When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (22 page)

“He thought my manner of speech grand,” James had grumbled. “And amusing.”

She had sighed, rocking with the motion of a pretty gray mare as they’d wound through a copse of elm trees to the wide brook that divided the two properties. “Your brogue is beguiling, James. Why did you seek to change it?”

He’d cast her an inscrutable look and muttered, “An English earl does not speak in such a way.”

“But many Scottish lords do. Lord Mochrie, for example.”

He had slowed his mount and waved her ahead as they approached a wooden bridge spanning the brook’s swift water. “Aye. They sound nothing at all like a blacksmith’s son.”

The bridge had creaked and groaned under the weight of the horses, momentarily filling the silence before they crossed to a clearing on the other side. “Lord Atherbourne helped you, then.”

“He did. So did his brother, Gregory. Their father, too. Lucien has suffered greatly with their loss.”

She had glanced behind her to view the beloved crags and haunted eyes beneath his hat’s brim. “As have you,” she’d observed quietly.

He’d given a single nod. “Aye.”

Now, sitting in Thornbridge’s lovely drawing room, Viola noted the differences between Lord Atherbourne’s Palladian masterpiece of a home and the gray-stone-and-brown-oak solidity of Shankwood Hall. One was bright and beauteous, the other as stalwart as the earth. Frankly, she preferred the latter.

Her gaze traveled idly from the portrait of Lord Atherbourne to the white marble fireplace, contemplating how unseemly it might be to indulge in another session of lovemaking with James before dinner. Was a wife supposed to desire her husband with such frequency? She did not know, but it was a fact that she did, despite the uncertain state of their marriage.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Tannenbrook, but have you ever considered sitting for a portrait?” The question brought her head around to Lady Atherbourne, who was gazing upon her with an artist’s avidity.

“My father commissioned a miniature once, but that was years ago.”

The blond woman rose gracefully from the gold damask sofa and moved to the exquisite mahogany secretary positioned between two windows. She returned carrying a large, leather-covered book and what appeared to be two pencils and a penknife. “I hope you will forgive my impertinence,” she said, seating herself on the end of the sofa nearer to Viola’s chair. “You are quite extraordinary.”

Viola laughed lightly. “As it happens, I had the same thought about you, my lady.”

The other woman smiled and waved a hand dismissively. “Victoria, please. We are neighbors, and our husbands are the best of friends. I expect we shall soon grow weary of cumbersome formality. Particularly if you should consent to sit for me.” Those wide, blue-green eyes sparkled with a pleading sort of zeal. “Please say you will.”

Her smile growing, Viola nodded. “Of course. It would be an honor. Just tell me what you require.”

Victoria threw open the cover of her sketchbook and tossed aside several pages before apparently finding an empty one. “Nothing more than for you to sit as you are. The light is lovely in here this morning.” She sharpened her pencil with quick efficiency, held it up to examine the tip, and nodded. Then, she ran her eyes over Viola’s face with such eagerness, Viola began to feel a familiar prickle of discomfort. But it was soon eased by Victoria’s grateful smile. “Thank you, Lady Tannenbrook. This will be such a pleasure.”

“Viola. And the pleasure is mine.” Viola blinked as Victoria began, her hand flying across the page in sweeping strokes. “Your talent is exceptional. I fear my artistic endeavors end rather more abominably.”

As she worked, Victoria explained her love for painting and drawing. “Everywhere I go, my sketchbook goes, too. I cannot resist the impulse to capture what I see. Naturally, from the moment I set eyes upon Lord Atherbourne, I filled pages and pages.”

“He is astonishingly handsome,” Viola agreed.

“Mmm, yes. Another delight I find irresistible.”

“My preoccupation with Lord Tannenbrook is similar. Perhaps there is a nefarious potion hidden in the waters here which transforms these men into objects of fascination.”

Victoria’s lips pursed. She sent Viola a mischievous twinkle. “A whimsical yet compelling hypothesis. This shall require a long, thorough examination of the subjects in question, I expect.” After their laughter subsided, Victoria’s eyes turned inquisitive. “How did the taciturn Lord Tannenbrook manage to win your heart?”

Lowering her eyes to the delicate china cup in her hands, Viola replied, “He had no need to win it. My heart was his from the start.”

Though his always belonged to another.

Pain flooded her chest, gushing forth from a well she’d covered poorly. Drowning her without warning.

No, no, no. She could not think about this.

He is not yours. You must let him go, Viola. You must allow him his happiness.

The cup began to rattle in its saucer. She set it upon the marble table beside her chair.

I cannot,
her heart whispered.
I cannot.

She curled her toes inside her slippers. She folded and refolded her hands in her lap. She flexed the muscles in her throat and pressed her lips together, biting down until she tasted copper. All to stop the daft, ridiculous tears from erupting in the middle of Lady Atherbourne’s elegant blue drawing room.

The scrape of pencil across paper halted. “Viola?”

She mustn’t allow the humiliating tears to flow. Mustn’t embarrass herself or James. She shook her head, laughing silently at herself. “I drove him mad, you know,” she whispered, her voice a thread. “I called it my Tannenbrook Hunt. Chased him everywhere. Flirted shamelessly. If he were less honorable, I would have been ruined after a fortnight.”

There was a clock somewhere in the room. She could hear it ticking.

“But his honor is one of the reasons I love him so.”

Her hands distorted, swimming and wavering upon the puce satin of her skirts.

“He is the finest of men.”

Her voice distorted, too, twisting and strangling.

“How he must despise me after all I have taken from him. And yet, he protects me still.”

A cloth was pressed into her hand. A slender arm came around her shoulders. “Protects you from what?”

She pressed the cloth to her cheeks and mouth, her next words muffled. “I offered to set him free.” She dropped her hand and squeezed the now-damp scrap of fabric. “He won’t have it. But I must. And yet I cannot.” She let forth a sob and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God. I do not wish to cry. It swells my eyes and gives me a headache.”

“Viola, what did he say when you offered to, er, set him free?”

She blew her clogged nose into the cloth, uncaring of decorum. Victoria was seeing the worst possible version of her. What difference would one more indignity make? “He said—” She wiped her nose and dropped her hands. “He refused to hear another word about annulment or divorce. Said even a separation was out of the question. Then he accused me of trapping him.”

“Did you trap him?”

“Yes. It is the worst thing I have ever done. He said I’d sprung the trap on us both and that I was caught, too. Then, he said he had no intention of releasing me.”

A gentle hand rubbed between her shoulder blades. “Mmm. Was he, by chance, displaying a bit of temper at the time?”

Viola nodded, dabbing her cheeks with the cloth’s only remaining dry corner. “When he is overset, he sounds more Scottish. I had a bit of trouble making out the words, but I had practiced with his family. They were very kind.”

“It would appear he is resistant to the freedom you offered. Perhaps that is not the proper course, after all. What do
you
want?”

She did not hesitate, for the answer sprang forth of its own volition. “Him. I want James. I have done from the very first moment I heard how he hoisted a man up by his cravat for insulting a woman he did not know.”

“Yes, it was quite a sight.”

“You were there?”

“Indeed. Tannenbrook is as honorable as you say. He is deserving of a woman who understands him and loves him with all her heart. Be easy, Viola. I have something for you.” Victoria moved away to retrieve her sketchbook. She flipped through several pages before finding the one she sought. Then, she tore the page from her book and held it out.

Viola sniffed and accepted the paper, lowering it to her lap.

“I drew this two years ago. It was a difficult time for Tannenbrook, though I knew nothing of it. All I knew was what I saw. Honor. Loyalty. Strength. And, yes, his stubbornness. Perhaps that above all. I believe being obstinate is his way of coping with all the changes he has had to endure. Changes and losses. There have been many.”

The sketch was beautiful. His eyes were shadowed, the furrow between his heavy brows a stark slash of grief. His jaw was pure, hard resolve. But his lips were set with tenderness and the faintest smile along one corner. Everything about it was her James. Her beloved.

Tears came again, this time flowing unchecked. “Thank you,” she gasped, clutching the paper to her heart and gazing up at Victoria unabashedly, knowing she looked a fright, knowing she should not reveal so much of herself to a woman who saw too clearly.

“You are most welcome,” that woman said, smiling and brushing at a tear of her own. “Now, I cannot tell you what to do, for you must determine your course. But if Tannenbrook refuses to let you go, then it is because he wishes to keep you in his life.” She gave Viola’s shoulder a final squeeze. “Before you once again decide his fate for him, perhaps you should ask the man what he prefers.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“A conversation lacking any form of wit is not impossible, merely intolerable. This is demonstrated in a fashion similar to the rising of the sun or the disappointment of mothers. That is to say, with predictable frequency.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Rutherford upon said lady’s expressed desire to be seated at least four chairs away from Lord Mochrie at any future meals.

Her husband’s peculiar behavior began upon their return journey to Shankwood Hall.

With Victoria’s help, Viola had managed to cool her face sufficiently that no signs remained of her earlier upset by the time James and Lucien returned to the drawing room. Their visit had ended pleasantly, and Viola had accepted James’s assistance mounting the gray mare.

He’d gazed up at her, his hands sliding from her waist to her legs, his eyes searching her face until she’d wondered if her own eyes were still red and puffy. She’d frowned down at him in confusion. Then, he’d begun smoothing her skirts over her knees. Long, lingering strokes.

“My lord?” the stable lad had queried, still holding James’s horse. James had sighed and withdrawn.

Then, as they crossed the bridge onto Shankwood land, he had broken the silence between them with her name. “Viola.” That was all.

“Yes?” she’d prompted.

But he’d only shaken his head and grunted before leading them through the wood. When they emerged onto green, rolling pasture, he’d pointed to a trio of sheep in the distance and said, “If they were cleaner, their fleece would be the same color as your skin.”

That was when she’d begun wondering if James had imbibed a bit too much brandy.

Feeling raw from her conversation with Victoria, and dreading the conversation she knew she must have with James, she retreated to her chamber upon arriving at the Hall. Carefully, she retrieved the sketch from inside her bodice, where she had tucked it away for safekeeping. She smoothed the folds with the flat of her hand on the dressing table, taking care not to disturb the image. Of James. Just looking upon his square, blunt features made her heart twist and her lower belly heat.

How she loved the daft man.

She tucked the sketch away in the bottom drawer and summoned Amy to help her change into a long-sleeved gown of blue-sprigged, white muslin. She topped it with a bright, coquelicot shawl. Red always added a bit of cheer. Then, she examined her face in the mirror, silently rehearsing the opening lines of her Difficult Conversation with her husband.

James,
she would begin.
As you know, I am your wife.

No. Stating the obvious sounded too much like Penelope.

James,
she tried again.
Have you reconsidered the option of casting me aside so that you can marry your first love?

Her stomach cramped. She could not speak that baldly. She would never make it through the sentence without weeping.

James,
she began her third iteration, this time emphasizing persuasion.
What would you require to abandon your lifelong affection for a bloody tall Scotswoman and give your heart into my care? Would a poorly embroidered waistcoat suffice?

She sighed. A Difficult Conversation, indeed.

By the time she descended the stairs into the south entrance hall, she had settled on a gradual approach. First, she would ask his preference for which day they should have Lord and Lady Atherbourne to dinner. Then, she would mention Lady Atherbourne’s admiration for his character. Thereafter, she would inquire about his intention to remain trapped in a marriage with her whilst desiring marriage to another.

She had tucked two handkerchiefs in her sleeve in the event things did not go well. It was a Difficult Conversation, after all.

“My lady,” said Mrs. Duckett, entering the small space from the direction of the dining room. “His lordship requests your presence.”

Viola smiled at the elderly housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Duckett. Where would he like me to meet him?”

“Oh! I suppose I forgot that part. Now, where did he say …? Ah, yes. The churchyard.”

Blinking at the unexpected answer, Viola repeated, “The churchyard. Are you certain?”

“Indeed, my lady. That is what he said.”

Although Viola had her doubts—the housekeeper was very old, after all—she left the house through the south entrance into the courtyard and crossed a wide expanse of lawn toward the stout, Norman-era church a hundred yards away. As she drew closer, she saw that Mrs. Duckett had not misled her, for James stood in the western corner of the churchyard, his backside resting against the stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still wearing the brown riding coat he’d worn on their visit to Thornbridge, but he had removed his hat, she noted.

He glanced up as she neared, standing straight and running a hand through his hair. “Viola. Mrs. Duckett found you. Good.”

She shielded her eyes from the bright sun, realizing she had neglected to don a hat. “I wasn’t entirely certain of your message,” she replied, passing through the gate and moving to where he stood. “It is not Sunday. Has the vicar requested to meet with us?”

His mouth was set in a flat line, the muscles in his jaw and neck tense. He cleared his throat. “I wish to show you something.”

She waited. “Yes?”

He turned his shoulders and waved toward a gravestone in the corner near a small shrub. The cross-shaped marker was covered in moss, crooked and weathered as though it had seen a thousand winters. “This reminds me of you, lass.”

“Me?”

He nodded.

She looked again at where he pointed. “This?”

“Aye.”

“Well, I … I don’t quite know what to say.” It was true. She was utterly nonplussed. “I confess, James, I fail to see the resemblance.”

“Its scent is the same. Every time I walk by this corner now, I shall think of you.”

She blinked up at him, wondering again how much brandy he and Lord Atherbourne had imbibed whilst playing billiards. “You believe I smell like a grave?”

His brows descended into a frustrated glower. “No. Not the grave, for the love of God. The flower.”

Her eyes flared. “Oh! Do you mean this shrub?”

“Aye. It is a peony. The vicar’s wife planted it here two years ago.” He bent to sift through the leaves, using his fingers to tip upward a broad, ruffled, pink blossom whose petals had begun to wilt and brown at the edges. “I would have plucked it for you, but its bloom is nearly done.”

She smiled and stooped to smell the fragrance. Sighing at the sweet, powdery scent, she glanced up at her peculiar husband. “Well, this is most relieving, James. I had begun to wonder if I should request a bath before dinner.”

He laughed, the lines of his face relaxing for the first time since that morning. She adored the rumbly, delicious sounds. She wanted him to kiss her. But he did not. Instead, his eyes heated, and he said in a low, shiver-inducing voice, “You smell … good to me, lass. Better than anything else.”

Releasing a shuddering sigh, she felt herself blush and dropped her eyes to his hand. His big, strong, capable hand that touched petals with such delicacy.

Perhaps their Difficult Conversation could be delayed for a time. Just long enough for a lie-down before dinner. Or a bath. James’s hands could provide critical assistance in either scenario.

“What a fortuitous circumstance, your lordship.” The unwelcome intrusion clanged against her heat-softened senses. It was James’s estate manager, exiting the church and closing fast, trailed by two younger men she recognized as the oldest Fellowes boys.

“Mr. Strudwicke.” James’s tone was not hostile, precisely, but she had the sense he’d liked the interruption even less than she had.

Strudwicke and the two boys tipped their hats and greeted both her and James. Then, the estate manager launched into a description of his plans for the upcoming well-dressing festival. Apparently, every year, villagers decorated the well located on the north side of the green with an elaborate array of flowers, seeds, twigs, and leaves, artfully arranged to form images of thanksgiving for the blessings of the land. The custom was an ancient one, according to Miss Starling, dating back centuries at Shankwood.

“Lady Tannenbrook, I daresay, this may be of particular interest to you, as this year’s theme is ‘She Walks in Beauty Like the Night.’ It was suggested by young Mr. Fellowes, here.” Strudwicke pointed to the taller boy, who looked to be sixteen or seventeen. “A tribute to her ladyship. And to starry skies, of course. We shall pluck every blue and purple blossom we can find for the design.”

Viola gave all three men her brightest smile. “How lovely! That you would choose to honor me in such a way fills my heart with gladness.”

From behind her, a shadow moved forward. “Your theme is a poem by a disgraced baron?” James did not sound pleased.

“We—we had hoped you’d approve, my lord,” said the younger Fellowes boy, his voice squeaking like rusty hinges. “Miss Tabitha Starling read the poem to us last spring.”

“I believed the poem a lot of nonsense until her ladyship arrived, my lord,” the deeper-voiced Mr. Fellowes interjected. “Then, I knew Lord Byron must have seen a vision of Lady Tannenbrook, for he describes her—”

“James,” barked James, causing to Viola to blink. The oldest Fellowes boy was also called James? And why was
her
James so angry? “Last year, the theme was ‘Let the Beauty of the Lord Our God Be Upon Us.’ Before that, it was ‘Then Shall the Earth Yield Her Increase.’ Do you sense a distinction between these and your proposal?”

Seeing red flood the young man’s cheeks, Viola tsked. “Well, I think your idea is splendid, Mr. Fellowes.”

Behind her, James grunted, muttering something that sounded like, “Splendidly daft.”

She ignored her surly husband. “Moreover, I should very much enjoy helping with the arrangements for the festival, if you would find my assistance useful.”

“Yes, indeed, my lady,” exclaimed Mr. Strudwicke, his droopy, soulful eyes reminding her of Humphrey. “That would be splendid.”

“Again with the ‘splendid,’” grumbled the ill-tempered man behind her. “Every bloody thing is splendid.”

Viola waited until Mr. Strudwicke and the Fellowes boys bid their farewells to turn and glare up at her husband. He was not looking at her, but instead casting a menacing glare at the receding trio. “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” she demanded.

His eyes dropped to hers. His frown was fierce. “Me? I am not the one quoting rubbish poetry written by a perverted lord.”

“No, you are the one being abominably rude to a young man who simply wishes to honor his lord’s marriage by paying tribute to—”

“He might as well have crooned about your dewy petal lips. Bloody rot is what it is.”

She held up a hand. “I cannot speak to you when you are like this. Perhaps after dinner we will try again, once the brandy has run its course.” With that, she pivoted on her heel and stalked toward the Hall, where, one hoped, greater sanity prevailed.

*~*~*

James did not understand it. He’d followed Lucien’s wooing advice precisely. First, he’d found excuses to touch her, letting his hands linger on her legs after placing her upon her horse. Then, he’d found unexpected ways to compliment her, noting that her skin was the palest shade of cream, like a lamb’s new fleece. And finally, he had shared an example of how she pleased him. Lucien had specified that appealing to her senses would enhance the effectiveness of the wooing. That was what had made him think of showing her the peony.

He’d thought it was working, too. Her eyes had gone soft, her lips sweetly parted just before Strudwicke and his pair of randy youths had come upon them to disrupt the delicate process of seducing his wife. Now she was vexed with him, all that warm, honeyed glaze of sweetness replaced with the snap of irritability and decided displeasure.

Bloody hell.

He stomped out of the churchyard, rounding the east side of the house to head toward the village. As usual, her blasted admirers ruined everything. There was nothing for it. He must start the wooing all over again. This time, however, he had a new notion. These small gestures—compliments and such—required eloquence he did not possess. They were better suited to someone like Luc, who had never lacked for a seductive turn of phrase. Words were fleeting and of little substance, in any case. Viola deserved more. She deserved something lasting. Something as beautiful as she was, though that was impossible. Nothing compared to her.

But he knew his wee bonnie lass would approve of his effort, and perhaps it would go some way toward repairing the wound he had dealt her when he’d rejected the gift she had made for him. This sort of wooing might take longer, he supposed. He was out of practice, certainly.

Rounding the corner of the Starling Sisters shop, he strode down a narrow lane leading to a long stone building. Breathing deeply, wondering if he was bloody daft, he entered the workshop he’d constructed fourteen years earlier, ducking past the lintel. He smelled the gritty scent of stone, heard the clinking thud of the mallet striking, and, with a small smile of remembrance curling his lips, felt a sense of rightness settle in his bones.