Two
Emmie stumbled again, more heavily, but he caught her this time, as well. His left hand went around her left wrist; his right arm secured her to his chest by virtue of a snug hold about her waist. They stood for a long moment in an off-balance version of a promenade, while Emmie used the earl’s height and strength to regain her balance.
“Well, good,” Emmie said with a certain relish. “The man was in want of killing.” Next to her, she heard and felt the earl exhale, a deep, slow breath, sending air fanning past her cheek. She had the sense he’d been holding it a long time. Weeks, maybe, months—his whole life.
“He was, at that,” the earl replied. “Shall we proceed?” His voice gave nothing away, though Emmie thought he’d call his earlier words back if he could. Not because he regretted taking the man’s life, but because announcing such a thing while escorting a young lady home through darkness wasn’t at all the done thing.
Even a barbarian would know that.
“He made a few tries at me,” Emmie said. She kept hold of the earl’s hand as she walked along, then adjusted her grip as they negotiated more roots, so her fingers laced through his. “It was Helmsley’s attentions the old earl sought to preserve me from.”
“Did Helmsley ever… achieve his ends?” Rosecroft asked, the same foreboding in his voice.
“I am a baseborn girl, my lord. What difference would it have made if he had? He threw more than a good scare into me, and the lesson served me well when I went into service. Beastly nuisance of a man. I am glad you killed him. Glad and relieved. The old earl, much as he loved his grandson, would have applauded you for protecting his granddaughters.”
It was safe, somehow, to speak so openly with him in the darkness, even though holding hands with him this way was also not safe. Not safe, nor smart, not what a prudent woman would do. A prudent woman wouldn’t take such pleasure from it nor speculate about what other behaviors Lord Rosecroft might engage in on a dark and breezy night.
Emmie turned the topic to the details of moving her bakery to Rosecroft, then prattled on about the neighbors surrounding the property and the various tradesmen and farmers in the area. She cast around for topics that were pleasant, soothing, and even humorous rather than make her escort dwell on a past better left in silence. And she did not drop his hand until they approached a stately two-story house, the structure more grand than a tenant farmer’s cottage, but certainly not a manor in itself.
“The old earl put you here?” Rosecroft asked as he led her up wide porch stairs.
“He did. He purchased it as a sort of dower house.”
It was a pleasant place, or so Emmie told herself. Flowers abounded, a small barn with adjacent paddocks stood back from the house, and large trees afforded a shifting mosaic of moon shadows. In sunlight, it was cheery, airy, and gracious.
“This is a lot of property for one person to maintain,” the earl said as Emmie settled on the porch swing. He set her bonnet on the steps and turned to look at the moonlit landscape. “You have a nice view to the river, though.”
“I do, and I love my trees. The shade is lovely, and in winter they provide protection from both wind and snow.”
“I missed the greenness of England terribly when I was on the Peninsula,” her companion mused. “Missed it like some men missed their sweethearts.”
“We English are basically homebodies, I think.” Emmie set the swing to rocking gently with her toe. “We wander hither and yon for King and Country, but we come home and are glad to be here.”
“I will take that as my cue to wander home,” the earl said, holding out her bonnet.
“Thank you for your escort, my lord.” She rose from the swing and retrieved her bonnet. “I will see you on Monday.”
“Until then.” He took her hand in his and bowed over it, a courtly gesture one might show a lady but not the daughter of a mere soldier, earning her living in some Yorkshire backwater.
“You can find your way in the dark?” she asked then realized the question was silly. What if he said no? Would she escort him back to the manor?
“I’ll manage.” His teeth flashed in that buccaneer’s smile, and he waited as an escort should until she was safely inside her house. Before she lit a single candle, she turned and peered through her parlor window, watching him disappear into the shadows, his stride brisk, his sense of direction unerring.
When she said her prayers that night, Emmie dutifully thanked the Almighty for the good turn that had finally befallen little Bronwyn. If Emmie could just loosen her grasp of the child, the earl would provide for Winnie, provide generously, and not in any absentminded way, either. He would personally notice what she needed and provide it. The adjustment to not caring directly for Bronwyn, to not worrying about her, would take time, but Emmie vowed she would make it. If she loved that child and wanted what was right for her, she absolutely would.
But before she bid her Creator good night, Emmie also asked for more than the usual measure of fortitude to see her through the coming days, and not just with respect to letting go of Winnie. With the earl’s competence, air of command, and masculine appeal—there, she thought, that term would suffice—Rosecroft was going to be a temptation. Fortunately for her, he was also possessed of pride, arrogance, and a lofty title. If all went well, he would notice Bronwyn and ignore Bronwyn’s cousin.
The fortitude was necessary, however, to assist Bronwyn’s cousin in ignoring—or at least pretending to ignore—the earl.
As that gentleman strode toward his new home, he considered the developments of his day and let his pace slow to a more thoughtful amble. The fountain would need to be repaired, as first impressions were important, and a drive ending in a broken fountain would hardly serve. The stables were adequate but in need of a thorough scrubbing. The previous owner’s neglect meant none of the pastures had been harvested of hay for several years, though. There was an abundant if overripe crop to be cut in the next few weeks, and that was a good thing—provided he could find the labor—for Yorkshire winters were nothing to be trifled with.
He planned and organized his way right back to his own doorstep but hesitated before going inside. The night was lovely, and though the hour was late, he paused at the front terrace.
The porch needed a swing. If there was going to be a child on the premises, that was a high priority. Thinking of Winnie, he went inside, trying to recall where he’d had her quartered. The nursery and children’s rooms would have been on the third floor, but something in him had rebelled at isolating the child from others when she’d been ostracized her whole life.
As there were no sentries to see to the matter, he made a circuit of the interior, knowing it was foolish. In summer, an estate like this would hardly secure its windows and doors, the breezes being welcome, and the likelihood of mischief none at all. Still, he prowled his darkened house before going upstairs then patrolled that floor in its entirety before checking on Winnie.
She looked tiny in her bed; and in sleep, her mouth worked as if she’d been a thumb sucker in infancy. The earl had seen new recruits with the same characteristic ten years her senior. He traced a finger along her downy cheek, and she quieted, so he withdrew.
Leaving him to face the rest of his night alone.
When morning came, he was surprised to realize he’d slept through the night. It was a rare, though no longer unheard of, occurrence. He took the good nights when they came and endured the bad as best he could. In London, he’d gotten into the habit of riding with his brothers before breakfast, and it still seemed like a worthy start to the day.
“Good morning, my lord.” Steen, the butler, bowed, bearing a week-old edition of The Times bound for the iron. “Will you and Mr. Holderman be taking tea in the library after your ride?”
“We will, but as Miss Winnie has joined the household, we’re going to have to put together something in the way of breakfasts.”
“I will inform the kitchen, my lord. And will you be passing along some breakfast menus for Cook?”
“After my ride.” Ye gods and little fishes, could his staff not even produce a breakfast without being told to toast both sides of the bread?
“Spare me from menus,” he muttered, frowning as he approached the stables. He clattered out of the yard shortly thereafter, desperately grateful to be mounted and moving. He had let the horses rest and settle in for a few days after their two hundred-mile journey north from Surrey, then put them to light work in the riding ring last week. This week, it was time to graduate to hacking out, taking the horses cross-country, over hill and dale, stream and log.
“You’re trying to convince me you’re a city boy, aren’t you?” The earl patted Red’s muscular neck. The gelding had done well enough in his earliest training, but the open countryside was another matter altogether, as Red reminded him when a rabbit shot across the path. A prop, a halfhearted rear, and some dancing around, and Red was eventually convinced it might have been only a rabbit, not a tiger. The entire ride progressed along the same lines, until the earl realized he was circling back toward the manor along the route he’d taken with Miss Farnum the previous night. He brought Red back down to the walk and changed directions, heading for her house instead.
By day, particularly in the fresh light of early morning, her property was as pleasant and peaceful as he’d imagined it by moonlight. Following his nose, he rode up to the back of the house, not surprised to find several fragrant pies cooling on the porch rail.
He’d slipped Red’s bridle off and set him to grazing Miss Farnum’s backyard when a cheerful voice called to him from the porch.
“Good morning, Lord Rosecroft.” Miss Farnum called, smiling at him broadly. She put two more pies on the rail and waited while he approached the porch. She wasn’t in black, but wore what looked like an old cotton walking dress with a full-length apron belted around her waist—apparently not part of her “most presentable” wardrobe. The apron nipped in and revealed what his hands had told him last night: She was curved in all the right places, both curved in and curved out. He resisted the urge to dwell on that pleasant revelation.
“Good morning, Miss Farnum.” He bowed, finding himself tempted to return the smile. Well, a good night’s sleep was sure to improve a man’s spirits. “I trust you slept well?”
“I did not.” She shook her head, her smile still in place. “It’s a baking day, and in summer one likes to get that done as early as possible. As late as I ran yesterday, I decided to simply get to work when I got home last night. I am almost done with my day’s work.”
“You slept not at all? My apologies. Had I known how limited your time was last evening, I would not have detained you.”
“You would, too,” she contradicted him pleasantly. “But you are here now, so you can give me your opinion. I am of the mind that you excel at rendering opinions.”
The earl felt the corners of his mouth twitching. “I will make allowances for such a remark because you are overly tired and a mere female.”
“You noticed. I’m impressed. Have a seat.” She gestured to a wrought iron table painted white, surrounded with padded wicker chairs, while the earl admitted to himself that, indeed, he had noticed, and was continuing to notice. “May I offer you some cider? I keep it in the spring house so it should be cold.”
“Cider would be appreciated,” he replied, wondering at her working at her ovens through the night and now greeting the day with such obvious joy. She banged through a swinging door, leaving him swamped by a cloud of delicious kitcheny scents and contemplating the profusion of flowers growing in her backyard.
She swung back through the door, a tray in her hands. “Prepare to opine.” She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her cheeks on her fists.
“Regarding?” The earl lifted an eyebrow, noticing Miss Farnum had a little smudge of flour on her jaw.
“My experiments.” She nodded at the tray and the three separate plates thereon. “Tell me which you prefer and why.”
“You will not join me?” the earl asked, eyeing what looked like three identically delicious flaky pastries.
“I believe I will.” She deftly cut all three in half, put three halves on one plate and the other three halves on a second plate. “Baking is hungry work.” She picked up a pastry without further ado and bit into it, cocking her head and frowning in thought.
“Well, go on,” she urged, “or my opinion will carry the day. The dough is adequately turned, I suppose.”
Seeing she had not provided utensils, the earl slid off his riding gloves and picked up a pastry. He bit into it, realizing he was hungry. “Tea in the library” after his ride would have included scones, butter, and jam. The same scones, butter, and jam he’d had every morning since arriving to Rosecroft.
“You put ham and cheese in a pastry? It’s good.”
“What would make it better? Ham, eggs, and cheese tend to become soggy and are boring.”
“Not to an empty stomach, it isn’t.” The earl demolished his first half in two more bites. “Maybe a bit more butter inside?”
“I butter the dough so heavily it practically moos, but it needs something.”
The earl frowned. “Leeks? Garlic for breakfast might be a bit much, but even celery would give it texture. Bacon would add both variety and substance.”
“I will try that,” she said, smiling at him. “Onions, at least. Bacon lacks subtlety, unless I used it very sparingly. Thank you. Try the next one.” The next one had some sort of sweet, soft cheese inside, a rich, heavy filling that made a half portion adequate.
“I’d add a little lemon zest. It will lighten the flavor considerably, make it more a breakfast food than a dessert.”
“Oh, I like that.” Miss Farnum nodded enthusiastically. “Have you lemons in your orangery?”
“I don’t know.” The earl eyed the remaining bite. “If there were lemons in there three years ago, there should be some salvageable stock now.”
“One hopes; try the last one.” Miss Farnum’s eyes were alight with anticipation, and the earl couldn’t help but draw the moment out with a slow sip of his cider.
“You’re stalling.” She smacked her hands down on the table and took his cider away. “Get busy, my lord, or I’ll hold your drink hostage.”
“Nasty tactics,” he said, picking up the last half pastry. He bit into it to find it was flavored with cinnamon, raisins, honey, and nuts, all layered within the pastry as the dough had been folded onto itself.
“It reminds me of an Eastern dessert, baklava. I like it and think it would go particularly well with hot tea on a cold morning.”
“But?” she pressed, sliding his cider across the table toward him.
“But nothing. I like it.”
“You like it. You say that about as enthusiastically as I might say I like bread that’s only one day old. What would make it better?” She was going to pester him on this, he saw. She took her little experiments seriously.
“It’s bland. Just sweet, with the spices you expect in sweet things. Cinnamon, I suppose, and a dash of clove, but not much. Mincemeat would be more interesting, pear butter with brandied pecans.”
“Make it something definite, not just a breakfast sweet. I will work on these, but you confirm my suspicion they are not ready for public consumption. My thanks.”
“You are eying my cider.” The earl gestured at the mug sitting between them. “Help yourself.”
“I will,” she said, bringing his mug to her lips. “I would have to make another trip down to the spring house to fetch more.” She’d drained the mug, he saw, feeling just the least bit thirsty now that she had.
“You would have done well as an officer’s wife,” he heard himself comment. “They were remarkable women, most of them. Far more stoic than the men and just as brave.”
“I swipe your cider, and you are willing to offer me my colors?” Miss Farnum smiled then hid a delicate yawn behind her hand.
“Those ladies did not stand on ceremony. They were practical, resilient, good-humored, and resourceful. You put me in mind of them.” They were also women who understood the place killing had in the greater scheme of life, and Emmie Farnum, smiling and yawning in the soft summer air, shared that wisdom, too.
She nodded at Red. “Was that one of your mounts?”
“He was too young to have served. I own a stud farm in Surrey, and he is one of three whose training I did not want to see lapse over the summer. His name is Ethelred. Shall I introduce you?”
“I’d be delighted.” She rose without assistance. “It isn’t every morning a lady finds two such handsome fellows on her back porch.”
“He will be happy to opine regarding your grass, I’m sure,” the earl said, walking down the steps beside her. “I think he believes it to be too long and in need of his attentions.” Red looked up as they approached but continued chewing.
“Is he a bit thin?” she asked, holding out a hand for Red to sniff.
“He is. He’s three and a half. He’ll continue to grow for at least another year, and he’s in a weedy stage. Then, too, they all dropped weight on the journey north.” As he had himself.
“Well, aren’t you handsome?” She addressed the horse, the minx. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr…?” She arched an eyebrow at the earl.
“Ethelred,” the earl reminded her, “or Red, which he seems to like better.” Red was making sheep’s eyes at Miss Farnum, sniffing at her hand then wiggling his lips against her palm. “Shameless beggar.” The earl scratched at Red’s ears. “He must like the sugary scent of you.” Without thinking, Rosecroft grasped her hand and sniffed at her palm. “Sweet,” he remarked, “and a little spicy.”
She shot him a quizzical look. “Perhaps I will experiment with making treats for your steed.”
“And wouldn’t you love that?” the earl asked his horse. Red went back to grazing, seeing the introductions were not going to afford any more attention. “Do you ride, Miss Farnum?”
“I was taught,” she said, eyes still on Red. “It has been years.”
“Would you perhaps like to ride, then? The countryside here is nothing if not beautiful, and I’m going to have to find some quiet mounts for Miss Winnie.”
She smiled at him wistfully. “Maybe someday. Winnie loves animals, you know. They’ve been her chief companions for the past two years.”
“Then we will keep her well supplied. I’ve an affinity for them myself, horses in particular. Actually, I am intruding on your morning in hopes you can advise me on a matter related to Winnie.” Well, he amended silently, tangentially related to Winnie.
“Oh?” She stifled another little yawn, and the earl recalled she’d been up all night.
“Come.” He put a hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the porch. “You are tired, and I should not keep you. I wanted only to inquire regarding Winnie’s preferences at breakfast. I need to review the menus now that breakfast will be a necessity, and I thought as you—”
“You aren’t having a proper breakfast?” Miss Farnum turned to stare at him. “For shame, my lord. You wouldn’t expect Ethelred to go to work without his breakfast, would you? My lands, what must you be thinking? Come along this instant.” She bustled up the steps and banged through her back door again, leaving the earl to follow in her wake. He found himself in a hallway leading to a large, tidy kitchen as Miss Farnum went to a desk—who put a desk in a kitchen?—and withdrew a piece of paper and a short pencil.
“Breakfast is the best meal of the day,” she informed the earl as she sat at the desk. “Show me a man who doesn’t appreciate his breakfast, and I’ll show you a man who couldn’t possibly be English. Now…” She fell silent as she scratched away. “There.”
She brandished the paper at him, and he took it.
“Winnie loves her muffins.” Miss Farnum nodded for emphasis. “But she needs the variety of fresh fruits and the substance of some butter and cheese to start her day. She is not particularly fond of meat, but one needn’t belabor that point.”
“Not at breakfast,” the earl agreed. “My thanks, Miss Farnum. I’ll take my leave of you and recommend you seek your bed.”
“I will dream of the perfect pastry.”
“Until Monday, then.” The earl couldn’t help but smile at her, so pleased did she seem with the prospect of her dreams. He bridled his horse, mounted up, and rode on home, oblivious to the pair of blue-gray eyes watching him canter off into the shade of the trees.
Rather than take herself immediately off to bed, Emmie wrote out instructions for Anna Mae Summers, the assistant who would show up in an hour so, then paused to consider her previous visitor.
As she shucked down to her skin then washed, Emmie reflected that the earl had a disarming willingness to speak plainly, to put his questions, desires, and aims into simple speech: What does Winnie like for breakfast? Did Helmsley ever succeed in his attempts to bother her? Help yourself to my cider.
He was like no kind of aristocrat she’d ever seen, much less dealt with. The great families around York might occasionally patronize her bakery, for a wedding cake, perhaps, or for particular confections. But even their footmen sent to collect the goods didn’t see her, and she’d always preferred it that way.
The earl saw her, and worse, she liked that he did.
Giving herself a mental lecture about bad judgments and the whims of the aristocracy, Emmie took herself off to bed. She tossed and turned for a long time before falling asleep, thinking of just how to perfect her latest experiments. Her cogitation might have been more productive, however, were she not constantly distracted by the memory of the earl’s aquiline nose tickling her palm as he sniffed at the sweetness and spice he found there.
***
The woods were lovely, cool and quiet, and a much-needed change of pace from Holderman’s bowing, scraping, and throat clearing. The man had little clue how to get the fountain re-piped and had only mumbled into his tea about getting a haying crew together before the crop got any older. The only thing for it, St. Just decided, was to go for a ride lest he strangle his steward over luncheon. So he’d saddled up and headed for a part of his property he’d yet to explore, only to find the steadiest of his mounts was tensing beneath him, ears pricking forward.
Knowing better than to ignore the horse’s reaction, the earl cautiously urged the animal to a halt. This was his third and final ride of the day, the one he saved for last, because the horse—Caesar—was such a pleasure to spend time with. Something large was moving just a few yards away. Not a wild dog, or Caesar would have been alarmed, not just alert. Something big enough to startle a horse, though.
Rosecroft’s mouth went dry, then his heart sped up, for there, through a leafy curtain, was Emmaline Farnum, naked as the day she was born, floating serenely on her back. Her hair was still bound, but the rest of her was as God made her—and God had done a magnificent job. Her breasts were full, with small pink, puckered nipples, her waist nipped in sweetly, her legs were long and muscular, and there at the juncture of her legs…
The earl was a gentleman, raised with sisters and cousins and enough females that he comprehended why the fairer gender was deserving of respect. He told himself to leave, he even cued the horse to step back, but he must have also cued the animal to remain at the halt, because five minutes later, he was still staring.
She’d gotten out of the water and was kneeling on a towel, letting the long, wet ropes of her hair down from her bun. Even wet, her hair was golden, falling in abundance to her hips. She raised her hands to work up a lather in her hair, the action causing her breasts to hike and shift gently. He surveyed the line of her back, graceful and strong but mouthwateringly feminine, too. Sitting on his horse, he had the urge to bite her nape, to steady her hips with his hands, bend her over, and show her what pleasures could make a lazy summer afternoon perfect. When it was time to rinse, he was almost relieved to see her slip back into the water, her rounded derriere flashing in the sunlight as she dove under.
With a distinct sense of disorientation, the earl found the fortitude to nudge his mount quietly back up the path, but he was in such a condition that the walk was the only feasible gait.
And he was smiling like the lunatic he feared he was becoming, more pleased and relieved with his body’s reaction than he could have admitted to another living soul. A half hour later, he and Caesar ambled into the stable yard, the echo of that smile still in his mind.
“Same drill tomorrow, Stevens.” The earl handed off the reins.
“Tomorrow’s the Sabbath,” Stevens reminded him, clearly bewildered.
“Sabbath.” The earl frowned. “My apologies. Monday, I suppose. We’ll have crews on the grounds to work on various projects then, as well. When the roof and the haying are done, the stables are due for some attention.”
“Aye, milord.” Stevens sounded less than enthusiastic about a schedule put forth by a man who could forget the day of the week.
Well, thought the earl, suppressing a grin, when a man experienced his first conscious trouser salute in more than two years, the day of the week faded in significance by comparison.
“My lord.” Steen bowed to him at the front door. “You have a visitor in the library. He, um…” Steen found something worth examining on the earl’s sweaty riding gloves. “He arrived with luggage, my lord.”
“Did he leave a card?” Luggage?
“He said he was family.” Steen’s entire bald head suffused with pink.
“Ah.” For Steen to have asked exactly how this fellow was family would have been rude, of course, and one couldn’t be rude to the earl’s family. “I will see him; send along some refreshment—lemonade, sandwiches, a sweet or two.”
His father, having suffered a heart seizure just weeks previously, would not have journeyed north. His brother Gayle, having just married, would not have journeyed two feet from his bride, left to his own devices. It had to be his youngest brother, Valentine.
“So, Val,” the earl strode into the library then stopped dead. “Amery?” The man before him was not tall, green-eyed with wavy dark hair, as each of the surviving Windham sons were. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and the most poker-faced individual St. Just had ever met, for all that his features had the austere beauty of a disappointed angel. “To what, in all of God’s creation, do I owe the honor of a visit from my niece’s stepfather?”
“Pleased to see you, as well, St. Just.” Viscount Amery put down the book he’d been perusing and turned his gaze on his host. “Or should I say, Rosecroft?”
“You should not.” The earl frowned, advancing into the room. “What have I done to be graced with your presence?” He didn’t mean to sound so unwelcoming, but he was surprised. No cavalry officer liked surprises.
“I am here at the request of the Duchess of Moreland and at the request of my viscountess, both of whom are fretting over you—and with some grounds, I’d say.”
“Good of them, though I am well enough.”
“You are thinner, you appear fatigued to me, and your fences, St. Just, are sagging.”
“Ever the charmer, eh, Amery?” The earl arched an eyebrow, and Amery arched his in response. Douglas Allen was the most unflappable, steady, serious person St. Just had encountered. The man had had the balls to stop a wedding between St. Just’s brother Gayle Windham, the Earl of Westhaven, and Douglas’s present wife, Guinevere, mother to Rose, the only Moreland grandchild. The wedding had badly needed to be stopped in the opinion of all save the Duke of Moreland, whose conniving had brought it about in the first place.
“I do try.” Douglas picked his book back up and put it in its proper place on the library shelves. “Rose is with your parents, and Welbourne is between planting and harvest, as most of the country is, so my lady could spare me. She suggested Rosecroft might be a bit of a challenge after three years in Helmsley’s care. I see she did not exaggerate.”
“She did not,” the earl said, grateful for plain speaking. He was also grateful when a knock on the door, heralding the tray of refreshments, gave him a moment to collect his thoughts and get him and his guest seated.
“So how bad is it?” Douglas asked as he took a long swallow of cold lemonade.
“Bad enough.” The earl passed Douglas a sandwich. “The fences are indicative of the situation as a whole: sagging but still functional.”
“You’ve established priorities?”
“Haying, the roof on the manor, the stables, the tenant farms, a dock on the Ouse.”
“What of your home farm?” Douglas reached for his lemonade and paused. “Assuming you have a home farm?”
“I do. For some reason, my steward hasn’t seen fit to tour it with me.”
“Best remedy that.” Douglas met his eyes. “You don’t want to be buying your eggs and cheese when you’ve all this land. What of a home wood?”
“There is plenty of wood on the property, but again, it isn’t something my steward has put on our agenda.”
“This far north, you’ll need as much firewood as you can harvest without depleting your wood. If you see to it now, the deadfall you cut will be seasoned by the new year.”
“Good point. But before we descend further into the catalog of my oversights and my steward’s shortcomings, how fares your wife and your stepdaughter? And you have your heir now, if I remember aright.”
Relief flashed briefly in his guest’s eyes, as if Douglas hadn’t been sure his host was to be trusted to manage the burden of interfamilial civilities.
“My wife thrives,” Douglas replied, “as does our son, though he keeps his mother up at all hours with demands for sustenance and comfort.”
St. Just grinned. “Typical male, or so Her Grace would say.”
“And so his mother says.”
St. Just chewed his own sandwich, thinking the chicken could have done with some seasoning and the bread with some mustard, or butter, or even pot cheese, but it was filling, and the journey had no doubt left his guest hungry.
“Your niece has specifically told me to warn you she will hop on her pony and come introduce herself should you fail to remedy the oversight in the near future.” Douglas eyed the tray as if considering a second sandwich.
“My apologies to Miss Rose. I assume her Uncle Valentine calls upon her regularly?”
“As does her Uncle Gayle, with her newly acquired Aunt Anna, but you are her father’s oldest brother, and she wants to meet you.”
“I am her father’s illegitimate half brother. She can have a happy and meaningful life without making my acquaintance, though for the record, it isn’t that I haven’t wanted to meet her.”
“She’s a little girl, St. Just,” Douglas said gently. “Little children forgive anything, even things they should not. You put this off much longer, and you will hurt her feelings, and as the current holder in her eyes of the title Papa, I cannot allow that.”
“You came all this way to scold me for not meeting my niece?”
“In part.” Douglas nodded, apparently finding that a more than adequate justification for a two-hundred-mile journey in high summer. “But also because the ladies were concerned. Moreover, it is beastly hot in the south, and I have never seen this part of the world.”
“You would have me think you’re rambling the countryside for your own pleasure?” The earl stood, cocking an eyebrow.
Douglas stood, as well. “It pleases your family to be concerned for you, but your brothers could not come north. No matter whether you are a half brother, one-eighth brother, or less, you are a brother to them. I would not whine too loudly, were I you.”
The earl had the grace to keep silent, knowing Douglas had arrived to his title after the death of his older brother, then lost his younger brother shortly thereafter under miserable circumstances.
“Point taken. Well, I am glad you are here, despite appearances to the contrary. Let’s get you settled in upstairs, and perhaps you’d like a bath before supper?”
“A bath.” The viscount closed his eyes. “Please God, a bath.”
“We’ve bathing chambers upstairs,” the earl assured him as they gained the front hallway. “The water is piped from the roof cistern and one of the few luxuries to be had here. Did you come by horseback or by coach?”
“Horseback. My great and good friend, Sir Regis, is enjoying the hospitality of your stables as we speak.”
“Your room will be in here.” St. Just opened a door and led Douglas into a sunny, pleasant back bedroom. A soft leather satchel and a pair of saddlebags sat on the bed, the water pitcher was full, and the windows had been left open to admit a soft breeze.
“Lovely, and that bed looks like it will serve for a much-needed nap while my bathwater is heating.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” The earl glanced around the room, hoping it was adequately prepared. “We keep country hours here, and it will be just the three of us at dinner.”
It wasn’t until Douglas was soaking in a lavender scented bath that it occurred to him to wonder just who the three of us at dinner might be.
***
Leaving his guest, the earl struggled with a sudden, irrational temper. He liked Amery as well as he liked any man of his acquaintance, save his brothers, of course, but he did not like having the peace and privacy of his new home destroyed. He did not like unannounced visits from distant relations by marriage. He did not like having his routine upended; he did not like…
He wasn’t in the kitchen, where he’d intended to go. He’d been so lost in controlling a seething, disproportionate irritability, he’d taken himself to the stables, where all three geldings, along with Amery’s bay, were lounging in their stalls to avoid the worst heat of the day. He stepped into Caesar’s stall and rested his head against the horse’s muscular neck.
“Steady on,” he reminded himself, taking a deep breath. God above, if his men could only see him now. Raging over nothing and going two years without so much as thinking of bedding a woman. The malaise in him included his poor sleeping, too, he supposed. In active service, he’d slept in trees, on church benches, and frequently on his horse. Now he couldn’t find sleep in a damned canopied featherbed. And when he did sleep, the nightmares came.
But it was getting better, he assured himself, stroking the gelding’s neck. The rages weren’t so frequent, and they were more swiftly over. There was an occasional decent night’s rest, and just this afternoon, at the pond…
It was definitely getting better. He never expected to be quite the man he was, or the man he’d thought he’d been, but Fairly, who served more or less as the family physician, had been right: He wasn’t going mad. He was recovering slowly from years of serving his nation.
On that reassuring thought, he turned his steps to the kitchen, there to inform Cook they would be three for dinner for the foreseeable future.