Anita Mills (19 page)

For a long time he sat staring into the fire, sipping the hot spiced wine. Well, he had not played his last cards. Thus far, he’d been able to force her to go on with living in some small measure. He’d been able to force her to respond even if that response was not the one he wished. No, the battle was far from over, and he still thought it could somehow be won. But not at Richlands. Not where she’d fled when he left. Not where she’d borne their tiny stillborn son. Not where the days were short and gray and cold.

Perhaps if they were far away in another place, another clime, she would again turn to him. Perhaps if they were together as they had been that first week, they could rekindle the love they’d lost.

It was already December, and London would be too thin of company for anything, not to mention that the climate was no more salubrious than that at Richlands. He’d thought about taking her to Italy earlier, and the more he thought of it now, the more the notion appealed to him. They’d see the ancient ruins, drive along the sunny seacoast, and be far away from any reminders of what had passed. And come spring, he’d bring her back to London, take her to the best modistes, and see she enjoyed all the routs and balls she’d missed.

And then he thought of Two Harry. He’d scarce been able to even look at the colt since the accident, and he knew he’d never race him again. But Two Harry deserved the chance to run in the 2,000 Guineas in the spring—it would be a travesty if he did not. Well, someone else could race him, someone who’d not lost a wife and a son.

His mind made up, he walked slowly upstairs, passing Millie on the steps. “Is she all right?”

“Aye. I gave her some of the wine.”

“Millie, I’d have you begin packing her things, for I mean to take her to Italy.”

The little maid’s face fell. “And will I be goin’ wi’ her, milord?”

“Yes, of course. She relies on you and Alice.”

“Oh, thank ye, sir!” Her spirits restored on the instant, she fairly skipped the rest of the way downstairs.

“Flirtin’ with the baggage, were ye now, yer honor?” O’Neal teased as Richard cleared the landing.

“Of course not. I told her we were going to Italy.”

“Oh. And beggin’ yer honor’s honor, but ye’ll be takin’ Millie wi’ ye, won’t ye?”

“O’Neal, I’ll not countenance flirting with the maid,” Richard reminded him.

“Flirtin’, is it?” The valet feigned hurt. “Now, Millie’s a saucy baggage, don’t ye know, but there’s not a drop of harm in ’er.” His irrepressible Irish smile played at the corners of his mouth, making it impossible to maintain the air of injury. “And who’s t’ say me intentions are not honorable, faith, and I ask ye? Italy now, is it? A fine place for a courtin’.”

“We leave right after Christmas. For now, I am going to London to sell Two Harry.”

“Sell the horse?” O’Neal was aghast. “But … but, your honor, the horse was winnin’!” he sputtered.

“He’ll win for someone else then.”

Her spirits made more blue-deviled by Richard’s sudden and unexplained absence, Harriet was even testier than usual. It wasn’t right, she fumed to herself. She’d wished him at Jericho, and yet when he’d gone, she was inexplicably lonely. The peace and quiet she’d demanded were hers, but they were totally unsatisfactory.

And Millie’s incessant packing and repacking were unnerving. She did not want to go to Italy in the first place, but to have the maid take such ridiculous pleasure in the trip was outside of enough. Even O’Neal, who’d told everybody that the racing circuit abroad had been a dull, lonely business, seemed eager to return to Italy.

“What are you doing now?” Harriet demanded peevishly, disturbed by the sound of crackling tissue.

“Foldin’ yer best dress, mum.”

“Well, I wish you would not.”

“Aye, mum.”

“Millie, do you never get out-of-reason cross?” Harriet sighed. “You must surely have the patience of a saint to put up with me.”

“Oh, no, mum! Me as knows what ye’ve been through and all that, well, I know ye don’t mean it, anyways.”

She began refolding the dress, trying hard not to make as much noise. “Ye know, I like this one the best, mum—becomes ye, it does.”

“Thank you.”

“It must be grand fer ye to have his lordship a-orderin’ things fer ye now. I mean, what with yer not havin’ so much when ye was a wee girl and all. Aside from the white dress with the pink sash, that is.”

“Who told you of that one?” Harriet asked curiously, laying aside her book. “I’d completely forgotten it.”

“Well, when ye was so sick and all—when the doctor told his lordship ye was goin’ t’ die—well, his lordship was a-talkin’ t’ ye, a-rememberin’ things, ye know.” She finished the gown and lifted it carefully to place it with others in the packing trunk. “Made me weep, he did, and Creighton too.”

“Oh.”

The maid cast a sidewise glance at her mistress and saw she had her attention. Bustling about to take another gown from the wardrobe, she added slyly, “It was when he met ye, he said, that you was a-wearin’ the dress. Yer papa was marryin’ that Hannah—Lady Rowe, I ‘spect I should say—anyways, he was telling ye how ye told ’im ye didn’t mind bein’ relation to him, but ye sure didn’t want that Hannah.”

Harriet closed her eyes, recalling vividly now that day. Richard had been handsome even then, and she’d instantly liked his smile. And his dark curling hair. And those brilliant blue eyes. They’d been friends almost from the start.

“But I never knew ye were one for pranks—ye don’t seem like it now—’ceptin’ for the snow fight, I guess,” Millie rambled on, watching her mistress out of the corner of her eye. “I’d not think ye the kind of female child as would ruin yer gown a-crossin’ no ford.”

“It was on a dare,” Harriet recalled faintly. “He spoke of that?”

“Spoke of a lot of things—talked for hours, I think. And when he was done, me and Creighton was a-crying our eyes out, don’t ye know. Just wished ye could’ve heard ’im.”

“So do I.” Harriet stared absently again, recalling how she’d dared to cross the swirling waters of the swollen ford behind Richard, and how she’d slipped on the mossy rocks, only to be pulled to safety by him. “Er … what else did he say?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Hmmm? Oh, too much to remember, I daresay. ’Bout how ye was nearly killed by a bull, the both of ye.”

“I tried to warn him,” Harriet remembered, smiling. “And it was not so bad as I let him think. I would’ve climbed to safety had he not come back for me.”

“But he came back, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Seems t’ me that he was always a-savin’ ye.”

“After he got me into the scrapes in the first place. He was always wanting me to try things that little girls weren’t supposed to do. Once, I fell into the river trying to save my fishing pole. I had to tell Hannah I’d tripped on a tree root, for she’d have never let me go fishing.”

“Aye, he was a-sayin’ ye were always gettin’ punished fer it, and he felt real terrible about that, ye know.”

“But we had fun—such great fun, Millie. And he always tried to soften things with Hannah, taking all the blame. But she never listened—it was always my fault in her eyes. ‘The Standens,’ she said, ‘know how to go on as they ought.’ ”

“He said she took yer spirit.”

“I suppose she did.” Harriet sighed, still recalling all the birchings. “It became easier to let her have her way, especially when Papa never took my side.”

“Well, that part of yer life’s done, mum. Ye don’t never have t’ give ’er a thought again, ye know,” Millie said soothingly. “Yer got yerself a husband that loves ye—said so even—but yer was too nigh dead t’ hear ’im, I expect.”

“He said he loved me?” Harriet echoed almost inaudibly. “No, I never heard.”

Millie busied herself folding yet another gown. “ ’Tis a pity, for men don’t say such that often, don’t ye know? And fer him t’ have been a-cryin’ and sayin’ it, ’twas a shame ye weren’t awake.” She stopped and brushed at an errant tear that trickled down her cheek. “Makes me weep e’en now to remember it, it does.”

“Yes, well, I daresay ’twas his guilt speaking,” Harriet decided.

“Humph! Ye wasn’t there, ye know,” Millie sniffed. “Oh, I was prepared to mislike his lordship, and I admit it, but I didn’t know ’im fer the kind man he is.”

“Kind?” Harriet started to refute it, to remind the girl that he’d deserted her, but then she recalled all the times he’d come to her rescue, all the times he’d been her only friend. The fact that, hating cats, he’d taken three for her. The fact that he’d taken her to the race. The fact that he’d wed her in the first place. “Yes, I suppose he is,” she admitted slowly.

“And ’twasn’t as though he knew ye loved ’im, was it?” Millie persisted, now openly watching her mistress.

“No. No, it wasn’t.”

“Well, I know how ’tis fer ye, fer I’ve not let on to Mr. O’Neal that I’ve thrown my hat over the windmill fer ’im, neither.”

Harriet sat stock-still, uncertain as to which revelation shocked her more. “You think you are in love with Sean O’Neal?”

“Oh, I know I ain’t what a man like him’d be lookin’ for, what wi’ his handsome face and all, but, aye, I am.”

“Oh, dear.” Her heart went out to the girl, for she knew just how it was to dream of someone above one’s touch. “Er … you do not think Mr. O’Neal knows?”

“Can’t say. Oh, he’s kind enough to me—we was a-playin’ in the snow like ye and his lordship t’other day, but he ain’t said anything to raise m’ hopes, ye understand. For an Irishman, he’s been a gentleman.”

On reflection, it was quite easy to see how the little maid could be infatuated with Richard’s valet, Harriet supposed. He was, after all, handsome in much the same way Richard was—dark hair, blue eyes, winning smile. But he was also a flirt, a man who had a ready grin for every woman in the house, including herself. No, he was not entirely like Richard, for Richard never embarrassed her by teasing the maids.

“Yes, well … perhaps you ought to put it to the touch.”

“Eh?”

“Perhaps you ought to tell him how you feel.”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t! Fer one thing, what if he didn’t have a care for me? Now I can have me dreams of ’im, but if he was t’ spurn me, I couldn’t e’en do that.”

“Oh, Millie, we must surely be the most miserable of females,” Harriet murmured.

“Eh? Oh, no—ye mustn’t think that, mum. Ye’ve got his lordship ferever, and I’m a-goin’ t’ get Mr. O’Neal. I just go to have me patience.”

“Do you have an idea from Mr. O’Neal as to when my husband returns?” Harriet asked suddenly.

“He did not tell me.”

Harriet waited until she heard movement in Richard’s bedchamber, and then she went to see O’Neal. She found him doing much as Millie had been employed in her chamber: he was packing Richard’s things for the trip to Italy. She slipped in the door and closed it behind her, prompting him to turn around and lift an eyebrow.

“What I am going to do is highly improper, but …” She stopped, aware his eyebrow had risen even higher, and then she colored, realizing what she’d said. “That is, well, ’tis not what I meant to say precisely. I meant I wished to speak with you as a person rather than a …”

“An Irishman, ma’am?” he asked, his smile returning.

“As a valet,” she finished. “And I would speak frankly, if you do not mind.” Clearing her throat, she found herself suddenly reluctant to broach the matters that had seemed so clear but minutes before. “Mr. O’Neal, you were with Richard abroad—last summer, I mean—and …”

“I was with his honor clear ’cross France and Germany and down t’ Sicily in Italy,” he acknowledged, wondering where she was leading him.

“Do you know why he came home?” she blurted out. “I mean, were the races over?”

A slow smile of understanding spread across his handsome face. “We could’ve run Two Harry another few weeks, and Cates was wanting to, but his honor wanted to come home to you.”

“You do not have to lie to me, Mr. O’Neal.”

His blue eyes met hers, sobering. “Lady Sherborne, there’s the time for blarney, and there’s the time t’ stifle it, and O’Neal knows the difference.” He exhaled slowly as though to gain time to phrase his words carefully. “Bein’ his honor’s man, travelin’ fer months with him, I listened to him, don’t ye know? And in the beginning, he was angered wi’ ye, but the further we went, the more he was makin’ excuses fer ye. Faith, and by the time we was in Sicily, he’d made up his mind ’twas yer mama-in-law’s fault. And then he wanted t’ come home t’ ye. We was goin’ t’ Rowe’s Hill t’ get ye, but th’ shock o’ seein’ ye here—well, ’twas too much fer him.”

“He was coming to Rowe’s Hill for me? You are certain?”

“Stopped and bought ye a present at Dover, he did, but wi’ the accident, his honor most probably forgot it.”

Richard had truly been coming for her. Her heart beat wildly and her spirits soared. And if what Millie had said was true, he loved her. “Mr. O’Neal, did he say when he would return?”

“As soon as he completes the sale of Two Harry.”

“What?”
Stunned, she leaned against the bedpost, clasping it. “But
why?”

“He couldn’t bear the lookin’ at it—not after it threw ye. He thought the horse’d nearly killed you.” This time, when his eyes met hers, they accused her. “More’s the shame on ye, yer ladyship, for ye not to know that. The man’d cut off his arm t’ help ye, don’t ye know? But ’tis a shame t’ sell a winnin’ horse,” he added mournfully.

“Thank you, O’Neal. Thank you,” she responded sincerely. “But we cannot let him sell Two Harry, can we?”

“Well, I don’t know how t’ stop ’im. I argued the matter with his honor till we was both breathless. ‘ ’Tis up to someone else to race Two Harry,’ he says t’ me.”

“I’m going to London.”

“Are ye now? Then I’m goin’ wi’ ye, fer ye’ve got no business on the road without a man—and I’d be there t’ see his honor’s face when he sees ye.”

“It shan’t take me long to pack,” she promised, starting for the door.

“Well, as we was speakin’ as persons, yer ladyship, ’tis my turn to ask of ye.”

“What?”

“Yer Millie—d’ye think she’d take an Irishman?”

“Mr. O’Neal, you have but to ask!”

He watched her go, thinking the trip to Italy would be a pleasant one all round.