A Gentleman Always Remembers

by Candace Camp

  “But I have arrived at my destination. It is my good fortune to be stopping in the village ahead.”

  “You are most kind,” Eve responded demurely, casting a twinkling look up at him through her lashes. It had been a long time since she had flirted with a handsome man. Had she forgotten how pleasurable it was? Or was it this man who made it pleasurable? “Perhaps, if you are in the village for a time, we might chance to meet again.”

  “I can make sure that I am here for a time.” For a moment the laughter was gone from his eyes, replaced by a warmth that Eve felt all the way down to her toes. “If you would but tell me where I might chance upon you taking a stroll?”

  Eve let out a little laugh. “Ah, but that would make it far too easy, would it not?”

  He moved closer, so that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “I do not think that you are making it at all easy for me.”

  He reached out, and Eve’s breath caught in her throat, for she thought he was about to touch her cheek. But then he plucked a leaf from her hair and held it up to let the breeze take it.

  Leaning in, his voice lowered, he said, “Surely a naiad should pay a token, should she not, for getting caught by a mortal?”

  A frisson of excitement ran down her spine. “A token?”

  “Yes. A price. A forfeit. They always do so in stories—grant a wish or give a present. . . .”

  “But I have no gift to give you.” Eve knew she should back up, should cease her flirting. But something held her; she could not look away from his bright eyes, could not stop the anticipation blossoming in her.

  “Ah, that is where you are wrong, my nymph.”

  He bent and kissed her.

  His lips were firm and warm, the kiss brief. And at the touch, Eve seemed to flame into life. She was suddenly, tinglingly, aware of everything—the sun on her back, the breeze that lifted the loose strands of her hair, the scent of the grass from the meadow, all mingling in a heady brew with the sensations, sudden and intense, spreading through her body.

  He lifted his head, and for a long moment all she could do was stare up at him, her mouth slightly open in a soft O of astonishment, her eyes wide.

  “I—I must leave.” With an effort, Eve turned away. “Come, Jules, we’d best get back.”

  Her brother, still digging in the dirt, raised his head and turned. “Already?”

  “There. You see? It has been too short a time. Pray do not leave when I have only just met you,” the man protested.

  “I fear we must.” Eve backed up quickly, stretching her hand out toward Julian.

  “At least tell me your name.” He took a step after her.

  “No—oh, no, I must not.” She stopped and looked at him, still dazed by the swift tumble of emotions inside her.

  “Then allow me to introduce myself.” He swept her an elegant, formal bow. “I am Fitzhugh Talbot, at your service.”

  Eve stared at him, chilled. “Talbot?”

  “Yes. I have business at the vicarage in the village, so you can see that I am perfectly respectable.”

  Talbot! The vicarage! Eve let out a little choked noise, and, grabbing Julian by the hand, she whirled and fled.

  Eve ran along the bank of the stream, pulling Julian along after her. When she reached the rock, she picked up her things, not daring to glance back. She could only pray that Mr. Talbot would not take it into his head to follow her.

  “Auntie Eve!” Julian did not have to be told to pick up his own shoes and stockings; he was clever enough to have caught on to the urgency of the situation. “What are we doing? Why are we running?” He turned his head and glanced back toward the road.

  “He isn’t following us, is he?” Eve asked.

  “No. He’s leading his horse back to the road.” Julian paused. “Is he a bad man?”

  “What? No. Oh, no. Pray do not think that.” Eve paused to put her shoes back on and help Julian into his, then struck out across the field at as fast a pace as her brother could keep up. “I think he is the man who is coming to take me to Willowmere.”

  Talbot was the family name of the Earl of Stewkesbury. This man must be a relation of some sort whom the earl had sent to escort her. She dreaded what he would think when he realized that the “water nymph” he had seen cavorting in the brook, shoes and hat off, hair tumbling down, was the intended chaperone for the earl’s cousins. That rather than a straitlaced widow, Mrs. Eve Hawthorne was the sort who romped about letting strangers kiss her!

  “Then he is a bad man.” Julian’s lower lip thrust out.

  Eve glanced down at him and forced a smile. “I am glad that you will miss me, Jules, but you mustn’t think that Mr. Talbot is bad. He is simply . . . well, running an errand for the earl.”

  “But I don’t understand.” Julian panted as he trotted along beside her. “If he is the man who’s come to get you, why didn’t you say who you were? Why didn’t we walk back to the house with him?”

  “If we hurry and take the back way, we can get to the vicarage before he does. I must change clothes before I see him.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know how your mother feels when you are messy and dirty? That’s why we always tuck in your shirt and try to clean up before we return to the house. Well, I think that Mr. Talbot may feel as your mother does.”

  “But he was quite nice. He seemed to like you.”

  “That was when he didn’t know who I was. It’s all very well to like someone when you think she is just a . . . an ordinary person, but it changes when that person is supposed to be in charge of a group of young girls.”

  “I don’t understand.” He looked up at her, frowning.

  “I know. It’s something that makes more sense as you get older. I just need to make sure that when he sees me again, I look much more like a mature, responsible woman.”

  “And not a naiad?”

  “Definitely not a naiad.” Taking Julian’s hand, she broke into a run.

  Fitz stood still for a long moment after the woman ran away, staring after her in amazement. Sudden flight was not normally the feminine reaction to his name. At thirty-two years of age, Fitzhugh Talbot was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He was the younger half brother of the Earl of Stewkesbury, and though his mother’s family was not nearly as aristocratic as his father’s, the money that she and her father had left Fitz more than made up for that minor flaw. These factors alone would have made him well liked by maidens and marriage-minded mothers alike, but he had also been blessed with an engaging personality, a wicked smile, and a face to make angels swoon.

  Indeed, it would take a determined soul to find anyone who disliked Fitz Talbot. Though he was clearly not a dandy, his dress was impeccable, and whatever he wore was improved by hanging on his slender, broad-shouldered body. He was known to be one of the best shots in the country, and though he was not quite the rider his brother the earl was, he had excellent form. And though he was not a bruiser, no one would refuse his help in a mill. Such qualities made him popular with the males of the ton, but his skill on the dance floor and in conversation made him equally well liked by London hostesses.

  There was, in short, only one thing that kept Fitz from being the perfect match: his complete and utter disinterest in marrying. However, that was not considered a serious impediment by most of the mothers in search of a husband for their daughters, all of whom were sure that their child would be the one girl who could make Fitzhugh Talbot drop his skittish attitude toward the married state. As a consequence, Fitz’s name was usually greeted with smiles ranging from coy to calculating.

  It was not met with a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and taking to one’s heels. Still, Fitz thought, he did like a challenge, especially one with a cloud of pale golden hair and eyes the gray-blue of a stormy sea.

  When he reached the road, he swung up into the saddle and turned his stallion once again in the direction of the village. He did not urge the animal to hurry; Fitz was content to move
at a slow place, lost in his thoughts. He had been willing enough when his brother Oliver asked him to fetch the new chaperone for their cousins. Fitz was often bored sitting about in the country, and the week or two until Mary Bascombe’s wedding had stretched out before him, filled with the sort of plans that provided infinite entertainment for women and left him looking for the nearest door. So he had not minded the trip, especially since he had decided to ride Baxley’s Heart, his newest acquisition from Tattersall’s, in addition to taking the carriage. That way, he could escort the doubtlessly dull middle-aged widow back to Willowmere without having to actually spend all his time riding in the coach with her.

  But suddenly the trip had acquired far more interest for him. His plan to return to Willowmere the following day now struck him as a poor choice. There was not, after all, any need for the girls’ chaperone to be at Willowmere immediately. What with Cousin Charlotte as well as Lady Vivian overseeing the wedding preparations, there was more than adequate oversight of his cousins.

  Fitz could put up at the inn for a few days and look around the village for his “water nymph.” First he would pay a call at the vicarage to meet the widow and tell her that they would be leaving in a few days. He might have to pay another courtesy visit to the vicarage in a day or two, but other than that, he would be free to spend his time in a light flirtation—perhaps even more.

  Fitz’s avoidance of marriage did not indicate any desire to avoid women. Though he was too careful in his relationships to be called a rake, he was definitely a man who enjoyed the company of women. And after all, he had been immured in the country for a month without any female companionship . . . at least, of the sort he was wont to enjoy in London. But this naiad offered a wealth of possibilities.

  He thought of the girl’s slender white legs, exposed by the dress she had hiked up and tied out of the way . . . the pale pink of her lips and the answering flare of color in her cheeks . . . the soft mounds of her breasts swaying beneath her dress as she hopped from rock to rock . . . the glorious tumble of pale curls, glinting in the sun, that had pulled free from her upswept hair.

  Yes, definitely, he wanted more than flirtation.

  He considered how to go about finding her. He could, of course, describe her to someone like the local tavern keeper and come up with a name, but that would scarcely be discreet. And Fitz was always discreet.

  He supposed that she could be a servant sent to tend the boy. However, her dress, speech, and manner were all those of a lady. On the other hand, one hardly expected to find a lady splashing about like that in a stream. And who was the child with her? Could the boy have been hers? There was, he thought, a certain resemblance. But surely she was too young to have a child of seven or eight, which was what he had judged the lad to be. Fitz would have thought that she was no more than in her early twenties. But perhaps she was older than she appeared. There were mothers who romped with their children; he had seen Charlotte doing so with her brood of rapscallions.

  Perhaps she was the lad’s governess—though in his experience governesses were rarely either so lovely or so lighthearted. Or maybe she was the personal maid of the boy’s mother. Personal maids were more likely to have acquired the speech patterns of their mistresses than lower servants, and they also frequently wore their mistresses hand-me-downs.

  None of these speculations, however, put him any closer to discovering the girl again. She had hinted that he might come across her walking through town, so perhaps she regularly took a stroll. Still, he could scarcely spend his entire day stalking up and down the streets of the village.

  Lost in these musings, Fitz was on the edge of the village almost before he knew it. Indeed, he had almost ridden past the church before he realized where he was. Reining in his horse, he looked at the squat old square-towered church. A cemetery lay to one side of it; Fitz had gone past it without a glance. On the other side of the church was a two-story home, obviously much newer than the church but built of the same gray stone. This, he felt sure, would be the vicarage.

  It was a rather grim-looking place, and he could not help but hope, for his cousins’ sake, that the widow who resided there was not of the same nature as the house. He thought for a moment of riding past it, but a moment’s thought put that idea to rest. In a village this size, it would be bound to get back to the residents of the vicarage that a stranger was in town, and they would feel slighted that he had not come first to meet them. Fitz knew that many deemed him an irresponsible sort, more interested in pursuing his own pleasure than others’ ideas of his duty, but it was never said that he ignored the social niceties.

  Besides, he thought, with a little lift of his spirits, as he swung down off his horse, he would have an excellent reason to keep his visit short, since he needed to get his animal stabled and find himself a room. Brushing off the dust of the road, he strode up to the front door and knocked. The summons was quickly answered by a parlor maid, who goggled at him as if she’d never seen a gentleman before, but when he told her that he wished to speak to Mrs. Hawthorne and handed her his card, the girl whisked him efficiently down the hall into the parlor.

  A moment later a woman of narrow face and form entered the room. Her dark brown hair fell in tight curls on either side of her face, with the rest drawn back under a white cap. Her face was etched with the sort of severe lines of disapproval that made it difficult to guess her age, but the paucity of gray streaks in her hair made him put her on the younger edge of middle age. She had on a gown of dark blue jaconet with a white muslin fichu worn over her shoulders and crossed to knot at her breasts.

  Fitz’s heart fell as he watched her walk toward him. Poor cousins! He had the feeling that the girls had merely traded one martinet for another, and it surprised him that the lively Lady Vivian would have recommended such a woman. However, he kept his face schooled to a pleasant expression and executed a bow.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh Talbot, ma’am, at your service. Do I have the honor of addressing Mrs. Bruce Hawthorne?”

  “I am Mrs. Childe,” she told him. “Mrs. Hawthorne is my husband’s daughter.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, madam.” He took the hand she extended to him and smiled warmly down at her. “Clearly you must have married from the schoolroom. You are far too young to be anyone’s stepmother.”

  The tight expression on her face eased, and color sprang into her cheeks. She smiled somewhat coyly. “’Tis most kind of you to say so, sir.”

  “I am the Earl of Stewkesbury’s brother,” he went on. “And I am here to escort Mrs. Hawthorne to Willowmere. I believe he wrote to her regarding the matter.”

  “Yes, of course. I have sent a servant to tell Mrs. Hawthorne that you have arrived.”

  She gestured toward the sofa, and Fitz sat down, relieved to learn that at least his American cousins had escaped living with this woman—and that he would not have to endure two days of traveling with her.

  Mrs. Childe took a seat across from Fitz, her spine as straight as the chair back, which she did not touch, and inquired formally after his trip. They made polite small talk for a few moments before there was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the hallway. A moment later a tall, slender woman dressed in a gown as severe and dark as Mrs. Childe’s, her blond hair pulled back and twisted into a tight knot at the crown of her head, stepped into the room.

  Fitz shot to his feet, his customary aplomb for once deserting him. There was no mistaking the woman despite the complete change in her attire. The tightly restrained hair was the same pale ash-blond, the eyes the color of a stormy sea.

  The middle-aged widow he had expected was, in fact, his water nymph.

  Chapter 2

  It was all Eve could do to keep her face calm as she advanced into the room. Inside she was quaking with fear that Mr. Talbot would denounce her as a frivolous flirt, utterly unsuitable to chaperone the earl’s cousins. It would not matter that Talbot had flirted with her even more than she had flirted with him or that he had been the one to kiss her
. Gentlemen, after all, were not condemned for such things. And a chaperone was held to a higher standard than an ordinary woman. She took a cautious glance at the man across the room. He had risen to his feet, a stunned expression on his face.

  “Pray, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Fitzhugh Talbot,” her stepmother said to Eve. “He is the Earl of Stewkesbury’s brother, come to escort you to Willowmere. Is that not gracious of the earl?”

  The earl’s brother! Eve had hoped he was a distant and lowlier relative of the earl’s—a second or third cousin, perhaps. Someone with little interest in the character of whomever the earl hired.

  Eve’s smile was tremulous as she extended her hand to Fitzhugh, saying, “Indeed, yes, most gracious. And quite generous of you, as well, Mr. Talbot.”

  “I assure you, it is my pleasure, Mrs. Hawthorne.” Talbot had recovered from his surprise, and his expression was once again blandly polite, but there was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes that made Eve suspect his words could be taken in quite a different manner. “My great pleasure,” he added, and a smile quirked at his lips.

  Eve took a seat facing him, watching him warily. Was he toying with her? Making her suffer an agony of nerves while she waited for him to reveal her transgressions? Surely not . . . the amusement in his eyes seemed more conspiratorial than predatory.

  “We had not expected you so early, Mr. Talbot,” Eve began, searching for any topic that had nothing to do with her. It was only after she said it and saw her stepmother’s frown that she realized her words might be construed as criticism. “Not, of course, that you are in any way too early,” she added hastily. “I mean, well, really, of course, we did not expect you at all, but only the carriage. I just, that is . . .”

  Imogene sent her a dagger glance, then offered Talbot as warm a smile as she was capable of. “I believe what Mrs. Hawthorne means is that you must have made good time on your journey here.”

  Again Fitz’s blue eyes sent laughter dancing Eve’s way before he turned toward Imogene. “Yes, I did. But I was riding, you see. I purchased a new horse recently, and I was eager to try him out. The carriage, I’m afraid, is still a bit behind me.”