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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

Desire Becomes Her (37 page)

BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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To Simon’s astonishment, Barnaby’s assessment proved correct and the family and neighbors, in one way or another, all echoed the viscount’s sentiments. Even before Townsend was buried, Simon was startled to hear himself referred to as “the new squire” or “Squire Joslyn.”
Simon had expected Emily to have reservations, but once she had dealt with the first shock of Townsend’s death, she’d flung her arms around his neck and cried, “Oh Simon! Jeffery was a beast, but in the end he did something good. You will make a
fine
squire, and to know that The Birches is in your hands is more than I could have wished for.”
Cornelia, too, had fixed her eagle eyes on him and remarked, “Squire Joslyn, eh? Lord knows you’ll be a grand improvement over that rapscallion Jeffery!” She smiled at him. “You might think that your inheritance is more a burden than a prize right now, but once you drop some blunt on it, you’ll find that The Birches is a handsome place and quite comfortable.” She tapped him on the cheek. “Don’t look so uneasy—you’ll do well, boy.”
Even Mathew seemed pleased about Simon’s elevated status in the area. “I’m sorry for the way it came about,” Mathew told him, “but it is, I think, a good thing.” He half-smiled. “Now when I complain about all the details involved in running an estate, you’ll know precisely what I’m talking about.”
 
The affection and respect people in the area held for Emily and Cornelia ensured that Townsend’s burial on Monday morning was well attended by the gentry, as well as the common folk. Townsend’s mother, Althea, his brother, Hugh, and Anne Townsend, Emily’s stepmother, had made the trip from Hugh’s home, Parkham House, and stood with other members of the family. Mrs. Gilbert and her daughters were there, as was Nolles, looking suitably saddened, and Padgett, Stanton and St. John also attended. Despite the number of attendees, the manner of Townsend’s death and his unpopularity in the neighborhood produced a short service and a quicker burial. The lightly falling rain made no one inclined to linger, and after paying their respects to the family, the crowd quickly dispersed.
Luc and Gillian attended the funeral and afterward, along with the rest of the family and invited friends, drove to Windmere. Except for his mother, few mourned Townsend’s passing, but there was no rejoicing and there was a subdued air surrounding the gathering inside the great mansion. No one, other than family, lingered long.
The funeral was Gillian and Luc’s first public appearance since their wedding, and Gillian was guiltily aware of being grateful that everyone’s attention was on Townsend’s family and not her and Luc. She felt sorry for Mrs. Althea Townsend, but she’d have been a hypocrite if she’d shed any tears. It wasn’t, she excused herself, as if she’d known Squire Townsend. She hadn’t. Beyond hearing his name mentioned once or twice, she knew nothing of him, and her sympathies were for his mother and Emily and his family. It didn’t take her long to realize, except in the case of Townsend’s mother, those feelings were misplaced.
After the guests left, Althea, looking worn and sad, disappeared upstairs to her rooms, leaving the other women sitting in a semicircle in front of the fire. The gentlemen were gathered at the other end of the room, talking quietly amongst themselves and drinking hot punch.
Watching Althea leave, Cornelia commented, “Poor woman. He treated her as badly as he did anyone else, but she’s suffering.”
Sipping a cup of tea, dark-haired, pretty Anne said, “I know. She is such a dear creature and I have tried to comfort her, as best I am able, but it is difficult. I feel sorry for her, but when I think of what he tried to do ...” She stopped, her pansy-brown eyes filled with remembered horror. “He was a monster! I cannot be sorry he is dead. I just wish dear Althea didn’t suffer so.”
Emily, looking tired, the bulge under her gown impressive, sat beside Anne. Touching the mound where her child grew, Emily murmured, “She is his mother, and no matter what we think of him, even if he disappointed her and treated her wretchedly, she loved him.”
“I know,” said Anne, “but knowing the lengths he was prepared to go to get his own way—” She bit her lip. “I cannot be happy over his death, but it is hard to offer kind words about him.”
“Then don’t,” said Cornelia. “Althea is as kindhearted a person as you will find and a shatterbrained little widgeon, but she knows what her son was like. She doesn’t expect you to sing his praises. Just comfort her and love her.”
Garbed in a dove-gray gown, the neck and sleeves trimmed in Brussels lace, a few sable curls dangling near her cheeks, Gillian sipped tea and listened with growing mystification to the conversation between the other women. If she understood matters correctly, except for his mother, not one of the women here bore the late squire any love. Anne’s allusion to “what he tried to do” made her wonder “what” it was he’d tried to do. Emily and Cornelia obviously knew what Anne referred to, but no one seemed inclined to share that knowledge with her.
Having secrets of her own, though curious, Gillian didn’t hold it against them for not telling her. The other three women had known each other for years, while she was a newcomer to their circle and family. She felt a trifle left out, it was true, but not enough to dwell on it or feel hurt over it. Everyone, she reminded herself, was entitled to keep some things private. She almost snorted. How virtuous she sounded, when the truth was that she was dying to know more.
Taking her mind off the curious reference, Gillian’s eyes sought out Luc, her heart giving that by-now-familiar leap when their eyes met across the room. Luc was standing next to Barnaby, the other men arrayed nearby. Luc was listening to what was being said around him, but his gaze was on her. His eyes slid over her demurely garbed figure and back to her face, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stared at her. She flushed and buried her nose in her cup. Drat! Even though there wasn’t a part of that long, lean body of his that she wasn’t intimately familiar with or a part of her own that he hadn’t touched or kissed, with just a look he had the power to fluster her.
It was incredible that they had been married now for over a week. Only partially listening to the conversation between the other women, Anne asking about the preparation for the birth of Emily’s child, Gillian let her thoughts drift. These past days of marriage to Luc had been a revelation to her.
When she’d married Charles she’d been madly in love with him and had thought that he loved her; she had been, she’d thought at the time, deliriously happy. Yet, now she wondered about the depth of her feelings for Charles. With age, she’d realized that what she’d felt for Charles had been a girlish emotion—especially when compared to the bone-deep emotion she felt for Luc. Yes, she’d loved Charles, but she had been as much in love with love as
in
love with Charles, and loving Luc as she did, she now knew the difference. That Charles had not loved her and had married her for her fortune, she accepted these days with an equanimity her eighteen-year-old self could not have faced.
She admitted that her time with Luc had been short, but even now she could not envision a morning not waking in his arms. The thought of a day without seeing his beloved face filled her with fear, and the force and depth of the love she felt for him terrified her. She half-smiled and shook her head. Not once had Luc declared that he loved her, but she felt loved. She couldn’t explain it. There were none of the flowery compliments that Charles had bestowed upon her in the beginning; yet every time Luc’s eyes touched her, she felt as if he caressed her and the sound of his deep voice warmed her, wrapping around her like a rich, ermine cloak. Gillian did not consciously make comparisons between Charles and Luc, and yet she was aware that there was a world of difference between the two men. Silas had been right about that.
Charles had been, she’d thought, an excellent lover; she had enjoyed his lovemaking, but when Luc touched her ... She sighed dreamily. When Luc touched her, when his mouth claimed hers, when that elegant body of his took hers, she discovered that there was lovemaking and then there was
lovemaking
... . Beneath her dove-gray gown her nipples tightened into hard, round little berries, and she was embarrassingly aware of a pleasurable ache and a growing dampness between her thighs. She was, she decided, a lascivious little slut. But only, only for Luc ...
Over the rim of her cup, she studied him, this tall man she had married. He hadn’t said that he loved her, but she sensed that he did. At present, it was unspoken, but it was there in the consideration and generosity he showed her every day. Like a warm, protective cocoon, she felt it in every look he gave her, in his kiss, in his passionate lovemaking, and when he was ready, she was serenely confident, he would give her the one thing she wanted more than she had wanted anything in the world ... his love. She could be deluding herself, or being arrogant, but she didn’t think so. Luc did love her. He just hadn’t, she thought with a soft smile, told her yet. But when he did ... Her heart thudded with anticipation of that magical moment.
“I’m sure this isn’t what you thought would be your first public appearance after your marriage, is it?” asked Cornelia, breaking into Gillian’s thoughts.
Jerking her mind to the present, Gillian put down her cup and murmured, “No. But tragedies don’t, I’m afraid, look at calendars. They happen without warning and with no consideration of the timing.”
Emily and Anne had their heads together, lost in a discussion about the coming baby, but Cornelia’s attention was fixed on Gillian. “Yes, I imagine you are, more than others, too well aware of the unpredictability of sudden death.”
A hollow feeling echoed through Gillian, but she met Cornelia’s hazel-eyed gaze. “You are,” she said, “referring to my hus—my
first
husband’s murder.”
“Weren’t you?”
Gillian’s chin lifted. “As a matter of fact, no. If I can help it, I don’t think of that night at all. It was a painful time.”
Cornelia’s eyes moved intently over her face, studying each feature, and Gillian had the curious feeling that the old woman was coming to some conclusion about her. Gillian stilled, hardly daring to breathe, and just when she thought she could not bear this intense scrutiny one moment longer, Cornelia nodded as if to herself and said, “I’m sure it was. More than anyone could realize. I apologize for bringing up distressing memories.”
“Th-th-thank y-y-you,” Gillian stammered, feeling she had passed an arduous test.
Cornelia smiled at her, a dazzling smile Gillian had never seen before. Patting her cheek, Cornelia said, “You’re a good gel. Luc is to be congratulated.” Before Gillian could reply, Cornelia’s gaze shifted and she said, “Ah, and here he comes to whisk you away, no doubt, but before he does, if you don’t mind I’d like a private word with him.”
“Of c-c-course,” Gillian managed, still off guard.
Luc had come to fetch Gillian, but upon reaching the ladies, Cornelia stood up and, leaning heavily on her cane, said quietly, “A word with you, young man, before you leave with your charming bride.”
If Luc was surprised he didn’t show it, but after giving Gillian a reassuring smile, he took the arm Cornelia offered and escorted her from the room, leaving Gillian, Emily and Anne to stare after them.
“Hmm, I wonder what
that
is all about,” muttered Emily.
“I think it might be something that Hugh told her,” offered Anne.
Gillian could have kissed Emily when, staring hard at Anne, Emily demanded, “What could Hugh have told Cornelia that she has to talk to Luc in private?”
Anne sighed. “He didn’t tell me. I just know that he received a letter from Cornelia several days ago and that he has been gone this past week. I think his absence had something to do with Cornelia’s letter, but he wouldn’t say. In fact, he’d just returned to Parkham when news of Jeffery’s death reached us.”
“Oh!” Emily said in an odd voice and promptly lost interest in the subject.
Gillian’s heart clenched and she thought she’d faint from the pain. In her mind, there was only one reason Cornelia could have for speaking privately with Luc and she didn’t doubt for a moment what it was ... Charles’s murder.
 
Gillian was correct.
Seated in a blue mohair channel-back chair, her hands resting on her cane, Cornelia said bluntly, “I wrote to Hugh and asked him to visit some people for me. I wanted to find out what happened at Welbourne’s hunting lodge the night Charles Dashwood was murdered.”
Luc stiffened. His face set, he asked, “And did you find out anything interesting?”
“I did and you’re not going to like any of it,” Cornelia warned. “Worse, it’s gossip.” She smiled tightly. “But after a visit from Hugh, I don’t think that Winthrop will be mentioning it to anyone else.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
Luc took a step forward, his hand clenched into a fist, a dangerous glitter in the azure eyes. “What,” he asked grimly, “did Hugh learn?”
Cornelia told him. When she finished speaking, Luc stared at her, white-faced with fury.
“
Sacristi!
Monstrous! What sort of a
quel salaud
was this Charles Dashwood?” he demanded. “To offer Gillian ...” His rage overcame him and he could not speak. He took several agitated steps around the room before coming back to stand before Cornelia. Breathing hard, he asked, “And this Winthrop? Where is he? I will kill him myself.”
BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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