Romancing the Countess (24 page)
Sebastian separated the blocks by colors as they prepared to build up the castle again. This time, he would try to make the tower ten blocks high. Henry seemed to squeal louder the taller it became.
“Here. Put the red one on,” he instructed, then watched as Henry took it from his hand and turned toward the castle ruins, his knees bending, leaning forward in that serious, determined little boy way.
After placing the red block on top, he held out his hand again to Sebastian. “Blue, Papa.”
Sebastian tried to give him a yellow block, but Henry closed his fist and shook his head. “No. Blue block.”
Grinning, Sebastian held up a green one. “Is this it?”
“No.”
He held up an orange one. “This one, you mean?”
Henry stared; then his cheeks rounded as he smiled. “No, Papa. Blue block.” Stepping forward, he reached for the blue pile, but Sebastian grabbed him beneath his arms and swung him about, laying him faceup on the blanket. He lifted the green one again.
“This is blue,” he said.
Henry giggled and shook his head. “Green.”
Sebastian tickled him, and Henry rolled from side to side, kicking his legs as he laughed.
“Blue. Admit it,” Sebastian threatened, “or I’ll continue to tickle you.”
“Green!” Henry shouted, and laughed again.
Black boots appeared at the edge of Sebastian’s vision. “What insolent cur is this, to contradict and attack his lordship? Never fear, Viscount Maddows, I will protect you.”
“Uncle Jamie!” Henry screamed with delight as James pulled him loose from Sebastian’s grasp and swung him around and around.
Climbing to his feet, Sebastian nudged the blocks into the center of the blanket. After a few more moments of spinning, James set Henry back on the ground. The boy ran to Sebastian, his grin wide, and hugged Sebastian’s legs.
Sebastian looked at James. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
The smile on James’ face faded. “I have news.”
That evening, after dinner and after Sebastian had said good night to Henry, he and James sat in his study. James drank whiskey. Sebastian had nothing. Ever since the experience of being drunk in front of Leah, he had no inclination to imbibe. Even the sting of liquor reminded him of her.
“There are rumors going around.”
Sebastian shrugged. “There are always rumors going around.”
“It’s about Ian’s widow. Mrs. George.”
Although he tried not to show his reaction, Sebastian couldn’t keep his gaze from flying to meet James’. “I’m not surprised about that, either. I told you what happened at the house party. She’s brought this on herself.”
James’ foot scuffed against the rug below his chair. “Then this might get your attention, because you are now included in those rumors, dear brother.”
Sebastian straightened. “Go on.”
“It appears that several of the guests at the house party are now convinced that you and Mrs. George are . . . How should I put it?”
“Damn it, James, stop this dithering around. What are they saying?”
“The rumor is you and she are . . . involved. If not lovers, then close.” James looked down at his whiskey, swirling it around. “Although I suspect soon the gossip will take that final leap.”
Sebastian clenched his jaw. It was of no use to point out that he’d been the first one to leave the party, or that he’d gone solely to keep her from creating a scandal. The gossipmongers wouldn’t care; in fact, it would probably only feed the fire for him to defend himself. The best thing he could do for the entire situation—for himself, for Leah, and for Henry—was to ignore it.
Exhaling slowly, he leaned back against his chair. His hands curved over the end of the polished oak arms. “Let them talk as they wish. It will pass eventually—before fox hunting season, if not sooner, I predict. I have no plans to see Mrs. George again, so anything she does now will be on her shoulders alone.”
James nodded and sipped from his glass. “I trust you are right.” He paused, sipped again. “But if you’re not?”
Sebastian shrugged, annoyed at their conversation and the reminder of Leah, when he had tried so hard to put her from his mind. “There’s nothing to be done. Let them gossip. It means nothing to me.”
A month passed, and as the days went by, Leah’s desperation to escape grew stronger and stronger. Especially in moments like these, when she was required to spend time with one of her two suitors. Of the two, Mr. Grimmons the vicar was the least bothersome. He was severe in his appearance and his manners, but he also seemed quite uncomfortable around her, which made the afternoons easier for her. Mr. Hapersby, on the other hand, leered at her the entire time they were together. After having spent twenty years without being the object of lust, his ogling tempted her to do whatever she must to scare him away. But she couldn’t—she knew they both reported to Adelaide after each session, and Leah knew her mother well enough to understand that her threats were not idle. If she didn’t cooperate, she would be required to leave the house. And she had nowhere else to go.
As she walked sedately beside Mr. Grimmons in the garden, Leah plucked a late-blooming rose from its stem and twirled it between her fingers. Without intending to, she remembered the night she’d found Lord Wriothesly in Ian’s study, and how he’d told her she smelled like roses.
Hiding her smile, Leah slid a glance at Mr. Grimmons from beneath her lashes. “Do you like roses, sir?”
The young vicar startled—apparently he’d been lost in one of his reveries again—and looked at her, blinking beneath the glare of the sunlight. “I enjoy all of God’s creation, Mrs. George. Do you not?”
“Of course,” she murmured. “But I have a particular affinity for roses.”
“Oh.” They walked a few more moments in silence; then Mr. Grimmons halted. “Wait here, please,” he said. He turned to the side, where a white rosebush bloomed, and snapped off a partially open flower midstem. “For you, Mrs. George.”
“Thank you.” She looked at him, but he said nothing more. No compliment to compare her skin to the rose, nothing to emphasize his regard for her. He didn’t even blush—as she might have expected—or meet her gaze with his limpid brown eyes that were two inches too close together.
Instead he stared straight ahead, his arms stiff at his sides. Sighing, Leah held the white rose he’d given her in her hand and dropped the red one to the ground.
“Mrs. George.”
Leah waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “Yes, Mr. Grimmons?”
“I would like to discuss a matter with you. But out of respect to your sensibilities after so recently losing your husband . . .”
Oh, how she was tempted to tell him that she’d never grieved at all. Would he be horrified? No, he’d probably take that as encouragement. But if she pretended to weep, would he try to comfort her? Leah glanced at his profile—the stern pull of his mouth, the angular line of his jaw. Probably not.
She sniffed, just to see.
He looked at her, concern in his expression, and stepped closer to her.
Oh, God. Leah gave a weak smile. “I think I might be growing ill.”
He stilled, then subtly stepped back to his side of the garden path. “Perhaps we should go inside. And if you are feeling better tomorrow, would you mind if I call on you again? I would like to . . . discuss something with you.”
Inwardly sighing, Leah came to a halt. “Do you intend to ask me to marry you?” Let it be done today, then, so she didn’t spend half the night fearing what the words out of his mouth would be the next afternoon.
Mr. Grimmons stumbled, then whirled around to face her. This time his cheeks did flush and his mouth hung open. “I—”
“If that is your intent, sir, then it seems that it might be best to spare us both the time in waiting.”
His mouth closed, his eyes narrowed, and Mr. Grimmons looked at her as if she were a creature that had, if not crawled from the bowels of hell, then dropped from some bewildering place below heaven. “In truth, Mrs. George, I understand it is your mother’s wish that we might wed, but I do not believe you are the one God has chosen for me.”
Leah stared, feeling her own cheeks heat. “Oh.”
“I wanted to ask you about your sister. Miss Beatrice.”
“Oh.”
“I wished to discuss my intention of asking for Miss Beatrice’s hand. Although I’m sure you would bring honor and respect to your next husband—”
He seemed to choke on the words “honor and respect.” Leah smiled, wondering if he was thinking about the rumors of her and the house party.
“—I have known Miss Beatrice much longer, and I have formed quite an attachment to her. I sincerely apologize if this news distresses you, but—”
“Mr. Grimmons.”
His gaze returned from somewhere above her head, and he met her eyes.
“I will speak to Beatrice, if you wish.”
He blushed again—and it softened his intense, earnest expression, making him appear almost charming. “Thank you, Mrs. George.”
Leah stretched out her arm and handed the white rose to him. She winked. “Beatrice’s favorite flower is the calla lily.”
As she’d done every week since her mother gave her the ultimatum of marrying or leaving the house, Leah pored over Beatrice’s women’s magazine, searching in vain for a job which didn’t require skills she didn’t possess or a reputation she no longer had.
A knock came at her bedchamber door. Before Leah could call out the door swung open and her mother strode in. She shut the door quietly behind her. “What have you done?” Adelaide asked.
Leah flipped to another page in the magazine, to an innocent spread on the latest fashions. “Perhaps you could elaborate, Mother. I’m not sure—”
“I was expecting Mr. Grimmons to come again today and take you riding, but instead of waiting for you to come downstairs—which I noticed you never did—he asked for me. Do you pretend not to know what he said?”
Leah sat up on the bed. “He’s not interested in marrying me.”
Her mother’s gaze narrowed shrewdly. “No. He wants to marry Beatrice.”
“Unfortunately,” Leah said, “when I spoke to Beatrice of it, she didn’t seem very enthusiastic.”
“You spoke to Beatrice?”
Leah nodded, her breath shortening as her mother approached the bedside.
Adelaide’s lips pursed, then flattened, then pursed again. Her nostrils flared. “Of course,” she said softly, “I told him Beatrice was too young for marriage. The fool, thinking I would give my daughter to him.”
Her new favorite daughter, she doubtless meant. Though her mother had refused to settle for anything less than a title with Leah’s first husband, it seemed any man would do now as long as his status wasn’t lower than the village butcher’s.
“Mr. Grimmons was not pleased when I told him Beatrice couldn’t marry him. When I asked him if he would not reconsider marrying you, would you like to know what he said?”
Leah waited.
“He said you were too forward. What did you do, Leah?”
She shrugged. “I simply asked him if he meant to marry me.” Leah’s gaze fell to her mother’s side, where her hand twitched. Tensing, she waited for Adelaide’s arm to rise, for her palm to attempt to strike, but Adelaide instead stepped back with a smile.
“Well, since you have ruined any chance you had with the vicar, I suppose that means only one thing. I was going to allow you the choice of either man, but I know Mr. Hapersby planned to ask for you later this week. Now I will tell him you are all his.”
Leah rose from the bed to stand beside her mother. They were close in height, although Leah had a slight advantage. “And if I do not wish to marry him?”
Adelaide’s gaze flickered, but no sign of sympathy or remorse entered her expression. “Then you are welcome to leave. Would you like me to ring a maid to help you pack?”
“No,” Leah said. She would do it herself.
Chapter 15
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