An Unexpected Gentleman (37 page)

He neither read nor sat. He tried, several times, but each time he settled in to read, he was beset with worry. What if Adelaide’s carriage had met with mishap? What if Sir Robert hadn’t left for Edinburgh as they’d thought? What if two footmen hadn’t been sufficient? And each time, he rose again to pace off the restlessness. Three hours later, when the carriage finally rolled down the drive, he was near to climbing the walls.

“About bloody time.”

He marched out of the house, down the front steps, and waited, hands caught behind his back, for the carriage to stop and Adelaide to emerge. He wasn’t going to shout. He was not going to put himself in the position of having to apologize for losing his temper.

“Where the hell have you been?” He’d apologize later.

Adelaide flicked him a glance as she withdrew her hand from the assisting footman’s grasp. “Mr. Cawley’s farm.”

Surprise temporarily pushed aside temper. “Why the devil did you go there?”

“Because there is where the stable master suggested I look for a suitable mount.”

“A suitable—?”

“He has a fine four-year-old mare. Miss Crumpets. A stupid name for a lovely horse.”

She headed for the house and would have walked right past him without another word if he hadn’t turned and fallen into step beside her. Her cold manner both baffled and unnerved him.

Cautious now, he slanted a look at her. “Did you purchase her?”

“I did not.” She kept her gaze straight ahead as she walked inside.

“Why not?”

“Mr. Cawley would not sell her to me.”

“Why?”

“Because he was uncertain as to whether my husband would approve.” She tossed her reticule on a side table with more force than necessary. “He says he will not sell the mare to me without your consent.”

“I see.” He felt inexplicably guilty all of a sudden. As if he needed to apologize on behalf of his entire gender. “I’ll speak with him.”

She rolled her eyes and brushed past him, but he caught her arm and turned her about again. Her color was high, her eyes flashing.

“Are you angry with me?” What did she have to be angry about? He’d been the one pacing in the parlor for the last three hours.

“
Of course
I am angry with you,” she snapped. “It was an insulting and completely unnecessary experience. One I would not have had to suffer if you had sent a letter to Lord Gideon and taken me to Murdoch House as promised.”

“Letter?” His mind went blank, then . . . Horses. Letters. George’s mishap with the pastry. He dropped her arm. “Oh, hell.”

“You forgot entirely, didn’t you? Completely dismissed it. I don’t know why I . . .” She pressed her lips tight, shook her head, turned, and headed up the steps.

Connor watched her until her small form disappeared. It wasn’t hard for him to finish her sentence .
. . why I bother . . . why I expected better.
He didn’t need the exact words to understand the sentiment.

An unforgiving weight of guilt, and something that edged perilously close to fear, settled in his chest like a block of ice. Uncomfortable with the sensations on every possible level, he scowled at the stairs and decided that what he
really
didn’t need was the bloody sentiment.

So, he’d made a mistake. It was just one sodding mistake, not a statement of his character as a whole . . . which was, granted, a bit murky about the edges, but holy hell, he was only human. He ought to be forgiven the odd mistake.

And he ought to be trusted to make up for that mistake. Hadn’t he made up for everything else, even the things that hadn’t been mistakes? Hadn’t he given her a fine home and a fortune to spend, a picnic in England, and a brother free of debt and out from under Sir Robert’s influence?

He damn well had.

And yet she didn’t know why she bothered? Didn’t know why she’d expected better? Well, if a reminder was what she needed, he was happy to oblige.

Fuming—and comfortable with that sensation on every level—he stormed across the great hall and up the steps. He took them two at a time and came to an abrupt halt halfway up the staircase.

This . . . was not a wise course of action.

Holy hell, what was he thinking to do? Demand an apology? Demand she trust him? He’d done that already. Obviously, it failed to take. Itemizing the things he’d done for her and her family was not going to change that. Moreover, he’d not done those things out of guilt or to gain her trust. He’d done them because . . . well . . . because he had, that’s all. He’d wanted to. No need to go dissecting the matter.

He rolled his shoulders, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and resumed his progress toward their chambers. This misunderstanding had been blown entirely out of proportion. She’d read far too much into a temporarily forgotten letter, and he was reading far too much into a half-finished sentence. For all he knew, she’d meant to express her regret at not having trampled Mr. Cawley under Miss Crumpets’ hooves.

This was a small row, the kind husbands and wives were wont to have on a regular basis. He wasn’t an expert on these sorts of disagreements, but he was fairly certain they all played out the same. The husband displayed a suitable level of contrition for
one
mistake, and the wife forgave him. Because she trusted him. It was as simple as that.

Feeling settled and confident, he entered their chambers and softly closed the door. Adelaide stood looking out the window. She failed to acknowledge his presence with so much as a flick of her eyes.

He caught his hands behind his back. “Adelaide, I apologize.”

She nodded without turning her head and offered no forgiveness.

He decided a bit of resistance was to be expected. He took a step forward. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You may speak with Mr. Cawley, if you like.”

Oh, he intended to have a conversation with Mr. Cawley. One the man would not soon forget. “I can manage better. What do you say to a fortnight in Edinburgh?”

Finally, she glanced at him. “Edinburgh?”

It was a brilliant idea, if he did say so himself. He could be present to watch Sir Robert fall and placate his wife at the same time. Even better, he’d have her all to himself. “We’ll go shopping, to the theater.” Spend the week in bed without fear of interruption from her family or his men. “Whatever you like.”

She looked caught between hope and doubt. “Do you mean it?”

“I’d not suggest it otherwise.”

“And when would we have this fortnight?”

“Next week.”

She worried her lip. “Could we leave sooner?”

“I’ve some business to conclude first.” The trap was set for Sir Robert, but he wanted to make certain, absolutely certain, of the details before that trap was sprung.

“What sort of business?”

“A bit of this and that. I’ve the final plans for the garden to review, and I’ve something in store for Sir Robert I think you’ll—” He broke off when she lifted a hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured. “This trip, it will be just the two of us?”

“Absolutely,” he replied and meant it. Gregory and Michael would be in town for part of that time, but he’d make certain they understood he and his wife were not to be disturbed. If they needed him, they could send a note. “What do you think?”

She gave him a hesitant smile. “I think I should like a trip to Edinburgh.”

He closed the distance between them and ran his fingertips along the underside of her jaw. He was fascinated with the skin there . . . soft, fragile, and infused with her scent. He couldn’t resist bending his head for a quick taste. “Am I forgiven?”

A shiver ran through her. “I suppose . . . I suppose it was just an honest mistake.”

 

A
delaide believed those words as she said them, and she believed in the sincerity of Connor’s apology and promise to make amends. And yet a niggling discontent weighed on her shoulders for the rest of the evening and night. By morning, it had grown as thick and heavy as the blanketing fog outside.

Hoping to shake free of the mood, she excused herself from breakfast and went for a stroll in the cool, damp air. She wandered aimlessly along the trails that had been cut through the overgrown garden and tried to sort her disjointed thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order.

It wasn’t difficult to pinpoint the cause of her unsettled mind. She’d forgiven Connor. Again. Was this to become a habit, she wondered, with Connor charming her one day, disappointing her the next, and she forgiving him every time? Where was the line between reasonably understanding and utterly spineless? And why the devil was she the only one stumbling between the two?

Because she was the only one in love, she thought with a sigh. It was wildly unfair.

If only she had a better sense of how he felt. He’d said she mattered, and she believed him. But matter had a vague and varied definition. Revenge mattered. So did routine bathing. Did she fall somewhere in between?

She didn’t want to fall in between. She wanted to be first. She wanted to matter above all else. She wanted to know what steps she needed to take to see that happen.

“There’s a long face.”

Startled, Adelaide turned at the sound of Gregory’s voice. He was sitting not six feet away on a bench, whittling a weathered piece of oak. Lost in her thoughts and the thick fog, she’d nearly walked right past him.

“Mr. O’Malley.” She chuckled softly at herself. “I thought you were in the study with my husband.”

Gregory shook his head and shaved off a long sliver. “He’s seeing to business in the library this morning. Reports and manifests and all manner of paperwork I’ve no interest in.” He patted the seat next to him with the handle of his knife. “Have a seat, lass. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

“Nothing is troubling me,” she murmured, even as she took the seat.

“Aye, there is. You’ve had a row with your husband.”

Her lips twisted in a combination of humor and chagrin. “You shouldn’t listen to staff gossip.”

“You had a part of it out on the drive,” he reminded her. “You’ve not come to an understanding?”

“We have. He apologized.”

“Well now, that’s good. That’s fitting. Have you forgiven him?”

She absently brushed a thick wood shaving from the bench. “Yes.”

“And are you regretting now that you have?”

“No. He was sincere in his apology.” She watched him shape the top of the stick and found there was something soothing in the sure and steady pass of his knife over the wood. “He was very quick to offer it as well.”

Gregory made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, which Adelaide would have paid dearly to be able to translate into something useful. It was ridiculous, perhaps even a little sad, that she should be seeking insight from one of Connor’s men. But, damn it all, there was no one else to ask. There was no one else who knew Connor so well, or for so long.

“He’s very charming, don’t you think?” she commented casually. “When he wants to be.”

Gregory glanced at her, his bushy white brows lifting. “Tangled you up some, has he?”

“No—”

“Sure and he has. You’re wanting to paint a picture of him, but he won’t stand still.”

“I don’t need a picture,” she replied defensively. She had a picture. She just wanted a few of the smeary bits tidied up for her, that was all. “I know who Connor is.”

Gregory considered her a moment before returning his attention to the wood. “Could be you do.”

“I only wonder . . .” She bit her lip, struggling between her pride and the desire to understand. “He was so quick to apologize, and that ought to be commended, but I can’t help feel he simply didn’t want to dwell on the matter.”

“Don’t know as the boy’s capable of dwelling on that sort of thing.”

Her mouth fell open. “Are you saying my husband is witless?”

“I’m saying he’s a man. And selfish. The boy’s always been selfish—”

“That’s not true,” she said, though she knew quite well that it was. She was in love with Connor, not blind to his faults. It pricked at her, however, to hear someone else point them out.

“Raised the pampered prince, then left a pauper? Either one of those are enough to be turning a man’s thoughts to what’s best for himself.”

“He thinks of you,” she pointed out.

“Sure and he does. Love the boy, don’t I?” Gregory carved a notch into the wood with the tip of his knife. “A body can be good one day and bad the next.”

She reflected on that in silence for a moment before asking, out of curiosity, “And do you love him on the days he’s bad?”

“I do, but his selfish streak suits me, as I’ve one of my own I’m not of a mind to be giving up.”

She thought of the way Gregory played with George and the story of how he’d met Connor. “I don’t think you’re selfish either.”

“Ah, now you’re wanting to paint a picture of me.” He pointed the stick at her. “It’s single-minded, you are.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “Certainly not so much as Connor.”

“Oh, aye. Determined, our Connor is, but I’d not be calling him single-minded. Too much of his time is spent looking about the edges of things, finding the ins and outs and ways around. A man’s needing to be flexible, after all, if he’s wanting to be both good and bad.”

And a woman in love with such a man would need to learn flexibility as well, she thought. “Are you flexible?”

“Nay, lass. Old is what I am, and resigned to my faults.”

She heard the thread of amusement in his voice and wondered if the entire conversation was little more than a diversion for him.

“I don’t believe you.”

Gregory chuckled. “You, not seeing the forest for the wood. Connor, not seeing the wood for the forest. I’m thinking you’re either the perfect match or you’ll be after murdering each other in your sleep.”

She understood the second half of that comment well enough, but the first baffled her. “I don’t like riddles.”