The Weary Heart Page 2

  “A lady and a sergeant major?”

  “A lady and a harridan.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you wish me to accept such a charge?”

  “Not unless you wish to. I was thinking of several of my aunts.”

  She almost laughed, until she saw the totally unexpected twinkle in his eyes encouraging her and immediately straightened her face. She was too uncertain of him to drop her guard.

  “Smile if you wish,” he urged. “I shan’t hold it against you.”

  “I gather you dislike your aunts, as well,” she observed, returning to her meal.

  “As well as whom?” he asked, in deliberate echo of her earlier words to him.

  “Me,” she said dryly.

  One eyebrow shot up. “But I don’t dislike you in the slightest.”

  She couldn’t resist curling her lip. “Now that you’ve decided I am not a wench no better than she should be?”

  “That has nothing to do with anything,” he said with a hint of impatience. “Except my own ill-temper and occasional bouts of stupidity.”

  She blinked. “Was that an apology?”

  He considered, laying down his knife and fork and sitting back in his chair. “More of an explanation, which you can use to beat me at your leisure. But for what it’s worth, I am sorry for my unforgivable rudeness.”

  He held her gaze, perhaps to convince her of his sincerity, though he did not seem the kind of man to care much for anyone’s opinion. A jolt of awareness shot through her, for he was an imposing man, a large, physically attractive man… And she had no business dining with him, bandying words with him as though this was some game, some stage play where she was not the Overtons’ governess.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  Lily came in to take their plates. “There’s my mother’s famous plum pudding to follow,” she offered.

  “Oh, not for me,” Helen said hastily, rising to her feet. “I must retire, for I have an early start tomorrow. Sir, whatever my hasty words—or yours!—I do thank you sincerely for the use of your chamber and for sharing your supper. Good night.”

  He had risen with her and inclined his head a little sardonically at her civil words. “My pleasure, Miss Milsom,” he said politely. His lips quirked. “Or at least most of it is.”

  This time, she allowed herself to laugh as she escaped.

  Chapter Two

  Sir Marcus Dain rose at dawn from his uncomfortable couch, roused his valet, and dressed before going in search of breakfast.

  “Has Miss Milsom left yet?” he asked, sitting down to a large plate of eggs, ham, and sausages.

  “Not yet, sir, we let her sleep in,” confided Mrs. Villin, the innkeeper’s wife.

  Marcus hesitated. He owed the unusual governess for cheering him up last night, but the best way to pay such a debt was hardly by showing unseemly interest.

  “Does she have far to travel?” he asked at last.

  “Just to Steynings, sir, to join Lady Overton.”

  “Steynings,” he repeated. The thought did not displease him, which was irritating. “How will she get there?” he asked abruptly.

  “Old John’s driving her in his lordship’s coach,” Mrs. Villin replied.

  Which would be considerably warmer and more comfortable than traveling in his curricle. Besides, it meant he wouldn’t have to leave his valet behind. So, he merely grunted and finished his breakfast.

  Only as he climbed into the curricle and took up the ribbons, did he allow himself to glance up at the window of the bedchamber that should have been his. Just for an instant, he glimpsed a lovely woman in a flowing dressing gown with her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. He had known she would look like that…

  And then, she’d whisked herself away, and he urged his horses on as though he’d seen nothing unusual and had no upsurge of desire to squash. He’d never touch her—he really was not that bad a man—and he was going to Steynings for reasons that did not involve women or any kind of flirting. But still, he found himself looking forward to her arrival there.

  *

  He reached Steynings just in time for luncheon, which he was happy to forego in order to be taken immediately to his godfather, the Earl of Silford.

  The old gentleman, whom he’d last seen frail and depressed over the death of another grandson, looked surprisingly hearty. Which might have had something to do with the lively young woman laughing as she walked toward his sitting-room door.

  Marcus bowed. “Lady Sydney.”

  “It still sounds odd to be called that,” she remarked. Her husband, Sydney Cromarty, might have been Lord Silford’s heir, but he had no formal title. Somehow, society had given them one that was decidedly informal and yet stuck. “Though I expect I take to it better than Sydney himself,” she added. “How do you, Sir Marcus? His lordship has been looking forward to your arrival. I’ll leave you together.”

  “Worth her weight in gold, that girl,” Lord Silford said happily as the door closed behind her. “No idea how Sydney caught such a treasure, but I’m very glad of it.”

  Marcus took the chair on the other side of the fireplace and regarded his godfather with affectionate derision. “Yes, but I suspect you already value Sydney just as much as his wife. I told you years ago he would make a fine earl, even when we thought there was little chance of him inheriting.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re very clever,” Silford said impatiently. “But you didn’t come to say I told you so, or even to reunite with old friends. You’re off on your travels again, are you not?”

  “Yes, I hope to be, as soon as I leave Steynings.”

  “It’s not like you to trouble to say goodbye,” the old gentleman observed. “Usually, you just go. Afraid I’ll peg out before you return?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t seen you look so well in years. It’s more to do with my destination, which is something of a…challenge.”

  “Why, where are you off to this time?”

  “Russia.”

  The old man blinked. “Russia! In winter? In wartime?”

  “Exactly. I wish to help the Russians in any way I can.”

  Silford gazed at him in clear consternation. “But you are not even a soldier!”

  Marcus’s smile was twisted. “True. I am not even that. But I have a good friend in charge of a Cossack militia who would welcome me.”

  “Marcus, your own people welcome you,” Silford growled. “And need you! I thought you were done with this gallivanting and settled to your responsibilities. Stephen, your younger brother—”

  “I remember who he is,” Marcus interrupted caustically.

  “…is the soldier of the family,” Silford went on, ignoring him. “As is right and proper. And even he nearly died. Would have, by what I hear, if you hadn’t brought him out of France. God knows how you managed that, but the point is, such adventures are for young men! Not responsible landowners approaching middle age whose first duty is now to marry and produce an heir.”

  With an effort, Marcus kept his temper in check. “I believe I am not yet in my dotage.”

  “People will think you are if you continue with this mad start,” Silford retorted. “What on earth gave you this bizarre idea in the first place?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Boredom, I suppose.” That and the growing feeling he had done nothing worthwhile with his life. “A debt I owe a friend.”

  “And what you owe your people here?”

  “I have spent four years on the estates to the extent that they now more or less run themselves. I have good people in place to make sure they continue to do so.”

  “There is no substitute for a landlord who is present. I have learned that much in my long life!”

  “And I’m sure you are quite right. All the same, I cannot believe that my absence for six months or even a year will bring the estate to the brink of collapse.”

  To his surprise, the old gentleman looked more concerned than angry. “Don’t rush into anything. Promise me that much.�
��

  “Of course. I shall stay for your ball with great pleasure.”

  “It’s Henrietta’s ball,” Silford reminded him.

  “I know that, too.” Marcus rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get rid of my travel dirt and hope to be in time to join your guests for luncheon.”

  *

  Although his godfather’s reaction to his plans irritated him, he recognized it came from concern and strove to banish it from his mind when he joined the other guests, most of whom he knew. Some were old friends, like Sydney Cromarty and Lord and Lady Overton. To the latter, he did not mention encountering their governess at the Hart. It would hardly have been discreet.

  Among old friends and acquaintances were, inevitably, the matchmaking mamas out to snare him. For while he was approaching forty winters, he was not, as he had pointed out to his host, in his dotage. More importantly, he was a wealthy man and had never yet succumbed to marriage, which presented a challenge to some and brought out the hunter in others.

  Like Mrs. Marshall, who accosted him as though he were an old friend, though he could not recall ever meeting her in his life. It was true she had a husband, Philip, a man of florid good looks with a flamboyant taste in waistcoats, who was a member of Marcus’s London club, but all Marcus remembered about him was that he talked a lot about art. Their daughter, Anne, looked as if she should still be in the schoolroom. She resembled nothing more than a startled deer when her mother presented her.

  In the circumstances, it was with some relief that he went for an afternoon walk with Sydney Cromarty, whom he had known long before he was Silford’s heir. In fact, Cromarty had been at school with Stephen, Marcus’s younger brother, and later made some very wise financial investments on Marcus’s behalf. Which was one reason he had been able to undertake the improvements necessary to make his land profitable once more.

  “You seem rather more than resigned to your role as future earl,” Marcus observed as they struck out toward the woods.

  Cromarty cast him a lopsided smile. “Well, one can only play at life for so long. And land management is actually more interesting than I had imagined.”

  “And grandfather-management?”

  “I leave that to Henrie.”

  “Not sure you do. I can tell he likes you.”

  “If he does, I don’t know why. I quarrel with him all the time.”

  “I expect that’s why. Most people just bow and say yes, my lord.”

  “You never did,” Cromarty observed. “Or did you?”

  “No,” Marcus admitted. He hesitated, then said abruptly, “I’m going to be traveling once more, so I’m doubly glad to see him reconciled with you.”

  Cromarty cocked an intelligent eyebrow. “Traveling? To France again?”

  Marcus scowled. “Does everyone know I went to France?”

  “And rescued Stephen. Word of your heroism is everywhere.”

  Marcus swore. “It was meant to be a secret.”

  “It would probably have stayed so, except your brother and sister-in-law felt obliged to counteract rumors that you eloped with Isabelle de Renarde.”

  Marcus cast his eyes to heaven. “Society’s stupidity never ceases to amaze to me.”

  “Anyway, I heard from another source,” Cromarty said. “And if you’re going back, I am in a position to help you get there.”

  “You have a finger in many pies,” Marcus observed with some amusement. “And I thank you, but I am not going to France. My aim is to get to Russia.”

  “In winter?” Cromarty exclaimed “Through the retreating French?”

  “There are other ways in. But yes.”

  “You’re as mad as Bonaparte.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cromarty was silent for a little, then asked, “Bored?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “Find a wife,” Cromarty advised. “It worked for me.”

  “I’m not surprised. You have a charming, intelligent wife who, I’m sure, leads you a merry dance. And don’t tell me I will have to marry one day. I know it.”

  “Is Russia to be your last adventure, then?”

  “Something like that. I’m just restless, tired, feeling nothing, achieving nothing,”

  “That isn’t what I hear.”

  “It isn’t enough,” Marcus said and broke off with an irritable shrug. “I know. Perhaps the French adventure made me less contented with the quiet life.”

  Cromarty nodded. “Still, not sure Russia is the answer. After all, the French are already leaving. What more is there to achieve?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Cromarty laughed and clapped him on the back.

  Of course, there was more to his journey than that, but the nature of his promise to Ilya Robinov all those years ago was not Marcus’s secret to tell.

  On their way back to the house, they discovered Henrietta, Cromarty’s wife, frowning up into a substantial Scots pine tree. With her was a rather gangling youth of perhaps sixteen, who appeared to be laughing.

  “Well, how on earth did you get up there?” Henrietta demanded.

  “We can’t remember,” said a distant boy’s voice from the tree. “And I can’t get past Eliza.”

  “We’ll find the way eventually,” offered another voice from the foliage, presumably Eliza.

  “No, you won’t,” said the youth on the ground confidently.

  “Yes, we will!” insisted the boy in the tree.

  “It makes no odds,” Henrietta interrupted the exchange. “I can’t leave you here to fall out of it.” She reached up to the first branch, and with some appreciation, Marcus realized she meant to climb up to help the children who were, presumably, her siblings. Cromarty only grinned and walked slightly faster.

  “Henrie, don’t,” the older boy protested, pulling her back. “I was only joking. I’ll go up and get them.”

  “One of the things I hate about being grown up,” Henrietta observed as the men joined her, “is that I can no longer climb trees without causing a scandal.”

  “That doesn’t always stop you,” her husband observed, watching critically as the youth swung himself up onto the first branch and began to climb. “Richard, can you lift Eliza down to me?”

  Marcus peered up at the two unconcerned children. “They’re too high up.” He followed Richard, swinging up on to the first branch.

  “You are not obliged to rescue my family,” Cromarty said in amusement. “Though you clearly want to more than I!”

  Marcus found the foothold to the next branch and hauled himself up. By then, Richard, standing straight, could reach up to his sister’s waist. “Now, we can do it. Pass her down to me and I’ll lower her to Sydney.”

  “Can you do that?” Richard asked his little sister.

  She glanced up at the other boy, who bore a marked resemblance to her, then nodded and reached down to clasp Richard around the neck. He swayed alarmingly, but recovered, reached downward for a different handhold, and lowered her in one arm to where Marcus could reach her. She regarded him with curiosity.

  “He’s a friend of Sydney’s and mine,” Henrietta said, and her sister dropped into Marcus’s arms. Lowering her to Cromarty was simple enough, and by then, Richard was showing his little brother where to put his feet, with rather less patience than he’d shown his sister.

  Marcus descended and brushed off his coat and pantaloons. Richard jumped down beside him with a little too much confidence in his younger brother, who missed his footing. Henrietta let out a cry, starting forward. But Cromarty was faster, catching the boy as he tumbled out of the tree and then falling with him under the force.

  “Idiot,” Richard said without rancor, pulling his brother off Cromarty.

  “Repellant brat,” Cromarty commented, rising to his feet to display a muddy rear which made all three children chortle. Even Henrietta laughed, and they all proceeded onward toward the house without further recriminations.

  Marcus, used to his
sister’s almost hysterical protection of her offspring, was both amused and surprised. He accepted Henrietta’s casual introductions to Richard and twins, Horatio and Eliza, with more interest than he might normally have shown to children. And they all grinned at him in friendly spirit and thanked him for his help.

  “Wait,” Henrietta said, stopping suddenly in her tracks. “We didn’t leave George up there, did we?”

  “No, no,” Richard assured her. “He’s in the stables.”

  “George wants to be a cavalry officer,” Horatio told Marcus.

  “A worthy ambition,” Marcus said. “What do you want to be?”

  Horatio scowled darkly. “Not a naval officer.”

  “Indeed, why should you be?” Marcus soothed.

  “People do often think he should, because his name is Horatio,” Eliza confided. “Like Lord Nelson.”

  “That would be silly,” Marcus said. “Like you becoming a queen because your name is Elizabeth.”

  Eliza laughed. “Then I could tell everyone what to do! Even Alvan. Even Papa!”

  “I’d vote for that,” Richard grinned. “Oh, look, another carriage. Should we go in the back door?

  “Through the kitchen,” Horatio said with relish.

  “Not unless you wish to avoid Miss Milsom,” Henrietta said. “Because if I’m not much mistaken, that’s our ancient coach, and Old John in charge of it.”

  Marcus was conscious of a new surge of interest. The carriage was moving away, in the direction of the stables, revealing a dainty figure flitting up the front steps with the disreputable, old carpetbag he remembered only too well.

  The younger children galloped across the terrace after her. Even Richard strode a little faster.

  “Their governess,” Henrietta explained. “At least, she’s Eliza’s governess, and looks after the boys when they’re home from school. And here comes George, too!”

  Another boy raced round from the other side of the house and up the steps in front of them, calling a cheerful greeting over his shoulder. “Hello, Henrie! Captain!”

  “They appear to like their governess,” Marcus observed.

  “They do,” Henrietta agreed. “So do I, actually, and not just because she’s one of the few people who can reach Eliza. Although she seems very proper, almost stern, she’s actually extremely bright and droll.”