Season For Desire (21 page)

“No, no. I know that. Building a life with someone else would be . . . different.” The word hurt, and he tried again. “It will be an adventure for you.”

Richard smiled. “My favorite word. Thank you. And what about your happiness?”

Giles waved a hand. One of those cursed, damned hands. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Spoken like someone who has no children. I have done nothing since your birth but worry about you. In a loving way, of course. Wanting the best for you. Your safety, your health.”

“About that.” Giles flexed his hand, then drew in a deep breath. “Father. I—have what Mother had. My hands—it’s been years, and . . .” Against the sadness that pooled in his father’s eyes, words dissolved.

“Giles, no.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Why was he apologizing when he was the one who hurt? Or was it instead a feeling:
I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry for us.

I’m sorry for me.
He would never have told Richard at all, except that his heart hurt as much as his hands, and that was entirely too much not to speak of.

“How can you be sure?” Richard asked. The same question Audrina had asked; the same thing he himself had wondered at first.

So he explained: the long months at university, when the pain had grown beyond ignoring; the flares of agony that came with overuse. How it spread into palm and forearm, how his wrist weakened and burned until every design, every line he drew, had to be considered before he put his hand through the pain of creating it. How he had consulted a physician—and when the man offered to cure him with leeches and galvanic shocks, he decided to stumble through on his own.

As Giles spoke, Richard leaned forward: first just a slight bit, with the rocking of the carriage; then fully, a triangle with elbows propped on his knees and a smile growing on his features.

“Your hands have hurt for years?”

Why this should make his father smile, Giles had no idea. “Yes.”

“Just your hands, and mostly at the wrist? Not your knuckles or feet or knees?”

“Right.”

Richard let out a breath as big as a collapsing hot-air balloon. “What you’ve got—Giles, I truly don’t think it’s arthritis like your mother had.”

Giles stared at his hands. As though to prove his father wrong, one wrist shot hot pain up into his forearm. “Why do you say that? After what it has done to me?”

“Because of what it has
not
done to you. Your mother soaked her hands in hot water every morning, and she had to brace herself to get out of bed because her feet hurt so badly when she first stood. Every day, it was like that, starting from when she was younger than you. None of you children are showing signs of that, thank God.”

“Then what is it instead?”

“That I can’t say. But if it hasn’t gotten worse—if it sometimes gets a bit better—maybe it’s an injury rather than an illness.”

Not arthritis?
He had lived with the certainty for—oh, seven years now. It had shaped his entire adult life.

Maybe it’s an injury rather than an illness.
An injury that never healed? What sort of injury could one cause by doing detailed work with one’s hands?

“Maybe.” His thoughts seemed locked in a wary circle. “Maybe. I could consult another physician while we’re in London.”

“Good. Yes. I think that would be wise.” Richard sighed. “You never said anything. All these years, you never told any of us. What a burden to bear.”

“Mother was already so ill, and whenever I came home, you were so glad for the help—”

“Giles. Son. I was glad to see
you
.” In the shadow-dim evening, Richard looked worn and sad. “I should have known, when you never pursued a career you’d given years to learning. I should have guessed that something was wrong.”

“Something
was
wrong. Mother could hardly move.”

“Yes, but even so. She would not have wanted me to overlook any need of one of our children. And I wouldn’t—don’t—want that either.” He shook his head. “Did she know what you thought?”

“No. I wanted to spare her that.”

“And who were you sparing by never becoming an architect?”

Giles’s jaw clenched. “I still got to design things.”

Richard’s expression looked—disgusted? It was difficult to tell in the wan light of the crescent moon and the scattered street lamps. “Buildings and jewelry aren’t the same things at all.”

“The process isn’t completely different.” Even to his own ears, Giles’s excuse sounded thin. “Parts fit together into a harmonious whole, and materials are calculated.”

Richard folded his arms. “Do you love it?”

“I . . .”

“Tell me right now if you love it. Do you love designing jewelry?”

“I . . . no. You know that. I’ve never said I loved it.”

“True. That’s true. Do you love something else more?”

“Something, Father? No—not a thing.”

“Someone, then.” Richard’s posture relaxed. Again, he rubbed at his chin: his
let me think about this
gesture. “Well, then. I have to ask you again: Who are you sparing by not pursuing what you want?”

Damned difficult question. He seemed to be surrounding himself lately with people who tossed that sort of thing his way.

But he thought he might be coming to an answer.

The problem was never what ailment he had, or—blessed possibility—thought he had. The problem was in how he had reacted to it. Instead of glutting himself on a purpose, on a rich and interesting life, he had bided his time. Herding the behavior of others, wanting to make himself indispensable.

But no one needed him. He wasn’t indispensable. Richard had found the puzzle boxes, and Giles hadn’t opened a single one. His sister Rachel missed him, but she loved many people. And Audrina—she had the money and health to do many things with her life, just as he’d told her. She need have nothing to do with Giles.

And that was all right, after all, because
need
was entirely different from
love.
Need was a parasite; love was a choice.

Richard cleared his throat. “You always seem embarrassed when someone notices what a good man you are, Giles. But I’ve noticed. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, to be a good man.” He smiled, that expression that settled so comfortably over his features. “You meant well, I think, by setting aside your dreams. But no one who loves you would want that of you.”

“No,” Giles agreed. “No, you are right.” And these words, freely given, felt like the unlocking of a chain.

It would take courage to gather up the pieces of a long and complex future. How would it fit together? He could not imagine what form it might take. But a man building a future could ask a woman to share it.

If that woman were the expected sort of earl’s daughter who wanted a life of rank and privilege, she would say no. But if she were a different sort of earl’s daughter—if she saw possibility in everyday items and liked to transform them—then an undecided puzzle of a future might appeal to her.

He hoped. Hoped, like a wound soothed.

His fingers ached—not only from within, but to hold a pen and unleash a long-throttled vision.

 

 

So many details. Good God, how could there be so many details involved in one wedding? It wasn’t as though he was unused to details; he—Roderick Francis Matthew Elder, Duke of Walpole, Earl of Carbury, Baron Winterset—had overseen a flourishing dukedom for nearly a decade.

With distaste, Walpole set aside the latest note from Lady Alleyneham. It was unseemly for her to ask his opinion of the future duchess’s garments: whether he thought there ought to be three rows of lace at the hem of the wedding gown, or four. He could not possibly be supposed to care. The wedding gown was of interest to him mainly in its removal.

He clamped down tightly on that thought, which was also unseemly.

December 30.
Only two days more, during which his future mother-in-law would likely assault him with all sorts of irrelevant queries. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, head aching just thinking about it.

He permitted himself the tiny pleasure of tossing Lady Alleyneham’s note into the fireplace. This was a sensible act, for there were too many papers on this desk to allow one more to add to the clutter. And though some of his bride’s relatives might display regrettable conduct, Lady Charissa herself was perfectly correct.

He returned to his work, making quick progress through reports and correspondence. During these late afternoon hours, much of polite society dined before their frivolous evening’s amusements. Walpole worked.

He did not make a habit of seeing callers at this time. It was a notable trespass, therefore, when his butler rapped at the door to announce a visitor.

“A Mr. David Llewellyn, Your Grace,” intoned March. “I endeavored to send him away, but he insisted his business would not wait. He says, Your Grace, that it is a matter of your personal happiness.”

“My personal happiness.” Walpole’s brow furrowed. He could not imagine what the gentleman wanted. He, the duke, had had little to do with that family for some months, though they remained acceptable associations. “All right, March. You may show him in. Ten minutes, no more.”

But he wound up listening to Llewellyn for far longer than that.

The Earl and Countess of Alleyneham were in the habit of attending early services every Sunday. Audrina hoped they would not break their routine simply because one of their daughters was absent and the other was to be married the following day.

On the last day of 1820, then, she sneaked into her family’s London home like a burglar. And maybe she was one, at that. She was stealing a space in this house—or rather, stealing it back.

Once settled into the Egyptian parlor, that fashionable horror so beloved by her mother, there was nothing to do but wait. Armored in gold brocade, she occupied herself by writing a few notes at the black-lacquer desk footed with Sphinx heads. To Sophy and Millicent, to give them the belated news of Kitty’s puzzle box. To Lord and Lady Dudley. To Kitty and her Daniel. Even to the Booths, a thanks for their hospitality. All the members of the ragtag family that had collected: an eddy of people, swirled together by mysterious currents, before the tides of time and distance broke them apart again.

As she was sealing this last, she heard the sounds of her family’s return. First the carriage door, then the front door, the butler’s smooth greeting. Her mother’s scattered speech, audible only as a pattern of sound, and then a great growl from her father.

Ah. He must have learned of Audrina’s presence.

She had only time to straighten her notes and stand before the earl burst into the room. His square face was a ruddy brick of temper, his hair a wild white halo. “You have dared to return. I should have expected this. Is it”—his voice remained low and calm with apparent effort—“too much to hope that you are properly betrothed?”

Audrina waggled her ringless hands at him.

There was a delightful power in not needing anything of him. Oh, she would rather have his approval than not. But she didn’t
need
it. “I returned, Father, because I want to attend my sister’s wedding.”

“Disobedience!”

“No. Desire.” The earl grew still more red, so she added, “I do realize that my behavior reflects on you, as the man in whose household I was raised. But the behavior for which you have faulted me was not mine.”

She had done many things for which he might have faulted her, had he known. But he didn’t need to know the windings of her heart. He had already decided:
Your departure and your guilt are the same
.

Her anger flared to match his own. “Besides faulting me, do you realize what else you did? You took your chance to be shed of me. You left me in York, when I wanted only to come home. You traveled home with a man who had carried me off against my will. You chose him over me. You chose reputation—appearance—over the well-being of your own daughter.”

As she spoke, his mouth made a hard, flat line; his eyes and brows were the color of cold metal. There was no breaking through. The heat of her anger might as well dash against a stone.

A stone could not grow or change. It could not become anything else; it was stuck. Her flood of anger began to ebb. “You abandoned me, Papa,” she continued in a clear voice. “And now I am glad for that. I made the best of it—more than the best
—
and now I know two important things. I know what I am capable of, and I know the limits of your heart.”

The earl had left behind his cane, and now he seemed not to know what to do with his hands. He folded his arms, opened his mouth—then closed it again, picking up a carved jet statue of a jackal from a marble-topped side table. “I . . .”

In the painful silence, a servant tapped at the door and announced a caller. “A Mr. David Llewellyn to see you both.”

Audrina and her father made identical sounds of disgust. This was more than Audrina had been prepared to take on at once; strength quailed.

No.
She was capable of this. This time she was awake, alert, and in possession of all her faculties. She could also lay hands on a penknife, if it came to that.

Not that it would. Llewellyn was a coward.

Before the unwelcome caller was shown up, the earl seated himself in the room’s largest, most forbidding chair. “Keep silent, daughter, and leave this to me.”

“If that seems wisest, I will.” Audrina sat again in the writing desk’s chair. “But the last time I kept silent and left matters to you, you gave in to fear and I was the one sacrificed. I shall not be treated that way again.” The hard wooden back of the chair lent her strength, and she added, “By the way, my lady’s maid should be let go without a reference, if you have not already seen to that.”

“Because?”

Did it matter so little to him? “Because she allowed Llewellyn to bribe her and drug me.” Confusion knit her brow. Someone else must have sent the garter from York before Christmas. Llewellyn himself? She did not know when he had returned to London. “Father, did Llewellyn stay with you all the way back to—”

“Ah, what a pleasure.
What
a pleasure.” The familiar angular face of David Llewellyn beamed at them from the doorway. Cursed man. He was impeccable in wool and velvet, silk and linen, glossy boots and pomaded hair.

She wished quite desperately for a different man to enter: one with short-cropped red hair and battered boots. Not that Giles had any reason to call upon her.

“The pleasure is all yours, Llewellyn,” Audrina said crisply. “Do sit. Let us get this over with quickly.”

The earl cleared his throat.

“Have you something to say, Papa? Please do. Or do you simply require tea? I should be glad to ring for some to be brought to you. Not to Mr. Llewellyn, though, since he is clearly not here on a social call.” She realized she was almost enjoying herself. Both men were goggling at her; she could not tell which of them was more surprised by her speech.

Good. Let them feel off balance for once. They had both betrayed her.

The earl was the first to recover. He turned to Llewellyn, who was now seated on a bench with figural ebony legs, a seat that Audrina knew to be most uncomfortable. “You’re here to settle up, aren’t you, pup? Let’s have the garter and then we’ll talk.”

Llewellyn recovered his fanged smile in an instant. “
Talk
is exactly what I’m here to do, my lord. There will be no need for negotiation. You see, I spoke to the Duke of Walpole about this unfortunate situation . . . yesterday.”

The earl fist’s convulsed on the arms of his chair. “You foul little cheat!”

For once, Audrina agreed unreservedly with every word her father said.

Examining his fingernails with a careless air, Llewellyn tossed back, “Come, now. Would an extra day have made any difference? You never intended to turn over a penny to me. I had to look after myself.”

Through gritted teeth, Audrina ground out, “
I
am the one who decides what I am worth. You had no right to set a price on me. I did no more than you to be ashamed of—and in fact, much less. I would never force someone to do anything against his or her will. Why should my family be punished and you rewarded?”

He chuckled. “Naïveté doesn’t suit you, my little apple tart. We both know men rule society and men make the rules.”

“Make the rules, yes,” she said. “But women enforce them. Lady Irving will stand at my side. I hope that my sister will, too.” She could not take for granted Charissa’s help, since her elder sister had so much to lose. Her own reputation; her much-longed-for marriage. The completely conditional good opinion of their parents. Audrina did not know whether Charissa would judge this too much to risk, but she herself thought it too much to ask.

“How should a man be judged if he is looking out for himself?” A low voice rang out from the doorway of the parlor.

“Walpole!” Lord Alleyneham hoisted himself to his feet.

Audrina rose and bobbed a fractured curtsy. “Your Grace, I did not realize you had arrived.”

“And would such knowledge have changed what you said?”

Audrina searched the severe features for leniency. “No, I suppose not. Though for my sister’s sake, I could wish that I had not mentioned her.”

“As a matter of fact, I have just spoken with her and your mother. I have had Lady Charissa’s opinion of you from her own lips.” By all rights, he should have handed off his ivory-headed cane when he’d entered the house, but Audrina had noticed he liked to keep it with him. At the moment, it advanced ahead of him across the room—rather like a knight carrying a lance, ready to joust at any moment. “Imagine my displeasure when I learned that Mr. Llewellyn possessed your . . . personal belonging.”

“I did not give it to him, Your Grace.”

Llewellyn snorted.

Audrina pressed her lips tight; held her chin high. There was really nothing more to be said than that. If appearance was all that mattered to him, as with her father, she was just as guilty despite—in this matter—her innocence.

“It does not matter if you did.” Closer and closer, the duke advanced. When Audrina dared look away at Llewellyn, a sly smile was beginning to cross his features.

Until the duke spoke again. “It would be just as wrong for him to betray a trust as it was for him to fabricate a scandal.”

“I assure you, it was not fabricated, Your Grace.” Llewellyn made an unctuous bow.

Audrina’s face went hot.

“Was it not?” The duke lifted his stern brows. “It was Lady Audrina’s idea, then, to hare off to the northern wilds and miss Christmas with her sister? Don’t answer, Llewellyn. I should like the lady’s reply.”

“It was not my idea. No. Your Grace.” She had an odd sense of unreality, as though the duke were toying with her. She clutched at the dignity Llewellyn seemed determined to strip from her.

“I asked a question earlier”—the duke swung his cane from an extended forefinger—“which neither of you has taken the opportunity to answer. But perhaps I caught you by surprise. I shall ask again. How should a man be judged if he looks out for himself?”
Thump
. The end of the cane smacked the carpeted floor heavily. “Even at the expense of others who may have less power than he? My response is that he is unworthy of the name of gentleman, but perhaps you have a different reply.”

Disbelief and delight warred in Audrina, making her unsteady. She cast back a hand, supporting herself on the smooth edge of the lacquered desk. “I think that an excellent answer, Your Grace.”

“And you, Lord Alleyneham?” The duke was all calm curiosity.

“I agree, naturally. Of course.” The earl’s face had gone a mottled red again.

“Very good. Lady Charissa, I might mention, also agrees. There remains only to solicit your opinion, Mr. Llewellyn. And it is?”

Llewellyn froze, clearly torn between bone-deep respect for the aristocracy and an even deeper desire to salvage some profit from the situation. “One must think of the scandal, Your Grace. A scandal can never be desirable.”

“The scandal of canceling a wedding would be as nothing compared to the scandal of marrying into a family of whom I do not approve, I grant you that. However, I do not have to admire and adore everyone in this family. Only my future wife.” Walpole fixed his gaze slightly above their heads. In a bored tone, he said, “I wonder why people are so certain that my mind can be easily swayed by personal revelations. Let me offer one of my own: I love Lady Charissa Bradleigh.”

“Your Grace!” Audrina and Llewellyn both gasped at once, though no doubt for entirely different reasons.

The duke shook his head. “All of you forgot to account for that fact. I want to marry her. What could stop us, save her own disinclination?”

A laugh bubbled up from Audrina’s chest. “That, Your Grace, you need not worry about.”

“So she assures me.” For a flicker, the distant eyes met Audrina’s. “She sees the best in me. It is a lovely characteristic. I wish to live up to her vision.”

What was there to do but curtsy? And grin. And—just a little, let her heart throb with a wish that someone would say the same of her.

But she and Giles saw each other too clearly for that, and they had said far too much that could not be taken back.

The duke granted Audrina a sliver of a smile. “As we are to be brother and sister, Lady Audrina, I do wish you might call me Walpole.”

Again he addressed Llewellyn. “Now, do you have Lady Audrina’s item with you, or shall I accompany you to your lodging to retrieve it? I am most reluctant that you should benefit financially.”

“I do not have the item of which you speak. It is being held by an associate.”

“An associate?” The earl’s tongue unlocked. “What associate? Damn it, man, this has gone on long enough.”

Flip flip flip
: The pieces came together in Audrina’s head, neatly as one paper spill being wound around another. Llewellyn had told her in York that he did not have the garters—and one was sent from York upon their return from Castle Parr. There was every chance, then, that someone in the party had been bribed. And knowing Llewellyn’s way with servants and a pocket full of silver . . . “It’s Jory, Father. The footman. Your footman. He and Llewellyn must have worked this whole plan out ahead of time.” Her nails bit into her palm. If a fierce expression could wound, Llewellyn would have been in mortal peril from several directions at once.

What is a person worth?
A question that should be asked about everyone. Not only men, not only the spotless, not only nobles. Jory had been sent racing to York as though he were property. Yes, he was paid to do his work, but how had he been treated in the course of that work?

Guilt cast a shadow over her indignation.

“Is this true? Your accomplice was my own footman?” Lord Alleyneham asked of Llewellyn, whose hesitation was confirmation enough. “Jory will be relieved of his position at once. And I shall see to it that he—”

“Papa, let us leave it at that.”