“Harriet’s mine, isn’t she, Pen?”
Oh, Lord. She’d used to imagine what it would be like if Harry suddenly appeared and asked her that question, but she’d stopped thinking about it years ago. What should she say?
Should I lie?
No. If he’d seen Harriet, he already knew the answer. He would never think she’d warmed Walter’s bed.
“Yes.”
His face stilled, shuttered again. What was he thinking?
“You didn’t used to hide your feelings.” Oh blast, she shouldn’t have said that. She would call the words back if she could. The time when they’d been close and had shared everything—or at least she’d thought they had—was long gone. They were both different people now. She must remember that.
His lips curved into a small, guarded smile. “I’ve learned to be more cautious.”
Cautious. That was what she should be. What she usually was. But he looked so familiar, so much like the Harry she’d known, that she had to fight to keep from falling into her old ways.
To do that would lead to disaster. Exactly what sort of disaster she couldn’t say, but she felt as if she was teetering on the edge of a precipice. She should step back before she plummeted into the abyss.
“You’ve met her?” she asked, her mouth so dry her voice came out scratchy.
He nodded. “On my way into the village. I stopped by the stream to let my horse drink. She saw Ajax and came over to pet him.”
“She likes animals.” Pen felt a sharp pang of regret. If Harriet were Harry’s legitimate daughter, she’d have grown up with horses. She’d likely have her own pony.
I’ll go mad if I let myself think that way. “Did you tell her you were her father?”
“No.” His brows snapped down into a scowl. “I didn’t know I was—the thought never occurred to me. You hadn’t told me about her, and I didn’t know you were here. I thought she was Walter’s. He certainly had plenty of by-blows.”
She flinched. By-blow. It sounded so . . . disposable. Unimportant. Common.
How many by-blows does Harry have?
It was none of her concern.
Back when she’d imagined telling Harry he had a daughter, she’d never pictured it would be like this—that he’d be so . . . annoyed.
“And everyone—that arse of a vicar, Bess at the inn— seems to think she’s Walter’s. Is that what you told them—told her?” His jaw hardened. “Is that what you told Walter? Did you try to get money out of him?”
How dare he! Her hand flew up to slap him, but he grabbed it before she could make contact.
“Careful. You saw what I did to the vicar.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
Something flickered in his eyes, but it was so fleeting, she couldn’t tell if it was anger or regret or something else.
“You should be,” he said. “We are very much alone here.” A rather chilling smile curved his lips. “You are at my mercy.”
Fear shivered in her belly—
For God’s sake, this is Harry.
She tugged her hand back. “Stop it. You’re not funny.” “I didn’t mean to be.”
His voice still sounded slightly threatening, but this time she saw a glint of the old Harry in his eyes.
“I’ve known you since you were a boy, Harry Graham. I know you would never hurt me—or any woman.”
He frowned, his eyes serious now. “It’s been—what? Almost ten years. I’ve changed, Pen.”
The fear stirred again, but she quashed it. “Not that much. And I also know you don’t really think I’d try to get money from Walter. I’d rather starve to death.”
“But would you let Harriet starve?”
Lud! He knew her too well. “Perhaps not. Fortunately, I never had to face that question.” She considered it now. It took only a moment to decide what she would have done—or hoped she would have done.
“Yes, if I’d exhausted every other option, I’d have swallowed my pride and come begging to Walter. Not that it would have helped. I’m quite sure your brother would have slammed the door in my face—or would have had his butler do it.”
She thought a moment more. “And then I would have pounded on it all the harder.” She would do anything for Harriet, even take on the Earl of Darrow.
She frowned at the current Earl of Darrow.
Harry stared at her an extra beat or two, and then grinned, looking more like the boy she’d known. “Fearless as ever. Lord, I’ve missed you, Pen.”
If only she were fearless. And she’d missed him, too, but stopped herself from saying so. She could not begin to lean on him at this late date.
At least he seemed interested in Harriet now.
“Will you tell me about her, Pen, and how you’ve gone on all these years?”
What could be the harm? He was Harriet’s father. He deserved to know something about his daughter.
“Very well. Let’s sit under this tree.”
Harry offered her his arm, but she pretended not to see it.
“Allow me to put my coat down for you to sit on.”
She laughed. “Harry, this is the country. I’ve sat in the dirt in this dress more times than I can count.” She settled under the tree—and frowned. There was one question she needed answered first.
“Why are you here? You said it was on the duke’s business. Is it about the Home?”
Harry sat on her left, turned at an angle so she could see his expression. It was guarded again.
“The Home?”
“Yes. The Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.”
He raised a brow.
“Jo started it—Jo is Baron Havenridge’s widow—years ago after her husband killed himself. He’d lost Puddledon Manor to the Duke of Grainger—well, the previous duke— in a card game and then promptly put a bullet through his brain. That duke let Jo stay here, and he even sent us a yearly donation to help with expenses.”
Should she try to argue for the new duke’s support?
Not yet.
Harry was nodding. “Um, then, yes, perhaps I am in Little Puddledon about the Home. We can discuss that later. But now I am here”—he gestured to where they sat—“to learn about Harriet. Why didn’t you tell me about her before, Pen?”
“Because . . .”
The memories she’d locked away years ago came flooding back. She closed her eyes, but that made it worse.
She stared at the water instead.
Stupidly, all the time she’d been trysting with Harry, she’d never thought about the risk of pregnancy. She’d got her courses late, when she was sixteen—just the year before her summer with Harry—and they’d been very irregular, coming only every few months. She’d had no mother or sister or even close female friend with whom to discuss things—she certainly wasn’t going to mention such a matter to her father.
When she’d finally noticed how long it had been since her last monthlies, she’d thought their absence—and the tired, draggy feeling that plagued her—were due to the dismals. She’d been in terribly low spirits after Harry left. He hadn’t been just her lover. He’d been her friend and constant companion, especially those last months.
It wasn’t until she noticed her breasts were tender and certain scents made her feel ill that she realized she might have conceived.
“Because I didn’t know I was increasing until long after you’d left England, and then I had no idea where you were or how to reach you.”
And there was something even more painful to admit. She flushed.
“And even if I had known, I . . .” She swallowed. She didn’t want to say it—it just underlined how different their stations in life were. “I couldn’t write you, Harry, because . . .” Oh, just spit it out. “I couldn’t write. I didn’t know how.”
He hid his shock well, but she’d seen it flicker in his eyes.
“Now I can write—and read,” she said quickly—a
nd perhaps a bit defensively. “I learned once I moved to the Home. And you can be sure I saw to it that Harriet learned, too.” She couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. “She’s very bright.”
“Ah.” Harry nodded. “That’s good.”
Good? It was wonderful. Harriet would have no limits on what she could do.
Except the limits imposed by her birth.
“Oh, what would have been the point of writing you even if I could have?” she said more forcefully than she’d intended. “You couldn’t very well have come rushing home in the middle of a war.” Not that he would have even if he’d been free to do so. The only reason to hurry home would have been to marry her and thus save Harriet from the stain of illegitimacy.
That thought would never have occurred to him—and it hadn’t occurred to her. She’d always understood—and accepted—her place in the world and in Harry’s life.
* * *
Harry was struggling with a confusing stew of emotions. First, there was the anger, some, though not all, of it left over from his brawl with the vicar.
I have a daughter. I’ve had a daughter for almost a decade, and I didn’t know it.
He was furious with Pen, even though the rational part of him admitted she was right. If she hadn’t known she was pregnant before he left England, she would have had a hard time reaching him on the Continent, even if she’d got someone to write a letter for her. He’d been alone, behind enemy lines, most of the time. In fact, getting a missive in English when he was trying to pass as French or Spanish would have been disastrous.
But I’ve been back in England for a year. She knows how to write now, but she still didn’t send me word.
And then there was the pain, the enormous, hollow ache in his heart—perhaps even in his soul—that threatened to swallow him. He’d missed nine years of his daughter’s life—
“And my life was rather . . . complicated then,” Pen said.
Lord! Ice slid through his veins. His memories widened to include more than just Pen and the time they’d spent together.
“How did your father take the news?” There was only one way Pen’s father would have taken such news—with the back of his hand across Pen’s face.
Mr. Barnes had had a fierce temper, especially when he was in his cups—which was most of the time.
She shot him a look and then turned back to stare at the water. “Not well.”
“Ah.” His stomach clenched, and his anger quickly turned against himself.
He’d brought this on her.
Zeus, he felt like a complete blackguard. I should have kept my bloody breeches buttoned, especially when I knew I was leaving—and leaving Pen unprotected.
“So, he beat you?” His fingers had tightened into fists, wanting to pummel a man long dead.
There was no point in that. He forced his hands to relax.
She pushed her long hair back off her face. It must have fallen out of its pins when that unholy vicar had been mauling her.
Is it still as silky as it was the summer we were lovers? Does it still smell of soap and sun and . . . Pen?
Hell, now desire was mixing with his anger and pain.
“Only once.”
Bloody hell. Even though he’d expected that answer, he still felt a jolt when he heard it. If Pen’s father were here right now, he’d give the man such a drubbing it would make his fight with the vicar look like a little friendly sparring.
“He wanted me to tell him who the father was. I wouldn’t do it.”
Years of hiding his emotions while behind enemy lines or negotiating with foreign diplomats helped him keep his voice level. “He might have guessed.”
She picked a leaf off the ground and started to shred it. “Oh, he guessed all right. He just wanted to make me say it.” She made a little sound—it could have been a chuckle or a sob. “No matter how well we hid our liaison, my father knew the only way the baby could be anyone’s but yours is if I’d been raped. He might have been a horrid, neglectful parent, but he wasn’t completely blind.”
“Ah.” Why the hell hadn’t he’d thought of Pen’s reputation or, more to the point, the danger that she’d conceive?
He’d been a randy lad of eighteen. He’d not been thinking of anything beyond getting his cock deep in Pen’s hot, sweet body.
A surprisingly strong bolt of lust shot through him to lodge in the obvious organ.
He shifted position to make certain the organ wasn’t that obvious.
He shouldn’t be reacting this way. He wasn’t a green lad any longer. He was a mature, experienced man of twenty-eight, well versed in the ways of women. He’d developed excellent self-control.
Except where Pen was concerned, apparently. Her hair had slipped forward again. He was so very tempted to push it back, to feel his fingers tangle in its smooth, soft strands again. He’d loved it when she’d been naked over him, her hair brushing his chest and his stomach. His cock.
He shifted position again.
“He went up to the house to see your father.”
Oh, Lord. “Did dear Papa offer to find you a farmer to marry?” That’s what his father had done when any of Walter’s wild oats had taken root.
“There weren’t any farmers available. He offered the blacksmith’s son.”
“Felix?”
“The blacksmith had only one son.” She smiled fleetingly. “I declined.”
Thank God for that. It might have seemed like a reasonable solution to Pen’s problem—a home for her and her child and, since she’d have wed before the baby’s birth, the veneer of legitimacy—but the cost to Pen’s spirit would have been far too high. She would not have liked being married to a rakehell, rubbing elbows daily with Felix’s many lovers.
“And your father accepted your decision?” Pen’s father should never have given Pen the choice. He should have refused at once on her behalf. But Harry remembered the man well enough to know he would have jumped at the hefty purse his father must have dangled in front of him—the old earl had always offered the parents of Walter’s pregnant paramours money to soften the blow of losing their daughters.
If I had a daughter, I’d—oh, God!
Reality slammed into him again. He had a daughter—had had one for almost ten years: Harriet, who might have grown up in Felix’s household thinking Felix was her father.
Nausea, pain, anger, regret, shame all swirled through him.
“No, of course he didn’t. We had a very, er, lively discussion on the matter.”
Harry’s stomach cramped as Pen smiled grimly.
“I’d had the foresight to arm myself with the carving knife so he didn’t try to beat me again.”
His hands balled into fists again. I should have been there.
And yet, clearly, Pen had done an excellent job of protecting herself then and her daughter and herself since.
Their daughter. Harriet. Named for him, he’d wager.
“He threatened to throw me out into the cold”—she snorted—“but I pointed out it was late summer. I made it very clear that I was not going to marry anyone, so if he wanted to be quit of me, his best option was to let me go to Aunt Margaret, my mother’s sister, in Westling.” She glanced at him. “That’s the closest village to the west of Little Puddledon.”
“I know. It was one of the many places I stopped to ask directions.”
That caught her interest. “Did you see the Drunken Sheep?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “And did you have any Widow’s Brew?”
He smiled back at her. “Yes, I did. I understand it’s brewed here in Little Puddledon.”
What looked like pride widened her smile to a grin. “It is. I grow all the hops we use. You’ll see the hopyard when you visit the Home—which you’ll have to do if you’re here on the duke’s business.”
And will I see my daughter as well?
He wasn’t ready to ask that question. And Pen’s answer didn’t matter. He was determined to see Harriet,
and this time he would let her know he was her father.
Pen resumed her story. “So my father grudgingly gave me a few coins for the trip”—she smiled again—“and in the morning as I was leaving, I helped myself to a few more from the jar he thought well hidden behind a loose board in the sitting room.”
Pen had always been resourceful and not shy about taking what she needed. She’d had to be. Her mother had died when she was very young, and her father spent much of his time in his cups.
“But there’s no stagecoach between Darrow and Westling.” Nor any good roads. It would likely take him several days riding cross-country even on Ajax to make the journey.
“I found farmers or tinkers going my way.” She shrugged. “Or I walked.”
A chill seized his heart. Good Lord! She’d been all alone? What if she’d encountered a highwayman or other sort of villain? As she’d learned all too well just a short time ago, even vicars couldn’t be trusted to keep their hands and other organs to themselves.
He’d always been in awe of Pen’s courage and determination, but sometimes her behavior bordered on the foolhardy.
Not that she’d thank him for saying so.
“Er, wasn’t it a bit of a risk to set off to your aunt’s unannounced?” And unwed and pregnant.
She shrugged. “It’s not as if I had any other option. I was not marrying Felix. Fortunately, Aunt Margaret did take me in.” She grinned. “Though she was rather shocked to find me on her doorstep.”
Rather shocked. She could have been incensed. Appalled. She could have slammed her door in Pen’s face.
The chill spread from his heart to his gut. If Pen’s aunt had turned her away—
No, there was no point in worrying about the past.
“It was her idea that I become ‘Mrs.’ Barnes,” Pen said. “We made up a story about my husband having been killed in battle. It served very well until this morning”—Pen’s lips flattened into a tight, thin line—“when Rosamund—a woman who’s just moved here—noticed Harriet’s silver streak and told everyone it proved she was Walter’s by-blow. The story went through the Home like wildfire and, apparently, the village as well. Godfrey—the vicar—heard it with his midday meal.”
What Ales the Earl Page 7