Chapter 8
“We have been invited to tea at Heron House, Mama,” Crispin declared.
His mother gave him such a look that he nearly choked on his coffee.
“Summoned, more like,” she returned, turning up her nose. “I saw the way you were conversing with the duchess across the theater.”
He lowered his coffee cup and eyed her. “I was rather surprised to see you there, given how little you admire plays and actors.”
She forked a bite of kipper and held it aloft before she intoned, “Well, my dear, when my only son is considering a marriage proposal, I will lower myself to the debasement of attending such a place.”
“Mama,” he protested, knowing it was too early for something stronger, though sometimes his mother made him long for fortification of the liquid kind when they conversed. “You may feel thus about theaters, but Heron House is full of wit and cleverness and very intelligent people.”
His mother snorted. Her necklace of pearls, with a single large pearl at the hollow of her throat, trembled. “Intelligence, my dear, while extremely helpful, is not the most valuable thing in society.”
He was tempted to ask what was but decided that he did not want a lecture on this particular topic. It dismayed him that so many in the ton valued birth above skill. It was, therefore, unsurprising that many incompetent aristocrats held positions they were not qualified for.
“Will you come to tea?” he asked at last.
She gave him an arch look and pushed her food around her plate with her engraved silver fork. “Of course I shall. You’ve already asked her to wed, have you not?”
He had no appetite for breakfast now, despite the veritable banquet of fine dishes Cook had provided. Such conversations around his mother’s continual displeasure always made food unappealing.
“Essentially. I asked her if she would be willing to consider it, and she said she would.”
“So you haven’t asked,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Or you have? I want to know if there is no going back.”
He hesitated. “One might say that I have asked. It depends on your point of view, I suppose.”
He took a sip of his coffee, which some might call acrid. He considered it the most superior drink. After all, it revived him each morning.
It was, he realized, quite odd that he continued to live with his mother and sister. He should be in bachelor’s lodgings, especially since he disliked his family so much. But it was the oddity of their family that he’d found it almost impossible to escape. There was something about the nature of their relationship that made it so he felt the need to make certain his mother and sister were all right.
He couldn’t explain it.
It was like dwelling with poison that he could not get away from.
“Mama,” he said quite seriously. “I hope you will not ruin this.”
“My dear,” she said, letting her fork fall with a clunk. She folded her hands together. Those slender hands were only now beginning to show the signs of age—something she hated and spent hours trying to prevent. “Why on earth would I ruin your attempts to marry? I may not care for the Briarwoods, but you are correct. A dukedom would be advantageous, and I am simply happy that you wish to marry. Another moment without an heir is alarming to me. After what happened to your brother…”
“I understand, Mama,” he assured swiftly.
It was better to agree swiftly on this matter.
He did not particularly wish to talk about his brother at the moment, and if given the chance, she wouldn’t talk about the boy himself but the loss of the heir. He wondered sometimes if his mother had had to cut off all sentimentality about her eldest son a very long time ago, shoring up anything which might cause her to feel grief or sorrow to survive this life. Or was she simply that cold? He didn’t know, but whatever had happened had made it so that his mother was incapable of talking about his brother. A brother that he had fond memories of, though memories that had faded.
“Yes, Mama, I understand your position, and I am doing everything that I can to wed quickly now.”
“Good,” she said, plucking up her napkin. She dabbed at her lips. “I think that we should arrange a wedding at St. Paul’s in just two weeks’ time. I don’t think we need to wait if you think she is the one. I don’t have to like her. She just needs to have children, and it’s very clear they’re a fertile family. Her mother has had several children. And it isn’t just the mother. All the Briarwoods seem to be fertile, as far as I can tell. They’re intent on peopling the earth. Good Lord, the cousins must count in the hundreds.”
He suppressed a laugh at that. “It is quite possible, Mama. I do not know, but Lady Hermia does not particularly like company. So what exactly are you expecting in the next two weeks?”
“We should host a party, a dinner, a ball, and see how she does. Not because we are testing her, though I will be seeing how she comports herself. But we need society to become accustomed to the idea that you are marrying her. We don’t want it to seem as if you’ve ruined her.”
“Mama,” he exclaimed, aghast. Whilst he was no innocent by any standard, he wasn’t the sort of fellow to ruin young ladies.
His mother tsked with impatience. “People might think so with such a sudden wedding. Let us be frank. Lady Hermia is more of a pigeon than a dove.”
He ground his teeth together, then managed, “That is enough.”
She frowned, clearly unwilling to curb her insinuations. “My dear, I am simply saying what everyone else shall say.”
He drew in a slow breath. “Well, I would prefer you didn’t.”
With that, his sister rushed into the room. She looked hesitant, as if she knew she could be entering an ongoing fray.
“Were you listening at the door?” their mother drawled. “Very rude, my dear.”
Gillian flinched. “Of course not, Mama. I merely did not wish to interrupt anything important.”
His sister swung her attention to him. “Hello, Crispin,” she said. “Causing trouble, are we?”
“Indeed I am, Gillian.”
Gillian sat in the chair opposite their mother and began by pulling several slices of bacon and a slice of toasted bread onto her plate.
Her mother watched with displeasure. “Not too much lest your stays…”
“Mama, she must have sustenance to survive the day,” he pointed out.
His mother relented, but only just.
Gillian gave him a quick look. But he couldn’t read it. Was she pleased he’d said something? He was uncertain.
Gillian was not really a bad sort. She had just been crushed under their mother’s difficult personality. Sometimes he wished that he could give her the sort of freedom and love that it was clear the Briarwoods knew, but he wasn’t certain that he ever could. It was hard to undo all the training he and his sister had endured.
“Will you come to tea also?” he asked.
“I? Tea at the Briarwoods?” she said, surprised as she buttered her toast.
“I don’t see why not,” he said.
Gillian’s face brightened, which was an unusual occurrence. “If you’d like me to, I’d be happy to investigate that house. It is legend, of course.”
He frowned. This was not the sentiment he’d hoped for. “You’re not going to go about gossiping after you’ve left, are you?”
Gillian laughed. “Why ever not? Isn’t that what the point of the ton is? To tattle and share gossip?”
“If that is all it is for,” he gritted, “it should be done with immediately. Perhaps the French are not entirely wrong.”
“Don’t say such a thing,” his mother bit out vehemently. “The King, the Queen! I worry for them.”
He softened. He shouldn’t have said such a thing. “You are right, Mama, of course.”
And the truth was, many years ago, his mother had been friends with Marie Antoinette and Louis, the monarchs of France. She’d stayed at Versailles as a girl. He’d often wondered if it had been a much happier time for his mother, before she had come back to England. Before she had become the Countess of Drexel.
What had she been like before marriage to his difficult father? It was impossible to know.
He took a final drink of coffee, pushed back from the table, and said, “Ladies, you are my family, but please, I beg of you. Do not drive Lady Hermia away.”
His mother gave him a slow smile. “Why ever would we do that, my dear? This is exactly what we want, isn’t it? A marriage.”
He eyed her, uncertain. “I’m glad you agree, Mama.”
There was nothing else he could do or say and so, he strode out of the breakfast room, hoping he had made himself clear. Determined to clear his head, he headed out of the house. His morning ride would do it. Or so he hoped.
Crispin dearly wanted to believe that his plan was going to work out. It had to work out. He liked Hermia well enough. He liked her enough to leave her alone once they were married.
As he thought of her fascinating nature, her oddity, he let himself fancy it for a moment. A life where they would visit each other but not dwell together. He would come to her country cottage. They would have breakfast, take tea, go for walks, and he would be able to join her at night—to try for an heir and a spare, of course.
Their life would be pleasant, and then he would leave, allowing her to get on with whatever she enjoyed. He would return to London to work with the Whig party and, of course, to doing what he enjoyed.
Surely, that was the ideal life.
He smiled to himself.
It surprised him how much he liked the idea of slipping into bed with Hermia, trailing his hands along her petite body, teasing her to breathlessness. How he would love to see her lose all control and call out his name.
A smile tilted his lips as he envisioned her drunk with the effects of their lovemaking.
Yes, he had sorted this out rather well. As he crossed out to the pavement, he waved to his groomsman, who was bringing up his horse.
The stallion, Heathland, pawed the earth and tossed his head, happy to see his rider. For the two of them worked out all their energy together.
In fact, long ago, he had learned that the only real place he could let his emotions out was atop a horse, and Heathland had never let him down.
He never missed a morning ride. Not even when he was ill. He’d sat shaking with fever atop Heathland… It was necessary. Or the darkness of his childhood—the flinching, the fear, the panic—would set in.
The knowledge that he would never be enough.
But Heathland? The stallion required nothing of him except to be present and to ride well.
Crispin swung himself up onto the beast and headed for Rotten Row in Hyde Park. He would get a good long ride in this morning because tea would no doubt be quite an ordeal. He wondered if the ladies would draw blood. He was more than aware that sometimes ladies’ conversations were veiled. And while they might seem benign to those observing, in truth, claws had been bared.
Crispin hoped his mother would not do such a thing, and he hoped that the duchess would not suddenly change her mind and instruct her daughter to have nothing to do with his family.
After all, he wouldn’t be surprised if she did. It was amazing to him that the duchess seemed interested in him at all, but perhaps it was because he was the only gentleman who had offered for Hermia.
This thought gave him pause as he rode out along the fashionable row filled with people hoping to see and be seen. People stared at him, as they always did. He was an earl, after all, with a great deal of power and money, and he was still unmarried. He was also tall, in excellent health, and had a mystery about him because he kept himself distant. Oh, he was a rake who enjoyed opera dancers, carousing, and all that the ton had to offer. He knew how to be pleasant, entertaining even… But he was always certain that, at any moment, people might realize that he was occupying a role he wasn’t capable of filling.
He was a fraud. A second son in first son’s clothing.
Crispin swallowed back the bitter thought.
As he rode, he sensed whispers. It didn’t surprise him. No doubt, conversations about his visit to the Duke of Westleigh’s box at the theater last night and the two dances with Lady Hermia were the subject of much speculation. The sudden and unexpected relationship would be on everybody’s tongue.
He was rather glad. It was time. Yes, it was time to finally be done with this particular aspect of his duty, and he would no longer have to worry. It would not be a stress that he would have to carry on his shoulders. Finding a wife. That concern would be done and dusted.
Perhaps he should have done it years ago, but the idea of having to find some young woman who could face and cope with his mother had been impossible. It wasn’t until he’d turned and spotted Lady Hermia, and found her completely unintimidated by him or the ton, that he’d known he had found the right one.
Just as he was about to turn back to the house, he heard the sound of hoofbeats riding up towards him. The sound was rapid, and he glanced back.
The sight gave him pause.
A large man who looked as if he owned the world urged on a grey stallion. The man’s riding coat fanned out like the wings of some furious carrion bird and his hat was perched upon his dark head at a devilish angle.
His eyes flashed a shocking steel. He pulled up his animal just in time. “Good day, my lord. Out for a morning ride to prepare yourself for the fray?”
The Duke of Westleigh.
It had to be him. Crispin had seen him in Parliament and across rooms, but they’d never been introduced.
Crispin cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Grace. But I do ride every morning, not just before such moments.”
The duke laughed, a wild hearty sound, but there was an edge to it. “Wise. I would not want to face the ladies of our families without being ready.” The duke stared at him, a deep unrelenting stare. “I hear that you are interested in marrying my sister. Is that true?”
“It is indeed,” he said, uncertain what to make of that stare.
He had not been expecting to come face-to-face with the duke in the park. Dukes were like legendary creatures in mythology. One could get close to them, but they were rare and rather hard to truly know. Even as an earl, it was difficult. And to have one suddenly come up to him so quickly. Well, he was a bit stunned.
Crispin gripped his reins just as Heathland shifted his weight, sensing his master’s shift in mood. “Your mother seems to approve. Do you?”
A muscle tightened in the duke’s jaw before he gave a jovial smile. “Everything that I have heard about you, Drexel, is good. I’m not concerned about that. But Hermia is my sister, and I will not allow anything to bring her down.”
He nodded. “Yes, your other brothers have made clear the lengths that they’re willing to go to protect her.”
“Good,” the duke returned. “Now, I don’t concern myself with that sort of thing, but you do know that I can make your life incredibly difficult if you prove a disappointment.”
“I do,” he replied evenly.
“Good.” The duke pulled up the reins of his horse and began turning his head.
Crispin swallowed, deciding to be bold with the all-powerful duke who did not give a damn for society’s approval. “But what if I told you, Your Grace, that it is my intent to give her everything that she wishes and to make her very happy?”
The duke paused and arched a brow. “Why do you think that giving her everything she wishes will make her happy?” The duke was silent for a long moment before adding with a soft, gravel-like tone, “The truth is, Drexel, that what we wish for is often the worst thing for us.”
The duke said nothing else but rode off, those enigmatic words trailing after him. Crispin had no idea what to make of them or the man himself.