Page 14 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
She deserves better, he thought with a sigh. She deserves ease, affection, and some measure of warmth. And he knew that he was a man made of rough-hewn parts, stitched together by obligation and battle-earned silence. He could not possibly offer more than the institution of matrimony that he had proposed. Not without risking the tattered remains of his composure. And yet, when he closed his eyes, he felt again the warmth of her hand against his. He had not pulled away at once. Nor had she.
That, too, was a mistake. One he could not afford to repeat.
***
Genevieve lifted the curtain just as the carriage rounded a gentle bend and began the final ascent. A brief dip in the road gave way to a slow rise, the wheels crunching softly over gravel as the crest approached. Then, with a subtle jolt, the hill broke, and Mountwood came into view. She drew in a breath.
The estate stretched across a green rise, its stone facade rising solid and clean against the sweep of cultivated land behind it. Far from the crumbling gothic ruin whispered of in London parlors, Mountwood presented itself as a place of strength and care, its tall windows shining clear, its hedgerows trimmed with neat precision. Beyond the house, orderly paths carved through the surrounding parkland, and her gaze alighted upon a sudden gleam of glass structures nestled against a cluster of bare-limbed trees.
So this was the beast’s lair, she thought wryly.
And yet, there was no menace here. Only evidence of toil and long labor.
Sophia stood at the top of the stone steps before the great entrance, her traveling cloak tossed over one arm. She smiled with the easy warmth that Genevieve had come to recognize as sincere.
“You have arrived,” Sophia said. “And not a moment too soon. Mrs. Cartwright has been pacing like a general awaiting review.”
Genevieve descended with care. The air carried the scent of moss and distant smoke.
“I hope we are not too late in the day,” she said.
Sophia shook her head.
“Not at all,” she said, looping her arm through Genevieve’s. “You shall have a proper tour. But first, you must see what your husband has neglected to mention.”
As they turned toward the entry, Genevieve caught a flash of motion near the hedge. A man stood there, half-obscured by trimmed laurel. His shears dangled idly in one hand, though his eyes were fixed on her with a peculiar intensity.
She met his gaze.
He started slightly, then turned, lowering his head and resuming the careful snip of the shears.
“Who is that?” Genevieve asked, keeping her voice low.
Sophia followed her glance.
“Thomas Wilkins,” she said. He is the head gardener. Loyal to Gabriel beyond all reason.”
Genevieve nodded, her brow wrinkling.
“He was watching us,” he said.
Sophia did not seem surprised.
“He watches everything,” she said. “He has a soldier’s habits; I suspect.”
Genevieve nodded, but something troubled her. The look in the gardener’s eyes had been one of intent concentration, not devoted loyalty. An unaccountable unease regarding him settled upon her, yet the reason for it entirely eluded her.
Inside, the house revealed its grandeur gradually. The main hall bore none of the ostentation of London homes, but everything was immaculately kept. There was very little of the dust or decay one might expect after years of neglect.
“He told you nothing of this, did he?” Sophia asked as they entered the drawing room.
Genevieve shook her head slowly.
“Only that it was habitable,” she said.
Sophia gave a short laugh.
“He returned from war to find it near ruin,” she said. “It was a dilapidated estate as our dearest father left little but debts and disorder. Gabriel could have sold the land and walked away. Many told him to do so.”
