A Gamble on Love (20 page)

Relia scrambled to regain her composure,
ruthlessly blocking out the insistent brilliance of that narrow ray
of light. “To show your gratitude,” she said to Olivia, “you may
play some Christmas tunes for us, while your brother speaks with
Nicholas.”

Reminded of his duty, Thomas headed for the
stairs, albeit a bit reluctantly. What did he know about children?
It was nearly twenty years since he had been Nicholas’s age.
Perhaps football or cricket? Did the boy hate Greek as Thomas had?
Did he miss his mother—of whom no one ever spoke? Should he tell
the boy of his new half-sister, born to his mother and her lover in
Italy?

Yes, he should. Nicholas was old enough for
reality. Perhaps, together, they could decide what to tell Livvy.
They were, after all, the only remaining males of the Lanning
family. As he walked down the hall to his brother’s room, Thomas’s
step was far lighter and faster than when he started up the
stairs.

Christmas morn was marked by a journey into
Lower Peven for church, with Nicholas grandly perched on the box
with the coachman, rather than being thoroughly humiliated by being
squeezed inside between his brother and his sister. His spirits
rose still further when, during their sumptuous Christmas dinner,
he pulled the coin from the plum pudding and was promptly rewarded
by a golden guinea from his brother’s pocket.

In contrast, Miss Aldershot turned an
unbecoming shade of puce when her portion of pudding was found to
contain the traditional ring. “Absurd!” she muttered, carefully
setting the tiny ring aside. Then, with the cool calm she had
attempted to instill in her pupils, she picked up her fork and took
a bite of the steamed pudding.

“
Oh, no!” Livvy wailed, as she withdrew
a miniature thimble from among a dark nest of raisins, fruits, and
nuts. “That is not at all fair. Why should Miss Aldershot get the
ring and I the thimble?”

“
It only means you will not wed this
year,” Relia interjected hastily. “And that cannot possibly offend,
as you will not make your come-out until a year from this
spring.”

“
And I,” said Thomas, “seem to have the
button, which, as Miss Aldershot has pointed out, demonstrates the
absurdity of this particular tradition, as I am already married, so
can scarce remain a bachelor this coming year.”

The words were no sooner out of his
mouth than Thomas heartily wished them unsaid, for his wife was
staring at him, open-mouthed, in one of her rare unguarded
moments.
Devil it!
It was
plain as a pikestaff what she was thinking. They did not have a
true marriage . . . and this sad state of affairs was to continue
for another whole
year
!

Only if he were dead and buried, Thomas
vowed.

Yet . . . he bent his head to his pudding,
lips twitching. It was not altogether unpleasant to discover that
his wife had been stricken by the thought of continued
celibacy.

If, of course, he had interpreted her
expression correctly. Possibly, she had merely been appalled by the
thought of Thomas Lanning across the table tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrow, and was wishing him a bachelor forever, as, indeed,
finding the button in the plum pudding was said to indicate in some
parts of the country.

Though none would ever admit it, of those at
Pevensey Park’s Christmas table, only Nicholas truly tasted the
rich ingredients of plum pudding on which Cook had expended both
labor and love.

Neither the four Lannings nor Miss Aldershot
had time for reflection on Boxing Day, as each of the servants,
both inside and out, received a purse, with a little something
extra this year for those who had helped with the Yule Log. And
this year Relia was able to give all the servants a day off, as
there were enough members of her new family to help distribute the
boxes to the poor, as well as the gifts she gave each year to her
tenants and, particularly, to their children. If the sound of
hunting horns or the sight of red-coated riders in the distance
disturbed any of the Lannings, not a word was said. But,
truthfully, Relia had been angered by the looks on people’s faces
when her husband had refused the squire’s invitation to the Boxing
Day hunt, delivered after church services the previous morning.

“
I fear I do not hunt,” Thomas had told
Squire Stanton, managing to look both properly regretful and
suitably honored by the invitation. “And I believe my wife wishes
me to accompany her on her Boxing Day visits. There are, I believe,
a few of our tenants whom I have not yet met.”

“
You do not hunt?” the squire barked,
looking as outraged as if Mr. Lanning had told him he did not eat
meat.

“
I am greatly honored to be invited, I
assure you, but I am a man of the City, born and bred. I promise
you, I should make a great fool of myself if I went out with the
hunt.” Mr. Lanning offered his best smile, which, as Relia well
knew, was formidable. “And probably be brought home on a
gate.”

“
Well . . . can’t have that, of
course,” the squire had mumbled, obviously making an heroic effort
to hide both scorn and irritation. “Good day to you,
sir.”

Which was all well and good, Relia thought,
for she herself was not fond of hunting, but she had looked around
to discover condemnation on the faces of many who were just leaving
the church. Obviously, the incident was an all-too-clear reminder
that Thomas Lanning was not one of them, but a Cit, who had married
far above himself.

The hunting horns died away in the distance,
and Relia’s wandering thoughts were soon back to the duty at hand,
as she introduced Thomas to the manager of their hops farm and
processing barn and to his wife and promising family of four boys
and three girls.

That evening the family dined on a cold
collation, which they dished up for themselves, while the servants
enjoyed the remainder of a well-earned day of rest. The following
day was devoted to creating a guest list and to considerable
haggling over plans for the Twelfth Night festivities, most of
which Relia rejected out of hand. Livvy coaxed, Nicholas sulked,
Thomas persuaded. Somehow the group of older guests—“But you cannot
fail to invite the parents, my dear”—grew out of all proportion to
Relia’s original plans. The squire and his wife and children, of
course, could not be forgotten. And the parents of the Trent
children, Gussie added, and didn’t they have a sister at home,
widowed at Talavera?

“
Is there not a earl about somewhere?”
Thomas inquired blandly later that evening as Relia sat at the
delicate rosewood
bureau de dame
in their sitting room, nibbling the feathers of her pen and
muttering over the scribbled additions to her guest list. “Are you
on visiting terms with him, and does he have children?”

“
Gravenham,” Relia returned shortly.
“And, yes, we visit, and, yes, he has children of a suitable age.
But his second son is just home from the Peninsula, recovering from
severe wounds, I am told. I doubt they will wish to
come.”

“
It will do no harm to invite them.
Perhaps they will do us the honor. After all, I am anxious to meet
my neighbors,” Thomas added suavely. “Attempting to fulfill my
obligations, do the pretty, don’t you know.” He sketched a flourish
with his hand, a salute in the style of a courtier of an earlier
era.

He was mocking her again! That curl of his
lips, the enigmatic gleam in his eye. If only she might peek
beneath the façade for only a moment . . . and discover if the man
she had glimpsed in Tunbridge Wells for so short a time after her
near accident was truly inside.

Why she bothered to wait in her sitting room
each evening she could not imagine! It was a lovely room, of
course. Relia was pleased with her first attempt at decoration. No
longer a ladies’ boudoir done up in delicate silks and pale colors,
the sitting room was vibrant in shades of cherry and rose, accented
with dark blue and cream—colors selected to match the fine new
Axminster carpet. There was a sofa in French blue velvet,
brightened by loose pillows in the same striped cherry and rose
satin as the two wingchairs. The wallpaper was cream, flocked in
dark blue, the draperies and deep swags of cherry damask. It was a
room designed not simply for the lady of the house, but for a man
as well.

Though why she should consider pleasing
her husband Relia could only ascribe to her determined efforts to
uphold her part of their bargain, even if Thomas Lanning was quite,
quite impossible. To her, he was blasé, indifferent. Amused, but
not amusing. Yet somehow each night, after dismissing her maid,
Relia found something to do in the sitting room they shared. Lists,
letters, a book to read before the fire. All while
charmingly
en déshabillé
in
the fine dark blue velvet dressing gown she had worn in Tunbridge
Wells, or in one of several other equally charming confections she
had acquired in London.

And although she shied from admitting the
truth, even to herself, Relia ended each day in her sitting room
because her husband must pass by on the way to his bedchamber. She
had found him not averse to a few moments conversation before
retiring, even though she found herself wondering if he ever felt
as awkward as she, as they moved cautiously, tentatively, in a game
more complex than chess. Exploring—

He was staring at her, one eyebrow raised,
undoubtedly wondering to what far realm her wits had wandered. And
why.

“
Very well,” she murmured, and reached
for one of the invitations Miss Aldershot and Olivia had so
laboriously penned that day.

As Relia wrote, she felt a hand come to rest
on her shoulder. Her pen wobbled, ink splattered. The searing
warmth of her husband’s fingers promptly disappeared. “My
apologies,” Thomas muttered and strode from the room.

It was some time before Relia reached for a
fresh invitation to inscribe to the Earl and Countess of Gravenham
and their family. And, to her astonishment, the Fortescue family
accepted. All of them, including the earl and the countess and that
veteran of the Peninsular War, Captain Alan. News of such
illustrious guests sent the household into even more of a twitter
than it already was. Mr. and Mrs. Lanning almost immediately
discovered one more bone of contention.

“
We may not hunt or have a Yule Log in
town,” Thomas informed his wife, as they continued an argument,
begun at dinner, in the privacy of their sitting room, “but
celebrating Twelfth Night is a tradition with which we are quite
familiar.”

“
This is a party for young people,”
Relia asserted. “We are not going to have a bottomless Wassail
bowl!”

“
But not all of us are children,”
Thomas reminded her. “Surely the chaperons are to have something
stronger than cider. Somehow,” he mused, “I cannot picture
Gravenham and his son or Squire Stanton—”

“
There will be wine with
supper—”

“
And something stronger in the card
room,” Thomas declared. “You may stand a footman at the door to
make sure none of the youngsters wander in.”

“
Thomas!” Relia caught her wail,
stifling it into a gulp. “You do not understand. If we have a party
for the adults, we are
entertaining
.”

“
Well, of course, we’re entertaining.”
Puzzled, Thomas frowned down at his wife, who was once again seated
at her small desk, working on a list of tasks still to be
accomplished before Twelfth Night.

Relia plunged her head into her hands, the
feathers of the quill she had been using sticking out between her
fallen tresses.

“
Oh . . . deuced dense again, am I?”
Thomas muttered. “Once again, I have trod on your sensibilities.
Yet . . . I think we cannot call it off.”

“
No, of course not.” Though muffled,
Relia’s response was clear. She raised her head, pushed back her
wayward strands of glossy black hair. “Gussie has begun to remind
me, almost daily, that I cling too much to my grief. It is only
right that you should have an opportunity to meet so many of the
families in the county. Quite everyone has accepted. Indeed, I am
surprised . . .” Relia broke off, hiding her face as she once again
bent over her desk.

“
You are surprised they all agreed to
come,” her husband supplied. “Surprised they would honor the home
of a Cit. Curiosity, my dear, simple curiosity. A trait found in
high and low alike. Nor do they wish to offend a long-standing
friend, of course.” His wife, eyes averted, failed to see his
conciliatory smile.

“
Thomas?”

“
Yes, my dear?”

“
Why is it you accommodate yourself to
everyone but me?”

Thomas did not pretend to misunderstand her.
Placing his hands behind his back, he thought before he spoke. For
once, he displayed not a single hint of amusement at her question.
Truthfully, his wife was beginning to drive him mad. Lying in wait
for him, expecting him to carry on a perfectly normal conversation
in the intimacy of their private rooms. Flaunting his promise by
wearing . . . well, practically nothing.

Deliberately, Thomas allowed his slowly
simmering temper to blot out the images threatening to overcome his
good sense. It was time his dear wife heard some home truths. “I am
accustomed to having the upper hand, Aurelia. Making plans, making
decisions, giving orders. So are you. I am a difficult man.
Arrogant, accustomed to having my own way. Ask anyone in the City
and they will tell you so. Again, traits not unfamiliar to you.
But, yes, I have learned to accommodate myself to those who can be
of use to me. It is good business. But to those of my own family .
. . I am not so adept. You must have taken note of my feeble
efforts with Livvy and Nicholas.”