Reforming Lord Neil: A Regency Romance, Inglewood Book 5

by Britton, Sally

  He spoke dismissively. “I am fond of dogs.”

  “And kind to kittens, talkative children, stubborn cattle—I saw the chase Abigail led you on yesterday, you know—and respectful to women who have fallen from Society’s rungs. You cannot fool me. Perhaps you know how to play Society’s games, as your sister does, but I believe you are more the man who lives in my loft than whomever you were in a ballroom.” Teresa’s hands stilled. She bit her lip. Somehow, her little speech had gotten away from her. She had not meant to sound so admiring.

  She cleared her throat when he said nothing, then snipped the last of the knots from the animal’s leg. “There. She ought to be fine now, if she stays out of brambles.”

  Mr. Duncan took the dog from his lap and tucked her into the straw. “I need to find her a box. Dogs prefer smaller spaces to curl up.”

  “I likely have a few. Or a basket, if we find a shallow one.” Teresa put her scissors in her apron pocket and stood, brushing off the dog hairs.

  Mr. Duncan picked up the leather pouch she had brought and held it out to her.

  “Oh. No. That is actually for you.” Teresa tucked her hands behind her back. Despite the heat burning in her cheeks, she met his steady gaze. “A shaving kit. I thought you could use it. There is even some soap inside. Powdered, I think.”

  “Where did you get it?” he asked, lowering his hand. There was an intensity in his eyes that made her swallow, nervously.

  “It was my husband’s. I have no use for it now. But you said you preferred being shaved to bearded.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot take it, Mrs. Clapham.” He lifted the pouch to her again. “I will see to my own needs.”

  Teresa stared at the pouch, and tears pricked at her eyes most unexpectedly. “I wish you would use it. You may not understand, but I only want to show my gratitude for all you have done. At least borrow it, while you are here. When you leave, I will take it back.”

  He lowered his hand. “Is that why you disliked my kiss so much? The beard?” he asked, his tone too low and sorrowful to truly count the comment as teasing.

  Teresa’s gaze shot up to his, seeing the curiosity in his eyes, the wrinkle in his forehead. Speaking of that moment would do neither of them any good. But she would be lying to herself if she pretended it had not happened, for she had thought on nothing else all day. At the memory of his touch, her lips tingled, and her heart twisted.

  “I—” She started, then stopped. Then tried again. “I did not dislike it. But I cannot repeat it. Or allow my thoughts to linger upon it. I am a poor widow, Mr. Duncan.”

  Teresa wrapped her arms about herself, trying to hold herself together. Did she owe him an explanation? The man had admitted to a flirtation with a married woman in the past. How many women had there been in his life? Women who would see nothing in a token so small as a kiss, women who might well go to greater lengths to experience pleasure without consequence.

  He brushed his free hand through his hair, averting his eyes. “I thought, with the way you have looked at me at times…”

  Mortification made her cheeks burn. “You know well enough what I think about your looks. But this is my fault. I am certain I must have encouraged you. I loved my husband, very much. His memory is precious to me, despite what his decisions have done to our family.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “And I am lonely. I miss what it meant to belong to someone that way.” Teresa’s fingers flexed against her shoulders, hating the pain she heard in the admission. “But I cannot allow myself to give way to such feelings. I have a reputation to maintain, a daughter to raise, and my own self-respect to look after. Do you understand?”

  His voice was softer than before. “I believe I do.”

  Teresa relaxed, finally opening her eyes. His expression had closed, and it gave away nothing of his feelings. “As I have said, I know you are a compassionate man. I hope we can continue on, as friends.”

  “As friends.” He nodded, then opened the stall door, standing aside for her to exit. “Thank you for your help with the dog.”

  As Teresa left the barn, having said all she wished, she wondered why she did not feel better than when she had entered the building.

  Mr. Duncan understood her feelings at last. He had treated her with respect and understanding and would continue to do so.

  “Then why,” she whispered to her empty bedroom upon entering it, “do I feel that I have lost something?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Another branch fell with a crack, causing Neil to wince. He looked down and over, to where Caroline sat in the sunshine with the dog in her lap, and the kitten pouncing on small insects nearby. The little girl was reading her sonnets out loud to the dog in an attempt to keep the animal calm.

  She looked up, saw Neil watching, and waved. Her bright smile made his shoulders relax. He had tried to leave the dog in the stall, but the animal had whined and yipped until he let her out to follow him. But she did not like the crack of the tree branches falling. Thankfully, Caroline’s arrival had soothed the agitated animal.

  “What should we name her?” Caroline asked from where she sat, one arm full of gray dog and the other holding her book. “We can’t keep calling her ‘dog.’”

  They certainly could. “Pick something you like,” Neil called back, then turned to the next branch.

  He had beaten back his disappointment over Teresa’s rejection for the better part of the night, and most of the morning.

  Teresa had no intention of allowing anything more affectionate than friendship between them. That sounded about right for Neil. Not that he had been offering a great deal more than flirtation. Or the mutual enjoyment of each other’s company. He had not, he told himself firmly, dreamed up any plans of becoming emotionally or physically entangled with Teresa Clapham.

  Merely looking at her, with her high-necked work dresses, spotless aprons, and kind eyes, was enough for a man to know she would countenance nothing but the sincerest of courtships. Neil had only attempted to court a woman once in his life, and she had happily strung him along until an heir to an earldom showed interest.

  Another branch fell, and it was time to move on to the next tree.

  Neil went down the ladder, saw in hand, and walked to the next cherry tree in need of attention. He climbed back up, his memory turning back to that horrid courtship. He had been twenty-three years old. Twelve long years had passed since that rejection, and his family’s subsequent mockery.

  His elder brothers had thought it a great joke that Neil had considered himself any kind of catch. Without their father’s funds, he had nothing of his own. Lord Brunfield and then-Lieutenant Duncan had made it quite clear no woman would want him unless she already had a well-feathered nest.

  Neil finished off another limb of the tree, wiped the sweat from his brow, and went back down to the ground. That task done, he started gathering branches into a heap. As they were dead or diseased, burning them in the house would not be a good idea until they were well dried. He needed to cut them into smaller pieces, stack them beneath the shelter of an eave, and find his next task.

  Caroline stood and followed him, the dog on her heels, and cat pouncing along behind.

  Despite his foul mood, Neil smiled when he saw the merry parade. Despite the circumstances of Caroline’s childhood, she was a cheerful girl.

  If he had found a woman to marry, back when he still thought someone might have him, he might have a child Caroline’s age. Of course, that child would be at school most of the year. Not following him about, even during holidays, because he would be in a study or elsewhere managing a wife’s estate.

  When Caroline stood close enough to where he would strip the wood using an old stump and handsaw on the dead cherry branches, she chirped, “I think we ought to call her Muse.”

  “Muse?” Neil stripped off his leather gloves and sat on the tall stump. “Why is that?”

  “Because the muses used to help people with ideas, and people wanted them around. I think that name
will make her feel useful and wanted.” She bent to scratch the dog behind the ears.

  “It sounds perfect, then. What about your cat? Have you named him yet?” Neil asked.

  “I don’t know if I should. Dogs will stay close by, if you feed them, but cats just disappear sometimes. The last one did.” Caroline frowned and looked to where the cat had stopped pouncing in order to sun himself, all stretched out on his back with tail twitching.

  Neil considered the cat, and her words, carefully. “Perhaps that is true. He may find another barn he likes better someday. Cats are wanderers at heart, I suppose. What was your other cat’s name?”

  Caroline sat, fluffing her dress as she did. Muse, the dog now bearing the title of Greek goddesses, crept closer until she could put her head in the child’s lap.

  “The last cat was Ginger. She was yellow and white.”

  “And do you hope she is well-treated, wherever she may have gone?”

  Caroline nodded without hesitation. “She was a very good cat. Sweet.” But her shoulders fell more. “I wish she would have stayed.”

  Neil gave her an understanding smile. “I know. We cannot always control who comes into our life, or who leaves it. But I am certain most would tell you to make what you can out of the time you have. Name your kitten, Cara. Love him while he is here and wish him well when he goes.”

  To Neil’s surprise, the little girl ducked her head and started to cry.

  That had not been his intention, nor had he seen it coming. He came off the log and went to sit beside her. At his approach, Muse’s tail started to thump happily against the ground. The dog lifted its head from her lap, appearing equally distressed by the child’s change in temperament.

  “Caroline. Did I say something unkind?” He had a handkerchief, clean, and in his coat pocket. But he had left the coat behind in the orchard. How did one comfort a crying child without a handkerchief to offer?

  “N-n-no.” Caroline made a handkerchief appear from her apron. She started dabbing at her eyes, but it seemed ineffectual. “But I do not want anyone else to leave.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Like my papa.” She sniffled and wrapped her arms around Muse’s neck. The dog snuggled into the girl’s chest, as any self-respecting dog would. “I hated that he left. That he died. And then we had to leave our house. I like it here. But it was d-d-difficult.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned her head toward Neil, putting her cheek atop Muse’s head.

  How had talk of a cat brought her to mourning her father? While Neil well knew fully grown women to be emotional creatures, he had not expected to find one so young susceptible to the same.

  “That must have been very difficult for you.” Neil pulled one knee up and rested his elbow upon it, looking out over the vegetable patch toward the road. “You miss your father still?”

  She nodded and swiped at her eyes again. “Mama said he did not want to die and leave us. And I know that. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting. Sometimes, it’s hard to even remember him. I know he was tall, like you. But he had black hair, like me and Mama. And he laughed, all the time.”

  The poor mite. And yet, how fortunate she had been, to have a father that obviously adored her. Not all children were so lucky. Neil had not been. He sighed and took his hat off, scratching at his head. “Would you want to forget your father, if you could? If you could forget all about him and stop missing him, would you?”

  Caroline shook her head, ruffling the dog’s fur. “I would never want to forget him. Ever. That would be worse.”

  The cat chose that moment to come closer, batting at Neil’s dangling fingers. He obliged the animal by stroking its back. “It hurts when someone leaves us, it hurts all the more if we cared for them. You loved your father a great deal. But forgetting him would be worse; it would leave a different pain and hole behind. There is nothing wrong with loving someone, or caring for a cat. It makes our lives better, I should think. Richer.”

  Caroline released a sigh and said, most reluctantly, “I know.”

  “Good. Because I happen to know the opposite is also true. There are very few people who care for me as your mother and grandmother do for you, Cara. I am the poorer for it. Everyone who loves you, and everyone you love, will give your life greater depth and joy. If you go about withholding your affection, simply because of what might happen, you will be lonely.”

  Much as he was. There was no one upon whom Neil could depend upon or call upon for aid. His sister’s letter the day before had been terse, impatient with him. His mother had not written at all. He did not know if he expected her to do so until there was real news.

  What had become of his life that it was so empty?

  Neil rose and brushed off his trousers. Then he offered his hand to Caroline and pulled her to her feet. “I need to go to the village, Caroline. Will you look after Muse for me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Duncan.” Then she offered him a wobbly smile, her eyes drier. “Thank you for speaking with me. I think you must be right.” She looked down at the kitten, and the light of determination sparked in her eyes. “I want to name my kitten. What do you think of the name Cider?”

  “A perfect name.” Neil’s chest grew heavy, though the girl smiled brightly at him before leaving, walking toward her house.

  Muse looked up at Neil and whined. He sighed and pointed to Caroline. “Go on with the girl.” The dog lowered her head and followed after Caroline. No doubt the child would shower Muse with love and more biscuits, if there were any.

  Neil went to the barn and took up his saddle. Perhaps there would be a letter for him that day. Perhaps not. But he could use a drink of something other than cider, and some time to himself.

  * * *

  When Neil arrived in Dunwich, there were no letters waiting for him. Only two old men in the pub, Putnam and Higgins. The proprietor, Mr. Jones, served Neil a bowl of stew, a thick slice of bread, and a large mug of ale. Not precisely better than what he had consumed of late, but different. Different would need to be good enough.

  Putnam and Higgins moved from their table at the front of the public dining room to his, against the wall, without his invitation. They brought their drinks with them.

  “How are you enjoying working for our Mrs. Clapham?” Putnam asked. “She’s a good sort, isn’t she?”

  “A fine gentlewoman,” Neil agreed shortly, keeping his eyes upon his food. He had not come seeking out company.

  “Too fine for that farm,” Higgins said with a sigh. “I keep hoping that vicar will do something about them out there.”

  This was the first Neil had heard of a vicar. The women had gone to church after his arrival, but he had not attended with them. “What vicar?”

  “Our vicar, at the church.” Putnam chuckled before taking a long pull of his ale. “He’s a widower.”

  Neil had to work to loosen his jaw enough to chew his bread. Once that was cleared, he tried to ask with disinterest, “Has he shown an interest in Mrs. Clapham?”

  If a man of such standing as a vicar was interested in a woman, he ought not to wait around and let her continue the burden of caring for her family alone.

  “Not Mrs. Clapham.” Higgins chortled. “Mrs. Godwin. The man’s sixty if he’s a day, and he always makes a point of speakin’ to Mrs. Godwin at length. My own missus has noticed and said he better get to courting if that’s what he wants.”

  Relief made everything from the back of Neil’s neck to his hands around his spoon relax. Apparently, Putnam noticed, given the way his eyes started twinkling.

  “Courting is serious business,” Putnam said. “Man has to be sure the woman is worth it.”

  Higgins settled back in his chair, cradling his drink in both hands. “One look at a woman can be enough for that,” the old man said. He scratched at the whiskers on his chin. “Take Mrs. Clapham for example. Strong, handsome woman, even though she looks as though a strong wind might blow her over. Like as not could run a big house as well as she runs that far
m.”

  “Aye. A woman of many talents.” Putnam grinned most impudently at Neil.

  Neil put more stew in his mouth to avoid talking. Perhaps the old men would take the hint and change the subject. But before they could, the door to the pub opened again. All three men glanced that way, though Neil could not say why he cared who had entered. He knew no one in the area, so he would not recognize the newcomer.

  Except he did.

  Mr. Frederick Clapham entered the public house, sweeping off his tall and fashionable hat. “Refreshment at once,” he demanded, turning to the room. He stopped when his gaze fell upon Neil. Then he smiled, slowly. A predatory smile, if Neil had ever seen one.

  “Gentlemen,” Neil said quietly to Putnam and Higgins. “I think you had better change tables.”

  Higgins muttered something that sounded resentful, but he and Putnam stood and went back to their original table across the room. Mr. Clapham approached and bowed.

  “Mr. Duncan, I believe? The gentleman farmer?”

  Neil had no intention of revealing his true status, not to this man. Having practiced deceit himself, his first instinct about Clapham stayed with him. Something about the man made Neil uneasy and suspicious.

  “Mr. Clapham.” Neil did not stand, though he nodded once.

  “May I join you?”

  Neil gestured to the recently vacated chairs across the small table from him. “You may.”

  Mr. Jones returned with a tray. He hastily set tea, a plate of sandwiches, and a bowl of stew before the new arrival. It seemed he was familiar enough with Clapham to give him a specific sort of refreshment.

  After Mr. Jones withdrew, Clapham took up his teacup. “When we met, I thought you only dressed as you did for the day’s work. Now that I see you again, I wonder if you have a preference for such attire.” He sipped at his cup.

  With as smooth a tone and perfect elocution as ever he had used, Neil responded coldly. “I fail to see why my decisions regarding fashion would be worth any speculation. It is not as though we move in the same circles, Mr. Clapham.” Disinterest was the way to act with this man. Clapham thought too highly of himself. Feeding into that might make the man lower his defenses, but Neil preferred to maintain his own dignity.