If only he had been any other man in the world.
But he was not and she was going to have to live with the fact. And with his presence at Thornwood over Christmas.
Chapter 3
THE Earl of Wanstead wondered if after all he had not made a mistake. The idea had come to him, or had been presented to him—he still could not clearly remember which—on the spur of the moment. He had proceeded to send out invitations according to the list his friends had helped him draw up. It had all been surprisingly easy—only two refusals, from people who regretted that they already had other plans. But Jeannette and Andrew Campbell had been delighted, as had Colin and Geordie Stewart, two brothers and former partners in the fur-trading company, now both retired. Miss Lizzie Gaynor had been ecstatic, or so her rather gauche younger sister had assured him, and was to come with the sister and their widowed mama. There were to be twenty guests altogether, plus four children.
He had felt rather pleased with the plans for both the house party and the leisurely opportunity it would give him to consider taking a bride—until he had arrived at Thornwood and been oppressed with a sense of gloom.
But it was too late now to regret what he had done.
His lordship rose when it was still dark, having spent a somewhat restless night in the earl’s grand bedchamber. The door leading from his dressing room into the countess’s was locked, his valet had informed him when he had asked. He had not also asked if the countess still used that dressing room and the chamber beyond it, but the possibility that she did had disturbed him. He had kept thinking of her undressing there, lying in bed there. And he had kept remembering that he had found every opportunity last evening to be rude to her. It was not like him to be uncivil to women, even those he disliked.
He must do better today, he decided, shivering in the morning chill but not bothering to ring for coals to be brought up or for his valet to shave him and help him dress. He was too restless to wait for anyone or anything or even to remain indoors. He dressed in riding clothes and went outside, stepping out into a frosty morning in which he could see his breath but very little else. But he was accustomed to being outdoors in inclement conditions.
He tramped about the inner reaches of the park and noted that everything was kept neat, though the flower beds were now bare, of course. He walked through the trees to the lake at the east of the house. It was not completely frozen over, though the wide bands of ice extending outward from the banks almost met in the middle. If the weather continued cold, the ice would be solid in another week—by Christmas.
He remembered being quite viciously caned once by his uncle for skating before permission had been granted. Gilbert or Rodney had reported him—probably Gilbert. Reporting wrongdoings had been very much in his line, and Gerard’s uncle had usually acted with unconsidered wrath on such slight information, just as he had frequently acted with unexpected bursts of generosity, taking his nephew shooting or fishing with him while leaving his sons behind, giving him money over and above his allowance. And then cuffing or caning him again at the slightest provocation—and roaring at and abusing him as the son of a whore. Life had never been tranquil—and never really happy—at Thornwood.
But it was, the earl decided now, a beautiful place, even at this time of the morning at this time of the year. And it was all his. For perhaps the first time he found the thought somewhat exhilarating.
It was a decidedly chilly morning and a brisk breeze cut through the heavy folds of the earl’s greatcoat. Nevertheless he stood close to the lake’s edge for several minutes, his shoulder propped against the trunk of a tree. The eastern horizon lightened as he stood there, and a gleam of light beamed weakly across the icy water. He had learned in a far-off land to see beauty in the starkness of winter.
But he wanted to see more. He strode away from the lake, back through the trees, and across the long lawn below the house to the stables, where a surprised and rather sleepy groom saddled a horse for him. He rode out to the outer reaches of the park. He made no attempt to go farther, though he was eager now to see everything, to visit both the home farm and all the tenant farms.
He well remembered the forests that surrounded the park on all sides. On the north side, on the hill, they had been cultivated. A scenic walk had been constructed. It was the loveliest part of the park, the part he had always most avoided. He had preferred the wilder reaches of the forest. He had peopled them with dragons and outlaws and smugglers and witches. He had climbed branches and made dens in the hollow trunks of old trees. He had dodged from cover to cover, the hero of every game. And the gamekeepers had been his friends—almost his only friends. Gilbert and Rodney certainly had not been. And though he had been his uncle’s unwilling favorite, there had been no real emotional closeness between them.
The branches of most of the trees were bare now. He had never minded bare trees. He could see the sky through them. He had often lain along a stout branch, gazing upward, dreaming of worlds beyond the one he inhabited. He looked about him now as his horse picked its way along well-remembered paths in the gathering daylight. He could see a group of deer off to his left. They looked warily his way for a moment before bolting off out of sight.
He wondered if any of the same gamekeepers were still at Thornwood. He must find out. He wondered if Pinky’s hut—Abe Pinkerton had been the gamekeeper’s name—was still on the slope above the river north of the lake. Pinky had preferred to make his home there rather than live in greater comfort in the servants’ quarters at the house. The boy Gerard had spent many happy hours in that hut, talking, listening, sometimes merely relaxing in a shared silence.
He supposed eventually that he ought to return to the house. December mornings were dark. Since it was now full daylight, then, he must assume—he had not brought his watch with him—that the morning was well advanced. It must be close to breakfast time.
He was reluctant to return despite the fact that he was both cold and hungry. Despite the fact that there were things to be done and he was not a man to shirk hard work. As he guided his horse out of the trees and headed back toward the stables, he realized, of course, why he did not want to return. His lip curled with self-derision when he realized that a mere woman was making him reluctant to enter his own home.
He wondered for a moment what had happened to the girl he had known. But the answer was obvious. Time had happened to her. And Gilbert had happened to her—for nine years. And shehadchanged. She seemed now to have more ice in her veins than warm blood. She was like a marble statue. She was poised, elegant, beautiful. She was cold, humorless, unpleasant. Unattractive. But then deep down, perhaps she had always been those things. People did not really change, did they?
He could not seem to shake his mind free of her even after the walk and the ride. He must do so. Or at least he must adjust his vision so that he could see her as Gilbert’s widow, the woman who must help him prepare for the house party. Wretched thought that he needed her for that! But he did. Well, he thought, she was his dependent now. He had all the power now. Not that he had ever wished to have power over her. But somehow, despite himself, the prospect of a little revenge was sweet.
He dismounted in the stable yard and turned his mount over to the groom, who looked somewhat more wide awake than he had earlier. The earl strode off in the direction of the house. His house. He thought deliberately about Margaret. She was very lovely and lively and amiable. And it was not unheard-of for first cousins to marry.
Late rising had always been considered a vice at Thornwood. Strangely, although Gilbert had been dead for almost a year and a half, they had kept quite rigidly to the daily routine he had insisted upon. It had become like second nature to them, perhaps.
Christina breakfasted with Lady Hannah and Margaret. This morning they did not wait for the earl. Perhaps, Lady Hannah suggested by way of excuse, he was tired after his long journey the day before. He had still not joined them by the end of the meal. Margaret and her aunt went to the morning room to write letters. Christina, happy that after all her morning with her daughters was not to be entirely ruined, went up to the nursery.
She had forgotten about the appointment in the library by the time the earl found her there almost an hour later. While the children’s nurse sat in a rocking chair close to the window, knitting them new scarves and mittens for the winter, Christina supervised their morning activities.
Tess was standing before the easel, swathed from neck to ankles in a large apron, a brush almost as long as herself clutched in her right hand. She was dabbing bright paint onto a large sheet of paper. She was only three years old, a plump and pretty little girl, who favored her father rather than her mother. She was producing nothing that was recognizable, but Christina did not care about that. There would be time enough later to teach her to harness her imagination. For now it must be allowed to run free.
Rachel was seated at the table, absorbed in working long columns of arithmetic problems. She never protested at having to do lessons, whatever the subject. The need to win approval by excelling at every task set her was fundamental to her nature. She was seven years old, a thin and serious child with her mother’s oval face and dark hair and eyes.
They all looked up when the door opened.
“Ah, here you are,” the Earl of Wanstead said. “Good morning.” He stepped into the room while Nurse got up from her chair and curtsied.
Christina felt the absurd urge to set her arms protectively about both children. She had that helpless feeling again, the one that had had her tossing and turning all night, sleepless spells intermingled with troubled dreams. They were all dependent upon him—and he did not like her. She got to her feet and curtsied to him.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said with calm courtesy. And then she felt a wave of fear. She had always despised that feeling in herself, but she had never been able quite to control it—sometimes with good reason. She remembered now that she had had an appointment with him in the library and he had been forced to come and find her. But she could not bring herself to grovel or even simply to apologize. She did what had often brought her to grief and simply confronted him. “You were late for breakfast and I hated to wait idly in the library.”
