“Perhaps not so rotten. You’ll be gaining my manly self as a husband. How is your rib?”
She pulled back, sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and said, “It aches and pulls, but it’s nothing, really. But your manly self doesn’t want to wed me.”
He tilted her head back and looked down at her. “The bruise on your face isn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. I think whatever flowers you and I grow together will be quite acceptable. I am becoming rapidly accustomed to the idea of marrying you.”
“You like ladies in black feathers who cry all over your collar, do you?”
They both became still as stones at the sudden light tap on the bedchamber door, followed by Maude’s face peering into the room. “I heard voices and was worried. Goodness, my boy, why are you in here with Jack? Holding her while she’s wearing one of Mathilda’s peignoirs?”
“She’s going to marry me, Aunt Maude. She was so happy that she began to cry. I’m a gentleman and thus I’m comforting her in her joy.”
Mathilda appeared next, wearing an identical black peignoir. She towered over Maude, like a hovering witch over a fairy who was gowned in dazzling puce. She eyed the two of them. “Mortimer,” she said.
“Ah, yes,” Maude said. “What Mathilda would have said if she’d wished to elaborate is that the vicar once grabbed her and managed to hold on to her until one of the silly Gifford sisters came by and twittered.”
“I didn’t know about that,” Jack said. “I wish I could have seen that.”
“When?” asked Mathilda.
Gray slowly released Jack. He took a step back from her. “Just as soon as I can get us a special license. It is fortunate that Lord Burleigh is Jack’s guardian. There will be no problem at all gaining his permiss
ion to marry her. You see, he’s my godfather. Now, I will see him tomorrow. I’m thinking we should marry on Friday. That’s a full four days from now. Is that all right with you ladies?”
Mathilda was staring hard at him. Maude patted her sister’s hand. “It’s all right, dear,” Maude said. “Our boy here isn’t a thing like his father. Are you, my boy?”
“Do call me Gray, Aunt Maude. Compared to my departed sire, I’m an undisputed saint. By the way, what do you call her? Freddie? Do you call her by that dreadful Winifrede name?”
“Graciella,” Aunt Mathilda said.
“What Mathilda means is that Jack’s father wanted her named Graciella, but her mother refused, and thus she became Winifrede. Her father called her Graciella upon occasion. As I recall, he called her Graciella in moments of affection. Otherwise, it was Levering, surely a painful name for a girl, but he wasn’t to be dissuaded from it. Actually since both Mathilda and I are very fond of her, we also call her Graciella. It has a nice sound to it, doesn’t it? It rolls on the tongue.”
He tried out the word on his tongue. It didn’t sit right. It was a lovely name, but no, he didn’t see it fitting her. He looked at her and smiled. “May I continue with Jack?”
“I rather like it myself,” she said. She was looking at him strangely, and he wanted to know, just about more than anything at that moment, what she was thinking, exactly.
“Next Friday, Jack?”
“Yes, Gray. Next Friday.” He watched her gather up the slithery skirt of her black peignoir, walk back to the raised bed, and climb in. He smiled when she burrowed beneath the bedclothes, covering her head with the soft down pillow.
He couldn’t say that he blamed her. He thought of doing some burrowing in his own bed.
He bid Mathilda and Maude good night and went to his bedchamber to do just that.
12
“IT IS impossible, my lord,” said Snell, Lord Burleigh’s formidable butler for more years than Gray had been on this earth. He’d terrified Gray as a child with his very precise hauteur, which bordered on the glacial. Now that Gray was a man, Snell still made him want to apologize for interrupting the household.
“It is urgent, Snell. Terribly urgent. I must see Lord Burleigh.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but you don’t understand. Lord Burleigh is very ill. He is upstairs in his bed with Lady Burleigh seated on one side of him, one of her hands covering his. Dr. Bainbridge is seated on the other side of him, staring at the whites of his eyes, which, Dr. Bainbridge says, tell him exactly whether a patient is ready to journey to the hereafter or remain here, hovering but alive.”
“But what is wrong with him, Snell? His heart?”
“Yes. It was rather sudden. Just last Sunday he simply collapsed at Lady Curley’s card party. I might add that Lord Burleigh didn’t wish to go to the card party, but her ladyship very prettily begged him until she carted him away with her.”
There was simply no one like Snell, Gray thought, stroking his long fingers over his jaw, to see that things were properly explained and commented upon, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of everything in the world. Lord Burleigh had had difficulties with his heart for years now. He prayed his godfather would survive this. Dr. Bainbridge was a good physician. Well, hell. After this unexpected blow, what the devil should he do now?
“Good morning, Snell. How is his lordship this morning? Any improvement?”