Eleven

“What aren’t you telling me, Nita?” Kirsten Haddonfield was plagued with an unladylike curiosity about life in general. When it came to her older sister though, her inquisitiveness was increasingly motivated by concern.

All the way from the Chalmerses’ malodorous cottage, Nita had kept maddeningly silent. She swished along through the winter-dead garden, exuding competence and unspilled confidences.

“I do not gossip, Kirsten.”

“And I do? I sit among the good dames of the shire and spread rumor and innuendo over a pot of scandal broth? I’m not asking you to gossip. I’m asking you to talk to me.”

Nita slowed as they approached the gazebo. “I haven’t thanked you yet for coming with me.”

Kirsten drew Nita into the little structure, because privacy inside the Belle Maison manor house was nonexistent. Della lurked at keyholes, Nicholas loomed around corners, George had the knack of being everywhere at once, Leah reported everything to her dear earl, and Susannah—dissembler at large—half the time only pretended to read.

“You should thank me,” Kirsten said, taking a seat on the hard wooden bench. “I’ll never get the stench out my habit. Hell ought to include a place of honor for the first woman who realized that boiled cabbage is nominally edible.”

“When the alternative is starvation, such a woman should be canonized.”

Nita’s habit had long since passed the status of a disgrace. The hems were muddy and mended, the blue fading, rather like Nita herself.

“Nita, you are turning into a scold and a drudge, but you will please have a seat and bear me a little more company anyway. Before Mr. St. Michael started cheating at cards the other evening, I thought you’d forgotten how to laugh. It was unfair of Papa to require you at his bedside and to send the rest of us away.”

Papa had been gone for more than six months. In accordance with his wishes, the family no longer observed first mourning, but the loss of him lingered in family jokes, stray pieces of music, and his favorite quotes from Alexander Pope. In Papa’s final decline, he’d found someplace else for every one of his children to be except Nita, the de facto lady of the manor.

A privilege and, apparently, a bitter penance.

“Papa didn’t want anybody to see him grow so feeble.” Nita’s reply had the ring of an oft-repeated and unsuccessful attempt at self-comfort.

“Papa was an arrogant old boot,” Kirsten said, “and not above taking advantage of your kind heart. Belle Maison would have fallen apart without you these last years. You might remind Nicholas of that.”

Perhaps Kirsten would take that task on herself. Nicholas, like every Haddonfield, could be an idiot.

“We should go in,” Nita said, popping to her feet and clutching her bag of herbs and medicinals.

“Sit down, Nita Haddonfield. I’ve been wanting to ask you about Mr. St. Michael. Are you trifling with him?”

Nita did sit, setting her bag aside. “I would not know how or why to trifle with any man. Lest you forget, Norton Nash attempted to trifle with me. Are you interested in Mr. St. Michael?”

On the topic of Mr. St. Michael, Nita was apparently willing to converse, though her question had been carefully tendered.

“Thank you, no,” Kirsten said, though if she hadn’t given up on marriage entirely, he might have been worth a look. “Mr. St. Michael is not biddable. He’s been allowed to racket about without the guiding hand of a sensible woman for too long. He fancies you, though.”

Nita, like Susannah, was blessed with all the dishonesty Kirsten needed and didn’t have. Nita could appear calm when she was enraged or intrigued. She could be polite when she was furious, and she could also apparently pretend disinterest when she’d lost her heart—an enviable talent.

“Mr. St. Michael fancies Nicholas’s herd of Spanish sheep,” Nita said.

Though sometimes, Nita used that talent to deceive herself.

“I’ve corresponded not only with Beckman,” Kirsten said, “but with his Sara, to whom Mr. St. Michael was a brother-in-law for a time. Your Mr. St. Michael is wallowing in filthy lucre, Nita. He’d do.”

The highest praise Kirsten could offer, for she believed only the best would serve for her siblings. Edward Nash fell far short of her standards, a situation she’d yet to find a solution for.

Across the garden, the grooms had led the horses into the stables. Not another human soul was in sight, though a furry black cat trotted along the top of a stone wall bordering the knot garden.

“Mr. St. Michael has offered for me,” Nita said oh-so calmly.

“You are trifling with him. Nita, I am proud of you.” A light tone was hard to maintain, but to shout about good offers being rarer than handsome, eligible dukes guaranteed some sibling or servant would take notice of this discussion.

The medical calls were taking a toll on Nita, on the entire family, in fact. Nita had been plump as a younger woman, sturdy and rounded. She was nearly gaunt now, and her mouth was grim far more often than it was merry.

Addy Chalmers had an unfortunate fondness for gin. Had Nita acquired an unfortunate fondness for misery?

“I am trying not to make a mistake, Kirsten. I have made mistakes in the past. Mr. St. Michael is a good man, he’d provide well, and he’s said we could bide here in Haddondale.”

Mr. St. Michael was also a shrewd man, then. Nita would look much more favorably on the suit of a gentleman who’d offer her proximity to her family—and her patients.

“And yet you hesitate,” Kirsten said. “You are being sensible. Why can’t you be sensible about sick babies? Leave them to those professionally trained to deal with them, Nita, or to those who conceive them. Nicholas will be in a much better humor if you do.”

Kirsten would be in a better humor too, for no one would have to worry that Nita’s next sniffle could turn into her last.

“If you should fall ill, Kirsten, shall we summon Dr. Horton?”

Nita might as well have offered Kirsten a plate of boiled cabbage. “I will die before I let that old man near my sickroom.”

“Many do.”

And there, in three syllables, Nita presented an argument Nicholas himself could not entirely gainsay. Horton was old-fashioned and regarded suffering, particularly the suffering of women, children, and the poor, as either God’s will or penance for past or future wickedness.

Convenient theology indeed, when a physician was at a loss for how to help.

“What does Mr. St. Michael say about your disappearing at all hours to treat the unwell and infirm?” Kirsten asked.

Nita set her bag in her lap. “He has come with me more than once on a call to the Chalmers family, and when I told him how to deal with his ailing sheep, he listened to me—and he thanked me.”

Shrewd, indeed, but diagnosing sheep or dandling a newborn presented far less risk than entering a household in the grip of influenza, which Nita had often done.

Kirsten would thrash St. Michael if he abetted Nita’s folly to that degree.

“Most self-respecting men would expect you to stay home and look after your own family, Nita. Most worthy men would consider it failing in their duty to protect you if they allowed you to deal with the sick outside your own household. Nicholas berates himself for this very shortcoming constantly.”

Nita’s calm expression faltered. “Mr. St. Michael is not most men. Did you know he’s a French comte?”

A dodge, a good dodge. Had Mr. St. Michael in fact given Nita assurances that his wife was welcome to traffic in lung fevers and wasting diseases, or had Nita simply leaped to this conclusion? Shame on any man who professed to care for Nita if he encouraged her to risk her well-being on behalf of ungrateful strangers.

“I had heard there was a French title,” Kirsten said, rather than further antagonize Nita. “Della says he’s called the Sheep Count.” A play on words for those who knew their rural lore.

“I had not foreseen marriage,” Nita said, bewilderment creeping into her tone. “Then here he is, quite sure of his objectives, among whom I apparently number. I rather like being one of Tremaine St. Michael’s objectives.”

Nita was arse over teakettle for the man, and about time. Based on Nita’s smile, her shepherd-boy-turned-nabob had done a bit more than cheat at cards and recite Scottish poetry.

“I would ask you for a long engagement,” Kirsten said, rising. “Once you’re Sheep Countess-ing, Nicholas will try to march me up the church aisle again, and I do not fancy reminding the local eligibles that I am indifferent to their charms.”

Nita rose as well and linked arms with Kirsten. “I haven’t made up my mind about Mr. St. Michael, but it’s Susannah I fear for. Edward Nash is not the great bargain he thinks he is. I trust you will agree with me on this?”

“I’m considering a plan,” Kirsten said, glad for somebody to share it with. “I’ll get myself compromised with Edward at the assembly, and he’ll have to offer for me if he wants those sheep. I’ll refuse him, and Suze will surely see he’s not worth her affections.”

The plan was half-serious. With the least provocation, Kirsten would set it in motion, though the idea of permitting Edward Nash liberties was distasteful in the extreme. He smoked a pipe, for pity’s sake, and was overly fond of pomade.

“I really do not fancy hearing those same old Shakespeare sonnets at every family gathering,” Nita said. “Compromising yourself seems a bit drastic though.”

Nita spoke so evenly, Kirsten took a moment to realize she was teasing—mostly. They were still giggling and plotting when they reached the house, and Kirsten realized something else.

Nita had left her medicinals out in the snowy garden, where, as far as Kirsten was concerned, they could jolly well stay.

* * *

Tremaine wanted to arrange for delivery of his letter when various nosy Haddonfields would not have a chance to inspect the address. He also wanted to assure himself that Lady Nita had no regrets about their shared intimacies.

And that she’d not contracted any dread diseases in lieu of breaking her fast.

“Mr. Haddonfield,” Tremaine said, finding his quarry in the breakfast parlor. “Will you escort me to the village?”

His Handsomeness paused with a toast point halfway to his mouth. “Now?”

Lady Susannah looked up from her book. “Of course he means now. Go, George. Be hospitable and pick me up more peppermints at the apothecary.”

George rose and set his toast on his sister’s plate. “I am your slave in all things, dearest Susannah. Don’t suppose you’ve a ton of books I’m to drop off at the lending library?”

“Half a dozen or so, on the sideboard in the front hall,” the lady said, taking a bite of the toast. “You might also ask if they have the new edition of—”

“You ask the next time you raid the library,” George said, kissing her cheek. “Your literary raptures with Mr. Dalrymple might as well be in a foreign tongue, and I’m sure Mr. St. Michael would like to be back from the village before spring.”

The exchange was cozy, good-natured, and loving in a way Tremaine didn’t understand. He and his brother hadn’t had that sort of repartee. René had suffered a spare’s envy and restlessness, compounded by absent and then dead parents and a grandfather’s stubborn notions.

George bowed to the countess and took Tremaine by the arm. “If we hurry, we can stop by the lending library before Dalrymple’s at his post. The man could have talked Caesar back across the Rubicon.”

“Who is this ‘we,’ Haddonfield? I’m off to arrange for the delivery of some letters.” Also to ambush Lady Nita. Lady Kirsten could join the outing or not, but George was a necessary chaperone.

Now.

Now that Tremaine had fixed on a marital objective, his lady deserved every public appearance of propriety, for then—as every courting couple knew—the improprieties could be more easily undertaken in private.

Tremaine was donning gloves in the back hallway—the scene of a memorable kiss—when the ladies came in from the garden on a gust of frosty air.

“I vow it’s getting colder by the hour,” Lady Kirsten said, stomping snow from her boots and shaking the same from the hem of her habit. “You gentlemen are daft if you’re riding out.”

Lady Nita was unfastening her bonnet on the far side of a hanging ham. She either would not or could not meet Tremaine’s eye.

“Mr. Haddonfield and I are off to the village for a few errands, and then I thought we’d look in on the new lambs,” Tremaine said.

“There are more?” Lady Nita asked from her side of the ham.

“The Christ Child could reappear in that sheep byre,” Lady Kirsten said, “and I’d be more interested in a hot cup of chocolate. I bid you all good day.”

The lady had a way with blaspheming, and she winked at Tremaine as she marched past him.

“Will you join us, Lady Nita?” Tremaine asked, shifting so he needn’t put his question to her around a joint of pork.

“Do come, Nita,” George said. “You can listen to Dalrymple complain of his mother’s chilblains, while St. Michael and I have a toddy at the inn.”

“Is Dalrymple a follower of Lady Susannah’s?” Tremaine asked. If so, then Nash had competition or could be made to believe he had competition.

“Alas, no,” George said, whipping a green scarf around his neck. “Dalrymple is old enough to be Susannah’s papa, and his mother accurately recounts life before the Flood. The man can talk books though. Shall we be off?”

George bustled out the door, leaving Tremaine alone with Lady Nita, despite a kitchen full of chattering servants a few yards away.

“My lady, how are you?” Nita was tired, Tremaine could see that much—also in want of kissing.

“The baby had a touch of croup. She should be well enough in a day or two.”

Tremaine honestly did not care about the baby at that moment, though somebody should care about every baby, preferably a lot of somebodies, at every moment.

He kissed Nita’s cheek.

“The child will thrive a while longer, thanks to you. Will you come with us? I’ve missed you.” Spoken like a callow swain, God help him. A sincere, smitten callow swain.

“Atlas has already been unsaddled,” she said, tucking Tremaine’s hair back over his ear and letting her hand rest on his shoulder.

“Take another mount, then.” He kissed her other cheek, a charming Continental custom insufficiently appreciated in Britain.

“I should change.”

Because she wore the same dowdy, cabbage-scented habit she’d worn on their other outings to the Chalmers residence. In the warmth of the hallway, that scent blended with smoked meat and wet wool, and dragged Tremaine back to his childhood.

“You should come just as you are. I’m sending a letter by messenger, George is returning books for Lady Susannah, and something was mentioned about stopping by the apothecary for peppermint drops.”

Nita’s expression changed, and her hand disappeared from Tremaine’s shoulder. “I left my bag.”

“I beg your pardon?” Tremaine dropped a kiss on her mouth and something inside him settled agreeably lower.

“My bag of medicinals,” Nita said. “I forgot it in the garden, on a bench in the gazebo. If we go to the apothecary, I can stock up on some of the depleted stores. I left all of my peppermint oil with Addy, because if one child falls ill, the others could easily follow.”

Nita retied her bonnet ribbons, her movements brisk.

“You’ll accompany us, then?”

She shot a look over Tremaine’s shoulder, longing in her gaze. “I shall.”

“Grab something to eat,” Tremaine said, for she’d missed breakfast and food was hardly abundant in the Chalmers household. “I’ll fetch your medicinals and let the stable know you need a mount.”

“My thanks.” She strode off in the direction of the kitchen, damp hems swishing.

Tremaine admired the view, though his joy in the day dimmed.

He’d made passionate love to the lady not twelve hours earlier, but this morning, she showed more enthusiasm for a hot cup of tea than for his kisses. Was her reticence a function of fatigue, preoccupation with the ailing child, or disappointment in his amatory overtures?

* * *

Nita would forever associate the scent of damp wool with Tremaine St. Michael’s kisses. She gulped her tea at a kitchen window so she could watch him retrieve her medical bag from the gazebo, then stride off to the stables.

He should wear a hat in this cold. If she were his wife, she could scold him—remind him—to wear a hat.

If she were his wife, she would have kissed him back too.

“Bread and cheese, your ladyship,” Cook said, passing Nita a thick sandwich. “Would you like more tea?”

“No, thank you.” Nita would like time to change into a more fashionable habit, to tidy her hair, to use her tooth powder again, and have a long, fragrant soak in hot water and scorching memories. She instead took a bite of bread, cheese, and butter, and headed back out to the stables.

“My lady, your gloves.” Cook hurried after her and passed her the neglected items.

“I have grown forgetful lately,” Nita said. “Thank you.”

Nita stuffed the gloves in her pocket and crossed the gardens at a decorous pace, munching her makeshift breakfast. Was this love, this tongue-tied, breathless stupidity? She didn’t care for it, though she cared for Tremaine St. Michael.

Him, she could tell about Addy’s baby and know he’d grasp the situation in all its precariousness. She could wear her old habit around him and not worry that he judged her for looking unfashionable.

Surely that acceptance and caring—and the sweet, stolen kisses—were love too?

“There you are,” George said as his chestnut gelding was led out. “One despaired of seeing you before spring. How is Addy’s baby? It was the baby, wasn’t it? Elsie Nash’s boy has a bad sniffle and children seem to catch everything.”

George was a good brother, though he would not have asked after the baby at the breakfast table.

“The infant should soon be fine, though croup can sound terrifyingly awful. What have you stuffed in those saddlebags?”

“Susannah’s latest haul of books. She’s getting worse, Nita, and I didn’t think she could be any worse.”

A placid bay mare came next, the horse nominally Susannah’s, though the beast was seldom put to use. Mr. St. Michael led her out, the wind whipping at his dark hair.

“Up you go, my lady.” He didn’t position the horse near the ladies’ mounting block, but rather, stood at the mare’s shoulder.

When he’d boosted Nita into the saddle, he twitched her skirts over her boots, muddy hems and all.

“I hope you took the time to break your fast, my lady?”

He was concerned, as a husband might be concerned. Nita liked that enough to run her fingers over his hair before she donned her gloves.

“I ate. Mount up, Mr. St. Michael, before my poor brother freezes to the saddle.”

Mr. St. Michael didn’t smile, but a hint of mischief danced in his eyes as he patted Nita’s knee.

Abruptly, she grasped exactly what thoughts filled his male mind: If you don’t start calling me by my name, I’ll come before I’ve so much as kissed you.

Nita repeated that quick stroke over his hair, but this time she sneaked in a light pinch to his earlobe. She would soon be as bad as Nicholas.

Lovely thought, and until Nita was officially engaged, Mr. St. Michael would have to tolerate proper address from her in public.

George set a brisk pace, which made conversation difficult, and when they arrived to the village, Mr. St. Michael volunteered to return Susannah’s books before he stopped at the inn.

“Shall I accompany you?” Nita asked as George took the horses to the livery.

“You shall join George at the apothecary,” Mr. St. Michael said, “where for you, I am sure, hours feel like minutes, as if you were in the land of fairies. When we return to Belle Maison, you will take that soaking bath, won’t you?”

He’d kissed Nita with that question, though nobody’s lips had touched anybody else’s.

“I shall, and take a nap as well. While my dreams were pleasant last night, I could have wished for more time spent in my warm, cozy bed.”

Nita had verbally kissed Mr. St. Michael back, though his smile was mostly in his eyes.

“You shall have that time, my lady. All the time you desire.”

He bowed and marched off, full of energy and purpose, and cutting a fine figure in his riding attire.

“Stop gawking,” George said, coming out of the livery and taking Nita by the arm. “Though I admit he’s worth a second look.”

George was the brother closest to Nita in age, and his unconventional attractions had never been a secret to her, nor had they been anything but natural to him.

“Hush,” Nita said. “Nicholas worries that I’ll contract some dread disease, but he worries gossip will see you swinging from a gibbet.”

“The difference being,” George said as they crossed the frozen green, “you can choose to stop dealing with sick babies and gouty grandmamas, while I can’t help but notice your Mr. St. Michael.”

Nita wished she could find a tisane for George, to settle his nerves or something.

“Do you never notice the ladies, George? Mr. St. Michael has proposed to me, and I would hate to think my husband—”

“St. Michael doesn’t see me, Nita. I’m not sure I’d respect him if he did, for my regard is that of a rutting colt and flatters nobody. I do notice the ladies—I happen to like any number of them—and I notice the women too. Have you accepted his offer?”

George had a touch of Kirsten’s directness, at least with Nita. Maybe that was why she’d confided the news of Mr. St. Michael’s offer to George and Kirsten first.

“I have not. The more impetuous I want to be, the more deliberate I must be. I hardly know him, George.”

“Good for you, Nita,” George said as he held the door to the apothecary for her. “You are a treasure, and any man who can’t see that is a fool. Make St. Michael beg. It will do him good.”

Gracious, George could be fierce. “Thank you, George.”

He ambled off in the direction of the sweets, while Nita took a moment to inhale the fragrance of the shop. She loved this little establishment, where each shelf held glass or ceramic jars, tidily labeled, clear up to the rafters. Behind the counter, Mrs. Grainger read a newspaper, her glasses halfway down her nose, her gray bun listing to the side.

“Lady Nita, welcome!” she said, putting the paper away and pushing her glasses up. “Always a pleasure. What can I help you with today?” Nita was probably Mrs. Grainger’s best customer, but Edna Grainger was also an ally, keeping Nita apprised of who was coming down with an ague, whose cold was improving.

They were deep in a discussion of the best method for distilling peppermint oil when Tremaine St. Michael joined them at the counter.

“Your errand is accomplished, Mr. St. Michael?” Nita asked, resisting the urge to rearrange his scarf—purple wool this time, an unusual color.

“Books delivered, and a lecture on the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe received. Are your purchases here complete?”

“They are. Mrs. Grainger, you’ll send the lot to Belle Maison?”

“This very day, my lady, assuming the snow holds off.”

Nita did unwrap Mr. St. Michael’s scarf, because the ends dangled unevenly.

“Susannah would have tarried at the library until nightfall,” Nita said, rewrapping the scarf, “reading just one more chapter before deciding whether to borrow a book. She ought to reside above the library and save herself a lot of time and hauling about of books. This is lovely wool.”

Mrs. Grainger had bustled off to her scale, and George was probably purloining lemon drops.

Nita purloined a kiss. A brief, stolen peck on the lips, disproportionately satisfying for the surprise and pleasure it lit in Mr. St. Michael’s eyes.

“You are bold this morning,” he said softly.

“I am in charity with the world, apparently.”

He stood a hair too close, which was lovely. “As am I. Does your brother George fancy that woman?”

Nita left off patting Mr. St. Michael’s lapel to see George deep in conversation with Elsie Nash.

“George and Elsie are friendly, I’m sure.”

Elsie stood with her head cocked, as if hanging on George’s every word—or as if hiding her bruises.

“That’s Nash’s sister-in-law?” Mr. St. Michael asked.

“Elsie Nash,” Nita said, wondering if Elsie was purchasing cosmetics to hide future bruises. “She’s lived with Edward nearly two years, along with her son.”

“The next baronet,” Mr. St. Michael said, “until Nash can find a woman willing to marry him. Why doesn’t Mrs. Nash remarry? She’s a pretty little thing, and I can’t imagine keeping house for Edward results in any compensation.”

Nita’s first instinct was to deliver a retort about a woman’s options being limited and no husband being better than the wrong husband, but Mr. St. Michael had a point. Elsie was comely, cheerful, and hardworking.

And Edward bullied and abused her. He was probably no better with Digby.

Edward was, however, Digby’s guardian, and thus Elsie was trapped.

“Nita,” George said, escorting Elsie to the front of the shop. “Young Digby has apparently acquired a prodigious sniffle. What should Elsie do for the boy?”

Irritation with George warred with concern for little Digby, because this too was a legacy from Nita’s mother. In the middle of the churchyard, in the middle of shopping, or in the middle of a lovely little flirtation with Mr. St. Michael, anybody might accost Nita for a medical consultation.

She loathed discussing personal business in public places, and yet, no matter the location, she would be expected to focus all of her attention on the self-appointed patient, and diagnose and prescribe—accurately—on the spot.

What Elsie ought to do was send Digby to public school, where he’d be given hot broth and three days in bed with a brazier full of coals by his side and Robinson Crusoe to entertain him.

“Tell me Digby’s symptoms,” Nita said, drawing Elsie over to the window and away from the menfolk. Elsie was deep in a mother’s recounting of her son’s every woe and feebleness when from behind them, Nita heard Mr. St. Michael murmur to George.

“Mr. Haddonfield, shall we fetch the horses? I do believe it’s beginning to snow.”

* * *

“What would Lady Nita think were I to depart for Oxfordshire on the morrow?” Tremaine asked as he and George left the fragrant little apothecary.

George Haddonfield would make a good traveling companion. He didn’t chatter, he wasn’t nervous, and he didn’t laugh at a question from a man desperately seeking to maintain his dignity.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” George mused. “You’d at least be spared the ordeal of the assembly, and if Nita’s not inclined to accept your suit, the matter could conclude by correspondence. I don’t fancy a Channel crossing this time of year though.”

Tremaine had proposed less than twelve hours ago, and already the matter was known to Nita’s brother. Was that a good sign or a bad sign?

“Germany will keep,” Tremaine said, “at least until the lady decides my fate. Don’t suppose you have an interest in sheep?”

“Not particularly. My interests are varied, but sheep are not among them.”

Was Elsie Nash among George’s interests? Had Elsie Nash seen that kiss in the apothecary, the kiss that had sent lust blazing straight to Tremaine’s…earlobes?

“Sheep don’t fascinate Edward Nash either,” Tremaine said, nor did they at present fascinate him, “but he knows those merinos are valuable. Given the state of his acres, I’ve concluded Nash intends to resell the sheep.”

As Tremaine approached the livery, the snow shifting from a few stray flakes to a fine, relentless downpour.

“Nita might take your departure for a waning of interest,” George said. “Or stubbornness.”

Tremaine readjusted his scarf, so the occasional snowflake couldn’t hit the back of his neck. “I am tenacious and focused on my commercial objectives. I don’t regard that as a fault.”

Though commercial objectives weren’t half so interesting as Nita Haddonfield’s sense of humor.

George moved with Tremaine into the relative warmth and gloom of the livery, the scents of horses and hay reminding Tremaine of many a winter spent traveling. At a signal from George, the hostler abandoned a stool near a brazier to fetch their mounts.

“Nita is tenacious too,” George said. “I love that about her. She comes to her own conclusions and lets nothing so paltry as convention, public opinion, or the earl’s odd notions sway her.”

George was politely making some damned, fraternal, protective point, which Tremaine hadn’t the patience to decipher. Breakfast had already become a distant memory, and his toes were going numb, though another part of him…

He’d be offering to assist Nita at her bath if he remained in her company much longer.

“While I’m tarrying here, playing the swain, my business goes unattended to,” Tremaine said. “Lady Nita understands that I have responsibilities.”

What Tremaine did not have was the fortitude to remain under the same roof as the lady without importuning her for further liberties. The realization was rather like an entire snowball smacked against his bare nape.

“You should tell her that,” George said as his gelding was led from a loose box. “Tell her you’d rather count sheep than remain at her side. Tell her traveling the Home Counties in the dead of winter has more appeal than her company. Tell her you’d rather read contracts than recite those Scottish poems to her. A lady should hear these things before she plights her troth, especially a lady given to tenacity.”

George’s tone was perfectly pleasant, the way he stroked his horse’s neck relaxed. When he tugged up on the girth, though, he did so quite stoutly.

“I care for your sister, Haddonfield.”

“Glad to hear it. I wouldn’t let Nita know that, though. Women get inconveniently sentimental when a man shows them the least degree of trust.”

Tremaine took William’s reins from the hostler, whose expression was carefully uninterested.

“I esteem her greatly,” Tremaine said, taking his girth up the usual two holes, and running his stirrups down their leathers. He esteemed Nita and he desired her, a puzzling conundrum of physical and emotional imperatives. “She appears to return my sentiments.”

Tremaine fell silent while the hostler tended to the mare, though George Haddonfield’s reprimand had merit. Tremaine did not want to crowd the lady nor impose his attentions on her, and yet neither did he relish leaving the field.

Or appearing desperate.

Beyond the wide doors of the livery, Lady Nita made her way across the village square, her stride businesslike, a parcel under her arm.

“What Nita needs,” George said, “is to esteem herself greatly. If you can give her that, then you have my blessing, not that my blessing matters to anybody.”

George’s blessing likely mattered to Nita a great deal.

“How is it you’re not married, but you grasp the workings of the female mind?” Tremaine asked. Unfair, really, that Haddonfield possessed such insights and stunning good looks too.

“I had a mother until a few years ago. I have sisters, sisters-in-law, cousins, and something else.”

A sense of the dramatic, surely. “And that would be?”

“An appreciation for the courage and fortitude of the average female that you lot seem to lack. Perhaps I should consider marriage after all.” George nudged his horse forward, leaving Tremaine to assist Lady Nita into the saddle.

Who was you lot? George’s tone made Tremaine feel like a member of a tribe of Brobdingnagians, marching heedlessly across a landscape with features too small for Tremaine to see, much less step around.

He assisted Nita onto the mare, tucked her parcel into his saddlebags, and swung into William’s cold saddle.

“Lady Nita, I’ve a mind to look for new lambs at the sheep byre. Would you care to join me?”

“We probably should,” she said as the horses walked out of the stable yard. “This snow looks like it means business, and somebody should make sure the ewes have adequate hay.”

That would be Kinser’s job, of course.

“Precisely my thought,” Tremaine said, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at George Haddonfield’s retreating back.