Chapter Eighteen
What in the world had gotten into him?
It was probably the four hundredth time he’d asked himself that question since his unexpected attack on Marianne the night before, pressing her against the wall and treating her, for all intents and purposes, like some common doxy behind the closed doors of London’s tasteful Society. He could not explain it. He had been neither drunk nor too fatigued to not account for his behavior.
He’d slept well enough, as exhaustion had overtaken him, and he’d completely slept through breakfast, which was unheard of and which he was disappointed about as he’d been looking forward to Marianne’s usual breakfast ensemble. But the lack of such pleasures was good for him, and he’d spent the entire morning furiously castigating himself and worrying about what Marianne would say or do when he inevitably faced her again.
He was ashamed to admit that he had avoided her these last four hours, and he knew he would have to face her soon.
But how could he? She deserved so much more than his behavior last night, though she had responded rather delightfully.
He’d had a hard enough time focusing his thoughts while she had been so dressed, in that pure white nightgown and her hair loose and streaming about her shoulders, and wearing his dressing gown, remembering all too well the last time he had seen her in it, and all the pleasure he had forgone then. And when she had spoken of their children and admitted to missing him… Surely what happened could not have been helped.
But what good was his control if he could not exercise it over himself in her presence? That had been the whole purpose for his securing it, though it had proven useful and important in many other aspects.
How was he to begin to apologize to her?
He wandered out of his study and into the library, stunned to find Marianne within, lounging on a sofa and reading, looking as light and innocent as she ever had, one hand drawn up near her mouth with a finger absently trailing across her lips as she read.
He was as transfixed with her now as he had ever been, and he found he didn’t want to apologize for last night. He rather wanted to repeat it. Perhaps tonight.
She smiled faintly at something she read and turned the page, and his hands tightened into fists at his side. Or now. He could repeat it now.
She looked up at him, and he could have blushed at the frank appraisal in her eyes. But she tilted her head, softly smiled, and said, “Are you coming in or aren’t you?”
He forced himself to smile back and nodded, taking only a second to pick a random book from the shelf nearest him, knowing he would barely get a word read. He situated himself on the sofa opposite, and made a show of reading it. But every fiber of his being, every hair on his head, was attuned to her. He could count the breaths she took, noted the pages she turned, the subtle taunting he felt each time her finger passed over her lips. Could she possibly know what she did to him?
Seeing her like this, elegant and refined, reminding him of who she really was, started that flicker of guilt to flare once more. She hadn’t turned pale or gone still at seeing him, but who was to say what lay beneath the surface? She could be mortified, embarrassed, confused…
He had to know. He had to understand how to proceed here.
“Marianne,” he began reluctantly, almost timidly, keeping his eyes down at his book.
“Hmm?” she replied rather faintly, but with an edge of something that drew his gaze.
She was watching him with an air of amusement and fascination, as if he were a puzzle she were trying to solve. Her hand now rested against her cheek in a thoughtful pose, and her lips were curved in a half smile that was somehow secretive, seductive, and sweet.
Whatever he was going to say vanished in the face of such a look.
She raised a questioning brow even as her smile spread further still.
There was no apology needed, he realized a bit breathlessly. He might not know exactly what she thought, but she certainly wasn’t upset with him.
He could live with that.
Frantically, his mind raced for another topic. “Have you heard from your friends in London?”
The slight tightening of her lips informed him that she was quite positive that was not the question he had initially devised, but she sighed a little and dropped her hand. “I have, actually. Lily wrote me last week, but I have not heard from her since. She is much occupied with her sister, who seems interested in Robert Kent, which I cannot believe. Gemma writes almost every other day, and she is desperate for me to return. It seems there is no one else of any interest to her. And she says she has something rather vital to tell me, but she cannot put it on paper.” She shrugged mildly and rolled her eyes. “One can only imagine what that is.” She returned to her book, shaking her head. “I swear, that girl is just another Tibby in the making, though perhaps more sensible.”
Kit frowned in thought, uncomfortable with the idea of returning to London. That was the source of all their troubles. Marianne had never given him the faintest idea of wanting to return, but he knew how she had once adored the Season and all its ridiculousness.
“Has Miss Templeton given you any indication of events taking place in London?” he asked carefully, keeping his voice calm and polite.
Too familiar with that tone, Marianne stilled and looked up at him. “Not really,” she said warily, “though most of the events do not start for another week or so. Nothing too important for a fortnight, perhaps. She mentions a musicale being held at Miranda Ascott’s that she has been invited to perform at, but that’s got a few weeks yet. Why do you ask?”
He exhaled slowly, measuring his breath. He owed it to her to be honest, if nothing else. “I was simply wondering if you were wishing to return to London. For the Season.”
Her brow furrowed a little and she closed her book with a soft snap. She considered him again, her mouth pulling a bit, as if she gnawed gently on the inside. “To be perfectly frank and honest, yes,” she replied simply and without passion. “I think I would like to go back, if the rumors have settled. But I hadn’t given it that much thought.”
His frown grew and an uneasy weight settled upon him. “Why?” he asked, his voice harsher than he intended. “After what we left for, why?”
Her brows rose in surprise and she tilted her head at him, no doubt confused. “I just said I hadn’t given it that much thought.”
He closed his eyes and fought for calm. This wasn’t Marianne’s fault, he could not lash out at her. And yet he could not pretend to be pleased. “When would you prefer to be in London?”
“Next week,” she murmured softly, sounding hurt, “but it can wait until later.”
Kit couldn’t bear it. He nodded sharply and rose. “We will leave at the end of the week, then.” He strode from the room, wincing a little as he made his way back to his study.
London could mean the return of the creature. It could uproot everything they had gained here. And he would know that the glorious vision of a woman he had grown so fond of remained somewhere inside of her, and how that would burn. He would ache for quite some time for the loss.
He sank into his chair and put his head into his hands, filled with dread for the possibilities ahead.
Hours later, forgoing dinner in favor of work, which had seemed mountainous in the face of a departure, Kit sat back with a groan. It had been an excellent diversion for him, but with time had also come sense.
He was being ridiculous. They had four days before his declared date of departure. Would he really waste what time remained wallowing in resentment for something that had not happened? There was no guarantee that she would change back. And what of her fears? Surely she would wonder about him, as he had always been silent and disapproving where she was concerned.
He didn’t want to go back to the way they had been. He wanted her just as she was now. Warm and inviting, coy and playful, engaging and fascinating and enchanting, and the most beautiful being on earth. The woman he could make plans with instead of plan around.
He looked out of the window of his study, which allowed him a view of the gardens and the terrace, now lit with the evening torches. The night was clear, and stars were aplenty, but they were only a faint acknowledgement to him. He was far more focused on the solitary figure on the terrace, leaning against a balustrade, looking up at the sky and out across the expanse before her, where the faint lights from the village festival could be seen.
She was dressed elegantly, as usual, in a gown of deep midnight blue, with a cream shawl about her, but her hair was in a surprisingly loose style, though still upswept. It was, to his mind, the perfect representation of what she had been here. Still containing the form and shape of days past, but with an ease that provided movement, and inspired warmth. She was the same as she had always been, and yet not the same at all.
Any more than he had been the same Kit Gerrard.
He watched her for several moments, wondering at the smoothness of her expression, seemingly so at peace out in the night air, despite his outburst. He’d had no reports of her retreating to her room in distress, had heard no raging about in a high temper, and she bore no hint of strain in her features now.
He exhaled and turned from his office, down the hall and towards the glass doors leading out to the terrace. The night was cool, but pleasant, and he took a moment to observe Marianne. How could a woman contain so much grace in such a simple, unmoving state? Even when he had been furious with her, hated her, as Colin had put it, he could not deny that she was a graceful and elegant creature. But something about the way she was now, the turn of her neck and the way she leaned without appearing casual, the tilt of her chin…
He couldn’t waste their last days here. Not while she was here, not while his heart raced at the sight of her, not when she brought smiles to his face and lightness to his life…
Not while he loved her.
He softly approached, but made enough of a sound with his tread to not startle her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured before he came into her view. He exhaled sharply and fought the desire to run his hands into his hair. “I don’t know what came over me, Marianne, and I apologize.”
She half turned and looked at him, her eyes containing all the light of the torches and the stars within them, and she smiled softly. “I know.”
His jaw dropped in shock. “You do?”
She nodded, still smiling. “I knew it the moment you left the room. You would seclude yourself for some time, perhaps the rest of the day, until you had been calm enough, or felt badly enough, to do something about it. But you needn’t have fussed so, Kit.”
He felt rather tossed about by her astute description of his behavior. “Really?”
She shook her head, folding her shawl around her a little more securely. “You hate London, Kit. You’ve always hated London. But your family is there, so you go. Well, this year they are not, so there is no reason why we should venture in.”
He stepped closer and leaned his hip against the balustrade nearest her, facing her, and crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”
She sighed a little and a strand of hair dislodged in the breeze and danced faintly against her cheek. “We don’t have to go to London, Kit. In fact, I’ve decided that we won’t.”
“But you love London,” he reminded her rather brusquely.
She met his gaze steadily, no hint of resentment or distress anywhere in her features. “I do. Or rather, I did. And I’ve always loved the Season, silly as it seems, but I refuse to do something that is going to make you so unhappy just for my own personal gratification.” Her brows suddenly rose and her lips turned into a quizzical smile. “Good heavens, did that just come out of my mouth? Who am I, and what have I done with the real Marianne?”
Kit barked a laugh and suddenly felt such ease and comfort that his course was clear before him. He reached out and pretended to fuss with her shawl, enveloping her more warmly within it. “It’s kind of you to offer, Marianne, given your fondness for the flurry of London at this time,” he murmured softly, his hands wandering to her upper arms and rubbing gently. He slowly shook his head. “But we will go, as I said, at the end of the week.”
She tilted her head at him, eyes curious. “Are you certain? I am perfectly content to remain.”
He pushed the errant lock of hair behind her ear and took the opportunity to stroke her cheek. “I am certain. I don’t want you to miss something you love so much just because I am ill-favored towards it. Besides, we cannot hide away here forever.”
He let his hands fall away and turned to lean his forearms on the terrace railing, looking out at the grounds and the night sky. Marianne did the same, settling close enough to him that their shoulders touched.
“True,” she admitted on a heavy sigh, “though it is a sad thought. I know we will have to visit all of your estates, Kit, but I can’t think any will truly be home but this.”
He smiled softly and felt himself nodding. “I know. But you’d like Cheshire well enough. It’s practically a castle. Surrey we already know you’re destined to barely tolerate, though it might grow on you.” Here he smirked at her soft snort of doubt. “Yorkshire you’ve seen, though I doubt you were paying attention. And there’s still Aunt Agatha’s house in Devonshire…”
Marianne gave him a look fraught with amusement. “You have a house in Somerset and Devonshire? That seems rather excessive.”
He shrugged, smiling back. “My father loved the coast and had no fondness for the north. I believe Mother tried to convince him to get some Scottish property, but I don’t think he ever did.”
That drew a louder snort from Marianne. “I can get you a Scottish property quite easily, if you like. My cousins have been trying to get me up there for years.”
“I’ve heard stories about your MacLaine relatives,” Kit teased with a nudge. “Are they true?”
“My cousins are exactly what everybody thinks of when they speak of Highlanders,” she said with a shake of her head. Then she sighed and grinned. “And we love them for it. They are completely incorrigible. You’d be torn between love and hate the entire time.”
“Then maybe it is time we do get some Scottish property,” he mused thoughtfully. “Family connections are always worth preserving, yes?”
She rolled her eyes and looked up at the stars for a moment. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
She glanced over at him, a slight furrow between her delicate brows. “How is it that your father, a lord with relatively little influence in the peerage, should have so many estates? I know that you and Colin have divided them amongst yourselves for care, but why so many?” She cocked her head and frowned in thought. “I’ve tossed it over and over in my mind, and I can’t make sense of it.”
“That’s because there is no sense to it,” Kit told her bluntly. “On his own, Loughton had an extensive fortune, the Devonshire house… that would be Aunt Agatha’s, and the house in London. He married my mother, somehow managing to find both love and an heiress, and found a passion for estate management in the process. Not only that, but he was good at it. Between the pair of them, they could outshine a duke and duchess in their own way. And Loughton knew he would never go further in the peerage, so he could only grow in fortune and influence. They started buying estates, or building estates, wherever they fancied, hired talented and capable estate managers, and each became profitable and enviable, so they kept at it. I think they were in the process of procuring one in Norfolk when Mother passed away.”
“What happened to her?” she asked softly, somehow inching even closer to him.
“Childbirth,” he murmured, shaking his head. “We were supposed to have a sister, but she was a stillborn. Colin and I were seven, and we’d already decided that if it was a girl, we were naming her Catherine and calling her Cat.” Kit suddenly found himself lost in memory, remembering those dark days, losing mother and sister all in one day. He’d snuck a glimpse of the baby before she’d been taken away, and that memory had haunted him. She’d been just like any other baby he’d ever seen, only somehow better.
“And what if the baby had been a boy?” Marianne pried gently, nudging him out of his sudden melancholy.
“Charles,” he recollected with a smile. “We were rather fixed on all of us having names beginning with the same letter.”
“Where were you all when this happened?”
“Cheshire. That’s where they are buried.”
He felt Marianne’s hand slip into his, and the warmth from it washed over him. “Then our next estate visit is Cheshire,” she said firmly. “I want to pay my respects to Lady Loughton and to Cat.”
Kit smiled and tried to pretend there was not a lump in his throat. “We never actually named her. It’s a simple enough grave, with only the word ‘infant’ on it.”
She shook her head fiercely. “No, she’s Cat, just as you boys planned. Aunt Catherine to the children, and the girls ought to be told about her. They can make flower wreaths for her and your mother.” She looked at him with a smile that wrinkled the corners of her eyes. “And what became of the impending Norfolk estate?”
Kit shrugged and looked up at the stars, marveling at the woman beside him. “Loughton let it fall through. He lost his desire for everything after that.”
“I can hardly blame him for that,” Marianne murmured, “though it does seem rather beastly to abandon the two of you. He had not lost everything, and had much to remain for.”
“Well, as he was, he wasn’t any good to us, so it was far better that things occurred as they did. He managed to set up our inheritance and responsibilities with the solicitors before he left the country, so we were not completely neglected by way of fortune and situation, but Aunt Agatha may have pressured him into that one.” He smirked and rubbed Marianne’s hand in his. “We turned out all right.”
She laughed softly and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Yes, I suppose you did. Do you ever think about the fact that you will be Lord Loughton someday?”
“Not particularly,” he admitted with a slight wrinkle of his nose. “My duties won’t be any more or less than what they are now, I will simply have to get used to being called ‘my lord’ all the time. I’ll have to prove myself better than my father, but that shouldn’t take long. But you will be a lady, you know, and no one remembers Lady Loughton, so you can do whatever you like with that.”
She lifted her head and pursed her lips in thought. “I hadn’t thought of that. Well, if we can bring respectability back to the title, it would certainly help the girls’ future.”
Kit squeezed her hand tightly, unable to put to voice the feelings that currently constricted his heart. He looked over at Marianne, whose gaze was fixed on the distant lights of the village festival with a soft sense of longing.
“It’s the festival,” he told her quietly. “Lord knows what they’re celebrating now, but I have heard it’s quite the spectacle.”
“It would be,” she murmured with a hint of a smile.
He hesitated a moment, looking down at their twined fingers. “It is not so late. I can take you down there.”
Her smile turned wistful. “No, I think that shall have to wait for another time. Perhaps once we are better known and not quite the oddities we are. I think it would take away from the celebrations to see us and draw attention.” She looked at him and her expression turned impish. “And you know how desperately I hate to draw attention.”
He chuckled affectionately and couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward and slowly, tenderly captured her lips with his. It could not have been more different from their frantic kisses the night before. These were slow, leisurely, gentle kisses that had nothing to do with passion or need. These were kisses for the unhurried lovers who had all the time in the world.
And at this moment, they truly did.
The next four days would be counted among Kit’s favorites in the history of his life. His friendship with Marianne continued to blossom into something he treasured beyond words, to say nothing for their familiarity with displays of affection. Every kiss warmed him to the tips of his toes, and seemed to last a little longer. Nothing had delighted him more than the day before their last, when Marianne had boldly initiated a kiss in the library that had resulted in a few books being knocked from their shelves, and ended in stitches of laughter for them both.
One of the days they had walked to the shoreline together again, taking the time to explore it and enjoy the sounds and smells and all it had to offer. Marianne had been the picture of a perfect country lass, but as she had wandered along, without bonnet or finery, her hair whipping wildly about in the breeze despite her coiffure, she had never been lovelier. He would remember her thus for the rest of his life.
They paid calls to tenants together, explored nearly every nook and cranny of the house together, and had even slid down that most excellent railing, at Marianne’s insistence. “Just so we can say we have,” she’d told him with a childish gleam. “We can’t let Colin have all the fun.”
On this, the last day, they loaded into the carriage, having bid farewell to the servants and all who fell under their care. Marianne gazed out of the window, looking utterly forlorn as she stared up at the house, and only shifted her attention when Kit had joined her within. She raised a perfect brow in question, a smile tugging at one side of her mouth.
Kit shrugged and closed the door, leaning back against the cushioned seats. “I have no desire to ride my horse all the way back to London. He doesn’t converse nearly as well as you do.”
Marianne grinned swiftly and crossed her ankles on top of Kit’s knees. “Well, well, my husband is determined to be useful today. I am quite amenable to that.”
He laughed and slid her legs from him, though not before stroking them a little. “You, I know very well, will sleep the entire way, and don’t bother pretending otherwise.”
Marianne winked and turned to wave goodbye to the servants, all lined up for farewells. “Perhaps. But I had a thought, Kit.”
“I am afraid to ask…” he drawled, folding his arms and waiting patiently.
She gave him a look and then became very interested in her gloves. “What would you say to not going directly to London?”
He gave her a bemused look that she couldn’t see. “Where else would we go?”
“Amberley,” she said softly, wincing just a little as she met his eyes.
He reared back. “You want to see Colin and Susannah?”
She nodded quickly. “But more than that. I… I want to see if they would let us take the children to London with us.”
His mouth dropped open in shock.
She smiled broadly and then bit her lip. “I see you weren’t expecting that. But I’ve thought about it, and Susannah can’t have much rest with the whole brood running about, no matter how capable Mrs. Creighton and the staff is. You know Susannah, she’ll be pushing herself too much and driving Colin mad trying to mother everybody. She ought to focus on herself and Olivia. And I need to know the children better, so why not bring them back to London with us?”
“And if they want to stay in Hampshire?” he asked, somehow finding his voice again.
She shrugged lightly and folded her hands in her lap rather primly. “Then, of course, they may stay. I’ve no intention of dragging them around if they are unwilling.” Her smile turned devious and he was suddenly nervous. “But if I know Bitty, and I think I do, she will not want to pass up an opportunity to get an inside view of a real London Season with someone who knows how to do it. And Rosie will come to keep Bitty in line, and Ginny will follow wherever the others lead, so the only thing to decide, really, is if Freddie wants to come with his aunts or stay with his parents and sister.”
Kit felt a smile slowly spread and he took in his wife with new appreciation. “You have thought this through, haven’t you?”
She nodded once, looking far too pleased. “I can be quite devious when I put my mind to it.”
“So can I,” he murmured a little too roughly.
Marianne’s eyes widened and she giggled nervously. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering how much trouble it would be to kiss you senseless in a moving carriage.”
Her laugh turned wild and she settled herself in the corner furthest from him. “You stay right there, Mr. Gerrard, and let me have my nap. It’s a long drive, and you do not want to have me irritated further by lack of sleep.”
“I think I could amuse you well enough to deal with it.”
She covered her face with her hands as more laughter escaped. “Good lord, my husband has turned rake.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
“Not yet.”
Her hands dropped and she gasped in both shock and delight. “Christopher Gerrard!”
He winked and laughed, and continued to provoke her until they were both exhausted enough to finally doze off, still smiling.