What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  “But it is. I grant you, Harriet’s birth would be an issue if she were a boy—she couldn’t inherit—but since she’s a girl”—Lady Darrow brushed her hands together as if disposing of some dirt, which perhaps she was—“no problem. You merely anticipated your vows.”

  “By almost ten years.”

  Lady Darrow shrugged. “Who’s counting?”

  “Everyone!”

  Harry’s mother laughed. “No, they’re not. It’s only fun to count when it’s months you’re counting. For some reason people enjoy trying to determine if a child born in a couple’s first year of marriage was conceived before the wedding.”

  Well, perhaps Lady Darrow was right about that, but the issue was more complicated.

  “People will care when it comes time for Harriet to think about marrying.”

  Lady Darrow still seemed unconcerned. “I suppose it’s possible some high sticklers could balk at her birth, but I see that as a good thing. It will serve to weed out the disagreeable fellows, the male versions of Lady Susan, if you will.”

  If Pen was willing to step into the fantasy world Lady Darrow was constructing, she supposed she could agree on that point.

  “She’s the Earl of Darrow’s daughter, Pen. Nothing can change that. She’ll have Harry’s love and support—and I’m sure the love and support of her brother, the future earl.” Lady Darrow grinned. “At least I hope she has a brother or two and some sisters as well.”

  Harriet would like a few siblings. And I wager Harry would be very good with babies—

  Stop! You can’t let yourself get lulled into believing Lady Darrow’s fiction.

  “I predict she’ll be the most sought after girl the year she makes her debut.” Lady Darrow smiled. “Besides being an earl’s daughter, she’s lovely, bright, independent, and strong-minded.”

  A warm burst of pride swelled Pen’s chest. “She is, isn’t she?”

  And she is also illegitimate.

  It was time to be clear-eyed and acknowledge cold, hard facts. Pen opened her mouth—

  Isn’t it a fact that it would be better to be an earl’s acknowledged daughter than a vicar’s adopted one?

  She took refuge in a slice of seedcake.

  Could Lady Darrow be correct? She’d always believed Harriet’s birth to be an insurmountable barrier. But legitimacy was only a legal tie. She hadn’t considered how blood would connect Harriet to Harry and Lady Darrow.

  But Harriet’s birth wasn’t the only issue. There was also Pen’s unsuitability.

  “I don’t know anything about Society, Lady Darrow. I have no idea how to be a countess—or even what that position entails.” Besides frolicking in bed with Harry.

  Good Lord! She could not think such things, especially in front of the hawkeyed Lady Darrow.

  Pen hurried on. “I’ve never been to a ball or a soiree or”—she tried to think of the other exotic entertainments she’d read about in the newspapers—“a rout or masquerade or, well, anything. I don’t know how to dance or ride.”

  There. Surely that would convince the woman.

  It did not.

  “I’ll teach you how to go on, or Letitia or Harry will. I imagine it will be exhausting in the beginning for all of us, but you don’t have to learn everything at once.”

  How could Lady Darrow be so blasé? What she described. . . It was like expecting a barely crawling baby to suddenly be able to . . . to discuss Thomas Coke’s theories on crop rotation.

  Which she actually knew a bit about.

  “I don’t know how to manage a household like the earl’s.”

  “Letitia and I can certainly help you with that, but to be honest, Mrs. Marsh—you might remember her, she’s been housekeeper at Darrow for ages—will be just as happy if you defer to her in everything.” Lady Darrow smiled a bit conspiratorially. “Though you do need to object once in a while, if for no other reason than to keep her on her toes.”

  “Oh.” Pen could feel her resistance beginning to weaken, but she feared she was being worn down rather than truly persuaded by Lady Darrow’s arguments.

  “You stood up to your father,” Lady Darrow said, “found a refuge for you and your daughter—twice, and somehow developed a marketable skill. And Lady Havenridge told me earlier that you not only grow hops and other things central to the Home’s businesses, you help her and Miss Anderson run the entire operation. I’d say you definitely have the backbone and determination and skills to succeed as Countess of Darrow.”

  Perhaps Lady Darrow was right....

  No, she wasn’t. She—and Pen—were overlooking the most important issue.

  “Lady Darrow, even if you are correct, there is one major problem with my marrying your son.”

  “Oh, and what might that be?”

  “He hasn’t asked!” She stopped herself. The truth was quite a bit worse than that. “Actually, he has asked—but not to be his wife. The position he wishes me to fill is that of mistress.”

  Lady Darrow looked positively gleeful, going so far as to give a little bounce in her chair. “That’s the best part! After you left Harry, Letitia, and Lady Susan on the path by the stream, Lady Susan tore into Harry. At least that’s how she described it. I haven’t seen Harry or Letitia yet to get their side of the story. I came up here to find you as soon as I could get free of that harpy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, yes. She stalked into the Dancing Duck in high dudgeon. Lord Muddlegate and I were in the common room, having a cup of tea—well, I was having tea. Muddles was having a large glass of Widow’s Brew—which he liked very much, by the way. Said it was one of the best ales he’s ever tasted. And he’s a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to such things. Belongs to the Ancient Association of Ale Aficionados.” Lady Darrow laughed. “They came up with that name a month or two ago to make their regular drinking bouts sound more impressive. They meet at a London tavern twice a month to argue about ale, among many other things.”

  Ah, a safe topic. Pen grabbed on to it like a drowning woman would grab on to a passing log.

  “I’m certain Caro—Miss Anderson, our brewster—would be delighted to send a few bottles of Widow’s Brew back to Town with him. She’s been wanting to get our ale into a London public house for some time. Have you met Caro? I can introduce you, if you like.”

  Lady Darrow shook her head. “Thank you, but Lady Havenridge has offered to show me around when you and I have finished our discussion.” She grinned. “I hope you’ll have more important matters to attend to than giving me a tour. Now, where was I?”

  Better to just get this over with. “You said you were at the Dancing Duck.”

  “Oh, right. So there Muddles and I sat, drinking our respective beverages, when Lady Susan threw open the door.” Lady Darrow shook her head again and shuddered. “To think I wanted Harry to marry that woman! I will have to get down on my knees tonight and thank God the Duke of Grainger meddled in the matter. I was very annoyed with him for spoiling my plans when I left his estate, but now I realize he saved me from a life of torment. Saved Harry, too, which I suppose was his main goal.” She laughed. “He does not like Lady Susan.”

  Lady Darrow took another slice of seedcake. “Do consider expanding your distribution of this. It’s quite extraordinary.”

  “I will mention it to Jo.” Was Lady Darrow ever going to get to the point?

  Do I really wish her to?

  Lady Darrow swallowed her seedcake with some tea. “So, Lady Susan immediately caught sight of me. Not surprising. It’s not a large room, and Muddles and I happened to be the only patrons there—fortunately as Lady Susan didn’t bother to keep her voice down.” Lady Darrow frowned. “I’m sure if you ask Bess, the innkeeper, she can recount the whole tale for your edification—and likely the edification of the entire village when people gather there this evening.”

  Oh, Lord. Lady Darrow was correct. Bess was certain to gossip—it was the main reason she’d taken on the job of innkeeper. She loved being at the
center of things, and the inn was the best spot in the village for that, what with the tavern and the—admittedly few—travelers coming and going.

  “Lady Susan went on at great length about how very offended she was to be forced to endure an introduction to you and Harriet. Well!” Lady Darrow scowled. “You can imagine what I felt then.”

  Actually, Pen couldn’t, but she needn’t be concerned. Lady Darrow proceeded to tell her.

  “Here was this . . . this shrew yammering at me, in a most unpleasant way, about Harry and suddenly she’s telling me—in terms I won’t repeat—that I have a granddaughter nearby, and she is Harry’s child!”

  Lady Darrow beamed at Pen, and Pen grinned back. She couldn’t help herself, the woman’s joy was infectious.

  And she felt . . . amazed, too. Could it be that she and Harriet had a family that wanted them?

  Slow down. Wait until you know the full story. Until you know what Harry wants.

  “Up until that moment, I had no idea Harry was a father and that you and his daughter were here. The instant I sorted it out, you can be certain I interrupted Lady Susan’s harangue to demand she tell me where I could find you. When she said she didn’t know or care, I got up—rudely, I suppose, not that I cared at that point—and left her with poor Muddles while I asked the innkeeper your direction. And then I grabbed my bonnet and hurried up here, leaving Muddles to deal with Lady Susan.”

  Lady Darrow refreshed herself with some tea. “I’m sorry for abandoning Muddles, but he’s a calm, good-natured sort. He’ll just let Lady Susan’s nasty words blow past him like the empty wind they are until she gets tired of spewing them.”

  “I see. Well, I’m very happy you came, and I’m certain Harriet is delighted, too, but I’m afraid I still don’t see why you think Harry wishes me to be anything other than his mistress.”

  Lady Darrow stared at her—and then laughed. “Oh, dear! Did I forget that part?”

  “Which part?” Pen asked cautiously.

  “The part where Lady Susan told Muddles and me in the most affronted tone you can imagine that Harry told her himself that he hoped you would marry him!”

  “Ah.” Pen gaped at Harry’s mother. She must have misunderstood. “Harry wants to marry me?”

  “Yes!” Lady Darrow put her teacup down with a decided clink and stood. “Now go find my son so he can propose. I’m eager to have you—and my granddaughter—move to Darrow as soon as may be.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Harry climbed out of the water and picked up his towel. When he’d got back from walking with Letitia, he’d decided to take a quick bath in the pool by the waterfall before getting dressed and heading up to the Home to try his luck with Pen.

  He rubbed his hair briskly.

  Poor Letitia.

  Now that his sister-in-law was no longer pushing Lady Susan at him, he felt as if an invisible wall had fallen. He no longer had to keep his guard up around her, and that had allowed him to really listen to her and understand how worried she’d been for herself and her daughters.

  I should have paid more attention to her when I first got home. I should have addressed her concerns then.

  He hoped he’d been able to put them to rest now.

  He used the towel on his back.

  She hadn’t said it in so many words, but he thought the reason she’d joined forces with Mama to get him married was to put an end to the uncertainty. She didn’t care about the succession. She just wanted matters settled so she knew what she had to do to take care of her girls.

  She could have relied on him to see to things.

  She hadn’t known that. She didn’t know him. He’d been hardly more than a boy when he’d left England. And she’d certainly never been able to rely on Walter for anything.

  He dried off his legs.

  Well, time healed all wounds. As the days and months passed, Letitia should feel more confident.

  It might help her if she could bring herself to help Pen—

  Assuming he could convince Pen to marry him.

  Pen.

  He grinned at the waterfall.

  Just thinking of marrying her made him feel better than he’d felt since he’d learned of Walter’s death. Calmer. Happier.

  As if he’d been wandering lost in the woods and had finally found the path home....

  He paused.

  God, I’ve felt lost ever since I left Darrow as a boy. Ever since I left Pen.

  Perhaps there were some wounds that time couldn’t heal.

  He closed his eyes, thought back . . .

  Could it be that Pen had been his anchor, his touchstone, all these years, always in the back of his thoughts and deep in his heart, so deep he hadn’t realized it until now?

  I have to persuade her to marry me. If I can’t—

  He ran the towel over his chest. He couldn’t think about that. He’d just have to present his, er, case as best he could—hence the bath. He’d choose his best clothes, too—well, the best ones he had on hand. He hadn’t packed with a marriage proposal in mind.

  What if she refuses?

  He wouldn’t—couldn’t—contemplate that. Pen loved him. She’d said as much. She would want to be persuaded.

  Persuaded, not seduced. Convinced, not overwhelmed. He’d need to win her head as well as her heart and her body.

  He’d have to have a counterargument for every argument she threw at him.

  At least I can tell her Letitia will support her—

  Well, Letitia hadn’t committed to that, but he thought she was leaning that way. And Mama might be willing to help, too. From what Letitia had said, they’d both come to loathe Lady Susan.

  He picked up his breeches, shook them out—

  Oh, why bother getting dressed just to get redressed in a few minutes? The cottage wasn’t far. He’d just wrap his towel around his middle. The jays and squirrels wouldn’t be offended by his near nudity.

  He gathered the rest of his clothing and started back down the path to the cottage.

  Letitia had said—in a very cautious, tentative voice—that she might like to marry again. She was lonely—had, he suspected, been lonely even when Walter was alive—and wished for companionship.

  Having her marry would certainly make things tidier. Once Pen was comfortable with her duties, Letitia wouldn’t have much to do, especially as she’d be sharing the dower house with Mama.

  Unless Mama was planning to remarry as well. Now that he thought about it, he’d been stumbling over Muddlegate a lot recently. That would be . . . odd, but he shouldn’t begrudge her some happiness, either. His father had been gone for several years, not that he’d been especially attentive when he was alive.

  Harry snorted. His parents had had a classic marriage of convenience. He should have taken their relationship as the perfect example of what he didn’t want, and yet he’d been on the verge of making the same mistake. If he—

  “Fuc—!” He managed to bite off the profanity before the word offended . . . the jays and squirrels. He must be entertaining them immensely by hopping about on one foot.

  He picked up the acorn he’d unwittingly stepped on and flung it into the woods. Perhaps he should have put on his boots at least. Too late to bother now—he was almost at the cottage. He’d just be more careful.

  He kept his eyes trained on the path for any more hazards, heaving a sigh of relief once he was safely on the cottage’s smooth, acorn-free floor. He started up the stairs to the bedroom.

  Hmm. I really don’t have much to wear and nothing I haven’t worn before.

  Oh, well. He’d just give everything the sniff test and choose whatever was least objectionable. He grinned. He hoped he’d not be wearing clothes for very long. Once—if—he got Pen to agree to marry him, they could come back here to finish their discussion in bed.

  He ducked to navigate the doorway—

  “Hul-lo.”

  That low, artificially sultry voice wasn’t Pen’s.

  He snapped his h
ead up—and crashed it into the lintel.

  “Uhh!” He braced himself against the doorjamb, grabbing his head and clenching his teeth to withstand the pain and keep the string of curses that had lined up on his tongue unsaid.

  Who was in his room? Surely not . . .

  His vision cleared.

  Bloody, bloody, bloody hell, it was Lady Susan, and worse, she was sitting on the bed, stark naked.

  “Take me!” She threw open her arms, flopped back, and spread her legs.

  He stared at her in horror—and then his instinct for self-preservation kicked in. He turned and fled down the stairs, realizing, a moment too late, that he’d dropped his clothes when he’d hit his head. At least he’d managed to keep hold of his towel.

  He paused in the living area, looked around wildly—

  There was no place to hide. He’d have to head for the woods. Blast! If only he’d thought to put on his boots. But there was nothing for it now. Better bruised and bloody feet than—

  “Got you!” Two female arms wrapped around his waist.

  Zeus, the woman could move quickly when she wanted to. He hadn’t even heard her feet on the stairs, but that was likely because of the blood pounding in his ears.

  He twisted in her grasp, slipped free, and put as much space between them as he could.

  Unfortunately, his towel did not accompany him. It now dangled from Lady Susan’s fingers.

  She dropped it on the floor as her eyes dropped to examine his cock. Normally that organ swelled with pride and enthusiasm under feminine attention, but this time it shrank, as if trying to hide.

  “That really is quite ugly.”

  It shrank a bit more. He pulled one of the chairs out from the table and stepped behind it.

  “Madam, I insist you leave immediately. It is extremely improper for you to be here, especially dressed—or, rather, not dressed—as you are.”

  She spread her arms wide and rotated slowly, giving him a far-too-complete view of her body. “Like what you see?”

  Normally he’d be kind—or at least tactful.

  The time for such niceties was long past. “No.”