It had been August when he and Pen had been lovers.
The years had changed her. The soft curves of her cheeks had hollowed a bit, making her cheekbones more prominent. There were lines on her face that hadn’t been there before, on her forehead, between her brows, bracketing her mouth. She seemed . . . tighter. Less carefree.
Of course, she was less carefree. She was a mother. She’d had to raise Harriet on her own.
And he was older, too. That had been part of the problem with shopping for a wife on the London Marriage Mart. Girls of seventeen now seemed like children, yet the older women, those who hadn’t been snapped up already, were often squint-eyed or snaggle-toothed, vapid little mice or brash, overbearing battle-axes.
At least Lady Susan was none of those things. She was a paragon, really—especially when she managed to keep her tongue behind her teeth. He couldn’t choose a better female to be his countess.
He just wished he felt a bit more enthusiastic about marrying her.
Or enthusiastic at all.
He climbed the narrow stairs to inspect the bedroom. As he’d thought, it was small—far smaller than the main room below. He had to duck to navigate the doorway and then he couldn’t stand upright except in the very center of the room. The bed looked to be a good size though—
He had a vivid image of Pen, sprawled naked on the sheets.
Bloody hell, what’s the matter with me? I should be imagining my bride-to-be.
He sat down on the mattress. Try as he might, he could not picture the proper Lady Susan without her expensive, carefully chosen clothing.
Perhaps it’s because I haven’t kissed her yet.
Though he wasn’t precisely eager to do that, either.
Nonsense. It was just that Lady Susan was a well-bred virgin. She’d yet to be awakened to the delights of the marriage bed. He would coax her to passion. He had plenty of experience with women, though not, of course, with timid virgins.
Mmm. Pen might have been a virgin, but she’d not been a timid one. He grinned. No, not timid at all. She’d been curious, fearless, and responsive. Zounds, they’d had some splendid tuppings.
He lay back to test the mattress. It felt sturdy enough to support some exuberant bed play.
He closed his eyes, remembering Pen’s lithe, strong body with its long limbs, narrow waist, and lovely rose-tipped breasts. Her skin had been so soft, her mouth, eager.
His cock ached to visit her warm, narrow channel once more.
The experience would not be the same.
It might be better ...
Enough. He sat up and rearranged his swollen, misbehaving organ. He’d take a quick dip in the pool by the waterfall to wash the blacking out of his hair and the lust from his cock.
He stood—and slammed his head into the ceiling. Ow! He collapsed in a stream of curses back onto the bed, gripping his head in his hands.
At least the pain in his head distracted him from the ache lower down.
He was very likely making too much of his affair with Pen. He’d been scarcely more than a boy when he’d consorted with her. He’d had very little experience with women. Chances were if he took her to bed now, the tupping wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary.
I’d like to find out.
No. That was his cock talking. Even if Pen was willing, Little Puddledon was a small village. Word would get out almost immediately and Pen’s reputation would be ruined.
It’s already ruined thanks to that gossipy Rosamund woman.
That was unfortunate, but Pen could bring herself about, especially if she continued to live a careful, prudent life. She’d been here for years. Once the villagers got over the initial titillation, they’d revert to their original good opinion of her. Which was all the more reason not to seduce her.
He smiled. Or let her seduce me. Had she really been the instigator that first time?
He stood—cautiously—and made his way safely out of the room and down the stairs without acquiring any more bumps or bruises. He looked up when he stepped outside. The sun was low in the sky, but there was still enough light for a bath as long as he was quick about it.
He took the path up to the pool. A cautious finger dipped in the water told him it was cold, but not frigid, so he shed his clothes and stepped in before he could think any more about it.
Brr! The cold didn’t encourage him to linger, but it had the definite advantage of shrinking his cock to its proper—well, its shriveled—size.
He dunked his head and rubbed away the concoction he’d used to darken his streak. Then he climbed out, shook himself like a dog to get some of the water off, and, wishing he had the towel that was back in his saddlebag at the inn, used his hands to get rid of the rest. Then he stood in the sun, naked, arms outstretched, letting its rays dry him a little more. It was late enough in the day that all the women must be back in the Home—at least that’s what he hoped—so he shouldn’t shock anyone.
Of course, females living in a place called the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children might not be easily shocked. At least the ones with children must have seen the male form before.
Zeus, it felt good to be alone again. He’d spent days alone when he’d been on the Continent, but here in England someone was always just a step away, be it other members of the ton squeezed into a ball, his estate manager wishing to discuss drainage ditches, or any of the army of servants he employed. He hated to think he’d never again have more than a few stolen moments to himself.
He wouldn’t mind Pen’s company though—and not just to admire the scenery.
When he’d offered her his hand to help her over the stile, she hadn’t seemed completely indifferent to him.
She’d had such a lusty nature as a girl. Living among women, in a small village, with a daughter to raise, she’d likely not had much opportunity for carnal pleasure. He’d be doing her a favor—and himself one—to see if she’d like one last tupping. Then she could go back to being a model citizen.
Blast! His cock was growing again—and the sun was sinking below the horizon. He pulled on his clothing and hurried down to the inn.
He had the thread of a hope that he’d somehow be able to slide through the tavern and up the stairs to his room without being noticed, but that was snapped the moment he stepped through the door.
“There he is! That’s the man who attacked me!”
Oh, Lord, the vicar’s here.
If there had been a single pair of eyes that hadn’t noted Harry’s arrival, that situation was now rectified. Everyone turned to stare at him, and a low, threatening murmur began to fill the room.
He surveyed the vicar’s swollen face with a certain amount of relish. It had to hurt to talk, though perhaps the man had imbibed enough ale that he wasn’t feeling too much pain.
Bess, clearly sensing trouble, hurried over to him. “Mr. Graham, I’m sorry, but the vicar says—oh!”
She’d noticed his hair.
He gave her a smile, the one he’d developed for use in just these situations where he wished to appear pleasant, but not approachable. “I’m afraid I wasn’t completely forthcoming when I arrived. I gave you my name, but not my title.”
Bess’s eyes widened. “You mean you’re the new . . .”
“Earl of Darrow.” He looked back at the vicar, his lip curling. “I regret to say I came upon this”—he let disgust fill his voice—“person attacking Mrs. Barnes, my childhood friend and the mother of my daughter.”
It was a wonder all the air wasn’t sucked out of the room as everyone drew in an audible breath at the same time. The vicar’s eyes started from their sockets, the color draining from his face, making his purpling bruises even more pronounced.
“I-I d-didn’t,” the vicar sputtered. “S-she—”
Harry moved quickly, grabbing the man by his cravat and hauling him up so their noses almost touched. His voice was colder than the pool by the cot
tage. It was a tone that had caused braver men than this fellow to soil their breeches.
“Do. Not. Say. It.”
“Auggh. Augh. Aurgh.”
Harry let the vicar go and watched as the worm scuttled backward, clutching his neck and swallowing visibly. He pinned the man with a narrowed gaze. “If I hear you’ve uttered one word against Mrs. Barnes, sirrah, things will go very badly for you indeed. Do I make myself clear?”
“Augh.” The vicar nodded. “Urgh.”
“And as I believe I mentioned to you before, I do think you should consider other employment opportunities. I know beyond any doubt that the Duke of Grainger will not be pleased when I tell him how you insulted Mrs. Barnes.”
The vicar leaned against the bar as if he needed the support and finally managed to get his voice to obey him. “But, my lord, you must understand, I didn’t mean . . . That is, it was all in good, er, ah, f-fun.”
“Odsbodikins, vicar,” one of the other men said. “Do ye want the earl to kill ye?”
The vicar looked back at Harry, as if expecting him to deny murder was his intent.
He obliged. “I won’t kill you.” He smiled grimly. “I’ll just make you wish I had.”
The last remaining color—except for the bruises—drained from the man’s face. Harry half expected him to collapse completely, but he managed to keep his hold on the bar and his body upright.
“Go home, Godfrey,” another man said. “Bess doesn’t want to have to clean yer blood off the floor.”
“Aye,” said another. “Look in the mirror, man. The earl’s done enough damage to ye today.”
“And it was well deserved if ye treated Mrs. Barnes poorly.” That came from the far corner, but it started a dark rumbling.
“Right. She’s always behaved like a lady.”
“Devoted to her daughter, me wife says.”
“Knows more about hops than I’ll wager ye know about Christian charity, vicar.”
“Aye!”
“Hear, hear!”
“And if it weren’t for her hops, we’d not have our brew!”
The men lifted their mugs. The rumbling was getting louder.
“All ye give us, vicar, is callouses on our arses from sitting in those bloody hard pews on Sunday, listening to ye flap yer jaws.”
The vicar must have finally decided retreat was in order. He straightened, though still keeping a firm hold on the bar. “Very well, gentlemen. I can see my presence is not wanted here.”
Lord, that was an invitation for abuse. Someone behind Harry hooted and the rest of the men added to the din, stamping their feet and banging their glasses on the table.
The vicar sniffed and made as dignified an exit as he could, head held high, eyes straight ahead, walking, but not running, across the room.
“Don’t let the door hit ye in the arse, vicar,” someone shouted.
He must have had the room’s derisive laughter echoing in his ears as he finally disappeared out into the evening.
Harry was quite pleased with the way things had gone. He grinned at Bess. “Another round of Widow’s Brew on me.”
The men roared their approval.
Chapter Eight
Monday
Harry rode up the drive to the old brick building that housed the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children. It was not a particularly large or impressive edifice.
He smothered a yawn. He’d been up very late last night, staying in the tavern until the last few men left, drinking with them and buying them drinks. He’d done the same in any number of taverns on the Continent. He’d found it an excellent way to build rapport, and had hoped as the men got to know him, they’d be more inclined to take his—and thus Pen’s—side if the vicar turned nasty.
To his surprise, he hadn’t had to do any persuading, at least with regard to Pen. The men all heartily despised the vicar, who’d been in Little Puddledon only a few months, so they were more than willing to believe the worst of him. But more to the point, they held Pen in high esteem—and not for the things the ton prized in women. They didn’t care about her birth or beauty. They didn’t even care that she’d had a child out of wedlock. What they valued were her good sense and her insights on fertilizer, soil, and pest control.
“Papa!”
His heart did a little reel around his chest when he heard Harriet’s voice. She and Pen had just come out of the Home’s door.
“Papa!” Harriet called again and left Pen to run down the steps toward him. “I was watching for you.”
He swung down from Ajax’s back, grinning. It was definitely time for him to settle down and start his nursery if being called Papa made him feel this happy.
“Are you going to greet Ajax, too?” he asked as Harriet came up.
She carefully patted his horse. “Hallo, Ajax.”
Ajax turned his head to look at her, and she giggled.
“Would you like to ride him down to the stables?”
Harriet’s eyes got very large—and then she frowned. “I-I don’t know how to ride, Papa. I’ve never been on a horse.” She glanced at Ajax a bit nervously. “And this one is very large. Much larger than Bumblebee.”
Pen came up then, having walked rather than run down the steps. “Good morning, Lord Darrow. How nice of you to be so prompt.”
He laughed. “Good try, Pen, but I’m not going to let you treat me as some stranger that’s stopped by to discuss hop growing—though I will tell you the village men were singing your horticultural praises last night.”
“Oh.” She looked equal parts annoyed and pleased. “And of course you aren’t a stranger,”—she looked at Harriet and blushed—“Lord Darrow.”
Harriet ignored their stilted interaction. Her thoughts were still on Ajax. “Mama, Papa asked me if I wanted to ride his horse down to the stables.” She definitely sounded nervous—but excited, too.
Pen frowned. “You don’t know how to ride, Harriet.”
“You won’t really be riding,” Harry said. It was clear to him that Harriet needed a little encouragement to get over her fears. “I’ll lead Ajax. You’ll just sit in the saddle.”
“Oh.” Harriet looked up—way up—at Ajax’s back.
“Really, Lord Darrow, are you sure that’s wise?”
What was this? “Pen! You used to be so fearless.”
Pen blushed, likely thinking of the same fearless things he was, things that involved riding—but not horses.
He took the opportunity her tongue-tied silence provided to turn back to Harriet.
“I’ll lift you up so you can see how you like it, shall I? And I promise if you aren’t comfortable, I’ll get you down straightaway.”
Harriet looked again at Ajax’s saddle. He thought she was torn, but leaning toward trying. She just needed a slight nudge.
“You really don’t have to worry. Ajax is extremely well behaved, I promise you.”
“I don’t know, Harry.” Pen had found her voice. “That’s a very large horse.”
He smiled at hearing Pen say his Christian name, but his focus was all on his daughter. “Large, but well trained. He was with me on the Continent, so has seen conditions far more unsettling than a young girl and a quiet, country house.” This was why children needed two parents—one to coddle and one to challenge.
Challenge, but not push. He wouldn’t force Harriet, but he also wouldn’t give up until he was certain she truly wasn’t ready to try. “Shall I lift you up? I’ll keep a hand on you until you’re comfortable.”
He could feel Pen fluttering with worry next to him, but was pleased she didn’t urge Harriet to be cautious and safe—even though she must want desperately to do so. He could almost feel the words fighting to make their way out of her mouth.
Ajax swung his head back toward Harriet as if to see what the delay was and snuffled his own form of encouragement.
Harriet laughed. “All right,” she said. “I’ll
try.” She gave Harry a worried look. “You won’t let go of me, will you, Papa?”
“Not until you’re ready. Now up you go.” Harry put his hands around Harriet’s waist. “It will be better if you sit astride, so swing your right leg over the saddle, all right?”
Harriet nodded, and then, not giving her more time to fret, he lifted her. She couldn’t weigh even five stone.
“Oh!” she said once she was settled. “Oh! I’m up so high.”
“She is very far from the ground.” Pen wasn’t completely successful at keeping the worry out of her voice.
He laughed. “You’re a foot taller than I am, Harriet. Do you like the view from up there?”
She nodded. He could tell her nerves were settling.
“Excellent. Now sit tall. Hold Ajax with your legs. Get your balance.”
He waited. He could see Harriet concentrating.
“Good?”
She nodded and he let go. “You can hold onto the saddle if you need to, but learning to balance is better.”
“I’m fine.” Harriet grinned. “I like it. Will you teach me to ride Ajax, Papa?”
He laughed as he pulled the reins over his horse’s head—better to have a hold of him just in case. “No. Ajax is too much horse for you to ride by yourself. You should start on a pony.”
“Oh.” Harriet looked crestfallen.
Hell, she doesn’t have a pony—or anyone to teach her to ride here.
“The stables are this way,” Pen said.
But if I can persuade Pen to move to Darrow, I can teach Harriet myself.
He would mull that idea over later. Now he had to keep an eye on Harriet.
“You’re doing very well,” he told her, genuine pride in his voice. “I’d say you have a natural seat.” Which would be only right. She was his daughter, after all.
He followed Pen several hundred yards around to the side of the house, aware as he went of all the eyes watching him. Not all were in plain sight, though a few girls and women managed to find a reason to be in the yard. But from the corner of his eye, he saw curtains twitch or shapes duck quickly back from windows as he passed.
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