Thornbrook Park (14 page)

“The life of a countess.”

“In a fine house in the country. She detests London.”

“I've noticed. They hardly spend any time there. Gabriel comes when he has business, of course, but Sophia usually stays behind at Thornbrook Park.”

“I wasn't sure she loved him when she married him. It was a subject of disagreement between us.”

“Her marrying my brother?” He sounded surprised. As great a critic as he was of the Earl of Averford, he seemed to think any woman who landed him would have been a target of envy, which was honestly true. An earl was considered a fine catch.

“She started the arguments between us, for my eloping with Ben. How could I run off with an army captain?”

“Ouch.”

“You're a Thorne, no ordinary army captain. But Sophia thought I should reconsider marrying when my family disapproved. Was it enough to be in love? I decided that it was, but she made a good point. It has never been easy for me to lose them.”

“I understand.” He reached out and placed a hand on her thigh.

She struggled to hold focus on other matters with the heat of his touch fogging her brain. So well she remembered his hands in intimate places, what he'd done to her. What they'd done. Just that morning. “But I couldn't imagine not marrying a man I loved. When she announced she had accepted your brother, I was shocked because she hadn't confessed to being in love with him. She did admire him, and she liked him well enough. But love? I wasn't sure.”

“She liked the idea of being a countess well enough, though?”

“Not just a countess. Gabriel's countess. All of the girls were in love with him.” She confirmed his obvious suspicions. “He was the greatest catch of the season next to the Duke of Rustledge, and Rustledge had nothing on your brother as far as looks.”

He rolled his eyes. “I can't imagine it. He's such a…”

“Such a?”

“Well, he's Gabriel. What's there to like, let alone swoon over?”

“He's your brother. You see him differently than a swarm of marriage-minded debutantes all out to capture the season's prize.”

“The booby prize.” He laughed, took a turn down a short dirt road between some low-hanging trees, and pulled over. “We walk from here.” He gestured at the trees.

“Into the forest? Should I be afraid?”

“You can hang on to me if we encounter wild beasts. We're actually just cutting through the outlying wilderness to a wide meadow filled with wildflowers. It used to be another farm, the McGintys' place. Old man McGinty passed away when I was a child. I would sometimes walk out here and bring home bouquets for Mother.”

“Quite a long walk.” They'd only been driving for a quarter hour, but the walk would take hours for short legs.

“On foot, it's faster if you go through Thornbrook's land, past the orchards, and cut through Mrs. Dennehy's grazing fields. Of course, you have to make sure Dennehy's not watching out the window with her shotgun.”

“Lovely. I look forward to meeting her one day.” They got out. He picked up the basket and she took his offered hand.

“She's friendly enough, just protective of her land.”

“But it's Thornbrook Park land. She's a tenant?”

He lifted a branch to lead her through the trees. “Technically, yes, but years have given her a sense of ownership.”

“And McGinty? Was he also a tenant farmer?”

“His lands were his own, I think still for sale. The idea of repairing the old house and barns and restoring the fields to fertile land is daunting and expensive. Farms are disappearing across the country in favor of factories. It's all about industry now.”

“But Mrs. Dennehy hangs on. I have to admire her tenacity, though she adds a crimp to your plan for the Coopers.” She clung to his hand, allowing him to help her over a fallen log. “We won't get into any trouble for trespassing?”

“No one comes here any longer, as far as I know. I believe we're perfectly safe.” They emerged through the trees and overgrown weeds to a clearing.

“It's beautiful.” She looked over the breathtaking expanse of tall grass and flowers that gradually sloped down toward a dilapidated old barn. “Look at all the sunflowers and thimbleweed. Is that Thornbrook there, off in the distance?”

He shook his head. “It's Skipham, farther off than it looks.”

“Picturesque. Do you think there might one day be a factory here?” She followed him to a patch of grass, where he set down the basket.

“One day, perhaps. What sort of factory do you think?” He opened the basket. She helped him spread the green plaid blanket over the grass. “Whizgigs? A whizgig factory?”

“Or whatsits.” She smiled, reaching for a wrapped bundle. He shooed her hand away.

“Sit. I'll serve.” He helped her to the ground, crouched down beside her, and began removing and uncovering things from the basket. “Perhaps whizgigs and whatsits together. A whizgigs and whatsits factory.”

“A shame to lose all these gorgeous sunflowers. And Thornbrook Park might lose a few servants to new opportunities.”

“Horrors. Are you suggesting they're not all loyal to the earl after he's taken such responsibility to provide for them all these years?” He withdrew two glasses and a bottle of wine. “Hoyle and Finch will stay on to the bitter end.”

He opened the wine, poured, and handed her a glass. She raised it. “To loyalty!”

“To us!” His gaze stayed on her as he clinked his glass to hers. “Enough about my brother and his estate. The afternoon is ours.”

Ours.
She loved the sound. If only for the day.

“I'm famished,” she confessed, though she did not add that she hungered for more than food. Their lovemaking had been everything she'd craved, urgent and uninhibited, but she still felt caught up in a dream. Had it all been real? She wanted him once more to be certain of it. Slower next time, lingering to savor each other properly with the overwhelming need to claim each other out of the way. “Mrs. Mallows has outdone herself. We have a feast. Chicken, cheese, bread. Are those strawberry tarts?”

“Not apple, alas. But all I really need is you here by my side.” He handed her a plate.

They ate quietly, enjoying the food, the scenery, easy companionship, and a most excellent chilled white wine. Their hunger sated, their attention turned to other needs. He gathered the food and plates, tucked them back into the basket, and eased onto his back, his head in her lap.

“Nap time?” She stroked his hair.

“No, I'm simply lulling you into a false sense of security.” He reached up and guided her head down to meet his kiss. “Mmm, you taste of strawberries.”

“You taste of wine.” She slipped out from under him, removed her hat, and moved to stretch out next to him on the blanket. “A good combination, strawberries and wine.”

The blue sky overhead had filled with a few clouds. They would have to leave soon if it started to storm, but it seemed they still had time. He propped up on an elbow and arched a golden brow. “You, Mrs. Kendal, are in quite a lot of danger.”

“Danger?” She tried to appear unruffled by the idea, but a thrill snaked up her spine.

He reached for her bodice and tugged it low beneath her breasts, exposing her. She bit her lip to stifle a gasp as the light breeze grazed her nipples. “I mean to explore you thoroughly this time.”

“Take heed, Captain.” She trailed her hand down the length of him to his trousers, stopping to brush his growing erection. “I'm prepared to answer all threats measure for measure.”

His stomach flipped when she suggested that she would respond to his exploration in kind. But when she freed him from his trousers and began to stroke his shaft, he thought perhaps he had died on the spot.

He closed his eyes against the rush of sensation. “Woman, you'll be my undoing.”

“That is my intention,” she said, flashing a wicked smile as she rolled onto her stomach and repositioned herself between his legs. “But slowly, and with excruciating detail.”

Her mouth replaced her hand and he shuddered from the sheer pleasure of it, the light pressure of her lips sliding up and down, the exquisite laving of her tongue along the tip. When she took him all the way to the back of her throat, he couldn't stifle his moan. As she enthusiastically conducted her onslaught, he wasn't sure he could hold on.

“Oh no, sweetheart. Your turn.” He sat up, twisting around to shift her underneath him, lifted her skirts, and parted her legs around him. Sliding his hands up her delicate legs, he paused at the juncture of her thighs. “You're beautiful, Eve. Every inch of you.”

She moaned as he parted her to him and kissed her intimately, rolling his tongue around the pearl at her core before delving inside her and out again. He repeated his attentions, savoring her sweet taste, until she pulled his hair.

“Now. Please,” she begged.

“Darling, not soon enough.” He rose over her, steadying his weight on his arms and meeting her gaze. He wanted to watch her as they joined, cementing the memory of their connection into his mind.

He moved deliberately, urging her to move with him as he entered her, then pulled back and eased in again. With great restraint, he resisted the temptation to rush the pace, while her crystalline gaze held him enthralled. He failed to notice the darkening sky or increasing winds until the rain began to fall on them.

She gasped and clung to him, her slick legs tightening around his hips. He fell into rhythm with the raindrops until her silken heat gripped him as she found her bliss. He peaked with her and remained atop her, shielding her from the weather and looking into her eyes, holding on to their moment for as long as he possibly could.

“We're getting soaked,” he said finally, after catching his breath.

She laughed. “It's only water. Hurrying off won't make us any less wet.”

He helped her to her feet and pulled her into his arms, kissing her again as the drops fell more rapidly around them. She refused to be hurried along, drawing his tongue in.

He wished it never had to end, but he picked up their wet things while she adjusted her dress.

“I've ruined my hat.” She picked it up by the sagging straw brim.

“I'll buy you another.”

She smiled. “No thank you, Captain Thorne. I can buy my own hats.”

A shame. He liked the idea of them shopping together. They sat in silence on the journey back, probably both wondering if Gabriel and Sophia would be waiting for them. He wouldn't be bullied, he decided. If Gabriel had an issue with him taking Eve out for a drive, so be it. He'd agreed to court Alice, but he'd never said when he would begin.

Dale came out for the car as they pulled into the drive, held an umbrella over Eve, and escorted her into the house.

“Thank you, Dale,” Marcus said upon the man's return. “I'll manage without the umbrella.” He made his entrance and hoped for the best.

Mr. Finch alone stood waiting to greet them with warm blankets that he wrapped around them as they came in. “A shame that you got caught in the downpour.”

“It's only water.” Marcus flashed Eve a grin. When he saw her return a smile, his heart gave a queer flutter. Bloody hell, he couldn't be falling in love. It was infatuation, nothing more. And it would fade as he set on course to woo Alice. Wouldn't it?

“And the earl and countess?” he asked, struggling to recover. “Did they get caught out, too?”

“No,” Mr. Finch said. “They made it back well before you.”

The grim set of the butler's mouth cued Marcus that it might not have been a happy homecoming.

“Dinner will be brought up on trays tonight. Lady Averford thought it best to leave everyone to leisure,” he said, as if to confirm Marcus's suspicion.

“Just as well,” Eve said. “I have correspondence to keep up with.”

“There was a caller for you while you were out,” Mr. Finch informed Eve. “A gentleman.”

Her eyes widened with excitement. “From London? Was it a Mr. Strump? Or perhaps Mr. Gibbs? Or Gerald?”

Finch shook his head. “His name escapes me. He didn't leave a card. He said he was your cousin, long lost, eager to reconnect.”

“My cousin?” Her nose wrinkled. “I don't believe I have any cousins. None that I'm aware. Perhaps on the American side? Did he sound American?”

“I'm not certain I know what American sounds like,” Finch said. “But it's possible. He didn't leave word where he was staying, but he said he would come back.”

“Until then, it's a mystery,” Eve said, turning to Marcus. “I suppose everyone needs a little mystery now and again. A cousin? Imagine! I might have family.”

“Imagine,” he agreed, not wanting to disappoint her. A sour taste rose in the back of his throat. The timing seemed suspicious. “We'll find out when he returns. Why don't you run along and get some dry clothes? We can't have you catching your death.”

“Good idea. Thank you for our ride, Captain Thorne.” She blushed as she lifted her eyes to him and held out her hand for a friendly shake. “I had a lovely afternoon.”

“As did I,” he said, watching her go up the stairs. He waited until she was all the way up before he turned to Finch to confirm the dread growing in his mind. “By any chance, was this visitor wearing a black bowler hat?”

“In fact he was, Captain Thorne. Though I hardly found it worthy of note, black bowlers being so common. Do you know the fellow?”

“I can't imagine so.” He shook his head. But he planned to make some inquiries to see what he could find out.

***

When he'd agreed to go riding with his brother, Marcus had failed to imagine it would mean getting up at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. His brother was a barbarian. But he'd always known it. Why should he expect anything had changed, that his brother would have been tamed by marriage?

The wonders of married life were lost on Marcus, and thank goodness. With the wonders of sleeping late, however, he was well acquainted. And he wished to stay well acquainted, snuggling deep into the down blankets. He had to hand it to Sophia; she had replaced the scratchy Averford linens with the softest cotton sheets. His bed felt like a cloud around him, and he did not want to leave it. But he felt George watching over him.

“On penalty of death, you said. By firing squad.” George spoke from between clenched teeth. “‘Make sure I'm out of bed by six in the morning, George,' you said.”

“You're a good lad, George. Forget what I said about the firing squad. Give me another hour in bed, and I will whisk you away to Averford House when I return to London. I'll make you my permanent valet.”

George's answer was to tear the covers clean off Marcus's body. “I don't want to go to London, sir. And I'm not sure whether to believe the threat of firing squad or the promise of promotion.”

“The promotion, of course.”

Normally, six wouldn't feel such a torture. The army got a man used to getting up early and sometimes functioning on very little sleep. He would have to rely on his training. But his army days were drifting to the past and he certainly hadn't gotten much sleep, staying out late to visit every inn and tavern within a wide radius in an attempt to find the mysterious stranger in the black bowler hat, to no avail. He wasn't as young as he used to be. He wished he had another hour to catch up on his sleep.

“I'm still not certain it wouldn't be the firing squad. For my next move, I plan to upend the pitcher of water all over your bed. How would you like sleeping then, sir?”

“You are a taskmaster, young George. Finch has taught you well. He had better watch out, for that matter. Are you aiming to take over as butler?”

“One day perhaps. But not until Finch is well and done with it. The place wouldn't be the same without Mr. Finch, sir.”

“I quite agree. I wish I could lure him to Averford House. Sutton is quite the stoic. Have you met Mr. Sutton?”

“I haven't had the pleasure. I've never been to the London house.”

“No loss, really. It's not as grand as Thornbrook Park. But it's home. Well, not really home. It's a place to stay. For now. One day, I suppose I will need a home of my own.”

“One day, sir.”

“One day,” he echoed, getting out of bed to prepare for the day ahead. One day very soon if he managed to succeed with Alice, he thought with a pang of regret.

“Be sure you look after Brandon for me, George. Let him sleep as he long as likes and then keep an eye out for him. He took a shine to the new litter of pointers, so I assume he will be off to the kennel for the afternoon. He should only be with us for a few more days.”

They had decided to ride out to the farm to see how Mrs. Dennehy felt about hiring new help before introducing Brandon. Marcus hurried through his bath and shave, and an hour later, was seated on the big brown stallion his brother had called Viking, but the stable lads referred to as “Crazy Legs.” Marcus had not ridden since the war. It didn't bode well. His brother's horse, the gentlest and most obedient of mares, Wilmadene, cantered along. “Viking” was certainly a more respectable name for a mount than “Wilmadene,” but “Crazy Legs” lurked ominously in the back of his mind.

“So, you've made some changes to the grounds, I take it?” Marcus opened conversation. “Any special alterations I should be aware of as we ride?”

“Nothing earth-shattering, I suppose,” Gabriel said. “Winthrop's ordered a new fence to be built for the pasture past the cottage. The old one has rotted away.”

“Winthrop, the estate manager? How's he working out?”

Gabriel shrugged. “He's no trouble at all compared to what one might expect with his reputation. He likes to be left alone, but it's not a surprise to find him pitching in with the groundskeepers. Perhaps hard work helps him forget his personal struggles.”

Logan Winthrop had grown up the younger brother to a baron, much like Marcus taking second to his brother, the earl. There were some rumors of Winthrop murdering a rival, but he'd been acquitted of the crime. The former estate manager had recommended Winthrop to Gabriel upon his own retirement. A good man, he'd said, under unfortunate circumstances.
Give him a chance
. And Gabriel had.

“Strong fences make good neighbors. Must keep out the cows,” Marcus said, getting back on the topic of the farm. “And sheep? Does Mrs. Dennehy still have sheep?”

“A few old girls and one or two rams. She hasn't been mating them. It would break her heart if the sheep outlived her, she says. She wouldn't leave the responsibility of their care to anyone else.”

“Perhaps I can convince her otherwise. The Coopers have farming in their blood.” That they had no actual experience with raising livestock or vegetation, Marcus left unsaid. He gently nudged his horse to keep up with Wilmadene.

As if sensing Marcus's struggle to control Viking, Gabriel nudged Wilmadene to a brisk trot.

“Curious way you have of wooing Alice,” Gabriel looked back to Marcus. “By taking Eve Kendal out for a drive.”

“I thought my paying attention to another woman might intrigue Alice.”

“You believed you were making her jealous? Deuce it, man, have you courted a woman since Eton?”

Marcus almost made a retort about Gabriel having to court his own wife, but checked himself in time as it would have been needlessly cruel to point that out.

Instead, Marcus chose avoidance, urging his mount to step quicker, giving him an unintentional dig with his heel. Viking charged, full speed ahead. Worse even than being thrown from a wild horse would be needing his brother's help to control one. He urged himself to keep a cool head and regain dominance over the beast. Until then, there was no sense in letting Gabriel believe he'd made a foolish mistake.

“Race you!” He called over his shoulder, even as he held on for dear life while Viking plundered the land.

Fortunately, of its own accord, the horse decided to slow to a stop at the edge of the meadow near the stream. Marcus wasted no time in getting down as soon as it was safe to dismount.

“There, there, boy.” He stroked the horse's flanks as it leaned over to drink.

“Are you insane?” Gabriel said, once he caught up. “Race me? We're not boys anymore, need I remind you. A gentleman doesn't go tearing up the land willy-nilly.”

“A gentleman doesn't say ‘willy-nilly,'” Marcus countered, feeling very childish indeed. “Shall we leave the horses to rest and walk the rest of the way to Tilly Meadow?”

Gabriel agreed. “We'll send a lad over from the farm to tend them.”

They walked in silence until Marcus caught sight of the little barn, faded from red to brown from years in the rain and sun. “It looks as though it has seen better days, Gabriel. Are you sure Mrs. Dennehy is managing alone?”

Gabriel shrugged. “She says so. She's very insistent. Her husband died here, and I believe she intends to as well.”

“But she's not ready for that, certainly. She was younger than old man Dennehy, if I recall. By about twenty years?”

“True,” Gabriel nodded. “She's sixty, sixty-five, not a day older. But the years are showing. Without the farm, she would be dead, she says. It keeps her going.”

“I can imagine, but working it alone might be taking a toll. A few hired hands can't replace what she used to have with her husband. What's become of her daughters?”