Page 33 of The Earl and His Lady

What had he done wrong now?

Chapter Thirteen

In the early days of her first marriage, Virginia had been astounded at how often she and Charles disagreed. They had loved each other, after all, and didn’t that mean they ought to have gotten along? Her response, at first, had been to storm away, and keep away for hours, until he either came to apologize or she had calmed sufficiently to seek him out again.

Charles had been the most patient man alive, she felt certain, and was certainly a better person than any man of her acquaintance.

But she had never fled an argument, the way she fled from Lucas. Because she knew Charles loved her. Even at her most immature moments, when her arguments had been akin to a child’s tantrum, Charles had loved her. He would never treat her cruelly or use his position as her husband to exert his will upon her.

She blushed, remembering the child she’d been when she’d first married. How had Charles loved her, given her abominable family and their influence? Her father, the fifth Earl of Vinespar, was an indulgent man to both himself and his offspring. Her elder brother, now the sixth Earl of Vinespar, had grown into a selfish and entitled fool because of it. Her mother was cold and distant, with hardly a kind word to say to anyone of lesser rank than herself.

Virginia slowed her steps, having attained the gallery floor. She needed to calm herself before checking on her sons. Though the house grew darker with the storm and evening’s approach, she could still see enough to pretend to study the paintings.

Her eyes didn’t really see them. But the exercise gave her time to settle her thoughts.

If she were honest, without a handful of kind people in her life, she likely would’ve been more like her rather unpleasant family. She’d had a thoughtful governess who tempered her. She’d spent time with her cousins, Julia and Christine, for weeks at a time before her first season in London. Their mother had been alive then, and even a self-centered child could see how much she was adored by all who knew her. Her Aunt Devon had been kindness itself.

When Charles met her, she hadn’t been entirely spoiled. Somehow, he’d seen her good qualities and had loved her for them.

Wrapping her arms around herself, holding his memory close, Virginia continued down the gallery, her eyes only skimming across the portraits of the earl’s ancestors.

Having experienced little affection as a child, Virginia had been astounded to recognize her feelings for the young Charles Macon as love. When he proposed to her, she had thought it as wonderful as a fairy tale ending. They would live happily to the end of their days.

Their first argument had startled that notion from her mind. It made her smile now. She couldn’t even remember what they had disagreed about and she had felt certain, at the time, that she had been tricked. Her marriage would go the way of her parents’, they would end as polite but indifferent acquaintances after years of bitter exchanges.

Then Charles had sought her out and apologized.

Had anyone ever apologized to her before? Had she ever heard her parents admit to wrong-doing or wrong-feeling before? No. Never. At first, she had thought him insincere. But as their marriage progressed, as she fought against his opinions or decisions, almost testing his resolve, Charles was always quick to make peace between them again.

She paused, her eyes coming back into focus as she thought she glimpsed a familiar face. Yes, there he was, her new husband. Lucas looked nearly ten years younger on the canvas before her, but it was him. His hair was more golden, his smile self-assured, and he was holding hands with the woman at his side. His first countess.

Virginia studied the young woman in the painting, taking note of her delicate structure, her petite frame. She must’ve been eighteen or nineteen, and she had been beautiful. The artist had captured the youthful glow of her skin and a sparkle in her eye that promised laughter and love for the man at her side.

What had the young Lady Abigail Calvert been like? Had her husband treated her with kindness and love? Or had he exerted his authority over a more submissive spirit?

“That’s unfair.”

It was Charles’s voice in her mind, the memory of him gently reproving her when she made too quick a judgment upon one of their neighbors. He had always steered her toward mercy and compassion when she would’ve naturally deemed a person lesser than herself.

Am I being unfair? Her eyes went back to the young man in the painting.

Lucas hadn’t really said anything terrible to her. And she had been speaking to him without the common respect she ought to show her husband, or any person she cared for. He had accused her of berating and scolding him like a child.

The argument against him rose up in her mind. He had taken her children out of the house without telling anyone, possibly endangering Edward, and then acted as though it was Nurse Smythe’s fault. Or had he?

It hadn’t helped the matter, of course, when she’d become flustered in his presence. But he’d been dripping wet and nearly as muddied as the children, with smears of earth across his cheek and on his knees. What had they done? Rolled in a mire?

Her lips twitched at that thought. Truly, it had been distracting and amusing to try and converse with a peer who had a wide streak of mud across his jaw. So, she’d been a daft fool and stepped forward to clean it off herself when it was obvious he’d taken no notice of it.

Stepping close to him, being near a man of his looks and charm, had startled dormant feelings from her, reminding her just how lonely she had been.

Her husband had only been gone three and a half months.

Virginia shook her head in disgust. What sort of woman was she to admire another when she still had nearly a year of mourning ahead of her?

The gallery no longer held any interest or peace for her. She turned and went down the hall, at a rapid pace, making for the stairs. It was time to see to her sons.

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