The Husband List -2

(as compiled by Lords Weston and Cummings with notations by Lady Gillian Marley)
 

Viscount Reynolds
a gambler unrepentant and worse, unsuccessful
The Marquess of Dunstable
pleasant enough but with nine children more in need of a governess than a wife
Lord Tynedale
remarkably well spoken for a man with few teeth
Baron Raitt
charming gentleman, although advanced age has left its mark
Lord Clevis
excellent dancer in spite of vast proportions that shake the foundations of any house with his first steps upon the floor
Lord Runley
elegant in appearance but with the intelligence of a small mutton chop
Lord Harkin
short, bald and altogether unaware of his distinct resemblance to a hairless rabbit
The Earl of Shelbrooke
entirely too handsome but apparently quite reformed

Spring
1818…
 

Where on earth was the blasted man? Lady Gillian Marley resisted the urge to stalk to her front door, throw it open, and scour the streets of London for him herself.

What if he wasn’t coming at all?

The thought tightened the muscles in her shoulders, but she refused to let her well-practiced smile so much as twitch. Instead, she surveyed the room with the air of serene confidence worn only by a hostess who has accomplished the difficult task of melding a diverse group of people into a cohesive gathering.

There were perhaps twenty in attendance at her salon tonight. In one corner, several members of Parliament argued amicably about some obscure issue. Another grouping dissected the latest work of a rising poet, while the merits of a new exhibit of paintings held the attention of yet another cluster of guests.

Gillian’s skill as a hostess in such a setting was unrivaled, her reputation for gatherings of this nature unequaled. The picture she presented to the world was, as always, cool and controlled and competent.

Not a single guest here would suspect every nerve in her body was stretched as taut as a piano wire. Not even the most astute observer would imagine the upheaval in her stomach. And absolutely no one would ever dream it took every ounce of self-discipline she possessed not to scream aloud in sheer frustration.

Where was Shelbrooke?

Gillian glanced at the doorway once again, just as she had every few minutes since her guests had begun arriving. He should have been here half an hour ago. Oh, certainly it was not unusual for attendees to arrive late. But tonight the only guest whose presence she wished for, the only guest who mattered, was the only guest who had not yet seen fit to cross her threshold.

Surely, he had not changed his mind? He’d responded to her invitation with a terse note of acceptance, and it would be unforgivable of him to renege now. How could the man be so impolite? Had he no sense of proper behavior? She was not about to align herself with anyone as rude as to accept an invitation then fail to appear without so much as a message of apology. It would certainly serve him right.

Still, her rejection would not have the desired effect on Shelbrooke, since the man had no idea of her intentions.

Gillian forced the subject, and the accompanying flurry of nerves, to the back of her mind and turned her attention to her guests. She dutifully meandered from group to group, offering an observation here, a comment there. Any other evening, she would have taken part enthusiastically in one discussion or another, but tonight she simply couldn’t concentrate. She paused at a small knot of guests gathered before a new painting her brother Thomas had sent her and listened halfheartedly.

“... surely, Sir Edmond, you’re not suggesting , art has no merit unless it includes figures?”

Sir Edmond, a collector noted for his extravagance but not necessarily his taste, adopted a smug expression. “Come now, Mr. Addison, without depictions of the human form, this is nothing more than a pretty picture. There is a reason why great art typically portrays some significant moment in history.”

“And is there something wrong simply with a pretty picture?” A wry voice sounded behind her, and she turned sharply.

Richard Shelton, the Earl of Shelbrooke, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the painting with an air of thoughtful consideration. Her heart skipped a beat.

So this was the man who’d filled her thoughts in recent days. She hadn’t stood this close to him in years. He was a good six inches taller than she, his dark brows pulled together in concentration. His hair was a deep, rich walnut, with an unruly curl and just a shade too long, as if he’d forgotten to keep it trimmed or simply didn’t care. Wasn’t he able to afford a valet?

Sir Edmond’s eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t believe this unknown newcomer’s temerity to question his opinion. “Without an aspect of humanity, a painting has no emotion. No soul as it were.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Addison, a critic of some note, snorted in disdain. “How can you look at a scene like this and say it has no soul? Why, you can almost smell the fresh scent of the grasses and feel the winds blowing the clouds across that sky.”

“One could say the painting expresses not the soul of man but the soul of God,” Lord Shelbrooke said mildly.

“The soul of God.” Sir Edmond’s face reddened with outrage. “What blasphem—”

“What perception ...” Mr. Addison laughed. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I have just now arrived.” He turned to her and took her hand. “Please forgive me, Lady Gillian, I was unavoidably detained.” He raised her hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers.

His eyes, too, were brown, deep and endless and intense, and for the briefest moment she wondered if he could see her soul in her eyes as he’d seen the soul in the painting. The touch of his lips on her hand was unexpectedly warm and intimate even here in the midst of the crowded room, and an odd shiver ran up her spine. She resisted the desire to jerk her hand away and forced a cool note to her voice. "Were you late, my lord? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Then I shall save my apology for a more noticeable offense.” He released her hand and straightened. A twinkle lurked in his eyes, but he did not smile.

She raised a brow. “And do you plan on more noticeable offenses?”

“I plan little beyond the moment, my lady.” He nodded and turned to introduce himself to Mr. Addison and the others.

At once, the debate over the value of the work before them resumed, and she was left with an annoying sense of dismissal. Why, she had been right in the first place: the man was definitely rude. Although, she had to admit, his immediate immersion in the discussion saved her from conversing with him alone. And at the moment, she had no idea what to say and not the faintest notion where to begin.

She murmured an appropriate comment and withdrew, preferring to observe him from a safe distance. The mere touch of his hand had had a startling effect on her. It was absurd, of course. They shared no more than a passing acquaintance and even that was nothing more than a vaguely remembered dance during her first and only season years ago. Surely, she could attribute her reaction to her own state of nerves brought on by her plans.

What would he think of her proposal and all that went with it? Her stomach churned at the thought. For the next hour or so she watched him join in one discussion then another. He was as intelligent as she’d been led to believe. His comments were well spoken and to the point. Shelbrooke acquitted . himself in a knowledgeable manner whether the conversation
centered
on
literature or politics or art She couldn’t help but be impressed. Still, even
when his contribution was amusing and those around him laughed, he was restrained. She had the strangest impression he was more concerned with observing the reactions of others than permitting his own emotions to be noted.

“I must say. Lady Gillian.” Lady Forester joined her beside a table laid with refreshments. “What an intriguing man Lord Shelbrooke is.”

“Do you think so?” Gillian murmured and sipped at her third fortifying glass of wine.

“I do indeed. He is so wonderfully mysterious.”

“Mysterious?”

“Why, yes.” Lady Forester fluttered her fan. “While he is not reticent to express an opinion, nothing he says reveals anything whatsoever of himself.”

Gillian studied his tall figure. “What is there to reveal? There are few true secrets in London. The circumstances of his life are common knowledge. His father squandered the family fortune and Shelbrooke has spent the years since his death trying to restore what was lost.”

“I suppose it could be the sorry state of his financial affairs that explains his reserve. Still, men as attractive as the earl do not usually go out of their way to avoid attention. Why, the man never even smiles. I have often noticed him at social occasions, but he seems to linger on the fringes of any gathering, never quite joining in, as if he was there only to observe and not participate.” Lady Forester slanted
her a
curious
look. “However, I’ve
never seen
him at one of your salons before. Why did you
invite him?”

Gillian raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I simply like a varied group of guests, and someone suggested he might be an interesting addition.”

“Well, I do always meet the most fascinating gentlemen here.” Lady Forester’s gaze lingered on the earl. “Shelbrooke used to be quite a rogue, if I remember correctly, before the death of his father. Now,
there
was a true scoundrel.” A speculative smile played on her lips. “What a shame his son is not in need of a patron. You don’t suppose he has any artistic or literary tendencies that need nurturing, do you?”

Gillian laughed. “I think not.”

“Pity.” Lady Forester sighed. Only a year or so older than Gillian, Lady Forester fancied herself a great patroness of the arts and had contributed substantially to the careers of several struggling artists and writers. In return, they had contributed to her more amorous, although according to gossip, no less creative, pursuits. Gillian was at once grateful Shelbrooke was in no need of her type of patronage.

Shelbrooke’s gaze caught hers from across the room and he lifted his glass slightly in acknowledgment, as if he knew the direction her thoughts had taken. A hot flush swept up her face and she nodded politely, pointedly turning her gaze away.

Lady Forester considered Gillian carefully. “You’ve been a widow far too long, my dear. It’s been my experience that men who are reluctant to talk about themselves do so because they have something to hide. Secrets, if you will. Oh, it’s usually nothing of significance to anyone other than the man himself. Still, secrets are always dangerous, and always,” she smiled wickedly, “more than a little exciting.”

“We all have our secrets, Lady Forester. I doubt his are any more dangerous, or exciting, than... mine.”

Gillian smiled and excused herself, then quickly crossed the room and stepped into the foyer. She headed down the hallway leading to the servants’ stairs and a pair of matching doors. The right served as a delivery entrance. She pulled open the left and stepped outside onto a tiny terrace surrounded by a small but well-tended garden, the entire area kept private by a tall brick wall.

The evening air washed over her and she rested her back against the doorjamb, closing her eyes and lifting her chin to the cool, refreshing breeze. For a long moment she stood and enjoyed the delightful sensation, trying her best to ignore the reasons behind her heated cheeks.

Botheration, she hadn’t blushed in years. Obviously, it was the circumstances and not the man that brought this rush of fire to her face. Still, there was something in the way he had looked at her.... She wasn’t entirely certain if it was thrilling or terrifying. Or both.

“It is exceedingly warm inside.”

Her breath caught, and she snapped her eyes open.

Shelbrooke’s arms were folded over his chest, and he lounged against the opposite side of the doorframe. “I too felt the need for a momentary respite.”

“Did you?” she said curtly.

He raised a brow. “If you’d prefer to be alone—”

“No.” Her voice softened. “Not at all. Do forgive me. That was insufferably rude. I’m not usually this sharp with my guests. Particularly guests who are new to my home.” She smiled and willed her heart to slow to a normal rhythm. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?”

“The evening is as entertaining as I had been led to believe. Your reputation for salons of this sort is well deserved.”

“Thank you.” She waved in an offhand manner. “I simply prefer evenings where the discussion is of a more stimulating nature than the usual gossip found at typical social gatherings.”

“Why?”

“As I said, I prefer...” She hesitated. It was not too soon to be honest with him, and honesty was as important to the success of a relationship as respect. Gillian drew a deep breath. “I see a great deal of waste in the society we live in. Lives wasted by war and indolence. Minds wasted by far too much concern paid to the cut of one’s coat as opposed to the state of one’s world.”

“Really? Yet it seems to me I rarely attend a ball or soiree where you are not present.”

“You are observant.” She laughed. “But there I am no more than another guest. I see nothing wrong with frivolous entertainments, I simply do not wish to devote my life to them. Instead I fill these evenings with artists and critics, writers and scholars, poets and politicians. Men who think of matters beyond the complexity of a well-tied cravat.”

“And what of your female guests?” Was that a note of amusement in his voice?

“I find women no less intelligent than men and just as capable of perceptive observations when free to express them.” She drew her brows together. “Do you disagree?”

“Not at all. Intelligent women willing to speak their minds have long been the bane of my existence,” he said dryly.

Was he talking about his sisters? He had four, if her information was correct. Or was there another woman in his life?

Silence stretched between them, and she couldn’t think of anything to say that did not sound inane or insipid. She had no wish to sound foolish in front of him. There was far too much at stake.