The Defiant Miss Foster & A Highly Respectable Widow

by Melinda McRae

  She smiled and he observed how that action brought a glow to her pale face. He longed to reach over and pull off that ridiculous mobcap so he could see her hair in all its glory.

  Robbie bounded into the room at that moment, his face and hands showing signs of a less-than-thorough wash.

  “Robbie!” Katherine exclaimed in dismay, forgetting the earl for a moment. “Look at your clothes!”

  He looked down sheepishly at his filthy breeches, with a tear across one knee. “I am sorry, Mama.” He set down

  the bundle of the earl’s coat on the table. “Here are the plums we picked. Will you make a pie for us, Mama?” She looked in horror at the misshapen garment. “What did you wrap these in?”

  “My coat,” said Knowlton with a grin.

  “You will have ruined it,” she scolded.

  He shrugged. “It was not my favorite coat.”

  She stood up, reaching for the bundle. “I will do what I can to clean it for you,” she said, and whisked her armload out into the hall before he could protest. She was grateful for another excuse to leave the earl’s presence.

  Katherine dumped the plums into a bowl and surveyed the ruin of the earl’s coat. Brushing off a stray leaf, she grimaced in discouragement. It was not terribly dirty; a good brushing would remove most of it. But the weighty plums had done things to the coat that its tailor had never intended. The earl would never wish to be seen wearing it in polite company again. With a shake of her head at the folly of the nobility, she took her clothes brush to the inside. The price of this coat would have kept her and Robbie in clothes for years.

  “I fear your coat is ruined,” she said woefully when she returned to the parlor. “I did what I could.”

  “And much more than you needed to, Mrs. Mayfield. I thank you.” His gray eyes twinkled with suppressed amusement.

  Robbie was bouncing on the edge of his seat. “The earl says I can visit him at his house anytime I want.”

  “That is very kind of you.” Katherine eyed the earl with a wary glance, her suspicions reawakened.

  “Truly, I mean it,” Knowlton interjected, hearing the doubt in her voice. “I do not stand on ceremony with my tenants. There are a good many things at Warrenton to interest a sharp lad like Robbie. He is welcome at any time.” As are you yourself, he thought silently. Most welcome.

  He saw a fleeting spasm of alarm cross her face and feared he had acted too precipitately by inviting Robbie. True, it was not the thing one would expect an earl to do, but Knowlton thought he had explained himself well enough. Robbie did amuse him, and he was sorely in need of amusement. But Mrs. Mayfield sat there glaring at him as if he had asked her to dance naked on the table. His reputation, no doubt. The country gossips would surely have apprised her of that. It might take some time to repair the damage, but he already suspected it would be a worthwhile campaign.

  “Thank you for the water, Mrs. Mayfield.” His mouth curved into a sensual smile. “And for the chance to meet your son.”

  “Thank you again for the plums,” Katherine replied, quickly rising to her feet to hasten his departure. His smile disconcerted her. With relief, she escorted the earl to the door. “We will very much enjoy the preserves they will make.”

  “Ah, yes, I surmised you were an accomplished cook,” he said with an air of mystery.

  Katherine’s expression became puzzled.

  “I might have said it was the delicious aroma of baking bread with which you tortured me throughout this visit,” he said with a roguish twinkle in his eyes. “But actually, it was the dab of flour on your nose that gave it away.” He reached out and brushed the offending spot with his finger, gratified to see the blush that rose to her cheeks. She looked even lovelier with color in her face.

  Katherine willed her voice to remain calm, the skin on her nose still tingling from that gentle touch. “Thank you for pointing out that flaw in my appearance, my lord. I would hate to think that an important person might happen by and find me in such disarray.”

  He admired her aplomb and his grin widened. “It was no less a social crime than having your landlord drop in uninvited and in his shirtsleeves. Shall we call it even, Mrs. Mayfield?”

  She nodded, amused in spite of her wariness. He sketched her a low bow and exited the cottage. Katherine returned to the kitchen, sinking weakly into the comer chair.

  This was far, far worse than she could ever have imagined. In the other places where there had been difficulties, at least she had been personally repelled by the men. But the earl ... It was not difficult to see why he was such a success with women. That devastating smile had sent even her pulse racing. He was handsome, witty, and knew exactly how to set off his not-inconsiderable charms to best advantage. In short, he was every inch the rake his reputation labeled him. She had the sinking feeling that remaining impervious to his charm would be one of the most difficult tasks of her life. But ignore him she must. Men of his station had only one use for poor widows.

  Robbie followed the earl into the yard, watching with worshipful eyes as he mounted his horse and rode away with a farewell wave. He slowly sauntered back into the house, heading straight for the stairs.

  Katherine waited at the bottom. “There is a small matter we need to discuss,” she said sternly. “Were you not told to stay off the estate grounds?”

  Robbie nodded glumly.

  “And haven’t I asked you countless times to take better care of your clothes?”

  He nodded again.

  “Robbie, those clothes have to last you until I make your winter ones.” Katherine shook her head in dismay. “You are already starting to look like a ragamuffin. You will be reduced to wearing your Sunday best soon, and that will mean you shall be confined to the house. I will not allow you to ruin those.”

  “Yes, Mama.” He turned to make his escape.

  “Robbie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Three pages in your Latin grammar. For disobeying me.”

  “The earl didn’t mind,” he protested. “He said it was all right.”

  “But I did not, and it is my word that counts in this house. Now, you march into the study this minute and finish that work, or there will be no supper for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Knowlton nearly laughed aloud as his horse trotted toward home. He had not been so highly diverted in an age. Robbie was a scamp. In fact, he reminded Knowlton all too clearly of himself at that age, when his mother had sworn he would be the death of her and his father had birched him regularly for some transgression or other. He was willing to bet Mrs. Mayfield did not birch Robbie. She had probably devised some equally devilish punishment for the lad—like incarceration in his room on a bright, sunny summer’s day. Knowlton had much preferred a birching to that.

  He was captivated by his short acquaintance with Mrs. Mayfield. She had done nothing to dash the hopes that had blossomed when he had first heard that a widow lived on his property. He could not wait to see her with her hair down. The color reminded him of firelight and sunlight mixed and would look most enticing spread out upon a white pillow.

  Her demeanor, however, gave him pause. He suspected she was exactly what she appeared—a very respectable widow, struggling to raise her son alone on too little money. He would have a quick word with Taggert and see what assistance they could offer her.

  Yet there had been a brief glimpse of something else— her flash of wit at his departure showed there was more to Mrs. Mayfield than first appeared. There had been a hint of mocking amusement in her voice when she gently chastised him for arriving uninvited on her doorstep. She was not afraid to trade barbs with an earl. He liked that.

  The more he thought on it, the deeper his interest grew in Robbie’s mother. Knowlton had little experience with ladies of her ilk—he preferred experienced women of the ton to impecunious widows, for the former knew the rules of the game. He had heard too many tales of the danger of going outside that tight circle, of raising expectations that would
never be met.

  But Mrs. Mayfield posed a challenge. He had ample proof of the stories of redheaded women, that they had a nature more fiery and passionate than even his own. Why else did so many ladies of less-than-virtuous honor dye their hair that color? He rather thought he liked the idea of testing Mrs. Mayfield to see if that adage always held true.

  In fact, it would be a welcome challenge. Could he overcome her widow’s reticence to expose the sensual woman that lay beneath? A lazy smile crept over his features. It was exactly the scheme he needed to bring himself out of his boredom. A true test of his seductive skills. He had no doubt of his success—the only question would be the length of time it would take to bring Mrs. Mayfield to his bed. Cheered as he had not been in weeks, Knowlton whistled a lively tune as he guided his horse toward home.

  Chapter Three

  And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but

  The Truth in masquerade. . . .

  —Byron, Don Juan

  “Mlord?” Knowlton’s imperious butler stood immobile inside the study door.

  “What is it, Hutchins?” the earl drawled in a bored voice.

  “There is a young person here, my lord.” The butler’s tone clearly indicated his disapproval. “He insists he is here at your invitation and wishes to see you.”

  Knowlton looked up with interest. “And what does this importuning guest call himself?”

  “He says he is Robbie Mayfield, my lord.”

  “As I thought,” said Knowlton, lowering his booted feet from his desk. “Send him in, Hutchins. And, Hutchins . . . unless I give instructions otherwise, Mr. Mayfield is to be admitted whenever he calls.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Knowlton grinned as Hutchins departed. So, the rascal was here already. He pushed away the London papers he had been reading.

  Robbie walked into the study, his head swiveling this way and that as he examined every comer of the room.

  “Good morning, Robbie.” Knowlton’s smile widened at the boy’s avid perusal.

  “This whole house is yours?”

  “Every inch of it,” replied Knowlton.

  “How many people live here?” Robbie breathed.

  “Only myself,” said Knowlton.

  Robbie’s eyes widened. “You live here all by yourself?”

  “Only if you discount an army of servants.”

  “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

  Knowlton laughed. “Rarely. I usually am not here long enough to grow lonely. If I am, I invite a houseful of guests to stay with me.”

  “How do you keep them from getting lost inside the house?”

  “I have to be very careful of that,” the earl admitted. “I always count heads at the dinner table. I would hate for someone to starve to death and die in some lonely comer.” He casually walked to the far wall and opened a cupboard door, peering cautiously inside. “I always like to doublecheck,” he told Robbie in a confidential tone. “Just in case there is the skeleton of some former guest that I missed.”

  Robbie shuddered at the thought.

  “I am roasting you.” Knowlton clapped the lad on the back. “Come, I am certain you did not wish to spend the morning in the house. I will show you the stables.”

  Robbie ran to keep up with the earl’s long strides as they crossed the rear lawn. The boy stared in wide-eyed wonder at the paddock, where several horses frolicked and gamboled in the morning sunlight.

  “How many horses do you have?” he asked with awe as they stepped into the seemingly endless stable block.

  “Several,” replied the earl blandly. He was growing uncomfortable with Robbie’s awestruck wonder at every sight. Knowlton had always taken Warrenton’s magnificence and the excellence of its stables for granted.

  “What do you do with them all?” Robbie inquired as they walked past grays, bays, blacks, and chestnuts.

  “They all have their special purposes,” the earl explained patiently. “There are riding horses, horses for hunting, horses for the light carriages, horses for the heavy carriages, and horses for whatever other special need may arise.”

  “I would like to leam how to drive a carriage someday,” Robbie said.

  “You had better learn how to ride first,” Knowlton reminded him. “You are getting a late start as it is, for a cavalry officer.”

  Robbie scuffed his boot against the packed dirt floor. “Mama says we cannot afford a horse,” he said glumly.

  “You do not need your own horse to learn on,” the earl said, making an instant decision. What better way to gain the boy’s confidence? “There must be some beast in this stable that would be quite suitable for you.”

  “You mean you would allow me to ride one of your horses?” Robbie’s eyes grew big.

  “I think I can arrange it,” the earl said, smiling at the boy’s unfeigned eagerness.

  “And you will teach me how to ride?”

  Knowlton hesitated for a moment, then nodded, offering up a silent self-congratulation at this unexpected opportunity. What better way to get on Mrs. Mayfield’s good side than to take an interest in her beloved son?

  “Frank, have Alecto saddled,” Knowlton ordered.

  “Alecto?” Robbie asked. “Wasn’t she one of the Furies?”

  Knowlton smiled. “Far enough in your Greek studies for that, eh? An apt name for a mare, don’t you think?”

  The groom soon led out the medium-size bay, saddled and bridled.

  Seeing the eager expression on the lad’s face, Knowlton remembered how he had been set on his first horse before the age of three, and felt a brush of compassion for Robbie. How long had Mrs. Mayfield lived on the edge of poverty? Long enough that her son had never learned the basic points of horsemanship. He gave Robbie an encouraging smile. “Ready for your first lesson?”

  Robbie nodded.

  “The first thing to remember is: never jerk on the reins,” Knowlton explained to his avid listener. “It hurts the horse’s mouth. Use gentle pulling. And always be firm in your intentions. A horse will sense your hesitation and will use it to take advantage.”

  “Firm but gentle,” Robbie repeated as the groom led the horse over to the mounting block. Now that he stood next to the horse, her back looked a long way up. There would be no Knowlton in the saddle to hold him on this time. Swallowing hard, he stepped onto the block and grabbed the reins. Knowlton helped him slip his foot into the stirrup, then Robbie swung his right leg up and over.

  Knowlton waited patiently while the groom adjusted the stirrups to accommodate Robbie’s short legs. Then he nodded to have the mare led about the yard. He watched Robbie with a critical eye, seeking to take his measure as a potential horseman. He was pleased with what he saw. Despite the lad’s understandable nervousness, his seat was natural and unforced.

  “Take up more slack in the reins,” he commanded. “Hold your hands low, in a relaxed position.”

  Robbie complied readily, looking eagerly at Knowlton for approval.

  The earl nodded his satisfaction. The lad would learn fast, Knowlton thought. He just might make the cavalry after all, despite the fact he was a good seven to eight years late sitting on his first horse. With careful instruction . . .

  “Try a trot, Frank,” Knowlton instructed the groom. “Hang on tight, Robbie.”

  Knowlton grinned as Robbie bounced along at the quickened pace. He saw the gleam of excitement in the boy’s eyes and felt an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction at Robbie’s pleasure. Remembering his own early riding lessons, and the grateful fondness he retained for the old groom who had taught him, Knowlton experienced an odd wish that perhaps someday this boy would look back with the same emotion on the man who had first set him on a horse.

  “You are looking good, lad,” he called in encouragement, rewarded by Robbie’s wide grin of pleasure at the commendation.

  Katherine was pleased that Robbie applied himself so diligently to his studies these days—and if he worked hard only to make certain he would have mor
e time to get into mischief, at least his work was not suffering. She could not ask more of him; she knew how much she already asked by insisting on schoolwork in the summer.

  She knew he spent most of his time with Sam Trent, one of the farmers’ sons. Katherine did not mind the difference in social station; Robbie needed to be with boys of his own age, and if only farmers’ sons were available, well, they would do.

  Sighing, she picked up her basket, preparing to walk to the village. It was probably debatable exactly which class she and Robbie belonged to anymore. The requirements of survival were more important than paying homage to the beliefs of one’s class. Food was more important than status. She had learned that lesson well.

  Katherine accomplished her errands at a leisurely pace, knowing there was no need for haste this day. It was warm and sunny and the sky the brilliant blue of high midsummer. She could not blame Robbie a bit for wanting to be out on such a glorious day. Even she was tempted to follow some childish pursuit—like wading barefoot in the stream or climbing a tree to reach the topmost fruit.

  Unfortunately, neither pursuit was suited to the image of responsibility she assiduously tried to cultivate. With a regretful toss of her head, she ambled down the lane toward home. Mothers were not allowed to behave like children, no matter how much they might wish to.

  Katherine heard the sound of an approaching carriage, and she stepped automatically to the side of the road to let it pass, hoping it would not leave her covered in dust. She relaxed when she heard the vehicle slow.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  Katherine turned in surprise at the sound of the earl’s voice. “Good day, my lord.”

  “Fine weather, is it not?” He doffed his hat.

  “Very fine,” Katherine assented, willing him to drive on.

  “Almost too fine a day for driving,” the earl continued, holding his horses at a standstill. “But alas, without my groom I am doomed to be a-wheel. Should you care to join me?”