Chapter Fourteen
“Would you like me to send up a glass of port, my lord?”
Philip finished tying the belt of his dressing gown before answering Gibson. “No. I won’t be reading tonight.”
“Sir?”
He turned to face his valet, who stood before the armoire in his dressing room. “Yes, Gibson?”
“Surely you don’t intend to visit Lady Durham tonight? I’m to understand that you already took her this evening, and if I may say so, taking her two times in one night, when she is so new to being a wife, seems out of character for you.”
He frowned, not sure why taking Georgina twice in a night would be uncharacteristic, since he’d always had a healthy sexual appetite and had—
Blast. He’d almost forgotten that his wife was expected to be a virgin.
The last thing he needed was for his staff to suspect anything, especially since he would be bringing some of them back to Town when he returned.
He’d been so caught up in having Georgina, he’d almost ruined all the work they’d done to keep her situation from their peers.
“That is a bit presumptuous of you, Gibson.”
“Yes, sir. I know. But it is also my duty to tell you of what I hear among the lower staff, and they are talking, which I’m sure you expected after taking your wife on the dining room table.”
He stared at his valet. How the hell did the staff know where in the dining room he’d taken her? No doubt they’d noticed he’d moved the plates out of the way.
Gibson gave him a grin. “I daresay, I enjoy a woman on a table myself. It is easier and my hands are free to roam as they will. However, I do think if you go to her room tonight, it will cause some talk. I mean, the poor thing is most likely sore after two nights in a row, and being new to it all.”
Not a little frustrated that he must keep up appearances a little longer due to his staff, Philip continued to frown.
“As it is, Gibson, your ladyship instigated the interlude. I simply fulfilled her wishes. Be sure to let the staff know that. I’m quite sure there will be many more events such as that this week before we return to Town. ”
Gibson’s eyes widened before he smiled knowingly. “Ah, then you’re twice fortunate, my lord.”
“I am. However, I’m also concerned about my wife’s comfort, so I will not be visiting her tonight except to wish her a good sleep.
My guess is that by tomorrow, I need not worry any further about her comfort in regard to such things.
Nor should my staff.” He hardened his voice on the last sentence, letting his valet know that no more conjecture on his employees’ part would be tolerated.
“Of course, sir. I will be sure to whisper the appropriate message in the right ears tonight.”
“You do that. Just be sure the miss you whisper it to does not conceive while you do so. That will be all.”
Gibson winked before bowing. “Yes, sir.”
Philip shook his head at Gibson as he exited, thankful once again that his valet was so loyal.
Gibson had been with him through his days at Oxford and never once let on to any staff, or his parents, about the escapades Philip had participated in.
From a round-robin party at a brothel to stealing the regent master’s prized hound, not a word about such antics had reached Crestfield.
Now he would have to go to Georgina’s rooms and tell her they would have to wait until tomorrow.
If she was more experienced, they could simply be quiet, but he didn’t see her having that kind of control.
That didn’t bother him at all. He liked that her reactions were honest. He was actually pleased that she’d overcome her first, rather poor experience with a man so quickly.
The idiot, whoever he was, didn’t know what he’d missed, and Philip counted himself fortunate for that.
He started for the door, but stopped. He should wait a little longer.
His staff were still up and about. Looking at the clock, he sighed.
Maybe in another half-hour he could chance crossing the corridor without causing speculation.
For the first time, he wished he had his father’s rooms. Then he could visit Georgina privately. That was how it was supposed to be.
There was no reason why he couldn’t go into his father’s rooms, except that he hadn’t entered them in almost three years.
If he crossed the hall to them, rooms that were rightfully his, despite his not deserving them, the staff would have nothing to say about him and his wife.
Then he could slip into her room with no one the wiser.
Pleased with his plan, he continued toward his door and opened it. Despite a need to look down the corridor to see if any staff were about, he refrained. This was his house and he was the lord. Confidently, he closed his door behind him and strode to his father’s door.
It wasn’t until he’d turned the knob and stepped inside that he had second thoughts. The scent of musk, his father’s cologne, still lingered in the air.
Refusing to look at anything in the room, he kept his gaze on the connecting door to Georgina’s bedroom.
The layout of the lord’s and lady’s chambers had the bedrooms connecting with the dressing rooms on the opposite sides, and then the sitting rooms. It was an old-fashioned design, since no one had ever changed it.
He opened the door and stepped into Georgina’s room. Immediately, the light, flowery scent that was her filled his nostrils. It wasn’t heavy like roses or distinct like lavender. He breathed deeply. It was sweet and fresh.
Pansies. His wife wore a pansy scent. No wonder she’d had pansies placed on the breakfast table. Pleased that he’d figured it out, he walked to the bed, smiling.
But as he approached, he could see she was already asleep. He shouldn’t be surprised. She had been up with the sun and then bustling about the property gathering names all day. Despite a yearning to wake her, he stepped back. Tomorrow, he could explain that he had come but she’d been asleep.
After all her questions at dinner, he found himself looking forward to showing her how Crestfield provided for them. Her knowledge of estate management meant he could discuss it with her when he wished to, as opposed to only with his steward. She would no doubt enjoy that.
Quietly, he turned and headed back through the connecting door and closed it.
He started across the lord’s bedroom, determined to make the door, but his footsteps slowed of their own accord.
His gaze scanned the room, the large four-poster bed, the end table and lamps, the two wingback chairs before the cold fireplace.
He found himself walking to the side of the bed, the last place he’d stood as his father struggled to breathe just so he could see his only son before moving on.
All the feelings came back to him in a rush: the anguish, the hopelessness, and the overwhelming guilt.
His father had smiled at him as soon as he stopped coughing, so pleased that he’d come, telling him to take care of his mother, who had sat on the other side of the bed, never leaving.
He’d agreed to everything his father asked of him, barely hearing the words, just knowing that he’d do anything to make the man feel better.
Then his father took his hand and squeezed it.
I love you, Philip. I’m proud of the man you’ve become.
I know I leave Crestfield and all who reside here in good hands.
Then the coughing took over and his mother gave his father a draught that helped calm it. His father closed his eyes then, never to open them again.
Philip had gone to his room. Even then, he’d known exactly how selfish he’d been. His father had given him everything, his time, his love, his knowledge, always being patient, never expecting perfection.
Even in his own guilt, he’d been selfish.
Then there was the wail in the middle of the night, his mother’s keening over his father’s passing, their love so strong that he thought he’d lose her too, but she was tougher than he.
His vision blurred, and he wiped his eyes, surprised to find tears on his face. He hadn’t cried when his father left them. Even then he was too selfish in his own guilt.
He forced himself to touch the pillow, the last place his father had rested his head while alive. How could he begin to atone for his own actions? His new wife, who was meant to be his atonement, was far too agreeable.
He looked around the room again. It was clean, the servants keeping it so, yet everything was exactly as his father had left it.
Bent upon pushing himself, he moved into the dressing room.
Here the scent of musk was far more prevalent.
His father’s valet, having retired upon the earl’s death, now lived with his daughter and grandchildren in the village.
Everything in the room had been put away in the armoire and drawers—though the shaving soap still sat on the shelf as if his father might need it.
Moving on, he walked into the sitting room that his father had turned into a study of sorts.
Here is where he’d smoke on occasion, drink, and instruct Philip on the proper ways of a true gentleman.
There’d been many a night they’d stayed up until dawn, playing chess or talking.
Those nights had become few once he went to Oxford.
His chest filled with the pain of his loss, his conscience telling him he deserved it.
If he moved into these rooms, would that be just punishment or a reward for being the new Lord Durham?
The more important question was, could he do it?
Could he sleep in his father’s room, knowing that if only he’d thought a bit more about his parent, things would have been different, his father possibly still alive?
He strode back through the dressing room and into the bedroom once again. He would do it. It was time.
And whatever nightmares visited him in his sleep, he deserved. Maybe if he’d repented sooner, he wouldn’t have almost lost his father’s legacy.