Much Ado About You

She nodded to Lucius, and they slipped to the side, walking down a path through the small graveyard and stopping at an old stone bench. They sat down, and Lucius tucked the fold of his greatcoat around Tess, pulling her snugly against his body.

“A handkerchief?” he offered her.

“No,” and then, because she had to say it aloud, “I feel dreadful for Imogen, and for his mother…but…” That was a tear running down her cheek, for all she had sworn not to cry ever again.

“I know,” he said. “The grief for you is to be cast out by your sister.”

She swallowed hard. “I just don’t see why she doesn’t need me,” she whispered finally, her voice strangled in the back of her throat. “Why she doesn’t—doesn’t love me anymore. I didn’t have anything to do with her husband’s death!”

“I know,” he said. “I know. Imogen will come about, Tess.”

Lucius tucked her even closer under his arm as if she were a baby bird and he the mother. Then he bent his head and brushed a kiss on her lips. There was something infinitely sustaining about his touch.

“May I admit to being very happy that you are with me?” he said. He put a finger on her lips. “I know you wish you could be with your little sister, but Tess, I am glad you are with me instead.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. He was so dear, trying to make her believe that she was necessary to him, when she knew perfectly well that Lucius was self-sustaining. He was peaceful in his solitude and happy in his study. He didn’t need her. But it was perfectly dear of him to say so.

She leaned her head against his arm and watched a sparrow hop across the flagstones.

She could do that one thing for Lucius, the one thing that would make his solitude less stark. That would give him his own family portraits for the walls, and his own family around the table. He was only pretending to need her, but in fact he did need her. He needed her to give him his family back.

“Shall we go to London soon?” she asked.

“I do need to travel there, perhaps tomorrow,” he said. “I dislike leaving you right now, but you needn’t come with me if you don’t wish it.”

“I do wish it,” she said.

They sat there together, she wrapped in the fold of his greatcoat, and he holding an unused linen handkerchief, until the bells of St. Andrew’s began tolling again: one ring for each year of Draven’s short life.

Chapter 36

T ess did not crane her head down St. James’s Street when the carriage pulled to a halt. There was nothing to be gained from Lucius knowing of her curiosity about his parents’ establishment; she had to be subtle about the whole business of family reunification. Lucius had that uncanny ability to close himself off so that she couldn’t read what he was thinking at all. And Tess had an uneasy feeling that if he had the slightest idea what she had in mind, he would drive her out to whichever of his five houses was the farthest from London and leave her there.

She had asked whether he had sent word to his parents that they had married. And Lucius had said, “I am quite certain that my mother knew of our marriage before the ink was dry on the special license.”From that, Tess guessed that his mother longed for news of her son and had all her friends writing her with every detail they knew of his life.

Poor, poor woman.

So Tess glanced down the wide street lined with stately houses, but she didn’t allow a flicker of curiosity to cross her face.

This time she wasn’t surprised to find the drawing room hung with portraits of someone’s ancestors. In place of pride over the mantelpiece was the portrait of three children Lucius had told her about. There were two girls and a boy, all dressed in the height of Elizabethan finery. The boy stood in the middle, his small hand resting on a rapier, his chin at an aggressive angle. His eyes were piggish and rather too close together. She was just as glad to know that that particular boy wasn’t an ancestor.

“The portrait is quite lovely,” she told Lucius.

But he knew her better now. He stood, eyes narrowed. “You don’t like it, do you?” he asked.

“That boy is rather piggish,” she said. “I’m glad he’s not your great-grandfather, Lucius. Just imagine—” But the color surged into her face, and she fell silent.

He laughed. “You wouldn’t want those eyes to show up in our children, is that it?”

“Naturally not,” Tess said with dignity. “But anyone would come to the conclusion that these children are ancestors of yours, Lucius. Your family, to be exact.”

“They’re not ancestors,” he said. “They’re investments.”

Tess managed not to roll her eyes. “Shall we have some tea?” she asked. “I declare, I am quite parched by the journey. And I should like to see my chambers, if you please.”

The thought of showing Tess her new chambers distracted him.

His smile made her cheeks flush to an even deeper rose. That made him laugh. He walked over and tipped up her chin. “I seem to relinquish all claims to sane behavior around you.”

“Are you saying that I bring out your worst?” Tess asked.

“Haven’t you noticed men turning to satyrs in your presence before?”

“Is that what you meant?” A tiny smile curved her mouth. “Then, no. Around Annabel, of course. Everyone falls into love with Annabel. Papa was forever removing servants. Even the vicar had to be sent off to a faraway parish. But no one ever fell in love with me.”

Everything Lucius could think of to say was too revealing. So he said nothing, and if Tess’s face fell a little at his silence, he didn’t notice because he was too busy sorting through the huge mound of invitations that Smiley brought in on a silver platter. “Of course, we can’t do much until you are properly dressed,” he said absently.

“I have the gowns we ordered in Silchester,” Tess murmured.

“And I think we ought to get you a proper lady’s maid as well.”

Tess touched the nest of curls that Gussie had managed to put together that morning. It was true that Gussie wasn’t the best lady’s maid, but she would feel so—

Lucius caught her look. “We’ll get you a dresser,” he said. “Gussie? Is that her name?” And at Tess’s nod: “Gussie can continue as your lady’s maid.”

Tess had discovered Lucius’s response to any given problem was to hire a person to help. He seemed to think his house—houses, rather—could only be improved by hiring more and more servants.

“I would rather not hire a dresser,” she stated. “Gussie’s skills are improving.”

He bowed. “As you wish. I must meet my secretary now, but I shall ask Madame Carême to visit you at her nearest convenience. Lady Griselda informs me that she is the modiste of choice at the moment. Will you find the time tedious if I retire to my study?”

Tess nodded. “Please don’t give me a second thought, Lucius. I shall spend the morning with your housekeeper.”

“Our housekeeper,” he corrected her, coming over and putting his arms around her. “And as for telling me not to think of you”—he paused and gave her a swift, fierce kiss—“that’s impossible, my dear.”