Tremaine's True Love (35 page)

Apology accepted, apparently—proposal as well—and she’d anticipated Tremaine’s very next point.

“Consider it done, madam. You will interview her too.”

Nita tucked herself agreeably closer, such that Tremaine endured a throbbing of the blood in a location other than his wound.

“If only you could find a replacement for Vicar. He delights in carping about a woman’s pain being her just deserts for leading Adam astray. Makes me wonder about the gout he complains of at such length.”

Tremaine saved puzzling over the theology of gout for some other day. “Your brother mentioned Vicar’s increasing age to Fairly, and I heard them discussing an in-law of Fairly’s as a possible replacement. Nita, you do know that under this dressing gown, I’m wearing nothing but a nightshirt?”

She sat up. “You’re injured, Tremaine. You mustn’t overdo.”

At least she was crestfallen to deliver that opinion.

“I must contradict you. Lord Fairly was clear that I should resume normal activities as soon as possible, allowing pain to inform my choices. I’m in pain, Nita. Will you, please, relieve my distress yet again?”

“We’ll marry, won’t we, Tremaine?” She unbelted his robe as she put the question to him. “I’ve been a touch queasy lately, which makes no sense, but I do want to marry you. I’m done battling contagion, Tremaine. Let your physicians duel with that scoundrel. I’ll attend the occasional lying-in, I’m sure, and I can always be counted on to deal with injuries—my goodness.”

A part of Tremaine was showing off its exuberant good health and high spirits.

“I’ve missed you,” he said again. “Might I hope you’ve missed me?”

“Desperately,” Nita said, rising and locking the door. “Do you still have that special license?”

“I assuredly do,” Tremaine replied as Nita resumed her place on his lap, and he got to work on the drawstring of her bodice. “We’ll find a property nearby, and—”

Nita kissed him to silence and then to bliss upon bliss and then to a lovely, sleepy embrace, during which Tremaine considered names for their firstborn, when in the past, he might have counted sheep.

* * *

“The greatest plague ever to bedevil mortal man, the greatest threat to his peace, the most fiendish source of undeserved humility is
his
brother-in-law
, and titled brothers-in-law are the worst of a bad lot.”

Tremaine’s boots thumped across the carpets of Belle Maison’s library, his pace, to Nita’s ear, solid and even, though only weeks ago he’d been brought to bed with a bullet wound.

“Nicholas frets,” Nita said. “It’s his nature. He can’t help it, and marriage and fatherhood have made him worse.”

Impending fatherhood had made Tremaine worse too—also better, at least in terms of tenderness, quiet kisses, caresses, and the pace with which he pursued his commercial activities.

“But why did Bellefonte muster the entire regiment to see us off?” Tremaine groused. He sounded Scottish all the time now. “One likes a bit of dignity about one’s leave-takings.”

Tremaine marched to a halt before a tall window and held out a hand to Nita. “Finally, the last of the recruits arrives.”

“The Holland bulbs along the south-facing garden wall are starting to sprout,” Nita said, for a woman in anticipation of motherhood appreciated new life in all its brave splendor.

She leaned into her husband, wondering how she’d ever managed, how she’d endured, without his love to sustain her.

“Are you certain you want to take this journey with me?” he asked, tucking her against his side. “I’ve wondered how my households ever functioned, how I functioned, without you to take matters in hand.”

This happened frequently—their thoughts ran in tandem, much as Tremaine slept in tandem with Nita.

“We will make a wedding journey of it,” Nita said. “Nicholas has assured me the house we’ve chosen will be entirely refurbished by the time we return. George will steward your acres, and Digby will aid him. I want to meet your grandfather, Tremaine, and he apparently has demanded to meet me.”

Demanding family members no longer bothered Nita as they had prior to her marriage, though she’d been happily busy establishing her household with Tremaine. Nicholas had insisted on a family gathering prior to Tremaine and Nita’s departure for Scotland and points distant, even summoning Beckman and Ethan and all their family.

The last time they’d been together had been the old earl’s funeral, and Nita agreed with Nicholas—better to gather for joy than sorrow. Better to assure Tremaine he’d married not only a loving wife, but also an entire tribe of loving, if bothersome, in-laws.

George and Elsie had come over from Stonebridge, which property George had purchased from Edward for the sum of Edward’s debts. Edward was rumored to be the elderly baronet’s whipping boy, though even the post of charity relation hadn’t lessened Edward’s fondness for gin.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Tremaine said, kissing Nita’s temple. “You’ll upset my son with such unworthy ruminations.”

Nita was carrying a girl. She knew this through some instinct foreign to modern medicine. The Doctors Macallan—a pair of brothers from Aberdeen—laughed at her prediction, but their sister—a trained midwife—pointed out Nita had as much chance of being right as wrong.

The village had no sooner stopped gossiping about Dr. Horton’s retirement than Vicar had announced his decision to join households with a brother living outside Bath. Lord Fairly’s brother-in-law, a fellow named Daniel Banks, was to assume the Haddondale pulpit within the month.

“George and Elsie live the closest and yet they are the last to arrive,” Nita said as George escorted his wife past a flower bed where daffodils still slumbered beneath cold earth. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Mrs. George Haddonfield has developed delicate digestion of a morning,” Tremaine said. “One is burdened by such confidences in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable game of cards, for no earthly reason I can fathom.”

In other words, Tremaine was overjoyed for George and Elsie, as Nita was.

“Mind your enthusiasm for the topic, Tremaine, or they might name the baby after you.”

As Nita crossed the garden on her husband’s arm, Tremaine peered down at her. “Do you think George might name a boy after me? Bellefonte will be jealous. I rather like the idea, though ‘Tremaine’ might be an awkward name for a girl.”

He was enthralled with the notion, clearly, and when Nita gave birth to a daughter on a lovely autumn morning, Tremaine suggested the child be named Nicolette St. Michael.

The girl’s siblings—of which there was eventually an entire herd—in fact called her Dr. Bo Peep, for Nicky St. Michael, much to her parents’ pride, became highly skilled in treating any and all ailments and injuries commonly suffered by sheep.

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Daniel's True Desire

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next book in the True Gentlemen series

Daniel’s True Desire

“Why must all and sundry entertain themselves by telling me falsehoods?”

Daniel Banks’s teeth chattered as he put that conundrum to his horse, who had come to a halt, head down, sides heaving, before the only building in sight.

“‘Ye can’t miss it,’” Daniel quoted to himself. “The only lane that turns off to the left half a mile west of the village.”

This was not Belle Maison, the family seat of the Earl of Bellefonte. Daniel had listened carefully to the directions given to him by the good folk at the Queen’s Harebell. They’d sent him, in the middle of a roaring snowstorm, to a mean, weathered cottage, albeit one with a light in its single window.

“I’ll be but a moment,” Daniel promised his gelding.

Daniel’s boots hit the snowy ground and agony shot up limbs too long exposed to the cold. He stood for a moment, waiting for the pain to fade, concocting silent epithets when he ought to have been murmuring the Twenty-Third Psalm.

“Halloo, the house!” he called, thumping up three snowy steps. The porch sheltered a small hoard of split, oak firewood. Somebody within burned that oak, for the frigid air held the comforting tang of smoke.

The wind abated once Daniel ducked under the porch’s overhang, though he did not tarry to appreciate the beauty of an early spring storm. He needed a fire, some victuals, and proper directions, though only the directions mattered.

A man of God was supposed to welcome hardships, and Daniel did, mostly because his store of silent, colorful language was becoming impressive.

He raised a gloved fist to knock on the door. “Halloo, the—!”

The door opened, Daniel’s sleeve was snatched into a tight grasp, and he was yanked into the warmth of the cottage so quickly he nearly bumped his head on the lintel.

“I said I’d be home by dark,” his captor muttered, “and full dark is yet another hour away. I was hoping this infernal snow would slow down.” The woman fell silent, for Daniel’s sleeve was in a young lady’s grip. “You’re not George.”

Alas for me
. “The Reverend Daniel Banks, at your service, madam. I lost my way and need directions to Belle Maison, the Bellefonte estate. Apologies for intruding upon your afternoon.”

Though, might Daniel please intrude until at least his feet and ears thawed? Beelzebub was a substantial horse who grew a prodigious winter coat. He’d tolerate the elements well enough for a short time.

While Daniel was cold, tired, famished, and viewed his upcoming visit to the earl’s grand house as a penance at best.

“Your gloves are frozen,” the lady noted, tugging one of those gloves from Daniel’s hand. “What could you be thinking, sir?” She went after his scarf next, unwinding it from his head, though she had to go up on her toes. She appropriated his second glove and shook the lot, sending pellets of ice in all directions.

What had he been thinking? Lately, Daniel avoided the near occasion of thinking. Better that way, all around.

“You needn’t go to any trouble,” Daniel said, though the warmth of the cottage was heavenly. A kettle steamed on the pot swing, and the scent of cinnamon—a luxury—filled the otherwise humble space. Somebody had made the dwelling comfy, with a rocking chair by the fire, fragrant beeswax candles in the sconces, and braided rugs covering a plank floor.

“I can offer you tea, and bread and butter, but then surely we’ll be on our way. I’m Kirsten Haddonfield, Mr. Banks, and we can ride to Belle Maison together.”

Haddonfield was the family name that went with the Bellefonte title.

“You’re a relative to the earl, then?”

She wore a plain, dark blue wool dress, high necked, such as a farmer’s wife would wear this time of year. Not even a cousin to an earl would attire herself thus unless she suffered excesses of pragmatism.

“I am one of the earl’s younger sisters, and you’re half-frozen. I hope those aren’t your good boots, for you’ve ruined them.”

“They’re my only boots.”

Swooping blond brows drew together over a nose no one would call dainty, and yet Lady Kirsten Haddonfield was a pretty woman. She had good facial bones, a definite chin, a clean jaw, and blue eyes that assured Daniel she did not suffer fools—lest her tone leave any doubt on that score.

Daniel was a fool—witness the ease with which the yeoman at the inn had bamboozled him. Witness the ease with which his own wife had bamboozled him.

“At least sit for a moment before the fire,” the lady said, arranging his scarf and gloves on pegs above the hearth. “Did you lose your way because of the weather?”

Daniel had lost his way months ago. “The weather played a role. Are you here alone, my lady?”

She folded her arms across a bosom even a man of the cloth acknowledged as a fine bit of work on the Creator’s part.

“I am on my family’s property, Mr. Banks, and they well know where I am. The weather is not only foul; it’s dangerous. If you must prance out the door to die for the sake of manners, I’ll not stop you. The groom or one of my brothers should be here any minute to fetch me home. We’ll note into which ditch your remains have fallen as we pass you by.”

The fire was lovely. Her ferocity, though arguably unchristian, warmed Daniel in an entirely different way. Nowhere did the Bible say a Good Samaritan must be excessively burdened with charm.

“You aren’t much given to polite dissembling, are you, my lady?” For an earl’s daughter was a lady from the moment of her birth.

She marched over to the sideboard and commenced sawing at a loaf of bread. “I’m not given to any kind of dissembling. You should sit.”

“If I sit, I might never rise. I’ve journeyed from Oxfordshire, and the storm seems to have followed me every mile.”

“Why not tarry in London and wait out the weather?”

“I am here to fill the Haddondale pulpit,” Daniel said, moving closer to the fire. A copy of
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
lay open facedown on the mantel. “I was given to understand filling the position was a matter of some urgency.”

Her ladyship swiped a silver knife through a pat of butter and paused before applying the butter to the bread.

“
You’re
the new vicar?”

The cold had made Daniel daft. “Do I have horns or cloven feet to disqualify me from a religious calling, my lady?”

She slapped the butter onto the bread, her movements confident.

“You have gorgeous brown eyes, a lovely nose—though it’s a bit red at the moment—and a smile that suggests you might get up to tricks, Mr. Banks. You could also use a trim of that brown hair. Ministers aren’t supposed to look dashing. I have two younger sisters who will suffer paroxysms of religious conviction if you’re to lead the flock.”

Feeling was returning to his feet, and hunger writhed to life along with it. Lady Kirsten passed him the bread without benefit of a plate.

“It’s not quite fresh, the bread, that is. The butter was made this morning. I’ll fix you some tea.”

Daniel took a small bite, then realized he’d forgotten to send grateful sentiments heavenward before he’d done so.
I’m grateful for this bread—also for the company
.

“Your tea, Mr. Banks. Drink up, for I hear sleigh bells.”

Daniel downed the hot tea in one glorious go, the sweetness and substance of it fortifying him, much as Lady Kirsten’s forthright manner had.

“Let me do the explaining,” she said, passing him warmed gloves when he’d bolted his bread and butter. “The sleigh will afford us hot bricks and lap robes, but once we get to Belle Maison, we’ll hear nothing but questions. Nicholas is protective, and my sisters are infernally curious.”

Lady Kirsten had been gracious to him, and Daniel wanted to give her something in return for her hospitality. Something real, not mere manners.

An impoverished vicar had little to give besides truth.

“I’m not lost,” he said. “I was misdirected by some fellows at the inn. I asked for the way to Belle Maison, and they sent me here. I did not confuse their directions, either, because I made them repeat their words twice.”

He’d been taken for a fool, in other words. Again.

“The joke is on them, isn’t it?” Lady Kirsten said, blowing out the last candle and plunging the cottage into deep gloom. “They might have entertained an angel unaware, and instead they’ll have a very uncomfortable moment when it’s their turn to shake the new vicar’s hand. I will enjoy watching that. My sisters will too.”

* * *

You’re not George.

Had a woman ever uttered a stupider observation? Kirsten put aside her self-disgust long enough to arrange the lap robe over her knees. Mr. Banks was on her right, Alfrydd, the head lad, on her left, at the reins.

A great deal more warmth was to be had on her right.

They reached Belle Maison in what felt like moments, before Kirsten could mentally rehearse the version of events she’d offer to her siblings. Not lies. She never bothered lying to them, though they doubtless often wished she would.

“Come along, Mr. Banks. Alfrydd will spoil your horse rotten, and very likely the countess will do the same with you.”

“I’ll be but a moment,” Mr. Banks said, untying his shaggy, black beast from behind the sleigh. Ice beaded the horse’s mane and tail, and balls of snow clung to its fetlocks. “Beelzebub has seen me through much this day. I can at least unsaddle him.”

A parson who named his horse Beelzebub?

“I’ll help,” she said, “but you need not fear your reception with the earl. Unless you hurl thunderbolts from the pulpit and insult women in the street, you’ll be an improvement over your predecessor.”

Mr. Banks led his mount into the dim, relatively cozy stable, the scents of hay and horse bringing their familiar comfort. Kirsten didn’t share her sisters’ love of all things fine and pretty, though Mr. Banks had an air of careworn male elegance.

“If you’ll take the reins, I’ll tend to his saddle,” Mr. Banks suggested.

Kirsten obliged, stroking her glove over a big, horsey, Roman nose. “Why did you name him after an imp?” An imp of Satan.

“He’s blessed with high spirits and a fine sense of humor, though little stops him when he settles to a job.”

“Your owner treasures you,” Kirsten told the horse. The gelding had dark, soft eyes, much like his owner’s, and which were equally fringed in thick lashes. On both man and horse, those eyes had a knowing quality, nothing effeminate or delicate about them.

“I treasure my horse, while Zubbie treasures his fodder,” Mr. Banks said, unfastening the girth and removing the saddle but not the pad beneath it.

Mr. Banks’s words held such affection, Kirsten envied the horse.

“Have you had him long?” she asked, for there was a bond here, such as Nicholas enjoyed with his mare and George with his gelding. Kirsten’s brothers confided in their horses, were comforted by them, and fretted over their horsey ailments as if a child had fallen ill.

Men were sentimental about the oddest things.

“Beelzebub was a gift,” Mr. Banks said, taking the reins from Kirsten and looping them over the horse’s neck. “A parishioner getting on in years foaled him out and saw that Beelzebub would be too big and too energetic for an older couple. He was given to me when he was a yearling, and we’ve been famous friends ever since.”

Mr. Banks produced a disintegrating lump of sugar from a pocket, and held his hand out to his horse until every evidence of the sugar had been delicately licked away.

He patted the gelding, slid the saddle pad from its back, and led the animal into a loose box boasting a veritable featherbed of straw. The bridle came off, and some sentiments were imparted to the horse as Mr. Banks stroked its muscular neck.

Nicholas doted on his mare the same way, probably in part because he was not permitted to dote on his sisters.

“Alfrydd will see that he’s properly groomed,” Kirsten said, because under no circumstances would she allow Mr. Banks to announce himself. She and the vicar would storm the sibling citadel together.

Susannah would be especially vulnerable to the kindness in Mr. Banks’s eyes, a patient compassion that spoke of woe, sin, and the magnanimity of spirit to accept them both. Della would like the friendliness of those eyes, and Leah, though besotted with Nicholas, was ever one for intelligent conversation.

“He likes the chill taken off his water,” Mr. Banks said, giving the horse another pat, “and he’s a shy lad around the other fellows.”

“Nicholas prides himself on a well-run stable, Mr. Banks. Beelzebub will be fine. He’s nigh three-quarter ton of handsome, equine good health, not a sickly boy on his first night at public school.”

A shadow crossed Mr. Banks’s features, bringing out the weariness a day of winter travel inevitably engendered.

“You heard the lady,” he said, tweaking one big, equine ear. “Be a good lad, or I’ll deal with you severely.” He turned to go and the horse made a halfhearted attempt to nip at his sleeve, which Mr. Banks ignored.

“Biting is dangerous behavior,” Kirsten said as Mr. Banks left the stall and closed the door. “Why didn’t you reprimand him?”

She’d wanted to smack the horse. How dare he mistreat an owner who plainly loved him?

Mr. Banks pulled his gloves out of his pocket and tugged them on. “He wants me to tarry in his stall, and if I turn ’round and spend another minute shaking my finger in his face, he’ll have succeeded, won’t he? You must be cold, my lady. May I escort you to the house?”

He winged an arm. Bits of hay and straw stuck to his sleeve, as well as a quantity of dark horse hairs. Kirsten longed to tarry with him in the barn, to put off the moment when she had to share him with her family.

She was not a mischievous horse, however, free to pursue selfish schemes that had no hope of bearing fruit. She took Mr. Banks’s arm and walked with him out into the gathering darkness.

* * *

“Where the hell could she be?” Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte, muttered, though his countess knew better than to answer. “I’ve never seen it snow like this so late in the season. Why must Kirsten dash off, playing Marie Antoinette in the wilds of Kent during such rotten weather?”