Trenton Lord of Loss (Lonely Lords) (33 page)

“The worst was when he took me out to the kennels—I would have been about seven—and led me to believe I was to be given a puppy. In a sense, I was.” 

Ellie remained quiet beside him, and before he could turn the words back, they were running past his lips. 

“Wilton told me I either drowned the runt or watched while he shot the bitch and her entire litter. I had to learn to make difficult decisions and see them through. He insisted on that lesson on many occasions.” 

The feeling of the puppy struggling as Trent held it in the depths of the horse trough threatened to choke him.

“Trenton.” Ellie’s arm slid around his waist. “I am so sorry. You did not deserve to be treated that way. No child does. Damn your father to… to…
Hades
.” 

Trent’s throat was too constricted to agree with Ellie’s sentiments, but he kept his fingers laced with hers, taking care not to hold too tightly. 

“It’s well your father is off in Hampshire,” Ellie went on. “Lest I arrange an accident for him when next he’s in the hunt field. To think Dane, who was basically harmless, didn’t even see thirty years and such a one as Wilton is given nigh twice that…it tries one’s faith.” 

While Ellie’s reaction restored a man’s faith. “I must deal with him nonetheless, and possibly my in-laws as well.” 

Ellie frowned at their joined hands. “Is that wise? You suspect those people of wishing you harm.” 

“Like most bullies, they’re sneaking around to do it. If I confront them, likely they’ll desist. Then too, I’m thinking of sending Emily down to Wilton Acres for a time, and I need to solicit Mr. Benton’s opinion of this scheme.” 

“He’s your steward?” 

“And Wilton’s warden.”

“Your errands are hardly cheering. You will be relieved to have them behind you, and then you can turn your attention to the harvest at Crossbridge.” 

“I’ll look forward to it. I wanted to let you know that while I’m gone, my brother, Darius, will mind Crossbridge for me, and he’s been instructed to keep an eye on you.” 

“An eye on me?” Ellie retrieved a pillow from the rug and stuffed it behind her back. “Am I in need of supervision?” 

“Hardly.” Trent let her slip her fingers from his, though it was difficult. “You might be in need of the occasional friendly face or casual caller. Heathgate and Hazlit might drop over as well.” 

She considered him while the breeze brought him the scent of her gardens in high summer, and of her. “Is this guilt? Do you think I’m pining away here without your shoulder to fall asleep on?” 

He rose, smiling at the consternation on her face, though both the rising and the smiling managed to wedge themselves into that growing category of things that were difficult. 

“You are indiscriminate in your napping, my dear, as this morning’s visit proves. This isn’t guilt, but it is concern. I can be concerned for a friend, can’t I?” 

She regarded him owlishly, and Trent had the notion she might nod off while considering her answer, but then she smiled, a soft, pleased smile.

“You may be concerned, but only concerned—I have certainly been concerned for you. Come along, we can tour my rose garden while I escort you back to Arthur’s side. Tell me how your children are settling in at Crossbridge, and you may inform Mr. Spencer he will never see little Zephyr outside of Andy’s keeping again.” 

“He’ll keep an eye on you, too, though from a discreet and friendly distance.” 

“Have you left anybody in the neighborhood who won’t be keeping an eye on me?” Ellie asked as they wound their way through the house. “Any able-bodied men, that is?” 

Trent thought for a minute. “Peak, possibly, but Peak is rather attached to Cato, so maybe even Peak will ride over this way in my absence.” 

“Peak? He’s the slender lad with the dark eyes. Cato’s shadow?” 

“The very one, or his conscience.” Or something.

Trent led her on a shady path out toward the gardens. “You’re not to be running loose without footmen while I’m gone, Ellie. Don’t relax your vigilance. I haven’t found my culprit, and Mr. Soames remains at large.”

Though even if he had found his culprit, Ellie might still have decided that a life of independence suited her better than a headlong rush back up the church aisle. 

“So even Mr. Soames may be keeping an eye on me from the safety of the woods,” Ellie marveled. “I can only think of one person who won’t be dedicating himself to surveillance of me in the coming days.” 

“Who would that be?” 

“You.” 

*** 

“Just you,” Ellie repeated, because Trent seemed surprised by her answer. 

She’d felt his kiss on her cheek as she struggled up from sleep, had known he was there by his scent, and some other sense honed by having been more intimate with him than with her own late husband. 

She’d been glad to see him, for it confirmed he was safe and whole. She’d been gladder still to touch him, and most glad of all that he still seemed to like her touch as well.

Though she was angry with him, too, and that bore study. She’d been angry with Dane for their entire marriage and remained angry with the poor man even in death. 

They ambled along in silence, until Trent bent to sniff a pretty red rose. “I’d pick it for you, but we’re barehanded, and there are those thorns.” 

“There are, though tell me, Trenton, is it supposed to be like this?” 

“Is what supposed to be like this?” He was stalling, as men will, when they’re quite certain what was asked but not certain at all how to answer without getting in Trouble. 

“We’ve ended our liaison,” Ellie said softly. “I still rejoice to see you, I still enjoy the scent of you, the sound of your voice, the knowledge that you’re well and your children are thriving in your care.” She should tell him about the anger, though, too. 

She’d never once taken Dane to task for his negligence, never demanded he attend her, afraid he’d neglect her yet further if she became
that sort of wife.
 

“You
rejoice
to see me?” His tone said he suspected Ellie of a qualified sort of rejoicing, which was perceptive of him. 

“Of course I do.” Ellie smiled, sadly, because he was still stalling and seemed unaware of it. “I suspect we’ve gone beyond what’s in that manual, though.” 

“There’s no manual, Ellie,” he said, his gaze traveling over the lovely gardens in the summer sunshine. “There’s only you and me, and how we want to go on, and I can understand why more intimate attentions from me aren’t appropriate right now, but that doesn’t mean… What?” 

“Hush.” She shook her head, unwilling to hear from him how much folly he might tolerate from her today, when tomorrow his answer might be different.

“I miss you, too, and that’s all that need be said.” Because he might tell himself it was her safety he wanted to preserve, but in his hesitance, and his silences, she heard his unwillingness—his inability—to admit other reasons for them to be apart.

His attachment to his first wife, his unspoken resentment of his entire marriage, his right to enjoy a few years unencumbered by any spouse before again seeking a prospective countess.

Whatever his reasons, Ellie had no wish to face them. 

He peered down at her. “I miss you isn’t adequate,” he said quietly. “It’s in the right direction, but it isn’t nearly adequate.” 

“If you try to say more, we’ll just end up kissing, and then where will we be?” 

“Perishing damned Halifax.”

She walked him to the stables, and when he bowed over her hand in parting, his lips touched her knuckles.

“Thank you for calling,” Ellie said, taking a step back. “I will pray for your safe return from Hampshire, but you really need not keep checking on me.” 

“Until my journey is accomplished then.” He kissed her cheek, hesitating before he straightened, as if making sure his boldness registered. He might have breathed in through his nose in that single moment of gratuitous nearness. 

He mounted his trusty steed and cantered off, while Ellie wondered what it meant when a woman told a man, twice, that he need no longer call on her, yet in some shameless, lonely corner of her heart, that woman still treasured him and the kisses he insisted on giving her, and couldn’t wait until he called again. 

***

“Missed you at breakfast.” Trent greeted the Wilton Acres steward as they both dismounted at the end of an afternoon that for Trent had been long, hot, and frustrating. “My thanks for the tray last night and the bath.” 

Arthur groaned as Trent loosened his girth. As a groom led the beast away, Arthur flicked his tail so it whipped against Trent’s fundament.

Cheeky blighter. 

“You like your comforts,” Benton said, “same as I do, but I’ll be ordering myself another bath tonight. How did your interview with Henly go?” 

“A complete waste of an hour. I’d have been better off clearing ditches with you all afternoon.” Manual exertion might also have exorcised a certain quiet, pretty widow from Trent’s imagination—or not.

Benton patted his horse—who apparently did not offer his master unsolicited reprimands—and passed the reins to a groom. “As if we’d get anything done with my whole crew gawping at you, the first Wilton heir to dirty his hands on his own land.” 

“Is that our reputation hereabouts?”

“A collective sigh of hope went up when word got around you had the reins of the earldom,” Benton said as they ambled in the direction of the house. “Now Wilton is stuck here, preying on Imogenie, and that hope is waning. He has, though, started to call on his neighbors, and while nobody particularly likes him, they all want him nibbling on their crumpets.” 

“But not their daughters. He might someday remarry, though God help the woman who’d take him on.” 

“Imogenie considers herself a countess-in-waiting. Pathetic, but she’s a very young woman in love.” 

“Surely not with Wilton. Maybe with the title and the wealth?” 

Benton looked thoughtful, and fortunately, no footmen lurked in the front hall to overhear this exchange.

“Our Imogenie holds some genuine regard for the man, or who she thinks the man is. She’s innocent, and viewed from below, Wilton has a certain allure, if not charm.” 

If allure were another word for manipulative skill, deceit, and arrogance. “Pathetic, as you say.” Like the main foyer, which boasted not a single bouquet of roses, despite the estate’s army of gardeners. “He’ll devastate her, but we can’t stop it. Have your bath before the maids faint from the smell of you. I’ve business below-stairs, and I’ll see you at dinner.” 

“Until dinner.” Benton had his neckcloth loosened before he’d hit the third stair, but he paused. “What is this you wrote about sending your younger sister here for a visit?” 

“Emily. We can talk about that over dinner.” Trent left his steward yanking at a limp, dusty cravat and went in search of Nancy Brookes. 

“Master Trent.” Nancy’s smile was as quiet as it was rare, but she opened her arms to hug him, and Trent reciprocated. 

Nancy had been the one to sneak him a fresh biscuit when he’d been sent to bed without supper, to wink at him when he was on his way to a dreaded interview with his father, and to explain to him that boys at school were beaten only for cause. She’d also taken care of Trent’s mother in her final illness. 

But when had Nancy become so small and frail? 

Trent led her to the oak work table, into which footmen had carved their initials probably from the days of the Wilton barony. “How’s the prettiest lady in the shire?” 

“So old she can barely see,” Nancy retorted, creaking to the bench across from him. “I can tell you’re tired, Master Trent, and you’ve too much to do haring all around the realm and trying to keep up with his lordship’s mischief.” 

“Somebody has to do it. Bake me any biscuits?” 

“In the crockery jar. Kettle’s on the hob, and we’ve a store of gunpowder tea above the stove, in case you order a tray.” 

“I’ll share a cup with you. You smell much better than Mr. Benton.” 

“Don’t be criticizing young Aaron.” She let Trent fuss around in the kitchen, suggesting she might truly be troubled by her vision. 

Or her knees.

Or her hips. 

Nobody’s lot was easy in service to Wilton.

“You’re sweet on our steward?” Trent asked. Benton was likely a third Nancy’s age.

“He works mighty hard, and never a word of thanks from Wilton.” 

“Because he doesn’t work for Wilton,” Trent reminded her. “He works for me, and for Wilton Acres. Where has the sugar got off to?” 

“Second drawer, left of the sink. Spoons are in the drawer above that.” 

He brought the tea tray to the table along with some cinnamon biscuits and sat beside her. “We shall spoil our dinner.” 

When she didn’t reach for the biscuits, he pushed the plate toward her, then poured their tea and patted her knuckles, but gently for they were swollen. “Mrs. Haines has something she puts on her joints for the aches.” 

Nancy sipped her tea. “She sends me along some now and then, and always includes a helping of gossip.” 

“I thought Imogenie Henly was keeping you supplied with gossip.” Trent added cream and sugar to his tea. “Have a biscuit. Cook hasn’t started dinner, and I’ll be less self-conscious if you join me in my gluttony.”