So obvious was the old lady’s desire to see the pair off on their own that Gillian blushed.
“Oh, I don’t think . . .” she began, her heart fluttering like a wind-tossed leaf. “I’m not dressed for riding, and—”
Cord, observing her, felt his own heart twist. Now! he thought exultantly. But he spoke calmly. “An early morning ride sounds delightful, Mrs. Ferris.” To Gillian, he said, “I hope you will agree, for there is a matter I would discuss with you.”
Her expression remained discouraging, but she made no demur. Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Cord continued. “While you are changing, I shall stop for a few moments with Sir Henry.”
He left the room swiftly, before Gillian could protest.
Gillian turned to Aunt Louisa. “Aunt, how could you?”
Aunt Louisa was all bewildered innocence. “Could I what, dearest?” Deftly, she steered Gillian out of the room and up the stairs.
“You know very well, ‘Could I what?’ How could you throw me into Cord’s company—alone in his company, that is?”
“But surely you have been alone in his company before. Never tell me that he has comported himself in an ungentlemanly manner, for that I will not believe.”
They had by now reached Gillian’s bedchamber, and Aunt Louisa rummaged in her niece’s wardrobe, producing in short order a riding habit of Cheshire brown.
“N-no,” mumbled Gillian hesitantly. “No, of course not. However, his manner to me of late has been . . . That is, he has said some things . . . that I would rather he not repeat,” she finished, feeling hot and harassed.
“What sort of things?” asked Aunt Louisa eagerly.
“Oh, dear ... I should not have . . . that is, I would rather not discuss them.”
“Now, Gillian, you know I have never pried into your affairs—at least, not excessively so—but I wish you would tell me what is troubling you.”
Gillian searched her mind for a noncommittal but courteous response. She was not the sort of person to reveal her private thoughts to another—no matter how dear to her that other was. To her surprise, however, what came out was a brittle laugh.
“Would you believe. Aunt? The earl would have me understand that he’s enamored of me!”
Aunt Louisa’s eyes grew round, and the lace on her cap fairly quivered with excitement. “Oh, my dearest girl, what a wonderful thing! Has he propo—?”
“Oh, of course not. Aunt. Nor do I expect him to. He’s just like any other man. Setting his sights on a pretty face, he feels he must make it his own.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Gillian. I have seen how he looks at you. You cannot tell me his feelings are not genuine.”
Deep within, Gillian felt a flutter of panic. They were, she knew, approaching the crux of the matter. “Even if that were true, Aunt, he has a commitment elsewhere. In any case, he would certainly not consider a connection with someone of my background.”
“Why, that’s just nonsense. You are of gentle birth, for heaven’s sake. Your father may not have been a lord with status and wealth, but one hears more and more of titled gentlemen marrying to please their hearts rather than their purses.”
“All right. Aunt. Let us say for the sake of argument that the Earl of Cordray has tumbled head over heels for an obscure little nobody in the wilds of Cambridgeshire. I’m extremely flattered, to be sure, but—oh, Aunt, have you forgotten Kenneth?”
Her question hung almost visibly in the air while Aunt Louisa stared blankly at her. “Gillian,” she said at last, her voice low and wondering. “I know you loved Kenneth. Anyone who looked at the two of you together could not help but be aware of the devotion you shared. “But, my dear, Kenneth is gone. No, hear me out,” she added hastily as Gillian lifted a hand in protest. “I have watched you over the years since Kenneth’s death, rejecting love and, it sometimes seemed to me, life itself. You know—and please do not mistake my meaning— your uncle and I are supremely grateful that you came to us. But, oh, Gillian, my dear girl, I could not help wondering if in doing so you were using Rose Cottage as an escape—a sort of cave in which you could hide out from the world—or perhaps from your own demons.”
Gillian could only stare at her aunt. She had always known that the older woman, though somewhat flighty, possessed a certain shrewd ability to assess human nature. However, she had not realized until this moment how thoroughly her aunt had read her niece’s reasons for coming to Rose Cottage.
“Of late,” continued Aunt Louisa hesitantly, “I thought—hoped that you were emerging from your slough of despond. It has, after all, been four years since Kenneth died so valiantly in battle. It is time, my dear, to lay the past aside—to get on with your life . . . to—”
Gillian felt she might explode in her despair. The very air seemed to press down on her, combining with her burden of guilt to smother her. She leaped to her feet, preventing Aunt Louisa from finishing a sentiment she did not at all wish to hear.
“How can you say that. Aunt? My only thought in coming to the cottage was to be with you and Uncle. You are the dearest people in the world to me aside from my parents and brothers and sisters. Yes, you are right in that I welcomed the opportunity to be away from my family—for a while. For they, too, despite their disappointment in me, urged me to ‘get on with my life,’ dropping one eminently suitable male after another in my path. Why can no one understand that I do not want a male—suitable or otherwise? Kenneth was the one and only love of my life, even though ...” Gillian halted, unable to complete her sentence. She continued in a rush. “And I cannot so much as contemplate loving another.”
Aunt Louisa sagged. “Then I suppose there is no more to be said, dearest—except that I hope you will listen with an open mind and an open heart to what the earl has to say. Sometimes,” she concluded, “love creeps up on one despite all one’s barricades against it. Here, let me help you with that.” She reached for the Cheshire brown habit and assisted Gillian in scrambling into it.
Within a few minutes. Cord and Gillian galloped down the drive, the cool morning air bringing a flush to Gillian’s cheeks.
“Would you mind?” asked Cord as they rounded the pillar posts that marked the end of the drive. “I have been doing some exploring of my estate on my own, and I’d like to show you my favorite spot so far.”
With some misgivings, Gillian nodded and followed Cord as he led her in an opposite direction from the manor house. Their path took them cross-country toward a hilly wooded area just past the home farm. Cord drew to a stop on the crest of one of the highest hills.
“Look!” he exclaimed with a sweeping gesture. “You can see the spires of Cambridge from here. With the woods at one’s back and the whole county spread out before one, I think this must be one of the most beautiful spots in all of England. And,” he continued, assisting Gillian to dismount, “the place even boasts an ottoman-sized boulder for our comfort.”
To Cord’s dismay, Gillian seemed to shrink from his touch, and her back was stiff and resistant as he settled her on the boulder. What did she think he was up to? Did she think he had a spot of rapine planned for this lovely morning? He seated himself beside her, careful not to so much as brush her arm. He was silent for a moment as he gathered together the speech he had crafted in the small hours of the night before.
Chapter Nineteen
“Gillian,” Cord began hesitantly, “I must speak with you.”
Gillian felt a tide of panic rise within her. “But, we have been speaking,” she responded brightly. She turned away from him to face the view from the hilltop. “You are right. Cord. This view is absolutely spectacular. I wonder that I have never—”
“Gillian, please,” said Cord in a firmer tone. “Please don’t try to put me off again. I merely wish to tell you that I will be leaving Wildehaven in a day or two.”
She knew she should be pleased at this news. She needed very badly for the Earl of Cordray to remove himself from her life—and she was pleased, of course, that he had come to a sense of his responsibilities. Why, then, did she feel as though something large and unpleasant had just exploded in the pit of her stomach?
“A day or two?” she asked falteringly.
“Yes. To be sure, there is much I still wish to do here, and I will return at some time in the future to attend to the repairs and improvements that Jilbert has set in motion. However, I feel the need to see about my other estates. They have not been neglected, precisely, for I have an excellent staff, but it has finally been borne on me that there are many matters I should be seeing to myself.”
Matters such as his proposal to Corisande, Gillian muttered inwardly, suppressing the tears that rose in her throat. She berated herself. She had kept her emotions firmly in control for the last four years. Why, at this point, was she thrown into a vaporish maelstrom of longing for she knew not what, all over a man for whom she didn’t care a button? Not really, at any rate.
She started, as she became aware that Cord was speaking again.
“But I cannot go without telling you how I feel about you, Gillian. Why—what is it?” he blurted as Gillian leapt to her feet.
“Cord, please,” she said breathlessly. “Please don’t spoil everything.”
Cord, too, rose, and she was startled at the expression of pain that flashed in his green eyes. She had convinced herself that, despite his aborted declaration of the other night. Cord had no real feeling for her beyond that of an amatory gentleman and his designated prey of the moment. Could she have been wrong? Oh, please God, surely she could not have been wrong. She
must
not allow him to entertain any stronger emotion for her.
“Spoil everything?” he asked softly. “Is that how you see my feeling for you? An inconvenience that must not be allowed to ruin a sunny morning?”
“No! Of course, I did not mean that, but—” Gillian laughed unsteadily. “I’m sure we both agree that we have enjoyed each other’s . . . company. This has been a lovely idyll—for us both, I think--but we have always known that your sojourn here would be brief. In truth,” she continued, feeling a little desperate, “I am pleased that you are returning to take up your duties. For, I have seen
such
a difference in you of late—a vitality and sense of purpose—and, yes, a new happiness.”
“Yes,” he replied seriously. “I am happier than I have been in years in my decision to start living rather than rattling about in a meaningless existence. But—” A tentative smile curved Cord’s lips. “It is you who has brought about this metamorphosis—and an undeserved joy to my life.”
He took her hand in his. Gillian knew she should have withdrawn it—immediately. When he moved closer, she knew she should have sidled away—immediately. And when he bent his head over hers, she should have avoided the kiss she knew he was about to press on her lips. Instead, she remained motionless. She felt that time had slowed, encasing the two of them in a lovely golden bubble of sunshine and the warm breeze that lifted a midnight feather of hair from Cord’s forehead. The humming of the bees and the exultant song of the birds and the scent of leather and soap and Cord filled her senses. She lifted her face to him.
His lips were warm and urgent, moving over hers to create a firestorm of wanting within her. A voice far in the back of her mind cried out that what she was doing was insane. She had meant to discourage Cord, and here she was participating with the utmost enthusiasm in her own ruination!
Unheeding, she pressed closer to him, reveling in the feel of his hands. Dear God, it was as though she wanted to crawl inside his very soul, to absorb him into hers. The voice faded and was silenced, and when Cord’s fingers, warm and strong, moved to her breast, she cried her pleasure aloud. It was this sound that made her draw back with a frantic suddenness that almost toppled her to the ground. She found that her knees refused to support her, and she sank back upon the boulder. She put her hands to her hair in a mindless gesture, appalled that she had so lost herself.
Cord felt as though a critical part of his being had just been peeled away. He sank to a seat beside her. Once again, he took Gillian’s hand, but this time she snatched it away to knot it almost fiercely in her lap.
“Gillian,” he said softly, “after that—I can only call it a communion of spirit—can you honestly say you are indifferent to me?”
“Indifferent?”
Cord quailed before the anguish in her eyes.
“Of course, I am not indifferent! It is just that . . . well, I am not a wanton, after all, and despite the feelings you have no difficulty in calling from me, I do not wish to ... join you in this dance to my own downfall.”
“Downfall!” Cord could hardly believe his ears. “Is that what you think? That I seek to ruin you? Do you think that is what I have been about since we met? I thank you for your pretty reading of my character, Miss Tate!”
He could have bitten his tongue. What a cloth-headed thing to say! Had it not already occurred to him that Gillian might have come to this conclusion? At their first meeting, she had seen unerringly through his efforts to charm her. Why should she see him now as anything but an unregenerate rake?
He grasped her shoulders, turning her toward him. “Gillian, listen to me. I will admit that when we met, my first instinct was to make a conquest. That is the way I’ve been living for some time, I regret to say. But as I came to know you . . .” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Gillian, I love you. I love you with everything that’s in me. I want you to marry me—and come back to London with me—and then to the Park—and have my babies—and spend the rest of your life with me. Oh, God, you have to believe me. I love you!”
Gillian stared at him for a long moment, her eyes wide and—yes, terrified. He held her gaze, trying to pour his heart into the clear gray eyes that looked back at him. The next moment, to his utter dismay, tears welled, first to sparkle in the thick forest of her lashes, then to spill down her cheeks.
“Gillian! What is it? What have I said to so distress you?”
“Oh, Cord, you cannot mean it! You do not love me. You
cannot
love me!”
“But, what is this?” Cord’s forehead creased in bewilderment. “Gillian, I’m offering you my heart—and my soul and my body and everything else that goes with it. Is the thought of marriage to me so repugnant?”