What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Perhaps not, but by everyone else. It’s inevitable. The children of his marriage would live in the big house, ride in the earl’s carriage, sit in his pew at church services while Harriet . . .” Jo shrugged.

  Pen felt anger build in her at each scene Jo called up in her imagination. She’d been upset at how Verity had treated Harriet, but now she was positively livid—at something that hadn’t happened.

  Clearly, she should reject Harry’s offer, and yet . . .

  She leaned forward. Jo might have an answer for her. She had experience with love.

  “I would hate that, but when I think of telling Harry no, of watching him leave . . .” She pressed her lips together, struggling to maintain her composure. “I feel like my heart will break.”

  Jo made a warm, commiserating sound. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You loved your husband, didn’t you, Jo? Do you think it’s possible to love again?”

  Jo sat back as if she hadn’t been expecting that question. “I . . .” She took a sip of brandy—a very slow sip. The silence stretched out long enough that Pen gave up hope of an answer. She started to get up—

  “I did love Freddie—no, not you, you silly dog,” Jo said as Freddie the dog barked and wagged his tail. Jo took Freddie’s face in her hands, dodging his wet tongue to kiss the top of his head. “Well, of course I love you, but you’re not the Freddie I’m talking about.”

  Freddie barked and put his head in Jo’s lap. She stroked his ears and looked back at Pen.

  “I loved Fr—” She caught herself as her dog’s tail beat a muffled tattoo against the carpet. “I loved my husband madly when I married him. I was young—only seventeen. The age you were when you conceived Harriet.” She smiled briefly. “You know how passionate young girls can be.”

  “Yes.” Though she’d felt just as passionate at the cottage a few hours ago.

  “But as the months passed . . .” Jo shook her head. “I’d thought the flowers, the sweet words, the courtesy he’d treated me with during our courtship would continue, but I was wrong. Once I had his ring on my finger, I became just another of his possessions, there for his pleasure whenever the urge took him. I think he cared more for his horse than he did for me.”

  “Oh.” Perhaps Jo had not been the best person to ask. Pen couldn’t imagine Harry being that way.

  Or maybe you are fooling yourself. Harry’s been gone for years. Do you really know what he would or wouldn’t do?

  “And, of course, I soon discovered the extent of his gambling problem. All—or almost all—men gamble, but Freddie”—she patted her dog again—“Freddie couldn’t control himself.” She smiled. “Which is how I ended up here.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Oh, why had she brought this up at all? “I thought your marriage had been happier.”

  Jo shrugged. “It wasn’t unhappy, once I adjusted. And I had to marry sometime. I was a vicar’s daughter—it was expected I would wed. My father was the third son of a baronet, and my two older sisters had married vicars, so my snagging a baron was quite the feather in my cap.” She looked down at Freddie. “My parents were delighted, my sisters were envious, and I was quite proud of myself.”

  Jo leaned forward to look Pen directly in the eye. “Here’s my advice to you, Pen. Be cautious. Love doesn’t fare well in the real—the day-to-day—world. You think you love the earl.” She shook her head. “No, that’s patronizing, isn’t it? I suppose you do love him. But can you be certain your love will last, especially given all the challenges you’ll face? Or that his will?”

  Jo sat back. “Think about it. I don’t mean to be discouraging, but do weigh matters. You would be giving up everything you have, everything you’ve worked so hard for, and for what? To be the earl’s toy? His hobby?”

  “Harry’s not like that.” Even Pen heard the uncertainty in her voice.

  Jo kindly did not point it out. “Perhaps he’s not, but the fact remains that you’re sacrificing your life and he’s giving up exactly nothing.”

  She wanted to argue the point, but she couldn’t. Jo was right.

  “I would wait until after Lord Darrow marries to commit yourself, Pen. Have him come here if he wants to continue the connection while you decide. He can stay at the cottage. Your place here is secure, and I’ll help you address the problems with Verity and Rosamund, if they persist.”

  Pen nodded. This wasn’t the advice she’d been hoping for, but it was precisely the advice she needed to hear.

  “A rushed decision is never a good decision,” Jo said gently.

  “Yes. You’re right.” It didn’t feel rushed—it wasn’t as if she’d just met Harry. That was part of the problem. It felt so right—when it didn’t feel terribly wrong.

  Jo touched her lightly on the arm. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Pen, but I also don’t want to lose you—I’m not completely unbiased here. The fact is I need you. The Home needs you. Caro can’t brew a drop of Widow’s Brew without your hops. At least stay through the harvest, no matter what you ultimately decide.”

  Right. She couldn’t leave everyone in the lurch. “I promise to stay at least that long.” She let out a dispirited breath. “And I’m not a silly, lovestruck girl, blind to the facts. I doubt I’ll be leaving at all.”

  “I really am sorry to be the voice of unpleasant reason.” Jo stood and shook out her skirts. “And now Freddie and I should go up to bed. Are you coming?”

  “No. I think I’ll sit here a little while longer.”

  “Should I leave the decanter out?”

  Pen laughed, though it came out more as a croak. “No. I know drowning my sorrows won’t really help.”

  Jo nodded. Then she bent over and hugged Pen tightly, before locking away the rest of the brandy and leaving, Freddie trotting at her heels.

  Pen sat in front of the fire an hour longer, tossing one mental “if only” after another into the flames.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuesday

  Harry grinned as he pulled on his shirt. He couldn’t remember waking up this happy in a long, long time. The dark, heavy cloud that had hung over him since he’d learned of Walter’s death was finally lifting. He had a plan. He’d do his duty and offer for Lady Susan as soon as he left Little Puddledon. No point in putting that off. The sooner they married, the sooner he could get an heir on her, and the sooner they could go their separate ways.

  But before he did that, he’d spend today and tomorrow and the next day wooing Pen, persuading her to take his offer and move to Darrow or one of his other estates.

  He closed his eyes briefly. Zeus, it was wonderful to have Pen back in his life. Beyond wonderful. Far, far beyond. He’d woken several times during the night, hard and ready to bury himself deep in her sweet body.

  He grinned again. Soon he’d able to do that.

  Ah! Someone was knocking on the door.

  He bounded over and threw it open, his grin widening further when he saw Pen and Harriet.

  “We brought you breakfast, Papa,” Harriet said, pointing to the big basket Pen was holding.

  “Thank you. I’m very hungry.” He smiled at her, and then he smiled at Pen as he took the basket from her.

  Pen did not smile back.

  That wasn’t good.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Pen said.

  “Yes, but I can eat more,” Harriet said with a little hop skip. “Dorcas packed lots of food.” She grinned. “And Avis put in a blanket and told Mama to be sure we went somewhere private so you could—”

  “Harriet!” Pen said sharply. “Don’t tease the earl with Avis’s silly chatter.”

  He and Harriet both gaped at Pen.

  She flushed. “Excuse me. I didn’t sleep well.”

  Right. Now that he looked more closely, he saw the shadows under her eyes—and in her eyes.

  Hell.

  When he’d left her last night, he’d known she’d been leaning toward refusing his offer,
but he’d also sensed her wavering. She’d given him that kiss, staid and virginal as it had been, and he’d seen how she’d run from him, not, he was quite certain, in fear of what he would do, but of what she would do if she stayed a moment longer.

  He’d have sworn she’d left the door open for seduction. How could she not? She was the lustiest, most deeply passionate woman he’d ever encountered, both here in England and on the Continent. She needed tupping like a plant needed water—and he was willing and eager—very, very eager—to tend to her needs.

  But this morning, the door was shut tight, if not locked and bolted. What had happened between the time he’d seen her wave good-bye from the safety of the Home’s entry and now?

  He intended to find out.

  “Well, it’s a beautiful morning,” he said with false heartiness. “Let’s have a picnic. Do you have a suitably private place in mind—” He saw Pen open her mouth, but he finished his sentence before she could speak. “—Harriet?”

  Pen scowled at him and he smiled blandly back at her while Harriet hop-skipped in front of him.

  “Yes! There’s a pond with ducks on the other side of the stream,” Harriet said.

  Harry lifted a brow. “And do we have to swim across the water to get there?”

  “No, Papa! There’s a bridge.”

  That was a relief. “And a nice place to spread a blanket?” Harry kept his eyes on Harriet rather than the prickly woman next to her.

  She nodded. “Yes. I’ll show you.” And she was off running.

  “Shall we?” He offered Pen his arm, but she ignored it.

  “I’ve been thinking about your proposition, Harry.”

  He was not ready to discuss the matter. “That sounds a bit dire. Let me break my fast before you serve me any bad news.”

  She opened her mouth—and then closed it again with a frown. “Very well.”

  They followed Harriet around past the cottage and up the path to the waterfall, but veered off on a trail he’d not taken before.

  “Come on, Papa!” Harriet called from a good thirty yards away.

  He smiled down at Pen. “It seems we are not moving quickly enough for our daughter.” Their daughter. They were permanently, inalterably tied to each other through this person they had made together.

  He liked that thought.

  Pen smiled back at him and shook her head bemusedly. “Harriet was so excited this morning, she wanted to come down to the cottage two hours ago.”

  He chuckled. “Thank you for keeping her from doing that. You would have found me sound asleep.” He waggled his brows. “Our activities of last night exhausted me.”

  Damnation! That had been the wrong thing to say. Pen’s brows snapped down. She opened her mouth—

  “Come on, Papa.”

  Harriet had come back and grabbed hold of his hand, tugging on him to hurry along—and saving him from what Pen had been about to say.

  He knew his reprieve was only temporary.

  They crossed over the bridge—he could see and hear the waterfall off to the right—and then the path widened, the trees on either side forming a green tunnel. Soon they came out on a field which sloped down to a pond.

  Harriet dragged him closer to the water. “See, Papa? Ducks!”

  “I see.”

  Several of the ducks chose that moment to plunge their heads into the water, forming a line of feathered bottoms and making Harriet giggle.

  “It looks as if they are having their breakfasts,” Harry said. “I’m hungry for mine. Let’s go find out what’s in this basket.”

  “There’s plum cake!” Harriet skipped up the slope next to him. “Dorcas makes the best plum cake.”

  “Does she? That’s excellent news as I’m quite partial to plum cake.”

  Harriet grinned up at him. “So am I!”

  He stopped when he judged they were well out of reach of wandering ducks—and the unsavory deposits they left behind—and put the basket down.

  “Will this do?” he asked Pen. She’d stayed at the mouth of the path while he and Harriet inspected the ducks.

  “Yes.” She managed a smile, an exceedingly fleeting one that didn’t reach her eyes.

  This just got worse and worse.

  They spread out the blanket and sat down, Harriet so close to Harry she was almost in his lap, and Pen as far from him as she could be and still be on the blanket. The contrast between this picnic and the one at the apple orchard could not have been greater.

  What happened after she left me last night?

  He was determined to find out.

  “Give Papa some plum cake, Mama!”

  “And you some, too?” Pen smiled warmly at Harriet as she handed Harry some cake, but when she glanced at him, all the warmth vanished, leaving her eyes bleak.

  “Yes!”

  She gave Harriet her cake and then looked down, sorting through the basket far more intently than necessary. “We have bread and butter and jam as well, my lord. And it looks as if Dorcas has put in a bit of cold beef for you, if you should like it.”

  He was back to “my lord.”

  “No, thank you.” He suddenly wasn’t hungry any longer.

  At least Harriet seemed unaffected. She chatted away happily as she ate her plum cake.

  “Isn’t the cake good, Papa?”

  “Yes. Very good,” he lied. The plum cake could be the best ever baked this side of heaven, but it would still taste like sawdust to him at the moment. He had to get Pen alone and find out what was amiss.

  “May I have some more, Mama?”

  “You can have the rest of mine.”

  Ah. So, his wasn’t the only appetite affected.

  Harriet was too happy at her good fortune to ask questions—or perhaps it was just that she was nine years old and happy to be with her father and mother.

  He frowned. How could Pen not see that? Harriet needed him in her life. And if Pen’s reaction to him last night was any indication, Pen needed him, too.

  And he needed them, blast it.

  He put down his cake. He couldn’t choke down another bite.

  Pen sighed. “Harriet, why don’t you go look at the ducks? I have something I need to say to your papa.”

  Harriet grinned. “Like Avis meant?”

  Pen shook her head. “Not quite.”

  “Oh.” Harriet gave him a worried look. “You aren’t going to leave now, are you, Papa? You won’t go without saying good-bye?”

  “I’m not leaving, Harriet.” He tried to smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry.”

  Harriet clearly was worried. She looked back at Pen, and then got up slowly and walked down to the pond, not one hop or skip in her step.

  Zeus! He glared at Pen. He wanted to lash out. Why was she being so difficult and upsetting their daughter? But he managed to keep a rein on his temper. He knew from long experience that words needed to be used carefully.

  “My lord—”

  “Pen!”

  He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Harriet stop and look back, so he lowered his voice, struggling to modulate its tone. “I understand that you are upset with me—though I don’t know why—but don’t diminish what’s between us by ‘my lording’ me.”

  He saw her flinch and was sorry for it, but if she was going to drive a knife into his heart, she was going to have to do it honestly, with her eyes open.

  She nodded. “You’re right, Harry. I suppose I was trying to make this easier for myself, but that’s not fair.” She took a breath and then another. She looked away. “I—”

  She stopped again, and his heart spasmed. He hated to see her so clearly struggling to—

  To what? Remember that knife.

  Right. He waited in silence.

  She tried again. “I talked to Jo last night. She’s a widow. I thought she might help me think some things through.”

  Lord, this sounded bad—and confusing. “Pen, I’m not dead.”

  “And I’m not your wife, nor will I be.”
>
  She said it matter-of-factly, but . . . Did she think he should offer for her?

  No. She couldn’t think that.

  Do you think you should offer for her?

  He froze, taken aback by the notion.

  Zeus! If he wasn’t the Earl of Darrow, he might ask her to marry him. But he was the earl. Earls did not marry farmers’ daughters, at least not in England.

  “I kept going over things in my mind all night, Harry, and I just can’t agree to come with you. Not now and maybe not ever.”

  No. That couldn’t be her decision. “Pen—”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t. I know—well, I’m afraid—you could persuade me to change my mind, but I think that would be a mistake.” She looked down at the blanket and took a deep breath. When she looked back up, her expression was set. Determined. “Let me tell you why.”

  “Very well. I’ll listen, but I won’t promise to agree with you.” Did she not understand? “It’s not just your life at issue here, Pen. It’s Harriet’s and mine.”

  He looked over at his—their—daughter. She was tossing something—crab apples?—into the water. The ducks had paddled off to one side and were watching—and quacking. He looked back at Pen.

  She was looking at Harriet, too. “Yes, I know.” Then she focused on him.

  “I love you, Harry. I think I always have and I always will.”

  She said it slowly, sadly. Despairingly.

  Anger, sparked by a touch of panic, flickered in his gut, making his tone sharp. “And I love you, Pen.”

  She flinched.

  Blast. That hadn’t helped matters. He thought very briefly of making a salacious comment, but stopped himself. This was not the time for that sort of talk.

  He tried to gentle his voice. “So, what is the problem?”

  She met his gaze directly and said calmly but no less emphatically, “Love isn’t enough.” She frowned. “Don’t you see that?”

  “No, I don’t.” Love was enough. It was everything. How could she not see that?

  Desperation begat anger. He’d—

  Keep hold of your temper. Nothing will be helped by brangling.