Gwendolyn was not surprised. No wonder he acted bored with life. It would explain doing foolhardy things like jumping a harnessed team of horses or drinking the day away. Someone who enjoyed books, whether they be tales or memoir or journals, could never be bored.
And while he was this mellow and pliable, she said, “If your mother enjoys whist—”
“Shelivesfor this house party so she can play,” he assured her. “The rest of the year she has to content herself with playing the neighbors. The only one who challenges her is the vicar.”
“Then why did she cancel the tournament?”
He shrugged and then grinned, the expression actually quite charming, as he said, “Probably to annoy Lady Orpington. My mother can be quite contrary. So can Lady Orpington. They claim to be friends, but sometimes I am convinced they detest each other.”
True. “Why do you think that is?”
“Because they are women?”
Gwendolyn didn’t hide her annoyance. “You can offer a more thoughtful observation than such a rote dismissal.”
He blinked as if startled she hadn’t thought him clever. “Are you my governess?” he mock-complained.
“Because I’m pushing you to be a bit more insightful?” Gwendolyn suggested, tagging on silently to herself,and informative. After all, he should have some idea for Lady Middlebury’s abrupt change of heart about the whist tournament.
“Perhaps.” He looked away and then shot her a hint of a smile as if needing her to know he had only been jesting.
She wanted to like him. Although she didn’t trust him. She was certain he’d been a handsome boy, one who had grown into a rather distracted and aimless man who could and should do better.
As if reading her thoughts, he turned serious. “Mother and Lady Orpington have always been at it. They are competitive, and I’m assured they were so even in girlhood. But ultimately, in the only game that matters—life—Mother has won. She has the greater title, the more money, the husband who is still alive, and now the reputation as the better whist player, whether it is well-earned or not. She is not the sort to open the door for someone to take anything from her if she can just laze about on her laurels.”
Like mother, like son. “Is she truly that covetous?”
“She is,” he answered. “If a door is opened, she isn’t afraid to walk through it.”
“That is an odd statement, my lord.”
“But a true one.” He walked over to the desk and reached to straighten one of the portraits on the wall. “I am the son of a younger son. I wasn’t to inherit.” He frowned as if still not liking the way the picture hung, but then turned to her. “Then my uncle died, and his son...” His voice had trailed off as if something bothered him.
“His son?” she prompted.
“Yes, his son,” he answered. “My uncle had a male child. Robbie inherited when my uncledied, even though he was a newborn. The hierarchy and all of that.”
“What happened?”
Lord Ellisfield faced her, leaning back against the desk. “What shouldn’t have.” His expression was somber. “He drowned, and his mother died trying to save him.”
“That’s horrible,” Gwendolyn murmured.
“Yes.” Lord Ellisfield nodded to the portrait he’d just straightened. “That is a painting of my late aunt.”
She took a step forward to look at the portrait. A young woman with a heart-shaped face and wearing what had to be her bridal finery smiled out into the world with eyes sparkling with joy. A circlet of white-and-yellow flowers, mostly daisies, rested on her powdered curls piled high on her head. She was posed at a pianoforte. “She was lovely.”
He nodded. “Their deaths still bother me. It was the first time I realized we were all going to die. I was six, soon to turn seven. I recall being shocked to learn that people just disappeared from your life. Not adults like my uncle who had seemed very old to my childhood mind, but Robbie. Someone like myself.And,” he continued, a note of irony in his tone, “that it would be considered a good thing. That people would celebrate. When Robbie died, Mother tried to mourn, but she was pleased with the turn of events. She told me that now, someday, I would inherit Colemore. I was happy because she was happy. But the truth is”—his voice hardened—“the reason my father is the marquess, that he owns all of this,is because of a small child’s death. I liked Robbie. He and I were close. My sister, Jane, had been born, but who wants to play with their sister when there is another lad around?” He frowned. “In those days, it seemed death was everywhere. First my uncle, and then my aunt Catalina and Robbie. The household mourned for years.”
He straightened and waved his hand in the air as if to clear it. “We are being too serious. Someone’s tragedy is another person’s windfall. The vagaries of life, no? When I die, someone will secretly be pleased.” He flexed his shoulders as if he needed to release tension. “I haven’t thought about all of that in a long time. Isn’t this the stuff poets write about?”
“The ones who aren’t waxing on about love.”
Her comment surprised a laugh out of him. “You are quite extraordinary, Miss Lanscarr.”
She felt herself blush. “I believe drink has impaired your judgment, Lord Ellisfield.”
“It did this afternoon, didn’t it? I fear I did not impress you.”
