Fortune's Lady (26 page)
In the past, it had been easy to avoid men’s kisses. All she had had to do was see that look in their eyes and her stomach would knot in disgust, her body grow cold, and her face freeze into the disdainful expression that had won her the name the Ice Princess. But every time she saw that look in the marquess’s eyes, she experienced an entirely different reaction; her face felt as though it were aflame, her bones melted, and her entire being ached with a hunger she did not dare think about, did not dare acknowledge, for fear of what would happen if she did.
It was a lucky thing for her peace of mind that he was going tomorrow, for without his constant presence to remind her of her feelings for him, surely she would stop continually wondering what it would be like to press not only her lips but her naked body to his.
Chapter 29
But as the marquess’s recently repaired yellow curricle made its way slowly down the long gravel drive away from Kennington, both Gareth and Althea were beginning to suffer from second thoughts.
Althea was the first to sense the emptiness after Gareth had left. When he had first arrived as a patient in her home, when all her healing skills were truly needed, she had fretted over the other duties she had been unable to attend to as she remained sitting watch at his bedside. Later, when he had been able to be up and about, and she actually had the opportunity to return to those duties, she realized that whatever had originally seemed so pressing while she was preoccupied with nursing him had either dwindled into unimportance or been handled by Mrs. Crowder, Jenny, and her grandmother. Of course, once the marquess had been well enough to view the estate and ask questions about it, she had managed to let entire hours of time slip by without noticing or regretting it. Later on she would take herself to task for not accomplishing all that she planned to do each day, but would find herself indulging in the luxury of another such conversation the very next day.
Finally, she had given up feeling guilty altogether, promising herself that she would work twice as hard once the marquess was gone. But now he was gone and, somehow, she no longer had the energy for tackling any of the projects she had set aside in order to enjoy the marquess’s company. Now, freed from his distracting presence, Althea found herself simply going through the motions of these tasks in a most desultory fashion. She would stare at columns of figures without seeing them for hours on end or listen to reports from Jem, Mrs. Crowder, or Mr. Duckworth without hearing a word they uttered. And all the while, at the back of her mind, she would be recalling what Gareth had said about this, or the look in his eyes as he had commented on that, remembering over and over again the strength of his arms around her, the warmth of his lips on hers, and the light in his eyes that made her feel understood, appreciated, and important.
She told herself that it was just a normal reaction to unusual circumstances. She had never had to care for anyone as she had cared for the marquess. No one had ever needed her or depended on her as he had. Naturally, she had felt close to him, and now it was taking time to readjust after the pressure of the added responsibility. She told herself that what felt like emptiness was simply exhaustion from nursing the marquess coupled with the worry over his recovery. Once she had gotten some rest, she would feel much more the thing, and her natural energy and enthusiasm were bound to return.
But deep in her heart, Althea knew that fatigue was not at the root of her strange lethargy. True, she had been working harder than ever before, even before the marquess’s arrival, and caring for him had only added to her work, but she had also felt more alive and active than ever before, more ready to take on anything, and she knew that it was his presence that had inspired her.
All her life, Althea had longed to be on her own, in control of her own destiny, with no one telling her what to do. But just when she was beginning to enjoy that hard-won freedom, the marquess had reappeared in her life to prove her utterly and completely wrong. Now she knew that a life shared was a life richer and more fulfilling than any life she spent alone, no matter how much she worked, no matter how much she studied or tried to improve her mind.
There was nothing to do but force herself to think of Kennington and the people who had come to depend on her, to remember that running her own establishment had been her dream long before the Marquess of Harwood had appeared on the scene. It would be her dream again. All she had to do was to concentrate on that and forget about Gareth de Vere and the way his gray eyes glinted when he was amused or how his mouth crooked into a sardonic smile that included her in his ironic view of the world. All she had to do was to forget the way he made her feel whenever he was near her—breathless, alive, filled with a tantalizing longing. All she had to do was forget that he had offered understanding, support, and a genuine enthusiasm for what she wanted to do with her life.
Surely he would write, just to let her know that he had arrived safely and that his recovery had not been affected by his journey?
Althea had no idea how strong this hope was, but the dowager, observing her granddaughter looking eagerly down the drive several times a day in the hopes of seeing a messenger, knew precisely how much she longed for some word from the marquess. The dowager did too. Even in London, she had sensed a bond between the marquess and her granddaughter. She had been disappointed that Althea’s skill at cards had won her so quickly the longed-for prize of her own estate and removed her from the marquess’s fascinating influence. During their card games, Althea’s grandmother had not been too immersed in the play to miss the gleam of admiration in her granddaughter’s eyes every time their opponent captured a trick. Nor had she missed the way a clever sally on his part coerced Althea into uncharacteristic laughter. There had never been any doubt in the dowager’s mind that two people who had been isolated from the rest of the world by their own cleverness were now reveling in the discovery of another person equally as clever who could offer both appreciation and challenge.
When Althea had exclaimed over the coincidence that had caused the Marquess of Harwood to suffer an accident at their very gates, the dowager had smiled slyly and kept her own counsel. She knew that men like Gareth de Vere did not frequent country roads in a sporting curricle on a whim. If the Marquess of Harwood was driving by Kennington Park, it was because he knew very well where he was and very well who now lived at Kennington Park. In fact, the dowager was willing to hazard a guess that he had been investigating the estate now owned by Lady Althea Beauchamp, if not planning to visit it, when the mishap had occurred.
The period of the marquess’s convalescence had only strengthened the bond between him and her granddaughter. More times than she could count, the dowager had interrupted silent exchanges of understanding passing between the two of them. She had witnessed the tenderness with which Althea watched over the injured man, and the way his eyes sought her out whenever she was in the room. And more than once the dowager had been surprised to see a look in those eyes that could almost have been called reverence. The Dowager Duchess of Clarendon was willing to bet the very fine Beauchamp diamonds not yet ceded to her daughter-in-law that the Bachelor Marquess had never looked at another woman so worshipfully, so longingly, in his entire life as he looked at Althea.
But nothing had come of this extremely promising situation and now he was gone, leaving the dowager to await word of him as eagerly as her granddaughter did. Watching Althea forcing herself to concentrate on her daily tasks, the dowager felt for her granddaughter’s suffering. She longed to reassure Althea that the marquess would be back. Years of experience and observation told her that he would return, but it was clear that Althea was doing her best to avoid all mention of the marquess, that the unexpected pain of missing him made her all the more eager to forget him, all the more eager to wipe all memory of him from her life as quickly and thoroughly as possible. So the dowager kept silent and bided her time.
Was the marquess suffering equally from the loss of her granddaughter’s companionship? Althea’s grandmother wondered. She hoped he was, but in general, gentlemen had far more resources at their disposal and considerably more distractions to take their minds off upsetting reflections than females did.
Both the dowager and her granddaughter would have been gratified to learn that while Gareth was less quick than Althea to come to the realization that he had left a very important part of his life back at Kennington, he too was suffering from the same disturbing second thoughts and sober reflections as she was.
When he eventually reached Harwood, Gareth was faced with a mountain of correspondence and questions from his agent that had been held in abeyance until his return. At first this pile of work and his tendency to tire easily after his accident, kept him too occupied to pay attention to anything except the tasks before him. However, the second week of his return, as the marquess was digging out the last letter from the pile to be read and answered, he was suddenly struck by the purposelessness of it all.
Why am I doing this? he wondered. And for whom?
Gareth mulled these questions over that evening as he sat alone at dinner staring into the fire, absentmindedly spearing peas on his plate. Unlike most, if not all his acquaintances, he had always been a thoughtful individual who sought out the reasons for things, the explanation behind them. But he had never, until now, questioned the reasons for his own existence.
Now it all seemed so very empty. Yes, he had rebuilt Harwood and repaired all the damage caused by his father’s neglect and his mother’s expensive and insatiable appetite for fashion and luxury. Yes, he wished to build the best stables for his horses and provide the best breeding and the best training for these animals that he loved and admired. But still the question remained. Why? What did it matter? Who cared what he accomplished?
For years Gareth had sought only to live up to the standards he had set for himself, but now, suddenly, that was not enough. He took a drink of wine and then another and another. He knew very well what he thought of himself and what he was trying to accomplish. What did she think?
That unnerving question remained with him all the next day as he watched Apollo and his trainer going through their paces, as he inspected the new mare he hoped to breed with Apollo, as he drove his curricle around Harwood surveying fences and pastures, cottages and outbuildings in much the same way he had surveyed Kennington not long ago with Althea. Would she approve of the improvements he had made to his tenants’ cottages? Would she admire the fat, fluffy sheep grazing contentedly in the rich green pastures? Would she notice the thought and care he had put into the design of his stables?
In fact, Gareth spent more time picturing her at his side, her eyes alight with interest and enthusiasm, than he did concentrating on his duties, and when he finally returned home that evening, he welcomed the chance to retire to the library to write the letter he had been composing in his mind all day.
Initially, he had meant only to send word that he had arrived safely and to thank her again for her care and her hospitality. But as he had tried the message out first in his mind, seeking just the right words to convey how much it had meant to him, without making her feel that he was being was too effusive, the short note of thanks had somehow grown into a lengthy epistle telling her all about Harwood and asking her for details about her projects at Kennington.
By the time Gareth finally sat down to write, his head was bursting with several pages worth of communication to be put on paper. But at least the transcribing of all these thoughts eased the hollow feeling of loneliness that had been nagging him since he had driven away from Kennington. And as the ink flowed onto the paper, he could picture her reading the letter, smiling at his assertions that Ajax and Achilles were quite bad tempered now that they no longer had the Angel of the Stable attending to their every need. He cherished the thought that her hand would be holding the paper where his now rested. How simple and sentimental the thought was, but how true.
Writing to her almost felt like speaking to her. And as he filled one page and moved on to the next, Gareth realized how much he missed just talking to Althea.
No, he thought later as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling and remembering the comforting way she had plumped his pillow and smoothed his coverlet, it was not her conversation he missed. He missed her. Achingly and longingly, he missed her.
And what was he to do with himself until he saw her again? When would he see her again? What could he do to ensure that he did see her again, for she would never reappear in London, and he could not be forever having curricle accidents at her front door.
Chapter 30
Oddly enough, it was a remark of Ibthorp’s two days later that suggested the solution to this last question. The marquess had set aside that day for the annual consultation with Mr. Wilkins, the veterinary surgeon who not only examined all his horses, but also advised him on the optimal conditions for their care and feeding. It was Ibthorp who suggested that the surgeon not only examine the racehorses, but also the marquess’s recovering team. Gareth had made the acquaintance of Mr. Wilkins in the Peninsula where the young man, fresh out of training, had been assigned as the veterinary surgeon to Gareth’s regiment. There was something about the man’s calm demeanor even in the most horrific of situations that had soothed and reassured everyone around him, men and animals alike, and it had not taken Gareth long to realize that Mr. Wilkins was not only a skilled surgeon, but also a natural healer whose presence kept many a tense moment from turning into a disaster.
Mr. Wilkins, in turn, had been drawn to the young cavalry officer who, no matter how weary or in how much pain himself, had always taken the time to see to it personally that his animals were well fed, watered, rubbed down, and made as comfortable as possible in all weathers and all conditions. All cavalry officers were concerned for their mounts’ welfare as a matter of course—a soldier was only as good as the horse he rode—but this particular officer had been unusually devoted, making sure of his horses’ emotional as well as physical well-being. Wilkins, who firmly believed that the mental state of man or animal was key to its physical state, had become friends with the young officer and taught him all that he could about equine physiology and diseases.
