First Comes Marriage (12 page)

Naively perhaps, Elliott had hoped that the worst of his burden was now behind him, for even though the new Merton was a minor and totally unprepared for the life and duties that would be his, and even though he had three sisters who were equally unprepared,
at least
there would no longer be Con Huxtable as a thorn in his side.

Or so he had thought. He had told Con to leave.

But he was still here. And he had chosen to greet the new owner of Warren Hall and his sisters with all the power of his great charm.

Common decency ought to have dictated that he leave before the new earl took up residence, even if he
was
a distant relative. But one ought to have known by now not to expect common decency from Con Huxtable.

Elliott left Mrs. Dew’s side and crossed the drawing room with determined steps.

“Indeed it
is
all rather splendid,” Con was saying, apparently in answer to something one of his young cousins had said. “My esteemed father saw fit to pull down the old abbey-cum-fortress-cum-hall soon after he succeeded to the title and to put up this testament to his wealth and taste in its place. Later he filled it with treasures from his travels as a very young man.”

“Oh, but I
wish,
” Katherine Huxtable said, “I might have seen the abbey.”

“It
was
nothing short of criminal,” Con agreed, “to have pulled it down, though perhaps one would not really have enjoyed its drafty corridors and dark, narrow-windowed chambers and archaic sanitation rather than the opulent comforts of this building.”

“If
I
had been doing it,” Merton said, “I would have left the old hall standing and built this house close by. History is all very well, and historic buildings really ought to be preserved, as Nessie is always saying, but I confess to enjoying the comforts of modern living.”

“Ah,” Con said just as Elliott was about to try maneuvering him closer to the window, where he intended to have a private word with him, “here is the tea tray. Set it down in the usual place, Mrs. Forsythe. Perhaps Miss Huxtable will be so good as to pour.”

But then he smiled ruefully and bowed to her.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said. “As the eldest sister of young Merton, you are hostess here, Cousin, and do not need my permission to pour. Please proceed.”

She inclined her head to him and took her seat behind the tray. Mrs. Dew joined her there in order to hand around the cups and saucers and the plate of dainties. George, in silent communication with Elliott, drew Merton and his young sister toward the marble fireplace, where they held out their hands to the welcome warmth of the fire.

Elliott strolled in the direction of the window, virtually forcing Con to go with him. He did not mince his words when they were out of earshot of the others.

“This is in decidedly poor taste,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“Putting aside my own inclination in order to remain here to greet my cousins’ arrival and help them feel at home?” Con said, feigning surprise. “I would call it in the
best
of taste, Elliott. I congratulate myself on my unselfishness and thoughtfulness.”

“You have greeted them and welcomed them,” Elliott said curtly. “Now you may leave.”

“Now?”
Con’s eyebrows arched upward. “At this very moment? Would it not appear somewhat abrupt, somewhat ill-mannered? I am amazed you would suggest such a thing, Elliott. You, who have turned into such a high stickler lately. You are in grave danger of turning into a dry old stick, you know. It fairly gives one the shudders.”

“I will not spar verbally with you,” Elliott said. “I want you gone.”

“I beg your pardon.” Con regarded him with a puzzled frown—and mocking eyes. “But do your wishes rule Warren Hall? Is it not rather those of Merton, my second cousin?”

“He is a
boy,
” Elliott said between half-clenched teeth. “And impressionable. And I am officially his guardian. You have already terrorized one child and there was precious little I could do about it—he was your brother and under your influence. It will not happen with
this
boy.”

“Terrorized.” For one moment the air of mockery slipped and something altogether more ugly gleamed in Con’s eyes. “I
terrorized
Jon.” And then he recovered. “But of course I did, and it was easy to do. He did not exactly have all his wits about him, did he? Or if he did, there were not very many of them behind which he might have sheltered himself from my pernicious influence. Ah, Mrs. Dew—an appropriate name. I am parched and you bring me tea.”

His charming smile was back in place.

She carried two cups. Elliott took the other one and inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Mrs. Dew,” Con said. “But there is no
Mr.
Dew with you?”

“I am a widow,” she told him. “My husband died a year and a half ago.”

“Ah,” Con said. “But you are yet so young. I am sorry. It is hard to lose loved ones—especially those who are as close as one’s own heartbeat.”

“It
was
hard,” she agreed. “It
is
hard. I have come here to live with Stephen and my sisters. Where will
you
live, Mr. Huxtable? Here?”

“I will find somewhere to lay my weary head after I leave here, ma’am,” Con said. “You must not worry about me.”

“I am sure you will,” she said. “It had not occurred to me to worry. But there is no hurry, surely. This house is more than large enough for all of us, and it
is
your home. And we really ought to get properly acquainted. An ancient family feud has kept us apart for too long. May I fetch you some dainties? And you, Lord Lyngate?”

Something in her eyes and her tone told Elliott that she had overheard at least a part of his conversation with Con. And, being one as usual to jump to conclusions, she was annoyed with him.

Merton came over to join them as she was leaving, obviously too restless to remain by the fire.

“I say,” he said, looking out the window with bright, intense eyes, “there is a magnificent view from up here, is there not?”

“I believe it must have been this very view,” Con said, “that impelled my father to build the new house on the exact site of the old.”

The window faced south. From it one could see out over the terrace and the formal gardens below and across rolling parkland in every direction—lawns and woods and lake—to the distant patchwork of the fields of the home farm.

“Perhaps,” Merton said, “you will ride out with me tomorrow, Cousin, and show me everything.”

“And the house too,” Katherine Huxtable added. She had come to join her brother. “Will you show it to us and describe all its treasures? You must know them so well.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Con said. “Anything to please my cousins. What an abomination family quarrels are, as your sister has just observed.” His eyes came to rest on Elliott, and one of his eyebrows rose mockingly. “They are frequently about nothing at all of any moment and can drag on for generations, depriving cousins and second cousins of one another’s acquaintance.”

Theft and debauchery were of no moment? Elliott held his gaze until Con looked away at something in the garden at which Katherine Huxtable was pointing.

Mrs. Dew was standing by the tea tray, cake plate in hand, conversing with her sister and George. She smiled at something George said and turned in the direction of the window with the plate. Her still-smiling eyes met Elliott’s, and he looked back at her, tight-lipped.

Why did he find himself looking at her far more frequently than he looked at either of her sisters? They were far easier on the eyes than she was, after all. Though it was not in appreciation that he looked, was it? He was invariably irritated by her.

He wished, as he had a dozen times since leaving Throckbridge, that she had remained behind. He had the uneasy feeling, as he had there, that she was indeed going to be a constant thorn in his side.

She was going to court Con’s friendship, he suspected, merely to spite him.

What an abominable woman she was.

7

VANESSA had always been of the opinion that conflict did not bring out the best in people.

There was definitely some sort of conflict between Viscount Lyngate and Constantine Huxtable. And while she might have been inclined to believe that the viscount was probably to blame simply because it was in his nature to be arrogant and bad-tempered and Mr. Huxtable was an illegitimate son of a former earl and was therefore beneath him socially, she was no longer sure that Mr. Huxtable was entirely blameless.

She overheard a part of what they said to each other as she approached with the tea. She did not feel guilty about overhearing what had not been meant for her ears. The drawing room—
Stephen’s
drawing room—at teatime was not the place to be conducting a private feud if one wished to keep it from the other people present.

But while Viscount Lyngate was being his usual obnoxious self, Constantine Huxtable was showing a different side to his nature than he had demonstrated thus far. He was sneering, and he was goading the viscount, clearly enjoying the fact that he had him rattled.

He had been told to leave Warren Hall before their arrival but had stayed.

Because he had wanted to greet Stephen and his sisters, long-lost cousins, and welcome them to the home that had been his until now? Or because he had known it would annoy Viscount Lyngate to find him still here?

If the latter had been his motive, she could still feel some sympathy for him though it would be a bit lowering for
them
. Why should he leave, after all, just because Viscount Lyngate had told him to?

But really the whole thing appeared to be petty. Good heavens, the two men were adults and they were cousins. They looked enough alike to be brothers except that the one cultivated an almost perpetual scowl while the other cultivated charm and smiles, revealing just how handsome he was despite his crooked nose. Though in truth he was not quite as handsome as Viscount Lyngate.

Vanessa did not care what their quarrel was about. Well, she
did
—most people, after all, feel a natural curiosity about such things. But she did not believe that she and Stephen and her sisters ought to be drawn into it today of all days. Today was probably one of the most exciting of Stephen’s life. The two men might have the good manners to keep their quarrel for another time and place.

But Stephen’s was a good fortune, after all, that had been achieved as a result of the misfortune of another. And during dinner Vanessa noted that Mr. Huxtable was clothed all in black, as he had been earlier when he was still dressed for riding. Like her, he was in mourning, though for him it was still full mourning. What must it be like to lose a brother? Her mind touched upon Stephen, but she firmly cut short her imaginings. It did not bear thinking of.

“Tell me about Jonathan,” she said to Mr. Huxtable after they had all removed to the drawing room.

Meg had been saying something to Viscount Lyngate and Stephen, but they must all have heard her question and paused to listen to the answer.

Vanessa thought he was not going to reply. He gazed into the fire, a slight smile on his lips. But then he did speak.

“It is usually impossible to describe someone with one word,” he said. “But with Jon only one word seems really appropriate. He was love. There was no one and nothing he did
not
love.”

Vanessa smiled her sympathy and encouragement.

“He was a child in a young man’s body,” Mr. Huxtable continued. “He loved to play. And sometimes he loved to tease. He liked to hide even if it was perfectly obvious to the searcher where he was hidden. Is that not so, Elliott?”

He looked at Viscount Lyngate, and for a moment the mockery Vanessa had seen in his face earlier was back. It was a pity. It was an expression that did not suit him.

The viscount—of course—frowned.

“You must miss him dreadfully,” Vanessa said.

Mr. Huxtable shrugged.

“He died on the night of his sixteenth birthday,” he said. “He died in his sleep after a busy, happy day of play. We should all be so fortunate. I did not wish him dead, but now at least I am free to seek my fortune elsewhere. Sometimes love can be almost a burden.”

It was shocking to hear the words spoken aloud. Vanessa could never have been so honest. But she felt a shiver of recognition in them. Was it not callous, though, to think thus? Though he had said
almost
. She knew all about the pain of loving.

“I say,” Stephen said, breaking a short silence that everyone else might have been finding embarrassing, “I hope you are not planning to leave here soon, Cousin. There is much I wish to ask you. Besides, there is no reason to stop thinking of this as your home just because it is legally mine.”

“You are all kindness, lad,” Mr. Huxtable said, and the faint suggestion of mockery was there again in his voice and in one slightly arched eyebrow.

Was he a pleasant man hiding behind a mask of seeming carelessness, Vanessa wondered, or an unpleasant man hiding behind a mask of charm and smiles? Or, like most humans, was he a dizzying mix of contradictory characteristics?

And what of Viscount Lyngate? She turned her gaze on him and found him looking back at her. The blueness of his eyes was always a slight shock.

“It is not just kindness, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, still looking at the viscount. “We are really very happy to find a cousin we did not even know we had. No one told us about you.”

The viscount’s lip curled ever so slightly at one corner, but the expression could not by any stretch of the imagination be called a smile.

“And since we
are
cousins,” Mr. Huxtable said, “I beg you will all call me by my first name.”

“Constantine,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “And I am Vanessa, if you please. I am sorry about Jonathan. It is hard to watch a young person die, especially when one loves him.”

He smiled back at her without making any verbal comment, and she decided that he was at least partly a pleasant man. No one could fake that expression. It told her that he had loved his brother—though Jonathan had taken the title that might have been his.