The Duke’s Obsession Bundle

by Grace Burrowes

  ***

  As they made a leisurely progress through the once-gracious manor, Emmie Farnum reminded herself that, drunk and mean, the late Earl of Helmsley hadn’t been able to make her back down. Sober and chillingly polite, the Earl of Rosecroft wasn’t going to be any greater challenge. Life’s circumstances had made her a good judge of character, particularly a good judge of male character, as it was invariably a shallow, trifling subject. In less than ten minutes in the earl’s company, she’d come to understand he was a very deceptive man.

  Not willfully dishonest, perhaps, but deceptive.

  He looked for all the world like an elegant aristocrat come to idle the summer heat away in the country. A touch of lace at his collar and throat, a little green stone winking through the folds of his neckcloth, a gleaming signet ring on his left hand, and even in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he projected wealth, breeding, and indolence.

  His speech was expensively proper, the tone never wavering from a fine politesse that bespoke the best schools, the best connections, the best breeding. He wielded his words like little daggers though, pinning his opponent one dart at a time to the target of his choosing.

  His body deceived, as well, so nicely adorned in attire, tailor-made for him from his gleaming boots to his neckcloth, to everything so pleasantly coordinated between.

  And he was handsome, with sable hair tousled and left a little too long, deep green eyes, arresting height, and military bearing. His face might be considered too strong by some standards—he would never be called a pretty man—but it had a certain masculine appeal, the nose slightly hooked, the chin a trifle arrogant, and the eyebrows just a touch dramatic. No honest female would find him unattractive of face or form.

  Beneath the well-tailored clothes, great masses of muscle bunched and smoothed with his every move. The hands holding Emmie’s chair for her were lean, brown, and elegant, but also callused, and she’d no doubt they could snap her neck as easily as they cut up Winnie’s apple tart. He was clothed as a gentleman, spoke as a gentleman, and had the manner of a gentleman, but Emmie was not deceived.

  The Earl of Rosecroft was a barbarian.

  But then, there was the most puzzling deception of all: He was a barbarian, but barbarians did not notice when small children grew tired, they did not think to cut up a little girl’s tart for her, they did not coax and charm and guide when they could pillage, plunder, and destroy.

  So he was an intelligent, shrewd barbarian.

  Emmie let him seat her on a green brocade sofa in the paneled library. “My lord, if you would permit me to ask just one or two questions?”

  “I will not,” he replied, seating himself—without her permission, barbarian-fashion—in a wing chair opposite the sofa. “I will ask the questions, as you are under my roof and without my invitation.”

  “I apologize for interrupting your meal,” Emmie said, trying for humility, “but I was concerned for the child.”

  “So I gather. Tea, Miss Farnum?” He excused the footman when the elegant service was sitting on the low table between them.

  “Tea would be lovely,” she said automatically, resenting the delay in his inquisition. “Shall I pour?”

  “No need. I will pour for you so I might pour for myself, as I abhor a cup of tea prepared not as I prefer. Worse than no tea at all.”

  “I see. Well then, cream and two sugars in mine, if you please.” He passed her the tea cup, his fingers brushing hers as she accepted it, and Emmie felt a low current of awareness spark up from her hand.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she managed. Barbarians, she knew, had that ability to seem exciting. It was a deplorable truth, one she had learned early on.

  The earl prepared his own tea and took a cautious sip. “What is your relationship to the child?”

  “One might say I am her cousin, of sorts, though it isn’t common knowledge, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

  “You don’t want the world associating you with the earl’s bastard?” her host asked, stirring his tea slowly.

  Emmie met his gaze. “More to the point, Bronwyn does not realize we are related, and I would prefer to be the one to tell her.”

  “How does that come about?” The earl regarded her over the rim of his teacup even as he sipped.

  “My aunt was kind enough to provide a home for me when my mother died,” Emmie said, lips pursed, as the recitation was not one she embarked on willingly. “Thus I joined her household in the village before Bronwyn was born. When the old earl got wind of that, he eventually sent me off to school in Scotland.”

  “So your aunt brought you here, and you were then sent off to school by the beneficent old earl.”

  “I was, and thereafter, my aunt became the young earl’s mistress. I suspect his grandfather sent me off to spare me that fate.”

  “And Winnie is the late earl’s by-blow? Your aunt must have been quite youthful.”

  “She was ten years older than Helmsley but said, since his mama died when he was young, she suited him.”

  “Did you know the late earl?”

  “I knew him. When the old earl grew ill about three years ago, I was retrieved from where I was a governess in Scotland, with the plan being that I could help care for him. When his lordship saw I was subjected to unwanted attentions, he established me on a separate property.”

  “In what capacity?” The earl topped off her teacup, a peculiarly civilized gesture, considering he was leaving her no privacy whatsoever.

  “I support myself,” Emmie replied, unable to keep a touch of pride from her voice. “I have since returned to Yorkshire. On the old earl’s advice, I never rejoined my aunt’s household in the village, hence Winnie doesn’t understand we are cousins. I’m not sure it ever registered with Helmsley, either.”

  “Did it register with Helmsley he had a daughter?”

  “Barely.” Emmie spat the word. “My aunt did well enough with Winnie, though she was careful not to impose the child on her father very often. Helmsley was prone to… poor choices in his companions. One in particular could not be trusted around children, and so Winnie was an awkward addition to her father’s household after my aunt’s death.”

  “And now she’s been appended to your household?”

  “She is… she finally is.” For the second time that evening, Emmie smiled at him, but she teared up, as well, ducking her face to hide her mortification.

  “Women,” the earl muttered. He extracted his handkerchief and passed it to her.

  “I beg your pardon.” Emmie tried to smile and failed, but took his handkerchief. “It was difficult, watching her grow from toddler to child and seeing she’d had no one to love her since my aunt died.”

  “One must concede, you seem to care for the child.” The earl regarded her with a frown. “But one must also inquire into what manner of influence you are on her. You aren’t supporting yourself as your aunt did, are you?”

  “I most assuredly am not supporting myself as you so rudely imply.” She rose to her feet and tried to stuff his damp hankie back into his hand. “I work for honest coin and will not tolerate your insults.”

  “Keep it.” He smiled at her slightly while his fingers curled her hand around his handkerchief. “I have plenty to spare. And please accept my apologies, Miss Farnum, as your character is of interest to me.”

  “Why ever is it any of your business how I earn my keep?” She resumed her seat but concentrated on folding his handkerchief into halves and quarters and eighths in her lap rather than meet that piercing green stare of his again.

  “I am interested in your character because you are a friend of Miss Winnie’s, and she has become my concern.”

  “About Bronwyn”—Emmie rose again and paced away from him—“we must reach some kind of understanding.”

  “We must?”

  “She is my family,” Emmie pointed out, then more softly, “my only family. Surely you can understand she should be with me?”

  “So why wasn�
��t she?” One of his dark eyebrows quirked where he sat sipping his tea. Emmie had the thought that if he’d had a tail, he’d be flicking it in a lazy, feline rhythm.

  “Why wasn’t she what?” Emmie stopped her pacing and busied herself straightening up a shelf of books.

  “Why wasn’t she with you? When I plucked her off that fountain, she was filthy, tired, and hadn’t eaten all day.”

  “I couldn’t catch her.” Emmie frowned at the books.

  “I beg your pardon?” The earl’s voice came from her elbow, but she was damned if she’d flinch.

  “I said, I could not catch her.” Emmie did peek then and realized the earl wasn’t just tall, he was also a big man. Bigger than he looked from across a room, the scoundrel.

  “And I could not run her off,” the earl mused. “It might comfort you to know, Miss Farnum, I am the oldest of ten and not unused to youngsters.”

  “You do seem to get on well with her, but I have an advantage, my lord. One you will never be able to compete with.”

  “An advantage?”

  “Yes.” Emmie said, feeling a little sorry for him, because he really would not be able to argue the point much further. “I am a female, you see. A girl. Well, a grown woman, but I was a girl, as Bronwyn is.”

  “You are a female?” The earl looked her up and down, and Emmie felt herself blushing. It was a thorough and thoroughly dispassionate perusal. “Why so you are, but how does this make yours the better guidance?”

  “There are certain things, my lord…” Emmie felt her blush deepening but refused to capitulate to embarrassment. “Things a lady knows a gentleman will not, things somebody must pass along to a little girl in due course if she’s to manage in this life.”

  “Things.” The earl’s brow knit. “Things like childbirth, perhaps?”

  Emmie swallowed, resenting his bluntness even while she admired him for it. “Well, yes. I doubt you’ve given birth, my lord.”

  “Have you?” he countered, peering down at her.

  “That is not the point.”

  “So no advantage to you there, particularly as I have attended a birth or two in my time, and I doubt you’ve managed that either.”

  “Why on earth would…?” Emmie’s mouth snapped shut before she could ask the obvious, rude, burning question.

  “I was a soldier,” he said gently. “And war is very hard on soldiers, but even harder on women and children, Miss Farnum. A woman giving birth in a war zone is generally willing to accept the assistance of whomever is to hand, regardless of standing, gender, or even what uniform he wears.”

  “So you’ve a little experience, but you aren’t going to tell me you’re familiar with the details of a lady’s bodily… well, that is to say. Well.”

  “Her menses?” The earl looked amused again. “You might have some greater degree of familiarity than I. I will grant that much, but as a man with five sisters, I am far more knowledgeable and sympathetic regarding female lunation than I had ever aspired to be. And surely, these matters you raise—childbirth and courses—they are a ways off for Miss Winnie?”

  “Bronwyn,” Emmie muttered. Standing so close to him, she could catch the earl’s scent, and it managed to combine both elegance and barbarism. It was spicy rather than floral, but also fresh, like meadows and breezes and cold, fast-running streams.

  “She answers to Winnie,” he said, “and she got away from you.”

  “She did.” Emmie’s shoulders slumped as some of the fight went out of her. “She does. I’ve lost her for hours at a time, at least in the summer, and nobody has any real notion where she gets off to. It wasn’t so bad when my aunt first died, but it has gotten worse the older Bronwyn gets. I was terrified…”

  “Yes?” The green eyes steadily holding hers bore no judgment, just a patient regard with a teasing hint of compassion.

  “I was terrified Helmsley would take her south, or worse, let that cretin Stull get hold of her; but Helmsley was her father, so I’d no right to do anything for her nor to have any say in how she goes on.”

  “And had your aunt lived, the law would have given Helmsley no claim on the child, nor any obligation to her either.”

  “Oh, the law.” Emmie waved a dismissive hand. “The law tells us the better course would have been to allow the child to starve while her dear papa gambled away the estate. Do not quote the law to me, my lord, for it only points out what is legal and what is right do not often coincide where the fate of children is concerned.”

  “Legalities aside then, I am in a better position to assist the child than you are. Just as the old earl gave you an education to allow you to make your way as a governess, I can provide every material advantage for Winnie, too. If it comes to that, I can prevail upon the Moreland resources for the child, as well.”

  “But I am her cousin,” Emmie said, feeling tears well again. “I am her cousin and her only relation.”

  “Not so, though the reverse might be true. The child’s Aunt Anna is now married to my brother, which makes me an uncle-in-law or some such, and I am one of ten, recall. Through her aunt’s marriage, Winnie has a great deal of family.”

  “But they don’t know her,” Emmie quietly wailed. “I am Winnie’s family. I am.”

  “Shall we compromise?” he asked, drawing Emmie’s arm through his and escorting her to the sofa. “It seems to me we are considering mutually exclusive outcomes, with either you or myself having Winnie’s exclusive company. Why can’t she have us both?”

  “You could visit,” Emmie said, warming to the idea. Maybe, she allowed, he was an enlightened barbarian, though his arguments for leaving Winnie in his care were sound. “Or perhaps Winnie might spend time here, as she considers this her home.”

  “I do not visit my responsibilities, Miss Farnum,” the earl replied, resuming his seat across from her. “Not when they require regular feeding and bathing and instruction in basic table manners that should have been mastered long ago.”

  “So how do we compromise?” Emmie ignored the implied criticism by sheer will. “If Winnie lives here with you, how is that a compromise?”

  “Simple.” The earl smiled at her, a buccaneer’s smile if ever she saw one. “You live here, too. You’ve said you have experience as a governess; the child needs a governess. You care for her and hold yourself out as entitled to assist with her upbringing. It seems a perfectly feasible solution to me. You remain as her governess until such time as I find a replacement, one who merits your approval and mine.”

  “Feasible.” Emmie felt her mouth and eyebrows working in a disjointed symphony of expressions, none of which were intended to convey good cheer. “You want me to be a governess to Bronwyn?” She rose, and the earl watched her but remained seated. “There’s a difficulty.” She hoped her relief did not show on her face.

  “Only one?”

  “It is formidable.” Emmie eyed him up and down. “I am qualified to supervise a child of Bronwyn’s age, but I have always been more a friend to her than an authority figure. I am not sure she will listen to me, else I would not find myself fretting so often over her whereabouts.”

  “Having not had a papa to speak of and having lost her mother, the child has likely become too self-reliant, something that can only be curbed, not entirely eradicated. And while the child may not listen to you, I have every confidence she will listen to me.”

  “Every confidence?” Emmie arched an eyebrow and met his gaze squarely.

  “I got her into the house.” The earl started counting off on his fingers. “I inculcated basic table manners, I engaged her in civil discussion when she was intent only on repelling boarders, and”—he arched an eyebrow right back at her—“I got her into the bathtub, where she was soaped and scrubbed into something resembling a lovely little girl.”

  “You did.” Emmie scowled in thought. “May I inquire how?”

  “Nelson at Trafalgar. One can only demonstrate sea battles under appropriate circumstances.”

  “You g
ave her a bath?” Emmie’s eyes went wide.

  “Soap and water are not complicated, but the tweeny is hardly likely to comprehend naval strategy. I’ll provide the child the right bath toys, and my direct involvement shouldn’t be necessary from this point out. You do, I assume, have a grasp of naval history?”

  “Naval history?” Emmie all but gasped in dismay.

  “Well, no matter. I can teach you a few major battles, and any self-respecting child will take it from there. So are we agreed?”

  “On what?” Emmie felt bewildered and overwhelmed, perhaps as if a cavalry regiment had just appeared, charging over the nearest hill, and her all unsuspecting in their path.

  “You will be her temporary governess until we find somebody we both approve to serve in that capacity. I shall compensate you, of course.”

  “I will not take money for looking after family.”

  “And how will you support yourself if you do not take money for services rendered?”

  “That’s the other reason I cannot agree to this scheme.” Emmie all but snapped her fingers, so great was her relief. “I cannot let my customers down. If I stop providing goods for any length of time, they’ll take their business elsewhere, and I’ll get a reputation for being unreliable. It won’t serve, your lordship. You’ll have to think of some other compromise.”

  “What is your business that your customers would be so fickle?”

  Emmie smiled with pride. “I am a baker, my lord. I make all manner of goods… breads and sweets especially.”

  “I see. There is no impediment, then.”

  “Of course there is.” Emmie gave him a version of the local art-thee-daft look. “I cannot abandon my business, my lord, else I will have no income when we find a permanent governess for Bronwyn.”

  “You don’t abandon your business,” the earl informed her. “You merely see to it here. The kitchens are extensive, there is help on hand, and you were obviously prepared to look after your cousin and your commercial obligations at the same time, so you should be able to do it easily at Rosecroft.”