Gail Eastwood (18 page)

“All of you have chosen to descend upon me at an exceedingly inopportune moment, just as I was preparing to embark upon some travels of my own. But as you have come to me, I reserve for myself the right to make a decision as to what will be done. The problem demands appropriate consideration, and we are not going to solve it this day. I will sleep on it, and I suggest you do the same. We must call a truce for the time being.”

She stood up, achieving an impressive amount of dignity for someone of such small stature. “I have no doubt that our new arrivals are travel-weary and would like to freshen themselves and rest between now and dinner. I shall expect and will tolerate nothing less than civil behavior at my table.”

She turned to the twins and Brinton. “Maxwell will show you to your rooms. You have only to let her know if there is anything you require. We dine at seven.” Addressing the baron, she added, “You may avail yourself of my library, if you wish, Lord Pembermore. I have a number of letters I must now write before we reconvene.” She shooed them toward the door with a fluttering of fingers, then folded her hands in a precise little gesture of dismissal.

Gillian hung back, signaling the men to exit ahead of her.

“Aunt Elizabeth, could I ask for just one word with you in private?”

“Just one word, Gillian?” the countess asked, raising an eyebrow in a dubious expression that was suddenly rather reminiscent of Brinton. A momentary stab of fresh pain struck Gillian, who felt the loss of his presence keenly.

“I would expect that you might wish more than one word with me, niece,” her aunt continued. “For two days I have endured your uncle’s blathering about how irresponsible and disobedient you are—how wild and unmannered, selfish, unmanageable, and in fact, how altogether unmarriageable you are. I am aware that there are at least two sides, if not more, to every story.” Smoothing her skirts, the countess sat down again, bidding Gillian to follow suit with a simple nod of her head.

The young woman arranged herself carefully on the square satinwood chair opposite her aunt. Her mind was whirling with a jumbled multitude of thoughts and warring emotions. Above them all she recognized a clear imperative not to waste this opportunity to speak with her aunt. She must be articulate and controlled, “a proud ship under full sail,” as Brinton had said. If her behavior showed that she was not as her uncle claimed, would that not be the best possible defense?

She squared her shoulders and lifted her head. Her aunt was watching her, waiting. Gillian swallowed and managed a tentative smile. “Well,” she began, “I must admit I would welcome the opportunity to discuss my predicament with you, Aunt Elizabeth. I am aware that I owe you some further explanation, especially since I was the one who involved you without either your consent or knowledge. But I will confess that I asked to speak with you just now over something much more mundane. You see, we have managed to bring very little with us.” Here her voice quavered, and she paused for a moment to reestablish her control.

“I gather this was part of the ‘difficulties’ Lord Brinton mentioned?” questioned Lady Culcarron.

Gillian nodded. “I . . .I really have nothing suitable to wear to dinner, just this dress and an extremely rumpled muslin.” She looked at her aunt uncertainly, not quite able to summon the confidence that Brinton would have counseled.

“That is nicely spoken, Gillian,” her aunt said with a curt nod of approval. “I am pleased to see that you can exercise such rigid control when it is important to you. But I imagine that you are thoroughly exhausted and that you have been through quite an ordeal. You need not force yourself. You forget that I have already seen how you reacted when you discovered your uncle here. Are you not angered by what he has been telling me?”

The countess placed her hands together, aligning the fingertips precisely. “I will tell you, the more he said, the more I thought of your poor dear mother. You have no idea how much I loved her—how much I missed her! Our father ranted so after she ran off with your father—he called her all the things your uncle has been trying to call you.” She smiled. “Probably a good half of it was true, and I expect that may be so in your case as well! When I saw you standing in my drive, it was as if she had come home at last.”

Lady Culcarron looked up, and Gillian could see moisture in the older woman’s eyes. Quite suddenly, the girl knew she had found a new ally.

“You are so very like her; has anyone ever told you?” Her aunt sniffled. “Unmarriageable, my foot! I know men. Dressed properly and presented in London, you would have suitors falling all over each other, just as your mother could have had. It would be so even if you were the worst hellion that ever set foot in Almack’s, and I can assure you that you would not be.” She stood up. “Come here, child.”

***

Gillian obeyed. Tears were pricking at her own eyes as her aunt enfolded her in a strong embrace. She had walled in her need for a mother’s compassion, confidence, and companionship for so long. Could she dare to hope that she had found it now?

“Look at us, dissolved into a fine pair of watering pots,” sniffed the countess. She put Gillian at arm’s length and smiled. “We must find something for you to wear! It should not be difficult, I’d say, if you look at us.” She took Gillian’s hand and squeezed it affectionately.

Gillian came down to breakfast the next morning in a simple, old-fashioned round dress of pale sea-green muslin that was stunningly becoming. She had doubted the wisdom of appearing at her best on this particular day, fearing that somehow it might only aggravate her uncle’s state of mind. However, the satisfaction of catching Brinton clearly admiring her looks in an unguarded moment, and the obvious pleasure she was affording her aunt made the effort worthwhile.

The declared truce still seemed to be in effect this morning as the little group enjoyed a hearty meal in Lady Culcarron’s breakfast room. Lady Culcarron was continuing to play the diplomat as she had the previous night, and Gillian could almost believe that all was right with her world. She tried to focus on the enticing scents wafting from the table and the gentle light reflecting into the room from beyond the windows, where morning mist on the eastern hills had been set glowing pinkish gold by the sun. She needed only to look around the table to be reminded that the peacefulness was all an illusion.

Even in its morning softness the light of day revealed clearly how her uncle’s face differed from her father’s. Harsh lines of dissipation and the puffiness around his eyes and jaw bore witness to a life spent in pursuit of bodily pleasures rather than sober scholarship. The set of his mouth betrayed a sour existence of fleeting satisfactions and starvation of the soul. Gillian suddenly felt pity for him rather than hatred.

The light was far kinder to Brinton, softly illuminating his fine skin and the handsome planes and angles of his face. He was immaculately groomed this morning, of course, but as she looked at him she remembered the roguish charm he had when he was not, and how his rough shadow beard had felt against her skin that night in the forest.

Brinton caught her looking and smiled, but she found that no comfort. His very presence seemed to emphasize the uncertainty of her situation and her own confusion. Neither he nor her uncle should have been there at all. She had steeled herself for parting with him, yet he had not gone.
Why had he stayed?
She had been shocked to realize that her aunt’s depiction of swains groveling at her feet in London held no appeal for her because she could not imagine wanting someone else. Only Brinton.
Rafferty
.

To distract herself, she split a scone and spread creamy butter on it. Her gaze slipped to her aunt, who was chatting lightly with the men. Gillian wondered if the countess had suspected there were feelings between her and Brinton. The good lady had asked so few questions about their involvement! Her cheerfulness this morning seemed almost forced. What had Aunt Elizabeth decided to do? When would she tell them?

Gillian had not long to wait. When everyone had finished their meal, the countess assembled them all in the library. Only Gillian chose to sit down. Brinton moved casually to stand by her chair, and Gilbey stationed himself on her other side.
Like flanking guards
, she thought, suppressing a hysterical giggle. She tried to calm herself. All her muscles had become tight with tension.

“Sleep and some time to consider have led me to a decision about our problem,” Lady Culcarron announced. “As I said yesterday, you have reached a stalemate. I believe that the only solution is to clear the board and reset the pieces. I mentioned that you have caught me at an inopportune time. I was expecting to leave today for London. The granddaughter of a good friend is celebrating her betrothal, and at the end of the Season I planned to go abroad. Had any of you arrived just a few days later, I would not have been here at all.”

The countess paused and looked at the twins. “Sometimes I believe that God does have His hand in our affairs, after all,” she said softly. Then she continued in a stronger voice. “Obviously, I have had to modify my departure time somewhat, but I am still going to London. I have decided that Gillian and Gilbey shall go with me. I expect that you, Pembermore, will want to join us. As for you, Brinton, you may of course do whatever you wish.”

A stricken silence filled the room, followed immediately by a babble of questions and protests from the men. Gillian sat frozen in her chair, gripped by panic as real as what she might have felt if an unburst artillery shell had suddenly landed in the library.
Return to English soil, with Uncle William? No!
She could not begin to fathom what her aunt had in mind.

Chapter Eighteen

“I say, Miss Kentwell, how are you finding London? Have you had time yet to form an opinion of us? Miss Kentwell?”

Gillian felt the warmth flood her face as she realized she had not been paying the slightest attention to the young man who was addressing her. She hoped he would assume she had not heard him due to the noise around them rather than her own preoccupation.

After little more than a week in London, she still was not used to the crowds and the noise of the city. Typically, Lady Fletching’s at-home was proving to be a rout, attended by vast numbers of the
ton
curious to see their hostess’s newly completed refurbishments. The house was indeed magnificent, with softly polished marble floors and a mixture of classical decorations, but Gillian could hardly wait to leave. She was finding that the social whirl of town life had little appeal for her. In truth, she had been growing increasingly preoccupied with each day that passed since her arrival.

“I am truly sorry,” she apologized to the young man. She did not wish to be rude. “You were saying . . .?”

She and Gilbey had already endured endless rounds of shopping, visiting, sightseeing, and entertainments in their first week here with their aunt. They had been introduced to what seemed to be hundreds of people whose names Gillian could not remember, including the young man now attempting to converse with her. What had increasingly distracted her was that all week, anywhere they had gone, there had been no sign of Brinton.

He promised
, she reminded herself each day.
He said that he would be here. Do I still believe him?

She had not realized at first how much his promise had meant to her. That fateful morning in Scotland, she had agreed to go along with her aunt’s plan only after the countess had privately explained something of her motives and had given Gillian a dozen assurances that she would not allow Lord Pembermore’s plotting to prevail. Brinton had declined to travel to London with the rest of their small party, saying that he had matters to attend to first. He had promised, however, to see them there. Gillian had clung to that promise as to a lifeline. The prospect of seeing him had sustained her through all of the activities that she had faced in this first week, but now her hope was fading, buried under the weight of continuing disappointment.

“I asked if you had yet formed an opinion of London in the short time you have been here, Miss Kentwell,” the young man in Lady Fletching’s hall repeated, smiling. He had stylishly cropped brown hair and was pleasantly attractive in an ordinary, unmemorable sort of way, except for rather highly placed eyebrows that made him appear constantly surprised.

Gillian hesitated for a fraction of a moment. While she might not recall this fellow’s name, she remembered painfully the several faux pas she had made in Bath, and, for her aunt’s sake, she did not want to make similar errors here.

“London is so vast and so varied, it is hardly possible to have only one opinion of it,” she responded cautiously. “I can say that I am not yet accustomed to the crowds. Is it always like this?”

Her companion laughed. “That is the aim. When it is not, the event is considered a failure, and the hostess is disgraced.”

“But that seems—” Gillian stopped herself before she could blurt out “unfair and unkind.” How could a hostess be held responsible for the whims of other people? She realized, however, that it might be offensive to say so.

“Have I shocked you so easily?” The young man chuckled, mistaking her dilemma. “I wonder what you will think of the rest of our London ways, once you have discovered them!” He fixed a more serious look upon her. “The only way I can be sure of finding out, Miss Kentwell, is to ask if you would care to drive in the park with me later in the week. Am I too bold?”

Gillian blushed, not from maidenly modesty, but from embarrassment at the awkward situation. Would he not be insulted if she declined? Yet how could she accept when she didn’t remember who he was?

“Perhaps I should seek your aunt’s permission?” he asked.

She nodded, seeing his offer as the perfect solution. Lady Culcarron knew him. She seemed to be acquainted with an amazing number of people for a Scottish lady who claimed to venture into London only occasionally. She would, no doubt, give permission for the outing, since her intention was to expose Gillian as much as possible to the
ton
.

The countess had assured Gillian that attracting some eligible suitors was the most likely way to foil her uncle’s plans, and that being placed on exhibit was the usual procedure. Tonight the countess would display the twins in a box at Covent Garden, where Gillian could at least look forward to seeing the play. Tomorrow night they were engaged for the gala ball that had brought her aunt to London. By some unknown sleight of hand, her aunt had also already obtained vouchers for Almack’s for the next Wednesday night. Gillian sighed. It would all be so much more bearable if only Brinton were there.

The truth was, she missed the earl intensely. His desertion from the battlefield hurt her. She had counted on his support in her struggle against her uncle, although she did not know exactly what she had expected him to do. After the adventures they had shared on their perilous journey, she had looked upon him as a special friend and ally. Apparently, the time they had spent together meant nothing to him—just a quick, easy friendship as soon forgotten as formed. She ought to accept that, she knew, and consign their friendship to the rubbish heap along with her lifelong hopes and dreams.

The crowd in Lady Fletching’s hall had progressed an inch at a time toward the exit they were all seeking. Gillian observed that what someone had said in jest was probably true—people did spend more time awaiting their carriages than socializing at these overpopulated functions.

“Was that young Lord Rochley I saw you talking to?” With what Gillian considered rather suspect timing, Lady Culcarron appeared at her side just seconds after the anonymous young man had departed.

She gave her aunt an indulgent smile. “Aunt Elizabeth, I must admit that you have introduced us to so many people, I simply cannot remember them all. Is that his name? I could only recall that we had been properly presented.”

“He is a fairly eligible
parti
, my dear—the younger son of a marquess, with a handsome allowance and a good relationship with his older brother. Do you like him?”

Gillian avoided answering. “He wishes to take me for a drive in the park later this week.”

“Oh, that is delightful, my dear! Did you agree?”

She shook her head. “He is going to approach you about it, Aunt Elizabeth. I didn’t know how I should respond when I couldn’t remember who the devil he was.” Gillian clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words slipped out. “I do apologize, Aunt Elizabeth! I think I have not yet recovered from spending so much time with my brother and Lord Brinton!” She felt the inevitable blush creeping up her cheeks.

“I begin to think that is much truer than I realized,” said the countess thoughtfully.

***

A few hours later, Gillian sat at a mahogany dressing table in a bedroom of her aunt’s rented Mount Street town house, putting the finishing touches to her evening toilette. She wore an elegant and very new evening dress of cream figured crepe over a satin slip of pale green and an under-slip of white Urling’s lace. The low-cut bodice featured a stomacher of emerald green satin, which emphasized her tiny waist.

The abigail her aunt had hired for her stood behind her while Gillian fussed halfheartedly with the placement of a curl by her left ear. An evening at the theater required an early dinner, and there had been little time to get ready between the afternoon calls and the meal. Now it was very nearly time to go.

Gillian frowned into the looking glass. She had tried to banish Brinton from her thoughts, but somehow the effort had only made her think of him more.
You are being perverse, just like him
, she scolded herself silently. She had told herself a dozen times to forget about him and enter into her aunt’s scheme with greater interest.
You could find someone else who is far less aggravating
, she had argued with herself, but she remained unconvinced.

Her maid set a garland of white crepe roses in her hair. “Miss, if you would only smile, you will see that the effect is quite charming,” she suggested.

Gillian groaned inwardly. She would be expected to smile and do the pretty all evening.

There was a knock at the door, and at Gillian’s response, Lady Culcarron sailed in, resplendent in a gown of silver tissue trimmed with jet.

“Are we quite ready to sally forth?” the countess inquired, surveying her niece. “You look lovely, my dear, except for that face. We are going to see the Bard, not an execution. Do you not think you will enjoy the evening?
Measure for Measure
is one of my favorite plays.”

She reached for Gillian’s hand and raised her from her seat. “Come now,” she coaxed. “I know that being here is not what you had hoped for or expected, but if you give yourself some time to accept the change, you will see that all may still turn out all right. Did you think you could only find love in Scotland? There are many who might not wish to admit it, but people fall in love anywhere, even right here in London!”

She gave Gillian a sad little smile. “I actually met my husband here, although I was not in love with him at first. Our love grew slowly, as we came to know one another. And because it grew slowly, it developed very deep roots and wide-spreading branches.” She paused and looked out the window. “Since his death not a day has gone by that I have not missed him.”

Gillian touched her aunt’s arm in a shy gesture of sympathy. “Love can be very painful, I know. I saw what it did to my father, after my mother died.”

“That was love, but he quite forgot that he had you and Gilbey. I know your parents’ love was well-rooted, but it certainly never reached out to anyone beyond themselves.” Lady Culcarron pressed her lips together in a gesture Gillian had come to recognize. The subject was closed.

With a sigh the young woman moved to the bed to retrieve her reticule and fan. Did the pain she felt over losing Brinton’s companionship mean that she had been in love with him? Then why did she also feel so angry?

The Royal Opera House at Covent Garden was large and spectacular, designed to resemble a Greek temple on the outside, and equally grand inside. The twins could not help but be impressed as they ascended the great stairway, set between rows of Ionic columns and illumined by hanging Grecian lamps. Swept along with the other patrons, they caught only glimpses of the statue of Shakespeare in the antechamber and the Shakespearean scenes painted in the recesses of the main lobby.

“When you said we were coming to see the Bard, I thought you were referring to the playbill,” Gillian teased her aunt when they finally found their box and settled into the chairs. Her spirits had been somewhat restored by the contagious excitement and glamour in attending the theater, and she had resolved not to let the remains of her megrims ruin the evening for the others.

As she looked around, admiring the cut-glass chandeliers suspended between the boxes, she realized that the horseshoe design of the theater put the patrons on display to each other quite as effectively as it enabled them all to see the stage. She did not intend to look for Brinton, but she could not help a quick scan of the box seats where he would be most likely to sit.

What she found were many curious eyes upon herself and Gilbey, as new arrivals to town so late in the Season. She felt an urge to hide behind her chair until the program began. Once the curtain rose, however, she focused all her attention on the stage. She hoped that the other patrons would also become more absorbed by the performers there than by those in the audience.

She was quite astonished when, at the intermission bell, Gilbey leaned over close to her ear. “I see Brinton,” he whispered excitedly.

Gillian truly did not know whether she wanted to look or not. The pain and anger in her own heart mixed with an aching hopefulness that thoroughly confused her. Clearly her twin looked forward to a reunion with the earl. With a small gesture Gilbey pointed across to a box that was noticeably more crowded now than it had been when the curtain rose. Brinton was standing there amidst an entire flock of young beauties.

Gilbey’s enthusiasm was uncontainable. “Aunt Elizabeth, may I beg your leave to go extend our greetings? I have spotted Lord Brinton in one of the other boxes.”

Lady Culcarron looked at Gillian. “Do you wish to go also, child?”

When Gillian shook her head, the countess gave Gilbey her permission to go without them. “I can see that Lord Brinton’s clutch of hens has quite caught your brother’s eye,” she said wryly. “I wonder who they all are?”

“Well, I do not,” Gillian said crossly, trying to wrestle down the ugly, searing jealousy that had gripped her at the sight of them.

Even if Gillian had wanted to observe the scene in the other box, she would have found it impossible to do so, for within minutes a steady flow of visitors was passing through her aunt’s. Introductions to yet more people acquainted with the countess, and reintroductions to people Gillian had already met, kept her quite occupied and distracted from her own emotional state. It was a shock, therefore, when she looked up in the midst of an inane conversation about the weather to see Brinton looming over her, awaiting his chance to speak with her.

Her conversational partner apparently took the hint when Gillian suddenly blushed and stopped speaking quite in midsentence. The portly, middle-aged gentleman made his excuses and quickly yielded his seat to the earl.

“How do you do that?” Gillian hissed, not sounding nearly as annoyed as she wished.

“Do what?” asked Brinton innocently, settling into the chair beside her.

“Make people do what you want without even saying a word?”

“Do I do that? If so, I can think of any number of people who seem to be immune to my power.” He was smiling at her, the warmth in his gaze melting her anger and jealousy, rekindling her aching need for him in their place.