A Tryst by the Sea, page 1
A Tryst by the Sea
The Siren’s Retreat Novella Quartet—Book One
Grace Burrowes
Grace Burrowes Publishing
A Tryst by the Sea
The Siren’s Retreat Novella Quartet — Book One
Copyright © 2022 by Grace Burrowes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
To my dear readers
An Affair by the Sea—Excerpt
Never a Duke—Excerpt
Dedication
To those who fear the flame has died
Chapter One
Vergilius George Santander Zeus Summers, Viscount Summerton, rose at dawn two weeks before the hated date. He dressed with his usual care—and without the aid of a valet—and made his way to the breakfast parlor.
He’d observed the same ritual every morning for most of the past nine years, and when spring perennially trudged into view, he told himself, This year will be different. Earlier in the marriage, his litany had been: Today will be different.
By the third year of wedded torment, he’d taken to assuring himself, Next month will be different. In the subsequent seasons as husband to his viscountess, Gill had learned patience, self-restraint, steadfastness, and a half dozen other manly virtues—belatedly, he admitted—but he had not yet learned to stop hoping.
He strode into the breakfast parlor, doing his best to exude purpose and confidence. Her ladyship, exuding gracious indifference to her spouse, sat at the far end of the table.
Gill’s viscountess, his wife, and hostess presided over her end of the table looking as serene and lovely as any Greek goddess. Penelope had been a pretty girl, a diamond, an Incomparable, et cetera and so forth. She had matured from pretty to alluring in the ten bewildering years of their marriage.
An irony, that. When Gill had agreed to court her, he’d thought her an uncomplicated young lady, easy to look upon and easy to like, though in need of some self-confidence. She barely glanced at him now.
On the three occasions when Gill had made courting calls on his then-fiancée—meaning he’d sat in the garden with Penelope while an army of aunties had chaperoned from the nearby terrace—she’d worn her hair in a fussy concoction of ringlets and braids. He’d spent most of his brief visits wondering how her hair stayed up.
Such were the intellectual depths he’d plumbed as a very young man.
After speaking her vows, Penelope had gradually put aside the fancy styles and the fancy gowns. The result was feminine perfection planed down to the essentials. A tidy golden chignon, blue eyes full of intelligence rather than uncertainty, and a way of moving that was so quietly graceful, Gill was riveted simply watching his wife cross a room.
Her ladyship no longer tittered or giggled. She smiled graciously, and impecunious bachelors started composing bad poetry.
She no longer fretted over seating arrangements. She issued her invitations, and they were invariably accepted.
She no longer issued Gill invitations to her bedroom, though he knew he could present himself there at any point and receive a civil if puzzled welcome.
Penelope also no longer cried, as far as Gill knew, and neither did he.
“My lord, good morning.”
He bowed over her proffered hand. “Good day to you, my lady. Might I have the business pages?”
She passed him the requisite section of the newspaper, which Gill tucked under his arm.
No footman stood sentry duty by the buffet. Penelope had issued that decree three years ago, and Gill had been relieved to no longer have a witness to the morning drill. He helped himself to eggs and bacon—a rack of toast already waited at the head of the table—and took his seat eight feet and three universes of marital civility from his wife.
“Any news worth repeating?” he asked, which was his way of inviting conversation on Saturdays. Friday’s question had to do with what Penelope’s friends might be getting up to. Monday’s question dealt with social events at which Penelope would need Gill to appear.
She had escorts, flirts, and gallants by the dozen, a state of affairs toward which Gill had learned to manufacture benevolent indifference. Penelope would never play him false, of that he was certain. They had neither heir nor spare in their nursery—nor, at the present rate, would they ever—and thus the viscountess’s behavior remained above reproach.
In the past several years, Gill’s behavior had become rather monkish as well. He was plagued with desire, of course. What man in his prime was immune to animal spirits? But that desire focused on one, unattainable objective, and professional substitutes, no matter how skilled, would simply make the whole situation more complicated and sad.
Which ought not to have been possible.
Penelope resumed studying her newspaper. She had the ability to memorize the contents of the Society pages in five minutes, so Gill flattered himself that she used the paper as an excuse to linger over her morning tea.
Hope springs eternal, and all that.
“Town is filling up,” she said. “A bit early this year, perhaps because of the mild weather. Did the kitchen give you enough butter?”
That was, as best Gill had established the pattern, her Thursday question to him, though today was Saturday.
“Quite enough, thank you. What do we hear from my dear mama? Will she be gracing us with her presence soon?” An exploratory volley, because Gill was growing not desperate, but rather, determined.
Penelope took a sip of tea while perusing the Times. “I suspect she will, and thus I thought I’d fortify myself with a week or so at Summerton Hall before the whirlwind commences. Lady Stanthorpe is lending me her carriage so the traveling coach can remain with you here in Town.”
What the bloody hell? Gill buttered his toast with every appearance of calm. “Shall I escort you to the Hall?”
“No need to trouble yourself. I should be back in Town in a fortnight or so.”
“We have no social engagements to tend to in the next two weeks?”
The hated date lay two weeks hence, and as troubled as their marriage was, as empty and hollow as it had become, they had at least faced that date together.
Penelope turned a page. “I thought a respite was in order before the Season officially arrives. Do you mind, my lord?”
Yes, Gill minded. He minded anything that suggested Penelope had taken yet another step away from their marriage and away from him. He minded that she hadn’t told him sooner of her plans. He minded that today was different and not in a good way at all.
“Do I mind? Of course not. I might follow your example and have a look in on Thomas and Cymbeline at Lychmont.” To see an empty seat at the other end of the breakfast table, to rattle around this house alone as the date approached, and Mama descended…
Not to be borne.
Penelope took another sip of her tea. “Please do give Bella and Tommie my regards. Lychmont is so pretty in spring.”
You are pretty. Now, nine years after that compliment might have done some good, Gill could not push the words out. Penelope would smile, nod, and return to her newspaper.
Gill consumed his breakfast when he wanted to rail at his wife: Why leave Town now? Why desert him without warning? Why consign him to managing dear Mama without reinforcements at this most dreaded time of year?
“When do you leave?” he asked, as Penelope set aside her newspaper.
“This morning. I can tarry for a day or two in Town if you’d rather, but I’ve cleared our calendar and given some of the staff holidays.”
“Don’t let me keep you from your plans.” Gill rose, needing to leave the breakfast parlor with her. He would not be that pathetic joke, the husband all alone with his newspaper, crumbs on his cravat, a smear of jam on his chin.
Not yet.
Penelope remained seated when he would have held her chair. “You will be at Lychmont, my lord?”
“Tommie and I can enjoy the country without Bella’s supervision. She will doubtless be up to Town like a shot once Mama arrives.” Though the last place Gill wanted to spend the next two weeks was at Lychmont, with not less than three nieces and four nephews, to say nothing of Tommie’s dear but prattling company. For an idle younger brother, he could be positively pontifical on an astonishing variety of topics.
“Then I will wish you a pleasant visit with family,” Penelope said, “and see you upon my return.” She rose, and because Gill held her chair, he was afforded one blessed, wretched moment of closeness to his wife. He stepped away before Penelope could catch him closing his eyes and inhaling her honeysuckle scent.
She glided toward the door, and Gill had to put his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching for her.
“I’ll miss you, Pen.”
He hadn’t used her nickname in years, and it was enough to have her pausing and bracing a hand on the doorjamb, though she did not face him.
“I’ll miss you too, my lord. My love to our nieces and nephews.”
“Of course.” Gill had no doubt Penelope did love those children. “Safe journey.”
“And to you.” She left him in the parlor, and he sank into her chair.
What the deuce was this about? Except he knew what the deuce. The awful anniversary approached, and this year, Penelope would fortify herself with a few days at Summerton before braving a return to Town, and to him.
Gill took an absent sip of Penelope’s lukewarm tea.
“I am not subjecting myself to Lychmont.” His ears, if not his heart, could not take that abuse at this time of year.
And yet, he needed to go somewhere. Somewhere that would aid him to plan the repair of his marriage, that would rekindle the useful parts of the old Gill, a fellow of overweening confidence and no little daring.
If next year was to be different, or next month was to be different, his strategy had to be different.
“Siren’s Retreat.” The first place—nearly the only place—he and Penelope had been deliriously happy as husband and wife. The seaside inn should be deserted this early in the year, despite how fashionable Brighton had become. He could be there by nightfall if he didn’t dither around doubting himself.
The Siren’s retreat was the subject of a quaint legend, which Gill had learned of from the proprietress herself. According to Mrs. Cartwright, all travelers who spent the night at her seaside hostelry would find true love before their stay was complete, provided they brought an open and willing heart to the search.
Gill’s heart was open and willing—also determined—when it came to rekindling Penelope’s regard.
The Summers family motto was audax et fortis. Bold and brave. For too long, Gill had been patient and bewildered. A week or so of contemplation and rest by the ocean, and he could return to Town with renewed purpose.
And maybe with a few husbandly bright ideas, because nine years was too long to pine for his own wife.
Penelope managed to leave the breakfast parlor at a dignified pace, but the consternation in Summerton’s eyes when she’d told him she was leaving Town had nearly inspired her to sprint for the door.
She had thought herself well past the point when telling her husband a falsehood would bother her—their whole marriage was a falsehood—but no. Every day, she hid behind her newspaper, both dreading and longing for the moment when Vergilius strode into the room, his boots drumming confidently on the carpets, his sheer presence compelling notice.
He’d been a beautiful youth, and he was a magnificent man—to appearances. The dark Adonis, they’d called him. The Swoon-Worthy Swain. He was tall, devilish, and handsome, with exquisite manners, a substantial fortune, and excellent antecedents.
All quite true, though as a husband, Summerton had proved himself to be a spectacular mistake. Why, if a man had to be such a disappointing spouse, couldn’t he extinguish the last of his wife’s tender regard with some obvious failing? Something even his viscountess could see from across a crowded ballroom?
No such luck. Vergilius’s shortcomings were private, gentlemanly, and of long standing. Penelope cared for him, was the problem. Mostly out of habit and not with the passionate devotion she’d fallen into as a new wife, but she did care for him.
Maybe that was why, as she made her way to her apartment, she felt not like a woman on the verge of attaining her freedom, but rather, like a schoolgirl sneaking off to read in the hermit’s grotto when dear old Godmama was tooling up the drive.
“Almost done packing, ma’am.” Silforth, Penelope’s lady’s maid, folded a plain nightgown into an open trunk. “I am looking forward to seeing my mum. You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you to the Hall?”
Penelope was very sure, and she wasn’t traveling to the Hall. “You are kind to offer, but the staff will look after me adequately in your absence. You are due for a holiday.”
Silforth, a plump, cheerful soul only a few years Penelope’s senior, closed the trunk. “I saw the family at Yuletide, my lady. Mum asked if I’d been turned off when I told her I could visit again so soon.”
“Mothers can be a tribulation, can’t they?” Mothers-in-law could be, too, to say nothing of sisters-by-marriage.
Penelope resented her husband, but she understood why he behaved as he did. Summerton was that paragon of spouses, the wealthy, titled, handsome, robust man. Of course he would be unfaithful. Of course he’d lack patience with a woman’s untidy emotions. Of course he would fall short of Penelope’s idealized dreams of a husband. Considering his limitations—wealth, good looks, standing, pride—Summerton wasn’t half as bothersome as he might have been.
That vexed Penelope too, of course. Had Vergilius been less considerate, less polite, less outwardly attentive, she could have ripped up at him. After a few porcelain-shattering rows, nobody would question why husband and wife operated in separate spheres.
And had that separation happened five years ago, what she had planned now would have raised a lot fewer eyebrows.
“My mum’s a good sort,” Silforth said. “Raised us to know our Bible and work hard. She doesn’t see so well lately, but I swear that woman can hear halfway to France when one of her grandchildren is being naughty.”
“How many is she up to?” Seventeen, with number eighteen due in two months. All healthy, every one of them, from birth onward.
“Seventeen, my lady. My youngest sister’s confinement should end as summer arrives.”
Silforth’s sister already had four rambunctious boys. “Is she hoping for a girl?”
“Hoping and praying, my lady.”
The true culprit in the whole melodrama of Penelope’s marriage was Penelope’s late mother. She’d built up marriage in Penelope’s mind and sung the praises of the dashing Summerton heir, until no reality could possibly match the expectations created by the advertisements.
The one time Penelope had raised the topic of a marital separation with her mother, Mama had had a tantrum the size of Gibraltar, then lapsed into an injured silence that had been worse than all of her ranting lectures combined.
In the years since Mama’s passing, Summerton had grown more distant—and inexplicably more attractive—while Mama-in-Law had become a hovering, intrusive presence in the London town house. And where Mama-in-Law went, Bella was sure to follow.
That thought put Penelope in a tearing hurry to climb into Lady Stanthorpe’s traveling coach.
“Would you like to attend your sister’s confinement, Silforth?”
“I couldn’t leave you again so soon, my lady. People will think I’m not good at my job.”
People will think… Three of the most useless words ever strung together in English.
“You are quite good at your job, but your sister is dear to you. The offer will remain open, Silforth. You earn your wages without complaining, and family is important.” In fact, Penelope had already written out a character for Silforth and a bearer bank draft that would serve as lavish severance. Silforth could kick her heels at home for the next five years and still have funds on hand.
Looking after Silforth, who had tried hard to look after Penelope, was important.
A husband ought to be important to his wife, too, and conversely. Summerton had taken the news of Penelope’s decision to travel—and at this time of year—with nary a word of protest. He’d been surprised, though—a petty and backhanded consolation when a wife was abandoning her marriage.
“Will you take your jewels, my lady?”
“I won’t need them.” Had never needed them, though Mama had gushed about the Summerton tiaras for the entire four weeks of Penelope’s engagement. Vergilius had called upon her weekly, bringing gifts—a locket containing a curl of his dark hair and a painted miniature of him, a box of French chocolates, a book of Wordsworth’s verse.
Penelope had shelved the book with the rest of the library’s poetry and left the chocolates for her staff.
