The members of the Survivors’ Club stayed up long after Hugo had carried Lady Muir up to her bed. It was their custom to relax during the day, sometimes together or in smaller groups, often alone, but to sit up together deep into the night, talking upon the more serious matters that concerned them.
This night was no exception. It began with apologies from Vincent and teasing from everyone else. Vincent was teased about his loose tongue, Hugo about the happy progress of his search for a wife. They both took it in good part. There was no other way to take it, of course, that would not draw worse.
But finally they all grew more pensive. George had been having a recurrence of the old dream in which he thought of just the right thing to say to dissuade his wife from jumping over the cliff at the precise moment when she did jump. He had been waking up in a cold sweat, crying out and reaching for her. Ralph had met the sister of one of his three dead best friends at a soiree in London at Christmastime, and she had lit up with delight at seeing him and with eagerness to talk about her brother with someone who had been close to him. And Ralph had been close. The four of them had been virtually inseparable all through school and had ridden off to war together at the age of eighteen. He had watched the other three being blown to pieces just a fraction of a moment before he had almost but not quite followed them into the hereafter. He had left Miss Courtney’s side to fetch her a glass of lemonade. He had fully intended to take it to her. Instead, he had walked right out of the house and left London the next morning. He had offered no explanation, no apology, and had not seen her since.
By the following morning, Hugo was feeling horribly embarrassed about the previous evening. Most specifically about that kiss. He had no explanation for it. He was not a ladies’ man. He had always had a healthy sex life, it was true, though not so much in the past few years, first because of his illness and more recently because he was Lord Trentham—that millstone about his neck—and it somehow did not seem right to be dashing off to brothels whenever the mood took him. Besides, he lived in the country, far away from any such temptation. He could not remember kissing any respectable woman since he was sixteen and had found himself hiding in the same broom closet as one of his cousin’s school friends during a game of hide-and-seek at the cousin’s birthday party.
He had never, ever kissed a lady. Or felt any burning desire to do so.
He did not even particularly like Lady Muir. He had judged her to be an irresponsible, frivolous, arrogant, bored, spoiled aristocrat, albeit a beautiful one. Of course, the story she had told of her husband had added some depth to her character. She had undoubtedly suffered a difficult marriage, with which she had coped as best she was able. And she did, he admitted grudgingly, have a sense of humor and an infectious laugh.
All of which was no explanation at all for his sudden urge to kiss her after he had removed her dinner tray from her lap. Or an excuse for giving in to that urge.
And why, in the name of all that was wonderful, had she allowed it? He had done nothing to ingratiate himself with her. On the contrary, he had been downright surly. He had a tendency to be that way with the upper classes, members of the Survivors’ Club excepted. He had not been well received by his fellow officers in the military. The majority of them had treated him with disdain and condescension, a few with open hostility for his daring to break into their ranks just because his father could afford to purchase his commission. Their ladies had ignored him entirely, just as they ignored their servants. All of which had not particularly bothered Hugo. He had wanted to be an officer, not a member of any social club. He had wanted to distinguish himself on the battlefield, and he had done that.
But last night he had kissed a lady. For no reason at all except that she had set her hands over her flushed face and laughed helplessly after he talked about giving up whores when he married. And there had still been laughter in her voice when she had spoken—I am really quite, quite sure, that this has been the strangest day of my life, Lord Trentham. And now it has culminated in a short lecture on lust and middle-class morality.
Yes, that was what had made him want to kiss her.
He wished to God he had kept his wishes on a tighter rein.
He was going to have to avoid her as much as he possibly could for the rest of her stay here. It was going to be dashed awkward coming face to face with her again.
It was a resolve he kept until after luncheon. He spent the morning, while it rained outside, in the conservatory with Imogen. While she watered the plants and did magical things to them that made them look fresher and altogether more attractive, he read the letter from his half sister that had arrived with the morning post. Constance wrote to him at least twice a week. She was nineteen years old and basically a lively, pretty girl who was ready and eager for beaux and marriage. But her mother was a selfish, possessive woman who had used her delicate health and ailments real or imagined to manipulate those around her for as long as Hugo had known her. She kept her daughter a virtual prisoner at the house, always at her beck and call. Constance rarely went out except to run brief and specific errands. She had no friends, no social life, no beaux. Not that she complained openly to Hugo. Her letters were invariably cheerful—and almost empty of any real content because she really had nothing to say.
It was Hugo’s duty to set that all right. A duty impelled by love. And by the fact that he was her guardian. And by a promise to his father that he would secure a happy future for her as far as he was able.
She was one of the main reasons for his decision to marry. He did not have the slightest idea how to launch her onto middle-class society on his own or how to steer suitably eligible middle-class men in her direction. If he married … No, when he married, his wife would know how to introduce her sister-in-law to the sort of men who could offer her security and happiness for the rest of her life.
There was, of course, his other reason for deciding to marry. He was not a natural celibate, and his need for sex—regular, lusty sex—had been asserting itself all too painfully for the past while and warring against his contrasting inclination toward privacy and independence.
He had decided when he left Penderris three years ago that above all else he wanted a life of peace. He had sold out of the army and settled in a small country cottage in Hampshire. He had supported himself by growing a kitchen garden and keeping a few chickens and doing odd jobs for his neighbors. He was big and strong, after all. His services had been much in demand, especially among the elderly. He had kept quiet about his title.
He had been happy. Well, contented, anyway, despite all the warnings from his six friends here that he resembled an unexploded firecracker and was surely going to burst back to life again at some time in the future, perhaps when he least expected it.
Last year, after his father’s death, he had purchased Crosslands Park not far from the cottage and set up on a slightly grander scale there. Somehow word of his title had leaked out. He had proceeded to grow a somewhat larger garden and cultivate a few crops, to keep a few more chickens, and to add a few sheep and cows. He had hired a steward, who had in his turn hired some laborers to help with the farm work. Hugo had continued to do much of it himself, though. Idleness did not suit him. He still did odd jobs for his neighbors too, though he steadfastly refused to accept payment. His park was undeveloped, his house partly shut up since he used only three rooms with any regularity. He had a very small staff.
But he had been happy there for a year. Contented, anyway. His life was unexciting. It lacked challenge. It lacked any close companionship even though he remained on good terms with his neighbors. It was the life he wanted.
And now he was going to change everything by marrying—because really he had no choice.
The letter lay long forgotten in his lap. Imogen was still in the conservatory. She sat on one of the window ledges, her legs drawn up before her, a book propped against them. She was reading.
She felt his eyes on her and looked up, closing the book as she did so.
“It is time for luncheon,” she said. “Shall we go in?”
He got to his feet and offered his hand.
Lady Muir, he learned in the dining room, was in the morning room, George having judged it a more cozy place for her during the daytime. A footman had carried her down, and George himself and Ralph had taken breakfast in there with her. She had asked for paper and pen and ink afterward in order to write to her brother. Mrs. Parkinson was with her now and had been for the past few hours.
“Poor Lady Muir,” Flavian said. “One feels almost inclined to rush to her rescue like a knight in bright armor. But one might f-find oneself being coaxed into escorting her friend home, and the prospect is enough to make any knight turn tail and run and bedamned to chivalry.”
“It is all taken care of,” George assured him. “Before the lady arrived, I suggested to Lady Muir that in her weakened condition she might perhaps wish to rest this afternoon instead of facing the exertions of a prolonged visit. She understood me perfectly and agreed that yes, indeed, she expected to need a sleep after luncheon. My carriage will be at the door in forty-five minutes.”
The clouds had moved off and the sun was shining an hour later when Hugo was standing out on the terrace, trying to decide whether to take a long walk along the headland or to be more lazy and stroll in the nearer park. He decided upon the lazy alternative and spent an hour wandering alone about the park. It was not at all elaborately designed, but even so there were flower gardens and shady walks and tree-dotted lawns and a summerhouse in a dip that sheltered it from any wind blowing off the sea. The small structure offered a view along a tree-lined alley to a stone statue at the far end.
It all made Hugo think with some dissatisfaction about his own park at Crosslands. It was large and square and barren, and he had no idea how to make it attractive. One could not just stick alleys and arbors and wilderness walks any old where. And the house rather resembled a large barn from which all the animals had fled. It could be lovely. He had sensed that when he had decided to buy it.
But whereas he could appreciate beauty and effective design when he saw them, there was no creative corner of his mind in which original designs would pop to life. He needed to hire someone to plan it all for him, he supposed. There were such people, and he had the money with which to employ their services.
He wandered back to the house after an hour or so.
Was Lady Muir really sleeping, he wondered as he let himself in at the front door. Or had she simply been glad to avail herself of the excuse with which George had presented her to get rid of her tiresome friend? If she was alone in the morning room and not sleeping, of course, George would surely have arranged that someone bear her company. He was good at such niceties of hospitality.
Hugo did not need to go near her. And he certainly did not want to. He would be very happy never to see her again. It was difficult to explain, then, why he paused outside the morning room door and leaned his ear closer to it.
Silence.
She was either upstairs, resting, or she was in there, sleeping. Either way, he was quite free to proceed on his way to the library, where he planned to write to Constance and to William Richardson, the very capable manager of his father’s businesses, now his own.
His hand went to the handle of the door instead. He turned it as silently as he could and pushed the door ajar.
She was there. She was lying on a chaise longue, which had been turned so that she would have a view out through the window to the flower garden beyond. It already sported a few spring flowers and a whole lot of green shoots and buds, unlike Hugo’s flower garden at Crosslands, of which he had been very proud last summer. He had planted all summer flowers and had had a glorious show of blooms for a few months and then … nothing. And they had all, he had learned later, been annuals and would not bloom again this summer.
He had much to learn. He had grown up in London and had then gone off to fight wars.
Either she had not heard the door open or she was asleep. It was impossible to tell which from where he stood. He stepped inside, shut the door as quietly as he had opened it, and walked around the chaise until he could look down at her.
She was asleep.
He frowned.
Her face looked pale and drawn.
He should leave before she awoke.
Gwen had nodded off to sleep, lulled by the blissful silence after Vera left and by the dose of medicine the Duke of Stanbrook had coaxed her into taking when he had discerned from the paleness of her face that she was in more pain than she could easily endure.
She had not seen Lord Trentham all morning. It was a great relief, for she had awoken remembering his kiss and had found the memory hard to shake. Why ever had he wanted to kiss her, since he had given no indication that he either liked her or was attracted to her? And why on earth had she consented to the kiss?
She certainly could not claim that he had stolen it before she could protest.
Neither could she claim that it had been an unpleasant experience.
It most decidedly had not been.
And that fact was perhaps the most disturbing of all.
She had endured Vera’s visit for several hours before the duke himself came to the room, as promised, and very courteously yet very firmly escorted her out to his waiting carriage after assuring her that he would send it for her again tomorrow morning.
Vera had been quite vocally put out at being left alone with Gwen throughout her visit. When their luncheon had been brought to the morning room, delicious though it was, she had protested at the discourtesy of His Grace’s not having invited her to join the rest of his guests at the dining room table. She was chagrined at the arrangements that had been made for her return home—and its early hour. She had assured His Grace on her arrival, she had told Gwen, that she would be happy to walk home and save him the trouble of calling out his carriage again if one of the gentlemen would only be kind enough to escort her at least part of the way. He had ignored her generous offer.
But what could one expect of a man who had killed his own wife?
How she hoped, Gwen thought as she drifted off to sleep, that Neville would not delay in sending the carriage for her once he received her letter. She had assured him that she was quite well enough to travel.
Would she see Lord Trentham today? It was perhaps too much to expect that she would not, but she did hope that he would keep his distance and that the duke would not appoint him to take dinner with her again this evening. She had embarrassed herself enough with regard to him yesterday to last her for the next lifetime or two.
He was the last person she thought of as she fell asleep. And he was the first person she saw when she woke up again some indeterminate time later. He was standing a short distance from the chaise longue upon which she lay, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, frowning. He looked very much like a military officer even though he was dressed in a form-fitting coat of green superfine and buff-colored pantaloons with highly polished Hessian boots. He was frowning down at her. His habitual expression, it seemed.
She felt at a huge disadvantage, stretched out for sleep as she was.
“Most people,” he said, “snore when they sleep on their back.”
Trust him to say something totally unexpected.
Gwen raised her eyebrows. “And I do not?”
“Not on this occasion,” he said, “though you do sleep with your mouth partway open.”
“Oh.”
How dare he stand there watching her while she slept. There was something uncomfortably intimate about it.
“How is your ankle today?” he asked.
“I thought it would be better, but annoyingly it is not,” she said. “It is only a sprained ankle, after all. I feel embarrassed at all the fuss it is causing. You need not feel obliged to keep talking about it or asking me about it. Or to continue keeping me company.”
Or watching me while I sleep.
“You ought to have some fresh air,” he said. “Your face is pale. It is fashionable for ladies to look pale, I gather, though I doubt any wish to look pasty.”
Wonderful! He had just informed her that she looked pasty.
“It is a chilly day,” he said, “but the wind has gone down and the sun is shining, and you may enjoy sitting in the flower garden for a while. I’ll fetch your cloak if you wish to go.”
All she had to do was say no. He would surely go away and stay away.
“How would I get out there?” she asked instead and then could have bitten out her tongue since the answer was obvious.
“You could crawl on your hands and knees,” he said, “if you wished to be as stubborn as you were yesterday. Or you could send for a burly footman—I believe one of them carried you down this morning. Or I could carry you if you trust me not to become overfamiliar again.”
Gwen felt herself blushing.
“I hope,” she said, “you have not been blaming yourself for last evening, Lord Trentham. We were equally to blame for that kiss, if blame is the right word. Why should we not have kissed, after all, if we both wished to do so? Neither of us is married or betrothed to someone else.”
She had the feeling that her attempt at nonchalance was failing miserably.
“I may take it, then,” he said, “that you do not wish to crawl out on your hands and knees?”
“You may,” she said.
No more was said about the burly footman.
He turned and strode from the room without another word, presumably to go and fetch her cloak.
That had been nicely done of her, Gwen thought with considerable irony.
But the prospect of some fresh air was not to be resisted.
And the prospect of Lord Trentham’s company?
