Page 33 of Grasp the Thorn
“I have every intention of seeing you dressed as befits my wife, but until we can get to London, or at least to Liverpool, I hope you can find someone local to make this fabric into a gown for Sunday services and for visiting. I will send more as I can. My wife should look as prosperous as any in the district.”
In other words, this was more of an investment than a gift, and she would be wise to remember that.
However, she could not resist a final peek in the mirror, where the bonnet framed her face, making her look almost pretty, and the glowing colours of the shawl fitted softly around her curves.
CHAPTER 23
In London, Bear had a standing invitation to stay with the Earl and Countess of Ruthford in their townhouse on Hanover Square. His lordship was in residence, the butler informed him, but her ladyship remained in the country. Since Lion and Dorothea were unfashionably attached to one another, Bear felt a certain alarm. Lion would undoubtedly explain when he returned from whatever errand had taken him out.
He and Jeffreys were shown to their usual room, and Jeffreys went off to fetch water while Bear stared out the window, thinking about his own wife. He had received a charming letter thanking him for the silk and other gifts, with a sketch of the gown she was having made. Two more letters had arrived since, in response to further packages. Buying gifts to send to his wife was rapidly becoming a habit, but he would rather have her with him.
He looked around the bedroom—a comfortable, if anonymous, space that had suited him well for years. A single man didn’t need a townhouse in London. He could stay with friends or at his club, or take rooms with a landlady who cooked, or board in a rooming house and buy his food at nearby cookhouses.
A married man needed a house his wife could turn into a home. Perhaps, while he was in London, he should look for a place he could rent—or perhaps buy. After all, a sound property in London was always a good investment.
Jeffreys returned with hot water and the news that Lord Ruthford had returned and awaited Mr Gavenor in his study, “Once you have time to freshen yourself, sir.”
Bear washed and changed, then hurried downstairs. He didn’t bother with ceremony, but let himself into the study and stood for a moment watching his friend at work. Lion looked well. Their leader was a couple of years younger than Bear, with searching brown eyes, usually alight with humour. They became a devastating weapon when they turned cold. Lion had inherited his thick dark hair from a grandmother, who had been a local girl his mother’s father had married while stationed in India.
“Are you coming in?” Lion asked and looked up, one corner of his mouth lifting in half a grin. “Good Lord! You don’t get any smaller, do you? One forgets, and then there you are, taking up half the room. Help yourself to coffee, man, and be sure to pick a sturdy chair.”
Lion was nearly as tall as Bear, but a thoroughbred to Bear’s carthorse. “Sturdy? All of your chairs are made of matchsticks. If they collapse under me, I hope you’ll ship my poor remains home to my wife.”
Lion’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Wife? Since when do you have a wife?”
Bear had not intended to announce his change in matrimonial status quite so bluntly, but he was not displeased with the effect. He poured a cup of thick black coffee, drawing out the moment. Lion served it Turkish fashion, but the tray contained hot water and cream for guests who preferred a blander version.
Bear diluted his coffee and turned from the tray to find his former officer sitting straight behind his desk, hands folded on his blotter, eyes steady on Bear’s face. A faint smile playing around his mouth. “Confession time, my son. Tell Father Lion everything. Whom have you married, when, and why?”
Bear said nothing while he brought his coffee to the desk and seated himself on one of the robust chairs that Lion’s wife had bought for her husband’s sanctuary. “For you are mostly giants,” she had informed his friends, “and I want you all to be comfortable.”
Lion raised an eyebrow at Bear’s continued silence. “That bad?”
“Not bad. Just…complicated.” Where to begin?
“Surely, not one of the London debutantes you were so scathing about this past Season, poor little girls.”
“Poor little feather-wits and rapacious harpies.”
“So you said in April, to my wife’s despair, for she had introduced you to the nicest girls she knew.”
“Not her fault. I was too old for them, Lion, as you observed at the time.”
“And too nice for a widow. Have you married a widow?”
“I wasn’t against marrying a widow. Just not one who was having such a good time kicking up her heels in London that I feared spending my remaining days waiting for her to bump me off so she could do it again, with my money.”
“Avoiding the question, Bear? How bad is it? Sorry. Complicated.”
“She’s not too young. Not too old, either. Thirty-six.”
Lion said nothing, but his eyebrows lifted.
How to explain Rosa. Bear was barely conscious of the helpless wave of his hand as he considered and rejected several sentences. “She suits me, Lion.”
“A pertinent fact, but not a history. I can see an interrogation is required. What is the name of this not-old lady, and where did you meet?”
“Rosa. Rosabel Neatham. I found her on a ladder picking my roses.” Once he started, the story came easily. “Then a few days after the wedding, I got your message and came to London. So I hope you’re in a hurry to get back to Lady Ruthford, for I do not mean to linger here one day more than I need to.”
