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Eleanor wandered around the sitting room, eyeing its decor with despair. She had never liked this room, even though it was the designated space for “family” use. Two chairs flanked the fireplace, both with minimal cushioning and green fabric so faded she wasn’t even certain it was green. A wooden settle occupied pride of place in front of the white-trimmed mantel, but it had no cushions at all, faded, thin, or otherwise. There were a few small tables backed against the walls, but no other places to sit. And the walls—their garish yellow color either induced a headache or, if one had recently eaten, nausea.
She couldn’t imagine spending a cozy evening here with Henry. However, Octavius had asked her to meet before their guests arrived. No doubt he wanted to inspect her newly purchased dress and bark out instructions for her behavior.
Sighing, she went to examine the artwork above one of the tables. Thank goodness Henry seemed none-the-worse-for-wear for a morning spent in his father’s company. Although, she doubted they had spent much time together. Her son claimed to have played with his toy soldiers in Octavius’s study, but when she arrived back at the house he and a footman had just returned from an outing to the park, and the high and mighty Lord Lexden had left to meet Mr. Robson. Leave it to Octavius to wheedle his way out of such an onerous commitment as becoming acquainted with the son he’d just met. In all honesty, though, Eleanor was relieved the two of them had spent little time together. Octavius could not be trusted to hold his viper’s tongue.
As usual, he kept her waiting. Everything would be on his terms—or so he thought. She would wait only three minutes more.
She straightened one of the framed pieces on the wall she had been staring at vacantly. The grouping consisted of seven small frames jumbled together. Not one of the paintings coordinated with another. Each was painted in a different style, the colors were entirely too discordant, and the subjects themselves were so varied—one pastoral, one portrait, two still-lifes and so on—she couldn’t make sense as to why they had been hung in close proximity. Not only that—Eleanor leaned closer—one wasn’t even a painting! It was a small sketch, albeit a framed one, of a man and a child sitting by a river and fishing.
How odd.
She turned away, calculating it would take her ten seconds to reach the door, which was all the time remaining to Octavius. A smile crept over her lips as she crossed the room: Assertiveness suited her. Would that she’d only discovered this skill earlier in life. If she hadn’t let her mother treat her like a rug, perhaps she wouldn’t have ended up in this disastrous marriage. Perhaps she might, even now, be wed to a clergyman or some such, a loving and kind man who would read to their children every night and—
The door flew open. Eleanor struggled to regain her balance after being nearly knocked over. Octavius caught her elbow, but she turned away, putting the necessary distance between them. Already she fought to calm her breathing after the merest whiff of his cologne. Did the man add an aphrodisiac to the bottle, or was his elemental scent alone her undoing?
“Eleanor.” Her name always sounded ugly and bitter from his lips.
She feigned a smile, for such an expression must irritate a person unwilling to form one, and spun in a circle, showing off her gown. “Do you approve?”
He stared at her, face like stone.
Well, at least he won’t have to worry about wrinkles in his older years.
Eleanor bit her lower lip to suppress a chuckle; Octavius’s gravity always seemed to bring out the absurd in her.
As the silence dragged on, she smoothed out her skirts. She’d thought the bottle-green slip-dress with a netted overlay looked striking with her light brown hair and hazel eyes. Not to mention the gown had been meant for the Duchess of Burnham, who, according to the modiste, adored it but thought her coloring didn’t do it justice. How could Octavius doubt the taste of a duchess?
Finally, finally, his jaw twitched. “You look...enchanting.”
Her breath caught and her gaze flew to his. There it was, that miniscule softening, that speck of humanity.
Her knees shook. No! For her own safety, she could not acknowledge it. So she swept to the opposite side of the room and said, “What can you tell me of...Mr. Robson, was it?”
Octavius cleared his throat. “Robson was superintendent of an arsenal in America. I am consulting him on ways to improve the efficiency of rifle-making here in England. At the moment, our methods are rather haphazard.” He spared her a glance. “Suffice it to say I want to make a good impression on him. I will do whatever it takes to keep Mr. Robson happy, and I expect you to do the same.”
“I hope you aren’t asking anything unseemly of me, Octavius.” The statement would irk him, and she added his given name to double his annoyance.
Her husband’s stone features reverted to the usual scowl. “Do not be vulgar, Eleanor. All I ask is that you behave in a manner commensurate with your position.”
Though she’d brought them upon herself, Octavius’s words stung. Naturally, she fought back. “If you wanted a lady wife, you should have married one.”
“I didn’t want a wife at all,” he retorted, color slashing his cheeks.
Of course not. That’s why he’d paid her father’s debts and asked to marry her. However much he might regret the marriage now, the Earl of Lexden had chosen her. But, why?
His hand slashed through the air. “For God’s sake, just act like a countess! And a happily married one at that. Befriend Mrs. Robson. Entertain her while I conduct business with her husband.” He pinned her with a glare, his eyes hardened into pebbles. “Or the boy will be taken from your custody.”
The threat wasn’t new, but it still spiked fear in her heart. Moreover, her throat closed at one particular part of Octavius’s speech. Somehow, she squeezed out the question, “Did you just tell me that I am to play at being a ‘happily married’ countess?”
“I did.” In any other person, she might have thought that was amusement lightening his eyes.
She drew herself up to her full five and a half feet. “I do not believe even the great Sarah Siddons could pull off the role of your happy wife.”
Octavius shook his head. “For God’s sake, just keep your sharp tongue sheathed, Eleanor.”
A sharp knock forestalled Eleanor’s reply. Bickley opened the door but did not enter. “The carriage just pulled up, my lord.”
Octavius swept a hand toward the door. “We must await them in the drawing room.”
Eleanor attempted to sail past him with her dignity intact. The effort was in vain. Her husband timed his next words so only she heard. “I think I will enjoy seeing you attempt to play the happy wife.”
She nearly tripped over the threshold.
The bile rising in her throat nearly choked her, but thoughts of Henry growing up in this cold, wretched house spurred her to swallow it and move into the drawing room with as much grace as her shaking limbs would allow. Octavius followed, too closely, which only served to agitate her nerves further.
She sat on the velvet-cushioned sofa and drew in a few deep breaths. Arranging her skirts gave her hands something to do and allowed her to ignore her dratted husband, which was why, as three pairs of footsteps approached the door, she was unprepared when Octavius dropped onto the sofa next to her. His hulking body crowded hers, igniting unwanted but wanton thrills. She couldn’t even renew her calming breaths for fear that doing so would intoxicate her traitorous senses with his scent.
Eleanor wanted to drop her head into her hands and melt into the floor.
Instead, she envisioned Henry and pasted a false smile on her face.
Bickley ushered an older couple into the room. Octavius rose and, by dint of a hand at her elbow of which she was all too aware, helped Eleanor stand rather more steadily than she might have on her own.
“Good evening.” Her husband placed his large hand on Eleanor’s back and pressed her forward. Lord, she wished he would keep his hands off her. “Eleanor, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Robson?”
Why, if he wanted her to act like a countess, didn’t he introduce her with her proper title of Lady Lexden?
Mr. Robson, trim and silver-haired, bowed and squeezed his wife’s arm. “How do you do?”
“It is lovely to meet you, my lady,” Mrs. Robson said with a curtsy. Her voice was gentle, almost lyrical. She turned to Octavius and broke into a wide smile. “I cannot express my joy at finally meeting you, Lord Lexden. I am honored to be welcomed into your home.”
This profound greeting unbalanced Eleanor, who could not fathom why someone would be so eager to meet her husband. Perhaps Mrs. Robson was one of those Americans who found herself in awe of the British aristocracy. Eleanor hoped not, for she knew she couldn’t live up to such expectations.
Octavius’s reply to Mrs. Robson’s effusiveness was a stiff, “The pleasure is all mine, ma’am,” which seemed to equate pleasure with torture.
Mr. Robson stepped forward and clasped Eleanor’s hands with an enthusiasm to rival his wife’s. “My dear, I have anticipated meeting you ever since my conversation with Lex the day before yesterday.”
Eleanor froze. What could Octavius have possibly said? She breathed again, realizing he couldn’t have said anything detrimental about her. That would hardly suit his purpose. But why should Mr. Robson or his wife care what kind of marriage Octavius had?
She must say something; her limited social experiences in Essex had taught her that much. “I am pleased to meet you both.”
Eleanor guessed Mrs. Robson must be over fifty, but the woman’s glossy brown hair showed only the slightest traces of grey. Her figure was well-proportioned, her dress a stylish blue taffeta, and when she tilted her head just so and smiled Eleanor thought the safest place in the world might be within her embrace.
She gave herself a shake. Octavius’s touch was affecting her more than she would like to think. She had no need of a hug, especially from a stranger.
“Shall we sit?” she offered.
The Robsons moved as one and sat on the sofa. Eleanor slid into a chair, leaving Octavius to fend for himself. He chose the chair opposite her and flashed her a brief glare of annoyance. She ignored him.
And waited. And waited.
Having expected him to begin the conversation, she glanced at Octavius, but he looked entirely uncomfortable. Ill-at-ease even. And the Robsons were obviously waiting, too.
Though she owed him nothing, Eleanor plunged in. “I hope you are finding London an agreeable place to visit. Is this your first time here?”
“It is,” Mrs. Robson said. “I must admit the city is a bit overwhelming. It’s large and noisy, yet so fascinating. I intend to enjoy as much of it as I can.”
“Eleanor would be delighted to take you round,” Octavius interjected unctuously. “Shopping, driving in the park, anything you desire.”
Eleanor desired to offer her own services, but she tamped down her oppressed feelings and smiled silently at Mrs. Robson.
The woman’s husband turned. “I hear you yourself are recently arrived in London, Lady Lexden.”
A bubble of dread swelled in Eleanor’s stomach. The man’s blue eyes were alight with intelligence. The American would not be easily fooled by the playacting of her and her husband. Is that why Octavius’s next words sounded more desperate than stern?
“Please, call her Eleanor.”
Mr. Robson sent her husband a sharp glance, and the bubble of dread expanded in Eleanor’s stomach. She’d never wanted to be an actress, but...Henry.
“Yes, please do,” she said. “My husband knows how much I dislike standing upon formality.” She chuckled aloud, even while she seethed on the inside. What could possibly cause Octavius to quake at using her proper address? Certainly she didn’t deserve the title, but he’d married her, so now he must deal with the consequences.
She continued babbling. “Yes, Mr. Robson, my son and I have indeed just arrived from Essex. The Season is well underway, of course.”
There, that sounded like something a countess would say.
“Your son is here? Oh, bless you, he must be feeling so much better in order to have traveled,” Mrs. Robson exclaimed. “I never could abide it when my little ones were ill.”
What on earth? Henry had rarely ever been ill. Somehow Eleanor kept her confusion hidden—she hoped—but she couldn’t resist looking to Octavius, who appeared more flummoxed than she’d ever dared imagine he could.
He shifted in his chair. “The boy is doing remarkably well of late, and both Eleanor and I are delighted he could accompany her to London.”
Was it her imagination, or was Octavius gnashing his teeth? He’d been right; this could be fun! “Henry is, after all, his father’s pride and joy,” she gushed.
He wanted to skewer her with his glare, she felt it, but there was nothing he could do in front of their audience. He managed a nod, but nothing resembling pride or joy appeared on his face.
Mrs. Robson leaned forward. “I hope we will be privileged enough to meet the young man, his health permitting. It’s been ages since our children were little. Elliot, do you remember when Hannah hid in the sideboard during our dinner with the governor?”
Eleanor nearly collapsed against the back of her chair in relief. Finally, a safe topic: the Robsons’ own family. She opened her mouth to enquire further, but Bickley opened the door and announced dinner.
Octavius was quick to stand and offer his arm to Mrs. Robson. That lady’s husband did the same to Eleanor, and she gladly accepted.
As they walked down the corridor he commented, “You’ve an interesting husband, my dear.”
The remark was said casually, but Eleanor could see the older man thinking, speculating. The bubble of dread grew larger inside her, and she wondered how she could possibly eat a bite of dinner.
––––––––
LEX AND ROBSON ROSE, both of them watching the ladies exit the dining room. Lex hid his relief at their departure. What an excruciating affair. He hadn’t found the slightest thing amusing, as he’d boasted to Eleanor he might. Before dinner she had figured out how to turn the tables on him and verbally offered painful thrust after painful thrust, mostly regarding the boy. He had meant to tell her the story he’d concocted regarding their absence from London, but she had distracted him with that alluring dress. And her abrasive tongue.
He and Robson reclined once more and Bickley supplied them with port.
The American took a swallow. “Excellent. I’ve always enjoyed this custom where the ladies remove themselves so that we may talk about them and they take advantage of our absence as well.” He tipped his glass, swirling the liquor. “I wonder if my dear Justine will tell me what Eleanor has to say about you.”
“Gossiping is not the point!” Beneath the table, Lex flexed his fingers, trying to rein in his temper, blocking out all the hateful things Eleanor might say. “This is our opportunity to speak of topics inappropriate for the ears of gently-bred ladies. Hunting, shooting, business, politics. They, in turn, shall speak of things that interest them and not us.”
“Ah, I see now.” Robson lowered those silver eyebrows which had been inching up toward his hairline, and Lex knew he’d been teased again. “By all means, then, let us speak of politics. How do you think Lord Liverpool will get on as prime minister now that poor Mr. Percival has been assassinated? Was he your choice for the position?”
Robson was supposed to have chosen business, not politics. Of course, they had spoken of nothing but rifles, arsenals, and manufacturing all afternoon. Resignedly, Lex knew his place as host. He wouldn’t, however, be able to carry this topic very far.
“I had no opinion on the matter.”
“Oh, come now. Don’t tell me there weren’t whispers running rampant around the House of Lords. What was the scuttlebutt on the Marquess of Wellesley and Liverpool?”
Lex stared at his glass, avoiding Robson’s gaze, which was merely inquiring. Nevertheless, he felt like a schoolboy who’d not done his Latin declensions. “I’ve never taken my seat,” he mumbled.
The corners of Robson’s mouth turned down. “Why not? You’ve held the title for over seventeen years.”
Lex heard the unspoken censure in the older man’s tone. And once again that baritone from his past echoed inside his head: The title is not privilege; it is responsibility. It was joined by another voice, sharper and littler: You never visit Mayne Castle, so it must not be one of your responsibilities.
The ruby liquid in his glass swam before his eyes. Driven mad by a ghost, an urchin and an American—that’s what his entrance report to Bedlam would note. Then there would be one final remark before the title passed to the brat: Pushed beyond all reason by a harridan of a wife.
An ignominious end. Even more disgraceful than the seventh earl’s death, since the true nature of that event had been kept secret. Still, Society would only shake their collective head and wonder if the Mayne insanity ran through the boy’s blood too.
“Ah, thank goodness your lip twitched,” Robson said softly. “I was beginning to fear I’d bored you to death.”
Lex scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course you haven’t bored me, sir. I—”
“No, that wasn’t boredom,” Robson acknowledged. “It was more like despair. Have I opened an old wound, lad?”
Robson’s direct gaze and honest assessment nearly tore Lex’s chest open. Nearly. The sobriquet “lad” had served as a breastplate of steel, deflecting the urge to spill out every last detail of his life. There was no proper way to explain that he’d not taken his seat in Parliament because he didn’t want his peers questioning his every speech and vote, wondering if he was as unstable as his father.
“No, of course not,” he told Robson. “I’m simply more interested in trade than in politics. But what of you? You so willingly agreed to help me, and therefore England. Did loyalty to your country not give you pause? Especially considering that, when you sailed from America, the chance of war seemed high.”
Robson tipped his head back and studied the ceiling for a moment. “Loyalty is complicated, don’t you think? I fought in the War for Independence and consider myself an American through and through. Yet, my own father was born here in England, so family ties remain.” He redirected his gaze to Lex. “Then, too, there are other bonds that demand my loyalty. When you saved Andrew, you saved me from once again being a father drowning in grief. I owe you, you asked me come, and so here I am.”
And here too was Lex, accepting Robson’s loyalty and using it to further his revenge against the Drummonds. He did not deserve any commendation.
Robson raised his glass. “To the beginning of our friendship, and a fortification of that loyalty. May our countries be friends.”
Lex could do nothing but raise his glass as well. “To friendship.”
The dining room—which easily sat sixteen—was beginning to feel like a closet. So, which was the lesser of two evils, to be here with Robson or in the drawing room with Eleanor? Perhaps she could turn things around. Both Mr. and Mrs. Robson had seemed charmed by her at dinner. When his wife put away her shrewish tongue, she was unquestionably engaging.
He downed the last of his port and stood. “Shall we rejoin the ladies?”
Robson grinned. “Ah now, our gentle ladies. Yes, by all means let’s rejoin them. Their loyalty is another thing altogether. What would we do without them?”
––––––––
“THIS IS LOVELY,” MRS. Robson exclaimed of the décor as she and Eleanor returned to the drawing room after dinner.
“Yes, I believe the former countess was fond of entertaining.” At least, that was the image of Octavius’s mother Eleanor had gleaned from the passing remarks of servants. Octavius had never spoken of her, so Eleanor wasn’t quite certain when she had passed away, but the drawing room’s appointments had so far stood the test of time. This chamber was more comfortable than the sitting room, with cream-colored velvet sofas, gilded and cushioned armchairs, and inlaid tables all tastefully arranged against the backdrop of walls covered in a glossy, celestial blue paper.
“And what about you?” Mrs. Robson asked, arranging herself on the sofa in a practiced, genteel way that Eleanor envied. “Will you entertain now that you are returned to London?”
If Eleanor hosted a ball, would anyone come? In those early, agreeable months of their marriage she and Octavius had attended a few events. It had become clear to her, however, that he wasn’t comfortable in a social setting and she’d been left to flounder on her own. Then, in the blink of an eye, she’d been banished from London. Members of the ton probably wouldn’t even recognize the Countess of Lexden if she rode through the park. But Octavius wanted her to please Mrs. Robson, whose brandy-colored eyes glowed at the prospect of London society.
She sat next to the American and smiled. “I would love to throw a ball in your honor, Mrs. Robson.”
“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean—”
Eleanor leaned over and patted Mrs. Robson’s hand. “I insist. And so will Octavius.”
After his apoplexy. Actually, the more she thought on it, the more amusing she found the idea of playing the perfect wife and hostess for him. Her behavior might drive him insane, which would be the ideal revenge for his unwarranted accusations against her honor and his ill treatment of her.
She focused on her guest once more. “What better way to introduce you and Mr. Robson?”
“We do love to dance. We held parties regularly at our home in Baltimore. Have you a ballroom here?”
“Nooo...” Eleanor drew the word out. What had she got herself into?
Mrs. Robson stood and flitted from one corner to another. “This room is good-sized. Does it open to any others?”
“Yes. All the rooms on this floor are connected.”
She looked at Mrs. Robson hopefully, and that lady beamed. “Perfect. All you need do is push the furniture back and open all the doors. Voila! A ballroom.”
Everything Eleanor knew about planning a ball could fit in her fist. Fortune, or Octavius, seemed to have provided her the guide she needed. She preferred to thank Fortune.
“Mrs. Robson, I know it seems rather rude to ask, since you will be the guest of honor, but would you help me plan the ball?”
“First, you must call me Justine.” The older woman advanced toward Eleanor. “Second, you must stop acting as if you are indebted to Mr. Robson and me. We are the ones who owe much gratitude to your gracious and valiant husband.”
Eleanor always thought so poorly of Octavius—and why shouldn’t she?—that it shocked her to hear someone else speak highly of him. It was like hearing the devil described as kindness itself.
“I didn’t realize you and your husband had a prior acquaintance with Octavius.”
The least the man could do, if he wanted her to play the loving wife, was inform her of all relevant details.
Mrs. Robson waved a hand through the air. “Oh, we’ve only just met Lord Lexden. However, we have corresponded for years.” She tilted her head. “Surely he’s told you how he saved our son’s life?”