Barbara Metzger (7 page)

“Enough,” Alissa said, the image of his lordship’s bare shoulders doing somersaults in her skull. “He is merely a man, an overconfident, overbearing, overindulged man, nothing more.”

“Nothing more? Gracious, he is so handsome, I doubt I have ever seen a finer looking gentleman.”

“At seventeen and country-bred, goose, you have seen few enough gentlemen to compare. I suppose Rockford is well enough in his way,” Alissa added, lying through her teeth as she headed for the kitchen. “William was better-looking.”

Amy looked at her older sister as if Alissa’s eyes had clouded over, along with the sky.

“He was,” Alissa insisted. “My William was an attractive man, without that hard edge of hauteur his lordship wears like an ermine mantle. I much prefer William’s fair coloring to Rockford’s dark looks, besides.”

“Well, I found him stunning.”

“I found him off-putting. Besides, handsome is as handsome does, and his lordship too often does whatever he wishes without care or consideration for others, contrary to the mark of a true gentleman, after all. My William would never ride roughshod over women and children, nor would he forget their very existence. No, I did not find Lord Rockford attractive in the least. Except in an academic kind of way, of course. He would make an excellent model for one of the Greek gods, perhaps. Or a fallen angel. Not that I would ever wish to spend enough time in his lordship’s company to paint his portrait, of course.”

“Of course not,” her too-wise sister said with a smile. “So why are you fondling his dirty shirt?”

Alissa dropped the smelly garment into a bucket to soak. She would like to boil some of the starch out of Rockford, too, she told herself. For Billy’s sake. The boy needed a father, not a distant dictator.

Alissa checked her watch again. She needed to fix her hair before he returned.

She sent her despondent sons out to groom Harold the pony, to give them something to do now that the gingerbread was gone. She did not tell them she thought Billy would be back, in case the earl was more stubborn than she thought. Or a bigger fool, if that were possible. The boys worried that someone would come from Rock Hill to fetch Harold before they had a chance to say good-bye, so they hurried off, with handfuls of carrots.

Amy went to see if Sir George’s groundkeepers had missed any fallen apples from the bordering orchard, now that the rain had stopped. Usually there were enough apples for a pie and some preserves, after Rosie ate the wormy ones. Tarts would help the boys forget their sadness for a while, Alissa decided, as she went into the tiny bedchamber she shared with Amy. For once, she was glad for the solitude.

She sat on her narrow bed, the one nearest the window and the draft, and stared at the nearby portrait she had painted of William when they first wed. In it, her late husband was laughing, looking not much older than Kendall, though far less serious than their sober eldest-born. William Henning never worried, never had a frown or a wrinkle from fretting over the future. Even when his father, the duke, disinherited him on his marriage, William was not concerned, nor when the boys arrived with more mouths to feed. They’d come about, he always said, and worked that much harder without complaint. He had not even complained while he lay dying, certain that he could overcome that too. They’d come about, he’d told her, with a smile on his fever-flushed face.

Sometimes she hated his memory, for the lies and the foolish surety that all would be well. All was not well.

Most times she recalled William fondly. The fact that a duke’s son, albeit a useless third son, could cheerfully take up a post as assistant bailiff to her own father had always impressed Alissa, and impressed her more today, when she had faced the epitome of nobly born arrogance. William could bend. Not that he was in any way soft or unmanly, but he could sway, like a sturdy young tree, letting the wind blow past. Rockford was…well, he was like a rock, ignoring the wind, turning his rigid back on opposition. Nothing could move him, not when he ruled his universe.

What an impossible man.

So why was she recalling his bare chest and his raised eyebrow? Gracious, William would not have known how to lift one sandy eyebrow at a time, much less how to wear that superior attitude instead of a shirt. Was she being unfaithful to her dead husband’s memory by comparing him to a London beau, a polished town buck, one of the first gentlemen of Europe’s First Gentleman? William was just William. Rockford was a fixture in high society, a force of nature. And nothing to Alissa Henning.

She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she’d meant to return to Billy. Now the poor little lamb had none. Lord, how she missed him already. And missed her husband, still, after two years. And she would sorely miss the money they both had provided, tomorrow. She was so tired of worrying, of missing what was gone and could not be recovered.

She was so wretchedly lonely.

Mostly, she thought as the tears kept falling, she missed mattering to a man.

Her marriage had been one of contentment, she supposed, after the first fierce, irresistible infatuation. They were only children when they met, barely Amy’s age, fascinated by their new feelings. He was visiting a friend in the neighborhood; she was fresh out of girls’ school. Innocents together, they explored both the physical countryside and their own budding physical sensations. That had ended with her pregnancy, their Gretna wedding, and his father’s fury. William had been intended for the daughter of a marquis, not the daughter of a land steward. It did not matter to the Duke of Hysmith that Alissa’s father was from a cadet branch of the Bourke barony, nor that her deceased mother was the daughter of a highly placed prelate. Her father labored for a living, and that was enough for His Grace.

When the duke cut his allowance, William stopped using the honorary lordship before his name, sought a position as assistant steward, and stopped believing Alissa was the most beautiful girl in England. Of course, she was big with child by then, weepy over her own father’s shock and shame that led to his fatal illness. But William had always said he never regretted their marriage, and she believed him.

Was there anyone as foolish as young lovers?

Yes, widows who held on to dreams.

*

She was waiting near the door of that insufferably small cottage, blast her and her neat brown braids and spotless gray gown. Rockford knew she would be there, ready to say, “I told you so.” Well, she had tried to tell him, so the entire debacle was on his head.

And on his coat, his boots, and the seats of the carriage. Gingerbread was not a good idea. The carriage ride was too long. Hah! Well, fiend take her and her forest-green eyes; she could have come out and said the boy suffered motion sickness. But not Mrs. Henning. Oh, no. She had to prove to him that he knew nothing about children, that she was the better parent, that once again he had acted without forethought.

Well, he hoped she was happy now. He suddenly knew more about small boys and badly sprung rigs than he ever wanted or needed. He knew the carriage would have to be reupholstered if not burned, and that he would never travel with the brat in a closed coach again.

Halfway to Rock Hill the earl had realized that William could never make the journey to Sheffield to fetch his half brother. Nor could the boy be left on his own at the place with no female to comfort him. Heaven knew the earl’s attempts had succeeded only in discomfiting his own digestion.

There was no choice, really, other than drowning, but to return to Mrs. Henning’s to seek the indulgence of a woman he would never have met under ordinary circumstances. In London he would not have given her a second glance, not in her plain gray gown and with her moralistic manners. He’d have taken her for a superior servant or a curate’s wife, out of bounds, out of his circle, and uninteresting, to boot. Surrounded by children, she would have been less appealing than a bowl of gruel. Yet now he had to beg her pardon, and beg her for a favor.

Zeus, admitting he was wrong was getting to be like a plague of locusts, repulsive and recurrent. Once in seven years he could manage. Twice in one day? Unspeakable. Unfortunately he would have to speak, to ask Mrs. Henning to keep William until he could make other arrangements. First he’d nearly accused her of absconding with his son; now he had to apologize for not taking her advice, and for making the child miserable. He
had
meant well, for what that was worth.

It was worth nothing, obviously, by the scowl Mrs. Henning directed his way when she took William from his arms, wrapping the weeping child in the blanket she had ready. She held him close, despite the mess and the smell.

“Hush, lovey. Your father is not angry. No, he is not ashamed of you either. I am certain you are not the first Rothmore of Rock Hill to suffer travel sickness.”

“No, Papa was sick too, only he got out of the carriage first.”

“No, did he?”

Rockford decided he should have drowned the boy when he had the chance. He had never admitted his condition to a soul, not in thirty-five years. What, the Earl of Rockford confess to a weak stomach? He’d never have heard the end of the laughter. Mrs. Henning was laughing now as she told the boy, “How clever. Perhaps he can teach you that wondrous trick.”

Somehow the earl did not mind. Perhaps he could bear her humor because she had stopped the child’s tears, because she hadn’t said, “I told you so,” because she handed him another of her husband’s shirts, and because she looked so damn beautiful with his son in her arms.

How could he have thought her ordinary and insignificant? By London standards, of course, she was. By his own standards, she was so far beneath his notice as to be laughable. Why, then, was he thinking of her beneath him, and not laughing at all?

Fred Nivens, the groom, was laughing, though, making a slimy kind of snicker from atop the box. Rockford minded that very much.

“Walk the horses,” he ordered with a jerk of his head, vowing to deal with the ignorant, insubordinate lumpkin later. He was ready to grovel if need be, but not in front of the loutish driver.

Reminded by eely Fred of who he was, and what he was, and what Mrs. Henning was not nor ever could be, Rockford drew himself up and took a deep breath. Before he could begin to beg, however, the widow went on, talking to William.

“And your father was even more clever to bring you back here, wasn’t he? How do you think he knew I always keep those peppermint drops for when you are feeling ill?”

“He must be very smart, don’t you think?”

“Very.” She lovingly brushed damp tendrils of hair off his forehead and set him on his feet. “Now go on inside. Amy will fetch you those drops, and Kendall will help you with your clothes. I’ll be in after I thank your father for letting us keep you with us a bit longer, all right?”

Was she some kind of saint, Rockford wondered, not belittling him to the boy when he so richly deserved her scorn? No woman could be so magnanimous. None ever had, in his experience, anyway. “That was generous of you, Mrs. Henning,” he acknowledged. “And do not think I am ungrateful. For your kindness, and the unspoken offer to look after William until I return with his brother. You did mean that, did you not?”

She nodded, carefully folding the blanket that had been wrapped around the boy. Not meeting his eyes, she said, “I would keep him as long as you permit, my lord. He is a fine boy, just not a good traveler.”

Rockford wanted to look at her eyes, to see if they were as glade green as he recalled; he did not wish to speak of unfortunate illnesses. He needed, though, to speak of recompensing Mrs. Henning for the expense of having another mouth to feed. They would send food over from Rock Hill, of course, but his indebtedness went much further. And a gentleman always paid his debts.

After she had flown into the boughs over his offer to send her sons to school, however, he was leery of discussing money. He had not understood why she’d turned so prickly over the schooling, since he did not think her hen-wit enough to refuse out of pride. A woman in her circumstances could not afford pride, which she had to know. He was not bestowing charity, anyway, merely repaying a debt. Likely she did not understand about the rules of a gentleman. Either that, or she thought he had strings attached to the offer, as if he had to bribe women to become his mistresses. Diamonds or rubies were what they usually wanted, besides, not tuition fees, not that he was used to paying for a female’s favors, of course. Nor would he ever consider the respectable Mrs. Henning for the position, except in idle speculation. She had to know that, too, the way she’d recombed her hair, with not a single soft brown curl trailing out of the neat, priggish arrangement.

No, she must have refused to let him pay for the boys’ schooling simply because she was a doting mother who could not bear to part with her sons. Well, he could use her devotion to his advantage.

He removed a purse from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “This is for new clothes for William. I fear his are beyond claiming. What that child has against clean linens is a mystery for another day. For now, he would be embarrassed, I am certain, to have new apparel while his playmates did not, so please use the rest for Willy—that is, your son William—and Kendall. Winter is coming and they must need warmer garments.” He would like to tell her to purchase herself a dress length in something other than the dowdy gray she wore, but he knew better than that. “And boots, if they are to ride with my William.” He’d have two more ponies delivered tomorrow, and all the feed and fodder they required.