When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (12 page)

He straightened, eyeing the fish in his hand and shoving away from the tree to stride back to his creel. Quickly stuffing the half-mangled thing back into the basket, he picked up his rod and turned southwest toward Grimsgate.

“Tannenbrook!” She caught up to him a moment later. “Wait a moment. I—I have something I wish to give you.”

He turned to find a scrap of cloth presented on her gloved palm. It had some sort of embroidery on it—purple and green. He could not quite make out what it was meant to be. “What is it?”

“A handkerchief, silly. You can carry it with you when you go fishing.” Her tiny nose crinkled adorably. “To wipe your hands. If you like.”

“Handling the fish is an expected part of angling.”

“Yes, I’m certain it is.” Boldly, she moved closer, lifted the edge of his coat away from his shirt, and tucked the square of linen inside his pocket. “There.” She patted his chest familiarly, then lowered her lashes and swallowed. “Yours now, Lord Tannenbrook.”

Good God, he could scarcely breathe. He wanted her so badly, his thighs and cock were like stone, his heart kicking and writhing with need.

“I—I should get back before I am missed,” she said. “Penelope will wonder where I have wandered to.”

He wanted to refuse her gift. He wanted to tell her she could not bloody well tempt him this way. But all he could think to do in that moment was watch his beautiful lass turn and flit away from him like a butterfly escaping his grasp.

When she disappeared over the next rise, far enough ahead that he could no longer see her or smell her sweet scent, he staggered forward several steps.

Ambivalence is your enemy,
Wallingham had said.
If you are firm in your resolve never to marry, then state it clearly—brutally, if you must. Cutting her bond to you can only be a mercy.

A mercy.

He closed his eyes, squeezing as though the landscape would change. It would not. He’d known from the age of seventeen that he would never marry. Because to marry meant children. He did not deserve children. Not after he’d killed his son.

So he must be brutal with Viola, he decided, pulling out the white square with the strange purple and green embroidery. He ran a thumb over its surface.

To set her free, he must sever their bond. It would hurt like the fires of hell. But he would do it because it was right. And James Kilbrenner always did the right thing.

*~*~*

CHAPTER NINE

“Doling advice is an art akin to swordplay. While experts dazzle and strike the heart of a matter in but a few strokes, amateurs swing wildly about, achieving little more than perforating their own trousers.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, regarding his abysmal attempts to offer romantic counsel to Lord Tannenbrook.

Upon returning to Grimsgate, Viola had spoken with Lord Wallingham about Humphrey, begging him to treat the dog with kindness. She needn’t have worried. The dear man had taken her out to the garden and shown her the proper technique for walking with Humphrey on a lead.

“You mustn’t allow him to pull at you. That is the key,” he’d explained gently. “A dog will get the wrong end of things if he believes he is in command.” Then, he’d handed Viola the lead and shown her how to walk beside Humphrey, correcting the dog’s attempts to pull ahead of her. For an hour more, she had practiced, her arms and shoulders relieved at the alternative to being dragged like a plow behind an ox.

Now, having delivered a happy Humphrey back to Lady Wallingham, Viola was free to embrace Charlotte, who had come to Grimsgate for a visit with the dowager. They were standing in the center of the cavernous drawing room, chatting and laughing over Lady Wallingham’s idiosyncrasies when Charlotte smiled down at her and asked about her stay at Grimsgate.

Reading the shadow of concern in her friend’s eyes, Viola countered, “Are you asking about my Tannenbrook Hunt?”

One red brow arched. “I am.”

She kept her tone light so as not to cause further worry. “He is most resistant. I admire his fortitude, frankly. However, I admit to a small degree of annoyance that he does not find me as irresistible as I find him.”

As expected, Charlotte chuckled and, linking arms with Viola, led them both into the grand hall. “Your harp playing did not sway him?” she teased.

“Laugh if you wish, but many gentlemen said they thought me an angel, I played so sweetly.”

“I have heard you play, Viola. With the greatest affection, I must tell you, they lied.”

After days of tiresome fawning from a dozen gentlemen—not to mention contradictory responses from the one man whose good opinion mattered—Viola felt a kind of release in Charlotte’s fond humor. She laughed helplessly, playfully swatting Charlotte’s elbow. It felt good to be teased about one of her more obvious shortcomings. “I know that, silly. Though, I do admire your honesty. It is one of the things I love best.”

They were facing the south entrance, so they did not see him enter through the arches. Instead, they heard him first. His deep, rumbling voice sent tremors running through her spine—and he wasn’t even speaking to her. “Lady Rutherford.”

Charlotte turned abruptly, yanking Viola’s arm and spinning her about like Humphrey taking after a squirrel. She apologized to Viola and greeted James.

He entered like a great, towering storm.

Viola said nothing. She was too busy trying to breathe. After one glimpse of him, her head lifted off her shoulders.
My, he is wondrous. A giant, rumbling mountain dressed in brown wool and white linen.
She wanted to kiss him again. Even though he was charging toward her with both speed and purpose, as though intent on throttling her.

But he could not be angry, she reasoned. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Had she?

Her heart slammed repeatedly against bone at his thunderous expression, his intimidating posture. Her fingers brushed her throat. “Tannenbrook, I …”

“I believe this is yours,” he snapped, extending a hand toward her.

Her eyes dropped curiously. It was the handkerchief.

He held it between his forefinger and middle finger as though touching the cloth were distasteful.

She had spent hours just thinking about the design, never mind the endless toil of stitching and re-stitching and embroidering and cutting away the dreadful mistakes only to labor over the loops again and again. Perhaps it was not
good
work, precisely, but she had thought of him every second, imagined the linen touching his skin. Imagined his thumb stroking the ugly, overripe trout.

A lump formed in her throat. She willed the tears not to form. Blinked so that they would stay away. “I—I made it for you,” she managed.

“How many times must I say it, Miss Darling?” His jaw was a grim, cold cliff, his eyes a dark forest of fury and resolve. “I do not want your favors. Nor your gifts. Nor your hand in marriage.” Every word gored her like a blade. With a contemptuous flick, he tossed the white square upon the floor. It fluttered onto the toes of her slippers, brushed by her dew-dampened hem. “Nor you. Cease this nonsense. Now.”

He barked those final words, rough and harsh.

And then, he was gone. Like a storm that had come on shore to ravage and tear asunder, he disappeared without a care for the damage. Only the echo of his boots thudding on polished stone gave evidence that he’d been there.

Oh, and her heart, of course. Shattered inside her chest. That was evidence, she supposed, though no one could see.

Her eyes fell to the ugly handkerchief. Slowly, she bent to retrieve it.

Her heart tried to beat, but it couldn’t. Her lungs tried to breathe, but they couldn’t. Her gasp was as ugly as her embroidery. Her fingers tried to stifle it, but it escaped.

Long, slim arms came around her shoulders. Squeezed. Charlotte. She was still there.

Viola let herself slump against her friend.

“Oh, Viola. Do not cry.”

She hadn’t realized she was. Then she felt it. Warm streams upon her cheeks. She heard it. Gasping animal sounds.

Charlotte’s cool hand stroked her cheek and her hair. Her tall form rocked them gently back and forth.

Embarrassed that she was standing in Lady Wallingham’s grand hall being comforted like an infant, Viola sniffed and swiped at her cheek with her fingers. “I—I must go and wash my face. I am certain I look dreadful.”

“Tell me what you made for him, Viola.”

She supposed it would do no harm to explain. “He enjoys fishing. So I made him a handkerchief with a trout embroidered on the corner.”

“A trout? Is that the—er, purple bit?”

“I ran out of silver thread.”

“And the green stem is a … tail?”

“I also ran out of purple.”

Charlotte sighed and gave her a squeeze. “Perhaps it is time to consider suspending the Tannenbrook Hunt.”

Every ounce of her body and soul filled with lead at the mere thought of giving up.

“Only for a short while, Vi. Just to give you both time to consider … everything.”

She shook her head. Charlotte did not understand. There
was
no more time. If Tannenbook refused to marry her before the end of the house party, Viola would have to choose someone else. Someone fawning and dreadful, who treated her like a mindless doll or, worse, like an oversized set of stag antlers. A prize to be displayed at some country house to symbolize his hunting prowess and virility.

And yet, the only man she wanted had just declared in the most brutal of terms that he wanted nothing at all to do with her.

So, rather than arguing with Charlotte’s gentle suggestion, she chokingly thanked her for her kind friendship and fled the grand hall for the grand staircase. She rushed down an empty corridor lined with portraits of men who all had Lord Wallingham’s long chin. And, at last, she burst through the door of her chamber. Fortunately, Grimsgate had so many bedchambers that every guest was afforded one of his or her own. She did not think she could bear explaining her distress to Penelope, whose happiness over Lord Mochrie’s proposal had abraded Viola’s nerves like sharp pebbles lodged in her slippers.

Glancing down, she realized she still clutched the ugly handkerchief in her fist. She threw the scrap of cloth with a sudden, furious grunt. It did not travel far, unfolding midflight and drifting to the dark-blue carpet like a butterfly in a downdraft.

He does not want me.

Her hands covered her mouth.

He does not want me.

Her arms moved down to clutch her chest, where the pain throbbed worst.

He does not want me.

She stumbled to the bed and crumbled onto its edge.

Then, she wept like a ninny for far too long, succeeding only in turning her eyes hot and swollen, her nose red and clogged, and her throat sore. Eventually, she tired of her own misery. So she pushed herself upright beneath the dark-blue canopy. Stood and stalked to where the handkerchief had fallen. Used it to wipe her eyes and, just for spite, her nose. Then, she rang for a maid to bring her some cool water.

After an hour or so, her face returned to normal, though her heart remained torn. She sat at the dressing table and worked on repairing her hair, which had gone oddly lopsided.

A light knock sounded. Thinking it was the maid returning, Viola bade her enter. Except that it was not the maid. It was Mrs. Cumberland. Wearing gray and white. Appearing red-faced and tight-lipped, as usual.

Viola had nothing left inside with which to fake a smile. “Now is not the best time, Mrs. Cumberland.”

“Your father …” The square-set woman shifted oddly from one foot to the next. “Your father asked that I come and speak with you.”

“Regarding?” Viola stabbed a pin at one of her more unruly curls.

Mrs. Cumberland came further into the room, halting a few feet away. “He wishes for you to understand a bit more about …”

She waited, lacing the curl back into the coil where it belonged and adding another pin. “Yes?”

“Marriage.”

Viola’s arms fell into her lap. “I know you and Papa wish to marry. He needn’t have sent you to tell me that.”

She cleared her throat. “You misunderstand. He wishes for me to speak to you regarding the … relations … between a husband and wife.” The woman turned redder. “So that you will be prepared for the eventuality should you accept a gentleman’s offer. Also, he wishes you to be on your guard should you be … importuned whilst we are here.”

“Oh! Oh, good heavens.”

Square shoulders slumped in apparent relief. “You understand. Good.”

Viola turned on her seat to face her future stepmother. “Really, this is most unnecessary, Mrs. Cumberland.”

The woman searched about for a chair and, finding none, elected to seat herself on a chaise at the foot of the bed. “Soon, I shall marry your father.”

Acid churned in Viola’s stomach. “I know that.”

“I love him. Very much.”

“As do I.”

Dark eyes that had always appeared inscrutable to Viola softened and sheened unexpectedly. “He is kindness itself. I have never known a better man. Not even Mr. Cumberland, God rest his soul.” The woman blinked until the sheen disappeared. “He loves you more than his own life.”

Viola felt the blasted thickening in her throat. But she refused to descend into maudlin weeping again. It was simply wretched and solved nothing. “I know that, too.”

“Do you?” Now, those dark eyes were probing. “He has delayed his own happiness—”

“To guard against thrusting two women into opposition within the same household. I know.” She raised her chin. “You may regard me as spoiled and selfish, Mrs. Cumberland, and you would not be far wrong. Although we have never been a family of means, I have been spoiled by Papa’s love.” Blasted tears stung her eyes again. She swallowed them down. “Is it selfish to want my husband to love me with equal devotion? Perhaps. For whatever postponement of your happiness I have caused, I do apologize. But you should know I have tried mightily to rectify the situation. Mightily.”

Having sat with her hands folded in her lap, listening to Viola’s speech, Mrs. Cumberland’s inscrutable expression abruptly lifted in an oddly affectionate smile. “I know,” she said. “I have seen you with Lord Tannenbrook. So has your father. That is why I am here.”

Viola’s mouth opened to speak, but nothing emerged. She did not know how to respond. Mrs. Cumberland had always appeared rather remote and difficult to read. It was not that Viola disliked her, precisely. She simply did not understand her.

“I am not your mother.”

Well, no. Viola’s mother had died three days after giving birth to her. For twenty years, it had only been her and Papa.

“It has never been my intention to replace her.”

Viola shook her head. “Of course not. I don’t—”

Mrs. Cumberland raised a hand to halt her protest. “Please. Let me … allow me to finish. My greatest regret is that I was unable to have children. It has left an emptiness in my life that is difficult to explain. I was blessed, however, to have been loved by two extraordinary men.” She cleared her throat again and folded her hands in her lap. “Now, this may cause you some discomfort, but as your mother is no longer here to provide instruction, I feel it only right that I should share what knowledge and wisdom I possess which may benefit you in your … pursuits.”

“Really, Mrs. Cumberland. This is most unnecessary.”

“Please. I would prefer you call me Georgina. As we shall be discussing matters of an intimate nature, perhaps it will make you more comfortable.”