A Grave Matter Page 14

  “Now, look at that knob. Must’ve walked into a door lintel.”

  “Nay. His wife probably corked him wi’ a frying pan.”

  “Are you daft? That face is too ugly for a wife. I bet he got kicked by a horse.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Miss Witherington gasped eagerly.

  I looked up in surprise, not having expected her to join in the conversation. Even the others fell silent, slightly startled by her pronouncement.

  She smiled at her fiancé and then the rest of the table. “Did I tell you I received a letter from Miss Holt? She’s just become engaged to Lord Wilmot.”

  “Why, how delightful,” Aunt Sarah replied, while the rest of us lost interest.

  I even caught sight of Jock rolling his eyes and had to stifle a laugh in my napkin. Which somehow Miss Witherington failed to miss, for her eyes narrowed to slits. She pointedly turned to Gage with a calculating gleam in her eye.

  “Did you know that Miss Holt is the cousin of Lady Felicity Spencer?”

  “Is she?” Gage replied, forking a bite of pheasant.

  “Yes. They’re quite close.” She tilted her head to the side in much too innocent a display. “Aren’t you acquainted with Lady Felicity?”

  He did nothing but flick an annoyed glance at her, but it was still enough to make my stomach sour.

  “Yes. We’ve been introduced.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to be so circumspect,” she declared with a trill of laughter, before leaning forward. “I heard you danced with her twice at the Snowdon soiree and twice at the Cheltenhams’ Midsummer’s Eve Ball.”

  “Did I? I can’t recall.” His tone of voice was perfectly neutral, but I knew better. If he was making such an effort to sound as if he were uninterested, then he was. But why?

  However, Miss Witherington clearly did not know this about him, and disappointed with his answer, her mouth puckered into an insipid pout.

  “Have your friend, Miss Holt, and Lord Wilmot set a date?” Aunt Sarah asked, stepping in once more to redirect the conversation.

  I knew Miss Witherington did not like me—she had made that abundantly clear—and so she was only trying to upset me by mentioning the more socially acceptable ladies of Gage’s acquaintance. A fact she needn’t have pointed out. I was well aware how popular Gage was among good society, and how far below him in estimation I was, at least in that regard.

  As the only son of a newly minted baron and a baronet’s widow, we might have been equal in rank, but not in wealth or standing. On his father’s death, Gage would inherit a title and estates worth several hundred thousand pounds, while I was an artist with barely two thousand pounds to my name. I would bring almost nothing to an alliance, but a soiled reputation.

  Miss Witherington’s dart had certainly found its mark by making me recall this truth at a time I would have preferred not to, even though it was not something I was likely to forget for long.

  Though what was most unnerving was Gage’s reaction—his determined indifference. Why had he felt the need to appear uncaring? Was it simply an effort to discourage Miss Witherington’s questions? Or was there something more to his relationship with Lady Felicity? Something he didn’t want explored?

  I stirred the beans around my plate, trying to convince my now disinterested stomach to take a bite.

  “Trevor, aren’t you acquainted wi’ Lord Wilmot?” Jock leaned forward to ask my brother.

  Trevor stiffened, seeming startled by the question. “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Ye should invite him doon to Blakelaw,” Jock continued on, oblivious to the quelling look my brother sent him. “I hear he’s a capital fellow. Great fun.”

  Trevor’s eyes darted to me and then away. “Perhaps another time. Now isn’t really the best.”

  Jock nodded, speaking around a bite of bread. “Right. Wi’ the murder and missing bodies and all.”

  But I knew that was not what Trevor had been referring to. I set my fork down by my plate, unable to stomach even the thought of another bite.

  I had known my brother’s reputation had not been helped by his relation to me, but I had never suspected he was embarrassed. I had never really given much thought to any of the hardships my brother might have suffered because of me. Perhaps that was unworthy of me—being so wrapped up in my own worries and self-pity—but that didn’t blunt the sting it caused to think that my brother was too ashamed to invite his friends to visit while I was present.

  After the investigation was finished and Alana’s baby was born, maybe I should consider finding a little cottage of my own. I would be able to afford one with the money I’d saved from the sales of my artwork. If I lived modestly in a home near London or Edinburgh, I should be able to live off the proceeds from my portrait commissions. I would visit my sister and my brother, but neither would be burdened with the obligation of supporting me.

  It would be somewhat lonely living on my own, but perhaps that was for the best. I would have quiet and solitude, and company only when I wished it. And Alana and Trevor would be free to live their own lives again without worrying over me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We did not return to Blakelaw House that night until nearly midnight. It had been a somewhat tedious carriage ride home as both men had dozed in their respective corners while I sat rehashing the case, and the lack of progress we’d made. After such a long day I should have been worn out, but I was not.

  I thought to ask my brother if I could speak with him, but before I had even finished removing my outer garments, he’d declared himself exhausted and wished Gage and I a good night. I watched him climb the stairs, wondering if I should insist, but his steps did seem incredibly weary. Perhaps it would be best to wait.

  Gage halted in his ascent and turned toward me. “Aren’t you retiring?”

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” I replied, and he nodded.

  Once he disappeared around the corner, I began to aimlessly wander the rooms on the ground floor—the drawing room, the study, the library, the dining room. It was something I’d found myself doing often since my return two months prior. I still wasn’t sure what I was looking for.

  Eventually, I ended up in my little corner of the conservatory, standing before one of my easels. I hesitated, just for a moment, before reaching out to lift the cover off the portrait sitting there. It was the cook’s granddaughter, the same painting that had caused me to fling down my palette in frustration the previous afternoon. But here in the shadows, which were broken only by the pale waning moon, painting the portrait didn’t seem so intimidating.

  I carefully lit two lamps and positioned them to better illuminate the portrait. Surprisingly, it was not as badly executed as I’d expected. No, it was not up to my usual skill, but it was certainly far from an abomination. Perhaps with a little more work, and a little more patience, it could be salvaged. Or I could try something new.

  I glanced at the blank canvases I had prepared stacked in the corner. My fingers twitched with eagerness.

  I began to shake the thought away, as I’d done for weeks, but this time I stopped. Should I not at least give it some consideration? I’d been suppressing the desire to paint Gage for months, it seemed, though I’d sketched him countless times. It had made sense when I was trying to avoid thoughts of him, to push him from my mind. But now that he was here, sleeping across the hall from me in my childhood home, what was the use?

  The same fear that had nagged me since finishing William Dalmay’s portrait began to crawl up inside me, but this time I took a deep breath and angrily squashed it. I was tired of letting it control me. Perhaps if I gave in to the urge and painted a portrait of Gage, it would be the worst thing I’d ever created. But chances were, it would not. Just the fact that I was itching to hold a brush between my fingers, to breathe in the noxious bite of turpentine, to find the exact mixture of pigments that would duplicate the color of Gage’s eyes, gave me a sudden thrill of hope.

  I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to
my speeding heart. And as if my thoughts had conjured him, I felt the heat from the very man materialize behind me.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he murmured, his deep voice brushing against the side of my neck and raising gooseflesh.

  “Must you always walk so stealthily?” I demanded, glancing up at him over my shoulder.

  He merely smiled in his enigmatic way, his eyes warm and teasing. “I didn’t know I was being so quiet. I’ll remember to stomp next time.”

  I arched a single eyebrow in chastisement and turned back to my easel. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sounding more breathless than I’d expected.

  “Looking for you.”

  “Yes. I gathered that. But why?”

  “Do I need a reason?” he asked, turning me to face him.

  “No,” I admitted, feeling somewhat flustered by his presence so close to me. “But you usually have one.”

  His gaze told me he sensed just how I was feeling. “Maybe it’s only for this.” And he pulled me close, cradling my chin in one hand, and kissed me. I fell into the moment, eagerly returning his affection. He smelled of sweat and starch and the spicy yet woodsy scent of his cologne, and tasted like the whiskey we’d placed in a decanter in his room. But as time stretched, I became urgently aware of our exposed location, of the doubts and questions still unaddressed between us, and pushed him back.

  “Wait.” I gasped, still wrapped in his arms. “What if Trevor sees us?”

  I was pleased to hear that his breathing was just as ragged as mine. “And?”

  I blinked, confused by his lack of concern. “He . . . he won’t approve.”

  Gage stared down at me for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “Yes, I’ve noticed your brother can be rather protective of you. Though I think he could have done a better job of it five years ago when you wed Sir Anthony Darby,” he added, his eyes turning hard.

  I was momentarily shocked by the repressed fury in his voice. “Stop. My disastrous marriage was not his doing.”

  “No. But he should have looked after you.”

  “He . . . he did,” I protested. “It’s not his fault I didn’t confide in him what Sir Anthony was doing.”

  Gage’s gaze softened at my obvious distress, and he gently caressed the back of my neck, the rough calluses on his hands rasping against the delicate skin there. “Kiera. You cannot convince me he didn’t realize something was horribly wrong. Your brother is not an ignorant lout.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but his words had stung something inside me I did not want to touch. I swallowed and shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. If he finds us here together like this now, he will feel it’s his duty to demand satisfaction. And I don’t want you and my brother to duel.”

  “Perhaps a duel would not be necessary.”

  My breath caught and I stared up into Gage’s searching eyes. He couldn’t mean . . .

  Clearly sensing my confusion, he pulled me closer and brushed a stray hair from my cheek. “Kiera, I’m tired of denying this. Tired of pretending there isn’t something between us. You know there is.”

  I nodded slowly. I couldn’t refute it. Though I didn’t know exactly what it was.

  “I left Gairloch Castle thinking in a few weeks’ time I would forget you. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. And believe me I tried.”

  I frowned, not certain I liked the sound of that, but he was still speaking.

  “When I let you go that second time, after Dalmay’s death, I already knew there was no use. That it would take a lot more than time and distance for me to stop thinking about you. But I knew you needed time, away from me, from everyone.”

  “Is that why you abandoned me in Edinburgh?” I whispered.

  His eyes were stricken. “Is that what you thought?”

  I nodded.

  “Kiera, I’m sorry. I suppose I didn’t want to get in the way of your grief for Dalmay. I know you cared for him a great deal. And perhaps I was a bit jealous.”

  “Of Will?” I asked in bewilderment.

  His pale blue eyes darkened in color, and the depth of the emotion reflected there made my breath catch. “No man wants to watch the woman he cares for grieve for another man so intensely.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I thought my eyes might be telling him more than enough. I lifted one of my hands from his chest to press it against his cheek. It was warm and bristled with evening stubble.

  He lifted his hand and pressed it to mine where it rested on his cheek then slid it around and gently kissed the center of my palm. His lips were soft and his breath hot. When he closed my fingers over it, I squeezed them tightly, as if I might brand the kiss into my palm.

  “Kiera, I’m finished trying to forget you. And dare I hope that since you sent for me, you’re finished trying to forget me, too?”

  I knew what he was asking, and I knew it was in my power to give. But the pit in the center of my stomach—the part of me I had always relied upon to tell me when something wasn’t right—dropped, and whether or not it was only fatigue or simple anxiety instead of outright fear, I knew I couldn’t hand him what he wanted. At least not yet. I could see he sensed that, for the light in his eyes dimmed a little before I spoke.

  “Gage, you know I care for you. I do.” My eyes dropped to the folds of his cravat. “I never thought that someone . . . that I . . .” I stumbled over my words. “But I . . . I don’t know. There’s just still so much you haven’t told me.”

  “You’re right.”

  I lifted my gaze to his, relieved to see his expression was far from injured. In fact, it looked frighteningly determined.

  “There is still a great deal I should share with you. And I will try. But I ask that you be patient with me. I’m no more used to sharing myself than you are.”

  I offered him a weak smile.

  “Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” I replied softly.

  “Which I assume means that, though you aren’t ready to admit anything yet, you are willing to explore what this is between us. To let me woo you?”

  I opened my mouth in surprise.

  “I won’t press you, Kiera, but you have to let me try. And I refuse to dishonor you by sneaking around like this and not at least announcing my intention to pay you court.”

  He was right. Thus far there had been no formal declaration between us, and I had been letting him kiss me like I was simply another merry widow, happy to accept his attentions without the benefit of matrimony. The fact that I was inexperienced in those ways did not mean I was not aware of them. Unsure of myself, I had let Gage take the lead. And though I’d known he was honorable, and he would never have coerced me past my own moral and religious compass, I had still relied upon him to guide us.

  That he would actually admit to even more honorable intentions where I was concerned had never crossed my mind. Marriage between Gage and me seemed impossible, even foolish for me to contemplate, and yet here he was asking to court me. I was stunned.

  “Kiera?” he pressed.

  His gaze was so open, so hopeful, I couldn’t help but feel a trill of happiness in my heart. And suddenly it seemed even more foolish for me to deny him.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, a flare of pure joy I couldn’t help but return, and then pressed a kiss to my lips and then another.

  “I will leave you then. Before your brother, or his dutiful butler, happens upon us.”

  I watched as he left, lifting my hand in farewell when he turned back before he disappeared behind the potted palm.

  Something warm had taken root inside me, and though I felt the tangled branches of my anxieties trying to worm their way inside, for the moment I pushed them back. Unable to wipe the grin from my face, I turned to pull my apron down from its hook.

  • • •

  I woke the next morning to a feeling of warmth pressed to my left side, while the right side of my body was frozen. I shivered and curled in closer to the heat source. It was s
oft and pliable. But when it moved on its own, I blinked open my eyes.

  I squinted against the sudden glare of sunlight and stared into the slits of Earl Grey’s golden eyes. Above us the glass ceiling of the conservatory was bright with the morning sun. Clearly, I had fallen asleep on the wicker settee in my art studio and curled up in Earl Grey’s blanket, and sometime during the night the friendly feline had decided to join me. He lifted his hind quarters, scooting an inch closer to my torso. I yawned and brushed my hand down his back from head to tail.

  “That cat has become quite devoted to you,” my brother said, startling me. I hadn’t even known he was in the room.

  I turned my head to see him standing before my easel, studying the portrait I’d left sitting there to dry. I flushed as I suddenly recalled just whose portrait I had worked on last night. I’d painted long into the night and made far more progress than I’d expected.

  “What time is it?” I muttered, trying to distract my brother from the canvas.

  His gaze shifted to meet mine. “Half past ten.”

  I opened my eyes wide and pushed myself into an upright position. “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  Earl Grey rumbled a protest as I jostled him and the blankets trying to swing my feet out from under them. I smothered another yawn as I sat up and reached over to pet his sleek fur in apology.

  “I see you’re painting again,” Trevor said, taking us back to the subject I wished to avoid.

  I smiled self-consciously. “Trying to anyway.”

  He continued to study the painting as if he couldn’t take his eyes off it, and not wanting to know exactly what he was thinking, I opted for a more direct diversion, one I’d been attempting most of the previous evening.

  “Trevor, is everything all right?”

  He glanced up in surprise. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Because I know I haven’t been the best of sisters since I came home. I’ve been consumed by my own concerns, to the exclusion of all else. I thought maybe you had problems of your own you wished to share,” I murmured hesitantly.