Rebecca accepted the kerchief with a nod. She tucked it away and offered a shaky smile. Inside, her heart ached.
Chapter Ten
When they reached the stable, Nathanial bid a coolly correct farewell to Rebecca. Her expression still rather dazed, she made a quiet reply. He hoped, should any of her self-absorbed relatives notice her distraction, they would account it to a long walk in the cold.
He watched her make her way toward the house, her shoulders drooped and her steps slow. If he had his way, he would sweep her into his arms, carry her inside, and place her before a warm fire. Or better yet, in a warm bed.
He gave his head a sharp shake to clear it.
She was seventeen. Seventeen and the sweetest miss he’d ever set eyes on. A man could only do one thing with a girl like her, and marriage was not Nathanial’s goal. His visit had one purpose, to free him of his vow to Stirling so he could return to his unfettered lifestyle. A goal he needed to pursue more vigorously so he could get the hell away from Rebecca.
Rebecca reached the door and looked back. Even from a distance, he could see the blue of her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, then slipped inside. He’d bet his last pound she went to her room to cry. He started after her.
“Sir,” a man called. “They said you wanted my assessment of the bay stallion?”
Nathanial rocked to a halt. He turned back to find the head groomsman. Stallion? Right, Falcon. A horse. Nathanial could help the stallion. He could not go to Rebecca’s room and comfort her.
With a nod, Nathanial gestured the man over. “Yes, I did.”
“Well, Mister Kensley, he’s tougher than he looks. We made sure of that, when we helped Mister Charlie pick him, knowing how he treats them. His leg will be fine enough, given the right care. They said he’s yours now, and you will fund it?”
Nathanial nodded. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. Rebecca was already inside.
“Here’s what we’ll do, then. We’ll need a wrap, and to go to town for a salve, and…”
Letting the man’s country brogue wash unintelligibly over him, Nathanial glanced toward the manor to search the windows for her face. He wrenched his gaze back around. He couldn’t go to her. Not unless he wanted to end up before a priest, and he didn’t. He wanted to drink, enjoy the unencumbered company of women who knew they had no place in his heart, and feel the heady thrill of victory when his bets paid off.
Even though the thrill of victory dwindled to nothing compared with Rebecca’s kiss.
Nathanial frowned. Him, acting a fool. Over a woman. Not just any woman, the type of woman you stood by, until death parted you. Hers, or yours, as his father had learned. His frown deepened to a scowl.
“…that much, honest it won’t,” the head groomsman’s tone pleaded. “I would hate to see him put down over such a minor injury, good horse like that. I’ll find a way to cut off some of the cost.”
Nathanial had hardly heard a word the man said. He shook his head. “Do exactly as you feel best, whatever the cost.”
“Whatever the cost?”
Nathanial clasped the head groomsman’s shoulder. “I want Falcon good as new, and there’s no rush. You do what you need.” He pulled a card from his coat. “This is my man of affairs. I’ll write him immediately and explain the situation. He’ll provide any funds or accommodations necessary.”
“Th-thank you, Mister Kensley,” the man stammered.
Nathanial nodded. “Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mister Kensley. We’ll fix him right up.”
With another nod, Nathanial turned on his heels and headed for the manor. He used the same door Rebecca had, only to find it led into the kitchen. A cook and a kitchen maid gaped at him. He offered a friendly smile and hurried across their domain. He didn’t miss how understaffed the kitchen was, or how shabby.
When he stepped free of the stuffy little room, he found a narrow hall before him and an even narrower flight of steps to his left. Rebecca’s words about a climb fresh in his ears, he realized, finally alone, he could delve into the hidden core of the household. For his excuse, he had his inadvertent use of the kitchen door, though he would never admit he’d been following Rebecca’s example, sure that would bring her grief. He had an anger-inducing suspicion of how Missus Barton meted out punishment.
With light steps, he took the stairs upward. A peek through the first door he came to revealed the hall outside his room. About to close the door and ascend another flight, he heard a clatter of feet above. He slipped into the wide, garish hallway.
He meant to listen for the footsteps to pass, then return to the staircase, but he heard another set, tromping up the front stair. Not Rebecca’s soft tread. Rather Miss Barton’s or, worse, Missus Barton’s. With all exits blocked, he retreated to his room.
As usual, the space was over-warm and over-lit. A fire blazed in the grate, and candles burned everywhere. A small fortune’s worth, and for no reason. He’d been out for hours. Even with his wealth, he still found the display distasteful, especially as it likely came at the expense of the staff’s wages. He would have to see if his valet could prevent Missus Barton’s servants from such excess, at least in his room.
Without, footsteps passed down the hall, but Nathanial decided to give up on his investigative attempts for the moment. His valet would appear soon to help him ready for dinner. He would sneak about at a less active hour. His time, and the ridiculous display of light, would be better used in composition.
He ignored the supplies the desk held and located his own stationary case to pull forth several pages on which to pen the promised letter to his man of affairs. First, he informed his man of Falcon’s acquisition and how related expenses were to be handled. Then, frowning at the page, he requested an investigation into Rebecca’s parents. With all he’d observed of the Bartons, Nathanial held a deep suspicion she hadn’t been handed over to them penniless. Though any money would have been squandered years ago, the truth would be a comfort to her.
Besides which, Stirling would want to know. To that end, Nathanial asked his man to inform the duke immediately if his suspicions about Rebecca’s bequest turned out to be true. If Mister Barton appropriated and squandered the money set aside for Rebecca’s care, that would be proof enough for Stirling that he didn’t wish to do business with the man. Nathanial added in some of his impressions and observations to be passed on as well.
His instructions concluded, Nathanial pulled out a clean page. He may not be able to get Rebecca’s funds back from Mister Barton, if she’d been left with any, and he may have given his word to Charlie Barton not to tell her she was wealthy now, but he could assist her with one wish. A small thing, really, but one he felt would make her happy, even if one of the recipients of his act seemed somewhat unworthy.
He dipped his pen in the inkwell. A prestigious post and an income of nine hundred pounds per year ought to be enough. He frowned, an image of Miss Barton’s face and squeaky voice in his mind. He’d best make it a bit more. Escott deserved extra for taking Miss Barton off the market. It amounted to an outlandish salary for a curate, but Escott seemed a worthy fellow, and he would need the comfort of money, married to Miss Barton. Though, who knew, perhaps wedded life would improve her.
***
Several interminable days later found Nathanial in the manor’s garish front parlor with Barton, Miss Barton and Rebecca. Nathanial put on a show of reading, but, in truth, couldn’t focus on the words. He couldn’t keep his gaze from Rebecca, who sewed with outward serenity. She’d been terribly polite to him since their kiss, her pleasantness maddening. If the memory of her lips wasn’t seared into his mind like the first rays of sun to ever grace the earth, he would swear their embrace never happened. Here he was, every waking moment designed to be in her presence, to the exclusion even of his investigation for Stirling, and she seemed hardly to notice him.
On top of Rebecca’s apparent indifference, Barton had assailed them
with moans for days. He complained about his back, though in all movements, he appeared able. He bemoaned his lack of a horse for the hunt, yet insisted he was too injured to ride. Miss Barton sighed and rolled her eyes ceilingward every time her brother opened his mouth. Rebecca gave no reaction whatsoever, which Nathanial felt only spurred on Barton’s endless lamentations. If he dared be alone with her, Nathanial would take Rebecca aside and inform her of Barton’s goal, so she could coddle him and win them all some peace.
“I’m bored,” Miss Barton declared. “Mister Kensley, I demand you either put down that book or read to me.”
“You know how to read, Mags,” Barton muttered from his sprawl on one of the sofas, eyes closed.
“Yes, but I want to be read to,” she snapped back. She turned a cloying smile on Nathanial. “Please read to me, Mister Kensley.”
“The Dunface ram is characterized by his short tail and tan face,” Nathanial read. “His wool may be any color, varying from white, dun, or brown to black. He is decidedly less hearty than the Kerry, or Linton, and has therefore fallen into disfa--”
“Ug, stop,” Miss Barton cried. “Whatever are you reading about sheep for?”
“Knowledge,” Nathanial said. He caught Rebecca’s slight frown and relented. He’d no reason to torment Miss Barton. “My holdings include rather a few farms. It behooves me to know as much as I can, so as to better oversee them.”
Predictably, Miss Barton’s eyes brightened at mention of his wealth. She sat up straighter on her settee. “How many farms, exactly?”
“Leave off, Mags. If Kensley was going to fall for you, he would have done so already,” Barton observed with his now-typical ill-temper.
“Charles,” Miss Barton gasped. “How cruel, and crass.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Nathanial pulled his gaze from Rebecca and returned his attention to his book.
“Truly, though, what shall we do?” Miss Barton pressed. “We’re a sorry lot, sitting about in silence.”
“I haven’t been silent,” Barton said.
“Yes, but we wish you would be,” Miss Barton snapped.
Rebecca looked back and forth between them. She lowered her sewing. “Perhaps we should do something.”
Barton swung his feet to the floor and sat up. He cast her an indulgent smile. “If you wish us to do something, we shall, Becca. I vote for a display of marksmanship. Give me a chance to redeem myself over Kensley.”
Miss Barton wrinkled her nose. “But we’ll have to go out in the cold, and it will be loud, and you’ll come in stinking of gunpowder.”
“Well, we’re not sitting about reading to each other,” Barton said.
“Fencing?” Nathanial suggested, unable to hide a grin. Barton wouldn’t be able to redeem himself that way.
“What about my back?” Barton protested.
“I know, you can read to us while we sketch you,” Miss Barton said.
“That’s still sitting about reading, Mags.”
“And sketching, Charlie.”
Before the siblings could fall into a full bicker, Nathanial gestured to Rebecca. “Why not let Miss Wycliff decide?”
Barton’s crow of delight drowned out his sister’s groan.
“She’ll only choose what Charlie wants,” Miss Barton said. “She always does.”
“Will you, Miss Wycliff?” Nathanial availed himself of the opportunity to gaze into her blue eyes. “Or will you take the opportunity to select something you wish?”
“She probably doesn’t wish to do anything,” Miss Barton said. “It’s silly to ask her. Becca doesn’t have opinions.” She looked to her brother for confirmation.
“She does so,” Barton said. “She wants to watch me shoot, don’t you, Becca?”
Rebecca looked from face to face. When her eyes returned to Nathanial, he could read a spark there. “Actually, I know it’s not a lady’s activity, but I’ve always wanted to learn billiards.”
Barton’s mouth dropped open in a comic display of shock. “Not watch me shoot?”
“No, Charlie, not watch you shoot.”
Barton’s face crumpled into confusion.
Miss Barton clapped her hands together with an exclamation of glee. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. I shall be on Mister Kensley’s team.”
Chagrin filled Nathanial. His preoccupation with Rebecca had made him slow. He wanted to teach her to play, not live through the agony of watching Barton doing so.
Miss Barton leaned toward him. “And don’t worry, Mister Kensley.” She pitched her high voice into an overly loud whisper. “I’ve practiced in secret for years. We shall win every match.”
“Hold up,” Barton said. “I don’t want to lose every match. There’s only so often I can let Kensley beat me without looking bad.”
“We could alternate teams,” Nathanial suggested. “Miss Wycliff and I shall partner first, to give you a chance to win, and then we’ll switch, to prove I can best you no matter what.”
“Care to place a wager on that, Kensley?” Barton asked.
Nathanial offered a flat stare as he stood. “No, I do not.”
Barton chuckled and hoisted himself up off the sofa. “Billiards it is, then. Come on Mags. Let’s show them who they’re up against.”
Miss Barton forced her lips from a pout into a smile as she stood. “Don’t worry, Mister Kensley. The first match will be over in no time and then you’ll have me by your side.” She batted her lashes. “And this time, when we win, I’ll make sure you get to claim your victory kiss.”
Nathanial answered with a bow, worried his voice would lend too much sarcasm to a reply. Rebecca lowered her attention to her sewing. She stood and presented her back as she took a moment to stow her work. When she turned back around, Nathanial was sure he saw a hint of pink in her cheeks. He tamped down a surge of joy and fell in line as Barton led the way to the billiards room.
The billiards room was large and less ostentatious than other parts of the home Nathanial had seen. The wood planks of the floor were worn. The windows, drafty between the tied-back, faded green curtains, let in an abundance of winter sunlight. A room, he realized, that Missus Barton never entered and hadn’t touched. A glimpse into what lay behind the closed doors throughout the home. In actuality, though the room had seen better days, he preferred it. He hadn’t realized how oppressive the crimson and gold had become until they stepped free into the broad, airy chamber. He drew in a deep breath, enjoying the scent of old wood, rather than an overabundance of cloyingly sweet candles.
The four of them converged about the cues. Nathanial permitted Barton to natter on about selecting the proper length cue for one’s height while Nathanial picked the one he deemed best. He kept a covert eye on Rebecca’s choice, of which he approved, while he set up the balls.
Miss Barton took down the shortest cue and sauntered up to the table. “I say we let Becca go first,” she said with a smirk. “See if she has any beginner’s luck.”
Rebecca turned from the rack of cues. She held hers so awkwardly, Nathanial rather suspected Miss Barton wished to watch her fail. Miss Barton’s smirk only widened as Rebecca stared at the table in obvious confusion.
Rebecca turned to Nathanial. “Which do I strike?”
“I’ll show you,” Nathanial said before Barton, who still fussed over his cue selection, could offer to help.
She answered with a smile.
Her look warmed him. He couldn’t help but smile in return. He set aside his cue and went around the table to her. “You hold it like this.” As he spoke, he arranged her hands.
Her skin was so soft, her fingers so delicate, he couldn’t resist letting his hands linger. Pink crept up her cheeks. The scent of her, cinnamon, warmth and cloves, set his pulse throbbing. He reached an arm around her to apply gentle pressure to her elbow. “Keep this elbow in.” His words were a too-low murmur, uttered too near her earlobe.
The pink of her blush deepened. “Th-thank you. I believe I have i
t now.”
Miss Barton let out a high pitched, forced peel of laughter. “Why, Mister Kensley, you’re embarrassing her. Becca’s never been so close to a man. The poor little thing likely thinks you’ve just spoiled her virtue.”
He stepped back at the same time as Rebecca straightened, her cheeks blazing red. Nathanial offered Miss Barton a flat stare, tired of her games. Rebecca directed her gaze toward the worn, wooden floor.
“I say, Kensley, what are you playing at, putting your hands on Becca?” Barton said from where he still stood beside the rack of cues.
“Billiards, when last I checked,” Nathanial temporized. He tamped down his unease, aware he’d gone too far. Barton might challenge him now, and with every right.
Barton glared at him. He turned narrow eyes on Rebecca, who still stared at the floor, even her ears a bright crimson. “Has he upset you, Becca? I’ll set him, right, I vow it.”
Her head shot up. “Oh, no, Charlie. Don’t do that.”
Barton’s eyes narrowed further. “Are you saying you enjoyed his attentions?”
Rebecca’s mouth fell open. She snapped it shut. Her eyes darted toward Nathanial, then back to Barton.
“Rebecca Wycliff,” Miss Barton gasped. “You aren’t denying it.”
“I—I—” Rebecca’s breath came in ragged bursts.
Nathanial stepped back to her side. He placed a hand on the small of her back to soothe her, as he had on the day of their ride. He searched his mind for some platitude, some way to turn the conversation, but his thoughts were a thick muddle of delight and triumph. She didn’t deny she enjoyed his attention, didn’t pull away from his touch.
Barton glared murder.
Miss Barton’s face suffused with anger. “I’m going to tell Mother,” she hissed.
Nathanial felt the tremble that went through Rebecca at that threat. He pressed his palm more firmly against her back to steady her, while anger sparked in his gut. No one should make Rebecca tremble in fear.
“Maggie? Maggie?” Mister Escott’s call echoed down the hallway, accompanied by the clatter of hurried steps.
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