to put himself into the grave, either.

She gave him back his stare and said, her voice soft, "My idea, my lord, is that you should have better concern for your health. Geoffrey will not like it if you do yourself harm."

He stared at her a moment. The deep lines around his eyes and mouth crinkled as he smiled. "Well, so he is Geoffrey to you, is he?"

Face warming, she did not know how to answer. Before she could get a word out, the earl twisted in his chair and said to the footman behind him, "Robert, take me upstairs." He swung back, giving Eleanor an appraising stare, "Come, miss, I have something to show you."

Eleanor hesitated. She did not want to be shown anything. Not by this unpleasant old man. But the footman—Robert—had already wheeled the earl to the stairs, and with the aid of another burly footman, the two servants lifted the wheeled chair and started up the stairs.

Anything that moved the earl towards his rooms seemed a good thing, so Eleanor followed, meek and obedient, even though the childish urge to stick out her tongue and makes faces at his back was almost more than she could suppress.

At the top of the stairs, the servants put the chair down again, and Robert wheeled the earl down the hall that Eleanor recognized as leading to the earl's room. They stopped, however, at the doors adjacent to the earl's bedroom, and the footman ushered them into a dark and musty chamber.

It smelled of dry roses and the faintest touch of mold, and the cold made Eleanor wish she had worn something thicker than her wool gown and Spanish shawl. After settling the earl near the entrance, the servant moved at once to throw back the drapery. Eleanor heard the clatter of brass rings on the wooden rails, and light bloomed from the gray, leaden sky outside.

What she saw pleased her.

Blue damask silk hung in panels on cream-painted wood walls. Deeper blue jacquard drapery framed the tall windows through which the pale December morning light shown. On a dresser, cut crystal cosmetic jars stood beside a set of silver-backed brushes. A bay window stood opposite the bed, and in that enclosure two chairs and a small round table made an intimate setting for a morning breakfast. Cozy in size, and distinctly feminine, Eleanor realized that this must have been the late countess' room.

She wondered at once if this room would be hers after she married, and she could not stop the images of herself and Lord Staines sitting beside that bay window. Would he breakfast with her? Would he wear a brocade dressing gown? Or simply a white shirt and breeches? Or perhaps even less? Heat flamed into her cheeks at the images of him that she had conjured. He really would look quite devastating with his hair tousled, and his shirt open and after a night spent…

She turned away, trying to distract herself with the reality before her of an empty, unused room that was no place for her.

Over the fireplace hung a portrait of the late countess. Her eldest son did not look much like her, for she was a dark beauty, with haughty cheekbones and dainty features, and sharp, clear light-brown eyes. She carried herself like a queen and looked as if she would have been more than a match for the earl.

"Leave us," the earl ordered, gesturing for the footman to go. He did so, bowing himself out.

Positioned under the portrait and before the unlit fireplace, the earl shifted in his chair, the wicker creaking under his slight form. The sensation of being back before her old governess and about to be quizzed on a particularly difficult subject swept over Eleanor, making the back of her neck tingle and her stomach flutter. What did he want from her?

Frowning, he gestured to the portrait and said, his voice gruff, "That was my wife. Amanda. Never met anyone to match her. Not her beauty. Not her spirit. She could ride anything. Shoot like a trooper. Dance 'til dawn and then drive to London for a breakfast of ices at Gunter's."