After more than two hours spent tromping around the wet fields and chilly barns, Greymoor and Hampton had volunteered Trent to explain the situation to the viscountess.
According to Hampton, that good lady had had the sense to remain indoors in a cozy private parlor. Trent tapped softly on the door, no doubt closed to keep in the heat of a fire on this dreary day. No response greeted him even after he tapped again, so he opened the door, expecting to find that her ladyship’s whereabouts had changed without notice to the new viscount.
Lady Rammel was the sole occupant of the room. She sat in a rocking chair by the fire, a shawl around her shoulders, an afghan across her knees, while she slept, her chin dipped low. She was an endearing sight, all tucked up and warm, slightly rumpled by her slumbers.
Trent endured an impulse to kiss her awake. Not a naughty kiss, just a pressing of the lips to her cheek, or her forehead. A sweet kiss, a token.
And a stupid idea, if ever his brain had produced one.
He stepped back and drew the door closed, then rapped loudly from the corridor. He was rewarded with a sleepy summons, after which he paused an extra moment to give the lady a chance to compose herself. When he entered the room, he closed the door behind him, warmth being a greater priority between a widow and a widower than strict propriety.
“My lord.” Lady Rammel smiled up at him, though when tousled and sleepy, she struck him as more of an Ellie than a Lady Rammel. “Please have a seat, for I’m loath to leave my comfy nest. Has Drew offered you tea?”
“He did.” Trent lowered himself to the end of the sofa near the rocker. “Greymoor is with him, decimating your crème cakes as we speak.”
“Cook will be pleased. You look like a man with something on his mind beside the pleasantries.”
“I do?” That she could perceive as much was unnerving. “How is that?”
“You’re…animated. You’ve sprung your mental horses. Did Drew say something to offend?”
“Amuse, maybe. He’s not much of one for sport, is he?”
She straightened the shawl around her shoulders, a silky green paisley shot through with gold, the furthest thing from mourning colors. “He and Dane had some kind of cousinly agreement. What the one did well, the other eschewed, or appeared to.”
“What does Drew do well?” Besides talk. The man could talk as incessantly as two little boys in anticipation of a visit from Father Christmas.
“He loves his books, and he’s known as something of a collector of tea ware. I’ve been to his estate only once, but the place is packed with little gems of porcelain and silver, and his kitchen served the most exquisite fare.”
The prospective viscount was also handsome, titled, and amiable—and sharing a roof at Deerhaven with the grieving widow. This was of no moment whatsoever, nor did it matter that the law offered no prohibition against marrying a cousin’s widow.
“He’ll find the title an imposition,” Trent predicted.
“Dane certainly complained of it, but you didn’t brave my company to listen to my biography of the Hampton cousins.”
Brave her company, indeed.
“I did not.” Trent sat forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, hands linked between his knees. “I’d like to put an idea before you, and I will apologize in advance if you aren’t disposed to consider it.”
Her ladyship waved a freckled hand. “Say on. I’m not easily offended.”
“I want to purchase your broodmares, or most of them.”
Her ladyship grimaced, though even that expression was attractive on her. “They are mine, aren’t they? They’re very pretty, and Dane enjoyed having them, but I honestly hadn’t thought much about what comes next. I suppose they’ll need a deal of hay and oats come winter.”
“They’re broodmares,” Trent said, sitting back, because “no” hadn’t been the first word from her mouth, and he scented the pleasurable business of a negotiation before him. “Dane was lax about ensuring they performed their intended function.”
“I’ve wondered if he didn’t have some kind of premonition.” She traced a fold in the afghan on her knees. The colors were blue and green, the same shade of green as the shawl, putting Trent in mind of her gardens under a summer sky. “Dane died just as foaling season would have been getting under way, and what a nuisance that would have been, to contend with foaling in his absence.”
Trent finished the thought. “You haven’t been of a mind to breed the mares in the last few months, which is understandable.”
Her brow knit, and she stopped fussing with her plumage. “Understandable? Why understandable?”
“Because you are in mourning? Putting a crop of foals on the ground eleven months hence is not a priority at the moment, is it?”
“Are they good horses?”
Bargaining was one thing and lying to a lady another. “Very good. Greymoor was impressed, and he turns down some of the mares people bring to put to his stud.”
“This discussion doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”
“No more than you. Little horses come from big horses, much the same as little people find their way into the world. It isn’t complicated, on one level.”
He batted away the uncomplicated image of a nearly naked Lady Rammel singing to his fishes.
Her ladyship smiled at her hands, the same secretive, female smile he’d seen once before. He wondered if she were breeding and then wondered where such a strange notion had come from. By force of will, he kept his gaze from straying to her middle.
The smile, alas, disappeared. “So we’ll haggle over my mares. Unless I should keep them and breed them for myself?”
“Do you want to turn Deerhaven into a stud farm?”
She turned her head, rubbing her cheek over the shawl draped over her shoulder. Lanie made the same gesture when tired or out of sorts if her favorite blanket was at hand.
“Really, my lord, who in his right mind would buy horses from a stud farm owned by a female? I like the mares, but I have neither the expertise nor the correct gender for such an undertaking.”
“I do,” Trent countered. “What I lack is a bottomless supply of ready coin.”
“You are fearless,” she marveled. “Coin and breeding in the same discussion. Why would you admit such a thing?”
“So you’ll understand my motivation.” Trent rose and propped an elbow on the mantel, ideas tumbling in his mind. “I’d have to buy them over time, making payments, or providing goods or services in kind.”
Her ladyship sat up a little straighter in her rocker. “We haven’t even agreed on a price. Is this how you fellows go at your business, all willy-nilly?”
“Some of us.” Trent admired the lack of dust on her mantel—his own mantels were not nearly so pristine—and wondered whether he even had fishing poles at Crossbridge. “I’ve plenty of wealth, but I tied up a great deal of it in trusts for my children, in part to comply with my wife’s wishes and in part to safeguard the children from my father’s machinations in the event of my untimely demise. Then too, I’m a firm believer in investments that grow steadily, rather than riskier schemes.”
“But you lack the kind of cash you think my mares are worth?”
“I lack a willingness to deplete my cash that greatly with a single, speculative purchase.” He had the cash, easily, if he were to break his children’s trusts, which was not a consideration.
“So you’re prudent. One has concluded as much even based on our brief acquaintance. If the mares are as fine as you say, then wouldn’t they make a sound investment?”
Was prudence truly a virtue? Her tone gave Trent leave to doubt.
“To some extent, they are a sound investment, but if strangles or some other disease should sweep the shire, they’re a flat loss. If they don’t catch, if I lose them in foaling, if they throw foals that are too small, mean, over at the knee, cow-hocked—”
He’d made her smile, and that was lovely.
“Do hush, my lord. I’ll be paying you to take them aw
ay before they eat me out of house and home.”
“That’s the idea, more or less.”
She looked quite fetching in her shawl and blanket as she considered him. “You aren’t joking, though I’m not about to pay you to relieve me of truly valuable horses.”
“What if,”—Trent resumed his corner of the couch—“I provided the care, the feeding, the early training, and so forth, and you took a percentage of the profits?”
“What profits? Don’t horses take nearly a year to carry their young?”
“Nearly, and then it’s another two or three years before they can be sold as riding stock.”
“Four years before I see any profit?”
“If such an arrangement with me has no appeal, you could sell them off now, but in any case you’re better off breeding them before you do.”
She did not appear offended at that blunt speech. “Because they’re broodmares.”
“And because Greymoor will lend you his stud to breed the lot of them at a very reasonable rate, rather than make you take the mares over to Oak Hall where he stands his stallion.”
“Why would he be so reasonable? I’ve barely been introduced to the man.”
“He’ll be reasonable because he sees the quality of your ladies,” Trent said. “His stud’s reputation will be enhanced if the foals live up to their mamas’ promise. Then too, summer is upon us, and it will soon be too late to breed anything. For Greymoor, it would be a small windfall. He’s reputed to be a decent sort. He’d do a good turn for a widowed neighbor.”
Particularly if Trent nudged the earl stoutly in that direction.
“What would you do, if you were me?”
Interesting question—shrewd, actually.
“If I were a lady recently cast into widowhood, I’d be reluctant to embark on any substantial venture, particularly one that will take years to see a return—on the one hand.”
“On the other hand?”
A gentleman would use a lot of pretty words to present the other hand. A gentleman would probably have left the door open, too, and to hell with staying warm when proprieties were at risk. A gentleman would not have mentioned breeding, Greymoor’s stud, or profit, much less all in the same conversation, with a recently widowed lady.
Trent was apparently not that much of a gentleman.
“You’re too damned smart to pretend you’re content to crochet gloves and tat lace, Ellie Hampton. You are competent with horses, your estate runs like a top, and grieving doesn’t preclude looking forward to a meaningful future. Your husband was letting those mares go to waste, and you can do better than he—much better. I think you should consider it, not for the money, not for the homage to your late husband’s taste in horseflesh, but because you’d enjoy it.”
Her hand went to her throat, as if a lump had formed there, while she digested this dose of plain speaking. “Gracious Halifax.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to imply that you were going to waste, I simply…”
She waved a hand at him to shut him up, for clearly, he’d struck a tender nerve.
Or maybe he’d said the right thing to inspire her forward in any one of several positive directions. Inspiring the bereaved was a delicate, fraught art, as Trent well knew.
She studied a spot above his right shoulder. “I’ve always liked horses, but Vicar warned me that mourning can be a time of folly, and I should not embark on any course impetuously.”
Folly—an apt description for the last fifteen months or so of Trent’s life.
“Heaven forfend you act impetuously with such a rackety fellow as I,” Trent rejoined, but he wasn’t teasing and his tone gave him away.
The lady’s posture lost the last of its sweet, sleepy softness. “I am not inclined to set up a stud farm here, but I am loath to miss the chance to capitalize on those mares. Andy’s future is less than assured, and ample funds for her dowry could address that situation.”
Trent kept his tone diffident. “I suppose we could fashion some third alternative.”
“Such as?”
She was being cautious or coy; either one, Trent had to approve of—they were, after all, negotiating.
“I don’t know.” He rose again and took up his spot leaning on the mantel. “Some combination of coin, services, breeding rights, shared profits….” He let the ideas hang in the air, just within her reach.
She shot him a dubious look. “You’re suggesting a partnership.”
“A partnership?” He mustered a disgruntled expression. “I suppose that’s what it would be, if we both agreed. No offense, but I’d want the terms in writing.”
“For both our sakes. You can’t have a gentleman’s agreement with such as I. What will your wife think of you taking on a lady partner in a business venture, because I would not want to be only a silent contributor.”
Trent was preoccupied watching her ladyship’s hands adjust the shawl and blanket. Competent, feminine, graceful… she had the sort of hands that—
“My wife? What would her opinion matter?”
“She is your wife.” Lady Rammel took a solid hold of the rocker’s arms. “Even Dane kept me informed of his major business activities and occasionally listened when I’d venture an opinion.”
Trent was so taken aback by her question he nearly missed her use of the present tense: She is your wife.
“She can’t venture an opinion,” he managed.
“Why not?” The viscountess rose, shedding blankets and acquiring a hint of indignation. “Your decision materially affects her comfort and security, too, you know. Do you trust her to bear your children, but allow her no notice of your business associates?”
She lifted her hand as if to shake her finger at him, but that hand lost momentum, the color drained from her face, and Trent barely caught her before her knees buckled. For a single moment, she lay cradled against his chest, a fragrant, curvaceous and passive bundle of lithe female.
“I stood up too quickly,” she murmured. “You can put me down, Amherst.”
He settled her on the couch and sat next to her, one arm around her shoulders.
To his relief, she remained resting against him—fainting women were unnerving to any man. He could tell the moment she gathered her resolve to leave the sofa.
“Stay.” He held her more snugly. “If you go rocketing about in mortification, you’ll get lightheaded again.”
“I simply rose too quickly,” she replied, making as if to scoot away from him.
“Ellie,”—it seemed appropriate to use her name—“you’ll have to tell Drew.”
“Tell Drew?” She craned her head to glare at him. “They’re not his horses.”
“Not about the horses.” He held her gaze, feeling nothing so much as compassion—for her, for what she was dealing with.
“Oh, blooming Halifax.” She subsided against him, defeated, caught out and, to Trent’s mind, maybe even relieved.
“How far along are you, my dear?”
She sighed gustily. “Three months. We argued the night before Dane died and made up in one of our rare bouts of conjugal relations—I didn’t just say that.”
Oh yes, she had, and to him. “Of course not. Your children, like mine, will be found under a toadstool, left there by the fairies on a summer night.”
“Winter night.” She’d no doubt calculated her due date a thousand times already. “I haven’t said anything because it’s early days yet.”
“And you weren’t sure,” Trent guessed, “it being your first. When and whom to tell are entirely your choice, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
She fell silent, though Trent had not one but three children and knew what to ask. “Are you nervous?”
“Terrified.” She gave him more of her weight, and he smoothed her hair back the better to keep an eye on her profile.
“Greymoor’s sending his countess over to visit with you. You must ask for her support. He claims she is formidable, and she’s already presented
him with his heir.”
“Lady Greymoor? I’ve met her. She’s a pretty little thing.”
“And if she bore that great, strapping lout a child, you will fare easily.”
“She is diminutive.”
“While the earl is not.” Not in his stores of charm, not in his equestrian expertise, not in any sense.
“Do you think Drew will be angry?”
“You can’t concern yourself with that.” Trent stroked his hand over her hair again, though her profile was plainly in view. “He had a life before Dane died. He’ll have a life if you bear a son. Your first priority has to be bringing your child safely into the world.”
“I know.” She straightened a little, but only a little. “I must stop imposing on you like this. I’m becoming that pathetic widow who clings to and pets anybody she can get her hands on.”
“You are not and you never will be. Shall I ring for tea?”
“A nice hot cup of tea?” She shifted away from him. “That couldn’t hurt. I wonder where Andy got off to.”
“She likely didn’t want to disturb your cat-nap.” Trent rose and went to the door to hail the footman—only to realize what he’d disclosed.
“You caught me napping?” Lady Rammel’s—Ellie’s—hand went to her hair. “I am to have no dignity, it seems. What would your lady wife think of me?” Her question was casual, even rhetorical, but it reminded Trent where their conversation had been before Ellie’s spell of lightheadedness.
“You were haranguing me about my neglect of her. You need to understand something about my marital status.”
Ellie’s gaze skewered him, as if she anticipated one of those my-wife-doesn’t-trouble-herself or my-wife-doesn’t-understand-me soliloquies her husband had no doubt delivered to many other women.
“It isn’t like that,” Trent said, the accurate words for some reason hard to locate. “She’s… Paula passed away more than a year ago. She’s… dead.”
***
“Why didn’t you tell me Amherst was widowed?” Ellie chose her moment after the servants had withdrawn, firing off the question at Drew as he enjoyed a leisurely Sunday dinner with her.
“Why didn’t I…?” He looked confused, resembling his late cousin not only in his robust physique and facial features, but also in his cautious, spare-me-from-testy-women expression. “Why didn’t you know? I gather it’s been some time, because he’s no longer in mourning.”
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