‘Whene’er I look into your eyes
Then all my grief and sorrow dies,
And when I kiss your mouth, oh then
I am made well and strong again.
Heinrich Heine, 1797—1856
The staff was already hard at work, cooking and cleaning the house from top to bottom in preparation for the funerals. They had stopped the clocks, covered the mirrors, and begun draping the windows in mourning cloth by the time Drew appeared for breakfast. He sidestepped to avoid a collision with a maid carrying an enormous bolt of black crepe as he entered the breakfast room.
Ignoring the mahogany sideboard and the mingling aromas of the breakfast foods it held, Drew walked to the Palladian windows and drew the heavy velvet drapes closed, effectively shutting out the morning sun. Once the room was sufficiently dark, he sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot.
A freshly ironed newspaper lay folded at the head of the table. Drew glanced at the headlines and noticed that it was over a week old. He picked it up anyway and began reading the news he’d read before he left London.
“Good morning, milord.”
Drew looked up to find Newberry, the butler, standing at his side.
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a plate for you.” Newberry had removed a plate from the rack on the sideboard and dished up a spoonful of scrambled eggs and two slices of dry toast. He set the plate in front of Drew.
Drew waved it away. “I’ll wait for Mrs. Stafford. Will you send someone upstairs to inform her that I’m awaiting her arrival in the breakfast room?”
“Mrs. Stafford has already broken her fast, milord.”
“She was to join me for the morning meal.”
“Mrs. Stafford is an early riser, milord. She waited as long as she could for you to appear and when you didn’t she had breakfast in the nursery with Master Kit and the governess, then returned to the cottage to begin work.”
“Then I’ll see her there.” Drew finished his coffee and pushed his cup and saucer aside, leaving his breakfast untouched.
“There’s no need for you to rush, milord,” Newberry volunteered. “Miss Wren isn’t at the cottage this morning. She’s sketching in the woodland.”
“Do you know where?” Drew asked.
“No, milord, but she asked me to order the pony cart for Miss Allerton and Master Kit and to send a basket luncheon with them to the copse of trees by the stream near the mill at the nooning.”
“Have you ordered the pony cart for Master Kit and his governess yet?”
“No, milord.”
“Good,” Drew pronounced. “Because there will be a change in plans. I’ll take the luncheon basket to Mrs. Stafford.” He closed his eyes for a moment and gritted his teeth against the pain in his head.
“Master Kit will be very disappointed.”
“I’ll make it up to him later,” Drew promised. “If I live that long,” he added beneath his breath.
“Very good, milord.” The butler studied him closely. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Thank you, Newberry, but I’m not dining this morning.”
“I see.” Newberry nodded. “Will there be anything else, milord?”
Drew started to shake his head, then thought better of it. He winced as he replied, “Not at the moment.”
“As you wish, milord.” Newberry bowed to Drew, then quietly backed away from the table and out of the room. He returned a few minutes later carrying a pewter mug on a small tray. Removing Drew’s empty cup and saucer, the butler replaced them with the pewter mug.
“What’s that?” Drew asked, without looking up from the paper.
“A posset for what ails you, milord.” Newberry set the tray aside, then stepped to the windows and opened the drapes.
“No!” His objection was instantaneous and necessarily muffled as Drew lifted the paper higher in a futile attempt to shield his face from the painful sunlight. But it was too late. A shaft of morning sunlight pierced his eyes and sank deep into the sensitive area of his brain.
“Beg pardon, milord.” Newberry returned to the table and carefully plucked the newspaper from Drew’s hands and pushed the pewter mug in front of him. “But you’ll feel better if you drink your posset.”
Drew lifted the mug and sniffed at the steaming brew. “What’s in it?”
Newberry ignored his question. “It’s best if you drink it straight down, milord.”
Drew took a tentative sip and nearly gagged. “I can’t drink this.” He would have set the drink aside, but Newberry intervened.
“Allow me, milord.” The butler leaned forward, pinched Drew’s nostrils closed with one hand, and tilted the bottom of the mug up with the other, so that the young marquess was forced to swallow the contents or drown. “There now, milord.” Newberry placed the pewter tankard on the tray. “You’ll be feeling as right as rain in no time.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” Drew’s stomach was threatening revolt at any moment and he sounded exactly like a petulant child.
Newberry almost smiled. “Trust me, milord.”
“Why should I?”
“Your father did,” Newberry replied. “And my posset never failed to set him to rights.”
“My father drank that devil’s brew?” Drew was surprised. His father had enjoyed the usual wine with dinner, after-dinner port, and brandy and cigars on occasion, but Drew had never known him to drink to excess.
“Nearly every morning for two years after the marchioness died. And it never failed him.” Newberry pinned Drew with a penetrating look. “He couldn’t sleep alone. So he closeted himself in his study and drank himself into a stupor every night. When he relocated to London in order to return to the bench, I went with him and taught the cook and my counterpart, Mr. Chappell, how to make the posset.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course not,” Newberry said. “A man in your father’s position could never allow a muzzy head to interfere with his work or impair his judgment.”
Drew was thoughtful. “How long have you been here, Newberry?”
“A quarter of a century next spring, sir,” Newberry answered proudly.
“After a quarter of a century in his service, you must have had my father’s measure.”
“I like to think so,” Newberry said.
“What kind of man was he?”
Newberry raised an eyebrow at that. “Milord?”
Drew couldn’t help but smile. “I know what kind of father he was,” he said, “but I’ve no idea what kind of man he was. What kind of employer he was. I’m afraid that I saw him from a child’s point of view—even after I reached my majority.”
“He was a good man,” Newberry said. “A wise and moral man who was loyal to his family and friends and the memory of his beloved wife.”
“A wise, moral man with several mistresses,” Drew said. “How many did he present to the staff at Swanslea Park?”
“None, milord.”
“None except Mrs. Stafford.”
Newberry shook his head.
“Then how do we explain Master Kit?”
“What is there to explain? He’s Lord Templeston’s son,” Newberry replied.
“What about Mrs. Stafford? What was she to my father?”
Newberry knew what Drew was asking and he didn’t hesitate to answer. “She’s Master Kit’s mother. Lord Templeston offered the marchioness’s suite to Miss Wren after Master Kit came along, but she refused to accept his hospitality. She remained in the cottage with Master Kit. When Lord Templeston insisted that Master Kit be installed in the nursery, Miss Wren slept in the nursery with the boy until Miss Allerton came to live with us. After Miss Allerton arrived, Miss Wren moved back to the cottage. She didn’t usurp your mother’s place as mistress of this house or of your father’s heart.”
Newberry looked him in the eye. “When the marchioness died, Lord Templeston moved out of the master bedchamber. He refurbished the master chamber and the one connecte
d to it for you and your bride. It remained unoccupied until you arrived last night.” The fact that Newberry called Kathryn by her pet name did not escape Drew’s attention. “Miss Wren’s manner has always been beyond reproach. She’s quite a lady.” Newberry’s voice was full of admiration.
“She was once,” Drew said softly. She was my lady once.
“Your father was a splendid judge of character, sir,” Newberry said. “And up until this moment, I believed you shared that gift.”
The lunch basket was loaded in the pony cart and his horse saddled and tied to the back by the time Drew exited the house. He climbed onto the seat, took hold of the reins, and urged the pony down the drive. His headache had disappeared by midmorning but Newberry’s censure lingered. It had been over twenty years since the butler had given him a scolding, but Drew felt Newberry’s censure as keenly as he had as a young lad caught filching sweets from the kitchen.
Drew clucked to the pony, then flicked the reins and headed the cart in the direction of the mill. Newberry hadn’t begun to doubt that he’d inherited his father’s ability to judge character until today. Drew snorted. He’d begun doubting it the day Kathryn Markinson left him waiting at the altar. Up until that day, he’d been very secure in the knowledge that he was an excellent judge of character. His position in the War Office had proven it and his choice of friends echoed it time and again. Men trusted him with their lives and Drew had never doubted that their trust was warranted—until his wedding day.
He hadn’t doubted it since. Newberry might choose to believe otherwise, but Drew’s experience with Kathryn had taught him that he’d misjudged her the first time. Fortunately he’d learned enough from his mistake to know better than to repeat it. Drew knew he could be a miserable judge of character where women were concerned. It should be quite apparent to Newberry or to anyone else who cared to look at his past that if he’d inherited his father’s famous judgment, he wouldn’t have fallen in love with Kathryn Markinson in the first place. He wouldn’t have been left standing at the altar on his wedding day.
And he wouldn’t be about to make a fool of himself all over again.
He topped the last rolling hill and caught sight of Kathryn sitting on a blanket with a thick sketchbook opened on her lap. She looked up from her work and waved when she heard the rumble of the pony cart, but the welcoming smile died on her lips when she recognized Drew.
“What are you doing here?” Kathryn closed her sketchbook and laid it aside, but made no effort to stand up.
“I brought lunch.” Drew pulled the cart to a stop a few feet away from where Kathryn sat, then turned and lifted the picnic basket from the back of the cart.
“Miss Allerton and Kit were supposed to bring lunch,” she said.
“There was a change in plans,” he said. “I decided to come in their stead.” Drew jumped down from the cart and walked around to the back of it. He untied his horse and left him free to graze, then walked over to the blanket and set the basket down beside Kathryn.
“I’d rather have lunch with Kit and Ally.”
“I thought as much,” he admitted. “But I came in their stead nonetheless.”
She glared at him. “Made that decision on your own, did you, milord?”
He ignored her sarcastic comment and focused his attention on the suffering that had prompted it. She looked terrible. Her face was pale and drawn; her red-rimmed eyes were swollen and underscored by deep purple shadows. Her nose was a bright, shiny, unbecoming shade of red. She’d spent the night crying and it showed. Drew felt a pang of guilt in knowing that he was responsible, at least in part, for her tears but he couldn’t allow his feelings of guilt to become the chink in his armor against her. He couldn’t allow Kathryn to slip past his guard. He couldn’t give her the opportunity to lay siege to his heart and his soul a second time because he knew he wouldn’t survive another disappointment.
“Kit and Ally were looking forward to this outing,” she continued. “It was probably the last one we’d get to share until after the funeral and you spoiled it. I imagine they were every bit as disappointed with your decision as I am.”
“I’ll make it up to them.”
“Really? How?”
“I promised Kit I would teach him to ride.”
“That’s impossible,” Wren told him. “There’s nothing in the stable for him to ride. That’s the only pony we have.” She pointed to the black Dales pony hitched to the cart. “And he isn’t broken to the saddle.”
“I know what I have in my stables, Kathryn.” Drew knelt on the blanket.
“Then you made Kit a promise you can’t keep.”
He closed his eyes, ground his teeth together in frustration, and mentally counted to ten. “I always keep my promises.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, his message crystal clear. “I’ve already sent the head groom into the village to secure a selection of suitable ponies so Kit can choose the one he likes best.”
“What about Miss Allerton?” Wren knew she was being unreasonably waspish, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She hated having him see her when she wasn’t at her best. She hated seeing the look of scorn on Drew’s face and disgust in his eyes. She hated knowing that he could manipulate her future and that he felt completely justified in doing so. But more than any of that, Wren hated knowing that he didn’t love her anymore.
Keeping a safe distance from Drew when he was being nasty, making threats and accusations, and issuing ultimatums was hard enough, but keeping a safe distance from him when he was in a generous, conciliatory mood was almost impossible. “Are you going to buy her a pony, too?”
Drew bit his lower lip to keep from laughing aloud at her spate of ill temper. “Jealous?”
“Of course not!”
“Then it shouldn’t bother you to learn that, in a manner of speaking, I did promise to buy Miss Allerton a pony.”
Wren was speechless.
“At one time, her father maintained one of the finest stables in England. Unfortunately, Lord Rushfield has a weakness for the dice and he was forced to sell his holdings and his stables in order to discharge his gaming debts.” Drew glanced at Kathryn as he reached for the picnic basket. “You should have seen Miss Allerton’s face when I mentioned taking Kit riding. She was as excited as he was. Then she told me that Kit hadn’t begun his lessons yet.”
Wren tried to ignore the note of criticism in his tone of voice and failed. “I see.”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “Or you’d realize that Miss Allerton has missed being able to ride. I offered her the use of the stables and invited her to share my morning rides.”
“Is that all you invited her to share?” The ugly retort escaped before Wren could stop it.
Drew laughed. “Tell me, Kathryn, are you this ill tempered every morning or might I hope that this is a rare occurrence?”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Didn’t the fresh air of the garden agree with you?”
“You should know,” she retorted. “You were there.”
“I suppose you sensed my presence.”
“Nothing so mysterious, sir,” she told him. “I smelled you.”
Drew raised an eyebrow at that. “Indeed?”
“You smoke a very distinctive cigar.”
“And you have a very good nose, madam.” Drew tenderly traced the length of her reddened nose with his index finger.
Wren shrugged off his touch and attempted to shrug him off as well. “I appreciate the sacrifice you made in bribing my son and his governess in order to bring my luncheon to me, sir. I know you’re a very busy man with places to go and ponies to purchase, so please, don’t let me detain you any longer.”
“I didn’t bring your luncheon, Kathryn.” Drew reached for the basket, then opened the lid and began unpacking the crystal, china, and the cutlery. “I brought our luncheon.” He smiled at her. “Didn’t you get my message? I thought you understood that from now on, we’re keeping each other company during mealtimes.
”
“You sent a message informing me that my company was requested at breakfast and at dinner,” she corrected. “You didn’t say anything about lunch.”
“You missed breakfast,” he said. “I thought you might appreciate an opportunity to make up for the oversight.”
“It wasn’t an oversight, Drew. I didn’t miss breakfast. You did. I waited over an hour for you to appear.”
“I know.” His honesty was disarming. “I apologize for keeping you waiting at breakfast. I overslept. You see, I stayed in the garden and finished my cigar after you left. Then I returned to the house and spent the rest of a long night in a leather chair in my father’s study staring into the fire while I drained a bottle of very fine French brandy. I didn’t sleep until dawn.”
Wren looked at him, a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “At least one of us managed to get some sleep.” She reached up and self-consciously smoothed several stray strands of hair back into place. “I must look a fright.”
Drew shook his head. “Not to me.”
The warmth in his eyes and the tenderness in his voice were enough to take her breath away. Wren picked up the other plate to cover her embarrassment and was dismayed to find her face reflected in the shiny surface. She frowned at the image. “You flatter me.”
He emptied the picnic basket, uncorked a bottle of wine, and spread the food out on the blanket. He loaded both of their plates with a half of a roasted game hen, a wedge of cheese, a slice of freshly baked bread, and a ripe, juicy pear, then poured each of them a glass of wine.
“Flattery was never one of my vices,” he said. “You should know that.”
Wren took her plate and balanced it on her lap. “Interesting that you consider the ability to flatter another person a vice. Most people would consider it a virtue.”
“Insincerity is never a virtue,” he said. “And, as I said, not one of my particular vices.”
“Until yesterday, I had no idea you had vices.” She nibbled at a piece of chicken and followed it with a sip of wine.
“Everyone has vices, Kathryn. I don’t gamble or drink to excess the way some of my acquaintances do, but I admit to a weakness for fine horseflesh, expensive cigars, and expensive brandy. And although I’m not a spendthrift by nature, I’ve found that since returning from war, I indulge a need for creature comforts. For coal fires whenever I want them, fine linens, soft mattresses; well-fitted clothing and the best leather boots money can buy.” He stretched out his legs and flexed his ankles, showing off his black leather Hessians.
She was silent for a moment. “I suppose it’s strange that I don’t recall any vices. I only remember your virtues.”
Drew downed his glass of wine in one gulp and poured himself another. “That’s because I was always on my best behavior around you.”
“So was I.” She looked at him. “After all we shared, it seems strange to think that we never really knew one another at all. How is it that we thought we could marry and live our entire lives on our best behavior?”
“We were in love.”
His quiet pronouncement ripped at her heart.
“Or rather, I was in love with you.” Drew met her stare. “And believed you felt the same for me.”
“I did.”
“Then how is it that we lost each other?”
Wren bowed her head. “I would have waited longer,” she whispered. “For you at breakfast this morning. But the staff began stopping clocks and draping the house and suddenly I couldn’t stay there any longer. I had to get away. If only for a little while.”
“I know,” Drew answered. “So did I.”
“I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“Neither can I.”
Wren looked up at him. “It doesn’t seem possible that I’ll never see him again.”
Drew stared into her eyes. “I can almost believe you loved my father as much as I did.”
“Perhaps even more.”
Drew frowned.
“How could I not love him? He gave me a son.”
“Why didn’t he marry you and make that son legitimate?”
“He couldn’t.”
“Of course he could,” Drew protested.
“He never stopped loving your mother,” Wren told him. “He made a promise to her, on her deathbed.” She managed a smile. “Like you, George always kept his promises.”
“What did he promise?”
“He promised no one would ever take her place. He promised her that he would never marry and make another woman marchioness of Templeston or allow any other child to take precedence over hers.”
Drew sucked in a breath. “Christ!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “He told you that?”
Wren shook her head. “As far as I know, he only told one other person.”
“Then how did you know about it?”
“He told my father.” Wren deliberated for a moment before adding, “It was his way of apologizing to Papa for not offering to marry me.”
“He should have married you.”
“It wasn’t necessary,” she said. “I never wanted to be his marchioness.” She managed a smile. I only wanted to be your countess.”
“But you and Kit…”
“Have become a part of your life,” she reminded him. “Whether we like it or not.”
Drew looked her in the eye. “To life,” he said, raising his wineglass and clinking it against hers.
“Here’s hoping we learn to make the best of it.”
Wren met his gaze and accepted the toast. It seemed they’d suddenly stumbled upon common ground once again.
Chapter Eleven