Carolyn Jewel (8 page)

“Oh, dear.” She folded her hands on the table. “I’m afraid Mr. Temple is not likely to be back from West Aubry in time for that.”

He selected a piece of shortbread before he responded. “I didn’t know he meant to go.”

“He had parish business to attend to.”

“Nevertheless, he should return in ample time.”

“It’s quite a long ride to West Aubry and back.”

“By the road, yes. But he’ll have walked. With the weather like this, he shan’t be delayed for anything but his business.”

“Oh but he did not walk. He rode.”

“Why would he ride?” By the road under these conditions, West Aubry was at least two hours distant.

“He would have had to walk through your private lands.”

“Yes. And?”

“Enclosed lands. I’ve told him not to presume upon your good graces when that walk takes him within sight of your house.”

He frowned. “He’s always done so. Walked past Wordless—”

“Oh, I cannot approve.”

“Of what? Magnus taking the shortest route to West Aubry?”

“There are a great many things of which one cannot approve.” Her tone of voice gave him an unpleasant shock, for he’d begun to believe he would escape an uncomfortable conversation about him and Portia.

She gave him another ravishing smile. “Forgive me, but your estate, my lord, is Northword Hill. Not Wordless. It’s not respectful of anyone to call it that. I’ve told Mr. Temple he mustn’t. Portia, too, though she hardly listens to a word I say.”

“Why, when I don’t mind?” He put down his half-eaten shortbread. “Call the place what you will, Northword Hill, Wordless, or that ‘moldering pile of stones,’ your husband has always had leave to walk through the property. Even when my father was alive.”

She smiled as if she knew a secret and did not intend to share.

“I’ve no issues with him or anyone from the Grange continuing to do so.”

“It’s a matter of what’s proper, my lord.” She got that lost look again, and it did tug at his heart. He resisted the urge to comfort her. “A man of Mr. Temple’s position and station in life, who has dedicated himself to the work of God, cannot be seen by his parishioners to act in any way that is improper.” She dabbed at her mouth. How did Portia endure this without going stark raving mad? “That holds true for all his family. All we Temples must be above reproach. His wife and his sister included.”

He ate his shortbread without tasting any of it while he marshaled his thoughts and temper. Surely, he thought, she did not mean to be so officiously and stupidly nice about Magnus doing what he had always done, and with his blessing. And surely it was only his guilty conscience that made him think she was working her way toward a condemnation of him being out in the rain with Portia. In the stable block with their clothes undone or tossed up, neither of which facts she could possibly know.

“I think, Mrs. Temple, that your distinction is too fine.”

She plucked another chevron of shortbread from the tray and ate it slowly. “When we fail to observe the niceties we court the danger of failing in our larger responsibilities. To God, to ourselves and to others.” He could practically hear Magnus speaking through her words. “Does not the Bible tell us to respect our elders and those who are in a position superior to us? As those who are our superiors must be mindful of what is best for those beneath them in rank and consequence.”

“I’ll grant the inhabitants of Doyle’s Grange an easement to cross the estate lands.” He shrugged. “I’ll write to my solicitor and have it done.”

“Until then…”

He was so desperate to put off the looming unpleasantness that he changed the subject with an utter lack of tact or finesse. “I’ve known Magnus and Portia since I was a boy. We have always been on the best of terms. I should hope you believe there’s little I would not do for either of them.”

She leaned forward. “Magnus and I are so very grateful for all that you have done for us. He would never ask you for anything on his own, you understand. He is too fine a man for that.”

He nodded.

To his astonishment, her eyes filled with tears. “He will not ask you, so I shall.”

“Please.” He could not help thinking that he’d been maneuvered to a point where he’d agree to almost anything to keep from seeing her dissolve into tears.

“He’s worked so long and hard, and for his own beloved sister to thwart him like this.” She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“This marriage of hers.”

“What of it?”

“Mr. Stewart is a fine man. We all adore him.” She fisted a hand on the table and looked so distressed he wasn’t certain if he should hand her his handkerchief or call for a servant to bring a vinaigrette. “Even if Portia were as madly in love with Mr. Stewart as I am with Mr. Temple, the fact is, her marriage does nothing to secure Magnus’s future.

A chill went down his spine, and his heart skipped a beat. “She’s not in love with him?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure she has tender feelings for him, my lord.” She smiled sadly. “Who would not? He is delightful. But she is not a woman of such pure emotion as I am. Surely, you have noticed this small defect in her.”

“I have not.”

“She does not feel as I do. Nor love so deeply. I have observed that few people do.” She waved a hand. “A marriage between her and Mr. Stewart is of no advantage to Magnus at all.”

He floundered, torn in too many directions to make sense of this. He’d come downstairs convinced he would be pressured to marry Portia, that it was only a matter of time before Magnus confronted him, and instead, unless he was badly mistaken, he was being asked to interfere in Portia’s engagement. “What is it you would have me do?”

No artist in the world could resist the temptation to paint her smile onto a Madonna. “Convince her to come to London before she ties herself irrevocably to a man who does not suit her. Put the full weight of your approval behind our appearance there with her. Any number of gentlemen of good family would be pleased to marry an attractive woman. You’ve not noticed that Portia is quite a lovely woman, but I assure you it’s so. With the proper gowns and only a little more attention to her appearance, why, she cannot help but make an impression.”

As it turned out, he did not need to concoct a reply to that, for she continued talking.

“A pretty woman whose family has the friendship of Lord Northword? Any of them would be men who could do Magnus more good, and suit her much better than Mr. Stewart.”

“Have you someone in mind?”

She brightened. “Several candidates, as a matter of fact.” She counted off on her fingers, but the names went by in a blur.

“So many?”

“Naturally, there are one or two at the top of my list, my lord. I understand it is a great favor to ask you to introduce suitable men to her, but consider that Magnus might one day be a bishop. Why, he might aspire to York or even to Canterbury. It’s not beyond his abilities.” She leaned in, intent. “If his sister makes a marriage of no advantage? All I ask is that you make known your approval of her when we are in London. What could be happier for us all?”

Ten past midnight

P
ORTIA DIDN’T MOVE FROM HER CHAIR
when someone tapped on her door. With Crispin here, they were keeping later hours and, after all, she wasn’t in bed yet. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but kept her legs drawn up on the chair. She wore only her chemise and the night wrapper she’d had since she was thirteen. Her hair was still loose even though by now it was dry. One had to expect that a woman who’d taken refuge in her room might not be dressed.

Whoever it was tapped again. In the best case, her visitor was Eleanor. In the worst case, Magnus himself had come to confront her. Either way, the visit could only be about her and Crispin. “Come in.”

The curtains weren’t drawn. Portia, seated in an armchair halfway between her dresser and the fireplace, continued to stare at the glass. On this clear, cold night with the stars shining bright in the sky, she could just see the moonlit branches of the rowan tree she’d planted. Already, the slender branches looked stronger. Decades from now, her tree would provide shade for whoever lived here. The door opened and cast a slice of light on the windows. Instead of the rowan tree or the stars, she saw a reflection of the door.

With a click, the door closed. She had no need to look, she knew who it was. A moment later, the key turned in the lock. Her skin rippled with awareness during the brief silence that followed that sound. He put his lantern on the table beside the door. “The walls aren’t blue any more.”

“I decided I liked this better.” She stood, but stayed beside her chair, her back to the window now, one hand resting along the top curve of the chair. Out of habit, she thought of all the times Crispin had been here. At night. When he ought not to have been and when the walls had been a pale blue. With them breathless and giddy. She gestured. “Moss. This green is called moss. Darker than the parlor, but green nevertheless and very much underappreciated, I do assure you. Except by me. It seems I overappreciate the color.”

He laughed and looked around the room, taking it in. “I like it.”

Her fingers dug into the chair. He took up all the space. All the air. “I was expecting Magnus or Eleanor.”

“To take you to task, I presume.”

She nodded.

“I am the hero of this tale, you know. The knight in shining armor facing down the dragon. Did you not hear your sister-in-law praise me for rescuing you from a storm you were obstinate enough to be out in?” He wandered into the middle of the room and took up even more space. She turned with his progress. “I’ve already been thanked, so you needn’t add yours.”

“I was not in need of rescue.”

“No?” He looked around again. “Other than the walls, everything’s the same.”

She made a fist of her hand. “What are you doing here?”

His smile vanished. “She wishes me to join in her efforts to get you to London before you are married.”

“Oh. Oh, dear. My apologies for that.”

“Shall I?”

She looked down and scratched an eyebrow. “It’s awful the way she gets what she wants, isn’t it?”

“Thoroughly unsettling.”

“Don’t abet her in this or any other scheme.”

He nodded once and into the growing tension he said, “We should talk. About what happened at Wordless.” His voice was so brisk he hardly sounded like the man she knew. His voice turned him into a stranger, into the Viscount Northword, not a man she’d known nearly her entire life. Not the man who’d been her first lover and her most recent one, but a stranger of terrible consequence.

She stared at her hand on the top of the chair and forced herself to uncurl her fingers. “I’m not sure there’s much to say.”

He walked to her dresser so that she had to turn around to face him. He’d stood exactly there dozens of times before. There was no mistaking him for the seventeen-year-old he’d been. He’d grown into all the promise of his maleness and gained an air of command. Both things suited him. “I think we ought to talk, don’t you? Clear the air.” He scratched his head. “Of all that.”

“Why? I don’t regret it.”

“Nor I.”

She couldn’t tell if Crispin was pleased or not and so said nothing.

He continued. “Please be perfectly clear on that point. I don’t regret what happened either. Even though it ought not to have happened.”

“I don’t think men regret such encounters.” Force of habit put a lilt in her voice. She wasn’t used to being on edge with Crispin, and here, in her room, their old familiarity seemed especially close.

“Is that all it was to you?” Of all the items on her dresser, he picked up one of the few new ones to be found. The porcelain pot no bigger than her fist contained as many crocuses as she could fit in it. A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “An encounter.”

“I’m sorry if that’s inaccurate.” Briefly, she closed her eyes. Her memories of him took on weight, the nights he’d walked here from Wordless under a starlit sky like tonight’s. “I don’t know what it was to you.”

“We’ll leave it at that, then.” He turned and tilted the pot, watching the play of light over it. He wore a thick gold ring on his first finger, and that, too, was something she did not recognize. In ten years, she’d acquired only two pieces of jewelry: a necklace and a pair of earrings, both a gift from Magnus when she turned twenty-one. Since she’d almost immediately lost one of the earrings, she almost never wore the necklace that matched. “You were not your usual self,” he said in his stranger’s voice. He looked up. “It would not be absurd to suggest I took advantage. I’ll apologize if you need that from me.”

“No.”

He leaned against the dresser, still holding the pot of crocuses. “Your favorite flower, are they?”

“They’ve always reminded me of you.” Too late, she realized how much that gave away. “They bloom every spring in the field between Northword Hill and the Grange. Every spring when Magnus and I were little, I tried to count them whenever we walked up the hill.”

He gave her a sideways look. “I remember.”

“There weren’t as many then as there are now. The first spring after you left, the hill was covered with crocuses as far as the eye could see.” She waved a hand. “Not just a few, but a carpet of them. People came all the way from Aubry Sock to see them. I told Magnus to paint it for you. Did he not send it on?”