Barbara Metzger (5 page)

“Of course you did. You came here armed, did you not? As if two women and two little boys were holding your son hostage, bleeding your coffers dry in exchange for his well-being.”

Now it was Rockford’s turn to study his fingers. “Perhaps at first,” he admitted. “The gossip, you know.”

She threw his words back at him: “You should not believe everything you hear.”

He believed he needed a drink. And a bath.

Once again, Rockford was at a loss for words. There were no pat phrases he could mouth, no rules of proper conduct for such a blatant breach of common civility as he had shown to this woman.

Instead of waiting for him to flounder through an apology, as most other females would have, glorying in his grovels, Mrs. Henning asked, “So what shall you do now?”

After stringing that groom Fred Nivens up by his thumbs? “Why, I shall return to Rock Hill and straighten out the mess. Now that I am aware of the problem, everything will be addressed and corrected. Tenants will be recompensed, former retainers rehired, no matter the cost.”

“No, I mean about Billy. Your son. Or have you forgotten about him again?”

The earl supposed he deserved the sharp edge of her tongue, but there were limits to what he would endure. “William”—he emphasized the boy’s proper name—“is no longer your concern, madam. I shall see that he is properly reared, as befits my son. He is somewhat young for Eton, but I am certain there is a school that will take him.”

“You would send a five-year-old child away from home, to live with strangers?”

Rockford might have said he was tossing the brat in the moat, by the look of horror on the widow’s face. “No, I would have him educated properly among his peers, the same way I was.”

He could tell she was biting her lip to keep from blurting an opinion of the results in front of her. Instead she asked, “Wouldn’t Billy do better here in the country, among friends, learning about the land and people, the heritage he will inherit someday?” Again she refrained from stating the obvious, that perhaps the earl might have been a better landlord if he were more familiar with his holdings.

The earl heard what she did not say, nevertheless. He did swipe at his begrimed coat sleeve. To hell with her floors. He’d pay someone to come in to mop the damn things. Still inspecting his sleeve, he said, “I regret to inform you that
William
will not inherit Rock Hill. He is not my heir, not the firstborn son.”

“You have another son?” She looked out the window, as if he were hiding the boy in the old carriage. “That is, I believe I heard it once mentioned that you had another son from an earlier marriage, but he was sickly. When I never heard of him again, and he never appeared, I suppose I assumed he had perished.”

“In that case William would have become Viscount Rothmore,” he said, iterating what any true lady of the
ton
would have learned along with her letters. “Instead my son Hugo holds the honorary title. He is twelve.”

“And thriving?”

Thriving? How the deuce could he admit to not knowing? Rockford made a safe guess: “Hugo is doing as well as can be expected for a lad with a weak chest.”

“Oh, I am so sorry he is afflicted. My husband died of a congestion of the lungs, you know.”

He did not know that either. “My condolences.”

She nodded. “And mine on the loss of your wife. Wives.”

“Yes, well, my losses were some years ago.” Mrs. Henning seemed to expect more, so he continued. “Hugo’s mother died in a carriage accident a year after his birth.” He did not say that she was fleeing with her lover at the time. Nor did he say that she had not been a virgin on the eve of their arranged match. Hugo bore his name, which was all anyone had to know. “And William’s mother”—whom Rockford had married to beget another, healthier heir, in light of Hugo’s frailty—“died birthing him.”

While calling out another man’s name.

“How sad for you,” Mrs. Henning said, a quaver in her voice.

Yes, it was, having to claim two sons possibly sired by other men. Rockford did not want the widow’s sympathy, though, not for two unfaithful wives he’d never desired in the first place. “Yes, well, Hugo lives with his grandparents in Sheffield.”

Before the widow’s green eyes could turn from concerned to censorious again, he went on: “He was a sickly infant, under constant attendance by physicians there. What could I have done for him, widowed as I was, with no experience of children whatsoever? My wife’s parents begged to be allowed to keep the boy, to assuage their grief over their beloved daughter.”

And their guilt.

“But I mean to fetch him back now,” Rockford went on, as if it were his idea. “Like Nanny, Lord and Lady Chudleigh are getting on in years. He has the rheumatics and her sight is failing. I believe they wish to take up residence in Bath, for the waters, without a growing boy to look after. Now that I think of it, I will take William with me to gather Hugo. The two can become acquainted and keep each other company in the carriage while I take turns with the coachman.”

“Oh, I do not think that is a good idea, my lord.”

“What, my driving? I assure you, I am a competent whip.”

“No, of course I did not mean to fault your driving. Billy is always telling us what a nonpareil with the ribbons you are, according to Jake, that is. But I really think you ought to leave Billy here while you make the trip.”

“William is not remaining behind.”

“It is a very long journey and, as you said, you are not used to children. Billy can be…somewhat difficult during lengthy rides.”

“William will learn the proper way to behave. And not a moment too soon, it seems. He appears a robust lad, who could benefit from a firmer hand.”

“But he—”

“Is my son. I am mindful of the debt of gratitude I owe you, Mrs. Henning, and am touched by the affection you obviously bear him, but the fact remains that William does not belong here. I am not going to leave my son to muck out stalls or be flattened by a pet pig.”

“Or be reared in a humble cottage far beneath his station?”

“Exactly. I knew that a reasonable, capable woman such as yourself would understand.”

“That Billy, your precious William, must not be mistaken for a peasant?”

“Now, that is not what I—”

“By his own father.”

Chapter Four

“I
find you offensive, sir.”

Women rarely did. Fewer said so. Still, Rockford admitted, “I can understand where you might think so, from your point of view.”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, I find the smell of Rosie about you offensive. I still have a few shirts and such of my husband’s that I have not cut down for the boys yet. I think you and he were of a size. Would you like to borrow something for your return trip? You could change while I help Billy pack his things.”

“I would be a hundredfold grateful, especially since my trunks will not arrive until tomorrow. But does your generosity and cooperation mean that you approve of my taking William? That you believe I am fit to have the care of my own son?”

“Approve? Not at all. It means, rather, that I believe you shall go your own way no matter what I or anyone else thinks. I doubt you ever let anyone’s opinion sway you from your chosen course, no matter how misguided, so I shall save my breath. As you say, Billy is your son. As for the loan of a shirt, I merely wish to make Billy’s ride in the confines of the carriage more bearable. If you will follow me, I’ll show you where you might wash while I find the garments.”

Rockford supposed he should be glad the woman’s weapon of choice was a pistol, not a knife, or she’d carve out his liver. She was doing a good enough job with her razor-sharp tongue, and he could not even give the outspoken female the set-down she deserved, not when she had cared for his son and was offering him a clean shirt. This indebtedness was a humbling experience, one he would be careful to avoid in the future. Meantime, he followed Mrs. Henning down the hall, away from the merry sounds of giggles and splashing.

Being the connoisseur of art he was, he could not help assessing the watercolors that hung on the wall: better than the average amateur’s, with a certain fresh charm. Mrs. Henning could not make her way in the world as an artist, he considered, but she could earn a fair living in London, teaching young females one more womanly skill.

Being also a connoisseur of womanhood, he could not help noticing the softly rounded curves of Mrs. Henning’s figure, nor the wispy curls of hair that trailed down her neck, escaping the neat light brown coils. Yes, she could make a fair living in London with other skills, were the widow not so deucedly respectable. Her stride was purposeful, her back was rigid, and he knew without looking that her lips were pursed in disapproval. No, his hostess, his son’s Aunt Lissie, was not to be considered as a barque of frailty. There was nothing frail about the female, from her confidence with the pistol to her refusal to bow to his authority.

“You do not like me, do you?” he asked when they reached a bedroom door.

“Why should I? I believe a man earns respect; he does not inherit it.” She stood aside so he could enter. “There is water in the basin. I will be back in a moment with the clothes.”

Definitely not bachelor fare, Mrs. Henning, Rockford repeated to himself. Any other woman would have tried to turn him up sweet, to tempt his interest, so see what he might offer in return for a bit of dalliance. Dally, hell. The widow left his presence as fast as her little sister had. Even her bedroom, almost the size of the parlor, reflected a steadfast character, being without frills or flowing draperies. The only hint that the woman might have a passionate nature was the size of the bed, nearly filling the room. He tried to picture her and the late Mr. Henning tangling the sheets there, and surprised himself by finding the image distasteful in the extreme. He was no voyeur, even of dead men’s memories. On the other hand, he had no trouble envisioning himself unbraiding the widow’s hair across those piles of pillows. Of course, the dead man had a better chance of enjoying the widow’s favors.

As he removed his coat, his neckcloth, and his shirt yet again, Rockford wondered if the Hennings had been happy in their union. Had the late William felt trapped in his marriage if, as Fred had hinted, he had been forced into it? Or had he rejoiced in his pretty wife and growing family? Was it grief that had turned the widow waspish, or disappointment that her greedy ambitions had died with him? Rockford splashed water on his face and chest, then walked closer to the bed as he dried himself with the towel on the wash-stand. Perhaps she kept Henning’s picture by her bedside, which would in itself satisfy some of his curiosity.

Instead of a miniature portrait, he found miniature soldiers, an army of metal warriors. The stack of books turned out to be a Latin primer, a volume of fairy tales for children, and a dog-eared
Robin Hood
he recognized from his own youth. On the night table he also found a pencil stub, a ball of string, a penny-whistle, and a rock of no great beauty or value that he could see. Mrs. Henning had given her chamber, with its large bed and lingering memories, to the boys. Never having had a brother, Rockford could not imagine what it might be like to share a bed with another boy, or two, if one counted William. Hell, he’d never shared a bedchamber with either of his wives. Not for more than an hour or so, at any rate.

As he roughly toweled his hair, the earl’s thoughts returned to Alissa, Mrs. Henning, which they were doing altogether too often for his peace of mind and a piece of his anatomy. He was no rake, by George, trying to seduce every woman he met, and she was no wanton widow, no matter what the groom Fred had intimated. Likely Mrs. Henning had rebuffed the stable man, with good cause.

She was a good mother, he told himself, turning his back on that all too evocative bed, although he had as much experience with maternal feelings as he had with happy marriages. William seemed fond of her, and Eleanor, for what her opinions were now worth, had entrusted Mrs. Henning with the boy’s care. Rockford would have to see about smoothing her path, later, when he returned to London. Perhaps he would offer to send her boys to the same school he found for William.

The more he thought of the idea, the better he liked it. William would have friends of his own, so Mrs. Henning could not accuse Rockford of abandoning the boy among strangers. At the same time, the earl would be repaying a debt—and have an excuse for seeing the widow now and again. Why, in view of his generosity, she might even come to see him in a better light.

*

Mrs. Henning was seeing him in good enough light, right then, in all his half-naked splendor. Standing in the doorway, an armload of clothes in her hands, she could not help but see him, to her dismay. Too late to leave, too late to screw her eyes shut, too late to wish she’d sent one of the boys.

Shocked, stunned, stupefied, she could only stand frozen in the doorway. And stare. How could she have thought he was of a size with her William? Lord Rockford was much broader in the chest, with well-defined, ridged muscles. No effete court dandy, this, but a man of action and exercise. He needed no padding either, with those strong, wide shoulders. Droplets of water glistened on a swath of dark hair that tapered to his narrow waistline, where, unless he’d stuffed the pistol down his—No, the gun was on the washstand. Good grief, William was never so…naked. Even when he was totally undressed, William was not this manly, this virile, this proud of himself for the reaction he’d caused. The black-haired devil flashed a wicked dimple. He was grinning at her discomfort, making no effort to retrieve the clothes that had fallen from her fingers, which had gone as senseless as the rest of her.