Page 11 of How to Seduce a Viscount
‘Or what youallowthem to see.’ Today, she’d allowed him to see quite a lot. She’d been given to share her own history with him. And why shouldn’t she be? He was a safe place for the sharing and that was undoubtedly rare for her. Where else or who else could she share her story with if not a Horseman, the grandson of her benefactor? And Luce was lapping it up like a cat with cream, each piece of information a gift that helped himunwrap the mystery of her while simultaneously deepening that mystery.
She was not daunted by the implied scolding in his words. ‘You do it, too. You’re careful with what people get to see. The people of Little Albury look at you and see the new Viscount Waring. I doubt you do little to dissuade them to see otherwise. Your brothers see you as the fourth Horseman. I do not think they see your dilemma and dissatisfaction with that role. Do they? Do they know you’d put it all behind you if you could?’
He shot her a sharp look. She was too perceptive by far. ‘I’d not realised I’d given myself away.’
‘Thishousegives you away.’ She smiled kindly.
How many men had she smiled at in the same way? How many of them had disgorged their secrets to her as a result?
‘You love it here with your plans to reconstruct the gardens in line with their heritage. Your efforts in rebuilding the library and your designs for the rest of the house. Youwantto be the viscount. You want to make a life here,’ she surmised, all too accurately for Luce’s taste. She cocked her head and Luce felt the full force of her gaze. ‘Does that mean you’ll marry before July?’
‘Oh no, you don’t.’ Luce laughed and made a warding gesture with his hands. ‘Discussing matrimony with a woman is always a dangerous conversation.’
Especially when she had her hand on his thigh and he’d not even discussed the topic with his brothers when they were together at Christmas, or his father with whom he was very close. It had seemed too personal, too private. But not with her. She was far too easy to talk with.
‘Not when the woman is me. You have nothing to fear, cross my heart. I am not likely to marry.’ It was one more item they had in common, one more way they’d walked the same path without knowing it, and yet to hear her say such a thing pained him. The way she spoke of his grandfather, of her timeat Sandmore, made it clear to him that she craved belonging. That she craved a family to make up for the one she’d lost. The network had taken that choice from her.
‘I did not think to marry this soon if at all, but things changed. Now I find Imustmarry if I want to make a legacy of this estate. I don’t want it to fall into ruin again. It would mean all my efforts were for naught. However, that poses the question of whether I can simply marry perfunctorily to satisfy the requirements? I’d prefer my marriage to be something more than that. I want it to be something meaningful. I am not sure I have the time to find that, though.’
‘You would settle?’ It was asked quietly, without judgement, and it suddenly felt right to be sitting in the half-done orangery discussing this intensely private topic with her—someone he’d not met ten days ago. No wonder Grandfather valued her as part of the network. She could pry secrets from the most hardened and guarded of hearts, and perhaps she had. He found he didn’t like thinking about that—about other men sitting in orangeries with her, talking about the things that haunted the depths of their souls.
‘A title and estate are hardly “settling”.’ Luce made the argument out loud that he’d made so often in his head over the past months. ‘It’s an enormous move up in the world for the fourth son of a third son. Many would say only a fool would toss away such opportunity. Grandfather included.’
‘You cannot bear to disappoint him.’ She gave a gentle laugh, her delicate hand offering a commiserating squeeze of his leg. ‘The earl does inspire deep loyalty.’ She paused and studied him, giving him the full attention of her eyes. ‘Loyalty means a great deal to you, doesn’t it? You are loyal to your brothers, to your grandfather, to some extent at the expense of your own personal preferences. Now, you are faced with that same dilemma here at Tillingbourne. You are loyal to your tenants, to your village, eventhough that loyalty will require you marry a woman for whom you have little affection. Shouldn’t there also be room for loyalty to yourself amid all of this sacrifice?’
‘I think the word for that is selfishness.’ He gave her an appreciative grin. She would never know how much her insights pleased him, warmed him. To be understood by someone was an enormous gift and she’d given him that at a time when his personal world often seemed bleak.
‘I appreciate the thought but no, I don’t think there’s room for selfishness. I do, however, think there is room for compromise and Tillingbourne is it,’ he explained. ‘To be the viscount allows me to put my stamp on this place and to pursue my ideas for my studies, for this home, for this village. It does grant me some of the individuality I am seeking, some of the chance to step out from my brothers’ shadows. In exchange, I must marry and perhaps it will not be a love match.’
It very likely wouldn’t be.
‘Perhaps it is the price that must be paid for the chance to be on my own in some small way. To not marry is to doom both of my dreams—to doom the estate and this village as well as to doom my own quest to be more than a Horseman, more than one of four brothers. I think the greater good, and my own good, is served through marriage, love withstanding.’
‘It’s your version of utilitarianism,’ she commented softly.
‘Yes, it allows me to be loyal to the most people and at least partly loyal to myself.’
It sounded rational when explained that way and yet Luce couldn’t help but feel that deep down he would trade all that logic for the right woman, a woman who inspired him to greatness and to grand passion. This was why one could not be ruled by selfishness. It was an uncomfortable thought.
Luce sighed heavily. ‘Speaking of loyalty, I am failing Grandfather at present, unable to unlock that code. My lack offamiliarity with the Turkish region is working against me.’ He rose and walked a few paces.
The shadows had stretched while they’d talked. The afternoon was fully behind them now and no good could come of being in the orangery after dark with a woman whose hand rested too comfortably on one’s thigh. Especially when that woman had been keeping him up at night with images of her in his black robe, her hair tangled and loose falling over her shoulder while she matched him in authority on foreign policy—a most wicked and rare combination.
‘We should get you back to the house. Mrs Hartley will have supper ready and it’s getting cold even in here. She’ll not forgive me if you catch a chill.’
Luce took her arm and tucked it close to his side. ‘You’re a very good listener. Thank you for that. I appreciated being able to talk about my gardens.’ And his life, his dilemmas and his desires. This conversation had been about far more than gardens.
She flashed him another charming smile. ‘It’s easy to listen when the subject is interesting.’ Flatterer, Luce thought not unkindly. He knew flattery when he heard it, but the compliment warmed him anyway.
The walk and time outdoors had restored Luce’s energy and his spirits. He was far more optimistic when he walked into the library. He inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of hearty cooking. Mrs Hartley had set up supper in the library for them as had become their practice and because the dining room was not ready for use. Generous slices of cottage pie were set on plates and red wine sparkled in the goblets.
‘It doesn’t get any more English than this.’ Wren’s eyes lit up at the sight of the food.
Luce held her chair out for her before moving to his own. ‘The Irish might disagree. They like to claim cottage pie as their own.’
‘But it was Sir Walter Raleigh who introduced the potato to Ireland and he was most definitely English,’ Wren argued easily and impressively. Grandfather had done his due diligence with her academics.
Luce took his seat and raised his wine glass. ‘To Walter Raleigh and cottage pie on cold nights.’
