Gabriel: Lord of Regrets (20 page)

“You must have done something and been some sort of brother,” Gabriel said, “because here I am, alive and well, and thinking better of you.”

Aaron stared off into the empty gardens as if his life—or at least his dignity—depended upon what he saw.

“Aaron?” Gabriel touched his arm. “I didn’t want to be alone either. Couldn’t stand it. All this”—Gabriel waved a hand at the fields spreading to the horizon beyond the window—“it’s too much to bear alone. Yet you did it for two years. I am in your debt.”

“If you hadn’t come to fetch me home from Spain, you wouldn’t be flat on your back every time you take a bad step! You wouldn’t have been denied your birthright for two years, much less your fiancée’s affections. You would have been at Papa’s funeral, for God’s sake, not holed up in some sweltering infirmary, the flies so thick… I can’t… I have nightmares about leaving you there.”

He wept silently, tears coursing down his cheeks, leaving his brother without one helpful thing to say. Gabriel pulled Aaron into his arms, and held him, stroking his hair while Aaron grappled with two years of guilt, secrecy, and overwhelming uncertainty about how to keep his only brother safe.

Aaron rested his forehead on Gabriel’s shoulder. “This is unbecoming.”

Gabriel blinked hard while he still had the privacy to do so. “This is what brothers are for. Nobody cried at my funeral, you know, and I was too bloody furious to cry myself.”

“I cried,” Aaron said. “When Papa died, I cried for you both, mostly because you couldn’t be there, and it was…”

“Yes.” Gabriel turned him and walked him to the couch. “It was your fault. Because you so carelessly got yourself injured while at war with the utterly blameless Corsican, and then were subject to the inept treatment of the blameless surgeons, and we mustn’t forget our blameless Papa, who dispatched me to the same region to retrieve his spare, or the blameless individuals whose blades found their way to my back.”

Aaron sat, apparently felled by an onslaught of reason, though Gabriel wasn’t finished.

“And we can’t forget my blameless self, who was stupid enough to travel alone after dark in a town full of Spanish refugees and cutthroats, and then even more unthinkably stupid to conclude his brother, out of his mind with fever and pain, somehow concocted a plan to kill me so he could have all the jolly fun of keeping Hesketh from the crown’s greedy paws with a woman he’d never thought to marry.”

“You’re babbling, Gabriel.”

“It’s contagious,” Gabriel said, crossing to the sideboard. “But curable by decent brandy. Here.” He poured two fingers for them each then sat beside his brother. “Are we done with this topic?”

“You’re saying I’ve been an ass.”

“I’m saying perhaps the Deity created in you an unfair propensity for guilt, but you don’t have to let it ruin your happiness, any more than your love of horses dooms you to mucking stalls for the rest of your life.”

“Profound.” Aaron lifted his glass in salute. “Also probably true.” He took a thoughtful sip. “So, brotherly affection aside, how long will you be sick?”

Gabriel eyed his liquor, when he wanted to toss it all back at one go. “I understand the question, and you want to be about swiving your wife. What’s amiss, Aaron? Are you so far beyond the newlywed stage you can’t swive her in the saddle room or on the balcony in the library? That was ever a favorite hiding place when we were boys. You must enjoy each other in silence under cover of darkness only?”

“I liked you better when you were blamelessly babbling. Conceiving a child is serious business.”

Gabriel took a sip that drained half the contents of his glass. “One should hope it’s enjoyable business, wherever one conducts it. But to answer your question, I’ve been sitting on my arse for four nights and four days, and there hasn’t been a single footman suspiciously straightening pillows in the sitting room, or a maid wielding an enthusiastic poker. I don’t think this is going to draw out my detractor.”

“No laudanum or rat poison has gone missing, either,” Aaron said. “So how much longer?”

“I’ll take a turn for the better this afternoon,” Gabriel decided. “Then I’ll make slow progress back to my former glory.”

“You’re not going crazy with the inactivity?”

He was, when Polonaise abandoned him to his paperwork. “A little, but I’m also napping, Aaron. Grown men aren’t supposed to nap.” Not alone, anyway.

“I do recall that from my reading of the law.” Aaron peered into the bottom of his glass. “Nor cry.”

“Cut line.” Gabriel shoved his shoulder, but not hard enough to even slosh his drink. “Grown men aren’t supposed to nap, but I left Spain far sooner than I should have attempted any travel, then found the position at Three Springs, and the work there was endless.”

“You’re short of rest. Marjorie said you looked like you’d been to war. I had to agree. There’s a kind of weariness the infantry get when they’ve been on too many forced marches in bad weather on foul rations. They become indifferent to their own suffering, and one wonders where they find the strength to fight.”

Was that what the marquessate had felt like to him? Was that how his marriage to Marjorie felt?

“I’m not indifferent to my own suffering, but I’d forgotten what it feels likes to have more energy than the immediate task demands. I’m enjoying the first real rest I’ve had in years.”

Particularly when Polonaise was on hand to enforce his inactivity.

“So nap a few more days, sleep in, and enjoy the company.”

“Yes, well.” Gabriel took a slow sip of his remaining drink and wondered how long two women could fuss over a choice of horsewhip.

“What are you going to do with her, Gabriel?”

“She thinks I’m going to tumble her witless while she’s here at Hesketh, then stuff her into our newest traveling coach and wish her all the best when she goes on to her next commission.”

“And the flaw in that plan?”

“She’s tumbling me witless, for starters.” Gabriel rose to set his empty glass on the sideboard. “And there will be none of this getting into traveling coaches, not unless I’m in there with her.”

“Tumbling about.”

“Precisely.”

Aaron fetched the bottle and returned Gabriel’s glass to him. “This should be entertaining. I’m going to try to woo my wife, and you’re going to convince your artist to become your wife, or am I mistaken?”

“You are not.”

“That’s the second thing I wanted to bring up with you.”

“Hmm?” Gabriel held up his glass for a refill, the spirits and the company both being fine, though the topic was daunting.

“Marjorie has asked that I sit for the second portrait, and I’ve told her I’ll leave it up to you.”

Bless Lady Marjorie, for many reasons. “Do you want to do this for your wife?”

“I find I do.”

“Well, then I have only two requests, if you’re determined to have the painting done.”

“I’m not posing out-of-doors as winter comes upon us. Not even for my long-lost, blameless brother.” Whom Aaron silently toasted with a bumper of brandy.

“Him,” Gabriel snorted. “No, you are doing this for Mr. North, who spent two years worshipping the object of his affection—”

“Lust.”

“That too, from afar, only to have to nobly part from the ungrateful little baggage so she could pursue wealth and fame while avoiding her true fate as my beloved marchioness.”

“Perilously close to babbling, Brother.”

“Two requests,” Gabriel said. “First, choose a brilliantly sunlit pose, because winter’s gloom will soon descend in earnest, and second, fidget ceaselessly.”

“My husband is acting most peculiarly.” As Marjorie spoke, she appeared to study the assortment of sidesaddle whips hung in order from longest to shortest on the saddle-room wall.

“One hardly knows what constitutes peculiar behavior in a husband,” Polly replied.

Marjorie paused before a particularly sturdy whip. “You don’t have a very good opinion of men, do you?”

“Not of some men. My sister’s husband is a prince.” Gabriel Wendover was something beyond even that.

“He treats her well?”

“He adores her, enough not to show his affections in any way uncomfortable for her,” Polly said, selecting a long, delicate whip. “He also adores her daughter, and that, more than anything, probably won Sara’s affection.”

It had certainly won Polly’s. And her respect.

“I like this one.” Marjorie held out an elegant black leather whip. “I use it a lot.”

“I’m not keen on the hue of the leather,” Polly said, flexing it then smacking it against her skirt. “Can we find a brown one with some brass on the handle?”

“Here.” Marjorie passed her another. “It’s short for the horses I ride.”

Polly tried the shorter one and held it up to the light. “How is Lord Aaron behaving?”

“The perfect gentleman, as always.” Marjorie fingered a short, stout jumping bat. “Except he did kiss me.”

“Kisses can be nice.” Kisses could be so much more than nice, too. Polly tried smacking the second whip, which was stiffer than the previous candidate. “This one isn’t used as much, but I like the handle better.”

Marjorie tried the whip then examined the handle. “This wasn’t a nice kiss. It was a naughty kiss.”

Well
done, Lord Aaron
. “He’s your husband. From him, the naughty kisses can be the best. Let’s take this outside to see how daylight strikes the fittings on the handle.”

Marjorie put the longer whip back on the rack and followed Polly down the shed row. “So a husband’s kiss can be naughty, and it doesn’t… imply anything?”

Polly considered the question and considered how young the marchioness was and how few people the lady had to confide in. Her mother certainly wasn’t an option, which left… Polly.

“Such a kiss implies he desires his wife,” Polly said as they emerged from the shadows of the barn. “That is a wonderful thing, to be honestly desired by one’s mate. I think, with a good polishing, this whip will do nicely.”

“What color gloves should I wear, then?”

Polly passed her the whip. “Let’s see what some of the choices are. Hasn’t Lord Aaron made lusty overtures in the past?”

Marjorie’s stride put a particular swish to her skirts. “He has not. He was trying to imply I…” She stopped walking, glared at the house, then glanced behind them at the two brawny footmen Gabriel insisted they take everywhere.

The footmen fell back a good dozen yards.

“What did Lord Aaron imply?”

“That I’d given my heart and perhaps a bit more to Gabriel.”

“A bit more wouldn’t be unusual if a couple had a long-standing engagement. Particularly when the gentleman is handsome and… capable.” And the lady’s mother was shoving her into his arms. Polly shot a longing glance at Marjorie’s whip.

“Handsome, maybe,” Marjorie said, resuming a more dignified pace. “But Gabriel was so… forbidding, I suppose. He’s different now, though I was little more than a pesky future obligation to him, Polly. He’d no more dishonor me by anticipating the vows than I’d run naked through the village on May Day.”

“Maybe Aaron thinks otherwise. Men get odd notions.” Particularly where their dignity was concerned.

“They do.” Marjorie’s expression became thoughtful. “Then they’re stubborn about them. Aaron suggested we have a child, for example.”

“A child?” Polly sensed they’d come to the heart of the discussion, and took Marjorie’s arm. “Shall we admire the winter gardens?”

Marjorie fell in step, though the winter gardens were nothing more than bracken and bare plots.

“Tell me about this sudden desire for a child,” Polly said. “One notices the absence of an heir.” And somebody ought to be producing children here, after the past two years’ doings.

“I suppose that could be part of it. As Aaron explained it, if I’m carrying, Mama might desist in her attempts to set our marriage aside. Should she succeed, any child I bore could be illegitimate.” She used the whip to whack at a dangling maple leaf, and missed.

“And should your mother’s suit fail, you’re on your way to producing the Hesketh heir, which might be some consolation to your mother.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Nonetheless, I don’t want Aaron coming to my bed as some convoluted legal maneuver to confound my mother.”

Polly drew her down onto a cold stone bench. Of the fall flowers, only some damp, droopy pansies remained near the bench, though they were the exact blue of Gabriel’s eyes.

“Except once Lord Aaron’s in your bed, the marriage is harder to attack. He’s not stupid, Marjorie.”

“Far from it.”

They were quiet for a moment, each likely considering the ramifications of Aaron’s keen intelligence. Pansies symbolized thoughts, after all.

“You’re suggesting,” Marjorie said, “he might truly want to consummate our union, not only to get a child, but also to… keep me.”

“That would be the logical result, even if a child isn’t conceived. But, Marjorie? A child changes things. A child changes
you
, and can strengthen your marriage as well.”

Marjorie used the lash of the whip to stir the dead leaves at their feet. “Changes things how?”

“I’m not speaking from firsthand experience of marriage,” Polly said, “but consider my sister, Sara, and her husband. Beckman loves Sara, but he loves Allie as well, both of them, fiercely, and loving the child is what makes their bond not simply marital, but familial.”

And far too painful for Polly to behold with any regularity.

“A child makes a larger circle of love,” Marjorie said, the whip going still. “My father loved each of us, and even when my mother was being her most exasperating, he loved her for giving him children.”

“When two people both love the same child, they can love each other a little more too.” Polly thought not of Sara and Beckman, but of herself and Sara. She’d been not yet sixteen when she’d conceived, and as cursed with temper and moodiness as a human can be, but she and Sara had put aside their terrible differences to protect Allie.

Sitting on that cold, hard bench, Polly saw those tense, exhausted months of early motherhood not as a forced march but—for the first time—as a healing time for her and her sister.

More than anything, Sara’s silences had comforted. She’d tossed aside one recrimination after another, and instead showered Polly with kindness.

“Let me hold that baby so you can get some sleep.”

“You’re so patient with her, Polly, and she has your eyes.”

“You’re doing so well, and she’s growing like a weed.”

“She has your spirit, and that will serve her well in this life. Never doubt it.”

Tears rose, and Polly held the backs of her gloves against her eyes. How could she not have seen all the ways Sara had tried to support her as a mother?

“Miss Hunt? Polly? Have I upset you?”

“Of course not.” She was far beyond merely upset and had been for years. “You have the chance to have a child with a man you regard highly, a man who will find a way to stay at your side, Marjorie.”

Marjorie stood the whip straight up against her palm, catching it before it toppled. “He said he’d remarry me if he had to. I didn’t find that very romantic.”

“Loyalty is romantic. Try finding romance with its opposite, and you’ll agree.”

“And Aaron will be a wonderful father,” Marjorie said earnestly. “He’s already like an older brother to my younger siblings. It comes naturally to him.”

“He’s kind,” Polly said, her gaze on the tearstains of the backs of her gloves. “That’s the main thing. Kind, sensible, and honorable. Moreover, he can provide well.”

Marjorie sighted down the handle of the whip, a rare, chilly shaft of sunlight glinting on the brass fittings. “So why am I hesitating?”

Excellent question. “Because you want to be sure he cares for you as well.”

“Very sure.”

“So ask him. He might give you some blather about duty and respect, but if he’s giving you naughty kisses, Marjorie, he might give you his heart as well.”

Marjorie gently patted her lips with the handle of the whip, once, twice, in a gesture her husband would probably find provocative. “I thought men were happy to kiss nigh anybody like that. Mama says base instincts plague men far worse than they do ladies.”

“Perhaps ladies are immune from base instincts.” Though Marjorie was one of eight children, suggesting Lady Hartle’s theory was questionable. “But I’ve met
women
of every nationality and social stripe, Marjorie Wendover, and I can tell you, women are not immune.”

“Women.” Marjorie rose and swatted the dead leaves with her whip, sending several twirling into the air. “Can one be both lady and woman?”

Gabriel certainly thought so. On that cheering notion, Polly got to her feet. “If one’s husband is both gentleman and man, I think it becomes second nature. But let’s continue this discussion over a cup of tea, shall we? It’s getting nippy out, and we can’t have two people falling ill at once.”

They made their way back to the house arm in arm, footmen trailing at a discreet distance.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Marjorie said as they approached a back entrance. “Somebody betrayed you, didn’t they? Some man.”

“My lack of common sense betrayed me. It was a long time ago, and there were few lasting consequences. Do you think we’re in for some snow?”

Polly told her polite lie and changed the topic to the weather, but inside, where those lasting consequences threatened another bout of tears, she had to wonder at herself. What was wrong with her, that she could live for years as her daughter’s beloved aunt, but now, separated from Allie for the first time, she felt like a raging fraud?

***

“You’re awake!” George strode into the room, sporting the false cheer of one compelled to visit the sick.

“Barely.” Gabriel dragged himself up to a sitting position, and because he’d been enjoying one of his frequent, shamelessly lovely naps, it wasn’t hard to feign the mental fog and heavy-limbed movement of the indisposed. “Good of you to come.”

“Spot of tea?” George gestured to the service sitting on the raised hearth.

“Help yourself. Maybe half a cup for me.”

“Voluminous intake of fluids is at variance with the need for bed rest,” George observed. “I had a lung fever last winter, which allowed me to appreciate this truth.” He busied himself with the tea service and brought Gabriel’s cup to the bed. “Drink up. A little scandal broth is good for the soul.”

Gabriel took a parsimonious sip because George had added neither cream nor sugar. “I gather Aaron deserted his post in the sitting room, leaving you to take a turn with the invalid?”

“I chased him off.” George fixed himself a cup with the dispatch of a bachelor who knew his way around a tea tray. “He was in a lather to talk to the ladies about something.”

“No doubt trying to cadge another pie out of Miss Hunt, or perhaps Lady Marjorie.” Gabriel again put his lips to the delicate rim of the teacup, but as if he were truly ill, the brew tasted off. He set the cup aside, wondering how long the leaves had been left to steep.

“I think Marjorie is in better spirits for having another lady on the premises.” George flicked out his coattails and took the chair next to the bed. “Aaron might consider hiring a companion for her.”

“Miss Hunt gives Marjorie someone besides her agitating mama for moral support, and evens up the numbers a bit.” Gabriel tagged on a small, raggedy cough lest George overstay his welcome.

“What of you?” George’s smile became sly. “Any new friends of the female persuasion on the horizon?”

Gabriel held up a hand. “Wait until the title has been properly hung around my neck, and then I’ll be swarmed with bleating little debutantes.”

“Assuming the courts don’t march you up the aisle with Marjorie.” George slurped his tea enthusiastically, suggesting the flavor agreed with him well enough. “There are worse fates than ending up with Marjorie for a wife.”

Gabriel produced a semi-genuine yawn. “You’ve been breeding livestock too long. I am not going to marry Marjorie, regardless of what the courts suggest. She is my brother’s wife, and that’s an end to it.”

George peered into his teacup. “Courts don’t suggest. They order, with rather nasty consequences for those who disobey their orders.”

“If I commit a crime, I’ll be tried in the Lords. They won’t hang me for nearly getting killed in Spain, then doing what I thought proper to keep body and soul together. Aaron has forgiven me, and as far as I can see, he’s the most wronged party.”

“You don’t consider Marjorie is wronged?”

“She got the better man.” Gabriel yawned again, because George in the role of Marjorie’s knight errant was tiresome, if novel. “And she’s as besotted with him as he is with her. If you ask me, their marriage is one good thing to come of this mess.” Among several very good things, among which acquaintance with Polonaise Hunt figured prominently.

George set his cup down. “I do believe you have the right of it, at least in Marjorie’s eyes, and Lady Hartle never was one to see what was in front of her face. But I’ve tired you, so I’ll take my leave.”

“You can’t.” Gabriel let his eyelids lower. “Not until you have Aaron fetched from his skirt chasing. I’m not to be alone. Lady Marjorie has declared it a requirement of good care that I have no privacy whatsoever.”

“And we mustn’t disappoint our marchioness, right?” George left on a wink and a smile, dutifully lingering in the sitting room until not Aaron but Polly appeared in Gabriel’s bedroom.

George stuck his head in the door to deliver his parting quip. “She’s easier on the eyes than your brother, and likely to make you recover faster, because you’ll listen to her. Good day, Miss Hunt, and pleasant dreams, Gabriel.”

Gabriel slumped back on the pillows, oddly disquieted by George’s visit. When he let his gaze fall on Polly, his disquiet found a different focus.