My Naughty Minette (22 page)

August laughed, a short, sharp burst of laughter. Even as his father had taunted and battered him, and declared him an unfit son, August had begun managing the Barrymore estate to protect his mother and sisters’ interests. His father could not do it. The man’s rages were born of self-loathing and personal failure. By the time August left for school, his father was showing symptoms of the disease that would eventually kill him. The marquess had lost his life years ago to excessive drink and cheap whores.

“It was nice when I got big enough to defend myself, and them,” he said. “And of course I had music to get me through the darkest days.” He began to play another piece, a sorrowful melody he turned to whenever the hours were bleakest. “I remember the first time I hit my father back. Such a discovery, and such rage.”

“Your rage?” asked Minette.

“No. His. He couldn’t bear to be bested.” He stopped playing, abruptly, in the middle of a sequence. “I’m so glad he’s finally dead.”

He hadn’t realized moisture was leaking from his eyes until Minette dabbed at his cheeks with the handkerchief. Tears! This ignominious development both angered and befuddled him. He hadn’t cried the entire time his father was alive, and now that the devil was in hell where he ought to be, he was sniveling like a child.

He forced the tears back, sniffed up snot and feelings and let out a sigh. “So you see, that’s why music has always been an escape for me. And an obsession. It’s also the reason I’m reluctant to share it with the world. There’s a lot of pain and torment within those pages, more than anyone ought to know.”

Minette put her arm through his and gazed up at him indignantly. “Why can’t anyone know? They
should
know what you suffered. Why didn’t you ever tell anyone what was happening within your family? They might have helped you. Does Warren know this? Arlington? Townsend?”

“It’s not something you talk about. And they were boys, like me. What do you think they could have done? Warren had his hands full with you, and Townsend with his parents. Arlington was being groomed for his dukedom.”

“You ought to have talked about it,” she persisted. “Someone ought to have helped you. Your mother’s family or friends, or the neighbors, or even the servants. Why, if I had known, I would have come over here and rung such a peal over your father’s head. I would have railed at him until he stopped hurting you. And if he didn’t stop, I would have gotten Warren’s pistols and—”

August placed a finger atop his wife’s lips. “This was the same man you insisted on making comfortable at the end of his life. The same man to whom you read novels and poetry in the garden for hours at a time.”

She pushed his hand away. “Well, I didn’t know then he was the devil. He was suffering so terribly.”

“He suffered his whole life.” August had realized this long ago, even if it didn’t help him. His father had inhabited a miserable, dark existence, which he had taken out on those closest to him. “He was a devil, yes, but also a very tortured man.”

“I wish he would not have hurt you.” Minette’s hand tightened on his arm and her lower lip trembled. “I wish I could have stopped him from hurting you.”

August stared back at her, at her cheeks flushed with anger and outrage. She would have gotten Warren’s pistols. He didn’t doubt for a moment she would have. He wanted to say,
I adore you, and your words mean so much to me. I love you more than anyone else in the world.
But he didn’t say that because he was afraid, and jammed up with a thousand emotions that had nowhere to go.

“The thing about my music,” he said instead, “is that too many memories live inside it. That’s why I got angry when you showed it to my friends. I shouldn’t have punished you for taking that piece to Warren’s. I regret that I behaved so unreasonably when I should have accepted your compliments with grace.” He clenched her handkerchief between his fingers. “Will you forgive me?”

“Of course. I will always forgive you. I suppose you were very wrought up about a lot of things.”

He didn’t want her to excuse his behavior. There was no excuse. He had behaved exactly like his father this night, yelling at her and hurting her because of his own fearful weaknesses. Minette was always using those lavishly committed words...
always, everything, forever.
She loved him. She always had and she always would. By comparison, he was brittle and fragile and incapable of love. He feared he might break into a thousand pieces if she stroked his forearm again.

“You ought to go to bed,” he said, turning from her to play another morose composition. “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.”

She put her hands over his and stilled them on the keys. “Please, don’t play anymore.” She swallowed hard as she gazed up at him. “Come to bed.”

She meant,
Come to bed and let me help you forget.
He could see it in her posture, in that slight tension. He let himself imagine it for a moment...losing himself, forgetting, releasing his angst and frustration all over her welcoming body.
No.
He dared not go to bed with her, not tonight. “My dear, I wish you would retire and get some rest. I won’t be good company.”

The light went out of her expression, so she seemed a disappointed angel sitting beside him on his bench. She could not understand his conflict, that he needed her to stay innocent and pure, because she was the only innocent, pure thing that had ever existed in his life.

“But...will you be all right?” she asked. “You will not be too sad? Oh, of course you will be sad. You’ve just lost your father, although he was a terrible man, from what you’ve told me. Even so, you must have all manner of feelings to sort out. And that’s perfectly all right, you know. Mrs. Everly said she cried for weeks when she lost her first husband, even though she never liked him very much, although in her case I suppose it was more a matter of social incompatibility than any real emotional—”

“Minette.” He took her hand to silence her chatter. “I’ll try to come to bed in a while,” he lied in a gentle voice. He could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe him.

“Will you kiss me when you come?” she asked. “So I’ll know you’re there, and that you’re all right?”

“Of course,” he lied again. “Of course I will, my love.”

*** *** ***

Christmas had come and gone, but the decorations were still up, shrouded in black mourning cloth. For days, the house had been full of visitors. His sisters, with sobbing red eyes and screaming children, and their husbands and their families, and his mother’s family and his father’s relatives down to aunts and uncles and cousins far removed. Townsend had returned to town for the funeral, although Aurelia was too close to her confinement to accompany him. Warren and Josephine had come, and Arlington, and Minette’s Aunt Overbrook, who had never spread gossip after all. His mother’s friends came, doddering dowagers who shook their heads and clucked about how sorry they were. Sometimes it seemed a thousand people milled about Barrymore’s dark halls and parlors as his father lay in state.

August did not know how they had managed to show hospitality to everyone, except that Minette awoke the morning after his father’s death and calmly took everything in hand. She had been their saving grace, directing the servants and playing hostess while August flailed in a fog of numb emotion and his mother lay prostrate with grief.

Dear, sweet Minette. Where would they have been without her? She had told charming, heartfelt stories of her limited acquaintance with the marquess, until the ladies were in tears and the gentlemen all clearing their throats. She had put a publicly acceptable shine to the miserable character of his father, and brought brightness and order to the exhausting rituals of mourning. August was not offended by this fiction. He was grateful. As the next Lord Barrymore, he had an interest in maintaining the honor of the name. His mother and sisters, in fact, everyone who had criticized Minette after he jilted Priscilla, remarked how magnificent she was.

In one whirlwind week, Minette had won the
ton
’s regard, smoothed social snarls, and saved his father’s legacy. This afternoon, when the last of the guests finally left, he noticed she looked thin and tired, and had dark circles under her eyes.

August was in love with her. He had been in love with her before this past week and all its challenges, but he was more in love with her now. It wasn’t the careless, casual love he’d felt for her in years past. It was a new kind of love, fearsome, consuming, deep enough to drown him. This love suffocated him, pulling him under waves of confusion and self-doubt.

Now Warren sat across from him in the library, one leg crossed over the other, a befuddled frown on his face. “You want me to take Minette to Oxfordshire? Why?”

“It’s her choice, of course,” August replied carefully. “But I thought she might wish to be with Josephine during her lying-in. They’ve always been such close friends. You should present her with the option.”

Warren snorted. “
You
should present her with the option. She’s your wife. And as I recall, last time you stowed her in the country, she made her way back to you within the week.”

“It’s not that I don’t want her here.” At Warren’s daunting look, August stood and began to pace. “It’s only that things are in such disarray.”

“There is no one better at dealing with disarray than my sister. She kept your household running all week.”

“Yes,” August said, turning back to him. “She’s tired herself out. She’ll always tire herself out, as long as there is work to be done, and endless visitors. There are so many tasks yet to be accomplished.”

“Such as shunting your wife off to the country.”

August sighed and moved to the window. Minette had mended some relationships this past week, but the rancor between him and Warren festered as painfully as ever. “It’s not as if I’m trying to get rid of her,” he said. “I love her very much.”

“Is that so? Have you slept with her yet?”

“I won’t discuss that with you.”

“That means no,” said Warren in a disgusted tone. “She must be going out of her mind, you heartless bastard. There will have to be children, you realize. Minette has always dreamed of children.”

“Three months,” August said, wondering when the fight had gone out of him. “Three months is all I ask.”

Warren took a deep drink of brandy and put his glass down with a bang. “You’re a liar. You don’t love my sister.”

August turned to fix him with a look. “Take care what you say to me, Wild.”

Warren pursed his lips at the childhood name. “Help me understand then. You’ve always cared for her. I know you’ve a heart under all that bluster and scowling. If you loved her, you would try to make it work. You wouldn’t send her away for a second time.”

“Barrymore’s dead and the house is in mourning. Why must she be here?” He hid his guilt and anxiety in mounting irritation. “She’ll enjoy better looking after Josephine. She likes to be helpful.”

“And who helps Minette?” Warren snapped. “She’s not the same since she married you.”

“Nor am I the same,” August shot back. “Forgive me for my blundering failure. I wasn’t ready to be married, not now, not to her. Forgive me if I haven’t transformed into the perfect husband, like you. Like Townsend.”

“You can send her off a thousand times, and she’ll come back.”

“If Josephine asks her to go to Oxfordshire, Minette will go. Three months,” August repeated again. “You’ve been my friend for years, Warren. Help me. Take her with you until I’m better prepared to be her husband.” He turned away from the man’s grim scowl. “I ought to have spoken to Josephine instead. She would have been more sympathetic to my plight.”

“I don’t want you talking to my wife.”

August turned back in shock. Warren looked surprised too, that he had said such words. But he had said them. This then, was the end of a twenty-year friendship. This judgment and hostility. This open scorn.

“Damn you, then,” August said coolly. “Leave your sister here, or take her. Damned if I care.”

A knock sounded at the door and Minette swept in, a smiling dove in the midst of two dueling hawks. “I wondered where you both were. Why, how dark it is in here, and both of you swilling spirits. The ladies would like your company, you know.” She went to her brother and took his hand. “I know you’ll be leaving soon, and I don’t want to lose a moment of our time together. I’ll miss you and Josephine when you go.”

She came to August next and pressed her cheek to his. She was like the cozy, comforting warmth of the winter’s fire.

“How pretty you look,” he told her. She smelled like flowers. Like pretty lace kept in a scented drawer. “It’s true that we’re being unmannerly, darling. We ought to join you and Josephine. Has Mother retired?”

As Minette answered in the affirmative, Warren roused himself from his chair, draining the last of his brandy. “Yes, we ought to make the most of our last days,” he said in a taut voice. “We’ll be leaving by week’s end.”

“So soon?” asked Minette in dismay.

“Perhaps you’ll agree to come with us, if you are not needed here. I’m sure Josephine would like your company as she begins her confinement. You know she’s always been a restless sort, and you amuse her to no end.”

“Come with you?” Minette slid August a look. He could see the conflict in that small glance. She was so giving—she would wish to help her sister-in-law. But she didn’t want to leave him.

You should. You must. I need time...

Always more time.

What a coward he was. He forced a smile and pitched his voice to a light, casual tone. “Of course you must go with Josephine if she needs you. We’ll manage here. The worst is over, and winter in London is so bleak.”

“But I can’t leave you. You’ll be here alone.”

“There’s my mother to settle. And Arlington will be in town, he says. I’ll miss you terribly, of course, but this is Josephine’s first baby. If Warren agrees it would be all right, I think you ought to go.”

Minette twitched restlessly at the front of her gown before looking up again. Were her eyes misted with tears? “What about my piano lessons?” she asked. “Without your help, I’ll get terribly rough with my fingering. I may forget everything I’ve learned.”