Yes, he liked these ladies. The Dowager Duchess of Netherby engaged him in conversation for a while after he had seated himself and she had brought him a cup of tea. Later Bertrand, Viscount Watley, the young son of the Marquess of Dorchester, had some questions for him about the wars in India, and the young man’s sister, Lady Estelle Lamarr, came to sit with them and listened with apparent interest. He could not decide which was the elder of the siblings until the brother made reference in passing to his twin and the question was answered.
Only Miss Abigail Westcott kept her distance throughout the evening. As far as he knew she did not once glance at him. He probably would have known if she had, as he glanced a number of times at her. She looked ill-humored. He did not once see her smile. No,ill-humoredwas a spiteful description of her expression, which was... expressionless. Carefully so, perhaps, as though she cultivated an inner privacy. She focused her attention mainly upon her brother, though she kept her distance from him and made no attempt to speak with him. Perhaps she resented him for coming home and taking her away from the gaiety of the London Season for a week or two. Or perhaps he, Gil, was being spiteful again. It was impossible to interpret an expression that was not there or the thoughts and feelings behind it. It seemed that he wished to justify the dislike he had taken in her.
Not that he had any reason whatsoever to dislike her. He was the one who had chosen not to correct her misunderstanding of the situation outside earlier. He had enjoyed herdiscomfiture and the anticipation of her embarrassment when she realized her mistake. Perhaps he owed her an apology. But he did not want to apologize. For she represented all that had always most irritated him about the ladies who had crossed his path down the years. The entitlement. The assumption of superiority and power—I shall report you to him and see to it that he has a word with your supervisor.And the prudishness—You are in full view of anyone who walks even a few steps from the house. It is quite unseemly.And she had said thataftershe had helped herself to a good eyeful of him.
Yet she was Harry’s sister. That meant she was as much a bastard as he was—a baldly spiteful thought.
She was undeniably lovely. She was no girl, a fact that perhaps enhanced her beauty, for hers was a woman’s loveliness. She had a slender but curvy figure, finely carved features with a perfect complexion, large blue eyes, and fair, not quite blond hair, prettily, though not fussily, styled in curls at the back of her head and wavy tendrils over her ears. The upswept hair emphasized the graceful arch of her neck. She was dressed plainly but elegantly in blue, a color that suited her.
She was beautiful, yes. But she looked cold and unappealing. Somehow unknowable behind that expressionless expression. Perhaps that, rather than the stain upon her birth, was the reason she was still unmarried. Perhaps other men found themselves as little attracted to her as he.
Yet for someone who was not attracted, he nevertheless could not seem to stop himself from glancing repeatedly at her and noticing every slight movement and gesture she made. She had elegant hands, which rested quietly in her lap, her fingers interlaced.
The feeling grew on him that he might indeed owe her an apology. Half-naked men, especially hot, sweaty, badlyscarred ones hefting axes, were not a decent sight for a lady’s eyes. He was gentleman enough to know that. And Beauty, big softie though she was, had come galloping from behind the stables, barking her head off. Miss Westcott could be forgiven for not having recognized her friendly intent. Or perhaps she just disliked dogs.
His own sense of guilt irritated him and made him like her the less—and feel yet more irritated and guilty. And even as he was thinking it, she looked back at him at last while Lady Jessica was saying something to her, and he realized that he was probably frowning or even scowling. He was sometimes accused of doing both when he was merely deep in thought. She continued to regard him, her eyes steady, even after she realizedhewas gazing back at her. He was the first to look away.
They would all leave soon, the Countess of Riverdale had assured Harry earlier, even though there were more of them still to come, some from London, and possibly one, Harry’s other sister, from Bath. The countess had been aware that Harry would prefer to be alone and perhaps needed to be. They were probably all aware of it. He could wait them out, Gil thought. He would leave Harry to their mercies while they were here and find some private occupation for himself, especially if today’s fine weather held. Beauty would be delighted by the opportunity for more walks. She had not had a great deal of freedom in Paris, and had had even less during the journey here. Now she was largely confined to his room while the visitors remained.
Afterward, when they had all left, he would take care of Harry. Not with lap robes and potions and soft, sympathetic words, but with windows flung wide and outdoor walks, even rides later on, and hearty meals. Not that he intended to overdo the encouragement to the point of bullying. Harryneeded peace and quiet and independence as much as he needed exercise and nourishment. But Gil would not sit idly by and watch Harry languish and expect good health and strength to return as though by magic.
Just as he could not expect his own life to sort itself out unless or until he did something about it rather than hide here in the country, using Harry as an excuse while the wheels of the law creaked around in almost imperceptible rotation. Perhaps he needed to change his lawyer. The man had so far been unsuccessful in persuading Gil’s in-laws even to accept support money for Katy, let alone consider visitation rights. Yet he wanted vastly more than just those two things. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted to take her home to Rose Cottage. He wanted toloveher, God damn it.
And damn his lawyer’s eyes for ordering him todonothing, just the very thing Gil found near impossible to do. He had always been a man of action. Perhaps he needed to go to London to confront Grimes in person. And do what? Grab the man by the scruff of the neck, raise his fist, and turn the air blue with language?
No. Remaining here, where he would at least be welcome and needed for a while, was still his best option. It wasnotan excuse, though it felt like one. It was a reason. He would not let Harry down. Nor would he let his daughter down by blundering around like a fool, making it more certain by the day that he would never see her again.
Perhaps a quiet stay in the country would somehow soothe his soul and make him a better father when the time came.
When. Notif.When.
But when waswhen, for the love of God?
A stay in the country might also drive him quietly insane.
Four
The next morning before putting her plan into action Abigail checked that everyone was occupied.
Her mother and Aunt Louise were having their morning coffee with Mrs. Sullivan in the housekeeper’s room. Mama still hoped to persuade Harry to return to London with her and Marcel, but in the meanwhile she was making sure that everything was properly organized to function as a bachelor household if she should fail, as she seemed to know at heart she would. Anna and Wren were upstairs in the nursery with most of their children. Avery had gone out to the stables with Josephine, at age four his eldest, when she had begged to see the horses. Marcel and Bertrand had gone with them. Alexander was in the music room with three-year-old Nathan, the elder of his two sons, who was banging on the keys of the pianoforte as though to prove to the world that he was no infant prodigy. Jessica and Estelle were in the morning room, writing letters.
Only Lieutenant Colonel Bennington was unaccountedfor. He had not said anything at the breakfast table about his plans for the morning.
Abigail thought he might be with Harry, who had gone into the library after breakfast at Mama’s suggestion in order to read—and probably to have a nap too, Mama had added after he went. That was why everyone else had found something else to do for a while. The playing of the pianoforte might not be the best lullaby, of course, but the music room was quite far removed from the library. Abigail turned the doorknob slowly, careful not to make a noise. If the lieutenant colonel was there or if Harry was asleep, she would withdraw—without being seen, she hoped.
She found Harry was alone, however, a book open on his lap, though he was not reading it. He was not asleep either. He was gazing through the window beside him. He turned his head as Abigail stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I am not as bad as I look, you know, Abby,” he said when she hesitated and stayed where she was. “I am still me here inside myself, and the outer me will change for the better too now that I am home. I am done with being bled every time I have a suggestion of a fever and of being fed gruel and kept in semidarkness and wheeled about in a bath chair.”
He had detected her reluctance to come close to him or even look at him, then, had he?
“Come and sit down,” he said. “Ring for coffee, if you will. I shall have a cup with you. I have not been allowed to have any, you know.”
“Why not?” she asked as she pulled on the bell rope.
“It is too strong for me,” he said. “It might stimulate me and have me leaping about the room from chair to table to floor and swinging from the chandeliers. And that would not be good for my general well-being.” He grinned at her.
“Are we all a great burden to you, being here?” she asked as she perched on the edge of the chair opposite his. “And more of us still to come?”
