Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  Though he’d left his own children more than half-orphaned for the dubious company of the brandy decanter, hadn’t he?

  “Miss Coriander is welcome at Crossbridge.” Trent rose and offered Lady Rammel his hand. “I’ve a pony she might put to use, come to that. The poor beast hasn’t been exercised to speak of in years.”

  “Miss Coriander will take up residence here if you let her know you’ve a pony going begging.”

  “God in heaven.” Trent shot her a stricken look and stopped in midstride, his hand still wrapped around hers. “If you don’t want her to ride, I will understand. My uncle took a bad fall, and my aunt—”

  She stopped him with a shake of her head.

  “Dane overfaced his horse, overindulged his thirst, and overestimated his skill in bad footing. Andy is a more prudent sort, for all she’s only eight. I’m sure she’ll take to your pony. In fact, even Dane would agree—would have agreed—it’s time she met a few ponies.”

  “Then I must introduce you to Zephyr.” Trent turned them toward the stables. “I adore her. She’s the one female who isn’t impressed with Cato’s charms, unless it’s feed time.” He strolled with Lady Rammel along the walk, and when he realized he was still holding her hand, he decided to continue in that fashion rather than create awkwardness calling attention to his blunder.

  Lady Rammel was friendly with the pony, who flirted back shamelessly, suggesting the little beast was partial to women, as some equines were. That necessitated introducing Lady Rammel to the pony’s neighbors and confreres, including Arthur, who also flirted without any dignity whatsoever.

  Lady Rammel scratched Arthur’s big red nose. “He has such a kind eye. A gentleman, this one, and well named for royalty.”

  “He was named for a cloth doll my sister had when we were quite young.”

  The only toy Trent could recall Leah owning, in fact.

  Lady Rammel dropped her hand. “If you value your free time and your ears, you will not ask Andy about animals. She has a menagerie of zoological rag dolls, and they all go to high tea, picnics, story hour, and so forth.”

  The recitation sent a spike of homesickness through Trent, for his children, especially for little Lanie.

  “An imaginative young lady,” Trent said, as he strolled Lady Rammel right up to the house, though—had he been capable of rudeness—he might have called for her horse when they were in the stables. “May I offer you some sustenance now that you’ve spent half the morning tramping all over my domain?”

  “You may.” She beamed at him again, that smile he was starting to watch for. Had Dane Hampton, as he lay gasping his last in the mud beneath a gate, longed for one more glimpse of that smile?

  For the first time since arriving at Crossbridge, Trent was smitten with spontaneous gratitude, rather than the manufactured variety. His stable master, cook and butler hadn’t gone a-maying like his steward and his housekeeper, and he had sufficient staff that he could entertain a neighbor on an informal call.

  He was alive; he could move about under his own power; and he had three lovely children. Any one of those was a substantial blessing, and he’d nearly allowed them all to slip from his grasp.

  So he could clutch a brandy decanter?

  “We’ll have a reprise of breakfast,” Trent said, taking a place beside Lady Rammel at a wicker grouping under a spreading oak. “Or for some of us, the first verse.”

  She eyed him up and down in a thoroughly uxorial fashion, sending a wash of heat over Trent’s cheeks. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

  “One becomes involved in the day, and I’m adjusting to country hours and country fare.” To eating regularly, in any case.

  “What’s your favorite source of sustenance?” She settled in as if getting comfortable before interrogating him, though it wouldn’t do at all for Trent to give his honest answer.

  “I’m partial to sweets.” Brandy was sweet. Sweetish.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not a thick, bloody beefsteak?”

  Trent glanced around, making sure the footmen were not in evidence. “Just because you were married toRammel doesn’t mean you had to adore his every choice and preference. Or any of his choices and preferences, for that matter.”

  Her ladyship found it necessary to rearrange the drape of her skirts. “Have you been reading the manual again, my lord?”

  They’d start breakfast with a serving of honesty, because Rammel had not appreciated his wife, of that much Trent was certain.

  “I loved my mother,” Trent said. “She doted on us, preserved us from the worst of my father’s temper, and wasn’t above pitching a cricket ball to her sons when Papa was away. But she was stubborn, had a selfish streak, and could be close-minded. Even as I understood that she needed determination to survive her marriage, I could still acknowledge those traits weren’t always healthy.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Years. She was ill for some time first.”

  “I wonder about that.” Lady Rammel resumed smoothing her skirts. Had she been the one to sew all those rag dolls for Miss Coriander? “I wonder about whether a little time or a lot of time is better than death coming for you in an instant.”

  “And then,”—Trent reached over and stilled her hand—“you wonder better for whom.”

  “I don’t miss the things I thought I would,” she said, her gaze on Trent’s bare hand. “I do miss things I thought of as…obligations.”

  Sex. She’d been a dutiful wife; Rammel had been a healthy young husband, and she missed the sex. How Trent wished he’d lost a wife with whom he missed something so basic.

  “You miss standing up with him in church?” Trent suggested as the footmen appeared with several trays.

  She snorted. “Dane in church? He was a hatches and matches Christian, not overly fond of regular services. He did his part for the local living, and he tarried long enough in church to be shackled to me.”

  “He told you he felt shackled?” Rammel deserved to be trampled in the mud all over again if he’d taken that low shot.

  To a man who’d been married for five years—not shackled, not even to poor Paula—Lady Rammel’s smile looked forced. “Of course he didn’t use those words. Shall I serve?”

  “Please.”

  She was at home with the duties of a hostess, of a wife, and she had the knack of turning the conversation back to innocuous topics—his flowers, Miss Coriander’s clever governess—while she fixed him a plate of scones and fresh strawberries to go with his gunpowder. For his part, Trent let himself enjoy the lilt of her contralto wending through his senses as her hands dealt with the tea service.

  Unbidden, the sound of her singing, half-naked in the woods, stirred in his memory.

  He wasn’t particularly hungry, even with all their walking, but he ate to be polite. His guest, however daintily, ate to enjoy her food.

  “Is there anything more pleasurable on the palate than perfectly ripe fruit?” She chewed a bite of strawberry, her eyes closed, then smiled as she swallowed. “I’m being tiresome to bring it up, but I can’t help but feel as if I’m supposed to fade away, oppressed by grief, unable to eat.”

  “Some people grieve that way,” Trent said, eyeing his buttered scone. Other people drank and drifted while they neglected themselves and their children.

  “I am disappointed in Dane for dying,” she replied, munching another strawberry. “I am quite sorry for him, but the great black cloud of overwhelming loss has yet to engulf me for more than a few days or a few hours at a time.”

  Trent put his plate down because he knew exactly what his guest was asking and had asked it himself until the question had made him sick.

  “Lady Rammel, if that great black cloud comes calling, I hereby admonish you to have a good cry, then run like hell, gorge yourself on strawberries and flowers and chocolates, wear bright colors, dance on the lawn, and sing at the top of your lungs.”

  Or fish in my pond, which he could also see her doing.
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br />   “I don’t think Vicar would support your prescription,” she said, her smile fading.

  “Vicar wasn’t married to the man,” Trent said in exasperation. “How did Dane remark your first anniversary?”

  “He was off shooting in Scotland.” She picked up a large, perfectly ripe, red berry, but didn’t eat it. “He wasn’t about to miss the opening of grouse season two years in a row.”

  “What did he give you for Christmas last year?”

  “He…something. Exactly what escapes my memory.”

  “What did he give Miss Andy?”

  “A cloth horse doll,” she said slowly. “That I made for her.”

  “Do you take my point?”

  She put the strawberry down. “I don’t like your point. If you’re telling me I’m grieving in proportion to how I loved my husband, perhaps I should be offended.”

  “My apologies.” Trent should have stuffed a scone in his maw, or remarked something inane about the weather, but instead he served up more honesty. “Though I risk giving offense, I’m suggesting you’re grieving in proportion to how you were loved.”

  The emotions on her face were painful to see, anger and disbelief at his rudeness, then shock, more disbelief, and a dawning hurt.

  Trent had hurt a woman, who’d done not one thing to deserve it—before breakfast was even off the table. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken thus.”

  “You know more about this grieving business than you should,” she replied, her features composing themselves.

  “Maybe more than anybody should. May I have another scone?”

  He held out his plate, hoping desperately to distract her even if it meant he’d have to choke down the damned scone. When she left, he would find a brandy decanter. Yes, it was morning, and yes, he’d done better lately. But this…

  She fixed him another scone, sliced it cleanly in half and slathered butter on both halves. “Jam, my lord?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She passed him the plate, then turned her face away. By the funny little hitch of her shoulders, Trent knew, for the thousandth time, he’d inspired a woman to tears.

  ***

  Until his cousin Dane’s untimely death, the ladies had found Drew Hampton charming and occasionally worth a tumble or a waltz, though he was merely an heir presumptive, not an heir apparent. In the great whirling circus of titled society, he was barely worth a mention, particularly when Dane—handsome, robust, witty, and generous—had been unlikely to die for at least another two score years and had married a robust young lady well suited to childbearing.

  Drew eyed the canopy of his vast bed and considered having winged pigs embroidered thereon.

  “What has you smiling?”

  His romping partner of the morning, Lady Somebody or Other, tiptoed her fingers across his naked chest, then headed south.

  “The thought of a hearty meal following our exertions,” he replied, trapping her wandering hand. “Shall I have a bath sent up for you?”

  The buxom brunette—when relieved of her clothing, she answered cheerfully enough to Crumpet, Angel, or Darling—ceased her southerly peregrinations. “You’re serious.”

  “I’m hungry. I’ve appeased your other appetites and mine, so now food is in order.”

  Women, apparently, didn’t grasp that sequence of events as readily as men did.

  “I should be grateful you didn’t roll over and go to sleep.” The brunette sat up and swung her feet off the bed, accepting the dressing gown Drew handed her. “You really need to work on your charm, sir.”

  “You found me charming enough twenty minutes ago.” Drew set about dressing himself and glanced at the clock on the mantel—fifteen minutes ago, to be precise.

  “You’re honest. That has a certain backhanded charm,” the brunette allowed, her smile reluctant. “You’re wishing I’d take myself off, aren’t you?”

  “I appreciate directness in a lady, particularly in the bedroom.” Drew offered a hint of a smile to soften the sentiment, though he truly was in want of sustenance.

  She rose and started organizing the clothing she’d tossed over a chair earlier.

  “As subtle as you are, one wonders how I was lucky enough to merit your attention.” Her actions were abrupt, a minor display of pique Drew tolerated rather than provoke her further. He did need to work on his charm, or he would have needed to work on his charm, if he’d had any to start with.

  She’d been a willing romp, so Drew let her get dressed in peace, obligingly doing up her stays and hooks. She was wise enough not to complain, and he’d send her flowers tomorrow, but their encounter was exactly as he’d intended it to be.

  And likely far less than she’d hoped it could be.

  All the more reason to observe the civilities and see the lady to her waiting town coach. He politely bowed over her hand and thanked her for her company, then took himself back to the comfortable confines of the Rammel town residence. He passed through the kitchen, letting the scullery maid know he’d take a tray in the library. In the hallway, he caught sight of himself in a mirror hung over a cherry-wood sideboard.

  The fellow in the mirror was tired, not quite tidy, and going a bit hard around the eyes and mouth.

  Less than three months after Dane’s death, and he was behaving more like Dane, looking more like Dane—more arrogant, more self-absorbed, though Dane’s blond, muscular appearance had been at variance with Drew’s taller frame and dark coloring. Dane hadn’t been a bad man, but neither had he been a good man. He’d been a viscount, a title, and no better than he had to be, as with most of the breed.

  If dear Ellie were not carrying, Drew would soon become the next Viscount Rammel, and the thought brought no joy.

  Dane, in typical viscount fashion, hadn’t spared the coin when it came to his pleasures, leaving a stable of fine hunters to be dealt with. The thought gave Drew a pang, because it meant he’d be traveling down to Deerhaven the following day to see about the horses.

  And that meant facing Ellie, who was his responsibility as well. Too bad there weren’t broodmare sales for slightly used viscountesses.

  He turned his back on the mirror, for that thought was callous even for him, even when not one living soul stood between him and his recently deceased cousin’s title.

  ***

  Men were so much easier to understand than women. If a man was upset with his fellows, he put up his fives, delivered a blistering set-down, called out his detractor, or ignored the whole business with cool, manly disdain.

  Trent dug for his spare handkerchief, for women, unfathomable creatures, cried. For the entire five years of his marriage, Trent had been bewildered, resentful, and then downright despairing at his wife’s tears. Nothing stemmed the flow of Paula’s upset, not time, not solitude, and most assuredly not reason.

  Reason, he’d learned early, was the surest way to provoke her further.

  Lady Rammel blotted her eyes with the handkerchief he’d given her earlier in this burdensome morning, but when he reached out to pass over the reinforcements, she took his hand instead and used it to haul herself right over next to him on the wicker settee.

  She bundled into his side, weeping against him in quiet torrents, the sound tearing at his composure as visions of brandy decanters danced in his head. His arms went around her even as he bent his head to try to decipher what she was saying.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be inane.” Proximity to her was the price he paid for having been so ungallant with her grief, and the lady wasn’t about to turn loose of him.

  “Do you ever hate her?”

  He’d bitterly resented Paula, for the middle two years of their marriage. “Who?”

  “Your mother. The one who lingered and was stubborn.”

  That mother. “Nearly.” He would worry about his unfilial admission later. “She inveigled promises from my brother and me, promises with lasting and hurtful consequences, and at certain times, if I didn’t
hate her, I came very close.”

  “And she was your mother.” Lady Rammel nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer, and the gesture waved her silky dark hair against Trent’s cheek. He resisted the urge to bury his nose in that feminine treasure, but allowed himself an inhalation of her fragrance.

  “You’ve a different scent today from yesterday.”

  “I have my moods. Some of them inconvenient.” She shifted as if to gather herself away from him, but Trent stopped her.

  “Stay.”

  She heaved off another Sigh of Sighs and relented, turning her face into his shoulder. “Earlier, when I said I missed the obligations?”

  Trent’s fingers traced over the knuckles of the hand she rested against his chest. “I recall the comment.”

  “I miss paying his bills. I miss scolding him for getting mud all over my carpets and wearing his boots to table. I miss him coming in from the hunt field, bellowing for a toddy and his slippers. He wasn’t company, exactly, but he was there.”

  The litany was pathetic in some ways, but at least she had a list, prosaic as it was. “That you miss him is good, a blessing.”

  She snorted, a ladylike explostulation of self-derision. “I missed him when he was alive. I didn’t always like him, but I missed him.”

  For her, this was Progress. Trent laced his fingers with hers and offered her hand a consoling squeeze rather a platitude, Bible verse or tisane.

  “I did not matter to my husband half so much as his favorite hunter,” she said, with a tired sort of asperity, “but I comforted myself with the fiction that I did, that I might matter to him someday.”

  When she’d become the mother of Rammel’s heir?

  “You matter to Andy,” Trent said, and that must have been the right thing to say, because along his side, her body gave up a remnant of defensive, resentful rigidity.

  “I do. You’re right about that, and it’s important.” She smiled at his much-abused handkerchief, and a tightness in Trent’s chest eased.

  That smile held something secret, female and sweet, a little maternal, but not without mischief. Trent’s hand, the one that had been linked with hers, lifted as if to touch her smile, but common sense caught up with him, and he settled for returning his rambunctious appendage to his thigh.