When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (20 page)

“My lord?” It was Gates, waiting for his answer.

He could not fail Viola. He could not break his vow to his son. “Continue with the inquiries, Mr. Gates.”

After a brief silence, Gates nodded as though James had said something wise that Gates hadn’t considered. “Quite sensible, my lord. One certainly never knows what fortune may bring. I have a brother who has an entire houseful of girls.” The solicitor chuckled. “Eight of them in all. After the seventh, I believe he gave up hope for a son.”

Girls. A ribbon of sensation ran down his spine. He blinked, helpless to prevent the vision that danced through his mind. Daughters. His heart squeezed painfully. Wee little lassies with black hair and eyes full of stars, lighting up every dark corner of his soul without even trying. Just like their mother.

He fought against them, but he could hear their laughter, little tinkling fountains of delight. Saw them spinning and shining and squealing as he scooped them up in his arms. They took hold of him so tightly, he couldn’t breathe.

Then, he imagined that light disappearing. Those tiny bodies lying limp and still and gray. He imagined Viola broken by their loss. He could not bear it. Even now, after the wound she had suffered upon seeing him with Alison, his chest ached constantly at her silence, her avoidance of his touch and his gaze.

Gates was nattering on now about some other matter. James didn’t know what.

His entire being was focused upon Viola. He must repair the damage he’d done. He must persuade her to take him back into her bed, back into her body. And he would. Because that was his purpose—to ensure Viola’s happiness. Perhaps he could not give her children, but he could restore the light inside her that held him in thrall. He must do so as soon as possible. Right now, in fact.

“… so, if Lady Wallingham sent the letter three or four days ago, then by my calculations, we should receive a reply no later than—”

James shot from his chair and rounded the desk.

“Er, my lord? I take it our meeting is concluded?”

“Aye,” he replied over his shoulder. “I must speak to my wife.”

He yanked the door open and charged into the corridor. He took the west stairs, which were narrow but quicker, and hurtled himself toward Viola’s bedchamber, bursting through the paneled oak door with thrumming urgency.

A loud, feminine yelp greeted him. “Oh! It’s you, m’lord. Gave me a fright like to stop my old, weak heart, you did.” The aged housekeeper, Mrs. Duckett, stooped to retrieve the linens she’d dropped when he entered.

He hurried forward to gather them up and presented her with the stack before she’d touched even one. “Where is Lady Tannenbrook, Mrs. Duckett?”

The old woman’s thin, wrinkled lips pursed, her eyes squinting as though she were trying to see a boat far offshore. “In the village, I believe. Yes, I do remember Amy saying something about taking her to the Starling Sisters shop. She wanted floss. And scones. That last bit may have been Amy, truth be known, m’lord. Girl has a fondness for scones.”

“When do they plan to return?”

“Of that I cannot be certain.” Again, the squint. “They were unpacking her ladyship’s belongings only a short time ago.”

He bit down on his disappointment. He wanted to see her. Speak to her. He’d been flooded with the need, and now he must wait. Bloody intolerable.

Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he glanced around the bedchamber. It was a plain room. A solid oak bedstead with a simple green coverlet. Two chairs near the stone fireplace, both covered with the same green twill. Everything about the room, from the oak paneled walls to the faded carpets covering the plank floor, was wholly wrong for Viola. Too dark and weighty and dull.

Frowning, he wandered through the adjoining door to her similarly furnished dressing room. Her trunks lined one wall, some having already been emptied, some left open and pluming with gowns in every conceivable shade of blue and purple and pink and silver and white. These were the colors Viola should have, he decided. Not green. Not brown.

Upon the dressing table—a straight, sturdy oak piece better suited to a monk’s cell—were arranged a polished silver-handled brush and several ivory combs. There was also a small, hinged box painted with enamel to resemble stained glass. He drifted closer, first running his fingers over her brush, rubbing the long black strands of her hair caught in its bristles. Next, he lifted one of the ivory combs. It had an inlaid design along one side, the swirls so fine, he almost missed them. Viola wouldn’t have, though. She would have appreciated the craftsmanship, savored the secret intricacy of it. Finally, he came to the box. With a single finger, he lifted the lid.

And saw his own blindness staring back at him. It was white. Poorly stitched. It had an oddly shaped, purple-and-green fish on one corner.

One day when Humphrey had dragged her about the countryside, and summer had shone upon her flushed cheeks, she had given this to him, tucked it inside his coat pocket, alongside his heart. He now realized that was precisely where it had belonged.

Because this was Viola’s heart. And he had tossed it at her feet like so much rubbish.

He must find her. He must beg her forgiveness. He must make her understand how much he wanted her for his wife. Above all, he must do it now, because he could not bear another agonizing moment without her.

*~*~*

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Your tale is preposterous. Any man who exhibits such appalling judgment once, let alone repeatedly, would surely have perished prior to reaching his majority.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford in response to said lady’s questionable assertion that Lord Gattingford’s waistcoats were lauded by both Beau Brummell and Lord Alvanley on four separate occasions.

He found her laughing with the youngest Starling sister, who was eighty if she was a day, outside the Starling shop. Her maid was wiping away crumbs from a recently consumed scone, and Viola’s eyes were dancing as she listened to the ancient woman explain why she’d never married. James had heard the story before. It involved a pirate, two sailors, and a thwarted attempt to gain passage to Jamaica.
Everyone
in the village had heard Miss Tabitha Starling tell the tale dozens of times, adding a new embellishment with every iteration.

That was why it was so bloody perplexing to find a group of young men gathered around his wife, all laughing along as though they’d never heard a word of it.

Stopping a few feet away from the circle of male admirers, James crossed his arms and glared. Viola had changed her gown, he noted. She now wore white, embroidered muslin topped with a dark-blue spencer and her favorite bonnet. The light breeze caused her skirts to plaster against her legs and backside, outlining her curves in loving detail.

Viola laughed again at the outrageous explanation for why Miss Starling’s first love was thrown overboard by her second love. “It cannot be true!” Viola protested. “Captain Farnsworth was wearing your petticoats?”

“Well, he certainly had nothing else to wear, did he? Ah, we were mad for each other, my lady. Alas, pirates are not the forgiving sort.”

“Whatever became of him?”

“After that shark took his foot, he was never the same.”

“His foot?”

“Well, his toe, really. I told him he should be thankful the fish fancied petticoats, or matters might have ended in far more gruesome a manner.”

Viola giggled helplessly. The men surrounding her burst into uproarious laughter, the sound like so many hounds howling and slobbering after meat scraps.

He closed the distance to his wife in five long strides. She glanced up as his shadow moved across her face. A light blush bloomed in her cheeks, but her smile faded. “Lord Tannenbrook,” she said, her distant politeness an affront. “Miss Starling was sharing the most amusing recollection.”

“Aye,” he said, the word grinding from his mouth as he leveled a warning glare at every man standing less than ten feet from her. “I have heard it many times. As have all these men. Which makes me curious as to their sudden desire to hear it again.”

“Oh,” she answered, looking around at the men, her brows arched in apparent surprise. “Perhaps they enjoy a diverting tale cleverly told.”

“Perhaps they should be about their work.”

The men all tipped their hats and muttered, “M’lord,” before scuttling away like chastened dogs. He followed their progress, his gut slowly releasing its burning tightness. His eyes came back to Viola.

She glared up at him with visible displeasure.

A gnarled, ancient hand patted his elbow. “It has been an age since last these eyes have set upon you, Lord Tannenbrook,” said Miss Starling. “Why don’t you sit down and have a scone or two? I made a batch just as you like this morning. A touch of lemon. That’s the secret.”

“Thank you, Miss Starling, but I am not hungry at present.” He was not hungry for scones, to be precise. All he wanted was to lift Viola in his arms and carry her back to his bedchamber, where he could speak to her without a bloody dog pack hovering nearby, salivating over her lips and her legs.

Rather than looking at him, however, his wife smiled sweetly at the old woman. “We shall take a dozen, Miss Starling. And a jar of your gooseberry jam, as well. I have never tasted better in all my days.”

“You are too kind, my lady.”

As the woman ducked into the shop, Viola dug through the silk reticule dangling from her wrist. It was embroidered with what looked to be some sort of rodent. A hedgehog, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled.

“Compensating Miss Starling for her wares. And your rudeness.” Her tone was more tart than the gooseberries in Miss Starling’s jam.

“I need to speak with you, lass.”

Her chin went up and her eyes went everywhere except to him. “I’m afraid I haven’t time. Miss Starling did not have the floss I required, so she recommended I visit her sister’s cottage. Amy has kindly agreed to take me there.”

“I will walk with you.”

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t wish to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Her lips were stiff, the lines of her throat tight with strain. “Do as you like.”

“I shall.”

“But it is entirely unnecessary. The villagers have been most welcoming.”

“Aye. The men, in particular, I’d wager.” He muttered the comment just as Miss Starling shuffled forth with a brown basket, so he wasn’t certain whether Viola heard him. After dropping a few coins into the old woman’s hand, she took the basket and held it out to him. He shot her a questioning glance.

She sniffed. “So long as you intend to accompany us, you might as well be of use.”

Frowning, he accepted the burden. “Is that not what the maid is for?”

“No,” she said, turning and waving Amy forward along the lane leading to the other end of the village. “That is what you are for. If you prefer not to help, then I suggest you return to Shankwood Hall. You are a busy man, after all.”

Hours later, the sun sat low upon the rolling hills to the west, casting the gray stone village in a rich golden hue. And James carried four more packages. He’d trailed after his wife as she meandered from cottage to shop to village green, gathering purchases, gifts, and admirers of every sort. The purchases were casually offered to him to carry. The gifts she either carried herself—including a bouquet of wilted daisies given her by a wide-eyed, tow-headed lad—or handed them to Amy.

And the admirers. Oh, the admirers. He’d been suppressing a guttural growl for the better part of the afternoon. Every male from age fifteen to fifty had stopped to stare at her, speak with her, tuck his hat over his heart and all but drop to kiss her dainty feet. He’d done the best he could to dissuade them with hard stares of his own, but that proved largely ineffective, since they did not take their bloody eyes off of her long enough to notice.

She charmed them all. The littlest boys and the oldest men. Women liked her, too, he supposed, but the men concerned him most, behaving as though her every laugh and cooing compliment, her every fluttery gesture and graceful turn of toe were an intoxicant. It was true, of course. She was the most intoxicating woman he’d ever known.

As he watched her speak with every villager she encountered, showing unusual deference to the old and sweet affection to the young, he realized it was more than her beauty that enchanted a man. It was her wit, her grace, her kindness. She found joy in small things—gooseberry jam and wilted daisies and a colorful tale told by a woman four times her age.

She laughed readily, often at herself. When the older of the two Starling sisters asked about her reticule, Viola rolled her eyes and said she’d intended it to be a pinecone, as she had a fondness for evergreens. “But as often happens when my fingers wield a needle,” she said, “all went horribly awry.” Then, she chuckled and waved away the old woman’s protests that the work was not unsalvageable. “If it is not,” she retorted with a captivating twinkle, “I shudder to imagine work that is.”

Now, he walked beside her as an exhausted Amy trailed them across the green. The setting sun painted her ivory skin gold. The light breeze teased the black curls along her delicate jaw. She sighed and bent her nose to sad, wilted daisies. “You have a lovely village, James,” she said wistfully.

He’d wanted to speak to her all day, but this was the first time they’d been alone. And now, he had no idea what to say. “Aye,” was the best he could manage.

“When I first saw Netherdunnie, I thought it must have been difficult to leave it. Your home. But they are much the same, aren’t they? Shankwood and Netherdunnie. Apart from the accents, of course. I imagine you felt a kind of familiarity you hadn’t anticipated.”

He’d not been able to look away from her for hours, but even so, his gaze now sharpened upon her. “It’s true,” he replied, surprised by her insight. “I did not expect to like England. I missed my family. The village. But everybody here reminded me of somebody from home.”

She nodded, the little white feathers of her bonnet turning yellow in the waning light. “And they needed you here. That is why you stayed.”

How did she know? He’d not discussed that time in his life with her. He examined her face, but her eyes focused straight ahead on Shankwood Hall, a stout, gray pile of stone beside a seven-hundred-year-old church. Both sat atop a rise in the center of the village. “Aye. It was.”

“You are a good man, James.”

“Lass, I …”

She turned back to her maid as though he’d not spoken. “Amy, I should think supper will be served soon. I must change my gown before dining. Will you inform Mrs. Duckett that I might be delayed? Only a quarter hour or so. I don’t wish to cause disruption.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Wondering when he would have a chance to speak with her alone, he hefted the basket and assorted packages and eyed the distance to the house. He had a minute, maybe two. “Viola, we must talk alone. I have … things I must say.”

Still, she did not look at him, the brim of her bonnet shadowing her eyes. “Perhaps after supper. It has been a lovely day, but most tiring.”

Frustration burned from his gut to his nape. “In the village, you had ample time for every man with a set of eyes and a wagging tongue,” he gritted.

“Please, James. After supper.” She spoke quietly, her tone subdued and flat.

Although his frustration only grew, he bit hard and swallowed it down. For what he had to say, they needed time and privacy. “Very well. I shall come to you in your chamber.”

She gave a reluctant nod as they reached the path leading to the front door of Shankwood Hall.

He leaned closer to whisper a final warning. “And I mean to be alone with ye, lass. Ye ken?”

To that, she did not respond, but he was satisfied she’d heard him. He’d never seen a prettier blush in all his days.

*~*~*

Supper was a lengthy affair for several reasons. First, Viola sensed that the staff of Shankwood Hall wished to present their lord and lady with a lavish display of perfection. In this, they succeeded admirably. The long, white-draped table in the oak-paneled dining room was laden from one end to the other with magnificent abundance—roasted pheasant, herb-stuffed pike with a lemon sauce, a lamb-and-potato pie that reminded her of Mam’s creation, along with a myriad of vegetables ranging from cauliflower in a creamy white sauce to carrot soup. During the final course, she was gratified to find the cook’s talents extended to sweet dishes, as well, with delicious little orange cheesecakes, cherries in brandy, and a decadent raspberry fool. She savored each bite of that dish in particular, for she adored both raspberries and fools, with their juxtaposition of fruit and cream presented neatly inside a glass.

The second reason the meal went on for several hours was that Papa, Georgina, Penelope, and Aunt Marian planned to depart for Cheshire early the following morning, and they lingered over both their meal and the lively conversation, carrying on about innkeepers and the best time of day for catching pike and the renovations to Shankwood Hall that James had implemented over the years. The latter subject piqued Viola’s interest, so she asked numerous questions of her husband. How long had it taken to restore the paneling in the dining room? Were the chandeliers new? Had he considered adding draperies to the drawing room? Or perhaps a harp to the music room? After a time, his darkening glower had signaled his annoyance, so she’d stifled her curiosity.

The final reason supper stretched onward late into the evening was that Viola did not want to face James alone. She delayed as long as she could, chatting merrily with the footman who served the wine, regaling Georgina with every detail of her outing in the village, and imploring Papa to tell the story about the time she felt her tooth wiggle and accused Penelope of hitting her while she slept. Whenever a lull in the conversation occurred, she attempted to introduce a new topic. By the time she’d eaten the last of her raspberry fool, Aunt Marian was snoring, Viola had run out of topics, and James looked ready to throttle her. Fortunately, he sat at the opposite end of the table, so even his arms were not long enough to reach her.

By all rights, she should have been exhausted, not having slept more than a minute or two the night before and then spending the day traveling to Shankwood and ambling about the village. But as she kissed Papa’s cheek one last time before he ascended to his bedchamber, her nerves sang, her stomach fizzing as though she’d drunk champagne instead of wine.

Now, she stood in her dressing room gowned in a pink peignoir, wringing her cold hands like a nervous ninny. A shiver rippled over her skin, so she moved to the massive chest of drawers on the east wall, retrieved a finely woven white shawl, and tossed it over her shoulders. Then, she took a deep breath, which did not help in the slightest, and opened the door to her bedchamber.