Beauty in Black Page 17

  Someone else stood in the doorway, and Masters announced in a deep voice, “The marquess of Gillingham.”

  Marianne glanced up. Oh, how well he looked in his new evening clothes! The well-cut coat emphasized his broad shoulders and fitted smoothly across his muscled chest. He had even made an effort to tie his cravat more smoothly. But when she gazed at his face, she saw that Lord Gillingham looked unexpectedly stern.

  She stepped forward to welcome the newest arrival. “My lord, I am so glad you were able to join us.”

  He bowed, but his expression still seemed somber; his lips were tight. Before Marianne could say any more, Louisa hurried up.

  “Oh, Lord Gillingham, you look so dashing. And I am so pleased to see you. It’s been an age.”

  “Two days at least,” he agreed, his tone dry.

  Marianne raised her brows. What had caused this asperity in his tone? Surely, he was not bothered by Jamie McNair’s flirtations? But that would mean—aware of a slight increase in her pulse, Marianne pushed the thought away. But there was no doubt that the marquess’s glance toward Mr. McNair was less cordial than the polite welcome he made to the other guests as Marianne performed introductions.

  Fortunately, Mr. Denver brought up his sick mare again, and this apparently was a topic with which the marquess was well acquainted. The two men discussed horses while Louisa lingered nearby, and Roberta Denver added the occasional word. Jamie McNair accepted a glass of wine, and Marianne glanced at the clock on the mantel. What about her other guests? No doubt they were simply fashionably late, but she didn’t want to upset the cook by holding dinner back too long; the chicken would be dry and the beef overdone.

  But no, now she heard the knocker at the door again, and Masters slipped away to answer it and show the last arrivals up.

  All should be well, now, Marianne assured herself. Soon the footman reappeared, to announce in clear accents: “Lord and Lady Gabriel Sinclair.”

  There was a moment of silence. Lady Gabriel entered the room, looking as beautiful as always, her fair hair swept up in a simple twist behind her head, diamonds flashing at her throat and ears, and her gown an elegant column of pale green silk that made Marianne feel almost underdressed. And Lord Gabriel, whom Marianne had not met, was just as amazingly handsome as she had heard, even with his lips set into a grim smile and his deep blue eyes hard. He had dark hair and, though tall, a slim build. This was the marquess’s brother? They did not look at all alike.

  Marianne glanced back at the marquess and saw something in his expression that chilled her. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped, despite the fire dancing on the hearth. With a sinking heart, she wondered if she had made a dreadful error in judgment. A happy family party? The two brothers looked as elated as two rivals meeting on a battlefield.

  Automatically, she performed introductions to the earlier arrivals, and when she came to the marquess, she had to steady her voice. “And Lord Gillingham, of course, you already know.”

  Lord Gabriel gave a slight bow, just short of being offensive in its briefness, and did not answer. Lady Gabriel was more gracious. “How nice to see you again,” she told the older brother, offering her hand.

  He bowed over it. “An unexpected pleasure,” the marquess agreed, his tone dry.

  Marianne felt a stab of guilt. Oh dear, why had she not discussed her plans with Lord Gillingham before inviting his relatives? It had seemed so simple.

  Lady Gabriel smiled and joined the marquess and Louisa. Lord Gabriel took a glass of wine offered by the footman and seemed to ponder the painting over the sideboard.

  “What hornets’ nest have you stirred up, my dear?” Jamie McNair came closer to Marianne and spoke in a low tone. “Have you blundered into a family feud?”

  “If so, I did not know it,” Marianne retorted. “Do you think I am trying to ruin my own party?”

  “No, but I sense a distinct lack of camaraderie,” he pointed out. “This may be a most interesting evening. I’m so glad I accepted.”

  “You always accept,” she replied, glancing toward the others in the room. “You dine out every night, as we both know.”

  “Of course, I keep no cook. You know how tiny is my income,” he agreed, not in the least insulted. “Plus, my rooms offer no scope for entertaining. But I love to be able to offer a tidbit of gossip to my hostesses, and this evening promises potential for some interesting anecdotes.”

  “Jamie, if you dare!” Marianne glared at him. “I shall tell Mrs. Carabell who spread that terrible joke about her daughter’s performance on the pianoforte.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised. “But for now—”

  “For now, behave and help me keep my guests from each other’s throats!” Marianne pleaded. “Go and be civil and tell funny—but not scandalous—stories.”

  “Are there any other kind? Very well, I will attempt to spread oil on roiled waters,” he agreed when she frowned at him. “Although I warn you, with some torrents, the attempt is useless before it begins.”

  Hoping his words were not prophetic, Marianne gathered her courage and walked over to stand beside Lord Gabriel.

  “I am so pleased to meet you,” she began. “I have had the pleasure of conversing with Lady Gabriel at the countess of Sealey’s teas.”

  “So Psyche said. Lady Sealey is a remarkable woman,” he agreed. “With a fine wit, a sharp mind, and somewhat advanced views. She was a friend of Psyche’s late mother, I believe.”

  Feeling slightly more at ease, Marianne nodded. “Lady Sealey is most benevolent. She was very kind to me after I was widowed.”

  “My condolences,” he said. “Is this your husband?”

  Marianne glanced at the portrait, which showed a pleasant-looking young man with brown hair and hazel eyes, an engaging grin and perhaps a slightly weak chin. “Yes, that was Harry. He died at a young age.”

  “I don’t believe I ever met him,” Lord Gabriel said, sipping his wine and continuing to contemplate the portrait. “But then, I was away from England for quite a few years.”

  “My husband’s family is from the West Country,” Marianne explained. “Although Harry spent time in London after he came of age.”

  She might have wondered about her guest’s interest in a man he had never met, except that she suspected it gave Lord Gabriel the excuse to keep his back turned to the rest of the company. Heavens, what an evening it was going to be!

  She saw Masters appear once again in the doorway. He caught her eye and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Dinner is served, ma’am,” he announced.

  “Shall we go in?” Marianne suggested.

  She waited for her more socially prominent guests to lead the way. Lord Gabriel offered his arm to his wife, who had come to stand beside him.

  The marquess, who of course outranked them all, hung back. What was he waiting for?

  “Do not stand on ceremony,” Marianne said firmly, and his brother and wife led the way out of the room and down to the dining room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Denver followed.

  “Ah, I see it falls to me to take in the newest beauty to make her debut into Society.” Smiling, Jamie McNair offered his arm.

  Louisa, who had obviously been hoping for the marquess’s escort, did not possess the social skill to deflect the invitation, so she was swept up by Mr. McNair and led away.

  So it was Lord Gillingham who remained to lead his hostess into dinner.

  “My lord,” she said quietly. “I had thought you would be pleased to have your relatives join us this evening.”

  “A natural assumption,” he agreed.

  She felt an irrational relief that he did not seem to be angry at her. But his expression was still guarded, and she could not shake her feelings of apprehension.

  They descended one flight of steps and entered the dining room, where, as the guest of honor, the marquess was seated beside the hostess. Marianne knew that this would not thrill Louisa, but it couldn’t
be helped; to do otherwise would have been to slight the marquess. At least Lord Gabriel was seated at the other side of the table, next to Louisa, and she could certainly not complain about her proximity to such a charming and handsome man.

  The first course was served, and the food seemed to be all that Mrs. Blount had hoped to achieve. Conversation fell into a comfortable hum, and the brothers were able to ignore each other without being too obvious.

  Marianne chatted first with Lord Gabriel, on her other side, then turned back to glance at the marquess.

  He had apparently directed all his attention to his soup. Marianne hoped that Lady Gabriel, on his other side, would not take offense.

  But he seemed to feel her gaze, because he glanced up as the footman took away the soup dish and served him a portion of fish.

  “Is Mr. McNair an old friend?” he asked.

  Marianne glanced toward the foot of the table, where Jamie sat in the host’s position.

  “Yes, you could say so,” she agreed cautiously, not sure of the tone of the question. “He was a friend of my husband’s, so I have known him for years, and he often serves as host when I entertain. Mr. McNair is a social creature and is happy to join almost any party, if he is not promised elsewhere.”

  “But you are not betrothed?” he asked.

  She blinked at the bluntness of the question. “No, of course not, we are only friends. I doubt that Mr. McNair will ever marry,” she said. “I suspect he has not the constitution for it.” She looked at the man beside her. Surely, it could not matter to him just what her relationship to Jamie might be?

  “And he has no estate to concern himself about?”

  “Needing an heir, you mean, as you do?” She watched his face, wondering if she dared ask why his relations with his brother were so strained. But the tautness of his expression made her hesitate.

  “Just so,” the marquess said, but, to her disappointment, he did not offer any added enlightenment.

  “No, I believe not.” She answered absently, still puzzling over the hostility evident between Lord Gillingham and his brother. “Lord Gabriel tells me that he has spent a considerable time away from England.”

  “My brother’s journeys were not voluntary,” the marquess said, his voice low.

  And what did that mean? Marianne broke off a piece of bread with unnecessary force, wishing she could toss it at the man seated next to her.

  “And you have no wish to travel?” she noted.

  “Why should I? I find my own home the most comfortable venue.”

  “No doubt, but there are so many marvels to see . . .”

  “Yes, you said that once. You would enjoy traveling?” His glance was too discerning for her comfort.

  Marianne realized she had, indeed, sounded wistful, and quickly turned the conversation to a less personal aspect, making her tone more brisk. “Of course, there are more ways than one to see the world. I understand there is an exhibit of Italian and French landscapes at the art institute this week.”

  “Would you like to see it? I should be happy to escort you, and Miss Crookshank, of course.”

  Down the table, Louisa lifted her head; had she caught the mention of her name even from a few feet away? No doubt.

  Marianne said, “I’m sure she, and I, would enjoy the excursion.” And at least, they would likely not run into any unwanted relatives!

  John allowed himself to show only polite interest, and the dinner stretched on for what seemed like an interminable length. At least he had Mrs. Hughes beside him, and he could ignore the unwanted presence at the other side of the table.

  But eventually, it came time for the ladies to withdraw. He detected the anxious glance that his hostess sent him before she stood, but custom ruled, and she gathered the other ladies like a flock of elegant and comely hens and took them away to the drawing room. The men were left to their port and their exclusive male company. This was the time for frank conversation, if ever there was any, but John stared into his glass of deep ruby wine and ignored the rest of the men as Mr. Denver and the dratted McNair did their best to carry on a conversation about a recent racing day. The younger Sinclair was also unusually quiet. Where were his usual wit and funny stories, where was the charming and debonair Gabriel, whom John so heartily despised? With good reason, he told himself, with good reason.

  After a few minutes of somewhat forced conversation, the other two paused, and the silence stretched.

  McNair took a deep gulp of his wine. “Much as I hate to leave such good wine unfinished, I think you and I, old man, are a bit de trop. It appears that our fellow guests have a—family discussion—that seems to be unfinished.” The man’s bright eyes gleamed like a curious magpie’s, John thought, his resentment surging again. Damned interfering bastard.

  Yet he knew that it was not really this man who had incited his anger, even though McNair’s easy familiarity with Mrs. Hughes was damned annoying. It was the other man at the table, the silent man who bore his name, whose throat John wanted to put his hands about . . .

  John pressed his lips together and didn’t answer. With a shrug the short man nodded toward his fellow guest. “What say we join the ladies? And I’ll take my glass with me, by God.” He poured more port into his goblet and took it with him as he led the way to the door, throwing one more comment over his shoulder. “No bloodletting, mind, it would stain the rug.” He closed the door ostentatiously behind them.

  Now there was only Gabriel and John, sitting a few feet apart at the polished table. The servants had removed the linens before the dessert course, and John leaned one arm on the tabletop.

  He had nothing to say to his brother. Or perhaps he did.

  John stared into his own wineglass. “I promised myself I would not suffer through another dinner in your company,” he said without looking up.

  “As did I,” Gabriel agreed dryly.

  “So why are you here?” The question sounded like a challenge. John took a deep breath and got his voice under control once more before he continued. “You, at least, must have known who your fellow guests would be. I did not.”

  A pause, then Gabriel answered, “I have a wife.”

  “And she has you so well trained that you follow, like a faithful spaniel, wherever she goes?”

  It was an unworthy response, and he knew it, but John could not contain the bitterness that surged inside him. Gabriel had a wife . . . a beautiful, intelligent, desirable wife of whom any man could be proud. Not that John coveted his elegant blond sister-in-law, it was just that Gabriel always got what he wanted, always had females falling at his feet, always gained the love and the approval that John—he wrenched his thoughts away and waited for the answering snarl from his little brother. John would relish a quarrel, just now, an excuse to throw angry words like daggers toward the smooth, unmarred, too perfect face of his sibling.

  But the younger Sinclair spoke slowly, his words measured. “I have a wife who loves me, who believes in me, who is so sure that I will always behave only with the utmost honor that I find myself striving to live up to her expectations. It obliges me to find depths of integrity inside myself that I had never believed existed. Someday, you might understand.”

  Stung, John flung back, “Might? You think I cannot find a wife?”

  Gabriel regarded him, those dark blue eyes which had charmed so many females now hooded and impossible to read. “You can find a female who will accept your hand, of course. Many women would wed a donkey to gain your title and wealth—”

  “Damn your cursed hide!” His anger surging out of control, John slammed down his glass so hard that the wine inside sloshed onto the smooth tabletop. “You think that no woman will have me just because I am not—that I have not—” He could not finish, the words were too bitter to spit out.

  “I was about to say, the question is not whether you can find a wife, but do you have the wit and the heart to find the right one,” Gabriel finished. “A wife who makes a man hurry home, no matter how ent
icing the other pleasures that might be found abroad, a wife who makes every day a pleasure and every night a singular joy. A wife who makes you feel at home for the first time in your life.”

  He paused, looking as if he had said more than he meant, but John was in no mood to analyze his brother’s soul. His own ached with an old pain, and the misery consumed his thoughts till he heard Gabriel’s comments only through a cloud of anger and gall.

  There was too much truth in the words. Hadn’t John already made a botch of this whole business, rushing too quickly into an engagement that now hung about his neck like an ox’s yoke? He thought of the sweet, lovely Miss Crookshank and wanted to groan.

  Gabriel was still watching him. “And I cannot even wish you the felicity of finding that woman,” he said. Could it be pity that John glimpsed for the briefest instant in those usually mocking eyes?

  John felt his fury rising again and tried to control himself. He could not distress Mrs. Hughes by committing murder in her dining room, though he thought that was the only constraint which held him back from irrational action. “I do not need your good wishes!”

  “Because,” Gabriel went on. “I have no trust at all in your ability to treat her well, and I would not wish on any woman the hell that our mother suffered!”

  John half rose from the table, then took a deep breath. The door to the hall opened, and the footman—who was extraordinarily brave or simply amazingly foolish—put his head in. “Do you require anything, my lords?”

  A broadsword with which to sever his infuriating sibling’s head from his body, John thought, closing his eyes with the fervency of his wish.

  “No, thank you.”

  He would not lower himself to expose his feelings in front of a servant, nor air the ugly discord of a family twisted asunder by simmering resentment.

  The footman bowed and shut the door.

  John stood, refusing to even look toward his brother—not that Gabriel deserved that designation! “I shall rejoin the ladies. You can go to hell.”