Sally MacKenzie Bundle (164 page)

“Ah, but I have the burden of passing my title on to the next generation—a burden I’m so hoping you’ll help me with.” James leered down at her. She slapped Rosebud’s reins to encourage the horse to move faster. Rosebud stopped dead and turned to look reproachfully back at her.

James laughed and brought Pythagoras up so that his leg brushed Sarah’s skirts. “If you wish to run away from me, love, you’ve chosen the wrong steed.” He leaned over, putting his gloved hand over hers on the reins. “I do hope you don’t plan to run away.” He started to bend farther, his eyes on her lips.

“James!” Lizzie’s voice sounded surprisingly close.

James straightened quickly. His sister was riding toward them, looking puzzled. Major Draysmith, by her side, struggled manfully not to laugh.

“Whatever are you doing with Sarah?” Lizzie asked.

James turned an interesting shade of red. Sarah leaned over to pat Rosebud’s neck.

“I believe your brother was giving Miss Hamilton a few extra riding tips,” Major Draysmith said with a straight face, though his eyes were dancing wickedly.

“Oh.” Lizzie looked at James and then at Sarah. “Well, hurry on, do. At your pace, we’ll never get to Westbrooke.”

“It’s only over the hill, Lizzie. You and Charles go ahead. Miss Hamilton is still getting used to riding.”

Sarah was not going to risk being alone with James again, not when she was sure Major Draysmith knew exactly what James planned to do the moment he and Lizzie were over the crest of the hill.

“I am sure I can manage a brisker pace.” She touched Rosebud’s side with her riding crop. This time the horse blew a long, gusty breath and obligingly moved a little faster.

Westbrooke was an immense house of gray stone that looked as if it had once had some thought of being a castle—its huge wooden doors were set between two crenellated towers—but had gotten distracted from that goal over the years. It was now a welter of towers, turrets, chimneys, and bays.

“Don’t you get lost in there?” Sarah asked, gaping at the bewildering facade as Robbie greeted them on the broad stone drive. He laughed.

“It’s not as confusing as it looks,” he said, turning to make a show of kissing Lizzie’s hand. Sarah noted the delicate shade of pink that flooded Lizzie’s cheeks as Robbie’s lips brushed her skin. “Come in and see for yourself.”

Robbie led them up the large open staircase. “This is the original section of the house, built in 1610. Subsequent earls added on as they pleased, not much caring if the new style blended in with the old. Ah, here we are.”

Sarah faced a long hall hung with the heavy, gilt-framed portraits of two centuries of Hamiltons.

“Here’s the first earl.” Robbie pointed to a life-sized painting of a man with long reddish brown curls, a spreading white lace collar, and polished armor. Sarah slapped her hand over her mouth, not quite suppressing her startled giggle.

“Very true,” James said. “Trim the flowing locks and you have Robbie ready for battle. We looked and looked through the attics, didn’t we, Robbie? We never did find that suit of armor.”

“We decided it must have belonged to the artist fellow,” Robbie said, moving down the line of portraits. He dutifully introduced Sarah to each of her ancestors. He stopped again at a large canvas hung almost at the end of the corridor.

“This was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds the year before your father left for America. My father used to say they had a terrible time getting David to cooperate.”

Sarah could believe it. The older man and woman—her grandparents—as well as the other young man, Robbie’s father, were grouped together. They looked relaxed and happy. Her father stood off to the side, stiff and unsmiling. She expected him to take out his pocket watch at any moment and urge the artist to hurry along. It was obvious he thought he had better places to be.

“I believe Sir Joshua captured my father’s spirit admirably.”

Robbie laughed and turned to the last painting. “My mother was a great admirer of Sir Thomas Lawrence and his more romantic style, so my father commissioned him to do our family picture. I confess I had much sympathy for my Uncle David.”

“What do you mean, Robbie?” Lizzie sounded almost outraged. “You look like a very sweet little boy in that painting.”

“Well, I hate to disillusion you, Lizzie, but I wasn’t. My father bribed me with a pony if I pleased my mother and sat still. It was pure torture, but I wanted that pony very badly.”

“I see there’s still some blank space on the wall, Robbie.” Major Draysmith grinned. “Planning to hang your own family grouping soon?”

Sarah noticed the sudden, keen interest on Lizzie’s face.

Robbie threw up his hands as if to ward off evil. “You’ve confused me with our ducal friend here, Charles. James may be hankering for a leg shackle, but I wish to remain a free man for many years to come.”

Sarah opened her mouth to explain once again that she and James were not going to be married, but she stopped when she saw the shadows in Lizzie’s eyes.

James leaned on the terrace balustrade at Alvord and looked down on the moonlit garden. The door behind him opened onto the warmth and light of his library. He breathed deeply, savoring the smell of mud and growth. The early spring wind tugged at his hair as he watched the night clouds scud across the sky.

He loved Alvord. It was in his blood and in his heart. But tomorrow they left for London with its noise and dirt. The
ton
was there with its sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Richard was there. He felt the back of his neck tighten, and he twisted his head to loosen the tension.

They could not stay in the country, much as he would like to. Lizzie needed her Season. So did Sarah. She should have the chance to go to the parties, to dance, and even to be courted by other men before he brought her home and made her his duchess. Before he took her to his bed and filled her with his children.

God, he could hardly wait. He’d have her naked beneath him again, just as she had been at the Green Man, but this time she would not push him away. This time he would finish what he had barely started there.

He took one last look at the moon and the garden. The quiet serenity of the scene would have to last him. Even the gardens in London were noisy, and the moon was too often obscured by fog.

He stretched and then turned back to the library, pulling the door to the garden closed behind him, heading for the stairs and his solitary bed.

Chapter 7

“He’s in London.” Richard spun the scrap of vellum into the fireplace. The flames caught it and twisted the expensive ink and paper to ash. “He’s opening Alvord House for Lizzie’s come-out. So gracious of him to invite me to her ball.”

“You
are
his cousin.” Philip Gadner tightened the belt on his dressing gown and stretched his slippered feet closer to the fire. It was so hard to stay warm these days. He felt the cold and the damp like sharp daggers in his bones. “People would talk if he didn’t invite you.”

Richard grunted and downed his brandy. “Alvord House should be mine.”

“Yes, I know. And it will be yours, Richard. Your plans—”

“Fail at every turn! God Almighty, that son of a bitch has amazing luck. By rights he should have taken a bullet to the brain at Ciudad Rodrigo or Badajoz. At the least he should have come back scarred or crippled, but the bloody bastard waltzes back to England without a scratch.”

“Well, yes, that was unfortunate. Who could have known that the French would fail so miserably?” Philip glanced at the bed behind him. He would love to get under the thick quilts. Then he’d be warm, at least for a while. Richard would soon be too drunk to care. That was the way it was these days. There were only occasional flashes of the emotion they had shared when they were younger.

He closed his eyes, shutting out Richard’s black scowl. Things would be better when Richard got the dukedom. Then Richard wouldn’t need the drink or the women. The rage that infected him would be gone like pus from a lanced boil. He’d be happy.

Philip’s lips jerked as the familiar pain flashed through his body. He had believed that story without question when he was seventeen and in love. He had believed it most of the time when he was twenty-five and healthy. But now he was thirty and cold. Why the hell did he stay? He was a decent valet. He could find other work. Someone else would take him on. Not a duke, of course. Maybe not even a peer—he had been with Richard too long. But someone would hire him.

It wasn’t the promise of wealth and luxury that kept him with Richard. God, how he wished it were only greed. But no, in spite of all the abuse and neglect, he still cared for the man. His love was a tenacious weed.

“He’s got the whore with him.”

Philip sighed. “The girl’s not a whore, Richard. She’s the Earl of Westbrooke’s cousin.”

“She’s got red hair, don’t she? Just like that piece at the Green Man.”

“That
dead
piece at the Green Man.” Philip’s long, thin nostrils flared. “You can’t leave bodies about the countryside, Richard. It’s most untidy.”

“Wouldn’t have killed the girl if you’d been with me, Philip, I’m sure.” Richard poured more brandy and cupped the glass in his hands. “Don’t know, though. God, you should have seen her eyes when she knew it, just when she knew I was going to kill her.”

Philip twitched his dressing gown over his boney knees. “You’ll not be putting your hands around this girl’s neck.”

“No?” Richard leaned back in his chair. The fire glinted red in his brandy. “I can’t have James getting an heir.”

“She’s just a houseguest, isn’t she? Just Westbrooke’s cousin.”

“My cousin does not kiss houseguests. He certainly does not kiss them outside on his estate where any passerby can see him.”

“Perhaps the bullet reminded James that he should not be planning a future.”

“Perhaps.” Richard took a swallow of brandy. “Who knows with James? I had better go to this come-out ball and see how he treats her. If he ignores her, I’ll ignore her. But if not…”

“If not, you’ll ignore her, too.”

Richard hunched one shoulder and sank deeper into his chair.

Philip felt a stab of panic. “You have to leave her be, Richard. You cannot kill this girl.”

“Don’t be such an old woman.”

“I’m not.” Philip struggled not to shout. He knew from long experience that showing his own anger would only fuel Richard’s. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Let’s not make any decisions now. Go to the ball and see how he treats her. Then we’ll make plans, all right?”

Richard hesitated, then nodded. “All right.” He snorted. “I wasn’t going to strangle the girl on the dance floor, you know.”

“I know.” Philip sighed. The storm had blown over for the time being. “I’m for bed now. Are you coming?”

Richard paused and Philip felt a sudden surge of hope. He knew that somewhere deep under the layers of dissatisfaction and anger that the years had piled on, under Richard’s obsession with James and the dukedom, the spark of what they had once known still flickered.

“No,” Richard said. “I think I’ll go out. Night’s still young. Don’t wait up.”

“No, I won’t wait up.”

Philip watched the door close. He heard Richard’s footsteps echo down the hall, down the stairs. He heard the front door slam. Richard would be gone all night.

He shed his dressing gown and crawled into the bed that now seemed much too large. He shivered.

It took him a long time to get warm.

“Do you think Richard will be here tonight, Sarah?”

“I would think so, Lizzie. He’s been invited.” Sarah was thankful she hadn’t eaten much at dinner—her stomach was almost as unsettled as it had been on the storm-tossed
Roseanna.
She looked down the sweeping marble stairs to the large foyer. Wiggins, the London butler, stood ready with a small army of footmen. Guests should be arriving at any moment. Where were James and Lady Gladys?

“Richard will be here.” Robbie was waiting with them. “He ain’t one to pass up a free meal.” He frowned. “Do be careful, both of you.”

Sarah restrained a slightly hysterical giggle. “It’s a little odd having you speak of caution.”

“Unjust! I can be quite responsible on occasion. Isn’t that right, James?”

Sarah turned, relieved to see James approaching with Lady Gladys on his arm. He was dressed starkly in black and white with a single emerald in the center of his cravat. His height, the dark blond burnish of his hair, and the breadth of his shoulders all caught the eye, but it was the strength in his face, the assurance and unconscious power of the man that held one’s attention. Sarah was certain that no other man tonight would look so impressive.

“You look splendid, your grace.” Sarah blushed. “As do you, Lady Gladys.”

“When one has more than seventy years in her dish, splendid is not usually the first adjective that springs to mind,” Lady Gladys said. “But thank you, dear. You look very well yourself, but I’m sure all the bucks will tell you that tonight.”

“Indeed,” James said, his eyes lit with an unsettling glow. “You will outshine all the other women present, except for Lizzie, of course.” He smiled at his sister; she made a face back.

“I wish I could wear an azure gown like Sarah instead of this insipid white.”

“You look lovely in white,” Sarah said. “Don’t you think so, Robbie?”

Robbie grinned and raised his quizzing glass. Lizzie raised her chin. He laughed. “Oh, indeed. The young pups will be stumbling over each other to beg a dance from you.”

Sarah was happy to see Lizzie smile and the tense lines around the younger girl’s eyes relax. However, none of the tension left Sarah’s stomach. “Lady Gladys, your grace, surely it would be more appropriate for me to wait in the ballroom?”

Lizzie’s hand shot out and grabbed Sarah’s wrist. “You are not deserting me, Sarah. I’m ready to faint with nervousness.”

“But Lizzie, I’m no relation to you. Your brother and aunt will be here. You will do wonderfully.”

“I don’t think you’re the only one who is nervous, Lizzie,” James said. “Calm down, Sarah. No one will be really vicious in the receiving line—there’s not enough time.” He grinned at Lady Gladys. “And this torture won’t last very long. Aunt gets tired, you know.”