St John shoved his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and started down the aisle of yew trees for the sixth time. It was colder than his mother’s heart outside, and he’d already covered Portia’s helpfully drawn path five times. He knew this entire endeavor was designed to torture him. Just as he knew she stood watching him from one of the windows overlooking the gardens. Still he trudged on, never once looking back at the house. Truth be told, the walking helped. With rebuilding his strength after a month lying abed. With the incessant tug of need any thoughts of a drink brought forth.
He’d spent the first week of his resurrection searching the house every spare moment he could steal. She’d done an excellent job—coaching the servants on exactly what to say and do, ridding the house of every drop of spirits save the ale which magically appeared with the servants’ meals only to disappear once more. He suspected it resided in the butler’s pantry. And whilst he was certain he could take Farnham, St John had not descended to the level of wrestling a key from his butler.
This week he’d divided his time between caring for his daughter and discovering everything possible about Bemerton’s improved fortunes. Under the guise of making preparations to celebrate Christmas, he’d studied Portia’s ledgers, questioned the steward, and ridden the estate from one end to the other. Only last night he’d found what London banks held the estate’s monies. His wife had made him a wealthy man. He could make for London tomorrow and not a one of those banks would refuse him.
Still he stayed. To avoid suspicions he’d told himself. No need to tip his hand. He’d even ridden the border between his and Pearce’s estate, contemplating paying his friend a visit. Yet he’d turned and ridden back to Bemerton Hall in time to attempt to feed his daughter one of her first bowls of gruel. When he finally made it back to London, he’d be forced to use some of the money his wife’s management had afforded him to replace his shirts.
He cleared the avenue of yews and braced himself against the December wind sweeping across the neatly appointed beds of dormant roses. These gardens had been his grandmother’s pride and joy. His mother had never cared for them. The money to pay for their upkeep was better spent on her or his sister, Lavinia’s, wardrobes. Portia had set the gardens to rights as well. He turned and studied the front of his ancestral home.
She had a gift for such, his wife. A gift for setting things to rights. Gardens. Houses. People. Him. He didn’t know how he felt about it. He didn’t want to know. The woman who had done all these things with a gentle smile and an easy, chiding manner was also lying to him about every aspect of their marriage. She’d created their lives together, their marriage, out of whole cloth, and he had no idea why.
Brilliant rays of valiant sunlight glinted off a large marble structure on the hill behind the hall. The family mausoleum. They’d laid his father to rest there over six months ago. They. His mother and sister had managed the journey, along with a good portion of the London house staff. He’d been in London, drunk and miserable. Alone. Hands still in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold, he headed up the hill. In spite of his weeks of daily exercise, the climb proved more taxing than he’d expected. He had to stop halfway up to catch his breath.
Once he’d reached the mausoleum, he hesitated, his hand flat against the heavy, ornate iron gates. With a long, bracing breath he pushed those gates open and stepped inside to find an urn filled with fresh hot house flowers and Christmas greenery before his father’s black marble tomb. He lowered himself onto the little stone widow’s bench next to the massive monument to the last Earl of Bemerton.
“I suppose I should thank you,” he mused out loud. “I was less than grateful when you offered the Duke of Wharram’s daughter as my bride.” He leaned back and rested his head against the cool, marble wall. “She was a good choice. Far better than I deserved.”
His only answer was the wind whistling around the mausoleum and the occasional bird call. He’d never been one to appreciate the silence. Until his daughter came into his life.
“You have a granddaughter, you know. She is an utterly adorable tyrant. With a voice like a Yorkshire fishwife. And an uncanny ability to know when I have on a clean shirt. You’d like her, Papa. I am sorry she has no chance to meet you.”
“You can tell her about him.”
St John shot to his feet. Portia, dressed in the slate blue cloak he thought so becoming on her, stepped into the mausoleum. She perched on the end of the bench and motioned for him to join her.
“I am not disturbing you, am I?” she asked in that soothing, solicitous tone he’d come to appreciate.
“Not at all. Papa and I are simply enjoying a little conversation. Decidedly one-sided, but congenial nonetheless.” The slight press of her body warmed him, nearly to his bones. He’d said he didn’t mind her presence, and he didn’t. Not at all. In fact, having her next to him was a comfort. Like none he’d ever known.
“You were telling him about his granddaughter,” she observed. She always studied him so closely. What did she see when she looked at him? He shuddered to think.
“He would have spoiled her dreadfully, you know. He—” He sat up. “Who is watching Alexandra? I should put her down for her nap.”
Portia reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Nanny Rose will see to it.” She tilted her head, her expression both quizzical and a bit amused. “Some children are actually put into the care of nannies and nursemaids from time to time.”
“Not our girl.” He relaxed, hands clasped between his knees. “Queen Alexandra demands obeisance from only the highest ranked courtiers in her kingdom.”
Portia laughed, a deep, throaty, alluring sound that sent a thrust of heat and animal lust straight to his cock, swathing his brain in a pleasant haze. He dared not risk touching his wife nor even turning to face her in his current state. His thoughts had been so scrambled of late he wasn’t certain he was capable of intelligent conversation with the curvaceous siren he’d married. Talking with his dead father was far simpler.
“Queen, no less. I suspect you will do a handy enough job of spoiling our daughter yourself, Lord Bemerton.”
“I have no memory of her birth. I think that may well be the thing I regret most.” Yes, he truly was in no condition for conversation. Especially with this woman. More and more he found himself incapable of keeping the truth from her. If he had any hope of securing access to the estate’s funds, his funds, he needed to maintain the charade he’d begun the moment he awoke from his stupor.
“Your… loss of memory is not your fault.” She let go of his hand and tucked hers into the pocket of her cloak.
“No? My father’s funeral. Was I in attendance?” Where the devil had that come from and what possible good could it do him?
“You saw to it all was done to honor him as he deserved.” She nodded at the urn of flowers—red and white and green and gold in honor of the season. “Fresh flowers are placed here every day by your order.”
His chest squeezed to the point he believed he might never breathe again. He shook his head. “Portia, I need to—”
“You loved your father very much. You told me so before we married. It is one of the things I admired most about you.”
“Not my dancing. Nor my sparkling wit nor amiable friends.” St John closed his eyes and slumped against the wall. Her attempts to comfort him and make him appear more than what he was stood every chance of undoing him.
They sat quietly. Perhaps she did not intend to answer him. He might hardly blame her.
“Your dancing? Most definitely. You made even me appear graceful. Your wit? On occasion, when not directed at yourself. Your friends? Definitely not.” She bit the last words off so sharply he pushed himself up and studied her face, mottled with fury and something more. A niggling, whisper of a thought slithered through his memory and was gone. He needed to move before maudlin sentiment had him in tears. He stood and offered Portia his hand.
“Shall we go and relieve Nanny Rose of duty? Even the most stalwart of attendants deserves a respite.” Portia smiled and placed her hand in his. He drew it through his crooked arm and stood before his father’s tomb for a moment more. “I am glad he was given a good sendoff. Had it been left to my mother, he’d have been bundled into a wooden box and shoved into the tomb with some other Bemerton ancestor.”
“Really, St John. Your mother is—”
“The reason my father is dead. The Countesses of Bemerton have a long history of hounding their husbands into an early grave. And their sons have a history of turning a blind eye to it. Shall we?” Damn!
They left the mausoleum and made their way across the icy lawns to the house.
“I hope you do not include me in that number,” Portia said quietly after they’d walked for a while.
“Definitely not. You are unlike any countess I have ever known.” He covered her hand resting on his arm and held it fast. The strength and warmth of her touch reached him even through the leather of her gloves and his.
“Doing it up a bit brown, my lord, and there really is no need. Your daughter has learned her tyranny at my knee, and I am well aware of it.”
He stopped and dragged her close. She met his gaze, unblinking and yes, curious.
“You are nothing like my mother. You are a tyrant, but a benevolent one. You look after everyone on this estate from the boot boy to our daughter with the same sensible care and forethought. I don’t understand it. I never will, but I am grateful for it. I don’t understand how I missed it, how I could have ever not seen…” His breath came in short bursts, little puffs of air visible in the morning sun. She licked her lips.
“Not seen what?”
“How beautiful you are.” He hauled her into his arms and kissed her for all he was worth. To his amazement and delight, she lashed her arms around his neck and matched him kiss for kiss. Her lips were full and soft, and he could not get enough of them. She teased him with the tip of her tongue and squeaked when he drew it into his mouth to suck, then lick and stroke with his own. Her breasts and thighs pushed against his, searing him and nearly taking him to his knees.
“Wait!” she gasped and tried to push out of his arms. As quickly as her passion ignited it was doused and replaced with the same wariness and confusion he saw on her face all too often. “We should get back. Alexandra will be fussy and perhaps hungry.” She backed away and stumbled towards the house.
“I—” St John hurried after her. What had he done this time? He caught her and drew her arm through his once more. They walked the rest of the way to the house without saying a word. Once in the foyer the smells of Christmas baking lured them both down the corridor to the baize doors into the kitchens, with Farnham trailing after them to take their coats and gloves. The servants paused to make their bows and curtsies, but went back to work the instant Portia waved her hand.
“We need to discuss…”
She cut him off with a mere glance. He wanted to laugh. He had to agree with her. Alexandra gave him the same look when he failed to shovel that awful gruel into her mouth quickly enough. Portia backed up until her body was flush with his. St John suppressed a groan.
“We need to discuss how to sneak some of those little mince pies off the table without Mrs. Cole catching us. I tried this morning.”
He bent to touch his lips to her ear. A shiver raced through him. “And?”
“She smacked my hand and reminded me they were for Christmas Day.”
St John reached around her, snatched two pies from the work table and stuffed them into his coat pockets. “Up the back stairs, wife. Make haste.”
They raced to the door across the kitchen and stumbled up the stairs like guilty children. Once they reached the earl’s chambers cum nursery, they ducked inside, propped themselves against the closed doors, and fell upon the pies like ravenous dogs. Which is exactly how Nanny Rose found them as she came into the sitting room, a very disgruntled Alexandra in her arms.
“There you are.” The harried woman marched up and handed the now crying baby to St John. “You have ruined this child, my lord. She refuses to settle down for a nap.”
“Have you tried reading to her?”
“Bah! She’s been fed and changed. It was all she needed before you came along and—”
“Nanny!” Portia stepped around St John and pressed a sticky hand over the old woman’s mouth. His wife’s face had gone white.
“Before I came along and?” He raised his daughter above his head and made a face at her. And she promptly cast up her morning gruel all over him.