Chapter Eight

Spring 1818

THE SUMPTUOUS CARRIAGE pulled into the circular drive of the great house of Leven, Wentworth Manor, in South Yorkshire, the enormous gray stone hall surrounded by hundreds of acres of deer park and lakes and parkland. The lady within the carriage passed nary a glance over the imposing fa?ade nor the stunning grounds but rapped her cane anxiously upon the ceiling of the vehicle even as her longtime driver, Summerton, was already pulling open the door.

Her slippered foot touched the steps at almost the exact moment the driver had set the stool in place. She ignored his proffered hand and alighted without assistance, her usual wobbliness forgotten, or rather overtaken by the anger that spurred her on. She marched across the gravel and lifted her cane to bang upon the door just as it was opened from within. Ignoring the splendor of the impossibly huge foyer, she demanded impatiently, "Put me in the drawing room, and bring me tea and Leven at once."

The butler barely blinked, bestowing great dignity upon a long family history of service to the Wentworths. "Yes, my lady. Follow me."

She was shown into the drawing room as requested and the butler disappeared with a deferential bow. She spared not a glance around the finely appointed room, just sat upon a chair that faced the door and pressed her cane to the floor in front of her, plopping both hands upon the top. And she waited, just daring him to make her sit here unattended overlong.

He did not. The Earl of Leven showed his face after only a moment, as if he'd been only a room or two removed from this one. He stopped just inside the door, giving no impression of being surprised by this visit.

"Lady Audley," he greeted with a brief bow.

Evelyn Audley narrowed her eyes and spent quite a moment simply staring at him, sizing him up. Of course, she'd met him at the wedding and while she'd been impressed with the bold and handsome figure he cut, she'd been unable to make any determination in regard to his person. They hadn't spoken long enough for her to have formed an opinion of him or to get any sense of what fired this man up, aside from the obvious and shameful lusting after her granddaughter.

But just now he allowed her to read nothing. He met her gaze for a moment before coming fully into the room and taking the chair opposite her. His visage, posture and his silence told her only that he accepted this as his due, her harsh scrutiny while she took his measure.

"I've a mind to clap this cane upon your head," she said in a stern voice. "Many times, until at least I felt better."

He chuckled, but it was restrained, only a politeness, she thought. Evelyn suspected quickly that his wit hadn't been what had seduced her granddaughter. And yet, even at her age, Evelyn could well understand how a young girl might be so easily ensnared—Leven would be handsome even if he weren't breathing. Yet he was. He was the epitome of the charming rogue, possessing the prerequisite good looks and an air of righteousness, but more than that, the man was absolutely smothered by an air of sensuality that likely few could resist, certainly not the very untried and unsophisticated Nicki.

"Leven, I demand that you fix this appalling marriage right now." She thumped her cane for emphasis. "It's now been almost a year and I have it on good authority that you've not once set foot inside that monstrosity of a house out in Sussex since you so unceremoniously dumped her out there—and," she continued with a stern glare when he looked as if he might interrupt her, "that Nicki herself hasn't stepped one foot off that same damn property."

"With all due respect, ma'am—"

Evelyn rolled her shrewd and impatient eyes. "Oh, bother! Any time a person begins a sentence with those nauseating words, I know full well my bidding will not be done."

He only shrugged, and stared back at her, willing to give her nothing.

The butler entered then, depositing a tray of tea beside the countess. She spent a moment preparing a cup for herself, seeing no need to offer one to Leven, while she gathered her thoughts and enjoyed the sustenance and calming effects of the brew.

"I've met your cousin—Simon, I believe it is," she said when she'd sipped several times from the dainty cup, using a different tactic, having come prepared with plenty. "Charming young man." Simon Wentworth was about as far from charming as Evelyn was from youthful. A more dough-faced, incompetent and flawed person, she'd thought she'd never encountered. "He'll make a fine earl one day when you fail to produce the obligatory offspring."

"Ma'am, I would have to care greatly about the Leven title for this to in any way prove an impetus of any sort."

"Ah, but you do, my good man. You must," Evelyn insisted, "Or you'd not have pranced about on Sabrina's string for so long before being forced to wed Nicki. There isn't a person alive who might encounter both Sabrina and Nicole and then choose the former over the latter, unless it was absolutely and only about the money."

The earl acknowledged the truth of this only with a slight inclination of his head, though he managed to appear—purposefully, Evelyn knew, damn him— utterly dispassionate about the subject matter just now.

"I would spare you further attempts, ma'am, at whatever it is you hope to accomplish here," he said then, having clearly exhausted his good will and respect. "My marriage to Nicole, such as it is, is not any of your business. I bid you good day." He stood, dismissing her and strode to the door.

Evelyn might have fumed—how dare he dismiss her!—but she wasn't done yet. She'd just realized what this was about. Oh, not the specifics, she might never be privy to them, but just now under the cool fa?ade of tolerance, she spied what lay at the crux of the matter. Though he let his dark eyes give a certain illusion, playing the callous rake to perfection, Evelyn suddenly understood that Wentworth was not merely angry or insensible or coldblooded.

This man was heartbroken.

"What was it?" She asked. He turned at the door, his hand on the knob. "Of what crime do you accuse her that gives merit to your dishonorable handling of her?"

"Of course, you must know that I am not about to condemn your granddaughter to your face." He raised a brow, daring her to defy this.

Evelyn only shrugged, flexing the hands upon her cane. "You couldn't. She's an innocent and whatever it is you think she's done, you are wrong. You know it, of course—it wasn't duplicity or any other nefarious trait that drew you to her. It was her complete disregard for artifice." The countess sighed, feigning a weariness. "I'm ashamed to say I had thought she at least was possessed of greater intellect. Obviously, I was mistaken—no intelligent person would take up with someone so incapable of seeing the truth before his own eyes."

His dark gaze had grown hard, but his tone indicated still that detachment. "You've given me much to think upon—"

"I did no such thing! You will not think! You will act!" She was shouting as she never had. Not once, in all her years, had she ever reduced herself to such a vile inclination. "Do not make me use powers greater than yours! Do not make me—" she stopped herself abruptly, pinching her lips painfully, hardly believing she'd just threatened her granddaughter's husband in so obscene a fashion. She closed her eyes momentarily, gathering herself. She had one more approach ready, though debated using it, hoping it wouldn't actually cause more harm than good. But, as she'd reasoned with herself in the carriage ride here, their marriage, as it stood now, couldn't possibly sink any lower into dreadfulness than it already had.

She smiled pleasantly at the earl, who'd remained in the doorway, though he needn't have. "I thank you for the time you've allowed this old woman, Leven. You must understand she is my dearest love, and I only look to make things right for her. I see now that will be impossible and I will trouble you no more."

The earl accepted this, nodding at her with some sense of pity, she thought.

Evelyn continued, putting on a show of trying to convince herself and not him, that, "It's not so bad for her, you know. She's actually quite happy out there in Sussex, ‘twas likely I'm the only one who thought something should be done to correct what apparently is a fine arrangement for all parties." She managed to keep her tone conversational still, as she said, "That's a nice young man you've hired out there as your bailiff. He and Nicki seem to do very well together, with her taking such a sudden interest in the affairs of the estate and the two of them learning so many new things together."

True, it was transparent, but she reasoned she was too old to be subtle.

And she didn't even blink, the serene smile upon her face never wavered, not one bit, as the earls' jaw and fists seemed to clench in synchrony before he finally left the room.

SHE STOOD ATOP THE hill, overlooking the tiny sleeping village below. The brisk spring wind whipped up her skirts, raising them above her ankles, pushing them off to her left, silhouetting her legs. The kerchief tied around her head flagged its bright green edges, threatening to release the long hair it bound. She held a basket of newly blossomed and freshly picked daffodils in one hand. Occasionally, a gust would take hold of the basket and wave it at her side, the motion giving a slight sway to her body.

She stood there for quite some time, appreciating the quietness of everything around her and the striking views offered to her. She stared appreciatively at the sun just rising over the far ridge, beyond the village, realizing that this life suited her just fine. While it was not the life she'd imagined might be hers when she said vows with Trevor, she quite enjoyed the little family she'd accumulated over the past year at Lesser House, as she'd come to call the abbey. True, she hadn't a husband and clearly would never have a child, but she did have people who loved her, and who depended on her, she liked to think.

She'd tried to make her grandmother understand this, when she'd visited at Christmas. The countess had demanded answers to the true state of her marriage and Nicole had informed her sadly that there really was no marriage, but had given her only spare details, intimating that it was her fault that she'd been disposed of. The countess had railed against this, insisting that Nicole pursue an annulment. Occasionally, she did count all the months Trevor had thus far allowed her to remain at the abbey all alone, without even so much as a letter to inquire of her condition, but she saw no need of an annulment, or any end to their sham of a marriage. She was afraid that if she did pursue this, she'd be forced out of Lesser House, and then what would become of her? It hadn't only been Trevor that had abandoned her—her own father had yet to answer any of her letters to him, despite Nicole having been relegated to begging in the most recently sent. And Sabrina? She'd married Marcus Trent after all, and had, according to her grandmother, "given birth with such vulgar haste the earl should be expressing gratitude to you, seeing him saved from raising another man's child as his own heir!" Nicole had not been invited to the wedding. Or, maybe she had, mayhap the invitation had been sent to the earl's townhome in the city. She knew nothing of it and was bothered by it not at all.

She turned back toward Lesser House, always admiring the picture it presented at her morning walk, the beige stone set against the line of trees beyond, the dozens of windows reflecting the rising sun, prisms of light and colors visible even at this distance.

As she walked, she heard—before she saw—the rickety old cart that her steward favored. It was coming from somewhere behind her. Nicole turned and waved Mr. Wendall to her as he came up the hill from the village. He sped up the cart to reach her, the lone horse pulling the wagon exerting great energy, as the mare was quite old by now.

"Good morning, miss," Ian Wendell called. Everyone at Lesser House called her ‘miss'. Franklin had started that on the very day Trevor had dumped her here, she recalled. Being that she was, in effect, still a miss, she'd never corrected anyone.

"Been to the village to pilfer more daffodils from the baker's gardens?" he asked, with an unassuming grin about his pleasant face.

When he stopped the old cart next to her, she handed him her basket and climbed up into the rig, sitting next to him. "Mr. Fielding hasn't any use for these pretty babies," she told him with an impish smile. "And besides, all that heat from his constant ovens would kill them, and who would enjoy them then? They are put to much better use and appreciation at Lesser House, upon the foyer's table, I should think."

Ian only shook his head, but he was smiling still. While he was perhaps only in his mid-twenties, she thought it odd that he'd not taken a wife yet, Nicole being very familiar with several young women in town who'd like nothing more than for Ian Wendall to glance their way. He was handsome, she'd often thought, with broad, workman's shoulders and continuously mussed dark hair, often covered as now with a wide brimmed hat. His eyes were a light blue, whose shape Nicole had often thought reminded her of Trevor's, though Ian's had never so much as looked at her with anything other than kindness and respect.

Nicole liked that he was always of an even temper, and that he desired to learn his job so earnestly, and to perform to the best of his abilities. He was learning still how to go about the stewardship of Lesser House, as was Nicole. As he'd been the only applicant for the job she'd posted in the area papers, she'd naturally hired him. They were learning together, and not doing too badly for their inexperienced efforts.

"It's wash day," Ian said now, "so after breakfast I'll bring out the tub to the side yard."

"Thank you, Ian." Nicole had managed to employ only one chambermaid, a young girl named Lorelei, but she had enough to do keeping the huge house in order, so Nicole had taken on the wash chore herself. Abby liked to help, though this was a limited endeavor. Nicole hadn't the heart to tell the old woman that she truly only slowed down the work, as she supposed that Abby liked the private company of Nicole for those few hours. She would talk endlessly of her family, of her previous life, when she was young and living in the village herself, when her children were home, when her husband lived still. She had become, Nicole was not above admitting, a true friend, whom Nicole loved dearly. "And don't forget," she thought to remind Ian now, "that Mr. Adams is due from Langley house to give us some ideas for the upgrades of the tenant homes."

"I remember," Ian said, "though I have to say—again—that I think your money can be put to better use."

"Ian, you've seen the roofs and the poor quality of the thatch," she argued. "It needs to be addressed. Haven't the abbey's tenants been forgotten long enough?"

Ian shrugged, still of a good nature. He and Nicole never argued outright, seeming to agree on most everything. "We'll see what your Mr. Adams has to say about it," he allowed and pulled the cart up at the house, squinting and frowning at the lone horse waiting in the drive. "Mr. Adams is early?"

Nicole stared at the horse as well but gave it not much thought. "Tis unlikely, Ian, that Mr. Adams would be paying his calls so shortly after the sun had risen." She hopped down from the cart and received her basket from Ian, who drove the wagon around to the back of the house. Franklin pulled open the door as Nicole neared. He seemed straighter than normal, though still his head and neck and shoulders were bent in the question mark form of his.

"Good morning, Franklin," she called cheerily, and happily tucked a daffodil into his lapel, having to bend quite low because of his stooped form. The old man smiled at such charming foolishness.

"Aye, g' morning, miss. We've a visitor," he reported unnecessarily. "I've put him in the blue salon, though I'd have chosen the dungeon, had we one of those." This last was rather mumbled, though Nicole heard it still, and giggled at dear Franklin's absurdities. It must be Squire Acton, Nicole decided, knowing that Franklin and the squire had a mutual dislike of each other. Nicole stuffed her basket into Franklin's hands, and doffed her small gloves and kerchief, playfully tucking the headpiece atop Franklin's balding crown.

"Truly, Franklin, you should at least try to like the squire," she advised. "Squire Acton is a very valuable member of the community as are we—equally valued, I should say. This puts a great deal of responsibility onto us...." she went on, failing to notice, because his eyes always faced the ground, that they rolled back in his head as he happily tuned her out.

TREVOR WENTWORTH STOOD near the door to the blue salon inside Hyndman Abbey, remaining in the shadows while he absorbed with shocked pleasure the sight of his wife. My God, he thought, time had truly transformed her. He'd not expected this. He'd thought to come back and find the same girl he'd left almost a year ago, beautiful to be sure, but girlish still, he'd imagined. This was not the case. He watched her strip the work gloves from her hands and remove the silly kerchief from her hair, and he drew in a sharp breath at the changes a year had wrought. She seemed taller, but then he supposed it was only that the complete remains of coltishness were gone, replaced by a womanly grace she assumed well. She was suntanned, her once creamy skin now darkened to a golden brown, her cheeks more delicately carved and less full. Her hair, that rich mahogany, was longer, swaying in natural waves down her back, shiny, attesting to her good health. His eyes traced the figure of her body, his body reacting instantly, annoyingly, to the new womanly curves he perceived. She was no longer simply beautiful, he decided, she was absolutely breathtaking.

She was certainly out early this morning, he mused, but even more disconcerting was her clear affinity for the old man, her butler. She teased him and toyed with him, which the man indulgently allowed. Just as she might have turned to find the blue parlor and her visitor, which she seemed to mistakenly think was a squire, Trevor watched as a tall man appeared from the back hall. He was obviously familiar with the house and its occupants, removing his hat as he addressed Nicki. Trevor's frown was instantaneous and ominous, recognizing admiration when he saw it.

"Is Mr. Adams here then?" The man asked.

"Tis not Mr. Adams after all, Ian," he heard Nicki say. "But that reminds me, we should find any ledgers or documents that pertain to any previous renovations of the crofters' homes. Perhaps they would be in some of those boxes we've yet to get through in the study." She turned once again, and Trevor assumed she was coming now to the blue salon.

"Your hair, miss," that man said.

"Oh, gosh," she said and stepped in front of a long, narrow mirror above a side table just inside the door, taking pains to govern her hair into some semblance of neatness. Amazed, Trevor watched as she quickly braided the unruly mass right in front of the two men. Seething now, his eyes returned to this Ian fellow, discerning his reaction, finding it to be as his own—provoked and desirous. She held the braid in one hand and half-turned, extending her free hand to Franklin, palm up. He nodded quickly at her silent request, searching through three different pockets of his faded livery before presenting her with a small band, which she used to tie the mass of her braid.

Trevor was dumbstruck as he watched. And then that Ian said, "If that is not Mr. Adams, then who waits for you, Miss?"

"Oh, yes," Franklin said, from his stooped position, "I forgot to tell you, Miss—"

"The squire, I fear," Nicki whispered dramatically. "Ian, you know how Franklin feels about the man. I cannot imagine what he must want so early in the morning."

"Miss, "Franklin tried again to enlighten her. "Tis not the—"

Ian even took a turn at teasing poor Franklin. "Really, old man, she has a point. What's not to like about the man? He's nasty and overbearing and has a terrible habit of looking down his nose at a person, even at our miss here."

Why, Trevor wondered with gritted teeth, did they refer to her as ‘miss'? She was a married woman, for Christ's sake! Lady Leven! There was absolutely nothing about this little scene that pleased Trevor. As he listened and watched, he grew angrier and angrier, and decided now a good time to announce his presence, as Franklin seemed so incapable of doing.

He stepped forward just as Nicki began to come to him, throwing over her shoulder one last teasing remark. "If you hear me scream," she said in a low conspirator's voice, "come running." And then she saw him.

Her step faltered. She stopped so swiftly the top half of her body tipped forward a bit.

While she stared at him, her eyes suddenly panicked, Franklin said lamely behind her, "I tried to tell ye, Miss."

"Who is this?" Ian asked immediately while Nicki moved or spoke not at all.

While Trevor might, at another time, find the young man's watchfulness and protective bent towards Nicki gratifying, at the moment he did not. With his eyes still trained upon Nicki—as she seemed to struggle to breathe—he ground out viciously to the young man, "This is her husband." And even as he answered, apparently the very sound of his voice caused his wife's shoulders to fall forward in something of a defeated or weakened slump.

"She hasn't a husband," the man challenged, a similar snarl in his own words. He moved to Nicki's side, and raised his hand to steady her. "Oh, she does, we all have heard," this Ian dared further, his stance defending and defiant. "But we've yet to see any evidence of this, so we assume the man knows he isn't welcome here."

Trevor hated him straight away, and then even more so as his little wife lifted her hand to her side, her small palm finding Ian's chest in a staying motion, even as she still faced Trevor.

"What do you want, Trevor?" Her tone was cool now, gone the friendly and bantering voice she'd so pleasantly employed with the other two men.

"I want him," Trevor answered hotly, pointing angrily at Ian, "out of my house, gone for good."

Nicki released a short and angry bark of laughter. "Your house? The abbey is no more your house than I am your wife," she informed him derisively. Nicki all but dismissed him then, turning and talking closely with Ian, her hand still familiarly at that man's chest, while he watched Trevor with ill-concealed disdain over the top of her head. She must have said something that he disagreed with, for the man looked sharply down at Nicki and pursed his lips angrily. Her head tilted in a pleading fashion and after a short second, he must have given in to her plea, for he slapped his hat back upon his head and strode irately from the house, slamming the door behind him, even as Franklin's slow hand made to grab at the handle.

Nicki once again faced Trevor now, having recovered from her initial shock, her expression now seemingly carved of ice. With squared shoulders and a haughty formality, she walked right by him. "I will receive you in the blue salon."

Angry strides of his own carried him there. Intentionally, he closed the door once inside the room.

"What do you want, Trevor?" She asked again, her voice steady now. She stood with her hands on the back of a pretty striped armchair, the piece creating quite a distance between them.

Ah, there was a question, Trevor thought. Why had he come? His intent seemed to have been lost in the last few minutes, having been exposed to the life she lived here, and with whom. When he'd decided yesterday to ride to the abbey, his reasons had been quite ambiguous —despite the unprecedented visit of her grandmother several weeks ago. He'd stayed at a nearby hostel, unwilling to arrive so late as he might have if he'd ridden directly here. But today, he supposed it was an attempt to put indecision to rest that had him upon her doorstep so early in the morning.

"Are you sleeping with him?" It was foremost in his mind, having so recently pushed out other matters. Before her words answered him, her expression did, and Trevor breathed easier.

Nicki's face showed first her confusion, and then her mighty anger. "I am not!" White- knuckling the back of the chair, she added, "And how dare you! Let me make something perfectly clear," she went on in a thoroughly outraged voice. "You forfeited all claims to me the minute you rode away from here upon our wedding day. I haven't any clue what brings you ‘round today, but you should know, you are not welcome. I will hear whatever it is that you have to say, and then I want you gone."

Yes, she was definitely not the same girl he'd married, not the girl who'd begged him not to leave her, who'd maintained that she'd not betrayed him, who had at one time stared at him with eyes so bright with love. Jesus! What have I done?

"I am still your husband, and this is still my house," he finally responded, controlling himself from grounding out the words.

She jumped greedily upon these words. "A fact you tried to forget or chose to ignore for almost a year. You'll pardon me if I disagree. In any case, it will not be true for much longer."

With the utmost energy employed to rein in his dangerous temper, he asked tightly, "Exactly what is that supposed to mean?"

"An annulment, sir. It should be very easy to procure, given the state of our union."

"I will not allow it."

She seemed quite happy to inform him, "You will not have anything to say about it. I do not need your permission to seek an annulment. In your own words, Trevor, you've made your bed, now rest in it."

A small muscle began to tic in his jaw line, and one again at his temple.

"We will remain married," he clipped, his hands nearly fisted at his sides.

"To what purpose? To live as complete strangers for the next forty or fifty years? With our... huge dislike of each other?"

"That can be remedied."

She shook her head sadly. "I might have agreed had we at least luck enough to have respect and trust between us—many a marriage has been based on less. But you and I... we've nothing at all. Nothing, save our mutual dislike and distrust and disrespect." Her voice quavered a little bit as she spouted this.

"Can you read my mind so well then? Can you know what is in my heart?"

She gave an unladylike snort. "Can I doubt it? Your actions on our wedding day, and over the course of the past year speak volumes."

"Nicki, I was angry," he thought to remind her. "I thought—"

She tossed her head. "Enter dislike and distrust. And a host of other unmarriageable feelings."

"That is not how I feel," he insisted angrily.

Bitterly, she said, "But it is how I feel." She met his dark gaze steadily, unwaveringly.

With a fresh surge of annoyance, Trevor enlightened her. "Be that as it may, an annulment will not happen."

His wife only shrugged. "You're an intelligent person, Trevor. Surely you understand how these things work. You haven't a say in the matter."

He stared hard at her now, nearly slack-jawed. Did she hate him so much? Where had all that starry-eyed infatuation gone? Had he killed it so completely, never to be resurrected?

"You will not leave, ever."

"You cannot keep me." And she stalked away, out of the salon, and through the house.

To the empty room, he said, "Oh, but I will, little Nicki. I will."