Just Another Viscount in Love Page 12

  It only took about one minute—an embarrassingly short time—before she cracked. The reserved demeanor that had been second nature to her for most of her life was nowhere to be found.

  A slow but steady trickle of tears seeped out from one eye and then the next. Then all her thoughts and feelings came flooding out in one jumbled mess. She was sure she wasn’t even making sense, just blubbering and going on and on about her father, the wicked four horsewomen, the planted brooch, and then Sam. “And his face . . . I’ll never forget how hurt and betrayed he looked. He actually thought that I . . . kissed him to conceal a crime. It hurt me so deeply that I was speechless.” She found the only dry corner of the handkerchief and blew her nose in it. “I could have endured anything if only he’d trusted me.”

  Somewhere, during the course of her utter humiliation, the gardener had settled an arm around her shoulders and let her rest her head against him. “Now I’m beginning to understand why you are out here. Though I’m sorrier than you can imagine if he made you feel as if you had to leave. Especially in the middle of the night.”

  “No, that decision was my own. Throughout all of it, Lord Ellery remained courteous, never cruel.” That was something she loved about him. No matter what he might have thought of her, he still treated her kindly. “But seeing his doubt destroyed any hope I had.”

  “Hmm . . . I wonder if it was not doubt but something else instead,” the gardener mused, patting her shoulder. “Perhaps it was the topic of thievery that gave his countenance a troubled appearance. You see, little more than a year ago, his father was attacked by highwaymen and robbed. He might have been killed as well if he hadn’t collapsed on the side of the road from a heart seizure and saved them the trouble. They left him for dead, all the same.”

  She gasped, her own worries forgotten. “Oh, I had no idea. How dreadful! His father . . . is he still alive?”

  “Yes, but his health is . . . well, not what it once was.”

  She looked out across the drowsy garden, thinking of how difficult it must have been for Sam to allow her to stay after she’d told him about her own thieving father. And yet, Sam had never once given her the feeling of not being welcome here.

  “And through my own stubbornness, I let Sam assume that I was guilty,” she said, crestfallen. “If I’d only known this, then I would go back to that moment and . . . ” She shook her head. “But no. It is too late. If I were to speak to him now, it would seem as if I’d spent all this time fabricating a story to redeem myself. Besides, there would be no point in it. Nothing can alter the fact that Albert Desmond’s daughter has no place here. It’s better that I go, for everyone’s sake.”

  “What of those four women?” The gardener blustered, sitting up straighter and gesturing toward the house. “Are you just going to let them run roughshod over him, convincing him that they are perfectly suited as his bride, and then doom him to a life of misery?”

  She looked toward the house too, worried. “He’s far too intelligent to be fooled by their true natures.”

  “And yet he invited them.”

  “See here,” she scolded, not liking his skeptical tone. “Lord Ellery is above and beyond the most excellent man I have ever known. His deeply rooted goodness touches everyone he encounters. He deserves to be praised for his good opinion of others, not ridiculed.”

  The gardener looked at her, a slow smile spreading across his face, lifting his cheeks to the outer corners of his bushy, arched brows. “You sound as if you love him.”

  What an impertinent gardener!

  “Anyone who knows him would feel the same.” She stood and took hold of her satchel, prepared to leave in a huff. Then his next words stopped her midstep.

  “His mother and I have always thought so too.”

  Gemma’s foot settled slowly back down onto the path. His mother and . . .

  She swallowed. Oh, please don’t let it be true. It was one thing to embarrass oneself in front of a gardener but quite another to do so in front of the father of the man you loved.

  She couldn’t even turn around to face him. She squeezed her eyes shut. “You mean to say that you’re his . . . ”

  “Father,” he supplied gently. “Edwin Wortham, the Marquess of Russford. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Desmond.”

  Eventually, she turned around, thinking she couldn’t embarrass herself any more than she already had. Then, of course, she did.

  While dipping into a curtsy, she suddenly remembered that she’d confessed everything, even the part about kissing Sam—and then she stepped on her own hem and stumbled forward.

  “Oh, drat!” Somehow, she managed to stop midlurch before she collided with him. “Please forgive me for my outburst, Lord Russford. All of them. It seems that I am meant to make a disaster out of this entire day.”

  The marquess laughed softly. “Think nothing of it. We all find ourselves tangled up in situations, either of our making or someone else’s, from time to time. But, if I may be so bold, I should like to ask what you plan to do about yours?”

  And then, because the day wasn’t through with her yet, more tears sprang to her eyes, and she began to blubber all over again. “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Just past sunrise the following morning, Sam paced his study, waiting for Gemma.

  He’d lain awake all night thinking about the events that had transpired, all the things that Gemma had said, and all the things she hadn’t. After mulling it over for endless hours, he still couldn’t reconcile why the brooch had been in her possession.

  He knew she wasn’t a thief. He’d had a sense of her character from that very first day and every moment since. Someone so honest that she couldn’t deceive a fish would never have taken what didn’t belong to her. And someone so direct would have told him right off if she had. So there had to be another explanation.

  Given the circumstances at that time, however, he hadn’t been clear-headed enough to settle the matter before they parted. And for him, the morning hours couldn’t come soon enough.

  “Beg pardon, m’lord,” Mrs. Harkens said, clasping her perpetually reddened hands, her faintly lined countenance troubled. “Miss Desmond was not in her chamber.”

  The news was not wholly unexpected. Considering the events of last night, Gemma might have sought comfort from her aunt. Although, thinking of her feeling frail and knowing he was at least partly to blame turned like cold porridge in his stomach. “Then she is likely with the dowager duchess. Perhaps you might—”

  Before he could finish, the housekeeper was already shaking her head, setting free the wiry strands of graying hair from her cap. “I thought as much, but when I peered inside Her Grace’s chamber, Miss Desmond wasn’t there either. Their maid, Berta, knew nothing of it, and when she checked Miss Desmond’s chamber, she noticed that her satchel and several items of clothing were missing from the wardrobe.” She hesitated before continuing. “It appears she’s gone, m’lord.”

  Gone? No. That couldn’t be. Surely Gemma wouldn’t have run away, believing that he would allow her to be accused of thievery. He’d placed the brooch back in Lady Tillmanshire’s room himself. Moreover, he’d told her they’d finish their discussion in the morning, so she knew he expected to see her. She couldn’t have run away.

  Then he remembered what she’d said that first day in the garden when she was ready to leave.

  “The very name I hold is a black mark against my entire family. And I cannot in good conscience tarnish your household with my presence.”

  “Because of my presence at Dunnock Park, your own very good name may fall under scrutiny.”

  Suddenly, he knew it was true. Gemma was gone.

  Alarm rushed through him in an avalanche of shockwaves that left him staggered. He gripped the edge of his desk for support.

  “Send word to the stables to saddle my horse,” he said, thinking that the next likely place for her was the inn at Banfern Glenn. He only hoped he w
ould find her there, hoped that he would find her at all.

  Dread climbed up his throat and tasted bitter on his tongue. If anything happened to her, he would be lost. He couldn’t waste another instant. So before Mrs. Harkens could leave, he stopped her. “Never mind. I’ll go there myself. In the meantime, please see to Her Grace’s comfort and try to keep this matter as quiet as possible.”

  He strode through the house and went out the back entrance, through the garden. Fueled by dire thoughts, he didn’t even see the aged footman turning the corner at the hedgerow until they’d nearly collided.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Abney said, hunching his shoulders forward to protect the silver salver he carried. Unfortunately, the folded letter he carried fell to the ground anyway.

  Preoccupied, Sam bent to retrieve it, only listening with half an ear as Abney continued.

  “Didn’t expect to see anyone else up and about. Lord Russford asked me to take this missive to the Dowager Duchess of Vale straightaway. Urgent matter and all that.”

  “Yes, of course. No apologies necessary. The fault was”—Sam hesitated before handing over the letter—“mine.”

  He looked at the handwriting closely, not recognizing the loopy slanted scrawl. His mother’s handwriting was far more ornate, with superfluous vine-like additions to every letter. His father’s was a tall, slender script that went straight up and down.

  Sam looked intently at Abney. “Who sent this?”

  “A recent guest at the dower house, a Miss Desburn—something or other.”

  “Desmond?” Even as Sam asked the question, he already knew the answer.

  His gaze moved past the footman to the whitewashed façade of the dower house. His heart continued to thud rapidly beneath his chest. But instead of feeling dread in every heavy beat, he felt a mixture of relief . . . and anger. Coupled together, the two emotions did not sit well with him and the sickening worry she’d caused.

  Sending Abney on his errand, Sam strode out of the garden and straight through the front door of the cottage. When he finally saw Gemma, he wasn’t sure if he would throttle her or kiss her.

  Gemma stepped into the cozy solarium to find Sam’s mother busy at her needlework, her spectacles perched low on her nose and a thick plait of her buttery blonde and ash gray hair draped over the shoulder of her blue morning gown. She sat an angle from the bank of windows behind her, letting the light fall over the wide quilting stand in front of her.

  Miriam Wortham, the Marchioness of Russford, glanced up and offered a warm smile. “Good morning, dear. Were you able to sleep at all?”

  Gemma shook her head. There was no point in trying to hide it. She’d learned from her reflection that she looked a fright, with purplish bruises beneath her eyes, pale cheeks, and a red nose. “I want to apologize again, Lady Russford, for disturbing your own sleep.”

  “Nonsense. As I said before, Mr. Wortham and I only nap a few hours each night. You disturbed nothing but a few backaches and leg cramps, and for that I should thank you.” She patted her hand on the arm of the upholstered chair beside hers. “Now, come and sit here, and let the sunlight cheer you.”

  Like her son, she was overwhelmingly generous and kind. She’d even gone out of her way to go to the kitchens and prepare a cup of hot milk with honey for Gemma not long after she’d arrived. Lady Russford had not pressed her with any questions but likely had heard the bulk of Gemma’s problems when she’d spoken to her husband. And even though Gemma felt guilty for trespassing on their hospitality, it was also a relief to be among them.

  Sam’s parents—who called each other Mr. and Mrs. Wortham with great affection—possessed the calming serenity of two people who lived in perfect harmony with each other. They were considerate and loving, not only to one another but also to their servants and even to the weeping stranger who had burst unceremoniously into their lives. It was impossible not to feel more at ease here.

  Yet as Gemma sat, she had to turn away from the view of the gardens that led to the manor house. It was still too difficult to think of Sam. To think of never seeing him again.

  She stifled a forlorn sigh. “I sent a missive to my aunt a few moments ago. I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before we leave Dunnock Park.”

  “I know that is your plan, but I still wish you would reconsider. If nothing else, you and the dowager duchess are welcome to stay here. I should like the company and, if either of you were so inclined, a needlework partner to help me finish this counterpane in time,” she said with a small, effortless smile.

  “It is extraordinarily beautiful,” Gemma said, not wanting to make a new argument about how she would only sully their names for aiding her. Instead, she touched the deep blue silk of the counterpane, admiring the flawless stitches and the beautiful mixture of threads in dark umber, forest green, and silvery white, forming embroidered vines that climbed over the outer edges. The bottom of the counterpane was a layer of the finest wool, the center filled with the softest down. “If I may inquire, why the rush for its completion?”

  “This is my Samuel’s wedding quilt.”

  Gemma’s hand tightened reflexively over the edge of heavy silk. Then, realizing what she’d done, she quickly released it and pressed her tingling fingertips against her lips in case a renewed sob should suddenly rise up her throat. She didn’t want to think about him marrying and lying beneath this counterpane with his bride, kissing someone else and touching her the way he’d kissed and touched Gemma last night.

  Thankfully, the sudden searing jealousy brought on by that thought kept her from crying, and she eased her hand down to her lap. “I was under the impression that he had yet to decide, that he was patient and . . . and cautious.”

  Then again, likely he wanted to make a quick decision in order to cut any lingering ties with the supposed thief in his midst.

  “Ah, to be sure,” Lady Russford answered with a sigh as she worked the end of a fresh spool of thread through her needle. “Though he’s not had any luck with it. You would not think it to know him, but he was cast aside by the woman he’d thought to wed, and another still whom he’d thought of courting. Both of them surprised him with the news that they loved another.”

  In Gemma’s opinion, any woman who did not choose Sam over another man was daft indeed. “You are correct, for I could never imagine such a thing.”

  “He certainly wasn’t expecting it, and ever since, he’s lost faith in his own judgment.” Lady Russford clucked her tongue. “He had a plan, you see. He knew that if he carefully considered all the debutantes and found someone who shared his interests and possessed a similar disposition, then he would find his ideal bride. Of course, I told him all along that he was forcing his own regard to be greater than it was. He never thought once about what his heart might prefer. And the heart always knows, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Gemma swallowed. “Some might say that it’s a difficult organ to trust.”

  “Some might,” the marchioness said, her clear blue eyes peering over the brass rims of her spectacles and offering an encouraging grin before she returned to plying her needle. “I suppose it’s easy to take the heart for granted. We hardly need to think about its beating for us, all day and night, day after day, year after year. Instead, we tend to think about it only when it breaks. But a broken heart is only one stitch in a long row, is it not? If this counterpane had only one stitch, it would be weak indeed; however, there are rows upon rows, each one making the next stronger and more lasting.”

  Tentatively, Gemma traced one of the rows nearest her, wishing that reality were as simple as Lady Russford made it sound. She could already feel her heart breaking, and it seemed to span much more than one single stitch. She suspected that it would fray every beat of her heart for the rest of her life.

  At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, her gaze shifted to the doorway in time to see the marquess appear. Then, before Gemma could steel herself, Sam was there too.

  “Mrs. Wortham, look who came to
visit us, bright and early,” Lord Russford said with a smile as he patted his son’s shoulder.

  But Sam did not smile. His jaw was set, his posture stiff, his eyes a hard glacier blue as they swept over Gemma. Briefly, his gaze shifted away. “Good morning, Mother.”

  “And to you, dearest,” she said cheerfully. “Miss Desmond was just helping me with your wedding present.”

  Snapping back to Gemma, his expression grew darker, a muscle flicking with irritation along his jaw. “How convenient that she should be here to assist you, instead of at the manor house, where she was expected to be.”

  Gemma stood, needing distance from the wedding blanket, and also to rally her own defenses. “Your parents were good enough to invite me to stay, and I am ever so grateful for it.”

  “Yes. I suppose it is good enough that you are here. That you are not in Banfern Glenn, unchaperoned. Or lying in a ditch somewhere along the way, bloodied and broken. Or worse.” Tension rolled off him in waves, seeming to disturb the air surrounding him, shimmering in the way the sun does to the searing desert horizon. He took two hard strides into the room toward her, his fists clenched at his sides. “Yes, that is good enough. I am well pleased by this happy turn of events.”

  “Samuel,” his father scolded, “mind your tone. The girl was beside herself last night.”

  Sam looked her up and down, a flash of something other than fury heating his gaze before he blinked, and it disappeared. “She seems to have recovered.”

  “I wish the same could be said of you. I do not know what has gotten into you.” Lady Russford stood, a frown pulling at her pale brows and lips. “You are certainly not offering an accurate representation of how you were raised to behave.”

  Gemma looked to her hostess. “The fault is mine, my lady. I see now that I should have left a note.” Then she faced Sam. “I did not think you would notice my absence before my aunt had the opportunity to inform you of it.”