Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  Breakfast should not have concluded with his guest in tears, making awkward confessions as she wrinkled his handkerchief, but he made no move to shift away, and neither did she. In fact, as they lingered on the settee—lingered cuddling on the settee—Lady Rammel grew heavier and more relaxed against his side. Her eyes soon closed, and her breathing fell into a slow, steady rhythm.

  The deuced woman had fallen asleep against him.

  He tucked her more closely to his side, stole a whiff of her hair, and glanced at the clock—though he had no appointments, pressing or otherwise, on his calendar. Seven fragrant and peaceful minutes later, his companion stirred, but she didn’t bolt upright, expressing ladylike horror at her behavior.

  She…nuzzled at him. Nuzzled. Then gave a soft, sleepy sigh and drifted into stillness.

  Arthur nuzzled Trent’s pocket for treats. The house cat occasionally nuzzled Trent’s chin to interrupt his reading or demand to be let out. A nuzzling female was novel and dangerous and stirred urges both protective and unruly.

  Lady Rammel sat up slowly two minutes later, chagrin on her pretty features. “Perishing Halifax. I have lapsed mightily, haven’t I? What must you think of me?”

  “You have napped, a little.” Trent tucked back a lock of her hair that had tried to snag itself on his lapel as he’d retrieved his arm. “Would a glass of lemonade appeal?”

  “Yes, I believe it would, along with a nice big hole in the ground to conveniently swallow me up and rescue me from further apologies. A vow of secrecy would be appreciated as well.”

  “My daughter is a firm believer that after every bout of tears must come a restorative nap.” Also a cuddle. Trent rather missed Lanie’s cuddles. “Napping, in my daughter’s case, is a constructive habit. Her way of leaving the scene of the drama.”

  “You’ve a daughter?”

  “Just the one. I’ve sent my dependents to visit my sister, but my daughter can put the whole household into an uproar when she’s peckish, or tired, or happy, or cranky.” Trent shifted to a seat at a right angle to his guest, intending the distance to support her bid for composure.

  Also his bid for composure.

  The lady yawned with a sleepy sweetness. “Andy hates her given name. Her mother was a cook, and Andy thinks the name an insult. When the child is determined on her pique, we all hear about it at length.”

  She fell silent, smoothing the hanky slowly against her thighs for a moment before raising her head and peering over at Trent. “Having disgraced myself in your presence, my lord, may I make a further imposition?”

  “Of course.” He was a gentleman, after all, and she was a lady in distress.

  “Nobody uses my name,” she said, folding his handkerchief tidily in half over her knees. “Old retainers will call me Miss Ellie, but they’re few and far between, and it isn’t the same. We’re neighbors. I would be pleased if you and yours would not stand on formality with me.”

  Trent had been happy to become Viscount Amherst upon his majority, because it was a step up from what his father typically called him. Now, he dreaded the day he’d be Wilton.

  “I will happily use your name under appropriate circumstances,” he replied slowly. “Except, my memory fails me. Your given name is Eleanor?”

  She shook her head, stroking his hopelessly wrinkled handkerchief yet more. “Most people think it is, but my mother had a whimsical streak. My given name is Elegy, hence, Ellie.”

  “Shall I call you Elegy? The name seems a short removed from ‘eulogy,’ and I can’t think that would be helpful.”

  “Ellie.” She beamed at him, expectation in her gaze.

  “Trenton,” he replied, with a sense of yielding to fate—or doom. “Trent to my family and friends.” Though not to his wife. To Paula, he’d been unfailingly Amherst.

  “I will call you Trent under appropriate circumstances and take my leave of you before I conjure more mortification, in addition to bawling like an orphaned calf and falling asleep like a tipsy dowager.”

  Trent drew her to her feet. “I’ve spent my share of time with the bovines and the dowagers, and I can’t recall enjoying the experiences half so much as I’ve enjoyed this time with you.”

  “You are kind.” She slipped her arm through his and let him escort her back to the stables. When they arrived, Trent was relieved to see Arthur had been saddled up, Lady Rammel’s groom having been sent the short distance home rather than linger waiting for her at Crossbridge.

  He rode along to Deerhaven with her, assisted her to dismount in her own stable yard, and about fainted dead away when she went up on her toes and kissed his cheek in parting. When she pulled away, she smiled up at him, a woman not given to vapors who had only needed a little comfort.

  A neighborly kiss then, a widow’s kiss. Nothing more.

  He bowed and took his leave, letting Arthur amble back through the wood on a loose rein as Trent tried to put his finger on what had pleased him about the morning’s exchange—because amid all the awkwardness and poor conversational gambits, they’d shared something gratifying, too. Lady Rammel—Ellie—was a toothsome woman with a lovely smile and a quick wit, true, but there was something more.

  She’d trusted him. A woman did not cry, much less cat-nap, in the presence of a man she didn’t trust. She’d let Trent in, to her emotions, her motivations, her thoughts. She should trust him, of course, because he was a gentleman, and yet, Trent found it flattering that she did.

  Also disturbing as hell.

  Chapter Four

  “Isn’t this a sight to restore a man’s spirits?” Catullus Spencer flashed a toothy, charming grin. “Two lovely ladies to grace my morning. May I assist you down?”

  Andy looked like she wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but instead ignored his proffered hand, hopped down from the dog cart, and scampered off a few paces. Ellie didn’t make a fuss, because one remonstrated family in private, and Mr. Spencer was hardly unused to feminine moods or rejections.

  “My lady.” He bowed over her knuckles when he’d handed Ellie down, and while some might call it aping his betters, Ellie appreciated his attentions.

  “My thanks, Mr. Spencer.” His smile leaned to the flirtatious side of friendly. Ellie kept hers closer to polite. “Andy, if you can dredge up some manners, perhaps Mr. Spencer will let you meet Zephyr.”

  Andy studied her half-boots, which—small miracle!—still sported bows at the laces. “No, thank you, Mama. I’ll go with you to the gardens.”

  “Miss Zephyr can wait,” Mr. Spencer said agreeably, “while the weeds are growing apace, and his lordship will be anxious to greet you both. I believe he’s on the back terrace.”

  “Come along, Coriander.” Ellie held out a hand, which Andy took without even glancing at the barn where Zephyr, The Miracle Pony, waited. Last night, the child had chattered on for most of supper about meeting the pony. She’d also included the beast in her prayers—and now this.

  “Are you nervous about meeting the viscount?” Ellie asked as they meandered around to the back of the house.

  “My papa was a viscount. Soon Uncle Drew will have the title.”

  “Coriander Brown, you are not usually so oblique. What is going on in that pretty head of yours?”

  “What’s oblique?”

  “Indirect. Hard to read. Subtle.”

  “I’m being polite,” Andy said, glancing over her shoulder at the stables, where Mr. Spencer was leading their cart-horse around to the carriage house.

  “Polite doesn’t preclude friendly, Andy,” Ellie chided. “Mr. Spencer might be a servant, but a stable master holds an important position, and he should be respected.”

  “Is Viscount Amherst important?” A nimble dodge, suggesting Ellie had made her point.

  “His is still a courtesy title. Your papa was a viscount in truth because your grandpapa died before we married.” Exactly one year before, and Ellie had been flattered that Dane hadn’t wanted to wait one week longer for the wedding.

&nb
sp; “So Viscount Amherst’s papa is an earl, and he’s still alive?”

  “Right on both counts.” This devolved into a discussion, not the first, of precedence, courtesy titles, and rank. By the time Ellie had led the child to the back terraces, Andy was arguing that churchmen shouldn’t figure into an earthly hierarchy because God hadn’t chimed in on the matter.

  “But God handed down stone tablets when He wanted to,” Andy insisted. “He makes bushes burn, and so forth, so it isn’t that God can’t speak up, it’s that He doesn’t view the matter as worth comment.”

  Ellie let the topic drop, because no illegitimate child wanted to dwell long on matters of succession and consequence.

  “Ladies.” Viscount Amherst rose to his considerable height from the same shaded table at which Ellie had eaten strawberries.

  And cried.

  And fallen asleep on the man’s shoulder.

  “This must be Miss Andy.” Amherst bowed over Ellie’s hand, then did the same for the child. “We’ve another pretty morning, but I thought we’d start with breakfast today, then wander it off in the gardens.”

  “I like breakfast,” Andy volunteered.

  “Just a nibble, Andy,” Ellie warned. “You’ve had your porridge.”

  Amherst held Ellie’s chair for her, then Andy’s, something Ellie could not recall the girl’s father ever doing for her.

  Amherst took the chair next to Ellie. “Why, when we’re young and spending our days racketing about at a dead gallop, are we to subsist on porridge, pudding and toast, but then, when we’re old and gouty and sitting about all day, we’re to stuff ourselves with steak and kidney pie, crème tarts, and port? What do you think, Miss Andy?”

  “I think I like scones with butter and jam even if it’s breakfast. Mama does, too.”

  “A woman of taste and refinement, your mama.” He shared a look with Andy that Ellie didn’t entirely understand. “My gardens are on her agenda, lucky me.”

  “You are lucky,” Andy assured him earnestly. “Mama is a dab hand with the flowers, and her scent garden is the envy of the shire.”

  With every appearance of rapt attention, Amherst set about buttering Andy a scone. “Why is that?”

  While Ellie munched her fresh, flaky scone, his lordship and Andy discoursed vigorously on the appeal of spicy versus floral scents, about which Ellie would not have guessed either of them had knowledge or opinion. Amherst had the knack of appealing to the girl’s quick sense of humor without shading into adult innuendo, and for the first time—the first time ever—Ellie could see that Andy had the potential for considerable feminine beauty.

  “What of you, Lady Rammel?” Amherst sat back, chilled glass of lemonade garnished with strawberries in his hand. “Which is your favorite scent for indoors?”

  “On my person or about a room?”

  “A room. Let’s say, a family parlor.”

  He looked as if he expected her to answer, as if her answer mattered, and not simply so a pair of adults could demonstrate the art of small talk for an attentive child. “Choosing a scent for a family parlor is a challenge.”

  “You put roses in our family parlor if they’re in season,” Andy reminded her.

  “I do,” Ellie said, pleased Andy would notice. “That’s in part for their color and appearance. If I had one fragrance to grace my family parlor, it would likely be something brisk and friendly—balsam maybe, or mint. Lavender is a favorite, and rosemary is pleasant.”

  “She makes lists,” Andy confided to their host. “Mama can go on like this, so don’t ask her what her favorite dessert is, or who was the best monarch, or the worst, and so forth. Don’t ask her who her favorite cat is, either.”

  “I appreciate the warning. I’d appreciate a jaunt through the gardens, too.”

  “I’m for that.” Andy was on her feet, her chair scraping back loudly against the flagstones.

  Amherst rose more slowly. “Now, Miss Andy, you’ve deprived me of the chance to hold your chair and show off my manners to your mama.”

  Andy grinned, unaware that her manners had just been corrected. “You can show off your pony for me when we’re through with the gardens.”

  “She bargains like a female,” Amherst observed, holding Ellie’s chair then offering her his arm. While Andy gamboled ahead, his lordship tucked Ellie’s hand over his arm. “I would have thought Cato might have introduced Miss Andy to Zephyr already.”

  “Andy is shy of some people. Where are you taking me, sir? I have a plan for how these gardens will be rescued.”

  “I’m taking you to the scent garden, or what remains of it. Miss Andy is delightful, and she’ll be breaking hearts in very short order.”

  He didn’t have to say that, but his observation pleased Ellie inordinately. “I don’t know if she’ll capture many hearts. Dane didn’t leave her much of a settlement.”

  “Her dowry is her quick wit, her charm, and her integrity. My sister, Leah, snagged a formidable earl with less, and Nicholas wasn’t looking to marry for love.”

  “Your sister had no dowry?” This did not comport with Ellie’s idea of how an earl’s daughter would be treated.

  “My mother set funds aside for her, but my father pilfered them, for which transgression he now rusticates at Wilton Acres over in Hampshire.”

  “Good heavens. How unfortunate for your sister.” But how lovely for Ellie that she’d be deemed worthy of such a confidence. To be reminded that the rest of the world had problems, in an odd way also made grief less powerful.

  “Not well done of me,” Amherst said, “airing the family linen like that. As for Miss Andy, she has you. You have time to see to her funds, and for now that will be enough.”

  “I’m not sure,” Ellie said, while Andy sniffed at a rose. “Drew is coming down later today to look over the horses, and I’m concerned he might start throwing the title around to insist Andy be sent off somewhere.”

  “Drew’s prospective title is unavailing.” Amherst sounded very sure of his point. “Unless Dane left him some sort of guardianship, Drew can strut and paw and make noise, but all he has is a gentlemanly concern for the child, not a legal right.”

  Ellie was nearly certain Dane had left her some sort of legal authority in the will, but what did a will matter when a wealthy man sought relief from the courts?

  “Drew can get legal authority over Andy, can’t he?” she asked.

  “Why would he?”

  Ellie considered the question while Andy bent a tall rose cane down within sniffing range. “I’m not sure. I don’t know the man well, and neither did Dane, which is odd, because they’re both only children—that is, Dane was an only child and Drew his heir.”

  Amherst came to a halt, their arms still linked. “This concerns you? This visit from your cousin-in-law?”

  “Yes. Maybe I hadn’t admitted it to myself, but it does. Deerhaven is safe, Papa saw to that, but it never occurred to me Andy might not be.”

  Grief could make a woman stupid, could make her spend entire days staring out windows or wandering her house and seeing only draped mirrors and an empty chair in her late husband’s estate office.

  “Invite me over for dinner tonight,” Amherst said slowly, as if the notion had only now occurred to him. “I’ll pry Dane’s agenda from him over the port.”

  “You’ll pry…?” Ellie fell silent, knowing exactly what Amherst offered. She was in mourning, but the condolence calls had started, and Amherst was her closest neighbor.

  “You’re in the country,” he pointed out, as if reading her mind. “A neighbor popping over to greet the prospective title holder is not a two-week house party.”

  The relief she felt at his suggestion made the decision for her. “We dine at eight and do not dress.”

  “Thank God for that, and here we are, in the garden of not-quite-paradise.”

  “He has loads and loads of spices and flowers here, Mama.” Andy was making her way nose-first from one plant to the next. “And loads of we
eds.”

  Ellie’s basket of tools had already been brought out from her dog cart, a sign of Mr. Spencer’s attentiveness.

  “If you send your head gardener by, my lord, I’ll discuss the plan of attack with him, and we can devise a schedule to amuse the gods of weather.”

  “My gardener’s name is Abel. He’s on good terms with those weather gods. Ladies, my thanks. You’ve only to send to the house if you need anything. Miss Andy, a pleasure making your acquaintance, and if you need a break, you might consider introducing yourself to the pony in the corner stall with the low door.”

  Andy left off inventorying the garden long enough to bob a curtsy and flash a grin, and then Ellie was alone with her daughter and the riot-in-progress of Lord Amherst’s scent garden. The state of the flowers nicely complemented the riot-in-progress that was her interior landscape as she watched Amherst striding back to the house.

  He’d been in the sun, and unlike the fair, Nordic variety of Englishman—unlike Dane—Amherst tanned, making his dark eyes more luminous and giving his dark hair faint, red highlights.

  And again, unlike Dane, Amherst was comfortable with a girl child. He was a papa, after all, a papa to a daughter and easy with it. How Ellie envied Amherst’s wife—who must be off visiting his sister with the children—to have a man like that as her partner in life. Lady Amherst, Ellie concluded as she pulled on her gloves, must be so busy enjoying her marriage and raising her daughter, she had no time to see to the gardens here at Crossbridge.

  ***

  Catullus Sandringham Spencer had experience with all kinds of women: wealthy, poor, exalted, humble, just out of the schoolroom and approaching their dotage. For the most part, females made sense to him. He flirted and flattered or sparred with them until he understood what they were about, then he gave them enough of what they wanted to get what he wanted. Bless their hearts, the ladies understood the game and enjoyed playing it with him—usually.