“The groundskeeper,” Eddie said. “He says he’s the only one allowed to catch rabbits.”
“Perhaps one day you can come to my house and catch all the rabbits you like,” Newkirk said. “We have plenty to go around.”
They strolled across the lawn toward the rear terrace, which looked out over a large expanse of countryside. It was a pretty setting, Kat thought, far more suitable for young boys than the smoke and dirt of the city.
She glanced back. Newkirk and Eddie had stopped and were examining the corner of the terrace wall. Newkirk squatted beside Eddie, who poked at something with a stick.
The scene caused a lump to rise in her throat. It could have been father and son, out for a morning stroll.
Father and son.
Newkirk would be a marvelous father for Eddie—and all the boys. They would get along famously. The boys could show him how to row properly, and the ex-cavalryman would certainly be able to show them a trick or two about riding. They could talk horses, boxing, all manner of manly pursuits. They would soon grow to love him.
She would be the one who did not fit in with their merry group. Because as they had been telling her all along— Newkirk and Nick—Eddie and the twins didn’t need a mother any longer. She would always be their sister, but the time for mothering them was over. They were embarking on a new phase of their lives: one that did not require her constant participation.
What then, for her? Not a mother, still a sister . . . perhaps a wife?
She gazed again at Newkirk, who was listening intently to Eddie’s involved story. And Kat suddenly knew what she wanted to do for the rest of her life.
“Come on you two,” she called. “Stop hoarding the food.”
With a look of chagrin, they caught up with her and each helped themselves to another delicacy from the basket.
Eddie perched on the terrace wall.
“Are you going to take me away from school?” Eddie asked.
Kat eyed him cautiously. “You do not look as if you are starving,” she said.
“The food is all right, I guess.”
“How is the Latin coming?” Newkirk asked.
Eddie made a face. “I don’t see the point of knowing Latin.”
Newkirk leaned closer. “Neither do I,” he whispered.
“Newkirk!” Kat gave him a mock glare. “Knowing Latin is the mark of a gentleman.”
Newkirk exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Eddie. “Is your sister saying I am not a gentleman?”
She threw up her hands. “Honestly, you are as bad as he is. You two deserve each other.”
“I want to go home,” Eddie said.
Kat took a deep breath. “Term ends in a little over a fortnight. I think you should stay here until then.” “What?” Eddie looked stunned.
Newkirk, standing next to him, looked equally surprised. “Well, it would be rather a waste of time to take you out now with the school year nearly done,” Kat said. “If, after the summer, you decide you do not wish to come back, we can find you a different school.”
“A different school! I don’t want to go to school at all.”
“That is not your decision,” Kat said. “You either go to school or have a tutor, and I would think you’d rather be in the company of a bunch of other boys than home all alone with a prosing old scholar.”
“She has a point,” Newkirk said. “That’s what I did, and I would much rather have been at school.”
“I’ll come back to fetch you at end of term,” Kat said. “Then we shall go to London, and you can see all the marvelous things. Armor at the Tower and the fireworks at Vauxhall.”
“Oh, I guess I could wait that long,” Eddie said.
“Good. Now, I suspect we are keeping you from your lessons.” Kat glanced at the school building. “One more pastry and then you scamper back to class.”
Eddie grabbed the biggest frosted cake in the hamper and then gave her a pleading look. “Can I keep them all? I’ll share with the others, I promise.”
Kat tried to look stem. “You must share.”
“I will.”
“All right. Give me a kiss and then be off. You’ve Latin verbs to conjugate.”
Eddie planted a swift, sticky kiss on her cheek and tried to run off. But Kat grabbed him and gave him a ferocious hug. “Behave yourself until I come back,” she said.
He picked up the hamper and ran back toward the building.
Val reached out and took her hand. “May I escort you back to your carriage, my lady?”
She nodded, and they walked slowly back toward the front drive.
“You know I intended him to leave with us,” he said. She nodded. “I know. But he needs to stay here. I need him to stay here.”
He stopped next to the carriage and took her other hand. “My brave, honorable Kat. I do think you have finally grown up.”
“Finally?” She looked at him askance. “Are you saying I was a mere child before?”
“Not a child,” he said with a fond smile. “But not quite yet a woman.”
He was right. Somehow, from one moment to the next, she had grown up. She had been mother to her brothers long enough. Now it was time to take charge of her own life. To give her heart to the man who had somehow become the centerpiece of her world.
“Take me home, Val.”
He looked at her uncertainly. “To Kingsford?”
“No,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “To Bruton Street, for now. And then to the Abbey—or wherever else you care to settle. My life is with you.”
“Wherever you wish to be,” he said, and bent his head for a kiss.
They arrived back in London the following afternoon. Kat had barely stepped into the hall, with Val close behind her, when Sophie came flying down the stairs.
“You are back!” she cried. Then her expression turned puzzled. “But where is Eddie?”
“He’s staying at school until the end of term,” Kat said. Sophie glanced quickly at her brother and then back to Kat. “Is that what you want?”
Kat nodded, trying to suppress a smile. “I will be busy enough in the next few weeks without Eddie underfoot.” “What is going on?” Sophie asked.
Val laughed and Kat turned toward him, giving him a warm smile. He took her hand in his.
“You can wish me happy, Sophie,” Newkirk said. “I am getting married.”
Sophie shrieked with delight and flung herself at Kat. “It’s about time you came to your senses!” Sophie released Kat and gave her brother an equally enthusiastic hug. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to take drastic steps.”
“What are you talking about?” Kat asked.
“Don’t you see?” Sophie grinned. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were the perfect match for Val.”
Kat stared at her. “How could you know such a thing when I just realized it myself?”
Sophie waved her hand. “I know my brother. I’ve never seen him in such a stir over a female. I knew immediately that he had met his match.”
“You might have said something sooner,” Val said, with a rueful look. “It might have saved me a great deal of exasperation.”
“But it was so fun to watch!” Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “Both of you were so determined to ignore what was right in front of you.”
“I was reluctant to admit that I was falling in love with him,” Kat admitted, giving Val’s hand a squeeze. “But now that I know, I shall never forget.”
“Oh, I cannot wait!” Sophie clapped her hands. “We shall have to start shopping for your bride clothes at once. I must start making a list of all that you will need.” She ran down the hall toward Val’s study.
Val pulled Kat into his arms. “Should we get back in the carriage and travel to Gretna?”
Kat shook her head. “Sophie would never forgive either of us. We shall have to endure all her planning.”
He planted a soft kiss on her lips. “At least I know that it will be worth all the fuss.”
Highly
Respectable Widow
To Ron.
For allowing me to shirk all my household responsibilities in the name of “stress reduction.” And I still think you’re cuter than Kevin Costner.
Prologue
For ennui is a growth of English roots,
Though nameless in our language—we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
—Byron, Don Juan
It was time to find a new mistress. Edward Warrenton Beauchamp, the ninth Earl of Knowlton, stared up at the watered-silk canopy stretched over his head, the delicate floral pattern dimly visible in the shaded candlelight. The lady sleeping soundly beside him, despite having been under his protection for less than a month, already bored him. Her throaty lisp, which he had once thought so enticing, now grated on his ears like the raucous cries of a Billingsgate fishwife. Her voluptuous curves, which had promised much, now reminded him of the rotund peasant women he had seen in Belgium. Even her not-inconsiderable talents in bed inspired no more than a brief burst of lust. Yes, it was time.
Knowlton rose from the massive bed and quietly dressed. He pulled the newly fashionable gray trousers over his tautly muscled legs. The crumpled linen shirt—had he really been so careless as to drop it in such a heap?—settled easily upon his shoulders. He did not even bother to button the front of his richly embroidered white satin waistcoat, and he stuffed the limp cravat into his pocket. From the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored coat of black superfine he removed a small, flat box and placed it on the dressing table. Picking up his shoes, he left the room without a backward glance at the sleeping woman.
Easing his weary body against the soft velvet squabs of
his carriage, he found it strange that even such a virtuoso performance as La Belle Marie had given last night should leave him so unmoved. He made a wry grin. Well, perhaps not completely unmoved, he thought as he recalled just how actively he had joined into the exercise. He had the aching muscles to prove it. But the pleasure had fled in an instant, leaving him vaguely dissatisfied, as if there was something more he wanted. Or needed.
He wondered if a long life of excess with women of every shape, size, hue, and class had finally caught up with him. Was this some perverse god’s idea of a joke? To turn the once major pleasure of his life into a tedious routine devoid of the element of excitement, imagination, even satisfaction? For there was more to pleasure than that brief physical release, he knew. But now the act of physical union with a woman had become commonplace, almost dreary.
He glanced outside the carriage to the still-deserted streets of London. Knowlton had a fondness for these early-morning hours, having seen enough of them over the years. He liked watching the harsh outlines of the buildings emerge from the concealing shadows of the night. It was unfortunate that people could not be stripped of the shadows they hid behind as well.
A grimace of disgust crossed his face at his maudlin ram- blings. He needed something to restore his spirits. Invitations to nearly every estate in the kingdom lay piled on his desk, but somehow he sensed that the discomfort that had so dogged him this spring in London would follow him as long as he remained with the beau monde. The thought of a solitary journey across Europe briefly excited him, but then he dismissed that idea as well. Touring alone could be devilish uncomfortable without a companion to take off the rough edges of Continental travel. He absently ran his hand through his light brown hair while he considered. It must be something closer to home.
Of course! He laughed at the sudden realization. Home. The perfect place to restore his restless spirits in comfort and privacy. He had not intended to go to Warrenton until harvest, but what would it matter if he made the journey a few months earlier than planned?
Excitement, which had so long been missing from his life, crept in again. Surely at Warrenton he would find the peace
he found so difficult to obtain in London. The placid countryside would be a balm to his soul. Knowlton endured the remainder of the carriage ride to Upper Brook Street with eager anticipation, prepared to issue the order to pack for Warrenton as soon as he crossed the doorstep. He was going home.
Chapter One
... the soft breeze can come To none more grateful than to me; escaped From the vast city, where I long had pined A discontended sojourner: now free.
—Wordsworth, The Prelude
“What the blazes?”
Knowlton ducked instinctively while his temperamental stallion reared in shock and surprise at the sudden attack. As plums flew through the air, Knowlton struggled to keep his seat, grabbing frantically for a handhold as his horse plunged, kicking and stomping at the fruit rolling under his feet.
“Down, you fool,” he commanded, swaying in the saddle to the skittered dancing of his horse. Knowlton made a darting grab at the dangling right rein, but at the same moment his mount veered left and he found himself unhorsed. He landed with an ignominious plop in a muddy remnant of yesterday’s shower.
“Damn.” Knowlton scrambled to his feet, angrily surveying his mudsplattered clothing. Keeping a wary eye on the orchard from whence the attack had come, he sidled toward his mount.
“You are a disgrace to your kind,” he said in mock disgust to his horse, who now stood peacefully in the middle of the lane, nuzzling the crushed fruit at his feet.
Knowlton bent down and picked up one of the bruised and battered plums that had so startled his mount, gingerly extricating the pit. He extended the plum cautiously toward the nose of his horse, who sniffed it apprehensively at first,
then with relish as he recognized the fragrant smell. Fear forgotten, he grabbed it with his teeth.
“That’s better,” Knowlton murmured, giving the animal a soothing pat. Carefully tying the reins to a bush, he stood back to survey the trees bordering the lane. Plums did not fly through the air on their own. Someone had tossed them. And he intended to find the culprit.
This section of the estate orchard was little maintained, but the old tree limbs bent groundward with their still- abundant load of fruit. Knowlton quickly scanned the field but noted nothing out of place. The assailant must be hiding, hoping his target would move on. Knowlton advanced with determination. One did not throw ripe plums at the Earl of Knowlton with impunity.
Finding a toehold with his boot, he clambered awkwardly over the low stone fence surrounding the orchard. Once on the other side, he searched the ground and trees, looking for some sign of an intruder. Most suspiciously, he discovered a neat pile of purple fruit under one tree, nestled among the tufts of grass. He knew very well that plums did not fall from trees in clumps.
Those well-timed missiles had put him in perilous danger for a few frightening moments, and Knowlton itched to get his hands on his assailant. There would be no more fruit tossed at unwary passersby from this orchard if he had anything to say about the matter.
Knowlton walked carefully to the base of the tree, circling it cautiously lest any more bombs came his way. Catching a flash of movement in the upper branches, he allowed himself a quick smile of satisfaction. He ducked under the low-hanging limbs and squinted up into the dancing leaves.
“I know you are up there,” he said sternly. “It will go easier with you if you come down at once.” A deep silence answered his offer.
“I will not ask again,” Knowlton said, his irritation mounting. “Climb down and present yourself!”
Some tenant was going to get a tongue-lashing for letting his child run wild, Knowlton mused as he quickly searched for an advantageous foothold. Reaching upward to grab a low branch, he pulled himself up into the tree. Leaves and plums bounced against his head as he scrambled onto the
branch. A decidedly loud rustle told him his quarry was above.
Twisting under one branch, Knowlton cautiously sought to rise to his full height. As he did so, a
foot came into view and he clamped his hand around the ankle with an iron grip.
“Got you!” he cried. “You come down here now!”
A quick jerk pulled the foot free from Knowlton’s grasp, and with a loud crackling of broken twigs, accompanied by the soft thumps of falling plums, a dark shape slipped through the branches with surprising speed.
Knowlton jumped to the ground as the young lad took off running through the overgrown orchard. It took only a few long-legged steps to put the boy within reach and Knowlton grabbed a handful of coat, pulling the lad up short and whirling him about.
An immediate appraisal of the red-haired, freckled-faced youth of perhaps ten told Knowlton he had been wrong about one thing—this was no tenant’s son. His shirt, jacket, and breeches, although worn and dirty, were that of a young gentleman.
“You could have caused me serious harm,” he thundered at the trembling boy, in mock fury.
“I didn’t plan to! I didn’t think I could hit you from that distance! I never would have thrown anything if I’d known.” The words slid out rapidly.
Something in the boy’s glib protestations made Knowlton suspect he was in the presence of a master at apologizing for mischievous behavior. No child with hair that flaming shade of red could be anything else but a rascally scamp.
“Are you familiar with the local magistrate?” Knowlton maintained his stem tone.
The boy shook his head.
“Well, I suspect it is high time you became acquainted. There are the small matters of trespassing, assault, attempted theft ... If you are lucky, it might only result in transportation.”
The Defiant Miss Foster & A Highly Respectable Widow Page 24