Tremaine's True Love (22 page)

“Atlas has already been unsaddled,” she said, tucking Tremaine’s hair back over his ear and letting her hand rest on his shoulder.

“Take another mount, then.” He kissed her other cheek, a charming Continental custom insufficiently appreciated in Britain.

“I should change.”

Because she wore the same dowdy, cabbage-scented habit she’d worn on their other outings to the Chalmers residence. In the warmth of the hallway, that scent blended with smoked meat and wet wool, and dragged Tremaine back to his childhood.

“You should come just as you are. I’m sending a letter by messenger, George is returning books for Lady Susannah, and something was mentioned about stopping by the apothecary for peppermint drops.”

Nita’s expression changed, and her hand disappeared from Tremaine’s shoulder. “I left my bag.”

“I beg your pardon?” Tremaine dropped a kiss on her mouth and something inside him settled agreeably lower.

“My bag of medicinals,” Nita said. “I forgot it in the garden, on a bench in the gazebo. If we go to the apothecary, I can stock up on some of the depleted stores. I left all of my peppermint oil with Addy, because if one child falls ill, the others could easily follow.”

Nita retied her bonnet ribbons, her movements brisk.

“You’ll accompany us, then?”

She shot a look over Tremaine’s shoulder, longing in her gaze. “I shall.”

“Grab something to eat,” Tremaine said, for she’d missed breakfast and food was hardly abundant in the Chalmers household. “I’ll fetch your medicinals and let the stable know you need a mount.”

“My thanks.” She strode off in the direction of the kitchen, damp hems swishing.

Tremaine admired the view, though his joy in the day dimmed.

He’d made passionate love to the lady not twelve hours earlier, but this morning, she showed more enthusiasm for a hot cup of tea than for his kisses. Was her reticence a function of fatigue, preoccupation with the ailing child, or disappointment in his amatory overtures?

* * *

Nita would forever associate the scent of damp wool with Tremaine St. Michael’s kisses. She gulped her tea at a kitchen window so she could watch him retrieve her medical bag from the gazebo, then stride off to the stables.

He should wear a hat in this cold. If she were his wife, she could scold him—remind him—to wear a hat.

If she were his wife, she would have kissed him back too.

“Bread and cheese, your ladyship,” Cook said, passing Nita a thick sandwich. “Would you like more tea?”

“No, thank you.” Nita would like time to change into a more fashionable habit, to tidy her hair, to use her tooth powder again, and have a long, fragrant soak in hot water and scorching memories. She instead took a bite of bread, cheese, and butter, and headed back out to the stables.

“My lady, your gloves.” Cook hurried after her and passed her the neglected items.

“I have grown forgetful lately,” Nita said. “Thank you.”

Nita stuffed the gloves in her pocket and crossed the gardens at a decorous pace, munching her makeshift breakfast. Was this love, this tongue-tied, breathless stupidity? She didn’t care for it, though she cared for Tremaine St. Michael.

Him, she could tell about Addy’s baby and know he’d grasp the situation in all its precariousness. She could wear her old habit around him and not worry that he judged her for looking unfashionable.

Surely that acceptance and caring—and the sweet, stolen kisses—were love too?

“There you are,” George said as his chestnut gelding was led out. “One despaired of seeing you before spring. How is Addy’s baby? It was the baby, wasn’t it? Elsie Nash’s boy has a bad sniffle and children seem to catch everything.”

George was a good brother, though he would not have asked after the baby at the breakfast table.

“The infant should soon be fine, though croup can sound terrifyingly awful. What have you stuffed in those saddlebags?”

“Susannah’s latest haul of books. She’s getting worse, Nita, and I didn’t think she could be any worse.”

A placid bay mare came next, the horse nominally Susannah’s, though the beast was seldom put to use. Mr. St. Michael led her out, the wind whipping at his dark hair.

“Up you go, my lady.” He didn’t position the horse near the ladies’ mounting block, but rather, stood at the mare’s shoulder.

When he’d boosted Nita into the saddle, he twitched her skirts over her boots, muddy hems and all.

“I hope you took the time to break your fast, my lady?”

He was concerned, as a husband might be concerned. Nita liked that enough to run her fingers over his hair before she donned her gloves.

“I ate. Mount up, Mr. St. Michael, before my poor brother freezes to the saddle.”

Mr. St. Michael didn’t smile, but a hint of mischief danced in his eyes as he patted Nita’s knee.

Abruptly, she grasped exactly what thoughts filled his male mind:
If
you
don’t start calling me by my name, I’ll come before I’ve so much as kissed you.

Nita repeated that quick stroke over his hair, but this time she sneaked in a light pinch to his earlobe. She would soon be as bad as Nicholas.

Lovely thought, and until Nita was officially engaged,
Mr. St. Michael
would have to tolerate proper address from her in public.

George set a brisk pace, which made conversation difficult, and when they arrived to the village, Mr. St. Michael volunteered to return Susannah’s books before he stopped at the inn.

“Shall I accompany you?” Nita asked as George took the horses to the livery.

“You shall join George at the apothecary,” Mr. St. Michael said, “where for you, I am sure, hours feel like minutes, as if you were in the land of fairies. When we return to Belle Maison, you will take that soaking bath, won’t you?”

He’d kissed Nita with that question, though nobody’s lips had touched anybody else’s.

“I shall, and take a nap as well. While my dreams were pleasant last night, I could have wished for more time spent in my warm, cozy bed.”

Nita had verbally kissed Mr. St. Michael back, though his smile was mostly in his eyes.

“You shall have that time, my lady. All the time you desire.”

He bowed and marched off, full of energy and purpose, and cutting a fine figure in his riding attire.

“Stop gawking,” George said, coming out of the livery and taking Nita by the arm. “Though I admit he’s worth a second look.”

George was the brother closest to Nita in age, and his unconventional attractions had never been a secret to her, nor had they been anything but natural to him.

“Hush,” Nita said. “Nicholas worries that I’ll contract some dread disease, but he worries gossip will see you swinging from a gibbet.”

“The difference being,” George said as they crossed the frozen green, “you can choose to stop dealing with sick babies and gouty grandmamas, while I can’t help but notice your Mr. St. Michael.”

Nita wished she could find a tisane for George, to settle his nerves or something.

“Do you never notice the ladies, George? Mr. St. Michael has proposed to me, and I would hate to think my husband—”

“St. Michael doesn’t
see
me, Nita. I’m not sure I’d respect him if he did, for my regard is that of a rutting colt and flatters nobody. I do notice the ladies—I happen to like any number of them—and I notice the women too. Have you accepted his offer?”

George had a touch of Kirsten’s directness, at least with Nita. Maybe that was why she’d confided the news of Mr. St. Michael’s offer to George and Kirsten first.

“I have not. The more impetuous I want to be, the more deliberate I must be. I hardly know him, George.”

“Good for you, Nita,” George said as he held the door to the apothecary for her. “You are a treasure, and any man who can’t see that is a fool. Make St. Michael beg. It will do him good.”

Gracious, George could be fierce. “Thank you, George.”

He ambled off in the direction of the sweets, while Nita took a moment to inhale the fragrance of the shop. She loved this little establishment, where each shelf held glass or ceramic jars, tidily labeled, clear up to the rafters. Behind the counter, Mrs. Grainger read a newspaper, her glasses halfway down her nose, her gray bun listing to the side.

“Lady Nita, welcome!” she said, putting the paper away and pushing her glasses up. “Always a pleasure. What can I help you with today?” Nita was probably Mrs. Grainger’s best customer, but Edna Grainger was also an ally, keeping Nita apprised of who was coming down with an ague, whose cold was improving.

They were deep in a discussion of the best method for distilling peppermint oil when Tremaine St. Michael joined them at the counter.

“Your errand is accomplished, Mr. St. Michael?” Nita asked, resisting the urge to rearrange his scarf—purple wool this time, an unusual color.

“Books delivered, and a lecture on the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe received. Are your purchases here complete?”

“They are. Mrs. Grainger, you’ll send the lot to Belle Maison?”

“This very day, my lady, assuming the snow holds off.”

Nita did unwrap Mr. St. Michael’s scarf, because the ends dangled unevenly.

“Susannah would have tarried at the library until nightfall,” Nita said, rewrapping the scarf, “reading just one more chapter before deciding whether to borrow a book. She ought to reside above the library and save herself a lot of time and hauling about of books. This is lovely wool.”

Mrs. Grainger had bustled off to her scale, and George was probably purloining lemon drops.

Nita purloined a kiss. A brief, stolen peck on the lips, disproportionately satisfying for the surprise and pleasure it lit in Mr. St. Michael’s eyes.

“You are bold this morning,” he said softly.

“I am in charity with the world, apparently.”

He stood a hair too close, which was lovely. “As am I. Does your brother George fancy that woman?”

Nita left off patting Mr. St. Michael’s lapel to see George deep in conversation with Elsie Nash.

“George and Elsie are friendly, I’m sure.”

Elsie stood with her head cocked, as if hanging on George’s every word—or as if hiding her bruises.

“That’s Nash’s sister-in-law?” Mr. St. Michael asked.

“Elsie Nash,” Nita said, wondering if Elsie was purchasing cosmetics to hide future bruises. “She’s lived with Edward nearly two years, along with her son.”

“The next baronet,” Mr. St. Michael said, “until Nash can find a woman willing to marry him. Why doesn’t Mrs. Nash remarry? She’s a pretty little thing, and I can’t imagine keeping house for Edward results in any compensation.”

Nita’s first instinct was to deliver a retort about a woman’s options being limited and no husband being better than the wrong husband, but Mr. St. Michael had a point. Elsie was comely, cheerful, and hardworking.

And Edward bullied and abused her. He was probably no better with Digby.

Edward was, however, Digby’s guardian, and thus Elsie was trapped.

“Nita,” George said, escorting Elsie to the front of the shop. “Young Digby has apparently acquired a prodigious sniffle. What should Elsie do for the boy?”

Irritation with George warred with concern for little Digby, because this too was a legacy from Nita’s mother. In the middle of the churchyard, in the middle of shopping, or in the middle of a lovely little flirtation with Mr. St. Michael,
anybody
might accost Nita for a medical consultation.

She loathed discussing personal business in public places, and yet, no matter the location, she would be expected to focus all of her attention on the self-appointed patient, and diagnose and prescribe—accurately—on the spot.

What Elsie ought to do was send Digby to public school, where he’d be given hot broth and three days in bed with a brazier full of coals by his side and
Robinson
Crusoe
to entertain him.

“Tell me Digby’s symptoms,” Nita said, drawing Elsie over to the window and away from the menfolk. Elsie was deep in a mother’s recounting of her son’s every woe and feebleness when from behind them, Nita heard Mr. St. Michael murmur to George.

“Mr. Haddonfield, shall we fetch the horses? I do believe it’s beginning to snow.”

* * *

“What would Lady Nita think were I to depart for Oxfordshire on the morrow?” Tremaine asked as he and George left the fragrant little apothecary.

George Haddonfield would make a good traveling companion. He didn’t chatter, he wasn’t nervous, and he didn’t laugh at a question from a man desperately seeking to maintain his dignity.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” George mused. “You’d at least be spared the ordeal of the assembly, and if Nita’s not inclined to accept your suit, the matter could conclude by correspondence. I don’t fancy a Channel crossing this time of year though.”

Tremaine had proposed less than twelve hours ago, and already the matter was known to Nita’s brother. Was that a good sign or a bad sign?

“Germany will keep,” Tremaine said, “at least until the lady decides my fate. Don’t suppose you have an interest in sheep?”

“Not particularly. My interests are varied, but sheep are not among them.”

Was Elsie Nash among George’s interests? Had Elsie Nash seen that kiss in the apothecary, the kiss that had sent lust blazing straight to Tremaine’s…earlobes?

“Sheep don’t fascinate Edward Nash either,” Tremaine said, nor did they at present fascinate
him
, “but he knows those merinos are valuable. Given the state of his acres, I’ve concluded Nash intends to resell the sheep.”

As Tremaine approached the livery, the snow shifting from a few stray flakes to a fine, relentless downpour.

“Nita might take your departure for a waning of interest,” George said. “Or stubbornness.”

Tremaine readjusted his scarf, so the occasional snowflake couldn’t hit the back of his neck. “I am tenacious and focused on my commercial objectives. I don’t regard that as a fault.”

Though commercial objectives weren’t half so interesting as Nita Haddonfield’s sense of humor.