An Inconvenient Wife (18 page)

Still
smiling, Juliette patted Anne’s hand. “You have had a time of it, my dear, from
what Westcott did tell us, and I want to hear
everything,
but it will
have to wait. St. Clair will be along any moment. I am
enceinte
, you
know, which is why we were not with Westcott in Portugal, and Devlin is
such
a worrier. You must come to Lynton for luncheon later this week. We will have a
comfortable coze and you can meet my mama-in-law, who is a delightful lady.”

She
paused, took a quick breath, and fisted her hands under her chin. “Do
tell
me why you were poking around that trunk and looked so pleased at it. Not
because you found a secret stash of jewelry, I warrant.”

“Something
better,” Anne said with a wry smile. “I’ve always wanted a lute.” She went to
the trunk, picked it up and rubbed at the grime on the wood. “It may not look
it, but this was—
is
, a fine instrument. It simply needs a little work.”

Juliette
came to join her, a skeptical look on her face. “If you say so.” She giggled. “
Moi
,
I’d as soon have the jewelry!”

“Philistine.”
The deep voice held a wealth of good humour.

“I
am not, you wretch. I am as appreciative of the arts as anyone,” Juliette said,
turning to greet the tall, handsome gentleman walking into the room. Laughing,
she clung to his arm and raised her face for his kiss.

This,
Anne thought, appeared to be a habit with them, since he leaned down to press
his lips to her cheek. Warmed by this overt display of affection, she smiled,
and glanced at her own husband, standing just behind St. Clair, who this
certainly must be. Westcott’s expression of benign patience was a surprise, and
a point in his favor, revealing as it did an unexpected degree of regard for
these friends.
If only he liked you half as much!
Resisting the urge to
sigh, Anne felt her hand engulfed by St. Clair’s.

“Since
it appears neither your husband nor my wife intend to do so, allow me to
introduce myself. As you surely guessed, I am St. Clair. And you are Lady
Westcott.”

He
smiled down at her, the look in his eyes so warm and welcoming that Anne felt a
lump rise in her throat. He, along with his charming wife, offered a friendship
she badly needed, and her own smile was heartfelt. “Anne, please.”

“Welcome,
Anne.” He released her and tucked Juliette’s arm under his. “We must be going,
love. We will get better acquainted another time.”

“St.
Clair is not always so rag-mannered,” Juliette said with a comical grimace,
“but we should be on our way.” She held out her free hand to grasp Anne’s. “You
will come to luncheon? On Friday?”

“I’d
like that very much.” Anne gripped her hand warmly. “Friday, then.”

“Juliette.”

“Yes,
yes.” Juliette gave St. Clair a reproachful look, her eyes bright with
amusement, and allowed him to guide her toward the door. “Good-bye! Good luck
with your treasure.”

“No
need to see us out, Nick. I know the way. I will look for you as well on
Friday. You can take a look at that mare—and give the ladies a chance to
gossip.”

“Gossip!
I
don’t gossip, Devlin,” Juliette protested as they disappeared along
the passageway.

“All
women gossip.”

“Such
slander! And men don’t?”

Anne
heard Juliette’s trill of laughter and smiled. “They seem very happy together.”

“They
are.”

There
was an awkward moment of silence and Anne’s smile faded. She never knew what to
say to him. Uncomfortable under his intent gaze, she lifted the lute, still dangling
in one hand, and laid it across her forearms.

“Where
did you find that?”

Westcott
looked genuinely interested, and Anne felt some of her enthusiasm returning.
“In this trunk, along with some of the most interesting instruments. I believe
they have been in there for ages.” She looked a question at him. “Did you not
know they were here? Some one of your ancestors had an interest in music, to
have collected these.”

Westcott
came closer and picked up the horn, his expression such a mixture of astonished
puzzlement she had to laugh. “It’s a bassoon—I think,” she said helpfully. “A
very old bassoon.”

“Is
it? And here I had thought it some kind of horn.”

He
looked slyly at her, awaiting her reaction to this ridiculous statement, no
doubt. The man knew very well it was a horn. Westcott was actually teasing her!
Flushed with a not unpleasant feeling of horrified delight, Anne narrowed her
eyes and said with mock sternness, “Of course it is a horn, albeit a rather
unusual one, to be sure.”

“I
won’t argue that,” he said with a laugh, and set the bassoon on the floor. “I
had no idea all this was here. I haven’t been in this room for years.” He
glanced at her, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I did tell you ours was not
a musical family, I believe.”

“So
you did,” Anne said widening her eyes. A broad smile lit his face and Anne felt
her mouth curl in response. She stared at him and her heart fluttered wildly.
Say
something, anything!
But every thought flew away under his intent gaze, and
flustered, she bent her head, the sense of rapport fading into an uncomfortable
silence.

“Is
this your treasure?” he asked after a moment, tapping the lute cradled against
her. “Are you sure you prefer this to jewelry?”

Surprised
at the amused tone in his voice, Anne blinked and looked up. Had she heard him
correctly? Westcott was joking with her? He was, she realized, seeing the
humour that softened the hard lines of his face. Encouraged, Anne smiled.

“Indeed
I do, sir, and will be happier still if you will allow me to have these instruments
restored.”

Westcott’s
eyes narrowed. “You are an unusual woman, Lady Westcott. Most women wouldn’t
give these old instruments a passing glance.”

“I
am not most women,” Anne said with soft laugh.

“I
am beginning to see that,” he said after a minute, and for the life of her Anne
couldn’t decide if he meant it for good or ill.

Chapter Fourteen

Westcott was just as
uncertain. No doubt that the presence of a woman, not to mention two additional
children, had disrupted the quiet tenor of his household. Laughter bubbled out
here and there, music floated through the corridors, and Anne’s subtle changes
had lightened the somber atmosphere that had enveloped Westhorp after Camille’s
death. His staff appeared to welcome every suggestion made by their new
mistress with cheerful enthusiasm, without so much as a word from him—the fact
he had given her
carte blanche
did not mean he needn’t be
consulted
.

He stared at the attractive
display of glossy leaves and branches gracing the refectory table that had appeared
in the entrance hall one day. Anne’s doing, of course. The table was not the
sole piece of furniture to show up lately. Small stands holding flowering
plants—plants he hadn’t even
known
grew in his greenhouse—splashed
colour in unexpected corners throughout the house.

Westcott handed his gloves
and hat to Martin and removed his cape. “Where is Lady Westcott?”

Martin folded the cape over
his arm. “I believe she is in the potting room with Miss Sarah and Miss Durant.
Giving a lesson in flower arrangement, sir,” the butler added at his inquiring
look.

Westcott gave a grunt of
acknowledgement and went into his study, where another of the damnably cheery
plants sat on one side of his desk. Knowing he was being ridiculous, he moved
it to a shelf behind his chair, where he did not have to look at the blasted
thing and be reminded of the changes in his life. Not that he was apt to forget
the dinners that now included the new governess, Miss Caxton,
and
his
secretary, and took place in the much smaller dining room Anne had
appropriated. Westcott suspected that Anne had coerced Thomas into joining
them, but any initial discomfort Atkinson had felt in dining
en famille
was soon forgotten as he was skillfully drawn into conversation.
As you have
been, and you must admit that it is better than a stilted exchange between two
people seated at each end of a very long table.

Too many people intruding on
his hard-won isolation. Too much Anne. A shawl tossed over the back of a chair,
gloves here and there; a sewing box with yarn spilling over the side.
Bathing
room still steamy and scented with her flowery soap, putting pictures of her
rising naked from the tub, creamy skin flushed from the heat…. and he with his
hands on her, his tongue teasing her lips.

“Bloody hell.” The nib of
the pen in his
hand snapped, splashing ink over the blotter and he threw
the offending instrument down in disgust.
You’ve been without a woman for
too long, Westcott.
A man had needs, didn’t he? Yes, and coupling with
your wife would be the height of folly.
Anne wouldn’t see it as scratching
an itch. She’d attach too many strings to it. Love, promises, commitment—things
he could not give her.

Could not, or would not,
Nick?
Not a question he chose to address, but either way, Anne
would end up being hurt.

Making a resolution to visit
a discreet widow in Winchester, and soon, he pulled a clean blotter from a
drawer, laid it over the ink spots, and began working on the plans for spring
planting.

Engrossed in the task, he
only gradually became aware of the sound of voices. Singing? He concentrated on
the faint noise. Yes, singing. Curious, and suddenly aware several hours had
passed, Westcott stood, stretched his cramped limbs and placed his pen in the
inkstand.

The music room seemed the
most logical place. The sound was coming from that direction, but he’d thought
it an inhospitable place when he and the St. Clairs had first discovered Anne
in there. Westcott paced along the passageway and up to the next floor, the
melody becoming clearer as he went. Not something he recognized, but then, as
he had told Anne, he had little knowledge of music.

The door was ajar. He paused
unseen to study the group ranged near the fire and survey the room, which
looked far different today. The harpsichord had been pushed against the back
wall, leaving ample room for several sofas and chairs. Low tables were
scattered throughout, holding more of those blasted plants, or piled with sheet
music. A number of candles blazed, bathing the room in light and dappling the
deep brown guitar in Anne’s arms with glossy streaks of gold.

Sarah’s chair was pushed
close to Anne’s; Danielle sat on the floor at her feet. Miss Caxton and Guy
were on one sofa, Thomas Atkinson and Nurse Timmons on another. They were
singing, all of them, as Anne played, her clear voice leading them in some
lively song about a dog. Reluctant to interrupt and feeling oddly unwelcome,
Westcott turned to leave.

“Papa!”

The music broke off,
raggedly. Westcott halted, and then stepped inside. “I don’t want to disturb you,”
he began.

Sarah smiled. “Silly Papa.
You are not disturbing us at all, is he, Mother Anne? Come sing with us.”

“I’m not much on singing.”
He hadn’t sung a note since he was a schoolboy and then off-key more often than
not.

“Then just listen,” Anne
said softly, rising and coming to take his arm. “Or hum along if you like. We
are not the most melodious of singers, but we make up for it with enthusiasm.”
His secretary drew another chair into the half-circle, and Westcott found
himself ensconced in a comfortable seat before he could make an excuse to beg
off. Besides, Sarah looked so pleased to have him there. They all did, in fact,
even Anne, who smiled shyly at him before repositioning her guitar.

“You might try this one,
sir. It is quite easy to learn. We are going to sing it as a round. Sarah, you
and Danielle take the first part, Miss Caxton and Nurse will take the second,
and Mr. Atkinson and Guy the third. On my signal. Ready?”

She launched into the first
verse of
Alouette,
which even he knew, the others following at the
correct intervals. They had clearly done this before, and while uneven at
times, gave a credible rendition of the French round. Sarah’s hand crept into
his as they sang, such happiness in her expression that his throat closed for a
moment.

For once you got something
right, Westcott, bringing Anne here, however much her presence torments you.
For Sarah’s sake, make the best of it.
The problem was in
convincing himself it was all for Sarah.

~* * *~

Anne looked up from her
correspondence at the discreet tap, recognizing the knock particular to one of
the senior footmen, and waited for him to open the door. “What is it, Clarke?”

“Lady Lynton is calling,
Madam. Are you to home?”

Anne swallowed a sharp
retort. In the past weeks she had become accustomed to more than a few changes
but this formality was not one of them. “I am always at home to Lady Lynton,
Clarke. If you could remember that in the future, please?”