Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  She wore jumps instead of stays—the day would be warm—and found an old straw hat and a pair of worn half-boots. She took her time crossing through the woods, forgoing a stop at the pond to soak her feet.

  Gardening was a pleasure, a chance for a lady to be informal and still not call it idling. In her own gardens, Ellie had often gone barefoot, letting the cool grass tickle her toes and refresh her senses.

  And surely, amid the weeds and flowers and warm breezes, she could think of something seductive to say should Lord Amherst happen by while she worked.

  ***

  A man bent on indulging his thirst could be forgiven for doing so while still windblown and sweaty from his morning ride, but Trent’s feet took him past the library and on up to his rooms. If his drunk proved to be a long one, he might as well start it out in clean clothes.

  He stripped to the waist, washed, and found a clean shirt and waistcoat, but he’d be damned if he’d bother with a cravat. Turning back his cuffs in anticipation of the heat, he then dragged a brush through his hair and decided the room should be well aired if his footmen had to pour him into bed later in the day.

  When he opened the French doors, all he noticed at first was a woman in a straw hat, kneeling on an old blanket among the flowers in his back gardens. She looked comfortable, pulling weeds, tossing them into a bucket, her gloves dirty at the fingers. She sounded comfortable, too, singing a quiet tune in a major key, meandering between syllables and humming.

  Trent’s nymph of the pond had removed to his garden.

  For a long time, he remained propped in the doorway, watching, listening, and letting the peace of the scene make inroads on his foul mood.

  If he slept beside a woman like that of a night…

  After a few more verses of humming, Ellie picked up her blanket and moved to the other side of the plot. From his place in the shadows, he could see her in profile, see the curve of her back and hip, see the soft play of her breasts beneath her old dress. Her hair was giving in to the growing humidity and escaping its pins.

  Trent’s hand brushed over the front of his falls, responding to an unlooked-for gathering of desire. Not entirely sexual desire, either. Want curled low in his belly, a sensation he might have pushed aside as ungentlemanly, except he’d had a lousy damned night. Another lousy damned night, courtesy of a woman he couldn’t even decently resent because she was dead.

  He pulled a comfortable chair as close to the French doors as he could while still keeping in shadow, fished out his handkerchief, opened his falls, and settled back. Watching Ellie garden, he stroked himself absently, prepared to be unable to finish—he’d often been unable to finish when he sought to pleasure himself, at least since becoming a married man.

  By increments, his arousal intensified, building slowly, like the heat of a summer morning, until he knew he would finish and could, for the first time in years, simply enjoy pleasuring himself. When Ellie tipped her head back, knocked aside her hat, and took a long drink from a canteen, he let himself go.

  Watching the lovely curve of her neck and the way her breasts lifted as she arched her back, he came and came and came.

  When he awoke, he was still sitting in that chair, his handkerchief wadded in his hand, though he’d apparently had the presence of mind to button his falls before he’d dozed off. His body felt more relaxed than it had in months, and his mind…

  His mind was not dull, not befuddled by a gray fog. His mind was simply… quiet.

  He didn’t recall putting his clothes to rights. He recalled Ellie, tipping her head back and drinking.

  When he went to find her, he walked right past the library door—and the decanters therein—without pausing.

  ***

  “You’re without an assistant today?”

  Ellie startled, so deeply had she been contemplating names for her baby while she brought order to the daisies getting ready to bloom.

  “My lord.”

  Lord Amherst’s hand was extended down to assist her to her feet.

  His bare hand.

  Ellie drew off her gloves and let him pull her upright—he accomplished this easily—then let him steady her with a light grasp on her elbow while she assayed her balance.

  “All right?”

  “Give me a moment. I was growing roots and didn’t realize it.”

  He smiled, as if she’d said something privately amusing, and tucked her hand over his arm. “You’re a pretty sight growing in my garden. You’ve made progress.”

  “Your people are doing most of it.”

  Amherst was not only without gloves, he wore no cravat, no jacket, and was still in his riding boots, an altogether fetching state of male dishabille.

  “You’ve taken Arthur out already?”

  “I did. If you’d like the occasional horseback escort, you’ve only to ask.”

  “I’ll take you up on that soon. My habits are already about as snug as I can tolerate without having the seams let out.” She could tell him this without blushing—much.

  “I thought the first baby took longer to show.”

  “Longer than what? If it’s one’s first, one hardly knows what to look for, does one?” She liked how direct he was. She also liked seeing his throat and that small patch of male skin between throat and chest.

  What would he taste of there?

  He’d led her onto a shaded path, one that wound away from the house, gradually joining the wood, and Ellie was all too happy to go where he led. She’d been in the sun longer than she’d intended. Either that, or dealing with Amherst had become a more dizzying proposition.

  Proposition—oh, Halifax.

  “You’ve consulted a midwife?”

  “I have. Fortunately, I am not at the mercy of Mrs. Grimm, but may rely on an acquaintance of long standing. Mrs. Holmes assures me matters are progressing normally.”

  Dane had never perfected the art of escorting a lady. If a man, particularly a man taller than his companion, did not match his steps to the lady’s, the result of linking arms was a great deal of bumping forearms, almost to the point that the lady’s progress was hampered rather than helped by the gentleman.

  Amherst had the knack of it.

  “You would know if matters weren’t as they should be,” Amherst said, his hand settling over her knuckles. “My late wife carried the Wilton heir and spare, and thus her health was closely monitored. The accoucheur made it a point to keep me informed of every detail.”

  “I can’t imagine any man would enjoy that. Childbearing isn’t a tidy or delicate business.”

  “Like most of life.” His expression became introspective, and when he might have made his excuses and sauntered away, Ellie dropped his arm.

  “Life is untidy,” she said, taking a seat on a sun-dappled stone bench. “That is part of both its charm and its aggravation.” Amherst’s informal attire was reflective of some change in his outlook, a change she couldn’t quite parse. She took her floppy straw hat off, and not only because they were in partial shade. “You’re in a mood this morning, my lord.”

  “At sixes and sevens. My brother-in-law dropped by on his way home to Kent, and he is blissfully happy with his marriage.”

  “Blissfully? That would put me in a mood, too.” Her answer seemed to surprise him, then please him as he sat beside her without her having to ask it.

  “Why would another’s conjugal bliss put you in a mood, my lady?” Lord Amherst wasn’t asking idly. He invited closer acquaintance, a degree of intimacy beyond letting out the seams of her habit.

  “My parents loved each other,” Ellie said. “Really loved each other, and in this regard, I think a baron has options an earl’s heir lacks. Mama and Papa touched frequently, in little ways. They never took separate bedrooms unless one or the other was ill. They were not fashionably estranged during the social Season. They never traveled separately from one another if it could be helped.”

  The memories were painful now in a way they hadn’t been when Dane was
alive, for hope of that sort of relationship in Ellie’s marriage had died with him.

  “A devoted couple,” his lordship observed. “They do exist outside of fairy tales.”

  “Yes, devoted. A little in love until the day my mother died and even thereafter. My father was relieved to see me wed, because it left him free to join my mother and to stop being distracted by life on my account.”

  Amherst ranged an arm along the back of the bench, the shift in his posture bringing the lovely, spicy scent of him to Ellie’s nose.

  “So, blissful couples make you miss your parents?”

  “They do, but more than that, they make me angry with myself, for what my marriage was with Dane.” She set her hat down beside her, lest she knot the ribbons beyond recall.

  His lordship might have shifted away. He might have risen and changed the topic. He stayed right beside her. “Your marriage was not blissful?”

  She closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the breeze. “We were to appearances content, but it wasn’t…”

  “Honest,” Amherst supplied, easily, as if he’d had time to ponder the matter. “The aggravation of my sister’s marriage isn’t that Nick is blissful with Leah. It’s that he can be honest about the state of his marriage, whatever it is.”

  Ellie opened her eyes, the better to regard her companion. Had his lordship ever spoken thus with his late wife? She suspected not, which meant the lady deserved some pity.

  “Maintaining appearances comes at a cost, to the integrity,” she said. “I want to be vigilant, to make sure I don’t believe my own lies, especially when that would be easier and more respectful of my departed spouse.”

  Who had not been very respectful of Ellie.

  His lordship was silent, maybe agreeing, maybe losing interest in the conversation, and Ellie wondered how she would coax more kisses out of him when she talked only of lies and appearances and melancholy truths.

  He leaned back, all relaxed male in his prime.

  “My wife was not happy with me. I knew it, she knew it. I was not her choice. I don’t think marriage was her choice, not to anybody.”

  “I am sorry,” Ellie murmured, lacing her fingers with his.

  He squeezed her hand, gently, and she let her head rest on his shoulder. This wasn’t what she’d expected when she’d come gardening this morning, not these sad confidences, but she’d shared hers with no one else and suspected Amherst hadn’t, either.

  He lifted his arm, bringing it around her shoulders and keeping it there, until she dozed off, thinking that she’d kissed Dane many times, but what a pity that she’d never napped with him like this on a lovely summer morning.

  ***

  When Ellie stirred beside him, Trent dipped his head and kissed her cheek. She came awake wearing a soft, radiant smile that made his breath hitch and his male parts come awake—come awake again, already—as well.

  “You’ll blame me for a fresh dusting of freckles if you don’t put on your hat, my lady.”

  He reached her around to pass the hat to her, just as a loud report sounded from the dense woods behind them, followed by a solid thunk!

  “Down!” Trent dragged Ellie off the bench, keeping his body between her and the undergrowth. The bench was stone and flanked by overgrown planters on both sides, providing cover in all but the direction of the house.

  “Are you all right?” He kept his body half over hers, needing to protect her with his sheer mass if nothing else.

  “I’m fine. You’re heavy. Was that a gunshot?”

  “At close range.” He lifted away an inch. “We’ll run for the pergola, if you can?”

  “I’ll contrive. I might faint once we get there.”

  “Take my hand.” Trent shifted up and got his feet under him but did not rise. “Somebody is discharging firearms on private property. If I fall or am hit, keep moving, Ellie. And we’re making a mad dash, none of this dignified promenading.”

  “Right.” Ellie crouched beside him and gathered her skirts in one hand.

  He had her on her feet and skimming along beside him in the next instant. He was nearly dragging her, keeping her upright and moving across the grass as Cato and Peak emerged from the stables.

  Peak started for them at a brisk trot, Cato on his heels.

  “We heard a shot,” Peak said. “Nobody would poach in those woods with you in residence, my lord. Is the lady unhurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Ellie panted. “Winded.”

  “Did you see who fired?” This from a mightily scowling Cato.

  “We did not,” Trent said. “The ball hit a tree trunk not far from where we were sitting.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Cato hissed, his brogue in evidence. “Peak, get the lads together and we’ll—”

  “Peak, get back here,” Trent snapped. “A herd of stable boys beating the bushes will only obliterate what sign there is. My first priority is Lady Rammel, who must be safely escorted home. The dog cart should do.”

  “I can walk,” Ellie protested.

  Preserve me from independent females.

  “Through the woods, from whence a shot was just fired at the two of us?”

  He’d nearly bellowed at her, and the confounded woman looked pleased. She tucked a lock of loose hair back over his ear, calm as she could be—though in the middle of a summer morning, her fingers were cold.

  “No need for dramatics, my lord. Not over a poacher or boys out playing war.”

  “With real bullets!” Trent all but roared.

  Three pairs of eyes found somewhere else to look in the ensuing silence, but God Almighty, this was a time for bellowing some sense into the woman. “I beg your pardon for raising my voice.”

  “I’ll get the dog cart.” Peak jogged away toward the carriage house.

  “Cato, you’ll see Lady Rammel home,” Trent said. “I don’t mean you wave her on her way in the drive. You will see her into the hands of her staff, in her own house, and you will not leave her until you are satisfied she is safe, and she assures you of same.”

  Ellie looked like she might argue; Trent’s expression must have changed her mind.

  “We have our orders, Mr. Spencer.”

  “You,”—Cato addressed his employer—“will show me where this accident occurred when I return, and you will not go poking about in those woods by yourself.”

  When he would have torn a strip off his presuming stable master, Trent felt Ellie’s hand on his arm.

  “Yes, Amherst. Please? It can’t hurt to wait a bit before you explore the scene, can it?”

  Of course it could hurt—anybody with any sense would need only a few moments to destroy any evidence of their passing or to pry the spent bullet from the tree.

  Trent wanted to stomp off that instant. His intentions were a palpable, angry thing writhing in his vitals, but Ellie held his gaze, her lovely eyes boring steadily into his, her hand patiently resting on his arm.

  “I will pen a note for the magistrate,” Trent said. “I’ll load my pistols and await Cato’s return.”

  “Thank you.” Ellie looked like she wanted to say more, to kiss him, to at least whisper at him to be careful.

  Paula had never once looked at him like that.

  Ellie’s concern steadied him and steadied his resolve, too. “I will see you safely to the stables, my lady, and ask that you say nothing of this to your staff.”

  Cato fell in on Trent’s other side and sucked in a breath.

  “You disapprove, Catullus?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it, is all. I’ll see if any of Rammel’s fowling pieces are missing while I’m at Deerhaven.”

  “This sounds serious,” Ellie said from her place between them.

  “It is,” Cato replied for them both, which was convenient, because Trent’s teeth

  were clenched. “Blessed, blasted serious.”

  When Ellie had been handed up beside Cato into the dog cart, Trent brushed a kiss to her cheek, oblivious to the help trying to ign
ore such a display.

  “Don’t come through the woods alone, my lady. I’ll call on you later and let you know what we find.”

  “Don’t take stupid chances.” She kissed his cheek, and Cato signaled the horse to move off.

  Trent watched them go, not turning until the vehicle had rolled smartly through the gates at the foot of the drive.

  “Best not watch her like that where all can see, my lord,” Peak said.

  Oh, famous. Now the stable lads were dispensing unsolicited advice. Trent kicked a pebble hard enough to send it skittering into a weedy bed of hollyhocks.

  “Lady Rammel was damned near killed on my land, Peak. It’s all I can do not to bundle her up to the house and lock her in a tower until hell freezes over.”

  “You were damned near killed on your own land.”

  The dog cart clattered around the bend, and Trent wanted to run after it, to keep it in sight the entire distance to Deerhaven. “Nonsense.”

  “Wait until Lord Heathgate gets here,” Peak said, whacking a dusty cap against his thigh. “You’ll see what manner of nonsense you’re dealing with. Old Delphey Soames is often in your woods with his fowling piece, and he takes a nip or two betimes. He might have an explanation.”

  That was more sentences at one go than the young fellow strung together in most entire days. “Soames is poaching? Openly poaching?”

  “Nobody need poach. Heathgate opens up Willowdale on certain days for the locals to thin the herds and flocks, as he puts it. Greymoor does the same thing. My guess is several of the other gentry do as well. It isn’t like we’ve wolves to tend to it anymore, and Delphey likes to keep clear of his missus when she gets to drinking, which is to say, after sunrise.”

  An entire drama unfolded in Trent’s woods, if Peak were to be believed. “Soames is routinely strolling about on my land?”

  “You were never here.” Peak swiped a hand through unkempt dark hair that reached nearly to the lad’s shoulders, then tugged his cap back on with an air of pugnacity at variance with his delicate features. “Even when you popped out to check on things, you weren’t here.”

  “Insubordinate, young man. You’re taking on too many of Cato’s characteristics.”