Lady Eve's Indiscretion (12 page)

Deene lowered himself beside her—right beside her—and that was wonderful too. In the course of the day, he'd become subtly affectionate with her. He plucked wisps of straw from her hair, took her hand in his, stood a little too close…

She doubted he was even aware of such small gestures, but they left her feeling a precious sense of being cared for, however fleetingly.

“Are you nervous, Eve?” He slid an arm across her shoulders, no doubt meaning to bolster her courage.

She was feeling quite brave, in truth, though she made no protest at his familiarity. “You think I'm nervous to be in a closed carriage with dirty weather closing in, and us miles from Town?”

“I was trying to be delicate.”

She relaxed against him. “The horses are not fresh, a little rain isn't likely to unsettle them, and…” And what? And Deene was right there beside her? There was more to it than that, though his presence was certainly reassuring.

“And?”

“And something about this day has been good for me. I ought to be nervous, though I've never been in a coaching accident, per se, but I am no more than a touch uneasy.”

He did not tell her to put her fears aside; he did not talk her out of them; he did not do anything other than take her hand. “So you were impressed with Wee Willy?”

Ah, horse talk.

“I am enthralled with him. When will you next compete him?”

“Quite possibly at the local meet before Epsom in June, though Bannister would have me believe such decisions are a function of reading chicken entrails and tea leaves.”

“You need to work your stallion on the opposing lead in canter, Deene. Sheer speed is impressive, but he needs strength and suppleness to go with it, or he'll end up blown before he's eight.”

As the miles rolled by, they conducted a discussion—
not
a debate—regarding the merits of working the horse on hills, over fences, and on the flat. Eve found herself wishing London were twenty miles farther, and that pleased her too.

Deene still had her hand in his when he shifted the topic slightly. “What will you name the colt?”

The lads decreed she should have the naming of Franny's foal; Deene had loudly approved the notion, and that had been that: she was godmother to a baby horse.

And
that
had been what put the day to rights. Being allowed to be useful, to pitch in despite the proprieties, was what had allowed Eve to climb into a carriage behind a pair of horses who had already given her a good fright.

“I haven't named a horse in ages.” Though she used to name all the fillies at Morelands. “A stud's firstborn son needs a substantial name, something that resounds with virtue. My sisters and I used to debate what to name our children as we practiced putting up our hair.”

That last had slipped out, a function of approaching nightfall and the pleasurable warmth of Deene beside her.

“So you want children?”

Inane question—every woman wanted children and a home of her own. The inane question put a small puncture in Eve's sense of wellbeing.

“We don't always get what we want, Lucas. Some things are beyond human control.” She resisted the impulse to slip her hand from his. An argument was drawing closer, one she did not want to have with him.

Not now, not ever.

“I would like the opportunity to try to provide you with children, Eve Windham. We could raise them up in Kent, not far from your parents. I have enough land that I can move the stables there if you prefer. I think we'd suit wonderfully.”

“You think we'd suit?” Her voice did not shake with the impossibility of his offer—she was the daughter of a duchess, and knew well how to maintain her composure, but, God help her, she had
not
seen this coming.

He was going to ruin this wonderful day, ruin it thoroughly, and all Eve could think was that she'd misplaced her parasol.

“We would manage well enough. We're each of appropriate station, we know one another's families, the lands all but march, and it would spare you from the importuning of the Trit-Trots of the world.”

Drat
him for his common sense. Were he speaking from the heart rather than his pragmatic male brain, she might have considered what he was saying for a few moments before rejecting him.

“It would also spare you from the Mildred Staineses of the world.”

“With the Season looming, that is not a small consideration. We have something else weighing in favor of a marital union.”

He was proposing without asking her to marry him. His aplomb was impressive, also…
heartbreaking
. Deene was, to her surprise, a man she would enjoy being married to in some regards, and he was bringing his addresses to her first, not to His Grace—and still, his proposal must be rejected just like all the others.

“What is this something else, my lord?” His politics no doubt all but marched with His Grace's; he'd charged the French with Devlin and Bart; he wasn't afraid of Louisa or muddled by Jenny's sweet good loo—

Her only warning was Deene's bare hand on her chin, gently turning her face up to receive his kiss, the most beguilingly gentle kiss so far. His lips pressed softly against hers, and his hand cupped her jaw then slid back into her hair to cradle the back of her head.

Not
this
again.
Not this lovely, spreading warmth rising from her middle and obliterating all reason; not the raging desire to shift herself beneath him and taste his skin and breathe his scents.

Bodily loneliness swamped her as Deene's mouth moved on hers. Nobody was intimate with her the way Deene could be; nobody
touched
her except for the fleeting contact permitted by Society's rules or familial affection. She opened for him, fisted her hands in his hair, and dragged him closer.

And when she was aching for him to give her one last taste of pleasure and passion, he eased away, resting his forehead on hers.

“We have passion, Eve Windham. That is no small consideration either.”

Passionate kisses did not always tell the tale. Eve knew this from bitter experience. A man, even a very young man, could kiss like a dream and make a girl lose every shred of common sense and still, the man's most intimate attentions could be… distasteful. Painful even.

Deene, by contrast, would be a sumptuous lover, generous, skilled, beautiful…

She cut the thought off and made herself speak in brisk, ruthless tones. “I appreciate the honor you do me, Lucas, but I am no more interested in your proposal than I am in Trit—in Mr. Trottenham's. We would not suit.”

He pulled away, straightening beside her. To suffer the loss of him with indifference was necessary if Eve was to make her point.

“Eve Windham, if the way we kiss is your idea of
not
suiting, then God help the man you do suit. He'll go up in flames the moment you bat your eyes at him.”

“There will be no such man.”

An argument would help a great deal, but no, Deene sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his thumb idly stroking the side of her neck. Eventually, she allowed herself to yield to the temptation he offered and rested her head on his shoulder. Soon enough they'd reach Town, she'd climb out of the carriage, and the day that had gone from hell to heaven back to hell would be over.

There was time enough to cry later.

***

“Where in the hell is Lord Andermere?”

Deene used Anthony's courtesy title before the staff routinely, though he seldom adopted such an impatient tone of voice, much less profanity.

“His lordship was called down to Kent, my lord.” Gower spoke with the studied calm of a butler who'd spent forty years in service to the Denning family.

“When was he called down to Kent?”

“Yesterday morning, I believe, my lord. He said he received a note from Mr. Bassingstoke.”

Bassingstoke was the land steward at Denning Hall. It made sense that Anthony might be called away on a property matter, but it made no sense whatsoever that he'd leave without a word to Deene, when they were supposed to spend the morning poring over ledgers.

“Send a note around to Hooker. I'll be paying a call on him before noon.”

Gower bowed. “Very good, my lord. Will that be all, my lord?”

“No, it will not.” If Deene couldn't start on the ledgers, he'd tackle the matter from another angle. “Send Mrs. Hitchings to me in the library in twenty minutes.”

Gower withdrew quietly—Gower did everything quietly—leaving Deene to pour himself another cup of tea, finish reading the financial article he'd started when he sat down to breakfast, and polish off the rest of his eggs and toast. Mrs. Hitchings was waiting for him when he arrived to the library.

“Ma'am, good morning.” Deene took a seat behind the estate desk, hazarding that the housekeeper would be more nervous if he instead paced the room. “You are welcome to sit, Mrs. Hitchings.”

Relief crossed her tired features as she perched at the very edge of a chair, her back ramrod straight, her gaze fixed on some point beyond Deene's left shoulder.

“How long have you been housekeeper here?” In her white caps and drab dresses, she'd been a fixture in the townhouse as far back as Deene could recall.

“Nigh twenty years, your lordship.”

An answer, and not one word beyond the question she'd been asked. They hadn't been easy years.

“And how many housemaids do we have?”

“Twenty at the moment, your lordship, though they tend to turn over.”

“How many footmen?”

She frowned slightly. “The footmen answer to Mr. Gower, your lordship. I would put their number at about the same as the maids.”

“And their wages?”

At that question—and only that question—her gaze flickered across Deene's face, her eyes betraying a wary consternation. “I wouldn't know for certain, your lordship. Lord Andermere sees to the paying of the wages.”

“What about the marketing, do you keep an account of that?”

“I hand in the sum to Lord Andermere at the end of each month, your lordship. If he's not in Town, then I give it to Mr. Gower.”

There was no house steward for the townhouse—except Anthony, apparently.

“I would appreciate it if in future, Mrs. Hitchings, you apprise me of the sum expended as well. That will be all. Please send Gower to me directly.”

Gower's litany was the same, though he of course remained standing while Deene interrogated him. Neither servant knew much of the household finances other than the single sum they reported to Anthony.

As Deene called for his horse to be saddled, he concluded such an arrangement was likely in the interest of domestic harmony, it being the province of the lower orders to grouse about wages, working conditions, and the tightfistedness of employers generally.

The ride into the City gave Deene an opportunity to consider yesterday's developments with Lady Eve Windham—to further consider them, just as he'd been awake considering them for half the night.

She was attracted to him; of that there could be no doubt.

Nonetheless, she'd also unhesitatingly rejected a proposal from a very eligible catch, when her own tenure on the marriage market was growing woefully long. Her rejection stung more than it should have, but it also puzzled, which was annoying as hell.

Solicitors were annoying as hell too, but in a way that allowed Deene to vent and posture away some of his irritation.

“This is very short notice, my lord.” Hooker came up from his bow and took hold of a velvet coat lapel in each hand. “Very short notice indeed. May I inquire as to the nature of your lordship's errand?”

Why was it the legal profession excelled in planting a sense of shame in a paying client?

Deene remained standing, requiring that Hooker do likewise. The skinny, younger associate was hovering near the fire, which Deene noted was burning cheerily on a temperate day.

And how much was that costing the already strained Deene coffers?

“My errand, as you put it, is to accept from you a status report regarding the pleadings I asked to have drawn up well over a week ago.”

Hooker pursed his lips. He turned loose of his lapels and stared for a moment at the floor. When Hooker had studied the floor long enough to make Deene's jaw clench, the solicitor looked up and turned to his associate. “Bring me his lordship's file.”

The associate fairly scampered out of the room while Deene let a silence extend.

“Perhaps your lordship would like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Do you take coffee, then? Some sustenance? What we have on hand is modest, your lordship, but certainly available for your comfort and convenience.”

From his own father, Deene had learned that the best rebukes were offered in the most civil tones. “This is not a social call, Hooker.”

“Of course not, your lordship. Might I inquire if we'll be looking at any marriage settlement documents in the near future?”

An attempt at cross-examination and surprise, both. If the old windbag was half as good at the law as he was at conducting himself like a lawyer, then—with a half-decent barrister added to the payroll—Deene should soon have custody of his niece.

“Have you seen any announcements in the
Times
, Hooker?”

“Announce—? I have not, your lordship.”

Deene turned to survey the narrow street below, allowing Hooker to conclude for himself that solicitors would no more be privy to Deene's personal attachments than would the general public.

After a soft tap, the door opened to reveal the scholarly associate. “The file, Mr. Hooker.”

A fat, beribboned folder was passed over to Hooker with a ceremony befitting High Church on a solemn holiday.

So much theatre, when all Deene wanted was to hug his niece. To know she was happy and thriving, to see her occasionally and have all of Polite Society know she was, unfortunate paternal antecedents notwithstanding, a
Denning
.