Mistaken Kiss: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 2)

by Kathleen Baldwin

It seemed impossible that from such a small dark place a whole horse should appear. Yet, here was a nose, followed by knees and a head. Then, the shoulders and front legs shuddered out. Darley snorted again, this time with more energy. The rest of the foal’s body gushed out onto the stable floor.

  The baby lay on the straw heaving in and out as it tried to breathe. Exhausted, but alive.

  It was a miracle. Willa choked back an unbidden urge to cry. She pressed her hand over her mouth lest she frighten the mare by sobbing like a silly girl who couldn’t contain the wonder of it all.

  Alex twisted around to see her. “Are you hurt? Did you get cut?”

  She shook her head, but her watering eyes betrayed her resolve to remain stoic.

  Darley lifted her head, struggling to see her new foal.

  Alex went to Willa’s side. He opened her fingers, which still gripped the knife, and took it from her hand.

  “Are you certain you are all right?” He led her to the doorway of the stall, took down an oil lantern hanging in the hall, and turned it brighter. “There’s blood on your arm.” He pulled out his handkerchief and was about to clean it away.

  She shook her head, stopping him. “Not my blood.” Her voice broke. The weight of awe was so great she might have fallen to her knees and sobbed like a baby but for his hand supporting her arm. She gestured at the brave mare struggling to her feet. “Hers.”

  Darley had made the sacrifice of all females throughout the ages, the sacrifice Willa’s own mother had made. She risked death to bring forth life.

  Tears coursed down Willa’s face, but she didn’t wipe them away. They were good tears, cleansing tears. For the first time, she felt proud to lay claim to her gender. Perhaps men had life easier. But they would never know this. They would never walk the shadow lands of pain and death to be part of the miracle of life.

  Tears fell in straight, unfettered lines down her cheeks, blurring her vision and spotting her spectacles. She still didn’t try to stop it.

  Alex turned down the lantern and hung it back on the hook. He put his arm around Willa’s shoulders as they watched Darley’s noble attempt to rise. At last, the mare made it up on all fours.

  Willa took off her cloudy glasses and squinted, but the fuzzy images were not any clearer. She tried to wipe her lenses on the course brown muslin of Alfreda’s walking dress, but it only succeeded in smearing the surfaces even more. Alex silently handed her his handkerchief.

  The foal lay in a heap on the straw, still breathing heavily. Darley nudged it with her nose and stood next to it, waiting. The back half of the baby horse remained shrouded in the blue-gray membrane of its former cocoon.

  “Should we remove the rest of the sack?”

  He shook his head, more solemn than he ought to be.

  The baby was alive. Darley would live. Willa hadn’t cut the foal with the knife. Everything had turned out wonderfully, hadn’t it? Why then did he look like a man standing on the gallows?

  Willa pushed the matter. “Perhaps we ought to help. Only see how the little thing is stuck in it. It’s exceptionally slippery. Alex?”

  He didn’t look at her. “If the foal doesn’t get up soon, it will die.”

  “Let’s help it up then. Surely—”

  “No. It has to do it on its own. We can cover it with a blanket after she licks it. But that’s all. We can’t interfere.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! I won’t stand here and watch that baby die.”

  “Then you may go to the house. If there were any other way, I would do it. Nature cannot be circumvented in this matter.”

  He would banish her to the house? She crossed her arms. How could he? She’d been the midwife to this foal. It was her right to protect it.

  “I’m not feeling very fond of nature just now,” she muttered. But neither did she wish to be sent to the kitchen of Squire Harley’s house.

  “Nature can be cruel.” He said it under his breath, barely a whisper, a husky murmur heavily laden with resignation and pain.

  He folded his arms protectively across his chest and then dropped helplessly to his sides. “When you and I were children, nature robbed us of our mothers. Sometimes…” He pressed his lips together and worked his jaw before turning to her. He cupped her chin and raised it so that she met his gaze. “Sometimes, it robs mothers of their children.”

  All the fight left Willa. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, and he enfolded her in his arms. They stood in the shadowed corridor holding one another. Wordlessly, Willa listened to the slow, sad beat of his heart.

  Darley snorted noisily. Alex and Willa turned to watch, holding their breaths as the mother sniffed at her newborn and swiped her tongue over its nose. She pawed at the sack, stamping on it, pulling it away. The foal kicked. It was a little thing at first, but then its stick-like legs flailed against the remaining bag, tearing more of it away. Darley licked her baby again, on the face, on the neck, on the scraggly tuft at the top of its head. It was enough encouragement to make the foal scissor its legs and kick off the rest of the membrane.

  “Look. A filly!” Alex exclaimed. “Darley has a daughter. Her first.”

  Willa watched with guarded reserve. No more foolish sentimentality for her. No more welling up over a life that might be snatched away in the next moment.

  Darley, however, did not hold back. She sniffed and prodded at her youngster, bathing it with her tongue.

  “Back away, Darley girl. Let her get up, first,” Alex cautioned.

  Darley tossed her head as if she understood. But of course, she couldn’t. Willa frowned. Darley was a beast, simply doing what any mother would do. If she could, Darley would pick up the filly and set her on her feet. And nature might jolly well take a flying leap off the nearest bridge.

  Alex gripped Willa’s shoulders as he leaned forward. “Come on, little one. Get up.”

  The filly rocked and flailed at the air. At last, she planted one front hoof on the floor. Her knobby knee wobbled in the air as she strained to lift her head higher. She clumsily shifted her weight and propped another hoof under her.

  Alex grinned, hopeful once more, and patted Willa’s arm.

  One look at the valiant little filly and Willa’s heart was done for. The ungainly thing was all knobs and sticks, with big brown eyes, surprisingly long feminine lashes, and funny ears that pointed straight out to each side. Her coat was a lighter red than her mother’s, with a broad white stripe down her nose and dainty white socks on all of her legs.

  Willa clasped her hands together and brought them up under her chin like a small child at prayer. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Alex looked at Willa as if she were feverish. “That?” He pointed at the filly whose rump was now stuck up higher in the air than its head.

  Her hands fell apart, and she frowned at him. “Yes! And don’t you dare say otherwise.”

  He chuckled. “In a few weeks, perhaps, when she fills out. But now?”

  Her warning glare silenced his next comment, but it did nothing to dim the mocking glimmer in his eyes. “Very well.” He attempted to look properly chastened. “She’s quite the loveliest— Oh heavens, Willa, just look at her.”

  The poor thing had one hind leg standing upright, but the angle of it forced her chest to the ground so that she looked more like a giant malformed spider than a horse.

  Oblivious of his criticism, Darley whickered, approving her daughter’s efforts.

  “Oh, Alex, can’t we help her?”

  “No. Just wait. She’s nearly got it.” His arm slipped to Willa’s waist, and he gave her a friendly hug. “Patience, my dear.”

  My dear?

  He shouldn’t fling endearments around so freely. They might confuse other women. Naturally, Willa knew better. It was just his way, warm and charming. All rakes and rogues were able to make women feel like giddy schoolgirls, were they not? Fortunately, Willa did not succumb so easily to casual endearments.

  The filly managed t
o slide another rear leg into the upright position. Darley whickered happily, and Alex chuckled.

  With Herculean effort, the little filly pushed up on her front legs, but collapsed in a tangled pile.

  “Oh no,” Willa moaned.

  “Not to worry. She’s got it now. Just went at it wrong. This time she’ll do it right. Front first. Back second. It often takes four or five tries.” Alex pulled Willa with him to the support post at the opening of the stall and leaned against it, holding her next to him as they watched.

  Willa felt him kiss the top of her head before he rested his chin on her wayward pile of curls. One small kiss, but it melted away all of the tension in her body. One insignificant friendly kiss, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.

  “You’re relieved, aren’t you?” It was a silly thing to say. Of course he was. What she really meant was That’s why you kissed me, wasn’t it? You’re happy.

  He didn’t answer with words. It was a low murmur of agreement and a tightening of his hold on her.

  Hush, Willa, she scolded herself, this is not a day for analyzing. It was a day long past ordinary logic and rational behavior, a day to simply enjoy. She nestled happily against him and they watched the newborn flop and twist in an attempt to stand.

  Alex was right. On the fourth try, the filly pushed up with her front legs and her hindquarters followed suit. Although her legs bowed out alarmingly, as if the joints weren’t precisely certain which direction to bend, the foal finally stood on all fours.

  “Now will she live?”

  He nodded. “If she can find her mother’s teat, her chances are good.”

  Darley licked her daughter, every stroke of her tongue claiming ownership of her offspring.

  “What will you name her?” she whispered.

  Alex straightened and turned her towards him. It pleased her that he kept his arms tucked securely around her. “I believe that honor should fall to you. After all, you were her midwife.”

  Willa leaned back in his embrace. “She’s your horse. I couldn’t.”

  “She would not be alive without your help.” He smiled ever so pleasantly at Willa. Her harebrained heart danced a wild jig.

  He tucked back one of her curls, skimming her cheek with his fingertips. “Well? What will you choose?”

  Her thoughts turned to gibberish, and her breath snagged, making her gulp before she could speak. Choose what? Him? Yes. Done. But, of course, that wasn’t the question. What was the question again? “Choose?”

  “What name?” The rascal grinned.

  She didn’t know where her cockles were located, nor what they were, but she was fairly certain they were warming nicely. Instead of properly organized rational speech, her words flowed out in a nervous rush, a high-pitched embarrassing vomit, splashing across his shirtfront. “My favorite name is Sally. It sounds so bright and cheerful. I’ve always wanted to name something Sally. But Jerome insisted all of our animals must have Greek names. Greek poets, to be exact. Even the cats, Sophocles and Hesiod. Our parakeet was Homer. But he died. So, yes, I would very much like to name her Sally.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded patiently, sagely. “Sally, now there’s a name to strike terror in the heart of the other racehorses.”

  “Oh.” She smile sheepishly at his jibe. “Well, we might call her Valiant Sally. That’s a little better, don’t you think?”

  “Valiant, yes?” He studied Willa’s face as if her lips and eyes held a secret list of names. “Valiant Sal.”

  She swallowed, uneasy under the warmth of his gaze. “Yes. Valiant Sal. That sounds quite wonderful.”

  “Not unlike my Valiant Willa.”

  He leaned closer, his mouth only a breath away from hers. Willa would have fallen gladly into his tantalizing kiss had she not desperately required the truth of the matter. “Am I? Yours? Your Willa?”

  Her question startled him. If she could have swallowed the words back, she would have. Too late. She’d aroused him from their dream. He let go of her.

  And that was more answer than she wanted.

  In the distance, she heard the clattering of wheels on the cobblestones and the sound of men’s voices out in the yard. The squire and his servants were back.

  She stepped apart from him.

  Chapter 15

  Sing A Song Of Sixpence A Pocketful Of Lies

  TOMMY BOLTED out of a stall and ran headlong down the passageway to greet the master with good news. “Goliath’s Dame, she’s about to foal! Come an’ see.”

  A group of weary men followed the lad up the hall. Slapping one another good-naturedly, their triumphant voices and feet filled the quiet stable with joviality.

  Squire Harley called out to Alex, “We got the fire put down, right as rain.”

  “Could’ve used some rain.” The man next to him wiped some of the soot from his brow onto his sleeve.

  “Aye. That we could’ve. The barn and his north field burned to the ground. Ridley is done in. Says he’s too old to manage the place. Wants out. He plans to take the waters in Bath. Phah! Stay on the land, says I. But, no, says he, sell the place for a song if anyone’s willing to sing.

  “But what’s this?” He slapped Alex on the shoulder. “Darley’s foal nursing already? And where are my manners?” He bowed to Willa. “You must excuse me, miss. It’s been a day better left untallied.”

  Alex introduced her as his cousin. A prevarication she didn’t bother to correct. The good squire offered the loan of his dogcart and groom so that Alex might convey them both back to London, then trudged off to await the newest member of his stable.

  The ride home was quiet, but not silent. Willa heard the groom humming in the rear seat, the rhythm of the wheels clacking against the road, crickets sawing their two-note tune, the whistling skree of hawks wheeling in the night sky, but most of all, she heard breathing. This was not the in-and-out unconscious drawing of air. Alex’s breathing was devoid of rhythm, full of hesitation, stops and starts, deep and shallow. She knew it to be the sound of a man thinking, the uneasy cadence of a man ruminating, lamenting, brooding, and in the end, reflecting.

  Odd that his unsettled breathing should put her at ease. Her own fell into a steady, contented tempo that lulled her to sleep long before they reached the noise of London. She awoke with her head resting on his shoulder and her aunt’s townhouse looming down the street.

  * * *

  The next morning Willa was surprised to find her aunt sitting at her customary place at the end of the table in the breakfast room.

  “Good morning, my dear. Do not look at me as if you’ve seen a ghost. Have some breakfast.” She waved at the sideboard. “Did you pass the evening pleasantly?”

  Willa felt herself blanch. “Pleasant enough. And yourself?” She picked up a plate.

  “And how did you spend it?” Honore speared a strawberry and twirled her fork, showing excessive interest in the plump red heart before popping it in her mouth.

  Willa took a deep breath and stilled the trembling serving spoon in her hand. The truth. It was always better to come directly to the point. “If you must know, I helped a horse give birth. Most diverting, but I should probably spare you the details as they are decidedly not conducive to good digestion.”

  “Worried about my digestion, eh?” Honore pulled apart a small blueberry muffin and liberally buttered one half. “How thoughtful. And how is young Braeburn?”

  “Kind enough to bring me home.” Willa filled her plate and sat down. “Nothing more, if that is what you are thinking.”

  Honore’s face turned glum. “How dull.” She bit into the muffin and chewed thoughtfully.

  Willa shrugged and stared at her food with mounting disinterest.

  Honore licked the butter from her lips. “No matter. On the morrow, Tournsby promised to collect us for the races. That should prove a diverting afternoon.”

  “The races? I should think not. When last I saw Lord Tournsby, he was nearly dead.” Willa shoved a sausage to the far side
of her plate. “It will be several weeks before he’s fit enough to be moved from Lady Tricot’s house.”

  “Are you quite certain? In my experience, gentlemen usually recover from their little escapades with more alacrity than that.”

  “Quite certain. Nearly dead.” Willa stabbed her kipper and sawed it apart vigorously. Nearly dead. And the blame lay squarely on her shoulders.

  “Hhmm.” Honore shrugged. “Silly nodcock. What was he thinking, plunging himself into the Thames?”

  Willa frowned. “You know perfectly well why he did it, don’t you?”

  “I have my suspicions. Willa, dearest, do stop mutilating that poor fish.”

  It was time to beard the lion in her den or pull the cat’s whiskers or do whatever she must to make her aunt squash the problematic rumor she’d set into motion.

  Willa plunked her knife down on the tablecloth beside her plate. “You must tell everyone the truth. I insist upon it.”

  “The truth?”

  “Yes. That you have no intention of making me your heir.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Honore flicked her palm out as if it were of no consequence. “All this has to go to someone. Why not you?”

  Willa crossed her arms and glared at her aunt skeptically. “You’re using it as bait. A scent to stir up the hounds. A trick to make the hunt more entertaining.”

  Honore smacked her hand on the breakfast table, rattling the dishes. “I can’t imagine where everyone gets such wicked notions about me!” She narrowed her eyes at Willa.

  Willa swallowed. The bearding was not going well, suddenly the lioness was stalking her

  Honore raised her voice, exaggerating the depth of her invisible injury. “You’re beginning to sound exactly like your cousin Fiona. It’s as if you think I’m capable of horridly elaborate machinations. Monstrous! You must think I’m some sort of devious Prince Michelangelo.”

  Willa blinked. Perhaps she’d heard wrong. “Do you mean, Machiavelli?”

  “You see?” Honore held out her hand, beseeching Willa. “I don’t even know the fellow’s name. How simple I am. Your accusations wound me to my very soul.” She clapped a hand over her bosom.