Chapter 1
London
“Spicer? I’m running late, unfortunately, and the House is to sit in but an hour. Is everything prepared?”
“Of course, my lord.” Rupert Spicer had been his faithful valet for the past five years, and Hunter didn’t know what he would do without him.
The man helped him shrug into his coat, and passed him his hat as he ran out the door.
It was the last day the House of Lords was to sit before Christmastide.
Hunter diligently attended, unlike his father, who had always abhorred what he called the dull and dreary proceedings.
“Three times!” he would thunder at Hunter. “Three times I would have to sit there and listen to the same bill read. I am done with it!”
Despite his initial hesitation, Hunter had found that he enjoyed the opportunity to sit within the House, to affect decisions that could make change in the world.
There was nothing of consequence to be discussed today, although Hunter agreed that the recess until March did seem inexplicably long.
There was much to be discussed — not only the war with Bony and France, but after his recent visit to the mill and his ensuing horror at what he found there — children not even ten, worked to the bone — there was much to be done.
While he agreed with Sir James Mackintosh on the fact they should move up the next year’s sitting date, the man droned on and on without saying much of anything, and Hunter found his mind wandering.
Christmastide. Should he stay in London?
Should he attend a house party? He had been invited to several.
He attended select parties throughout the Season, but unlike many men such as himself, his primary purpose for remaining in London was not so much the social scene but the true reason he was there — the politics.
If he did attend a party or some such event, often it was simply to gain the ear of another lord or cabinet minister.
London would be fairly empty at the moment, however.
Should he return to his own country home — to Wintervale?
Wintervale, where his bride awaited. At least, he assumed so.
He hadn’t heard from her since he had left in August. He figured his steward would write him a note if she actually did leave.
Stone had informed him that she visited her mother now and again, their homes being but a couple of hours’ journey between.
Hunter had never been a particularly attentive lord, but his father had insisted he take over Wintervale, as he and Hunter’s mother preferred to remain in London and had many other estates they could escape to if they found the need for time in the country.
By the time Hunter returned to his townhouse that evening — the townhouse he had purchased for his bride, he thought regretfully, having been perfectly happy in his rented rooms — he was still undecided, and after a quick dinner alone, instead of sitting in his library stewing, he picked his hat up off the desk and called for his carriage to be readied once more.
He could always find company at White’s.
He hopped into the carriage and it soon deposited him in front of the Portland stone building on St. James’ Street.
He was relieved to enter and find his friend, Lord Wimbledon, awaiting him.
“Wimbledon!” he called, and the man poured another glass of brandy, leaving it awaiting Hunter across the table.
“Oxford,” the man greeted him. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought with the break in Parliament you would be off to see that new wife of yours.”
“Yes, well…” Hunter shifted uncomfortably as he took his seat, unsure of how to answer that. He knew his relationship was on the tongues of many of the ton , but there was not much he could do about it. His wife hated him, and he had no idea why.
He had tried to get close to her, truly he had. After their wedding, he had attempted to make peace with her, to find a common ground, but she had completely closed herself off to him, and eventually, not wanting to face any further rejection, he had given up and made his way to London.
Hunter had suffered enough rejection in his life.
While he looked up to his father and had spent his life learning from the man, anytime he had spoken a word of his own ideals his father had pushed them aside as though they meant nothing.
And as for his mother… Hunter couldn’t think of another soul on the planet who possessed less compassion or love — even for her children.
His father had always told him to toughen up, that he didn’t need the love of a woman.
But it had created within Hunter a fear of rejection that he never could quite shake.
He knew, however, it was much worse for his sister Lavinia, who had to spend much more time in the presence of the marchioness.
And now here he was, facing another woman who wanted nothing to do with him.
He’d prefer not to dwell on it. He had enough on his mind as it was.
He had hoped for a conventional, cordial relationship, without the need to worry about his wife and whatever it may be that was causing her such vexation.
At some point in time, he supposed he would have to deal with it, but for now, he was preoccupied with the concerns of the House.
He sighed, noting that Wimbledon still stared at him.
“I look forward to a wonderful break,” he said simply, and Wimbledon took what he wanted from that, leaving it be. Hunter lit a cheroot, sat back in his chair, and stewed. What was he supposed to do now?
He didn’t have to wonder for long.
When he walked into this office the next morning, a footman trailing through the door behind him with a tray holding his coffee and pastries, Hunter found a single envelope on the surface of his otherwise tidy desk.
He cut through the seal to find the scrawl of his steward, a man to whom his father had entrusted the estate for many years now.
Lord Oxford,
Forgive me for the intrusion; however, I am aware you are currently on recess.
Unfortunately, an urgent matter has arisen that requires your attention.
There is an issue with the accounts, one that I cannot solve.
I have my suspicions as to the cause of the disturbance.
While it should be a straightforward solution, we must speak further.
Sincerely,
Mr. Stone
He sighed. That was certainly cryptic. But his decision was made. He supposed he would be returning to Wintervale after all.
Scarlett smiled as she pulled on her gloves and dipped her head under the stone archway of the young family’s home. The cold bit into her uncovered face, but she paid it no mind. Not now, with the cozy cottage’s warmth still filling her as the cool air blew a whisper of snow across the yard.
The children were tiny and so lovely, one just a babe, snuggled deep in his mother’s arms. Scarlett’s smile faded, however, as she looked out across the fields in front of her.
The sun was beginning to set, and she could see the dim light of a candle or fire through windows in the distance.
This was but one home, and she had many more to visit over the next few days.
She cursed her husband. The Earl of Oxford. So concerned with his great ideals in the House of Lords that he completely neglected his own tenants. Here were people who needed him, who had barely enough to survive. Did he know? Or did he truly not care?
Scarlett untied her horse from the fencepost and hoisted herself up, hiking up her skirts and swinging one leg over the top of him.
No one was around to see her, and she hated riding sidesaddle.
When she did, she couldn’t mount without assistance, she could hardly control the horse, and she hated when the saddle was cinched so tight that the horse seemed uncomfortable.
Of course, the odd time when anyone saw her riding as she was now, they were absolutely shocked, but Scarlett didn’t overly care.
Let them talk. What did her reputation matter, anyhow?
Wintervale had now been home for four months, and Scarlett had to admit that the adjustment hadn’t been nearly as difficult as she had initially thought.
The servants were lovely and welcoming, and she had enjoyed visiting the tenants and seeing the lands.
Someone had to. The steward, while experienced to be sure, cared only about the numbers and nothing about the people.
Any time Scarlett had attempted to discuss anything of importance with him, he had pretended to listen for a moment, then quickly waved away her words with a frown of annoyance.
Apparently, he was the sort, as most were, who believed women had nothing to offer.
And then there was Nia. A smile lifted Scarlett’s lips as she returned to Wintervale.
Hunter’s sister, Lavinia, had shown up on the doorstep a day after Hunter had returned to London.
She had married the neighbor, she told her, and was but a short ride away.
Would she mind if she visited Scarlett now and again?
At first, Scarlett had resisted. Did she really want the company, day in and day out, of a woman she had met but once — and the sister of her unwanted husband, no less?
But Lavinia had surprised her. She proved intelligent and humorous, and Scarlett began to enjoy her visits more and more.
Lavinia abhorred the outdoors and therefore never chose to join Scarlett in a ride or even working in the beautiful grotto within the gardens, but they saw just enough of one another to not become bored with the other’s presence.
And it was rather nice to have a friend nearby.
Now, as Scarlett shook off her boots, she heard Lavinia round the corner and come into the foyer.
“Scarlett!” she said as she pushed her spectacles back up her slim nose. “Heavens, I was worried about you. I have been here for hours already! Where have you been for so long on such a cold afternoon?”
“Nothing to worry about, Nia,” she said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder as she walked through the foyer, passing the waiting footman her cloak.
Lavinia knew the house well, of course, having spent much of her youth there, and made herself perfectly at home.
“I was just visiting some tenants, is all.”
“That is lovely of you, Scarlett, but I know my brother wouldn’t expect you to do that,” Lavinia said, biting her lip.
And that was the one and only reason Scarlett sometimes wished Lavinia didn’t visit so often — the continual praise of her brother.
Scarlett knew she did it on purpose, but she wasn’t going to fall for Lavinia’s ploys.
She had resolved, however, not to speak ill of the man Lavinia loved so much in her presence.
“Of course he wouldn’t,” she said simply, leading Lavinia into the back drawing room, the one she favored with its bright, cheery striped satin walls and furniture of a yellow that was somewhat between lemon and amber.
The best part was the windows overlooking the grotto. “I choose to do so myself.”
“That is kind of you,” Lavinia said with a smile as she took a seat on the ornately carved rosewood sofa. “Do you know if my brother is returning for Christmastide?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Scarlett, sitting across from her on the matching smaller piece. “As you well know, Nia, he and I do not correspond. You would be more inclined to know the answer to that.”
“Well, I suggested he come, but really, that is up to you to request, as his wife. Oh, Scarlett, if only you would get to know him. He really is the nicest man, and I am not simply saying that because he is my brother. He is kind and generous, and yes, he can get caught up in his work, but only because he is so passionate about it! And once he loves something, he gives it his all.”
“Clearly this marriage is not something that he particularly cares for,” Scarlett said bitterly.
“You certainly haven’t given him any reason to,” said Lavinia, leaning forward, her arm on the sofa’s Grecian-urn cresting. “All he needs from you, Scarlett, is a word of welcome. Why are you so cold?”
Scarlett sighed. It wasn’t the first time Lavinia had brought this up, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last, not until she understood where Scarlett was coming from.
Scarlett stood, cup of tea in hand, and walked over to the window, looking out into the black of the fallen night.
“Let me tell you a story, Nia,” she said, as a log cracked in the hearth.
“When my mother married my father, she was hopelessly in love with him. He had courted her, and she quickly became infatuated with him. After a typical period of courtship that went entirely as one would expect, they were married in St. George’s Cathedral.
They consummated the marriage that night, and the day after he was back in the bed of his mistress.
My mother didn’t learn of this until much later, and when she did, her heart was completely broken. ”
She had heard Lavinia gasp behind her at her mention of a mistress, and Scarlett turned around to face her, intent with her need for Lavinia to understand.
“My mother loved my father with all of her heart, and he wanted only her dowry. She has lived her life in love with a man who wants nothing from her but to produce heirs, and even in that she failed him, having only me. I will never fall into that trap. I may be married, but as long as I live separate from your brother, I have my freedom. I can do as I please and never have to worry about becoming trapped by my own fickle emotions.”
As Lavinia looked at her in shock, Scarlett felt almost guilty for sharing such morbid thoughts with her, but at least now she knew.
“That is the saddest story I have ever heard,” Lavinia said, dropping her eyes, so like her brother’s but behind spectacles, to her lap. “But you must know that it doesn’t have to be like that, Scarlett. My brother is not that kind of man.”
Scarlett shrugged, her gaze wandering over the gilt Chippendale carvings that stood out prominently on the walls.
“So you may think. My father is also a wonderful man to most that he meets. He is charming, he is kind, he provides for others. Despite the fact he wanted a son so badly, he loves me and has done all he can to provide for me. But my mother is nothing to him. Simply a woman who dresses up and accompanies him to balls. That is not the life for me, Nia, not at all.”
“I wish you didn’t think like that,” Lavinia said sorrowfully, and Scarlett returned to her seat and reached across the small table between them to take Lavinia’s hands in her own.
“That doesn’t change how happy I am to have you as a sister,” she said softly. “I am so glad we became friends.”
“Well, on that, Scarlett, we are agreed.”