The Defiant Miss Foster & A Highly Respectable Widow

by Melinda McRae

  Katherine opened her mouth to speak but closed it again as Hutchins came in with the tea tray. For the next few minutes she busied herself with the tea and filling her plate with the dainty cakes Knowlton insisted on pressing upon her.

  “My weakness,” he confessed as he popped one of the richly buttered delicacies into his mouth. “It is fortunate I allow my cook to prepare them only once a week or I would be as fat as a prince in no time.”

  She raised an eyebrow at his sly dig at the Regent.

  “So tell me, Mrs. Mayfield, why did you and Robbie decide to settle in Lincolnshire? Do you not have family elsewhere?”

  Katherine stiffened slightly at the polite interrogative. “The lease terms on the cottage are very generous,” she replied evasively.

  He sighed imperceptibly, knowing he would get no more

  information out of her. There was a slight air of mystery about Robbie’s mother that intrigued him. For a brief moment he wondered if she really was a widow—perhaps she had merely been the mistress of that dashing cavalry officer. It would explain her straitened financial circumstances. Yet would a cavalry officer have left his sword to his mistress? It was a puzzle.

  “I understand Robbie is taking lessons with the vicar,” he said, trying to hit on a conversational topic that would elicit a positive response from her.

  “He is. I fear Robbie fell behind in his studies this last year when we were in the process of moving. I tried to keep him caught up, but he is well beyond my limited abilities in Greek and Latin.”

  “He will be ready for school one of these days, then.”

  She flushed. “Perhaps.”

  Rnowlton berated himself for such a stupid remark. School was very likely just the type of luxury that Mrs. Mayfield could not afford. He felt a fleeting twinge of anger at that unknown cavalry officer for leaving his widow in such precarious financial circumstances.

  Katherine busied herself with refilling her cup. She hated Knowlton’s solicitous concern. She had deliberately chosen her path; if she was beginning to have doubts that she had made the right decision, she was still unconvinced that it was a disaster either. It was much easier to forget her situation without his subtle references to her poverty.

  “Harvest will start next week,” Knowlton said, attempting to ease the awkwardness in the air. “It is traditional that the lord of Warrenton throw a party for his tenants and laborers at its completion. It has developed into a rather ostentatious affair, I am afraid,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “Footraces and pie-eating contests for the lads, more brawny competitions for the men, while the ladies display their talents in the culinary and domestic arts. I fully expect you and young Robbie to attend.”

  “I do not think—”

  “Consider it an order,” he said sternly. “From your landlord.”

  “Put that way, how can I refuse?” She flashed him a withering glance.

  Ignoring her irritation, Knowlton allowed a slow, sensual

  smile to light his face. “Your presence will make it a memorable event.”

  Katherine concentrated on sipping her tea. What a provoking man! He expended considerable effort to disarm her concerns about Robbie and the horse, then reawakened all her fears with his broad hints of interest and that wicked smile. What kind of a devilish game was he playing?

  After Mrs. Mayfield’s departure, Knowlton sat back in his worn leather chair with a self-satisfied smirk. The victory over Robbie’s pony pleased him. Whatever else came between him and Mrs. Mayfield, he did not want to see Robbie hurt. He must keep his relationships with the lovely widow and her son separate. He knew that now, and felt a twinge of guilt for ever thinking he could use Robbie to ingratiate himself with his mother. It simply would not do.

  There were other methods of conquering Mrs. Mayfield’s fortress. His face broke into a broad grin as he remembered how her emotions had swung from one end of the pendulum to the other and back during their conversation. He meant to keep her off balance, so she would not be able to readily marshal her defenses. Let her wonder just what his game was. As long as he did not rush his fences, it might be just the proper strategy to take.

  He did not know when the pursuit of a woman had so entertained him. Perhaps that had been the source of so much of his boredom in London—there had been no need of pursuit. From the diamonds of the demimonde to the leaders of the ton, they had pursued him. His only problem had been in deciding where to bestow his favors among the many offers. No wonder he had grown jaded. The pursuit of Mrs. Mayfield was just the thing he needed to restore his enthusiasm.

  Despite her present poverty, he suspected she had known much better times. It would certainly account for her stubborn refusal to accept assistance. Her adamant attitude only showed how much she resented her current situation. That was something he could easily rectify.

  She would not be as skilled a lover as he was accustomed to, but that was no matter. Technique could easily be taught, if the pupil was willing. And with that flaming hair, he had no doubt of her suitability. It would be only one more delightful advantage to the situation—the opportunity to awaken a less-experienced woman to her sensual nature. Although he had been often pleased, satisfied, and sometimes even a little amazed at the skills of his many bed partners, there was something to be said for molding a partner to suit his own particular preferences. It would be a most pleasurable task.

  The anticipation of the prize—for he held no doubts of his ultimate success with Mrs. Mayfield—began to have a decided effect. Briefly, he contemplated a minor dalliance to take the edge off his growing hunger. There were several delectable prospects within easy riding distance of Warrenton. But no, he decided. It was all part of the game. His enforced celibacy would only heighten his pleasure at the pent-up release. He would await Mrs. Mayfield’s capitulation with growing eagerness.

  It was time, however, that he did take steps to further his aims. He must move quickly to solidify the gains made today. With the Harvest Home less than two weeks away, if the weather held and the crops were brought in on time, he had a perfect goal to aim for. He would slowly reel Mrs. Mayfield into his net, then pounce when he judged her sufficiently entangled.

  Knowlton shifted in his chair, his mind caught in a reverie that involved removing every last hairpin from Mrs. Mayfield’s upswept tresses, allowing that flaming mass to swirl about her shoulders. Then, with a shrug at such precipitate thinking, he cleared his mind of her. He would never admit to being bored at Warrenton, but he did concede he would not mind some company. That matter could easily be remedied; the shooting would be excellent in a few weeks and he knew there would be no lack of takers for any invitations he tendered.

  Seb Cole would come—if he was not already committed to a rendezvous at some other house with whatever new flirt he had acquired. And he really should ask Hartford, and Drummond—and Pelham was never averse to a convivial gathering. And of course, Wentworth.

  At that name, he paused. He thought Somers would come, but now that he was married, with a fat, drooling little daughter ensconced in his nursery, he might not wish to. Marriage had a way of changing a man. Knowlton would never criticize his closest friend for marrying, although that event had shocked Knowlton to the core. It was too close for comfort.

  Knowlton had nothing against marriage, actually. It was a useful institution—for some. He had a deep certainty, though, that it was not for him. Constancy was not a part of his nature, and no woman had ever captured his interest long enough for him to doubt that supposition. He preferred matters as they were—even if his last mistress had driven him to boredom in less than a month. Knowlton shrugged. He would take care to choose more carefully in the future. He suspected Mrs. Mayfield would not begin to bore him for a long, long time. That thought set off another reverie, this one involving the creamy white shoulders that he knew must lie beneath Mrs. Mayfield’s high-necked gowns.

  Katherine was not surprised to find Robbie waiting in the parlor when she returne
d to the cottage. She saw how he struggled with his desire to know what had transpired at Warrenton, and his very real fear that she had put an end to his riding.

  “I talked with Lord Knowlton,” she said, knowing she must put his fears to rest at once. “And we both decided that for now, you may keep the pony and continue your riding lessons.”

  “I can?”

  “You may.”

  Robbie hurtled across the room and embraced her in a breathless hug. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “I want you to continue to be very polite to the earl,” she continued. “He is very generous, and I want to make certain that he knows how well you appreciate his efforts.”

  “Oh, I will,” Robbie said. “Can I go up to Warrenton now? Atlas will need his exercise.”

  She smiled lovingly at his eagerness. “Yes, you may go. Be careful, now.”

  “I will,” Robbie called back over his shoulder as he raced out the door.

  Katherine sat down with a sigh. He was growing and changing so before her eyes. It would not be so long before he was a young man, and what then? She was going to have to do some very serious thinking about Robbie’s future. Knowlton’s innocent remark had only reminded her of the difficulties ahead.

  Her mind drifted back to her talk with the earl. The man was most exasperating, and she suspected he acted so deliberately to goad her into some unladylike reaction. Yet his interest in Robbie seemed sincere and she could not honestly say that she minded. Robbie had so little contact with adult men; the vicar was the only other alternative. And although she was quite aware that Knowlton was not a stand-in for a father, she did appreciate the time and trouble he took with Robbie. It was difficult for a lad to be without a father, particularly one as enthusiastic and adventurous as Robbie. Knowlton did not seem to be dismayed by the boyish high spirits that often threatened to overwhelm her. It was only one more example of how much Robert’s death, and her own actions afterward, had affected them.

  For Robbie’s sake, at least, she would try to maintain an amiable relationship with the earl. She did not need to have much contact with him, which she thought was all to the good. His presence made her uneasy, as if he could see through all her carefully built defenses to the woman inside. The very part of her that she did not want him, of all people, to see. It would only encourage him.

  She half-believed, after his protestations of friendship today, that they could meet in amiability, without her having to fear any untoward behavior on his part. And she was forced to acknowledge that he had not overtly done anything to cause her alarm. He had jokingly talked of his reputation as a rake, implying that the rumors were overblown, and always assuring her that he would never act against her will. But it was the unuttered aspects of his communication that most disturbed her, the knowing grins, coolly appreciative glances, and appraising looks that caused her the most distress. That man could say more with a glance than with all the words in Christendom. And none of it proper.

  Chapter Six

  When we arise all in the morn,

  For to sound our harvest horn.

  We will sing to the full jubilee, jubilee;

  We will sing to the full jubilee.

  —Nineteenth-century harvest song

  Knowlton’s valet awakened him in the cool hours before dawn on the first morning of harvest. Shivering at the chill in the room, Knowlton quickly donned his well- worn breeches and gratefully pulled a warm woolen coat over his shirt. Once the sun rose, the coat would be quickly discarded, but at this moment it was a welcome bar against the predawn air.

  The rest of the house was beginning to stir as Knowlton made his way to the kitchen for a hasty breakfast of bread and cheese. He simply could not stomach the massive harvest breakfast that was presented to the laborers at the granary. He would take a more substantial repast at the noontime dinner. Knowlton was filled with an eagerness to be off to the fields.

  Ever since he could remember, he had loved the harvest- time. Beginning in June with the first hay cut, harvest continued in one way or another until October, when the last of the fruits had been pulled from the trees. But it was the com harvests of late August that really defined harvest for him. The glorious golden fields were at their peak, the stalks of grain drooping under the weight of their ripe heads. Even the smallest breeze sent rippling waves across the land, like the waves radiating from a stone tossed in a pond. In less than a week it would be gone, the fields reduced to bare stalks of stubble. It was a massive undertaking, a true test of teamwork and organization, a symbol of man’s mastery over nature.

  He had watched the workers in his youth, sneaking out of the house before dawn and not returning until the men had stopped for the night. His father could not understand his fascination with the harvest. Corn was money, and the previous Earl of Knowlton had had no opposition to that. However, he cared little for the process by which it was earned, as long as everything went well and his coffers were filled. But to his son, there was something elemental in watching the men with their razor-sharp sickles moving down the rows like a giant tide, felling everything that stood in their path. As he grew older, he became more and more involved in the process, bringing beer and ale to the workers in the fields, taking the sickles to the smith for sharpening in the evening. Then, in that glorious summer when he was sixteen, he had been given his own sickle by the indulgent bailiff and let loose on the fields.

  The men had not laughed at him, though he could not cut at nearly the same rate as the more experienced laborers. His hands had been bleeding and blistered by the end of the day, and he could barely straighten his back, but he doggedly, if foolishly, kept coming every day until the last stalk had been cut. And in the process, he had earned the grudging respect of the workers, who looked upon the young lord in a new light. Many of those same men, or then- sons, still worked for him, and the bonds forged during the yearly weeks in the fields had lasted through the years. Knowlton treated his tenants well, and they knew it was due to personal interest, not self-serving obligation.

  Most of the workers had finished their breakfast and already gathered at the foot of the first field when Knowlton arrived. He greeted the men with a wave or nod or a friendly call of a name. He saw Robbie Mayfield standing beside the fence, looking a bit awed and forlorn. Knowlton guided his horse to him and dismounted. It would increase Robbie’s status to be seen with him.

  “Excited?” Knowlton asked.

  Robbie nodded. “I hardly slept a wink last night,” he confided.

  “That will not be the case tonight, I’d wager,” said

  Knowlton, suspecting the boy would be ready to drop with exhaustion by midafternoon. He would learn. “Is your mama to be here today?”

  “She will be here to help the parish ladies serve dinner,” Robbie said.

  “The men are ready, my lord,” Taggert, the bailiff, called to Knowlton.

  The earl clapped Robbie on the shoulder. “Do not try to do everything today,” he cautioned. “Harvest lasts many days and we do not want to lose you too soon.”

  Knowlton stripped off his coat and poured himself a foaming tankard of ale from the barrel at the edge of the field. Raising it in salute to the workers, he took a large swallow of the strong brew, then gestured for the work crew to take their own sample. It was customary, this first tasting of the harvest beer. As the day wore on and their throats choked with dust and chaff, they would not appreciate the taste, but only the moisture. When all had sampled the brew, Knowlton took the sickle handed him by Taggert and raised it above his head as a signal to the workers to form their staggered fine. Behind the men stood the women and children, who would bundle the cut stalks into sheaves. Stepping to the edge of the field, Knowlton bent to cut the first swath. Harvest had begun.

  At the sound of the dinner horn, Knowlton straightened cautiously. After stooping for hours, his back ached horribly, if the truth were told, but he would never complain aloud. He no longer worked the entire harvest; it was an indulgence that he could
not justify when he knew there were men more skilled than he who could accomplish the task with greater ease. But Knowlton persisted in cutting on the first day, and the last, to remind his workers that their lord was not too proud to toil alongside them, and to remind himself of the value of the land that was the source of his family’s wealth.

  He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and wiped his face. God, it was hot today. The thought of cool water, wet beer, and the noonday meal quickened his steps across the stub- bled ruin that marked the workers’ path.

  Katherine had arrived at the field an hour ago, curious to see this ritual labor and willing to lend her hand in the feeding of the workers. She hoped Robbie had fared well. It had been thoughtful of Lord Knowlton to invite him to participate.

  “Mama, Mama.” Robbie raced up to her, his face flushed with excitement. “Is it not wonderful?”

  She smiled at his enthusiasm. In truth, there had been little for her to see, for the workers had moved an impressive distance down the field. After the meal, perhaps she would stay and watch for a while.

  Robbie danced at her side as they followed the wagon hauling the food and drink to the workers. The sheer quantity of food provided by the earl impressed her. Knowlton did not stint his workers. There were cold meat and pies, bread, cheese, puddings and, of course, the ubiquitous beer and ale. She wondered dryly how the workers could even stand at the end of a harvest day with the quantity of beer that they drank. Eight quarts was a prodigious amount for anyone to consume.

  She could see the workers now as the laden food wagon rolled to a stop. They stood in small groups, laughing and joking while they traded gibes about each other’s prowess with the sickle. A few men stood about the water barrels on the wagon, eager to wash the grit and dust of the field from their bodies before the noonday meal. Katherine turned to speak to Robbie, when she caught sight of the earl.