The Stablemaster's Daughter (Regency Rendezvous Book 11)

by Barbara Devlin

  “I know that, now.” His elder sibling frowned. “But when I was alone, my thoughts conjured the most awful conclusions, and I regret that.”

  “I can accept that.” Ernest focused on the horizon, as the agony resurfaced and swelled. Indeed, the anguish cut to the core. “What I will never understand is how you could have suspected me of committing murder and attempting to cast blame on you for the barbarous offense, when I did naught but defend you. That is what hurts, brother. That is what functions as a very real barrier between us, given you know not what I sacrificed to protect you.”

  “And I would make amends.” Barrington made it sound so simple to atone for past injuries, and that was his downfall. Born into power and privilege, everything came easy to him, whereas Ernest, the second son, worked for his fortune. And their father had an unusual method for inspiring Ernest. “Tell me what to do, and I shall do it.”

  “Therein lies the rub.” He trailed the flight of a graceful osprey, as it soared through the sky. “Some things cannot be effortlessly erased. They linger. They fester. They poison all successive connections, rendering the afflicted a forsaken soul, to wander through life in misery and solitude.”

  “No.” Barrington shook his head. “I will not allow that to happen to us. Yes, I made mistakes, but I learned that nothing is set in stone, and you and I are no different. We will retrench, brother. I swear on my firstborn, we will recover.”

  Of course, Barrington thought Ernest referenced his brother.

  It never occurred to anyone that he missed Henrietta.

  “I wish I shared your optimism.” But from Ernest’s perspective, the future appeared rather bleak, given his lack of prospects. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to tour the north fields on my own, as I need to think.”

  “As you wish.” With that, Barrington saluted and turned his stallion. “Then I believe I will join Florence for a nap, because she rests better with me at her side. When you are ready to resume our discussion, I am at your disposal.”

  Heeling the flanks of his hunter, Ernest steered toward the dirt path that led to the most picturesque part of their ancestral estate in the Peak District. As he charged the verge, the resplendent vista of a clear azure sky, amid which a peregrine danced in search of prey, and vibrant verdure spread before him. It was a place in which he always found comfort, as he reminisced of cherished childhood memories and simpler times. Indeed, it was the only point in his life he was happy.

  As he bent to clear a decumbent branch, a swatch of bright color caught his gaze, amid the canopy of a massive yew, and he noted a shapely calf. “Oy. Is someone there?”

  A feminine shriek portended doom, and he urged his mount forward, just as a tangle of ruffles and lace dropped into his lap. Given the damsel in distress landed facedown, he admired her shapely bottom, as the skirt of her sprigged muslin dress stretched taut across her derriere.

  “Oh, dear.” She shifted in his grasp, yanked on her wool pelisse, and her elbow bumped his most prized protuberance, which woke with a vengeance. “My, but you gave me such a fright, and you really should not have shouted like that. Are you all right?”

  “You fell from a tree, almost breaking your lovely neck, and you worry about me?” As he flipped her over and upright, he glimpsed the most astonishing, velvety brown eyes, which seemed to see right through him. For a moment, she stared at him, and he admired her heart-shaped profile, her pert little nose, her lush red lips, and her thick chestnut locks, which struck him as oddly familiar. Indeed, there was something comforting in her expression, as if he knew her, yet that was not possible. “Are you sure you are not injured?”

  “Hello.” Favoring him with a welcoming smile, she stunned him, when she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and hugged him. “How are you?”

  “Much better, now.” As she pressed her soft and feminine body to his, he savored her warmth and tried to calm the fully loaded cannon in his crotch, because it had been more than two months since he parted ways with his last importuning mistress, and the beast was hungry. “Are you always so friendly to strangers?”

  ***

  “Strangers?” Henrietta Katherine Graham studied the man who had occupied her thoughts and dreams for the better portion of her life, especially the last eleven years, and blinked in astonishment, because she could never forget him. Yet, it was painfully clear Ernest did not recognize her.

  How many nights had she planned their reunion? Too many to count. But in her fantasy, he welcomed her, as would an old, treasured friend. Quick as a wink, she recovered her wits, tamped her dismay, and rallied. “Why, I presumed you knew all the ladies in these parts, or are you not Lord Ernest Howe?”

  “So did I.” He chuckled in his signature tenor, which harkened to honey on a hot scone. “And you are correct.” Tightening his hold, he canted his head and grinned. “May I escort you somewhere, Miss—”

  “Actually, I planned to tour the north fields, as I cherish many fond memories there.” When he arched a brow and his muscles tensed beneath her, betraying his not so indifferent state, she smiled, as she would claim that small victory. “Since you journey the same path, perhaps you will consent to join me?”

  “You know my ancestral estate?” He nudged the impressive hunter, and they traveled further into the grove of trees, as she studied the lines about his eyes. “Let me guess. You are Lord Clifton’s daughter, and you venture, unescorted, into the countryside to rebel against your father’s overbearing manner.”

  “I know Garring Manor quite well.” In play, she averted her stare, cursing his assumption, but she should have known he would think her a lady, as he was always a proper sort. “And I know no such connection, although my motives may prove just as bold.”

  “But you know my family?” In so many ways, he had not changed a bit. His once unruly, wavy blonde hair had been close-cropped, yet it framed his chiseled patrician features, and his eyes, so crisp and clear, cut to her core. It was the remarkable transformation of his physique, especially his broad shoulders and strong arms, which set her heart racing, as he embraced her in his lap, and she could sit there for hours, as she did when they were children. “You are acquainted with my brother, Barrington?”

  “In some respects, I know your family as well as my own.” Henrietta nodded, still disappointed that he did not recognize her. “And I am very familiar with Lord Ravenwood, as well as his wife, Lady Florence.”

  “Then you must give me a hint.” As they emerged from the copse of ancient yews, beneath which they once sat and ate sweetmeats he pilfered from his mother’s fancy tea parties, Ernest anchored an arm about her waist, heeled the flanks of his horse, and set a blazing pace across a picturesque meadow, and she could not contain a squeal of delight. “Please, I beg you, as the anticipation is killing me. What is your name?”

  “Oh, no.” Resting her head to his chest, she giggled, as she teased him, just like old times. “This is too much fun.”

  “So you are a temptress.” With that, he flicked the reins, and they soared down a hill, laughing all the way. “Do you know what becomes of such women?”

  “I cannot imagine, sir.” Nestled in his embrace, Henrietta rode a wave of unshakeable confidence. “Do tell.”

  Slowing to a halt, he cupped her chin. “They are destined to be ravished by their pursuer.”

  “And that is bad?” In truth, she would not protest being ravished by her childhood sweetheart, because he held her heart. He always had. Given the intensity of his scrutiny, she swallowed hard, as he focused his attention on her mouth. If only he would kiss her. Then he would recall that special day, beneath the yew on Oker Hill, when they first touched lip to lip. To her surprise, he bent his head and inched near. In a whispery summons, she beckoned, “Ernest.”

  Dismay functioned as a bitter pill, when he flinched, retreated, and cleared his throat. “I should return to Garring Manor.”

  “Time for high tea?” As usual, she concealed her chagrin behind a polite façade born of y
ears of practice, in service to the noble classes.

  “Indeed.” With the skill of a master equestrian, he turned the hunter. “Would you be my guest for an afternoon refreshment?”

  “What a marvelous suggestion.” And just like that, her spirits lifted. “Do you still favor the souchong?”

  “How do you know my preference?” He frowned and then snapped his fingers. “Are you one of the Beauchamp girls?”

  “Fie on you, sir.” Now that insult stung, because they were horrid girls. “Which of those two braying asses do you imply I resemble?”

  “Ha.” In a moment of levity, he settled a palm to her hip, in a brazen display of intimacy. Then he started, as if she burned him. “Forgive me, as I took liberties.”

  “Believe me, Lord Ernest, it is not the first time.” To ease the tension, Henrietta elbowed him. “And I hope it will not be the last.”

  “Upon my word, but you are a saucy lady.” Soon, he would discover she was no lady, as they passed the main gate. “Please, I beg you, tell me your name.”

  When she shook her head, he groaned.

  At the grand entry of the Portland stone mansion, which she once looked upon as her home, Henrietta slipped from his grasp and gained her footing. A stablehand held the lead, as Ernest dismounted. Arm in arm, they crossed the threshold of the elegant structure, and she marveled at how little changed from what she recalled.

  From the gold flocked wall coverings and mahogany paneling and trim, to the Aubusson carpets and the James Reynolds long case clock, with its ebony trim and shallow champfer top surmounted by a gilt urn finial, the house seemed frozen in time, and she glanced at her appearance in the oval hall mirror. After tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, she smoothed her skirts and faced her host.

  “Brother?” In the side hall, Lord Ravenwood, sans coat and cravat, strolled forth, carrying a tray, with a couple of covered dishes, a teapot, cups, and saucers. “I thought you were for an extended ride.”

  “I was, until an unexpected visitor landed in my lap.” Ernest tugged the bell pull. “Were you not supposed to nap with Florence?”

  “That was the plan, but she is hungry.” It was then Barrington noted her presence, and he smiled. “Hello, Henrietta. Your father told me of your impending visit, which I withheld from Ernest, because I thought it best to let you surprise my brother, and I see you did. When did you arrive?”

  “Hen?” Ernest’s eyes widened, evoking her nickname.

  “Yesterday.” She gulped. “Late in the evening, to be exact.”

  “My sincerest sympathies, over the loss of your aunt.” Barrington strolled to the grand staircase. “How was your journey from Kent?”

  “Hen?” Ernest rested fists on hips.

  “Thank you, Lord Ravenwood.” She shifted her weight and wrung her fingers. “And it was a long drive, so I was happy to reach my destination.”

  “Your father has spoken of nothing else.” Barrington chuckled. “And Florence was thrilled, as she increases with our second child.”

  “Hen?” Ernest seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

  Finally, Barrington exhaled and said to Ernest, “Why do you keep repeating her name?”

  “Because he did not recognize me.” And she hated to admit it.

  “You must be joking.” Barrington scoffed. “Though I must say you have grown since we last met. What were you, eleven? Twelve?”

  “She was eight.” Ernest’s expression softened, as he took her hands in his. Was it her imagination, or did tears well in his eyes? “And I was but twelve.”

  “Then I shall leave you to your happy reunion.” Barrington turned and ascended the stairs. Halfway up, he halted. “It is good to have you home, dear friend. You have been too long from Garring.”

  “Thank you.” For a few minutes, she held Ernest’s stare, and so many emotions invested his countenance.

  “You rang, sir?” A very proper butler bowed.

  “Ah, there you are, Crawford.” Ernest tucked her at his side. “Miss Graham and I will take tea, scones, and some strawberry preserves, in the back parlor.”

  So he remembered her partialities.

  “Yes, my lord.” Crawford nodded once.

  Again, silence fell on the foyer, and she wondered if she should have stayed in Kent.

  At last, Ernest dragged Henrietta down the narrow corridor, to the rear of the grand residence. In the lush appointed but comfortable gathering place, he hauled her to the center of the room, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

  Chapter Two

  The sun rose on the horizon, on a brisk morning, as Ernest, of singular purpose, skipped down the back stairs. On the ground floor, he paused to assess his appearance, brushed a speck of lint from his navy-blue hacking jacket, adjusted his cravat, and smoothed his hair. Nervous, though he could not say why, he paced for a few minutes, swore under his breath, and turned on a heel. After exiting the house via the terrace doors, he cut across the rose garden and traversed the graveled path that led to the stables.

  In the yard, he signaled a hand. “Prepare two horses. My stallion and the sweet-tempered chestnut mare, which will require a sidesaddle.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The stablehand nodded.

  To the right of the carriage house sat a charming cottage, in which the stablemaster lived, and it had been his home away from home, once. It had been his sanctuary. After Hen departed Garring, the modest abode functioned as a painful reminder of his loss. Rolling his shoulders, he knocked on the door and folded his arms.

  As anticipated, Graham set wide the heavy wood panel. “My lord, am I remiss in my duties?” He peered toward the stables. “Are the hands not at their posts, or is there something you require of me, personally?”

  “Everything is fine, Graham.” Ernest unfolded his arms. “I came to ask Hen to accompany me on a ride.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Casting a deep-set frown, the stablemaster stepped aside. “When last I checked, she was washing dishes and tidying the kitchen. Will you come inside, while I fetch her?”

  “Thank you.” The humble but clean accommodation harkened to so many happy reveries, as Ernest revisited his personal history and countless hours spent in play. There, he was naught more than a lad of no account, with no expectations or responsibilities. He was simply Ernest. And so much of his childhood revolved around Henrietta, his little bird, and she was mistaken in her assertion, because he never forgot her.

  Rather, he tucked her in that special part of his memory reserved for the most meaningful moments of his life.

  Isolated from the harsh realities of his less-than-charmed existence, she could remain whole and pure, a balm to provide comfort and succor during his darkest days, and of those there had been many since they parted. Often, he summoned her, envisioning her as some benevolent angel swooping in to save him, and in his reveries she never disappointed him.

  What he had not anticipated was the remarkable transformation of the girl to the irresistible woman. In so many ways, she presented a blank canvas. She was the ingénue. The provincial. The delicate flower just waiting to be plucked, and normally he looked past such frivolities, because his tastes ran toward the more seasoned ladies, when it came to his mistresses.

  But when it came to Hen, his thoughts turned in a decidedly different direction, despite their long separation, and it was his body that all but screamed his choice. Because in all their years apart, no woman had commanded his senses as had Hen, and he could not ignore his reaction to her, when he knew not her true identity. Indeed, it was as though their estrangement had never happened. As a lad, he had been attracted to her. As a man, he had to have her.

  “Good morning, Ernest.” Pretty as a picture, with her brown locks artfully arranged in a pile of curls, and a frock of impeccable design, she could have passed for a noblewoman, if not for the apron. Still, such pedestrian accessories did not deter him from his goal. “Papa said you wished to see me.”

  “I had thought we might tour the
ancient yews, as we did when we were young.” He doffed his hat and cleared his throat. “That is to say, it would be my honor if you would accompany me.”

  To his delight, she squealed, clapped her hands, bounced with unveiled enthusiasm, turned on a heel, hiked her skirts, and ran down the hall, as she peered over her shoulder and shouted, “Give me five minutes to change into my habit.”

  The stress of his adult responsibilities seemed to melt in the face of her uninhibited spirit, reminding him of his younger, bolder self, because never had he inspired such a strong reaction in a woman beyond the confines of his bed. In her glowing gaze, Ernest spied the ardor of an untroubled soul and recalled a time when he, too, enjoyed an unfettered existence. His heart raced, and a renewed zest for adventure charged his nerves.

  Once, in a place that seemed naught more than a fantasy, he expected he would marry Hen. Would build a life with her. Would create a family with her. Would spend his days endeavoring to keep the smile on her delicate countenance. Would grow old, together. Yet all those fanciful dreams changed in the blink of an eye, and he knew not why or how it came to pass.

  As if by some cruel twist of fate, he transported back to that portentous afternoon, when he ventured to that very spot and found her gone. Her father’s words echoed in Ernest’s ears, the emptiness, the agony wrenched his insides, and he wiped his brow. Innocence died in that moment, and he cried himself to sleep for weeks, afterward, until his sire shuffled Ernest off to Eton.

  “My lord, do you hear me?” With a playful titter, she elbowed him, and he came alert. “You seem lost. Is something wrong?”

  “Sorry, my dear Hen.” He mustered a half-hearted chuckle. Then he actually looked at her, and his senses ignited.

  Garbed in lavender wool, the customary ladies accouterment struck him as unremarkable, at first glance. Upon further inspection, the riding habit boasted vibrant blooms that appeared hand-painted on the bodice and the cuffs of the sleeves, and the cut fit her feminine physique like a glove and emphasized her narrow waist and tempting curves. The matching hat boasted a perky white plume and begged for attention, as if anyone could ignore Henrietta Graham.