Douglas: Lord of Heartache (7 page)

Another man had made a similar accusation six years ago, also referring to a reluctance to share her treasures, but his tone had been winsomely naughty, not half-stern and admonishing.

“I am not greedy,” she corrected Douglas, his insight vexing but not vexing enough to excuse dishonesty. “I am afraid of losing her.”

“I would be afraid of losing such a child too, but you won’t lose her; you will share her, or you should.” He’d worked out the big snarl Gwen had been swatting at and smoothed the brush down her hair. He soon found another knot and went to work on it.

As lady’s maids went, his lordship was not without ability. Gwen feared he might have potential as an unlikely confessor too. “Why should I share her?”

“If you don’t show Rose you can share her, then she will not learn she can share you,” Douglas pointed out. “She will grow up clinging to her mama, because her mama clings to her, and this will serve you well, provided you can arrange to die before your daughter. Your daughter, however, will be left quite alone.” He drew the brush down in a long, soothing stroke again. “You have lovely hair.”

He delivered the compliment as dispassionately as if he were approving of a well-sprung barrel on a yearling heifer from the Jersey Isles.

“You are saying I am selfish.”

“Maybe a bit. But more likely, you are self-reliant and protective. And the truth is, nobody thus far has been willing to insist you behave in any fashion other than the one you choose.”

“What’s wrong with how I behave?” Gwen hated the note of genuine consternation in her voice. The question of a woman who knew herself to be an outsider of necessity and circumstance both, if not an outcast, but wasn’t entirely reconciled to it.

“The way you behave is quite acceptable, if you are Miss Hollister and you like being the lord of your cousin’s manor. If you are Rose Hollister, however, you might want a few more options—you might want some of the options your mama had when she was a young girl.”

He was speaking gently again, reasonably and even kindly, saying things her titled cousins and their wives had likely thought but never bothered to confront her with. Gwen laid her forehead on her knees. “I hate you.”

This conversation was possible due only to an abundance of fatigue and a paucity of firelight—that, and Douglas Allen’s confounded, infernal, perishing, unflinching straightforwardness.

Or perhaps her own.

“Of course you hate me,” Douglas replied, smoothing the brush down her hair. “You need to hate somebody, Guinevere, for taking those options away from you. I will be honored to fulfill the purpose, if needs must, but while you are hating away your life, please don’t take those options away from your daughter.”

“But, Douglas”—Gwen turned in exasperation—“she is a
bastard
. She will have no decent options unless her cousins settle substantial wealth on her. When I lost those options, I lost them for both of us.”

And that was a sorrow and shame without end, for Gwen could easily accept the consequences of her foolish actions for herself, but Rose deserved so much better.

Douglas ran his thumb over the bristles of the brush, the way some men tested the edge of a knife. “Might you be seeing things from a slightly narrow perspective? Were she male, Rose would not inherit any entailed land or titles as a function of her illegitimacy, but I would be surprised if Heathgate, Greymoor, and Fairly have not already made provision for her. You should ask them.”

“Hah,” Gwen retorted, glowering at the fire. “And if I ask them, and they haven’t set anything aside, then do you think I want them embarrassed into settling funds on her? Bad enough I am a poor relation, without making demands for my daughter as well.”

At least she was a poor relation who took care of the property she dwelled upon.

“If Rose’s relations, all of whom are indecently wealthy, have not made provision for her, then they should. I can understand that you are reluctant to raise the issue. Would you like me to raise it for you?”

He was scolding Heathgate and Greymoor in absentia, scolding them convincingly.

“What? Of course not. They are my family. I’ll deal with them.” Except, Douglas would charge forth on Rose’s behalf, when Gwen had hung back for years, not knowing where to start such a discussion.

“They are my family too, to hear them tell it. I would casually mention it to Fairly, who is deuced canny,” he went on, as if discussing a strategy for winning at pell-mell. “He will take it up with his brothers-in-law, and then you will have your answer. You really are too shy, you know.”

“I am not shy,” Gwen said, a yawn showing her declaration for the formality it was.

“We will consider the matter settled, then. Do you prefer one braid or two?”

Gwen allowed the change of topic with something like gratitude. “One.”

“There,” Douglas said after several moments of silence. “Off to bed with you.”

He flipped a thick, tidy braid over her shoulder and stood, extending a hand to her with perfect courtesy. She put her hand in his and nearly lost her balance as she both turned and rose in the space between the sofa and the low table.

“You are tired,” Douglas said, frowning down at her. He kissed her forehead and stepped back. “Good night, Guinevere, pleasant dreams.”

“Good night, and thank you,” she said, feeling oddly subdued. “Thank you for braiding my hair,” she added by way of clarification.

Pleasant dreams indeed, she thought as she climbed into bed. There really was very little to like about Douglas Allen, even if he did make an excellent lady’s maid—and nursemaid.

He never smiled; he never made mistakes; he never faltered in what he perceived as the execution of his duty. He lacked anything approaching charm and went charging into conversational thickets Gwen’s family never acknowledged, much less approached.

Finesse was not in his gift. Not to any degree.

Though he was unfailingly kind to Rose, patient, and in his own way, good-humored, even if he didn’t smile… And most intriguing of all, Gwen could trust him to brush her hair—simply to brush her hair—when she was so tired and bewildered her eyes were nearly crossing.

Oh, she really, truly could not find much at all to like about him.

***

Linden was a lovely manor. Purple asters clustered around a fountain in the middle of the drive, and a wide granite terrace fronted the building. The main facade sported eight stately white pillars and twenty-four windows on each of the three fieldstone stories, each accented with white trim and shutters. The whole was brought to a pleasing symmetry centered around a bright red door.

That the place could present well even in a pouring rain reassured Douglas on a level comparable to a schoolboy’s first impression of a smiling new tutor.

After seeing Rose settled in the nursery, Douglas appropriated Guinevere’s company for a tour of the premises. The rotund little housekeeper—Mrs. Kitts, by name—prattled along through all three floors, attics, cellars, and every space in between, putting Douglas in mind of Rose.

“Well,” Mrs. Kitts said after almost two hours of touring the house, “there you have it, your lordship, ma’am. Linden’s grand tour. Will there be anything else?”

“When might we expect a call from the steward?” Douglas asked. “I believe Lord Greymoor alerted him to the purpose of our visit.”

Mrs. Kitts’s smile faltered, the first such lapse Douglas had seen. “Mr. Tanner is away from the property, but we did get his lordship’s note and passed it along to Miss Tanner. When shall we serve dinner?”

Guinevere did not appear to have heard the question. She ran her hand over a sideboard, the top of which bore an inlaid floral design that made the heavy piece look considerably more graceful. “Guinevere, what would suit?”

“You skipped luncheon,” she said, a slight maternal scold in her tone. “Could we have tea in the small parlor, Mrs. Kitts, then supper for his lordship and myself about eight of the clock?”

“Why, of course, ma’am.”

Douglas dismissed the woman with thanks for her time and all the information she’d imparted about the house.

“Rose is fine,” he said as they returned to the small dining parlor.

To his surprise—his pleased surprise—Guinevere slipped her arm through his. “How could you tell I was fretting?”

“You left her in the care of a nursery maid you’d never met before, it has been almost two hours, and you love that child. Hester seemed a good sort though, and as the oldest of a large brood, she’ll manage Rose easily.” He tucked his hand over hers as they passed the main staircase, the better to prevent a detour to the nursery. “What do you think of the house?”

“You’d be a fool not to buy it if the price is reasonable.”

She enjoyed a conviction about her opinions Douglas did not share. “Because I could sell it for a profit?”

“You could do that,” she said, preceding him into the parlor and taking a seat on a blue brocade sofa far more plush than the one in her own parlor at Enfield. “You told me once you were looking for a place to put down roots, to call home. This is that place, Douglas. This house is waiting for someone to love it. Please stop frowning at me and be seated.”

Rather than accept her invitation—her
direction
—Douglas paced the small confines of the room. “Houses do not await love.”

“This house has a lovely little Vermeer hanging in the front stairway, and nobody ever sees it. The curtains are Flemish lace, the rugs Aubusson, the wine cellar stocked with some of the most appealing vintages ever laid down. If these things convey, then this house is waiting to be loved.”

“They convey.” Though he hadn’t noticed half of them, being instead absorbed with an absence of dry rot, mouse droppings, flaking plaster, dust, and cobwebs. “Why do you suppose Greymoor did this?” He waved a hand to encompass the house, its appointments, the effort made to fill it with grace, beauty, and comfort, right down to this elegant little jewel of a parlor, whose blue, cream, and gold appointments set off Guinevere’s coloring wonderfully.

“Do you believe, Douglas Allen, you are the only man to whom life has been unkind?”

He considered her question while a substantial tea tray—a silver service, no less—was brought in.

“I’ve seen Greymoor’s other properties,” Douglas said when the maid had departed. “Neither Oak Hall nor Enfield is as well-appointed as Linden. The houses are smaller, more manors than country seats, and the grounds not as elegant. Why would he sell his most attractive property?”

Because the simplest hypothesis that answered the question was that Greymoor was taking pity on a poor relation.

Douglas reached for the teapot when Guinevere’s voice stopped him. “Shall I pour?”

Damn
it.
“Please.”

She gave him the sort of smile young people directed at their dotty elders. “Douglas, you haven’t eaten since breakfast at the last inn. Don’t stand on ceremony. I am not yet hungry and will have to join Rose in the nursery before dinner.”

“Thank you.” Douglas helped himself to a sandwich while Guinevere prepared his tea: strong, three sugars, cream—bless the woman—and piping hot.

“You won’t at least join me for a cup of tea?”

“In a minute.”

“You want to watch me bolt my grain?” He tore into his sandwich, manners be damned.

“I’m considering how to answer your last question, about why Andrew would sell his most attractive property. I should think it obvious.”

“So enlighten me.” And God above, she was right: he’d been famished.

“Linden is the only property that isn’t entailed, for one thing,” Guinevere said, ticking off on her fingers. “For another, I don’t think Andrew was particularly happy here. For a third, his wife has recently given birth to what is likely the first of many children, and this estate is distant to the other two. It being inconvenient to travel with children”—Douglas lifted his teacup in salute to that sentiment—“he would likely have to visit this one on his own, and Andrew is much taken with his spouse.”

Much taken—a euphemism for being head over ears to a degree Douglas could only envy.

“You don’t mention the one reason I might have brought up first,” Douglas said, selecting a second sandwich. Guinevere did pour herself a cup of tea then, adding two sugars and—he was pleased to note—a healthy tot of cream.

“Greymoor can use the money from selling this place to finance the initial expenses of his stud farm,” she said, “but one thing that branch of the Alexander family does not need is more money.” She poured another cup of tea for Douglas, who perused a lovely plate of cakes while making inroads on his second sandwich. “They aren’t going anywhere, Douglas.”

“Who isn’t?”

“The cakes. You don’t have to stare them out of their impulse to leap up and leave the scene. I assure you, the cakes will be there when you finish your sandwich. How was the chicken, by the way?”

Douglas patted his lips with his serviette. “Above reproach.”

“Douglas,” she said gently, “you just ate two sandwiches of roasted beef.”

When Guinevere abandoned Douglas to check on Rose, he was left with some time to fill and a backlog of correspondence to address. He took himself off to the library with a final cup of hot, sweet tea, and in his pocket, a pair of smuggled tea cakes.

The big mahogany desk near the window beckoned, the windows affording light and the nearby hearth taking the chill off an otherwise gloomy day. He started with the letter from his mother, though her hand had grown so crabbed and her prose so repetitive, he wondered why he bothered to respond to her carping.

By seven of the clock, Douglas was only halfway through with his correspondence, but he gave up anyway. He was not properly attired for dinner, the tea cakes were but a happy memory, and he was feeling… both peckish and cranky.

Like Rose at the end of a long day.

“How was Miss Rose when you left her?” he asked Guinevere when he presented himself in the family parlor precisely on the hour.

“Fast asleep,” Guinevere said. “She did not nap this afternoon, and so was quite worn out after her supper. Then too, she’d had her bath and could tumble right into bed.”

Douglas poured two fingers at the sideboard and held a glass out to Guinevere, images of the lady at her bath flitting through his damned fool, tired brain. “One can consider a tot medicinal, given the damp weather.”

“Perhaps half that amount?”

At least she wasn’t going to fuss over the consumption of a bit of spirits. “You are content with the arrangements here for Rose’s care?” Douglas asked, pouring a second, smaller drink and handing her the glass—crystal, of course, at once luminous and delicate.

“Hester is very patient,” Guinevere replied, taking a sip of her drink. “And yet, it’s difficult…”

Douglas stood with an elbow propped on the mantel, a safe distance from a pretty, if tired, woman in a pretty, if out-of-date, green velvet dress. How did a lady of lively intellect pass the time when her only companion on a dreary afternoon was a small child?

“You don’t want to leave Rose with strangers?”

“Maybe it’s that, or maybe I am the one who feels homesick, and I fret over my child to deal with it.” She took another sip of brandy, which Douglas took for a small concession to nerves.

Interesting.

“I should note,” Douglas said, addressing the drink in his hand, “you look quite nicely put together tonight.” Even he, however, knew the dress Guinevere wore, while flattering and elegant, was not in the first stare—or the second. Still, the forest-green color became her, and the style accentuated the curves she’d kept camouflaged in her drab attire heretofore.

Had she worn that dress for him? The notion was both surprising and… pleasing.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He’d wanted to set her at ease with his compliment, and based on her expression, had failed. Abruptly, Douglas wished he had a fraction of the charm her wealthy cousins could exude, a fraction of their experience with the ladies.

“Shall we take ourselves in to dinner, or would you like to linger here?”

She accepted his proffered arm without protest, gods be thanked. “I am hungry. You must be as well.”

He was nigh ravenous, which seemed to occur more often in her company.

“I suggest we spend tomorrow getting acquainted with the estate books,” Douglas said as he seated her at the small dining table. “Greymoor ordered them readied for our inspection, and the ground will need a day or two to dry before we can safely ride across country.”

In truth, Guinevere would want to stick close to the nursery for a day or two, though Douglas kept that notion to himself. Over the soup course, he instead invited her to list the aspects of the external estate she’d be most interested in assessing. Her list was exhaustive and would keep them in the saddle for days.

“You are not simply self-reliant as a function of your status as mother and land steward, are you?” Douglas asked as he refilled their wineglasses. Guinevere had been right about the cellars, and the kitchen was apparently attempting to make a good impression.

As was he, curiously enough.

The
chicken
had been excellent, as had the
ham
. The golden highlights Guinevere’s hair caught from the dinner candles and firelight were also most appealing.

“I was my parents’ only child, as Rose will be my only child,” Guinevere reflected. “My father never enjoyed robust health, and my mother died when I was little. We were not well situated, Father having disdained to remain at Enfield and take over the reins from Grandpapa. My earliest memories are of reminding my father it was time for supper.”

Did she also have memories of reminding of him of what he’d recently eaten? “Was there adequate provision for that meal?” Douglas asked, knowing he could be considered rude for doing so.

“There was—as soon as I learned to cook and to manage the stipend Grandpapa sent.”

A briskness in her tone suggested the time had arrived to change the subject. “How old were you when you came to Enfield?” He ought to be offering her more wine or a bite of pear, except he wanted to take advantage of her willingness to answer questions.

“Eleven or so.”

A girl of eleven might help her mother in the kitchen, or begin to prepare simple dishes with supervision. In a household with any means, she did not cook whole meals on her own or manage budgets.

“You look displeased,” Guinevere remarked as she cut into a pale, succulent pear.

“I expect I frequently look displeased to you. Usually, I am merely thinking.” In this case, about a young girl who’d had an aunt and grandparents, at least, in a position to take her father in hand, and who had neglected to do so.

“While you think, perhaps you can tell me how it is a second son was not educated to take over the entailed estate in case tragedy struck the heir.”

Turnabout was fair play, and to be expected with a worthy opponent.

“I have wondered the same thing,” Douglas admitted, spearing a small, juicy bite of pear. “My grandfather might have had that education but neglected to pass on to his son anything other than the ability to regularly ignore the dutiful reports of an overworked steward. My dear brother Herbert lived for his hounds and horses. He never stood a chance of putting the estate to rights.”

“Was he dear?”

Douglas split the remainder of his pear with one audible slice of the knife. “Why would you question my regard for my brother?” Though how highly could Douglas regard a brother who’d taken better care of his hounds than his wife or his inheritance? And poor Henry, the youngest of the three Allen brothers, had made Herbert seem a saint in comparison.

“I have no siblings,” Guinevere remarked.

Douglas cut each half into quarters, and each quarter into three small bites, noting that the hue of Guinevere’s décolletage was as pale as the fruit—an observation more interesting than the topic of siblings. “Go on.”

“The idea of having a brother or a sister… Well, to my mind, it would be lovely. I surmise it doesn’t always work out that way.”

He considered a lone bite of sweet, delectable fruit. “You surmise correctly. A question for you, however. Why do you insist Rose will be an only child?”

“You listen too carefully,” she muttered, to which Douglas made no reply rather than observe that she’d become too careful in
many
regards. She tilted her wineglass, peering at the dregs. “I will not put myself in a circumstance where I could make the same mistake twice.”

Miss Hollister was
certain
of this opinion too.

“And would it be a mistake to fall in love and allow some decent fellow the chance to take away your loneliness?” That Guinevere Hollister would punish herself indefinitely for a lapse committed years ago, when she’d had no mother to guide her and none to avenge the wrong done her, rankled.

Rankled exceedingly.

She set her glass down rather forcefully. “You did not ask that question in a purposeful attempt to hurt me, my lord, but you will see upon reflection it is either a stupid question or a thoughtless one. If by ‘take away my loneliness,’ you mean marry me, then firstly, you already know that is a sensitive topic with me, and secondly, marriage is
not
a guaranteed antidote to loneliness. Thirdly, a decent fellow would not pursue me for decent ends, and the indecent ends remaining are not, I can assure you, aimed at assuaging loneliness either.”

A veritable rant from Miss Hollister—complete with a
my
lord
—and what she’d admitted by omission was as troubling as the declarations her speech contained.

As troubling as the hurt she tried to keep from her eyes.

“My apologies, Miss Hollister. I meant only to inquire of the possibility, should a man with an honorable suit appear, that you might allow yourself to take the opportunity he presented.” Such a fellow would be a lucky man, assuming he could win the lady’s trust.

“Douglas, I will say this once: I have no interest in marriage. Nothing,
nothing
about the wedded state could appeal to me as much as having my independence and my daughter to myself. Despite the fact that I am a mere poor relation, I have no need to marry and no desire to marry, and we will not discuss this again.”

Douglas set a bite of pear on her plate, feeling a sense of the lady protesting too much. He ought to desist, but her convictions bothered him—and made him sad for her. “So under no circumstances would you consider providing a step-papa for Rose or a spouse for yourself?”

“The question is moot. But what of you, your lordship? Why not assuage your loneliness within the bonds of matrimony?”

“Brilliant, Miss Hollister.” Douglas nodded in congratulation, though he well deserved her riposte. “Except I do not recall admitting to any loneliness.” In her company, no admission was necessary. That they shared something even as bleak as loneliness gave Douglas a peculiar sense of connection to the lady. “Now, if I promise to drop this subject, will you join me in the library for a final nip of brandy?”

While he held her chair and escorted her from the table, Douglas wondered: As eminently suited as she was to motherhood, as ferociously as she loved her daughter, as lonely as she must be, what had befallen Guinevere Hollister that she would shut herself away from the prospect of a respectable union and more children to love, even when presented as a mere theoretical possibility?

***

Douglas Allen’s mood was not hard to read; it was
impossible
to read unless the man himself wished to reveal it.

“I will join you for a small tot.” Gwen let him hold her chair, let him hold the door. When he’d winged his arm at her, she had taken it. Her acquiescence had to be a measure of her fatigue, because on the strength of one shared meal and a short journey, Gwen could not be enjoying his company—could she?

“Guinevere.” Douglas lowered his voice and leaned close enough that Gwen could catch his brisk, spicy scent as they paused outside the library. “Sometimes a simple ‘Shut up, Douglas’ will serve when my questions become bothersome.
In
extremis
, ‘Go to hell, Amery’ will save us both some time and embarrassment.”

She ducked her head lest he see her smile. Her best guess was that this was his version of teasing or apology, though one could not be certain. Not with Lord Amery. They got through their nightcap without Gwen having to resort to Douglas’s suggested stratagems, though she itched to make him admit that he was, indeed, lonely.

That he was lonely, too.

“You are asleep on your feet, madam, and there is nothing more we need discuss tonight. May I light you up to your room?”

“Please.” Before she broached topics a well rested, more prudent woman would know better than to explore. She set her empty glass on the sideboard. “The thought of laying my head on a soft pillow is irresistible—even a lumpy pillow, for that matter.”

Douglas lit a single tall candle and held the door for her. This time, she was grateful for his arm. She was that tired, also a bit disoriented from taking spirits both before and after her supper.

An earlier stray thought about being a poor relation assailed her, along with a startlingly profound bout of homesickness. Coupled with that, she was able, however dimly, to see the years not so far ahead, when Rose would be grown and gone. A twenty-five-year-old woman might spend her day roaming all over an estate, managing this and inspecting that, but what of a forty-year-old woman? A fifty-year-old woman?

When, if ever, could she allow her vigilance to lapse, her penance to end? Desolation welled up, bringing Gwen to a familiar moment of self-doubt. Her life managing Enfield while she raised her daughter worked for now, and she was grateful for it.

But Douglas was right: She needed in the years to come to find other options for Rose, if at all possible, and then where would that leave her?

“You grow suspiciously quiet,” Douglas said, pausing outside her room. He opened the door, and because her candles had not been lit, preceded her inside.

“I am merely tired.” So tired, and on so many levels. Gwen suspected Douglas would understand that—if she could tell him—because he was weary too.

He lit a sconce on either side of Gwen’s bed and a branch of candles on her mantel, then set his light down and came to stand before her just inside the door. He closed the door, likely to shut out the draft from the hall, and regarded Gwen with a frown—a thoughtful frown, perhaps even a concerned frown.

He should not have closed that door, because the resulting privacy tempted Gwen to wonder when Douglas had last been private with a lady in her bedroom.

“Shall I ring for a maid?”

“I’ll manage well enough,” Gwen said, not moving.

“Will you?”

She nodded once. Of all times to disregard propriety, his frowning lordship chose now, when Gwen wanted to indulge in a much-deserved, completely useless fit of the weeps. She was tired, far from home, and just a bit tipsy.

That business he had raised earlier, about marrying some decent man, was to blame for her misery. For the most part, she accepted that she’d made the poorest of decisions regarding marriage, but sometimes…