Two

“What do you hear from my brother Beckman?” George Haddonfield asked as the horses ambled down the frozen lane.

“I hear that he’s disgustingly happy with his bride,” Tremaine replied. Tremaine also endured a lot of pointed ruminating from Beckman Haddonfield about the raptures of married life.

In the spirit of furthering mutual interests, Tremaine had proposed marriage to Polonaise Hunt, Beckman’s sister-in-law, and been turned down flat—no great loss.

But a small loss. Tremaine would admit that much. He and Polonaise would have rubbed along together adequately.

“How is it you came to be interested in sheep?” George asked.

Nobody in his right mind admitted to an interest in sheep, and Tremaine enjoyed excellent mental faculties. He was, however, interested in money.

“My mother’s people are Scottish, though my father was French. When France became unsafe, Mama took her sons home to Scotland. My grandfather’s wealth rested on the wool trade, and I learned by his example.”

A few prosaic sentences that glossed over a small boy’s heartbreak and a Scottish curmudgeon’s prescription for dealing with it.

“Do you like sheep?” Lady Nita asked.

George Haddonfield maintained a diplomatic interest in the winter-drab countryside rather than comment on an arguably peculiar—or insightful—inquiry.

Because Tremaine had been uncomfortably aware of Lady Nita’s family tolerating her, he answered honestly rather than politely.

“Whether I like sheep is of no moment, though I respect them. They have neither fangs nor claws, nor great speed or size, and yet we rely on them for a fabric without which life would lose much of its comfort. Sheep know to stick together when trouble comes calling, and they aren’t too proud to bolt when imperiled.”

Then too, sheep had made Tremaine wealthy.

“Perhaps your Mr. Burns should have written his poem to a sheep rather than a mouse,” George quipped.

Burns had had any number of kind words for sheep—also for women and whiskey.

“Soldiers owe a debt to sheep,” Tremaine replied, “as does anybody seeking to keep warm in winter. Sheep ask little and give much, they look to their own, and are, in their way, stoic. To my eye, a herd of sheep is an attractive addition to any bucolic scene.”

Tremaine had spoken too fiercely, for Lady Nita was smiling while George Haddonfield looked vaguely puzzled. What would George think if he knew Tremaine, like any self-respecting shepherd, preferred the company of sheep to that of most people?

“I like sheep too,” Lady Nita said.

She petted her shaggy beast, but she was still smiling a sweet, feminine, interesting sort of smile that shifted her countenance from pretty to…alluring.

“Not much farther,” George Haddonfield said, as if they’d completed several days’ forced march. “The shepherd bides in that cottage up the hill. I’ll alert him to our presence.”

George snugged his top hat down and cantered off, his horse’s hooves beating a hard tattoo against the frozen ground.

“So tell me, my lady,” Tremaine said, “does it really take you an hour to gobble up some eggs and pop into your habit?” Because, for all Bellefonte’s hospitality over tea and toast, some current had underlain the earl’s words at breakfast.

“Nicholas needed to scold me,” Lady Nita said, her tone perfectly amiable. “He worries, and now that he’s a papa, his worry goes in all directions, like so many chickens when a hound gets loose among them.”

“He scolded you for helping a neighbor deliver a child?” Tremaine hadn’t taken Bellefonte for a man to insist on class distinctions in the midst of the dire and delicate matter of childbirth.

“My mother attended many births,” Lady Nita said, “and I accompanied her when I grew older. Nicholas understands, as Papa did, that childbirth is not a time to stand on ceremony, but I sent my groom home when darkness fell.”

Tremaine prided himself on a complement of common sense from both his French and his Scottish antecedents, so he parsed the rest of the situation out for himself.

“Your neighbor lives in a humble dwelling,” he guessed, “a single room, likely, and the groom’s choices were to be present at a birth or brave the elements for hours on end. You apprised your brother of your reasoning?”

“I was too angry.”

And her brother was too besotted with his countess.

“When I was too angry,” Tremaine mused, “my grandfather sent me to the Highlands, though my problem was, in truth, grief and fear rather than temper. Mama and Papa had both perished in the bloody glory of France’s transition from one sort of despotism to another, and I could not comprehend why they’d been taken from me.”

Nor could Tremaine comprehend why he’d confide so old and useless a facet of his childhood to this woman.

“Then you’re truly interested in buying these sheep?” she asked.

“What else would I be interested in?” But as Tremaine posed the question, a glimmer of insight befell him. “Or should that be ‘who else’?”

Off in the distance, George swung down from his horse and knocked on the door of a stone cottage that had a plume of white smoke drifting from its sole chimney. The breeze was faintly scented with that smoke and with the familiar scent of sheep in winter plumage.

“My three oldest brothers have all recently wed,” Lady Nita said, “and thus matrimony is on their minds. Kirsten and Susannah have had their come-outs, and I sense they’ve given up waiting for me to choose a spouse.”

Had Lady Nita given up?

“Am I being inspected?” Tremaine asked. “Should I be flattered?” What had Beckman said to his siblings, and how should Tremaine exact retribution for it?

Lady Nita brought her horse to a halt near a wooden stile set into the undulating stone fence.

“You should be careful, Mr. St. Michael, and honest. I will not tolerate any man trifling with my sisters’ affections. Your sheep, sir, are in this pasture.”

Tremaine was always careful, and as honest as circumstances allowed. As for the sheep, their plush, woolly coats gave them away. The merino breed was native to Spain, but for years, their export had been illegal. The King of Spain occasionally made gifts of herds to other monarchs, including a gift to George III in the last century. His Majesty had dispersed his herd by sale some years ago.

When Beckman Haddonfield had mentioned that Bellefonte owned the largest intact herd of pure merinos in Kent, Tremaine’s commercial instincts had gone on full alert. Merinos grew soft, strong, abundant wool of a far higher grade than the Highland breeds could produce.

To Tremaine’s highly educated eye, the specimens in Bellefonte’s pasture were of good size, possessed excellent coats of wool, and were in good health.

In other words, Bellefonte’s sheep were nothing short of beautiful.

* * *

Tremaine St. Michael was different from Nita’s brothers, all of whom were tall, blond, and blue-eyed. They had fair complexions and came in varying degrees of too handsome. To a man, they danced well, had abundant charm, and knew beyond doubt exactly how their sisters’ lives ought to unfold.

Even George, who had reason to be more tolerant than most, envisioned only a husband and babies for his sisters.

Mr. St. Michael, by contrast, was dark and direct, rather than charming. Moreover, he seemed to notice what Nita’s brothers did not: that she had a brain and a few ideas of her own about how her life should go on.

“I’d like to walk among the herd,” Mr. St. Michael said, dismounting from his bay gelding. “Shall you come with me?”

“I’d like that.” Nita would also like a moment to slip away and check on Addy Chalmers and her baby, but that call could wait until George wasn’t underfoot.

The rest of Nita’s current cases—Alton Horst’s persistent cough, Mary Eckhardt’s sore throat, Mr. Clackengeld’s gout—would have to content themselves with notes and medicinals conveyed by a groom, at least until Nicholas’s temper calmed.

Mr. St. Michael assisted Nita off her horse, revealing a strength commensurate with the gentleman’s size. Atlas stood more than eighteen hands, meaning Nita rode a good six feet above the ground. Her descent was controlled by Mr. St. Michael’s guidance, which was fortunate.

“I hate how the cold makes landing so painful,” Nita said, gripping his coat sleeves a moment for balance. “It’s worse on the foot one keeps in the stirrup.”

If her clinging annoyed Mr. St. Michael, he didn’t show it. “Which means for us men, the landing is painful for both feet. At least we’re not getting more snow to go with the cold.”

“Hannibal Thistlewaite says more snow is on the way.” Though what would Mr. St. Michael care for an old man’s arthritic predictions? Della claimed Mr. St. Michael would be gone soon anyway.

Nita’s escort was tall enough that she could honestly use him to establish her balance, and even in the bitter cold, he bore a pleasant floral scent. That scent alone suggested Continental connections.

She turned loose of him and wished she’d worn a proper cloak instead of George’s old coat.

“Shall we find a gate, or can you manage the stile, my lady?” Mr. St. Michael asked.

“I’ve been climbing stiles since I was half my present height, sir. What are you looking for among these sheep?”

Mr. St. Michael was happy to talk about sheep—as happy as Nita had seen him. His gait was not the mincing indulgence of a gentleman escorting a lady, but rather, the stride of a man of the land inspecting his acres. He vaulted the stile in one graceful, powerful movement—he knew his way around a stile too, apparently—then assisted Nita, whose clambering about in a riding habit was ungainly indeed.

“You seek clear eyes, clear nasal passages, dense wool, healthy hooves,” Nita summarized some moments later. “What else?”

Mr. St. Michael surveyed the flock, which was regarding him as well. The more cautious sheep had retreated to the far stone wall, while the nearer ones peered at their visitors curiously.

“I listen to their voices,” he said, “which can indicate unwellness. I watch how they move, look for the smallest and the most stout, and, about the back end, one can observe indications of ill health.”

“Much like people.”

Oh, drat. Oh, damn. Oh, blushes. Nita should not have said that, not when Mr. St. Michael’s reference had likely been to lameness rather than digestive upset. He continued to visually inspect the sheep, his dark brows knitted, as if he had heard those three unladylike words but could not credit that they’d come from her.

“An excellent point, Lady Nita.”

Heat, incongruous in the cold, crept up Nita’s cheeks.

And now, Mr. St. Michael studied her. “A bit of color becomes you—not that your ladyship needs becoming.”

Mr. St. Michael was in trade, he lacked genteel English good looks, and his antecedents were all wrong, and yet when he smiled…

When he smiled at Nita, spring arrived early in Kent. Tremaine St. Michael’s eyes crinkled, his mouth curved up, and a conspiratorial good humor beamed from him that took Nita’s breath.

His smile also made Nita foolish, for she wanted badly to smile back. “What do I need, Mr. St. Michael, if not becoming?”

Off by the stone fence, a sheep bleated plaintively.

“Perhaps your ladyship needs befriending?”

Marvelous response. How long had it been since Nita had had a friend? She stood among the sheep, who were milling ever closer, and wished Mr. St. Michael were not merely one of Nicholas’s business acquaintances who’d be gone from Belle Maison by this time next week.

“A friend is a precious treasure,” Nita said, though Susannah or Kirsten would have had some handy quote to serve up instead.

A moment developed, with Mr. St. Michael’s nearness protecting Nita from the bitter breeze and Nita wishing she’d had that handy quote, or that George would come whistling down the lane, or that Nicholas had not been dragooned into meeting with the vicar.

The wind blew a strand of Nita’s hair across her mouth—Susannah and Kirsten would also have pinned their coiffures more securely. Mr. St. Michael tucked the lock behind Nita’s ear. The sensation of heat in the midst of cold assailed her again, while her insides blossomed with more of that early spring.

Whatever Mr. St. Michael might have said on the subject of friendship was interrupted by the same sheep, bleating more loudly. Mr. St. Michael swung about, toward the far fence, and cocked his head.

“Something’s amiss.” He marched off in the direction of the bleating sheep, the other ewes scampering from his path.

Had that particular bleating not conveyed distress, Mr. St. Michael’s brisk pace across the hard ground would have. Nita followed, though dread trickled into her belly as the bleating ewe came into view.

A small, dark, woolly lump lay steaming on the frozen earth before her.

“You’ve an early arrival,” St. Michael said, kneeling by the ewe. “A wee tup-lamb.”

The little beast wasn’t moving, and what manner of god allowed an animal to be born wet and tiny in this cold? Nita cut that thought off—she and the Almighty were not in charity with each other.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Mr. St. Michael replied, unbuttoning his greatcoat. “But the mother can do little for him once she’s given him a good licking over. At least this ewe didn’t abandon her young. Hard to save the ones orphaned at birth.”

He continued to unbutton—his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt even—while Nita endured a familiar blend of helplessness and anger.

“Why did it come so early?” she murmured. So lethally, stupidly early.

“Some of them just do,” Mr. St. Michael replied, “and some come late, and a good shepherd knows which ewes are close to delivering, which are yeld, and which will have late lambs. Had winter been mild and spring early, this fellow would have had advantages over his younger cousins. Take my gloves.”

Nita scooped them up and set them aside, a fine pair of riding gloves lined with some kind of fur.

Mr. St. Michael stroked a bare hand over the lamb, who was breathing in shallow, shivery pants. The ewe stamped a hoof and came closer.

Maybe, like Nita, she dreaded to see the little one suffer and dreaded more to see Mr. St. Michael end its misery. But what could a mother do, when she had neither claws nor a full complement of teeth and her newborn was threatened by the elements and by a creature at least twice her size?

“You won’t kill him, will you?” Nita was enough of a countrywoman to know that death was sometimes a mercy, and yet she regarded death as an enemy.

“Of course not. This is valuable livestock.” Mr. St. Michael passed Nita the lamb, who weighed less than some of Susannah’s books. “If you would tuck him against my belly?”

Mr. St. Michael had undone his clothing right down to his skin and held it all open so Nita could put the wet, frigid lamb into his shirt, against his bare abdomen.

“Now do up a few buttons,” he directed. “Enough to hold the lamb against me, not enough to smother him.”

Nita had to remove her gloves to comply, and while she applauded Mr. St. Michael’s quick thinking, the notion of a half-frozen lamb cuddling against his bare skin nearly had her shivering.

The ewe stamped her hoof again and let go a bleat that surely held indignation and dismay. She advanced a few steps, as if to charge her offspring’s captor, but stopped short and stamped again.

“I’ve got him,” Mr. St. Michael said to the mother sheep. He moved closer so the ewe could sniff at his shirt. “Your little lad will be safe, as long as he keeps breathing, and now I’ve got you too.”

Like a predator striking, Mr. St. Michael scooped the ewe onto his shoulders.

After some halfhearted flailing, the ewe allowed it, though she had little choice when Mr. St. Michael had all four legs in a firm grip.

He had the entire situation in a firm grip, and Nita was abruptly glad she’d volunteered to show Mr. St. Michael this herd.

“Now what, sir?”

“To the gate, which you will have to open for us.”

Their progress was businesslike, Mr. St. Michael slowed not one bit by seven stone of mother sheep across his shoulders. By the time Nita led him through the gate, George had emerged from the cottage and was hurrying down the path.

“Are you reaving sheep, St. Michael, or have you tired of that fine coat you’re wearing?” George asked.

“The coat can be cleaned easily enough,” Mr. St. Michael said. “We found an early lamb, and he needs shelter from the elements.”

George was, in some ways, Nita’s favorite brother. He often grasped matters his older siblings had to have explained to them, but the whereabouts of the lamb eluded him.

“The lamb is inside Mr. St. Michael’s shirt, to keep warm,” Nita said. “Where is Mr. Kinser?”

“He’s snug by his fire and complaining of a chest cold,” George said. “The lambing pens are in the byre behind the cottage.”

Nita mentally added Mr. Kinser to her week’s list of patients to treat by correspondence. A chest cold was simple enough—mustard plaster for the chest, a toddy for comfort—but if ignored, could rapidly become lung fever.

Nita followed George and Mr. St. Michael up the hill to a low stone building set into the slope of the land. While the granite walls provided shelter from the wind, the cold within was still considerable.

“Can a lamb possibly thrive in here?” Nita asked.

“Lambs are tough, though he needs to nurse,” Mr. St. Michael said, which blunt reply inspired George to inspect the whitewashed stonework. “He’ll also need a thick bed of straw.”

Mr. St. Michael set the ewe down inside a wooden pen tucked against the back wall. She started up a repetitive baaing that ripped at Nita’s nerves.

“She wants her baby,” Nita said. Was desperate for him.

“She shall have him,” Mr. St. Michael replied, “just as soon as the chambermaids have tended to the linens.” He took up a hay fork and pitched a quantity of straw into the pen, his movements practiced and easy. “Mr. Haddonfield, if you could tell your shepherd it’s time to move his earliest ewes in here, their presence will add to the warmth and safety of the first lambs.”

George scowled at the ewe, whose racket had escalated. “I’ll let him know.”

“Now would suit, Mr. Haddonfield. Lady Nita tells me snow is on the way, and moving sheep doesn’t get easier for being done in a blizzard. A dozen ewes at least. Two dozen would be better. They’ll need hay, of course, and fresh water too.”

None of which Mr. Kinser had yet seen to.

“I doubt Difty Kinser is under the weather,” Nita said when George had marched off. “Shall I unbutton you?”

“Please.” Mr. St. Michael stood before her, the top of his head nearly touching the byre’s rafters, while Nita undid his coat, jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Out of medical necessity, she’d undressed grown men before—old men, ailing men, insensate men—but those experiences did not prepare her for the task she’d taken on.

Tremaine St. Michael was fit, healthy, muscular, and willing to lend his very warmth to a helpless creature. His coat was dirty as a result of the ewe’s muddy underbelly across his shoulders, and yet, amid the scent of dirt and straw, Nita could still catch a whiff of flowers.

Nita stopped short of reaching into Mr. St. Michael’s very shirt.

“Is he alive?” she asked.

The ewe fell silent as Mr. St. Michael extracted the lamb from his clothing.

“He is, but he wants his mama. She seems a sensible sort, which always helps.”

Mr. St. Michael stepped over the board siding of the pen and held the lamb up to the ewe’s nose. She licked her baby twice, and when Mr. St. Michael put the lamb down in the straw, she continued to sniff at her newborn.

“What now?” Nita asked. If the lamb died, Nita’s list of disenchantments with the Almighty would gain another item.

“Now comes sustenance,” Mr. St. Michael said, positioning the lamb near the ewe’s back legs. “If he can nurse, he has a good chance. If he can’t, then the ewe’s first milk should be saved in case more early arrivals show up in the next day or two.”

A gentleman would not have explained that much. A gentleman would not have supported the lamb as it braced on tottery legs and poked its nose about in the general direction of its first meal.

A gentleman would surely not have assisted the lamb to find that first meal, but Tremaine St. Michael did. The ewe held still—all that was required of her—and as Nita looked on, the lamb’s tail twitched.

The sight of that vigorous twitch of a dark tail eased a constriction about Nita’s heart. “He’s nursing?”

“Going at it like a drover at his favorite alehouse.”

“Good.” Wonderful.

Mr. St. Michael graced Nita with another one of those early-spring smiles as the lamb switched its tail again and Nita tried not to cry.

George interrupted this special, awkward moment. “Kinser says he’ll have two dozen ewes up here within the hour. He was planning to move them by week’s end, but this one caught him by surprise.”

Mr. St. Michael climbed out of the pen. “And the hay and water?”

“I’ll send some fellows over to see that it’s taken care of,” George said. “How’s the new arrival?”

“He’ll soon be sleeping, snug up against his mama, but now that the first one is on the ground, more will follow. Your shepherd will need assistance, because in this weather, somebody should check the herd for lambs regularly, even through the night. The first-time mothers and some of the older ewes will cheerfully ignore their own offspring unless reminded of their maternal obligations.”

Mr. St. Michael plucked his gloves from Nita’s grasp and met her gaze for an instant. His eyes held understanding, as if he knew that females of the human species could also misplace their maternal instincts, and no kindly shepherd would address their lapse.

“If we’re done here,” George said, “I’m for a toddy and a warm fire.”

“A fine notion,” Mr. St. Michael replied, pulling on his gloves. “Lady Nita, my thanks for your assistance.”

She’d done nothing except blink back tears and handle a few buttons, and yet, after Mr. St. Michael had boosted her onto her horse, he lingered a moment arranging the drape of her skirts over her boots.

“Not every titled lady would have tarried in the cold for a mere lamb,” he said. “I should have left the matter to Kinser’s good offices. This is his flock.”

“Kinser is likely the worse for drink.” Nita had complained to Nicholas of this tendency the last time she’d had to make up headache powders for Mr. Kinser.

“An occupational hazard among shepherds, particularly in cold weather. That was a fine little tup, and he’ll be worth a pretty penny.”

Mr. St. Michael looked like he wanted to say more. Nita plucked a bit of straw from his hair and barely resisted the urge to brush at the shoulders of his coat.

“Ready to go?” George asked, climbing into the saddle.

Mr. St. Michael swung up and nudged William forward. “I believe you mentioned a toddy, sir. I’m sure the lady would enjoy one sooner rather than later.”

They rode home in silence, the wind at their backs. Nita would enjoy a toddy, and then she’d excuse herself from whatever domestic diversions were thrown at her and bring a few extra blankets and provisions to Addy Chalmers and wee Annie Elizabeth.

* * *

“I cannot fathom why Elsie Nash has not remarried,” Kirsten remarked when she, Susannah, and Della were tooling home, hot bricks at their feet, scarves wound round their necks. “She is the dearest woman.”

“Perhaps she’s content to be a member of Edward’s household,” Susannah said. “He has no lady of his own, and a widowed sister-in-law makes a fine hostess.”

Susannah, in her sweet, determined way, aspired to become Edward Nash’s lady, and Mr. Nash seemed keen on the idea too.

“Elsie can waltz,” Kirsten said. “Do you suppose Edward can? You might offer to teach him, Suze, if he hasn’t acquired the knack.” Because for all his memorized couplets of Shakespeare, Edward Nash was in line for a mere baronetcy when some great-uncle or second cousin died. He was rural gentry until that distant day, and likely ignorant of the waltz.

“How would one offer such lessons to a gentleman?” Susannah asked.

In a lifetime of trying, Kirsten would never be as innocent or good as Susannah.

“One asks him, in a private moment, if he might assist one to brush up her waltzing skills before the assembly,” Kirsten explained. “One stumbles at judicious moments in judicious directions when such assistance is rendered, apologizing all the while. One is befuddled by the complexity of the steps.”

Susannah’s consternation was both amusing and worrisome. In the absence of any real authority over her own person, a woman benefited from having a bit of guile.

“Nita doesn’t care for Mr. Nash,” Della said from the backward-facing seat. Little more than her face showed from a swaddling of blankets and lap robes. “I can’t say I do either.”

“Have you a reason for your dislike of Edward?” Susannah asked.

“Elsie Nash is not happy in her brother-in-law’s household,” Della said.

Kirsten didn’t particularly like Edward Nash either—he had too high an opinion of himself for a man who’d inherited his holdings and done little to make them prosper. He was handsome, though, and he doted on Susannah. Edward and Susannah would have lovely, blond, handsome, poetry-spouting children together.

A dozen at least.

“Widowhood is not generally a cheerful state,” Susannah said.

“Elsie’s husband died more than two years ago,” Della countered. “She has a child to love, and yet she’s not—”

“She’s not at peace,” Kirsten ventured. “Maybe she’s lonely. Pity Adolphus is too young for her.” Because George, despite his grand good looks and abundant charm, would likely never marry.

“She moves like an older woman and has silences like an older woman,” Della said, “as if her heart ached.”

“All the more reason to cheer her with some waltzes,” Susannah replied. “Might we persuade Mr. St. Michael to stay a few extra days? He has the look of a man who knows what he’s about on the dance floor, and our gatherings never have enough handsome bachelors.”

Kirsten and Della exchanged a glance that had nothing to do with planning the local assembly, for Susannah had done it again: arrived for innocent reasons at a suggestion that had not-so-innocent possibilities.

“Nita volunteered to ride to the sheep pastures with him in this weather,” Della said quite casually, “and she was out late last night with Addy Chalmers.”

“Which you had to mention at breakfast,” Kirsten reminded her.

“I like Mr. St. Michael,” Susannah said. “He doesn’t put on airs.”

The gentleman had an odd accent—mostly Scottish with the occasional French elision, which combination would not endear him to Polite Society’s loftiest hostesses. He was in trade, and he had a brusque quality that made Kirsten leery, though Nita could also be quite brusque—as could Kirsten, all too often.

“You ask him to prolong his stay, Suze,” Della said. “Tell Mr. St. Michael we’re shy a few handsome, dancing bachelors, then have Mr. Nash give you some waltzing lessons.”

Susannah’s brows drew down, and as the coach clattered from rut to bump to rocky turn, her gaze became sweetly, prettily thoughtful.

Also determined.

* * *

“Lovey, if you put fewer cakes on the tray, then the Pontiff of Haddondale might not stay as long.” Nick punctuated this observation with a kiss to his wife’s temple. “Not that I’d encourage my dearest lady to anything approaching ungraciousness.”

Though, of course, his wife was incapable of ungraciousness. Leah was also incapable of idleness, which was why Nick had had to track her down to his woodworking shop, to which she alone had a spare key.

“I do wonder how Nita put up with Vicar,” Leah said, glowering at a stack of foolscap on the workbench. “If he didn’t feel compelled to add a line of Scripture to his every observation, he might also be on his way sooner. I fear he aspires to match his son up with our Della, which match you will not approve, Nicholas.”

Nick added coal to the brazier, because his shop was at the back of the stables, where warmth was at a premium. Leah worked with fingerless gloves, the same as any shopgirl might have when totting up the day’s custom.

She sat on a high stool, but Nick was tall enough to peer over her shoulder.

“As my countess wishes, but, lovey-lamb, why are you hiding here?” Nick certainly hid here from time to time, and only Leah would disturb him when he did.

She tossed down a pencil and leaned against him. “You are so marvelously warm. Where is your coat, Nicholas?”

“My countess will keep me warm. You’re working on menus.”

The Countess of Bellefonte nuzzled her husband’s chest. “I hate menus. I hate mutton, I hate soup, I hate fish, I hate that Cook expects me to remember which we ate Tuesday last and in what order, and I hate most of all that, for some reason, one must never serve trifle at the same meal as lobster.”

This was old business, this jockeying between Leah and the staff she’d inherited upon becoming Nick’s wife. She’d won over the maids and footmen, and Hanford was devoted, but Cook was temperamental and contrary.

“Shall I have a word with Cook?” Nick dreaded the prospect, though Leah had taken Cook on more than once.

The countess straightened and tidied her stack of papers. “You shall not. Household matters are not your domain, Nicholas, though I appreciate your willingness to entertain Vicar when he comes snuffling around.”

His Holiness had a prosperous figure for a man of the cloth, because Nick supported the living generously. Nick put Leah’s menus aside, turned, and hiked himself up onto the bench, so he faced his wife.

“What was Vicar going on about,” Nick asked, “with all that ‘the Lord will provide for the less fortunate according to their deserts,’ and ‘the laborer is worthy of his wage’?”

Leah rested her head on Nick’s knee, a rare gesture of weariness.

“He was referring to Addy Chalmers,” she said. “Nita likely prevailed upon the vicarage for some charity. Addy has a number of children and her family turned their backs on her years ago.”

“Five children now. Five living,” Nick said, for Nita had reminded him of the total rather pointedly. According to Nita’s clipped recitation, the oldest was eleven, an age at which Nick had been haring all over the shire on his pony, his half brother Ethan at his side, and nothing more pressing on his mind than whether to put a toad in the tutor’s boot or in his bed.

“Five children,” Leah said, “and winter is only half over. I’ll send a basket. I should have sent one by now. Children must eat, despite the sins of the mother or the father. I, of all people, know this.”

More old business, for prior to their marriage, Leah had endured her share of scandal and heartbreak. Nick had his spies in the stables though, and knew Nita had already seen to the basket.

“Addy Chalmers doesn’t sin in solitude,” he said. “My most enthusiastic sinning was ever undertaken in company. To the extent that Nita’s charitable, she has my admiration, but she has no regard for her station.”

Leah patted his thigh, then straightened, which was prudent of her. A man married less than a year was prone to certain thoughts when private with his wife, particularly when that dear lady was in need of comfort, the door was locked, and the brazier giving off a cozy warmth.

Alas, Leah had also recently become a mother, and restraint was still the marital order of the day.

And the night.

“I have endless admiration for Nita,” Leah said. “She’s been very helpful acquainting me with the household matters, but, Nicholas, I don’t think galloping off at all hours to tend to the sick and the dying is making Nita happy.”

“It’s not making her married, you mean. Perhaps she can find a younger son who’s turned up medical.”

Though where Nick would find one of those for Nita, he did not know. This medical younger son would have to be a forward-thinking chap with some means. Nita needed somebody with a light heart too, not full of death or Scripture, and it wouldn’t hurt if the fellow were inclined to have a large family.

Nicholas’s father had maintained that women with large families were too busy managing their own broods to wander into mischief. Nita didn’t wander into mischief, she charged at it headlong.

“Come spring, we’ll open a campaign to see Nita settled,” Leah said. “Kirsten, Susannah, and Della will abet us. I think Della has taken an interest in Mr. St. Michael.”

Of all the burdens Nick shared with his dear wife, the burden of being head of his family was the one he most appreciated her counsel about—even when she was wrong.

“Della isn’t out yet, lovey. She shouldn’t be noticing any gentlemen.” Besides, Nick had St. Michael in mind for Kirsten, who, like St. Michael, suffered no fools and didn’t put on airs. “Why do you think Della is considering St. Michael?”

Leah hopped off her stool and took her stack of papers to the brazier. One at a time, she fed her menus to the flames.

“When was the last time Della stirred from her rooms before late morning, Nicholas?”

Well, damn. “When your handsome, desirable, and ever-so-widowed brother Trenton came to call over the summer.”

“Your strategy to have the family breakfast together isn’t working, you know.”

Denying the Haddonfield siblings breakfast trays in the hope they’d at least start their day from the same table had been Nick’s strategy, and Leah had been against it. She’d given the staff the appropriate orders, however, and thus she bore the brunt of the family’s disgruntlement.

“Then deny them even tea trays,” Nick said, for the situation was vexing his countess and stern measures were in order.

Leah balled up half a sheet of paper and tossed it into the fire. Probably lobster and trifle on Tuesday night.

“Will you forgo your morning chocolate too, Nicholas? Will you make me give up mine? Your siblings are not sheep, to be herded together for the convenience of their shepherd.”

The only full-time shepherd Nick employed had a fondness for the bottle.

“Damned sheep,” Nick grumbled. “My sympathy for the challenges Papa faced as the earl grows daily. I ran into Edward Nash at the apothecary yesterday. He hinted strongly that the very herds St. Michael wants to buy would make a lovely dowry for Susannah.”

Another half sheet went hurtling into the conflagration. “Mr. Nash is presuming.”

Mr. Nash was hinting and dithering, while poor Susannah likely went to bed each night praying for a ring from the man. Nick could not afford a large cash settlement for each sister, and Nash’s hints hadn’t been entirely unwelcome.

“We own an embarrassment of sheep, lovey mine, maybe even enough to entice two handsome bachelors to the altar, but what aren’t you telling me?”

Two pieces of paper remained. These Leah folded and stuffed into a pocket of her cape. “The moon was bright last night, Nicholas.”

Nick hopped down and wrapped his arms around his wife, for he could hear voices beyond the door and what Leah had to say was for Nick’s ears only. Her shape had changed since she’d become a mother, and she fit against him more comfortably than ever, though her logic eluded him.

He nuzzled her ear. “The moon was bright and…?”

“And when Nita came in from her errand last night, she must have come upon Mr. St. Michael in the stables.”

“I threatened to fire Jacobs for leaving Nita at that woman’s cottage, but hurling lordly thunderbolts is pointless. The staff is in the habit of doing as Nita tells them.”

Fortunately, Nita had told them to heed the countess’s direction in all things, or a delicate situation would have grown impossible, for in her way, Leah was as stubborn as Nita.

“You’re all in the habit of doing as Nita tells you,” Leah said, “and that is not her fault. She and Mr. St. Michael tarried in the gazebo.”

Nick left off kissing his wife’s chin, for a gazebo on a midwinter night was nowhere to tarry for mere conversation.

“Last night was colder than the ninth circle of hell,” Nick muttered. Complete with a ring around the moon portending snow.

Leah rested her cheek against his chest while, beyond the door, somebody called for Atlas and the Scottish gent’s gelding to be saddled.

“Exactly, Nicholas. Despite the cold and darkness, despite having no prior acquaintance with the man, Nita tarried in the gazebo with Mr. St. Michael, and, Nicholas?”

He was becoming aroused, and his dear lady was happily tucking herself closer to him. Whenever Nick held his wife for more than a moment, desire flared, and he wondered why, in the name of all that was sweet, young men avoided holy matrimony.

To bargain over sheep, for God’s sake?

“Lovey?”

“Nita blew out the lamp, and still, Mr. St. Michael remained in the gazebo with her.”