January 3, 1829
Martin was sure he’d slept. There were stretches of the night when his mind was not actively trying to decipher Alice’s abrupt departure from the long gallery, and those missing minutes must have been sleep. These periods of mental inactivity came further and further apart as the night progressed, however. He finally gave up and got out of bed.
The room was frigid. He reached back to pull one of the covers over his shoulders and then padded to the hearth. He stirred the coals and placed the last of the logs onto the embers. It seemed an eternity before the wood caught and produced a flickering light and a miniscule amount of heat. God, his feet were freezing.
He rooted around in the wardrobe but couldn’t find any slippers. Maybe Finch hadn’t packed any. He settled for two pairs of his heaviest socks. Pulling a chair close to the fireplace, he stretched his feet toward the puny flame and tried to think of summer.
But all he could think about was Alice. More specifically, kissing Alice. He’d wanted to do that for so damned long, and it had certainly not been the disappointment that so many long held desires turned out to be. No, kissing Alice had been an altogether incredible experience. And having kissed quite a few women, he had a firm basis for comparison. War, and its aftermath of affirming one still lived, was conducive to a great deal of kissing—and a great deal of what kissing preceded.
Therein lay his conundrum. If Alice hadn’t come to her senses and pushed him away, he was more than prepared to take what had started to its inevitable conclusion. If they’d not been in the gallery with nothing but a few, narrow, hard benches and the cold marble floor to provide a horizontal surface, he might have done so.
He was not pleased with what this said of his character. And he greatly feared that he had frightened Alice away. Even if she said she did not care about Drew’s desertion, she had to be in a fragile emotional state. Knowing this, he’d still been unable to keep his hands from roaming her body. From cupping one of her breasts and marveling at how perfectly it fit in his palm. From pulling her tightly against his straining erection and reveling in the heat.
Good Lord, no wonder the woman had pushed him away.
She had said she would see him today and that they would talk. His concern was that he wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. If he explained that he had fantasized about her even when he thought she would be marrying Drew, would she be appalled? Being with her in all ways was his fondest wish. It seemed so right. He was, unfortunately, unsure of how to convince Alice that this was the case.
A log shifted in the fire, making him start. He’d been mesmerized by the wavering flame. A very anemic flame. He was trying to decide if poking at the fire again would be worth the effort when there was a scratch on his door. Goodness, had Fitch developed mindreading capabilities? “Come,” he said.
The figure that loomed out of the darkness was definitely not Fitch. A massive form stomped toward Martin, causing him to rise from the chair. Closer to the firelight, what had seemed to be a massive creature was revealed to be Drew wrapped in an overlarge greatcoat and a number of scarves.
“Good. You’re awake,” Drew said. “I’ve come to tell you I’m leaving.” He then ponderously pivoted back toward the door, only to immediately reverse direction. “Oh, and I wanted to let you know that your interest in Alice Caruthers is fine with me.” He again turned to leave.
“Drew, wait. What are you doing? It isn’t even dawn yet. And what makes you think I’m interested in Alice?” All Martin could think of was that Drew had seen them in the long gallery. A terrible thought. Or perhaps Drew saw Martin’s attraction to Alice as some form of betrayal and wanted to distance himself. But leaving in the frigid darkness made no sense.
“I’ve just spent the night talking with my brother Paul. He mentioned that you were like a dog on point all through dinner, just quivering to flush the covey.”
Martin pulled the slipping cover back onto his shoulders. Bloody hell. Had he been so obvious? He was absolutely sure he had not been quivering.
“And I’m leaving because, well, because I’ve been kicked out.” Drew seemed to shrug, but with all his clothing, it was difficult to tell. “Father is in a rage. Mother is hysterical. It seems that I am the least dutiful son on the face of the earth. You were right. My father can’t take my title as Earl of Morrell. He can’t keep me from being his heir. But he’s informed me that anything that isn’t specifically entailed will never be mine. He would appreciate it if I never again darkened his door. So to hell with them. I’m leaving. Paul is out in the stable right now saddling my horse and I’ll be gone at first light.”
Martin plopped back into his chair. “Drew, sit down and let’s talk about this. I’m sure that things aren’t as drastic as they seem at this moment. In a few days, everything will settle down. There’s no need to go dashing off into the night—on horseback, no less. If you persist in the lunacy, at least take a carriage.”
“I’ve been forbidden any of the Pennington conveyances.” Drew paced, ignoring Martin’s suggestion to sit. “I’ll leave the horse at the first posting inn and get another. I’ll tell the ostler to return the horse here. I’ll be damned if I let my father think I’ve taken anything that’s not rightfully mine.”
“You’ll freeze your bollocks off,” Martin said, realizing that for the first time in memory, Drew was acting as if he had some. “At least take my carriage. There’s no need for a grand gesture.”
Drew gave a quick laugh and a dismissive wave of his hand. It suddenly dawned on Martin that perhaps Drew needed to make such a gesture of independence.
“I’ll be fine,” Drew said, “but if Paul has to go anywhere before the weather breaks, his may freeze. Half of this overabundance of clothing is his. And with frequent changes of mounts, I will make much better time than in a carriage in this weather. I need to get to Staffordshire as quickly as possible. I need to have all the details ironed out so Charles can announce my betrothal on Twelfth Night.”
“Charles?”
“Turnbull. Sylvia’s father. He’d warned me that my parents might be displeased and that their retaliation might take this form. We’ve even discussed tentative plans to cover this eventuality.”
Something in Martin’s face must have revealed his surprise, because Drew stopped his pacing and looked directly at him.
“Yes, I’ve made plans,” Drew said. “Just because I don’t plan very often doesn’t mean that I can’t. Sylvia is an only child and Charles would like me to learn the business, since at some point in the future, I’ll be responsible for overseeing it.” The old, slightly wicked smile flashed across his face. “And I can tell you that making plates and expensive knick-knacks is more profitable than the income from ducal estates. My parents, of course, will be horrified, but they won’t be able to control me with purse strings.”
Martin abruptly stood and walked toward his friend, his hand extended. “Then I wish you nothing but the best, Drew. May you and Miss Turnbull find great happiness.”
Drew stepped forward to take his hand. “And I wish you well in your pursuit of Alice. I know you’ve quietly admired her since we were boys. I’m sorry that I didn’t step out of the way before now. But I’ve never had such a sure path to follow—and follow my heart I will.”
Drew’s grip was strong and confident. Then in a flurry of capes, he turned and was gone.
Alice breakfasted in her room, as she impatiently watched the clock until the hands reached an hour when she could decently seek out her father. All the while, she felt her anger growing.
Martin’s voice saying, when I asked your father for your hand, kept echoing in her head. He’d wanted to marry her years ago and she had never known. She’d liked him and would have enjoyed the opportunity to get to know him better. But she’d missed her chance, perhaps forever.
Had all the men who had shown interest in her over time been turned away? She realized she’d been robbed of ever having a choice. And now that Drew had removed himself from the field, did her parents think they could come up with another potential spouse that they would like and foist him off on Alice? If that were the case, they were greatly mistaken. She would make that very plain when she confronted her father.
The clock hands finally inched themselves to the right numbers. Alice smoothed her dress, left her room, and made her way down the corridor. When she knocked on her father’s door, his valet answered.
“I’d like to speak with my father,” she said.
“He’s gone next door to be with your mother.” The grizzled older man looked both ways down the hall before whispering, “She’s had a bit of an upset this morning.”
As far as Alice knew, her mother had been upset since they’d talked two days ago. She wasn’t even sure her mother would let her in. Making a quick decision, she pushed past the valet and walked into her father’s room. “I’ll just use the connecting door,” she said, heading straight to her target and through the doorway before the man could react.
Her mother was indeed upset, sobbing in a chair while her father stood behind her, patting her mother’s shoulder and looking perplexed. “I’m sorry to intrude,” Alice said, deciding she was not sorry in the least, “but I must ask Father a question immediately.”
Alice’s voice instantly stilled all other sound in the room and brought both sets of her parents’ eyes to where she stood. “Did Lord Hayhurst offer for my hand five years ago?” she immediately continued.
Her father glanced at her mother and then looked at various places in the room that were not where Alice stood. “Did he?” Alice’s voice was more strident.
“Yes.” Her father now studied his feet.
“And why did you never consult me?”
“Your mother so wanted you to be a marchioness and we assumed the match was set. I didn’t think it was necessary.” Her father still would not look at her.
“And were there other offers from other gentlemen at other times?” Alice wanted to yell the question, but her throat was too tight.
Her father said, “yes” so quietly she had to strain to hear.
The heat of her anger again scalded her. “Look at me.” She walked toward them. “Look at me! I’m a twenty-four-year-old spinster. I’m pitied by most of my peers. I’ve been made to doubt myself on the most elemental level, as a woman. I’ve been made to feel that there is nothing appealing about me while I wait and wait for my mother’s fantasy to take place. Not mine, you’ll notice, but my mother’s.”
She suddenly laughed, harsh and without humor. “And for what? To prove that I’m a dutiful daughter. To make up for the fact that I was neither the diamond of the first water that my mother wanted nor the heir coveted by my father. Well, I can’t be these things—and I can’t make up for them. I am Alice Caruthers and I am beautiful with character, wit, and humor, even if neither of you has ever acknowledged that.”
Alice stopped her tirade, surprised that Martin’s assessment had come out of her mouth.
“The Earl of Morrell has left,” her mother shouted at her, sounding angry now rather than sad. “He’s gone to marry some unacceptable tradesman’s daughter. Because you couldn’t hold him. We gave him to you wrapped up like a gift and you let him get on a horse and ride away.”
“I let him?” Alice’s voice also rose in volume. “How was I supposed to stop him? I guess I could have thrown myself naked into his bed and then scream I’d been compromised, but I think even you both will agree that not much happiness would have come from doing so. And I still hope that my happiness fits somewhere in your plans.”
Her parents looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. Sighing in disgust, she said, “If I thought I could get on a horse and ride away, I’d do so as well.”
As it was, all Alice could do was stride purposefully to the main door and thrust it open so hard it banged into the wall. With the sound of that thump behind her, she stormed down the corridor.
Before making the turn into the hallway to her own room, her feet froze on the hall runner. Through a half-open door, she spied Martin Tate. Martin Tate in close fitting trousers—and nothing else. He stood looking out the window, his thumbs tucked in the top of the pants that rode low on his slim hips, his unhooked braces hanging down the sides of his long legs.
His shoulders looked impossibly wide measured against the window frame. Muscles bunched over his shoulder blades, and his spine was a deep crevice bisecting his long back. Alice had never seen an unclothed man. His body was so different from hers, she stood transfixed.
She must have made an inadvertent sound. Perhaps a sigh or a gasp. Whatever it was, Martin heard it and turned in her direction. “You made good time in finding …” his voice trailed off.
They stood like statues, staring at each other. Alice discovered she liked looking at his front even more than she had his back. His wide shoulders supported a broad chest, the very top of which was dusted with dark hair. Below that was a flat abdomen that looked hard and ridged. More dark hair seemed to tumble from his navel to disappear into the waistband of his trousers.
Alice felt something odd and tingly run through her. She remembered leaning against Martin’s chest. How warm and firm it had felt pressed against her breasts. She wondered what it would feel like to be held there without their being separated by layers of material. The thought made breathing difficult.
“Excuse me, milady.” The words to her right cause her to jump. Martin’s valet stood there, holding a freshly ironed shirt in his hands.
“Oh, my heavens,” she muttered and, for the second time in just a few minutes, fled toward the sanctuary of her room. Once there, she dashed in, closed the door, and leaned back against it.
Whatever was she doing? Standing there gawking at a partially naked man. And then laughter bubbled out. She knew exactly what she’d been doing. She was enjoying the view. She would never have guessed that an unclothed male, especially one who looked like Martin, could be so stimulating. Fascinating. Exhilarating. Maybe every “-ating” that existed in the English language.
She wondered what it would have been like if Martin’s valet had gone to the laundry room to retrieve his trousers as well. Martin would have been standing there in his unmentionables. Or, heavens, maybe even less. He would look like the statues in the British Museum that she wasn’t supposed to notice. Only, she suspected, better. All long, lean, and powerful.
Goodness, she’d lived twenty-four years and was only now discovering she was wanton. She wanted to see him like that. But not just any man. Only Martin.
She thought back to the good times that she’d enjoyed with Drew, and there had been some of them. But they all had one thing in common. Drew’s close friend Martin Tate had always been with him. She couldn’t recall who had made the witty comments or who had made her feel special, but she now suspected that person had been Martin.
She marveled that she’d not noticed Martin when Drew would bring him home for Christmas from Eton and later the university. Martin never put himself forward, however, and that might have been why it had been so easy to overlook him before. He’d always been a satellite to Drew’s sun. Or he had been until five years ago, but he’d then disappeared before she really got to know him.
Alice had believed that her best hope for happiness lay in carving out an independent life for herself. She now suspected this to be an error. Her best hope for happiness might be standing in a room down the hall, putting on a newly ironed shirt.
Martin purposefully made sure he wasn’t seated next to Alice at dinner. He didn’t want to appear to be hungering for her more than the nicely done roast.
Staying away from her before dinner had been easy, since the ladies all congregated on one side of the room, offering Alice what seemed to be condolences. When she laughed, they all appeared confused. But disparaging comments about Drew could be heard from that quarter.
As if by agreement, the men had grouped on the far side of the drawing room. Surprisingly, the support for Drew’s actions was universal among the male contingent. While most thought his handling of the situation was poorly done, they applauded his standing on his own feet and doing what he, and not his parents, wanted.
Lord Chesterton’s thoughts were echoed by the others. “Good God, the man is nearly thirty,” Chesterton said. “It’s about time he showed some backbone. I don’t condone how he treated the Caruthers’ girl, however. His behavior to her was shabby.”
A few wondered what would now become of Alice. Martin held his tongue and didn’t offer his opinion. He knew what he wanted to become of Alice, and that was for her to be his wife. The difficulty might be in convincing her of this.
Or, perhaps not. He’d been surprised to see her in his doorway, ogling him. Yes, ogling was definitely the correct word. When he’d turned toward her, she’d looked shocked. And then her face had quickly registered appraisal and finally approval.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask, “Do you like what you see?” Fortunately, Fitch had appeared at her elbow before he had the opportunity to prove to her that he was a conceited ass. But he was quite sure that the last flickering emotion that crossed her face was approval. How shallow he was to want her to admire him. But he did. That last look had heated his blood to the extent that he’d had to send Fitch on an unnecessary errand and take himself in hand so he wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of his valet.
The images he’d pulled into his mind while he took care of his problem were what now concerned him. They were too vivid, too real. And he wanted to make them real. Alice, lying on a bed, her thick, brown hair tumbling around her firm, perfect breasts, her long, pale legs wrapping around his hips, her … he tried to pay attention to the food on his plate. He tried to make himself wonder if the plate itself were ironically from the Turnbull factory. But his mind kept slipping back to his reverie.
Yes, it was much better that he keep his distance. He was going to be strong and not suggest he and Alice wander away on their own this evening. There would be safety in staying with the group.
His resolve was tested when the meal finished and everyone retired to the drawing room. Alice and Beth were in conversation near the fireplace. The men had gathered around the port bottles near the windows. He would join the men.
His feet took him unerringly to Alice and Beth. Alice gave him a dazzling smile. He stood there like a lump, trying to figure out how he had gotten there.
Beth gave him a knowing look and said, “I see Harriet motioning. I’d better see what she wants.”
“No,” Martin said, nearly reaching for her arm to physically restrain her. “I’d like to know how your parents are doing. Their reaction to Drew’s announcement seemed a bit excessive and I’m worried about them.”
Beth laughed. “Their reaction has been extreme, but this is the first time their wishes have been thwarted by one of their children. I think they don’t know what to do, so are unreasonably hitting back like spoiled infants. I suspect their behavior will have moderated by tomorrow, however, since mother has to get ready for the Twelfth Night Ball, and she’d never let any of the neighbors have fodder for gossip. The Marquess and Marchioness of Pennington have to be the epitome of charm and grace, regardless of how they actually feel.” She suddenly grinned, the imp she’d been as a child showing through. “And I’m planning on taking full advantage of this trait.”
Then she quickly crossed the room to her sister Harriet, leaving Martin alone with Alice—a circumstance to be both cherished and feared.
“She’s right,” Alice said. “So much of what happens at Pencroft is show without substance. I’m embarrassed that for years I allowed my mother’s ambition to push me into being part of this meaningless charade.” She shook her head, frowning, and looked around. “Do you think anyone here is happy, or is it all pretense?”
Martin realized the question was seriously asked and that the answer was important. He looked around the room, at the three oldest Dabney daughters and their respective spouses, at Beth and Paul floating like satellites between the groups. “Yes,” he said, “I think everyone here is happy. I think the married couples here have true affection for one another. I think Beth and Paul are each finding their way in the world and are happy with their places so far, although they are different from their siblings and perhaps seek more meaning to their lives.”
“They might be fooling you. I thought my parents were happy, and I’ve now begun to doubt that. I believe my mother regrets she settled for a mere baron and this was the reason she was so adamant that I marry a man with a distinguished title.” Her eyes suddenly seemed to fill with tears. “I hate that she thinks my father isn’t good enough, not when he’s spent his life trying to please her at every turn.”
Martin took her hands in his and didn’t care what the others in the room thought. “Alice, parents always have dreams for their children. When I was in Greece I met people who were poor beyond our imagining, but they all wanted something better for their children, and were willing to fight to make it happen. My parents died before I can even remember them, so I have no idea if they had dreams for me. I hope they did. I simply don’t know what those dreams were. I have no idea if I would have wanted for myself what they envisioned.”
He looked around again, finding it impossible to imagine the hungry look of the Greek children on any of the people in the room. “I think what we see here is more of a life made too easy than one of constant pretense. Most of the people here have never had to strive for anything. They, therefore, let the gentle current of their lives take them where it will. They are untested, but that doesn’t make them unhappy.”
“But my parents …”
“Don’t seem unhappy to me. They too are willing to float through life, however, and you may have decided that this is not your way. I made that discovery five years ago and that is one of the things that propelled me to Greece. It took me a number of years of heat and flies to figure out that for all the years I visited here, I was happy, but that I wanted more than the Dabneys ever will. Oddly, I didn’t find that elusive more until I returned.”
He couldn’t bring himself to admit that she was part of what he’d gone away to find—only to discover it was waiting for him when he returned. It made him wonder if the rest of what he desired was here as well.
“Tell me about Greece,” she suddenly said. It seemed a change of subject, but in some ways, it was not. What he’d encountered in Greece had helped make him the person he now was, and he wanted her to know that person—to know if he was someone who could give her the happiness she obviously sought.
“Just so long as you don’t want to know about Byron. That’s what interests most people. Unfortunately, he died shortly after I arrived, so there’s not much I can tell you. But if you want to know about my experiences, then we’d better sit down, for it’s a long tale.” He smiled as he gave her hand a gentle tug toward the closest settee.
“Nothing about Byron,” she said. “Just about Hayhurst.”
The look she gave him did something strange to his insides. The feeling wasn’t sexual as much as it was the elusive more he wanted. She sat a respectable distance from him, but one of her hands stayed interlocked with his.
And he told her about his time in Greece. This wasn’t the humorous account he gave to most people to obscure his real feelings. Instead, he told her of all his impressions and emotions. He described the stark and beautiful landscape, the fear that gripped him during an attack, the exhilaration when they were victorious, the disillusionment when the Greeks themselves divided into factions, and the soul-destroying sense of betrayal caused by the waffling of the British government and its allies.
“And this is why you returned home?” At some point during his long dissertation, they both seemed to have lost their gloves. Alice’s bare fingers now gently stroked his own.
“Part of the reason. But the major impetus was the illness of my estate manager. He’d successfully run things since I was a boy and I was comfortable leaving my property in his hands, but when I got his letter, I knew it was time I came home and took up my patrimony.”
“And now you’re home to stay.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze.
He wanted to hold her and kiss her and assure her he would be here from now on. But this was not the time or place. He glanced around the room and was surprised to see that only Paul and Beth remained, randomly pushing chess pieces around with no pretense of a game.
Paul met his eyes, probably noticing the cessation of sound. “Finally,” he said. “I thought you’d never quit talking. Now if you would go to bed, Beth and I would be released from chaperone duty. The others retired hours ago.”
Hours? No, it couldn’t be. A quick glance at the clock proved that it was. Feeling embarrassed, Martin said, “There was no need for you to chaperone.”
“Oh, yes, there was,” Beth interjected. “If you insist on courting in the drawing room, then you’re stuck with chaperones. It’s one of the house rules.”
Then Beth walked over to them, which brought both Martin and Alice to their feet. Beth slipped her arm through Alice’s. “You and I need to get our beauty rest,” Beth said. “And on the way to our rooms, I’ll remind you of the location of the conservatory. The family never goes there since mother long ago proclaimed she had no talent with flowers, but the gardeners use it for the plants and flowers for the house, so it’s always kept warm. Ever so much nicer than the stables.” She winked at Martin as they left the room.
Martin worked hard not to laugh. Paul would undoubtedly ask the reason for his humor, and Martin didn’t want to disclose Beth’s secret rendezvous on New Year’s Eve. He turned toward the decanter of brandy to hide a smile he was unable to keep from his face. “I’m having a nightcap,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”
“Lord, no,” Paul said behind him. “I’ve been waiting to go to my bed for the past hour. But I had to sit here while you talked on and on. Now that I’ve been released from my duty, I’ll bid you goodnight.”
A nightcap, his excuse for turning away, now seemed like a wonderful idea. Martin poured some of the amber liquor and crossed the room to sit in front of the waning fire, twirling the snifter in his hands. He was chagrinned to realize that he had done all the talking. Lord, he must have sounded like Paul when the man droned on and on about insects. Alice pretended an interest in Paul’s monologue. Had she done the same with him? What a lowering thought. No, Alice had been more than an audience. She’d asked intelligent questions and made insightful comments. He felt as if she truly understood him. As if they had made a connection.
He took a sip of brandy and felt the smooth liquor slide down his throat. It had been years, maybe forever, since he’d felt so comfortable about revealing his innermost thoughts and feelings. It felt like a marvelous gift. Almost better than holding Alice in his arms and kissing her. He’d never thought mental closeness was as important as physical closeness, but this seemed to be the case. The physical side would be nice, however. He smiled into his glass. He should have remembered the seldom-used conservatory—but tomorrow he’d figure out the least conspicuous way to get there.