A Gamble on Love (17 page)

Thomas sighed and once again leaned back into
the comfort of his chair. If only he’d brought a bottle of brandy.
It wasn’t that he had not thought of it, but he had feared the
sight of him with a bottle in hand might cause his wife to flee in
terror. Frightening her would not further his plans.

Nor did he wish her ill, even though there
were times he longed to pick her up and shake some sense into her
stubborn, and deplorably narrow-minded, head.

Fine. So be it. To the devil with what the
servants might think. Methodically, he packed up the chess pieces
and the board, locking them into the thin wooden box. “I am
uncertain if I have stayed long enough to present the proper
picture of a husband rushing to embrace his leg-shackle, but we
seem to have reached checkmate in more ways than one. Perhaps
tomorrow, when you join me in the master suite,” he added with
considerable emphasis, “there will be less frost in the air.
Goodnight, Aurelia.” Thomas picked up the chess box and stalked out
with all the dignity of a king striding down the aisle of
Westminster Abbey.

And wasn’t he just! Aurelia fumed.
Obviously, her hired husband, overcome by visions of grandeur,
refused to accept his place in her life. Thomas Lanning was a . . .
a
gargoyle,
straight off the
ancient Gothic church in Lower Peven. His Cit soul had been
perverted by
Commerce
. She
should have married Harry. She should have waited for Alan. Even a
nonentity like Lord Hanley would have been better than . . .
this
!

It was full half an hour before Aurelia
dragged herself up from in front of the fire and sought her bed.
The warm brick Tilly had left there had gone cold. Relia pulled the
covers high, seeking a spot of warmth. Cold hands, cold toes, cold
heart. She heaved a great sigh, knowing quite well what Gussie
would say—what Miss Aldershot had already repeated countless times
over:
You’ve made your bed, child, now lie
in it!

For a few magical moments on her wedding
night, she might have been able to do so. And then her husband had
run off as if the Hounds of Hell were after him. Abandoned her for
London. And Eleanor Ebersley. Instead of a properly humble Cit
grateful for his advancement, she had married an arrogant,
high-handed monster who did not so much as deign to touch her . .
.

In all truth I would prefer
an alternate method of passing our time
. Recollection
of her husband’s words, the gleam in his eye as he said them, had
Relia burrowing further into the covers, wrapping them around the
back of her head until only her eyes and nose peeked out. She
needed her night cap, but
nothing
could convince her body to move from under the covers to
fetch it.

She shut her eyes very tight.
Dear God in heaven!
To think she had
assumed that marriage would solve all her problems!

“
A fine day for gathering greens, is it
not?” Thomas declared at the breakfast table in a manner Relia
found nauseatingly hearty so early in the morning—as she also found
the mound of food piled high upon his plate. “You
do
plan to decorate, do you not, my
dear?” her husband added, an odiously benign expression on his
face.

“
Oh, please,” Livvy cried unexpectedly,
“may we?”

Relia ceased layering blackberry jam on her
toast. Laying down her knife, she cast a swift glance around the
table. Gussie’s lips were twitching—the traitor! Thomas was blandly
expectant; his sister, eyes shining, breathless with anticipation.
Mr. Nicholas Lanning, seemingly indifferent, kept his head down,
steadily eating his way through a haphazard pile of food that
rivaled his brother’s.

In spite of almost no experience with
children, Relia was not fooled. Nicholas, as would almost any young
man his age, longed to go on an expedition to gather greens. Yet .
. .

“
I fear the footmen are occupied
today,” she responded with grim satisfaction. “A matter of bringing
boxes down from the attic, but they should be available
tomorrow.”

“
Could not the gardeners or the grooms
show us—” At a sharp look from his brother, Nicholas broke off his
telltale interjection.

“
Tomorrow will be acceptable,” Thomas
said.
Another point to you
,
said the look he exchanged with his wife. “And do you bring in a
Yule Log? I should like to be part of that expedition also. It is
not something we can do in town, and I find myself intrigued by the
tradition.”

“
It is pagan, you know,” Relia said
before attempting to hide behind a quarter of toast.

“
One of many ancient traditions adopted
by the church,” Thomas agreed smoothly. “And a fine one it
is.”

“
It is best managed in a medieval
hall,” Relia countered.

“
True,” Thomas agreed, but I trust that
somewhere in this vast pile you have a fireplace of sufficient
size.”

Relia did not care for the spark in Gussie’s
eye. House of mourning or not, obviously, her old governess did not
care to disappoint the younger Lannings, let alone the eldest for
whom she seemed to have developed an unaccountable approval. “Very
well,” Relia declared, “We can use the fireplace in the entry hall.
That is where we put the Yule Log before mama became ill.”

“
And today?” Livvy asked, looking
hopeful.

“
Today . . . today, if you wish, you
may bring in greens from close to the house,” Relia conceded.
“Holly and ivy—although you must not take so much that the
gardeners will be complaining to me tomorrow,” she warned with a
smile. “And perhaps Nicholas will wish to help you.”

“
If you can work together in harmony,”
Miss Aldershot cautioned.

“
I will go with them,” Thomas said.
“They have both had experience of decorating for the holidays. I
have not. As long as I am rusticating,” he added with seeming
indifference, “I may as well join in country customs.”

Later, when the three Lannings had gone off,
bundled up against the cold, and Relia and Gussie were tucked up,
warm and cozy under lap robes in the morning room, Miss Aldershot
declared, “That was well done of you, my dear. Your papa would have
approved, I am certain. You have ensured a happy Christmas for the
Lannings.”

Relia looked up from the list she was making
of tasks that must be accomplished if they were giving up mourning
long enough to celebrate the holidays. “I confess I am surprised,”
she admitted. “I would not have expected Mr. Lanning to show any
interest in holiday decorations.”

“
Do you not recall the thrill of
gathering greens, my dear? As a child, you always went out with
your papa. I believe Mr. Lanning, born and raised in the city, was
not able to participate in such family traditions, but he has made
sure Olivia and Nicholas spent their holidays with good country
families. This has not perhaps“—Gussie hesitated—“not helped make
them a family of close-knit bonds, but I believe Mr. Lanning is
attempting to rectify that, now that he is married.”

“
Oh.” Chagrined by her lack of
sensitivity, Aurelia contemplated her faults. Her husband and his
brother and sister were making an effort to become a family group,
while she, his wife, sat before a fire and made
lists
. She should have put on her warmest gown,
her stoutest boots, her oldest cloak and bonnet and joined them in
their raid on her holly bushes.

They had not invited her.

She had shown not the slightest interest.

Once, she had loved life, Relia recalled; she
had been eager and carefree. Now . . . she had become a great
glump. It was her duty, as chatelaine of Pevensey Park and wife to
Mr. Thomas Lanning, to make an effort to do better.

But today . . . today was the day she had to
move into the bedchamber separated from her husband’s only by the
width of their shared sitting room. It was not a propitious moment
to soften her attitude. Every instinct warned she should, instead,
add another layer of armor before any chink could be
discovered.

When the three foragers returned to the
house, with sparkling eyes and red cheeks, Relia was watching from
the gallery above.
Cits!
They
were close to staggering under their armsful of greens, yet they
had not called for help. Just the three of them, laughing and
triumphant, as if the holiday could not happen without their
contributions of prickly greenery. And, of course, they did not
stop their Cit behavior there. After dropping their burdens onto
the highly polished and pristine tiled floor, the Lannings set off
a great flurry by descending into the kitchen, where they sat at
the servants’ dinging table and enjoyed thin slices of roast beef
on fresh-baked bread, augmented by mugs of hot spiced
cider.

Thomas and Nicholas paused their
chewing only long enough to bound to their feet with lively grace
when Aurelia joined them, making a valiant effort to look as if she
sat at the servants’ dining table every day.
Once again the goat
, Thomas thought. In his
wife’s eyes he was guilty of causing so much disruption among the
kitchen staff that life below stairs might never be the same again.
Perhaps that was just as well. And tonight . . . ah, yes, tonight
he would have his wife exactly where he wanted her.

But in the end, he let the moment pass.
For that evening he found himself basking in a strange warmth as he
listened to his wife—
his
wife
—play the piano with all the grace and skill he
should have expected. And after that, Livvy had actually displayed
a talent, which might have been short on technique, but was filled
with considerable feeling for the simple tunes she was
contributing. And then he turned to discover his little brother
actually regarding his sister with something close to
appreciation.
Remarkable
. The
holiday spirit must be having more of an effect than he had
thought. Perhaps the manner in which he had teased his wife last
night was enough for a while. And no one would be the wiser about
the distance between them when they were safe behind the closed
doors of the newly redecorated rooms.

An odd little creature, this child-woman he
had married. Wise and capable, and at times so infantile and
childishly innocent that he was tempted to throw up his hands and
walk away from it all.

But he could not, of course. There was too
much riding on this marriage. And he could no more truly abandon
her than he could have sent his sister back to her aunt or failed
to bring his younger brother, whom he scarcely knew, to the home he
had at long last acquired for them. She would come round, his wife.
Aurelia Trevor Lanning, who was so grimly determined to do her
duty, even though she felt tainted by her marriage to a Cit.

When, after the tea tray was brought in and
duly sampled, his wife excused herself and followed Miss Aldershot
up the stairs, Thomas did not follow. Waving Olivia and Nicholas to
their rooms as well, he shut himself in the library and sampled the
brandy he had not had the night before. Brandy, and perhaps a good
Wassail bowl, it would seem, were the only comforts he would have
for the holidays.

His step on the stairs, very late, was a
trifle studied. But he made it through the sitting room without
knocking anything over. Opening his wife’s door, he peeked into the
room, glumly expecting to find the bedhangings still tied back
against the posts and an untouched coverlet.

Thomas swayed, blinked, looked again. His
wife’s bed was solidly enclosed in some material light and shiny
enough to reflect the flickering glow of his single candle. Was she
actually inside that rectangular tent, or was it all a sham? That
was it . . . the minx had had her maid drape the bed, while she
slept quite peacefully at the opposite end of house!

Only one thing to do . . . Thomas crept
forward, pausing with a hand raised toward the crack in the hanging
at the foot of his wife’s bed. A hard-headed man in more ways than
one, he could actually feel sobriety chasing away the brandy fumes
inside his thick skull. What in God’s name was he doing here in his
wife’s bedroom, about to intrude on her privacy while she
slept?

And who had a better right? asserted the
other part of him that he tried so hard to ignore. Holding the
candle high, Thomas parted the satin hangings with his other hand
and peered in.

She was there—Mrs. Aurelia Trevor
Lanning, his wife—sound asleep, her braids trailing from beneath a
nightcap that was a rather amazing confection of ribbons and lace.
Ah . . . so there
was
a bit of
vanity beneath all those ugly mourning gowns. She stirred. Thomas
dropped the bedhanging back in place, turned his back to shield the
candlelight. But not before he had the memory of what he had seen
firmly fixed in his rapidly sobering mind.

He had married a beautiful woman, an
intelligent woman. One capable of appealing to the more gentle
senses he had long ignored.

And capable of making him take to the
bottle.

What he had was a wife who was bravely
upholding her share of the devil’s bargain they had made, however
repugnant she found it. And when she discovered the rest of it?
Thomas shuddered. He had always thought himself a brave man, but .
. .

After the holidays was soon enough. The
joyousness of the season seemed to be spawning a few brief moments
of rapport between himself and his wife. Yes . . . in spite of
Charles’s admonitions, the fall of the axe could wait.