To Marry an Heiress (21 page)

“And she loved you all very much,” Gina added.

“Yes, Margaret had loved the children. He’d never doubted that fact. But she’d never crept into their
beds when it stormed or insisted they share meals or traipsed about the countryside with them half-naked. Or half-clothed for that matter.

He wished he could stop comparing the two women he’d married. He’d loved Margaret beyond reason.

And yet he was coming to realize he
liked
, enjoyed Gina so much more.

Sitting before the hearth in his room, his legs outstretched, Devon lifted his glass to the painting in a mock salute. Unwilling to part with it, he’d brought it from his London home. “You would have never set foot in a field, much less worked in one. I wonder, my sweet, if we might have been happier if you had not found our financial fall from grace so difficult to accept.”

He downed the amber liquid, relishing its scorching path along his throat. The only light in the room came from the candle burning on the mantel. Shadows danced around him.

Theirs had been declared a love match. And he had loved Margaret. Enough so that her weeping had torn at his soul, her tears had flayed his heart.

Until the final year of her life when her disappointments in him became too great, and she wrapped the cloak of a sacrificial martyr around herself so tightly he could not work it loose. Not with promises, teasing, the touch of his lips, or the caress of his hands. She became an iceberg in a frozen sea of disappointments.

He ignored the light tapping on the door that led
into the lady of the manor’s room. But he should have known Gina was simply announcing her intent to join him, not requesting permission to enter.

As though she was a willowy wraith, she glided into the room.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He’d been unusually quiet after discussing Margaret with the children. He’d expected her not to notice but was not surprised that she had.

Lifting the decanter, he poured more amber liquid into his glass. “How long have you been sleeping with my children?”

“While you were in London, it rained here, and I discovered that the storm made them anxious.” She perched on the edge of the settee. “Sometimes it’s easier to face our demons with someone beside us.”

“Is that the voice of experience speaking?”

She bestowed upon him a secretive smile that led him to believe she harbored mysteries of her own. He watched as she studied the portrait above the hearth. He was astounded by the complete appreciation that washed over her features.

“Is that Margaret?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“She’s beautiful.” She pressed her hand against her throat. “No wonder you still love her.”

Did he still love her, or did he just love the memory of what they might have shared?

“What illness did she have?” Gina asked, her brow furrowed with concern, as though his first wife still suffered.

“Disillusionment. Disappointment. Marriage to
me was not all she thought it would be.” Throwing his head back, he tossed down his drink, then set his glass aside. “I should think you would commiserate with her. After all, sweeting, this marriage cannot be what you thought it would be when you laid out your terms and I so readily agreed to them.”

“It’s not what you thought it would be either.” She eased down to the floor—the floor, for heaven’s sake—and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. “I wonder if any relationship ever is.”

“You’re quite the little philosopher.”

She dropped her chin to her knees. “You never spoke to the children about Margaret’s death?”

He placed his arm along the back of the settee and shifted uncomfortably. “No. Millicent was only two, Noel five. I suppose I thought they would simply understand. I certainly never meant for them to fear storms. Strange how a child’s mind works,” he murmured distractedly.

“I think everyone’s mind works strangely.”

He studied her. Her slippered feet, her long fingers, the collar of her nightgown that rose to her chin, her dark eyes. He loathed comparing her to Margaret, for there was no comparison to be made in either physical beauty or temperament.

Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his thighs and lifted the thick rope of her braid, which had fallen over her shoulder. He brushed it over his lips, as though the insignificant action could help him make sense of her. Her hair smelled of flowers.

“You wanted a child, so you married me. Yet
when I refuse to seek your bed, you toil in my fields. I don’t understand you, Gina.”

“As much as I wanted a child, I was more concerned with making my father happy. He thought he’d somehow done me a disservice by dragging me along on all his business ventures. His finding me a husband who knew how to treat a wife well was his attempt to make amends.” She lifted her shoulder. “I loved him with all my heart. For so long he was all I had.”

“For him you married an irascible earl?”

“I didn’t know you were irascible. I only knew you were desperate. I suppose I should be unhappy because my father gambled away his money.”

“Quite so.”

“Only I’m not unhappy. His love brought me happiness, never his money.”

“Are you telling me that you find no joy in the purchase of a new gown?”

“Certainly there is a surge of joy, but it’s fleeting.”

“Ah, so you need an abundance of money, so you can experience constant surges of joy.”

She shook her head. “You’re missing my point.”

“No, my little philosopher, you’re overlooking mine. Money is a means to an end. In my particular circumstances, I carry the burden of ensuring that the estates that the Crown of England bestowed upon my ancestor for his acts of heroism and loyalty are maintained in a manner that represents the grandeur he earned.

“It is not simply a matter of failing Margaret, but of not upholding my share of the coveted heritage.”

The light and shadows created a moving tapestry over her features as she seemed to consider his words. He knew now that her weathered face had been earned in fields much like his. It bothered him to find something they shared, especially this.

She was a commoner exalted to the pedestal of nobility by marriage. While he was nobility tumbling toward the common because of poverty.

Reaching out, he stroked his thumb over the crevices that fanned out from the corners of her eyes. Lines he’d thought had been created by laughter. Now he suspected her squinting at the sun had formed them.

“I hear the sun is harsh in Texas.”

“Everything is harsh in Texas.”

“Then what draws people to it?”

“It’s a wonderful place for nurturing dreams.”

“Do you not think dreams can be nurtured here?”

“I think dreams exist wherever hope thrives.”

He gave his lips a wry twist. “Ah, yes, my little optimistic countess. I suppose today you saw the fields as half harvested whereas all I saw was the work that remained to be done.”

“You had to see the beauty of the fields, their abundance, the way the crops rippled in the breeze. Success as far as the eye could see.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “I suppose it depends upon where you’re standing. If I were a tenant farmer, I could appreciate the success of it. But
I
should not have to look at it so closely or care so damned much that the crops are harvested before
the next rain. You weren’t raised in my world. You can’t fathom my shame.”

“No, I can’t. I only know I’m glad I hitched my wagon to your star.”

Watching as she rose to her feet and strolled from the chamber, he fought the urge to call her back. Hitched her wagon to his star indeed.

His was but a falling star.

G
eorgina lay beneath the thick comforters in her bed in the east wing.

After visiting with Devon in his bedchamber, she’d been unable to erase the image of him sitting where he could gaze with ease at the immense portrait of his wife hanging over the hearth. She’d returned to the room that smelled of the woman he loved.

She wanted to be magnanimous, to be joyous of heart, but it hurt to see his love for another, to see it everywhere she turned, to always be reminded that she was here only because of Devon’s need for funds.

She’d been unable to convince herself to remain in the bedchamber that served as a shrine for his deceased wife.

So she’d crept through the house as though she had something to hide, her bare feet pattering over the cold marble.

Once inside her room, she’d pulled aside the draperies so the moonlight could spill through the window. Now the fire burned low in the hearth.

She contemplated easing out of bed, dashing over the cold floor, and placing a little more coal in the fire. But losing the warmth of the bed for what she would gain wasn’t worth the effort.

She’d never actually answered the children when they asked if she’d sleep in their wing. Tomorrow she would find an excuse to give to them regarding the reason that she wanted to remain here.

She swept the end of her braid across her lips as Devon had done earlier against his.

For a while she’d thought he was going to kiss her.

Heat poured through her with the memory of his gaze touching her face as though it was a caress. She had wanted him to touch her. To tell her that having her with him in the fields that day had lightened his burden.

To the very depths of her being she had loved watching Devon work. There was something incredibly intoxicating about the way a man’s muscles bunched and knotted as he swung a scythe.

Her respect for him had grown with each passing hour. She’d come from a society that judged a man by the sweat he worked up. She couldn’t understand why Devon placed such a high value on not having to labor.

She much preferred laboring in a field to dancing in a ballroom.

She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed the scent of dirt and freshly cut crops, the feel of the wind rif
fling her hair and cooling the sweat on her skin.

When her father had returned from the war, he’d had grand plans to improve their lot in life. She and her mother had traveled with him. It was then that she’d begun to feel uprooted. She’d never been comfortable on their travels, had always longed for the comfort of sleeping in the same bed, eating at a familiar table, sitting in a room that carried the scent of those she loved.

But not a room that carried the scent of her husband and the fragrance of the woman
he
loved.

And she had no doubt that Devon still loved the woman. His voice had a deep timbre whenever he spoke of her. It mattered not that Margaret had failed to appreciate his efforts.

He apparently still loved her deeply. Why else would he be staring at her portrait?

He seemed willing to accept that the woman had not lightened his load but had preferred to add to it. Georgina supposed it was because Devon and Margaret were of the same ilk. They understood the subtle nuances of the aristocracy as she never would.

She could not fathom the things they valued. The scales were so unevenly tipped. She and Devon were so different. How could she ever find happiness if she remained here?

She heard the door to her room open. She held her breath as soft footfalls echoed around her.

Peering through her eyelashes, she watched as he hunkered down in front of the hearth, grabbed the poker, and stirred the embers.

He had to have gone to Margaret’s bedchamber
first, and after finding it deserted, had come in search of her here. Why had he bothered?

She liked his silhouette, the manner in which the orange glow from the fire outlined a portion but not all of him. He added coal to the fire until the flames danced higher and sent out warmth that crept across the room to create a cozy sense of well-being.

He unfolded his tall, lean body and walked to the bed, stopping just short of her. With her lids lowered, she barely breathed.

“I take it you prefer the distance between us,” he said quietly.

He’d been in his room, staring at a portrait of his wife, the true love of his life. How could she compete with that memory?

“I can’t sleep in the bed where you made love to your wife.”

“I see. That was rather heartless of me to think you would be comfortable there.”

“Not heartless. I just prefer it here.”

He stood for the longest time, unmoving. And when he finally left, she wished he hadn’t.

D
evon did not find looking over his ledgers nearly as gratifying as looking over his wife, where she sat in a chair before the window. Her head was bowed as she read
Jane Eyre
.

She had been reluctant to join him in his domain. He’d convinced her the light was better. Then the dark clouds had moved in, and she stared more at the gloomy day than she did at her book.

He wondered what she was contemplating. He’d gone to the bedchamber adjoining his to simply gaze upon her. This remarkable woman who seemed unable to fully comprehend his world, but whose own world seemed remarkably sane.

He’d listened as she’d explained to the children that the east wing of the house seemed a trifle lonely, and therefore she’d decided to stay in her bedchamber there, but she would always be available to them, especially during storms.

They had readily accepted her explanation.

While he knew the truth. His dear departed wife made his current wife uncomfortable.

“Devon?”

“Yes, countess?”

She ran her finger along the edge of the book. How he wished she was trailing it over his face. He wanted to make love to her with a desperation such as he’d never known.

“You’d mentioned wanting to better the life of the people here, of their children. Do you have a plan?”

“I need to provide opportunities other than working in the fields, because they can better themselves by moving to the cities where industry is thriving.” He shook his head. “I’m not in a position to simply give. I’ve been looking into ways to lure the industries here. Unfortunately, I need a way to help them that will also benefit me.”

Her head came up. “That’s good business sense.”

“Is it indeed?”

She blushed but continued to hold his gaze. “Have you ever considered investing in land in Texas, getting into cattle? You could send the area boys to Texas to work the land and cattle. I know a couple of men who I’m sure would be willing to teach them what they needed to know.”

“That Magpie fellow you mentioned.”

She smiled winsomely. “Yes, he’s one of them.”

“I suppose there’s some merit to pursuing this avenue. Kit’s certainly done well over there by all accounts.”

A soft rap on the door caught his attention and he bade entry.

Winston stepped in. “Milord, a missive has arrived for the countess.”

Gina popped out of the chair, took the letter, and tore into it as though she was expecting a bauble. Devon watched as her gaze traveled over the words, joy illuminating her features with each passing moment.

She released a small squeal and crushed the letter against her bosom.

Her excitement certainly piqued his curiosity. “What is it?”

She faced him with unadulterated love reflected in her eyes. The beauty of her gaze was mesmerizing. He wanted her desperately now in this room, in every room. Slowly he began to rise.

“Jake is coming!” The only sound in the room was the crackling of paper as her fingers tightened their hold on the letter. “Father must have made travel arrangements for him before he died. Oh, my God, I’ve missed him so much.”

He felt as though he’d taken a blow to his midsection. He gripped the desk. The love she held for this man was incredibly evident. “Who the devil is Jake?”

“My very best friend.”

“Jake who?”

“Just Jake.”

“One of those fellows with only a solitary name?”

“You could say that.” Her smile grew so large that he was surprised her jaws managed to stay hinged. “Lauren’s bringing him. I have to tell the children.”

She fairly flew out of the room, leaving him to wonder why she looked as though her soul mate had just risen from the dead.

“Father, do you know Jake can do tricks?” Noel asked.

Sitting with his back against a tree, one leg stretched out, the knee of the other raised, Devon studied his wife as she sat among the flowers with his daughter a short distance away. Her smile blossomed over her face as she listened intently to Millicent’s ramblings.

Was his daughter carrying on about this Jake fellow as well?

“Indeed. So he’s somewhat of a magician, is he?”

“Gina says he’s especially talented at making things disappear. She says he’ll be arriving any day now.”

“I can hardly wait,” he responded dryly.

“Neither can we. I’m ever so glad you brought Gina to us. I think she’s beautiful. Don’t you, Father?”

Beautiful? At first glance, no. Perhaps that was where he’d made his mistake in the beginning. He hadn’t taken the time to do more than glance at her.

Her beauty wasn’t visible on the surface. It was like an underwater spring, discovered only if someone went searching for it, its warmth and crystalline purity a gift bestowed upon the discoverer.

Devon had not bothered to look beyond what was evident to all.

Like still waters, she ran deep, his wife. She pos
sessed a giving heart that revealed itself with remarkable kindness. She had brought his children back into his life, but more importantly, she’d lured him into theirs.

Bedtime stories and comforting tuckings-in were now a ritual. Dinner conversations were lively, moving beyond recitations of daily achievements to include discussions of artistic works and political events. His son, though only eight, had a grasp of economic conditions that was unnerving.

Noel would not make his father’s mistake of waiting to inherit before pursuing his dreams. With the fields yielding a bounty of harvest, it was quite possible that he would not have to inherit his father’s debts.

“Yes,” Devon said solemnly, “I do think she’s beautiful.” In ways he was only just beginning to appreciate.

During the week, Gina had continued to work beside him, never once complaining about the early hour or the long day. As she labored, she wore her bedraggled hat and a smile.

Good God, how was it that the woman could constantly smile? Had he ever known anyone who was as filled with joy as she was?

Suddenly Gina jumped up as though she was as young as Millicent. Holding his daughter’s hand, laughter dancing on the breeze, she walked toward them.

“Let’s fly kites!” she called out.

“I feared she’d never say it was time!” Noel cried
as he hopped up and grabbed one of the kites leaning against the tree.

Gina had insisted they let the picnic fare settle in their stomachs a while before they took to the kites. Devon hadn’t thought it would make much difference to their digestion, but he hadn’t wished to spoil the festive mood by contradicting his wife.

Although he’d schooled his face not to show it, he was almost as anxious as Noel to set the kites on the breeze. He hadn’t toyed with a kite since he was a lad no older than Noel. Bending, he picked up the remaining kites, the larger one painted a bright red, the smaller one a deep blue.

He’d sat in the day nursery last night and observed his wife and children as they’d worked on their creations, using sticks and scraps of newspaper. Lord knew where Gina had found the paint and where she garnered the enthusiasm to give so much to his children every night.

“Mine, Father.” Millicent held out her small hands, her eyes glittering like jewels.

“Do you require assistance getting it up?” he asked as he handed her the kite.

She shook her head and ran off.

Gina took the red kite from him. “She will need help,” Gina said softly. “The best way is to make it seem as though she’s helping you.”

“How do you know so much about managing children?”

She gave him her knowing smile. “I used to be a child.”

“So was I, but I haven’t half your understanding of children.”

“I don’t think you were a child. I think you were born an adult.”

“Touché.”

“It’s up! Look, Father! Gina! It’s up!” Noel shouted.

His kite was dancing on the breeze with its long tail of ribbons fluttering madly.

“Those bows look familiar,” he murmured.

“They came from the gowns my father purchased for me. The gowns look halfway decent without them, and I didn’t think he’d mind seeing them bring such joy to the children.”

“Mine won’t go!” Millicent cried as she ran a few steps, stopped, and ran a few more, clutching her kite the whole while.

Devon was on the verge of coming to his daughter’s rescue when Noel said, “Here, Millie. Take mine. I’ll get yours up for you.”

He watched with aching pride as his son handed his kite to Millicent and then took off at a rapid pace, releasing her kite to the wind.

“They’re such lovely children, Devon,” Gina said quietly.

He cleared his throat of emotion. “Indeed they are.”

He turned his attention to her. “Do you require assistance getting your kite up?”

“Are you kiddin’? We fly kites back home.”

She left him then, heading away from him toward the openness of the field as though she was one of the children.

Crossing his arms across his chest, he leaned against the tree and watched as she loped across the field, laughing as she went, lifting her arm, releasing the kite, allowing the wind to snag it and carry it toward the clouds.

Georgina loved the unmistakable instant when the wind accepted a kite into its keeping and sent it soaring. Slowing to a walk, she turned back and watched the kite dip and twist. It was such a simple thing, standing here, holding the string, while the kite moved very little after it reached its height, but she loved it all the same.

She lowered her gaze from the sky to the land, to Devon, standing beneath the boughs alone. She’d been so entranced helping the children make the kites, showing them by example as she worked on hers, that she hadn’t considered he was being left out. He hadn’t offered to make his own but had simply observed them through the evening.

She’d been surprised he’d stayed with them the entire time. They’d made such a mess in the day nursery with their paste and newspaper and the old paint she’d located in a shed.

She’d planned this picnic to include all the family, had been thrilled when Devon had agreed to accompany them. But although he was here, she didn’t feel as though he felt he truly belonged. Just as she did not feel that she belonged in the bedchamber next to his.

Waving her hand, she called out to him, “Come here!”

She saw his hesitation before he shoved himself
away from the tree and strode toward her. Long strides, even and confident. For all the worries he carried on his shoulders, he seemed more at ease here in the country, more real, than he had in London, where he was constantly under the scrutiny of his peers.

As he neared, she extended the ball of twine toward him. “Did you want to fly it?”

He studied her as though he hadn’t quite grasped her meaning, and then some emotion—gladness, she thought—quickly flickered across his face.

“What say we do it together?” he suggested.

“All right.”

He walked behind her and put his arms around her, closing his hands snugly over hers. She wished neither of them had been wearing gloves—or shoes, for that matter. He pressed his chest to her back, and she could feel the buttons on his vest and the watch chain that dangled outside the pocket.

Even for an event as relaxed as a picnic, he dressed in his finery. Yet she was beginning to see through the elegant facade to the man beneath it. She was much more comfortable with this man who worked in the fields than she’d ever been with the gentleman in London. Yet they were one and the same.

“Do you know what I’d like to do?” she asked.

Devon could think of any number of answers as he stood with her in his arms. She fitted perfectly. He’d only have to lower his head a bit, and he’d have access to the enticing spot behind her ear, a place he knew from experience was incredibly sensitive.

Her fragrance teased his nostrils, and he remem
bered how the scent had grown stronger when heated with passion.

He’d been a damnable fool to exile himself from her bed, and to announce his intent had been even more ill considered.

She jiggled her hands. “I want to let the kite fly higher.”

Ah, he’d forgotten she’d asked him a question, hadn’t realized he was grasping her hands so tightly that she was unable to release more of the twine. He loosened his hold. “My apologies. I didn’t realize I was holding it quite so securely.”

She glanced over her shoulder, her smile bright enough to put the sun to shame. “I don’t blame you. I’m always afraid I’ll lose it. What do you think would happen if we let go?”

“I should think it would crash to the ground.”

She twisted her head so she was again looking at the kite, the vast expanse of sky.

“I think it would fly forever.”

Devon was vaguely aware of the scratching of his quill pen over parchment as he made notations in his ledger, notations that were blotted out here and there as he continually lost his train of thought and stared ahead as though he was a man with no goals in life. He’d stare until the ink dripped from his pen onto his paper, creating a mess that it would shame him to ever show anyone.

But there was no hope for it. He could not keep his mind on his task.

They’d returned from their picnic late in the after
noon. The children had gone to their nursery, his wife to her sitting room. And he’d come here searching for answers that had no questions.

Leaning back in his chair, he brushed his fingers over the quill again and again. It looked rather mutilated after being used as part of his daughter’s Indian headdress. He should replace it, but he liked the memory it invoked.

The memory of his daughter—and the memory of his current wife.

At twenty-six, she’d sworn she’d never kiss anyone but him. He had no doubt on their wedding night that she’d been a virgin.

So if this Jake fellow meant so blasted much to her, why hadn’t he kissed her—or more to the point, married her?

Was it because—as she’d hinted about his kind—he’d returned from the war defeated? Did he now, for some unknown reason, feel victorious? Had he come to claim what should have been his all along?

The thoughts tormented him as they swirled around him, boxing him in, blocking off the light until only darkness surrounded him. And with darkness came despair.