“My dear, this isn’t Tremayne my head coachman; this is his brother.”
“No! Truly? They look identical! How unusual.” Noble nodded and introduced her to Mrs. Hogue, the housekeeper, then followed behind as she was introduced to the rest of the female staff. When Tremayne took her to meet the male staff, she came to a halt and giggled.
“You’re playing tricks on me, aren’t you Tremayne? You must have ridden very hard indeed to arrive here before us.” She waggled a finger in front of his face.
Noble took a deep breath. There were times when he felt his life resembled a French farce. “This is my valet, my dear. He isn’t Tremayne the coachman.”
Gillian looked from the valet to the butler. “Triplets? Identical triplets?”
The two men nodded. Gillian bit her lip to keep from laughing. Weston sighed again and, taking his wife’s arm, escorted her over to where two people stood aside from the staff.
“This is Rogerson, the tutor. And Nicholas, my son,” he said as she was in mid-curtsy. Her knee seemed to buckle for a moment, but she caught herself and whirled around to face him.
“Your son? You have a son? You have a son and you didn’t bother telling me? A son, Noble?”
Noble narrowed his eyes as he watched surprise, astonishment, then anger flit over her face. Her eyes glittered back dangerously at him. He was about to suggest that they step inside to continue the conversation when she threw herself into his arms, kissed him directly on the spot she had accidentally nipped during their wedding ceremony, then was out of his arms and hugging his son.
“Imagine that; I have a son and I didn’t even know it,” she chirped at the nine-year-old boy, who looked just as flabbergasted at the turn of events as his father. “You look just like your father, you know. The same lovely gray eyes and black eyelashes. And the same chin. Oh, I’m so happy! I have acquired a husband and a son on the same day!”
She took Nick by the arm and started toward the house, chattering as she went. A bit dazed, Noble followed, wondering when she would notice that the boy didn’t speak.
“A cold supper, Mrs. Hogue,” he told the housekeeper. “My dear, Mrs. Hogue will show you to your rooms. I will meet you in the library in an hour. Nick, Rogerson, my study if you please.”
Noble waited until Gillian went upstairs, the two hounds trailing morosely after her, before following his son and the tutor into his study. He had fully expected his troubled son to reject his stepmother, but so far the earl noted only stunned astonishment on the boy’s face. He hoped his instincts were right and that Gillian would be just the antidote Nick needed to bring him back to the world of the living.
Noble knew only too well what had driven the boy into the hell that had robbed him of speech, and although he had been patient and followed the advice of the doctors, the lad still refused to speak. Since Noble himself had built formidable walls against the pain and heartbreak of loving unwisely, he knew just how hard it would be for Gillian to breach the boy’s defenses, but he had hope that if anyone could do it, she could. Ignoring his son and the tutor, he stared out the window and thought about his wife. She had a way of getting under his defenses that made him extremely uncomfortable. His plan to leave her in the country for a month while he finished up business in town became more appealing with every minute he spent in her presence. She would settle in at Nethercote and begin to work her magic on his son, while he would be away from the danger her innocence and lively mind posed.
He turned and asked for a report from the tutor. Once completed, he spoke at length to his son about his expected behavior with his new stepmother and inquired after the boy’s pursuits. Nick shrugged at the questions and looked impassively back at his father. Noble had no way of knowing, but the look was identical to the one he himself affected in public. Rogerson noticed, however, and, genuinely fond of both his charge and his employer, sent up a prayer of hope that the new countess would be able to reach the father and son where others had failed.
“How did you find your rooms?” Noble asked his wife a short while later, when the two were seated in front of the library fire, a cold repast spread before them.
“I turned right at the top of the stairs,” Gillian replied.
The Black Earl looked up from where he was slicing ham. “That is an old chestnut, madam.”
Gillian smiled. “I know, but I couldn’t help myself. Truly, my lord, the rooms…well, to be honest, I clash with them.”
One delectable eyebrow went up. Gillian’s fingers tingled with the desire to smooth back the hair that fell over his brow and brush the satiny eyebrow.
“How so?”
“They’re pink, my lord.”
“Noble.”
“They’re pink, Noble. Very pink. I look terrible against pink.”
Noble carved a slice of duck and added it to her plate. “Gillian, you are now the Countess of Weston, mistress of this house and three others. If something displeases you, you may change it.”
“Truly? Anything?”
Noble nodded. “Within reason, of course.”
“Of course,” Gillian agreed. Fortunately for his peace of mind, her husband was busy with his own plate and didn’t see the speculative look in his wife’s eyes.
Supper, a quick tour through the house, and a visit to the stable to settle the dogs passed the remaining evening hours quickly. With some surprise, Gillian found herself alone in her repulsively pink bedchamber, dressed in her best nightrail and a rather worn dressing gown, awaiting the appearance of her husband. She was mildly disconcerted by the pitying look her newly assigned maid had given her as she left, but her anticipation of the day’s culmination kept her from worrying about it too much. She just hoped she wouldn’t do anything to hurt Noble before he had a chance to explain everything to her.
“Woolgathering again, my dear?”
Gillian jumped a foot and spun around to see her husband close the connecting door. He was dressed in a rich blue velvet dressing gown that didn’t quite go to his ankles. Gillian stared at his feet. They were as bare as hers.
“Um. Woolgathering. Yes. Your feet are naked.”
“So are yours.” Noble took her hands in his and gently pulled her forward until she was leaning against his chest. “You are allowed to be frightened, my dear, given the circumstances. I give you my word that I will do my best not to hurt you, but I’m afraid there will be a certain discomfort the first time.”
Gillian looked up into his gray eyes and wondered how she could ever have thought them icy. They blazed now with a fiery heat that warmed her down to her bare toes. She didn’t care how much discomfort the evening held; he could pinch her black and blue, he could torture her, he could stretch her out on the rack in his dungeon — just so long as she could stand in the blaze of those glorious eyes.
He slid his hands around her waist and pulled her tighter. “Nethercote doesn’t have a dungeon. Did your aunt explain tonight’s proceedings to you?”
“Well, she tried. I am afraid I lost track of what she was saying at some point. I had hoped you would explain it all to me.” Gillian looked so wistful Noble couldn’t keep the smile from his face. He knew from her reactions to the few chaste kisses they had shared that she had an untapped font of passion simmering just below the surface, but he had assumed that like most virgins she would view her wedding night with trepidation or horror.
“I’d rather show you than explain it,” he murmured against her hair, slipping her dressing gown off her shoulders. Gillian shivered as the air reached her through the delicate linen of her nightwear.
“Cold, sweetheart?” Noble asked, nibbling his way down the ivory column of her neck and along her collarbone. Gillian clutched both hands in his hair and held on for dear life. She had no idea what he was doing — Aunt Honoria certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about him tasting her — but she didn’t want the wonderful sensations to stop. He dipped his tongue into the hollow behind one ear and suckled on an earlobe.