A Proper Mistress (24 page)

And that had him thinking of Molly's stories of her early years. He had not looked very long for the book in the house with army records, and now he wished he had kept at it. It would have been nice to give Molly something—something she could keep, not some bit of jewelry that he must take back, but something she might really value. Even if it was just the sight of her father's name in a book.

He wanted, he realized, to have her smile at him with that utter delight in her eyes as she had had when she'd first glimpsed the picnic.

Only now she was bothered, and so was he.

Blazes, but he had known it as a poor idea to come on this visit and he'd been proven right.

He waited a quarter hour before he started hinting that they must go. But Lady Thorpe kept remembering yet another story of her sister or her late husband, or someone else dead.

It was more than grim.

Sylvain seemed not the least upset by this, but he had always though she had more in common with her wild beasts than any civilized soul. However, Molly listened to the stories with a wistful look in her eyes that just about tore a fellow open.

Finally, he managed to pry Molly loose.

He took her to Halsage. A walk about the village and a stop at The Four Feathers would be a treat. Only he found himself too aware of the stares and whispers following them, and he came near to knocking down George Afton in the inn when the man started winking and leering at Molly, as if she were some common strumpet.

Which she wasn't. Not really. Or, at least, well, she might be a strumpet and of common blood, but she was quite out of the ordinary in every way.

Taking her arm, he led her back to Terrance's curricle and contented himself with driving her around the neighborhood, pointing out the sights he could name and making up names for the rest.

That evening, after changing for dinner and doing himself up just for her in a black evening coat and a proper cravat, and a gold brocade waistcoat, he did his best to keep her attention on himself. And he ignored his father glowering at them. He also refused his father's demand that he spend time after dinner talking over any more estate business.

"If you want to talk sheep, get Terrance to come home!" he burst out at the end of the evening. He strode off to his own rooms, angry with his father for pushing at him, with Terrance for not being there to deal with it, and with himself for losing his temper.

The squire stared after his youngest son, just as angry. The insolent pup! Talking to his father in that tone! Gads, but he'd—

He'd what? Disinherit him? He had done that with one son and it had done nothing to amend the lad's behavior.

Staking into his study, the squire slammed the door behind him. He had to open it again as indignant and insistent paws scratched on the door. The dogs piled in through the open door, tails waving as each made for a favored spot. The squire shut the door again and strode to the brandy decanter. When he had a full glass in his hand, he stared at the amber liquid, swirling it, letting the strong, acidic fumes fill his nostrils and his senses.

He had thought this madness between Theo and that...that girl to be nothing. But he could see the intimacy blossoming between them. The two of them spoke without words, sharing looks and touches that told of more than an infatuation.

In little more than a fortnight, the bans would have been called and Theo could marry the girl.

The squire frowned.

He'd as good as given his blessing, but that had been when he was certain the lad would not go through with it. However, he had gone into Halsage that morning and had heard the muffled snickers behind his back. Theo Winslow marrying a London strumpet—like to like, he'd heard the mutters.

Well, he would not see the Winslow name ridiculed.

He tossed back his brandy. He'd throw the girl out, by gads! Have her tossed out with those outrageous dresses of hers. Tonight. He glanced out the darkened windows. Well, perhaps tomorrow. At first light. Yes, that would do!

He poured himself another brandy. He thought how he had proclaimed her impertinent one morning. She had thanked him for it as if she had not known the meaning of the word. But she had. He had seen it in her eyes.

Little baggage!

She never seemed to fear crossing swords over coffee. A smile tugged his mouth and he wiped it away with a deep swallow of brandy.

Well, perhaps he'd have her thrown out after breakfast.

Yes, give her one more go round, for it wouldn't do to have her thinking she had got the best of him. Yes, after breakfast would do far better than at first light.

But then she came downstairs the next morning in breeches.

He nearly dropped his coffee cup. They looked to be Theo's old clothes—breeches, riding boots, a billowing white shirt too large for her, and a riding coat as well. She only lacked a cravat and waistcoat to look a man—except there was nothing masculine about that figure of hers.

Tightened his grip on the china, he ignored the coffee that had sloshed out of his cup onto the table, and demanded, "What in blazes are you dressed indecent for?"

He had raised his voice and the dogs' nails clattered on the wood as they skittered under the table.

Molly put a hand on her hip and stared back at him. "If a gent can wear breeches and have it seems decent, that's decent enough for me. Besides, Theo wants me to jump today and if I'm to ride astride it's this or nothing and I think horse hair would itch me bare arse."

He almost burst out with a laugh and had to change it to a cough. He scowled at her. Gads, but looked even younger today than ever.

With a shake of her head, she moved to the sideboard to fill a plate. "You've not eaten again this morning, and you smell of stale brandy! No wonder you're so cross. And here's Mrs. Brown making the best buttered eggs."

"I'm not hungry!" he snapped.

"Yes, you are. It's why you're so disagreeable in the mornings."

"That's a fancy word for the likes of you."

She grinned. "Ain't it just, ducks. Now start on that, if you can. I'm going to fetch you somethin' I used to make for my uncle's head on one of his late mornings."

He started to tell her she was impertinent, but he had said that before, and she was gone already from the room. He pushed the plate away. The smell of warm eggs and bacon tempted a little, but it also set his stomach turning.

He put a hand on it. His head did ache, and his insides churned sour from too much brandy the night before. A moment later she returned and put a pewter mug in front of him.

He glared at the white froth. "What's that?"

"A panda—rum, sugar, butter, nutmeg, and lemon."

He pushed it away. "Bah! Sick room food for an invalid."

"Yes, and a sick room is just where you'll be if you don't care for yourself. Drinking too much and not eating! Your dogs get better than you give yourself! But drink it or throw it out as suits you! I've a horse to ride."

With that she strode from the room, stopping only long enough to take a bite of bacon with her.

He glanced at the mug again, his stomach turning. Picking it up, he sniffed it, and drained it. It went down sweet and tasty, and after a few moments, settled his insides like a blessing.

Blast the girl for being right.

He glared at the door a moment, and glanced at the rapidly cooling bacon and eggs. Mrs. Brown did indeed make a good set of buttered eggs—fluffy things. Pulling the plate close, he began to eat. From under the table, one of the dogs nudged his knee and he slipped the beast a sliver of ham and thought about fetching himself some more eggs.

But this wasn't due to anything she'd said, he told himself. No, he was just hungry.

That evening he watched her play backgammon with his son as Plato rested his head on his knee. He glared at them, but they paid no heed, and so he picked up the latest edition of
The Sporting Magazine
and opened it.

Theo was teasing the girl about having nearly coming unseated in trotting over no more than a fallen branch, and she kept laughing at his jokes and promising revenge upon him in the game. Finally, to keep from wandering over to join them, he got up and strode out, his dogs at his heels.

Only instead of going to his study, he did something he had not done in years.

He went to Julia's room.

With a candlestick in one hand, he stepped into the room. He shut the dogs out, left them to scratch on the door, though they soon stopped.

The cold of the place wrapped around him—and the faint scent of roses. He almost turned and walked out, but that would make him a coward. He wasn't that. Mouth set, he stiffened and stepped forward.

Her portrait still hung here. He'd never been able to bring himself to order it taken down—or this room made over. He ought to have. Ought to have ordered everything sold, or put up in the attic, or burned. Only he could not let go of it. Not a stick of it. Nor an ounce of her.

Oh, Julia!

He stared at the painting now, the pain twisting in his heart as it had almost twenty years ago. Tall, slim, graceful, black-haired, with eyes the color of fine sherry. Terrance looked so like her. But this Molly of Theo's seemed a different creature entirely.

Only the laughter was the same—bright as a candle.

He glared at the portrait.

Candles burned out. Or could be snuffed. He knew how to do that.

Turning on his heel, he strode out, shutting the door behind him as if that could shut away his past. His regrets.

He'd throw that girl out of the house tomorrow. By gads he would. He'd not let any son of his make the same mistakes he had with a wrong marriage.

But he didn't order her gone.

He tried—gads, he tried. Only, just as with that blasted room of Julia's, he could not bring himself to give the orders he knew he should. He despised himself for that weakness. And that made him desperate.

Desperate enough to swallow enough of his pride to take up a pen and write a letter that would put an end to this farce.

And he kept telling himself that it was all for Theo's good.

But was it?

#

"You're not supposed to like him, and you're supposed to have him dislike you! But just look at you—do you call that scandalous? You'll have to leave off your shift and go about looking more a strumpet and less like a girl trying to be proper!"

Shoulders squared back, Molly stared at her reflection. Her lecture to herself wasn't taking.

She had tried on the thin yellow muslin gown with and without a shift. She ought to wear it without—you could see straight through the muslin.

She could not do it.

"A fine harlot you make," she said, glaring at herself.

It was no use. If she went downstairs without her shift on, her blushes would betray her, and so she'd be best off to wear it. At least her shift ended mid-thigh so the muslin would show her legs. But her wearing breeches hadn't done the trick with the squire, either.

Theo had sworn it would.

But Theo knew little enough about his father, it seemed, and the squire knew even less about his son. Oh, these Winslow men! Hard heads, and no sense in them. If only she could put the two of them in a room and make them talk to each other.

However, she suspected that they'd turn their backs to each other and pretend the other one wasn't there. That seemed to be how a Winslow dealt with something he did not want to notice.

"And how am I ever going to earn a penny at this rate?" she muttered. Only it wasn't the money that she thought about as she lay in bed at night. It was how good Theo's arms felt around her, and how much she enjoyed her evenings with him.

How could she sort out this matter between Theo and his father?

In the past week, the more time she spent with the squire the more she found herself seeing a lonely old man, afraid for his son's future. A man who hated to ever say he'd made a mistake. And a father worried for his son. She longed to tell him she didn't mean Theo anything but good.

But she would also have to tell him about Theo's worries over his brother's inheritance. And she doubted the squire would have much admiration for Theo's plan.

Oh, but Theo really should not be courting his father's wrath. Only look what bitterness such rows had left as a legacy for Lady Thorpe's family—and even in her own. She didn't want more "if only's" for Theo.

Still, she had to remember that the squire was a man who had disowned his eldest. He was flint-hearted, and Theo was best away from that. But she'd started to think that flint in him ran about as deep as paper. Mrs. Brown had certainly seemed to think that if the squire's eldest came home to be raged at the entire matter might be considered settled by the squire.