Gabriel: Lord of Regrets (25 page)

***

“Bring a book,” Polly suggested in exasperation.

“A book?” Marjorie blinked at her. “To read to him?”

“Your husband is as difficult a subject as a trio of little boys,” Polly said, naming one of her most challenging projects from years past. “He cannot hold still, can’t remain silent, can’t abide inactivity.”

“You think he’ll abide it if I’m underfoot?”

“You can’t make him any worse. He can barely hold still for five minutes.”

They detoured to the library, where Polly selected some of Byron’s verse, and then hied themselves to Polly’s studio on the third floor. Lord Aaron paced a slow pattern from window to window. Wintery sunlight gilded him as he passed each one, making the highlights in his hair wink everything from sunset red to molten gold.

“I’ve brought a distraction,” Polly announced.

Lord Aaron smiled at the ladies. “Sorry. I’m not used to maintaining immobility.”

“One senses this,” Polly said. “My lady, you must sit where his lordship can see you and hear you easily.”

“Here?” Marjorie took up a hassock not far from where her husband was to stand. The sunlight hit her hair and came over her right shoulder, just as it had in the portrait Polly had done of her. The angle was the most flattering Polly had found for a lady who was quietly stunning to begin with.

“That will do,” Polly said, tying a full-length apron on. “You, sir, assume your pose, and we will make progress today if it’s the last thing we do.”

His lordship fixed his gaze upon his wife, and Polly realized she should have tried this approach a week ago, when she’d first started work on the man’s portrait. As Lady Marjorie read the poetry in the cool, ironic tones the poet intended, Aaron’s mouth relaxed into a sort of half smile, one Marjorie, with her eyes on the book, could not see.

Polly saw it. Polly had been watching for it for days, and there it was. She painted with an intensity that had previously eluded her with this subject, and knew some relief, and reassurance, to be lost in her work.

She tried to ignore the impending despair Gabriel’s nights in her bed had provoked, but it crowded in on her, compressing her art, her joy, even her very breath.

She was going to leave the man she’d come to love, because she couldn’t bear to confess to him that for two years, she’d been living a lie, as had both Sara and Allie at Three Springs. Gabriel was piercingly intelligent. He’d see soon enough that even Beckman had been allowed in on the secret, but not Gabriel.

Not Gabriel North, overworked steward, and certainly not Gabriel, Lord Hesketh.

She could not bear the contempt she’d see in his eyes when he realized how far from marchioness material she was.

Or worse, the pity.

So she ignored despair, ignored the tearing guilt she felt with every cheerful, stupid letter she wrote to her daughter and sister, and ignored all the epistles Tremaine sent, no doubt filled with requests for progress reports and threats of more artistic success.

Artistic success, alas, mattered little. An artist could have a youthful indiscretion, at least on the Continent, provided she was repentant and very careful thereafter.

A marchioness could not. And if Polly had to choose at that moment between the child she’d passed into her sister’s keeping and the man she’d come to care for too much, well… she’d have to choose neither. For the sake of both of them, she’d have to choose neither.

“How’s the portrait coming?” Gabriel passed his brother a glass of brandy and poured a second one for himself. A cold wind soughing around the corner of the house and gusting atop the chimney announced that this would be not an autumn night, but a winter night.

“She won’t let us see the painting.” Aaron took a sip of his drink and sighed out his pleasure. “Marjorie says that’s unusual for Miss Hunt.”

“It is. Our artist looks tired to me.” And Gabriel well knew why she was losing sleep.

“Tired?” Aaron rolled a cue stick across the green felt of the billiards table. “Miss Hunt looks like Miss Hunt to me.”

“And what does your wife look like to you these days?” Gabriel turned his back to his brother, taking a good long while to poke up the fire. The room was warm enough, but the question wasn’t exactly casual.

“My dear lady wife looks like… a little bit of heaven, dangled right before my crossed eyes. Your injury doesn’t appear to be paining you.”

Gabriel straightened, which resulted in not so much as a twinge from his back.

“It isn’t.” Something about Aaron’s words tickled Gabriel’s memory, where he usually ruminated on the various challenges in his life. “Since taking nigh a week to purely rest, my back is doing better. Then too, I’m trying to keep it limber.”

“You didn’t before?”

“Hadn’t the time to indulge the occasional game of billiards. I was warned in Spain the damned thing would take years to heal, and it has.”

But then too, making love seemed to help, at least most of the positions he’d tried with Polonaise did, and her hands kneading his muscles, and grabbing hard at his—

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, which was fortunate for his dignity, because Aaron missed little.

“My lords,” a footman said, “you have a visitor.”

Aaron set his drink down. “It’s damned near dark. Are we expecting anyone?”

“A Mr. Tremaine St. Michael,” the footman supplied. “He’s in the family parlor, and Lady Marjorie is being located that she might receive him.”

“Send along a substantial tea tray,” Gabriel said. “Aaron, you’ll accompany me?”

“You know this fellow?”

“He’s Miss Hunt’s man of business. I wasn’t aware we were to be graced with his presence.” Gabriel would have bet his horse Polonaise hadn’t summoned the man, either.

“His name is familiar.” Aaron started rolling down the cuffs he’d turned back in anticipation of a predinner game.

“You know him as the Sheep Count,” Gabriel suggested. “He’s something of a market force in the Midlands wool industry. Or perhaps you saw his name on Miss Hunt’s contracts.”

“I did. You know him in other capacities?”

“There’s a family connection between him and the new owners of Three Springs,” Gabriel said, which was a truth. As they made their way to the family parlor, he suspected Aaron sensed it was a half-truth.

“So you didn’t send for him?” Aaron asked.

“What makes you think I would?”

“You don’t seem surprised by this. I recall something in the contracts about his needing to confer with his client from time to time, provided his visits do not interfere with progress on the present project, and so forth.”

Gabriel stopped outside the family parlor. “That’s the language. Nearly word for word, and you haven’t seen those documents in weeks, at least.”

“I can usually recall what I’ve seen, if I was paying attention when I read it. Shall we greet our guest?”

Our
guest.
That, at least, was encouraging.

They exchanged cordial bows with St. Michael, who had apparently been warned that Mr. North, late of Three Springs, would bear a close resemblance to Gabriel Wendover. The conversation wandered to civilities about the roads, the weather, and the good health of mutual acquaintances at Three Springs.

“There’s something else you should know,” St. Michael said, setting down an empty teacup. “It might strain your hospitality a bit.”

Gabriel refrained from pointing out that keeping his fists to himself was proving a strain on his manners, and not only because St. Michael was the helpful fellow who’d made Polly’s eventual departure from Hesketh not merely lucrative, but contractually imperative.

Then too, the man was tall, dark, handsome, well spoken, and as far as Gabriel knew—and thanks to a few shared soaks in the hot springs, he
did
know—free of disfiguring scars. Worse, he sported that half-French, half-Scot hint of an accent, and he’d known Polly for years.

“How could one so charming strain our hospitality?” Gabriel said, pouring their guest more tea. Where was Lady Marjorie, and more to the point, where in blazes was Polonaise?

“I myself will be no imposition, I assure you,” St. Michael replied. “But we had occasion to stop by your stables before coming to the house, and there reacquainted ourselves with Soldier, because he was a familiar face, so to speak, and because the grooms were the soul of attentiveness, I made my way in advance—”

“Mr. North!”

A human meteor came hurtling at Gabriel where he stood near the hearth. Allie pelted toward him from the door at a dead run, braids flying, a smile as wide as heaven on her rosy cheeks. “Mr. North, it
is
you. It
is.
Uncle said only that we were going to have a surprise, and I am surprised to
pieces
.”

Gabriel had knelt, mostly to block her from ending up plastered to the hearth, and then his arms were full of little girl, and Allie had his neck in an exuberant choke hold.

“I am so glad to see you, and looking very well, too,” she declared. “Aunt must be feeding you properly, but Hildegard has been pining for you and Aunt both. The scraps bucket isn’t the same since Aunt left, but Papa says Hildy is lonesome for Mr. Wilson’s boar hog. Spring is so far off, and she pines. I pined too, for you and for Aunt, but then Uncle said travel can lift the spirits, and so we’re here.”

She beamed at him, and Gabriel couldn’t help but beam back as he stood with her perched on his hip. She still fit there, as she had for two long years. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her, missed her chatter, her unflinchingly honest emotions, her joy in the smallest of life’s miracles.

And if she called Beckman Haddonfield papa, well, that was for the best.

“St. Michael.” Gabriel spared him a nod. “Well done. Now, Allemande, I take it you lingered in the stables to greet your old friend Soldier?” Gabriel addressed the child as he settled her in a chair. “What confidences did he share with you?”

“He’s very hairy,” Allie reported in all seriousness. “Papa says after the past few winters, all the animals are fuzzing up in anticipation of much snow and cold. There were flurries on the way here.”

She might have pattered on, but the ladies chose that moment to join them. Because Allie was dwarfed by the back of the chair, her presence wasn’t obvious at first, and Gabriel had to stand by and watch as St. Michael not only kissed Polly’s cheek but slid a proprietary arm around her waist.

Gabriel leaned over the chair back to whisper in Allie’s ear, “Greet your aunt, child.”

“You think she’ll be pleased to see me?”

“Don’t be a hen-wit. She can barely paint for missing you.”

Allie shot him a dubious look, then pushed out of the chair and came around to stand beside Gabriel, tucking her hand in his. “Hello, Aunt.”

The words were shy, barely audible, and not at all consistent with the greeting the child had offered Gabriel.

“Allie?” Polly was on her knees, arms spread wide in an instant. “My Allie? Oh, my dear, dear child…” She enveloped the girl in a tight hug, not even letting the child go to snatch Gabriel’s handkerchief when he dangled it before her. “I am so glad to see you, Allemande. So glad.”

“I wasn’t sure you would be,” Allie whispered. “Mr. North says you missed me.”

“I’ve missed you terribly,” Polly assured her, rising but keeping Allie’s hand in hers. “Would the company find it terribly rude if I showed my niece to the studio?”

“We would not,” Gabriel answered. “Provided both of you ladies join us for dinner in”—he glanced at Marjorie—“two hours?”

“That will suit,” Marjorie concurred, though it doubtless meant having the kitchen move the meal up by at least an hour. “And it will allow me to show Miss Hunt where our guests will be staying.”

“May Allie have a trundle in my room?” Polly asked then peered at the child. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I won’t mind.” Allie grinned hugely, while Gabriel felt a stab of consternation. If the child were there of a night, he most certainly would
not
be. He wiped away his scowl when he caught St. Michael smiling at him.

Nasty bastard, though Gabriel had to allow the man had traveled a distance with a small child, which showed dedication to the cause at least. Polly and Allie took their leave, followed by Marjorie, who was off to negotiate with the cook.

“Shall we switch to something more fortifying than tea?” Aaron posed the question, glancing between Gabriel and St. Michael. “Or do we get down the pistols and swords now, so you two can start in strutting and pawing over the lady?”

“Now, Aaron,” Gabriel chided. “Just because you are up to your neck in wooing your wife doesn’t mean the rest of us must resort to animal displays. And I must concede to our guest that bringing the child was a brilliant stroke. Polonaise was immediately in tears at your generosity.”

St. Michael’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Tears of joy. Bringing Allemande along wasn’t my idea.”

“It wasn’t?” Gabriel paused in examining his sleeve buttons, because St. Michael’s admission did not support Gabriel’s desire to toss the fellow right out the window.

“Would any sane man willingly choose to travel in winter with a human chatterbox? One who wiggles as much as she talks, as much as she needs to stop at every posting inn from here to the South Downs?” St. Michael settled into a chair and let out a weary sigh.

“It would certainly give me pause,” Aaron volunteered. “She’s a lively child.”

“She’s the way to Miss Hunt’s heart,” Gabriel said softly.

St. Michael leaned his head back. “If she is, I can’t see why Miss Hunt would have lined up three years’ worth of commissions all over the Home Counties.”

Because the oversized, accented, good-looking idiot was blind. “Well, if it wasn’t your idea to bring Allemande to her aunt’s side, whose idea was it?”

“Beckman’s.” St. Michael accepted a drink obligingly provided by Gabriel’s brother. “And Sara’s. They said you needed reinforcements.”

A slow warmth suffused Gabriel’s chest. “I did need reinforcments. I do. I most assuredly do, and I am relieved you perceive whose interests my Allemande is campaigning for.”

***

Polly heard a soft tap on the door and opened it only a crack, because Allie was sleeping on a trundle bed at the foot of the four-poster. Tremaine’s hand shot out and encircled her wrist even as he put a finger to his lips, gesturing for silence. He towed her along in the cold gloom of the corridor until they were several doors down.

“Allie’s asleep?”

“Of course. Traveling, seeing North… Gabriel again, joining the adults at table. She’s had a very exciting day.”

“And she saw you again.” Tremaine studied her for a moment by the light of a mirrored sconce, then shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “We need to talk, Polly, and this is not the place to do it.”

No, they did not need to talk, but Tremaine apparently needed to jabber at her. “Where are we going?”

“My room,” he said, taking her by the wrist. “It’s warm and private, and not far from yours should Allie take a notion to wander.”

“She won’t wander, Tremaine, and you can just…
stop
.” She shook her hand free of his and glared at him. “I will not be dragged about like this, and we’re not going to your room at this hour.” At
any
hour.

He crossed his arms, looking as implacable as a Highland warrior and as imperious as a French king. “Then where?”

“The library. It’s almost as warm as the kitchens.” Also full of fortifying memories.

He winged his arm at her, and Polly accepted the more decorous version of escort.

“You look tired, Polly Hunt, but you’re painting brilliantly.”

“My subjects are wonderful, when they hold still.”

He patted her hand, and damn the man, in this frigid corridor, his hands were warm. “They’re not just pretty people though, are they?”

“Not to me. A portrait is not a still life with human, or it shouldn’t be.”

“It isn’t meant to be,” Tremaine agreed, ushering her into the library. “Or it isn’t any longer. This was a good first project, though, if you’re finding the work enjoyable.”

“I am,” Polly said, though something in even those two words had Tremaine eyeing her closely.

“What?”

“The work is going well.” Polly went to the hearth and spread her hands out toward the fire. The blaze was roaring, as if in preparation for the master of the house to take a late-night nap on the long sofa. “It’s hard too.”

“What’s hard?”

“Being away from home.” Tremaine was Reynard’s surviving brother, and he knew exactly who was related to whom and how, so Polly offered the more honest sentiment. “Being away from Allie and Sara.”

“I saw the miniature of that cat in your room.” Tremaine stood beside her, looking at her hands. “Allie did it?”

“She did, and don’t you start getting ideas about that child, Tremaine. She needs time to grow up and make her own choices regarding her art.”

“She might not get those choices. She’s now the stepdaughter of an heir to an earldom, Polly, and if you thought she’d be raised in bucolic obscurity, you’re wrong.” His words were hard, though his tone was uncharacteristically gentle.

“She’s already been raised in some bucolic obscurity.” Polly gathered her night robe more closely around her middle, though the fire gave off a marvelous heat, and the library smelled comfortingly of old books. “And she loves it. She’s counting the days until Beck and Sara let her have a pony, and she’s safe, Tremaine. Safe from all the Reynards in the world, safe from what acknowledging me as her mother would cost her.”