by Wendy Vella
But, now that he had spent several months licking his wounds and commiserating with his mother, Gabriel realized that maybe Lady Elizabeth was right. He needed to find a woman he could honor. A woman who would honor him by not cuckolding him just as soon as the first heir was born. A woman he could share a bed with—not just so they could enjoy a tumble, but because they might on any given night. Or in the morning. Because they cherished one another. Because they ...
Dare he say it?
Because they felt affection for one another.
If only he had been born in a different family, he might have realized the importance of a spouse who would support him, a woman who would cherish him and welcome him into her bed and make love to him like no other woman had ever done.
George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, had that honor with Lady Elizabeth. Their union was one of affection. More than affection, really. If the rumors were true, the two enjoyed a marital bed like no other couple Gabriel could imagine. Apparently, the viscount was at his wife’s beck and call when it came to sexual relations—or any request, for that matter. The latest rumor claimed the man had excused himself from the House of Lords when his pregnant wife sent a footman asking that he return to Bostwick House because she—and this was only rumor—‘needed him to relieve her increasing back pain’. Apparently, the viscount was able to do just that, because he returned to chambers only ninety minutes later with a rather satisfied smile on his face. And a rather red face.
Gabriel wondered if he would ever do such a thing for his wife, should he ever find someone to marry.
Well, he now knew he had better.
Knew that he would have to do such a thing for his expecting wife. Cherish her as if she were the only woman on the planet. As if his very life depended on her. Because, at this point, his only path to siring an heir was if he could find a woman willing to become his wife. His handsome good looks, blue eyes, curly blond hair and thirty thousand pounds a year could only go so far in attracting a suitable wife; given his reputation in London, a woman would only be willing to marry him if he could offer something beyond the title of ‘countess’.
“And, you?” Alistair asked, wondering at his friend’s sudden silence. The earl looked as if he was a million miles away.
Gabriel pulled himself into the present. “And, I ... must find a wife,” Gabriel stated before he drained the contents of his tankard. “The sooner, the better.” He leaned over the trestle again. “And you? What are you after?”
Alistair regarded Gabriel for a long time before he answered. At least he didn’t have to marry ... at least, not right away. He was the second son, after all, and had a bit of leeway when it came to whom he married.
And when.
“A way to make a living,” Alistair stated with a cocked eyebrow. “Father has cut me off.”
Surprised at the simple statement, Gabriel furrowed his brows. “Why?” he asked, curious as to the reason the Earl of Aimsley would disown his second son. Especially since Alistair had been an officer in the British Army.
Shrugging, Alistair decided truth was the best course when it came to explaining his situation. It was unlikely the earl would believe him anyway. “I sold my commission in order to fund a five-percenter so I could give fifteen pounds a month to one of my regiment’s widow and her children,” he stated, his words so clear he might have sounded sober for the first time since hitting the shores of England.
Gabriel considered this comment for a long time before replying. “Sold it ... for how much?” he wondered, thinking that even a five-percenter wouldn’t pay enough to cover the debt every year until the widow died.
“Eight-hundred pounds,” Alistair answered with a sigh.
Not enough, indeed.
“How much do you need?” Gabriel asked then, thinking he would simply give the necessary funds to his friend. I’m rich as Croesus. Who in his earldom would notice a few thousand pounds were missing? He could tell his estate manager it was a gambling debt.
Alistair stared at his friend, on the one hand impressed that Gabriel would understand his situation and on the other incensed that the earl would think Alistair needed help with funding the promise he had made to one of his soldiers. “I don’t. I’ll find a position and pay the debt myself,” he murmured, deciding not to sound too offended.
Alistair had already made up his mind he would see to the debt. Since his father had decided he had somehow erred in making the promise to Michael Regan, then it was his responsibility to find a paying position to fund his promise. If it meant being a footman in a duke’s estate home, then he would do so, although he rather doubted a position as a footman would pay enough. At least he would have room and board.
“Doing what”? Gabriel wondered before draining his tankard. The barmaid was at his elbow in an instant, setting down a new tankard and removing the empty one before he could raise a hand to summon her. She raised an eyebrow in Alistair’s direction.
“Another for me,” Alistair said to her wordless query. She set down a tankard and removed his empty one, giving him another raised eyebrow. “Ten shillings, and I’ll have you sleeping like a baby,” she offered, her free hand moving to her hip as if she were challenging him.
Alistair looked up in surprise. He had to look like a world-weary traveler. Or an old fogey, given the way he had practically limped into the tavern, not having ridden a horse in nearly a month.
“I appreciate the offer, love,” he replied with a nod. “But I’ll be sleeping like the dead before the hour is out,” he added sadly.
The barmaid tossed her head to one side and twirled away, obviously taking his rejection personally. He stared into his mug of ale, realizing it would be his last for the evening.
What had Gabriel asked before they were interrupted? “Oh, and if you know of someone who needs a stableboy, I could use a position,” he stated with a sigh.
Of all the positions he could fill at an aristocrat’s home, stableboy or groom would suit him perfectly. His second home was Tattersall’s, after all. And although he had asked at that establishment first, the owner had obviously not believed he was serious about working at the horse trader’s facility—as a groom or in any other position.
Gabriel considered his friend’s response, not believing Alistair would be willing to work in service in order to make his promised payments to a war widow. “Lord Mayfield was complaining at White’s last night that his stable lacked a decent groom,” he offered, giving Alistair a shrug.
Straightening on the trestle seat, Alistair stared at Gabriel. “Mayfield?” he repeated. Stanley Harrington, Earl of Mayfield, had one of the finest stables in Park Lane! Alistair had been present for at least half of the earl’s purchases at Tattersall’s. “I’ll inquire,” he said with a nod. “Thank you.”
Gabriel gave his friend a nod. “I’m heading back to Bilston in a fortnight,” he stated before taking a quick drink from his new tankard.
Alistair nodded. “Back to the earldom?” he wondered, thinking Gabriel would return to Staffordshire to lick his wounds and find a woman he could employ as a mistress. It wasn’t as if Trenton was really ready to find a wife.
“Hmm,” Gabriel murmured in reply. “And to a certain inn where I hope to find a barmaid with a rather round rump,” he replied with a wicked grin.
Raising an eyebrow, Alistair wondered why he couldn’t feel joy at the earl’s comment. At one time, he, too, would have welcomed the charms of a barmaid with a round rump. But now ... now, now he was tired. War weary. Disillusioned. And in need of a bed and a good night’s sleep.
Tomorrow he would head to the home of Lord Mayfield and see to a position as a groom. If he could convince the man in charge of the stables that he could handle horses and was willing to work hard, he just might land a position. And a position in the stables usually meant a room above the stables. Not the best quarters on an estate, but probably better than what he had endured the past few years on the Continent. “Safe travels,” Alistair o
ffered as he raised his tankard.
Gabriel regarded his friend and finally gave him a nod. “And to you, too,” he said before tapping his tankard against the one held by Alistair. “When next we meet, one of us had better be married.”
Alistair’s eyes opened wide. Was the earl daft? “Then, it had better be you,” he replied with a lopsided grin.
Smiling and shaking his head, Gabriel Wellingham replied, “Only if I can marry a barmaid.” He drained his tankard in one long gulp and took his leave of the tavern.
Chapter Two
A Dare
March 1816
“He is rather handsome,” Lady Samantha commented, one hand pressed against the glass of Lady Julia’s bedchamber window. “In a brutish, very manly sort of way.”
The object of her attention was obviously down below, for if anyone was handsome and directly outside Lady Julia’s bedchamber, they would have to have wings and be able to fly or be perched upon rather tall stilts. There was no tree or trellis to provide a climber a way to reach the bedchamber from below.
“Who is?” Julia wondered, moving to join her friend at the window. Afternoon sunlight filtered into the room as she drew back the heavy velvet drape with one hand. Glancing down, she could see one of the kitchen maids cutting herbs in the garden below. Just behind the garden’s low rock wall lay the paved alley, and beyond that, the mansion’s mews and carriage house.
After a moment, she realized to whom Samantha referred. A groom was brushing her father’s favorite riding horse, Thunderbolt, at the edge of the pavement. When the young man’s head lifted to draw the brush down the animal’s neck, the brim of his cap no longer hid his features.
Julia’s inhalation of breath made Samantha smile. “You agree then?” she murmured, obviously pleased with her assessment. Before Julia could respond, the groom had paused in his task, removed the cricket cap that hid most of his facial features from the young ladies, and used his forearm to push a lock of his dark hair from his face. For just a moment, his face was angled up, his eyes closed against the afternoon sun.
Julia sighed her appreciation. “He is handsome,” she agreed, wondering if the groom in question had noticed the two of them spying on him. The young man certainly didn’t look like a typical groom. He was rather tall and lean, although Julia realized his shoulders were quite broad—he wore a shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a waistcoat, but no topcoat. The exposed forearms displayed muscles that shifted beneath his bronzed skin as he continued brushing Thunderbolt. When he moved around the horse to brush the side facing them, she noted the look of his boots, the shape of his legs in the almost snug breeches he wore.
When had a groom ever looked ... not like a groom? she wondered.
And when had he joined the staff of Harrington House?
She had never had this particular groom as an escort when she took her afternoon rides in Hyde Park, nor did she recognize him as the one who usually saddled her chestnut bay—she would remember this particular groom!
Just as she was about to remark on this fact, the groom in question bent down, presumedly to check Thunderbolt’s hooves.
“Oh!” It was Samantha’s turn to put voice to her appreciation of the groom’s physique. “Even his bottom is ...” She left off as a giggle erupted. She moved her hand to cover her mouth as Julia joined her in her amusement.
“Everything about him is ...” Julia broke off suddenly and stepped away from the window, a hand over her own mouth. Samantha followed suit, her eyes quite wide.
“I think he saw me,” Samantha whispered, a hint of shock in the simple words.
“I am quite sure he saw me,” Julia countered, her hand moving from her mouth down to her chest. She felt the pounding of her heart beneath the sprigged muslin gown she wore.
Had the groom really spied her spying on him? One moment he had Thunderbolt’s hoof in one hand, his attention on the shoe, and the next, he was standing with his back to the horse and his attention directed toward her bedchamber window. And her! Did the man have especially sensitive hearing? Despite the unusual warmth of the afternoon, her window was closed. What had compelled him to look up?
Julia finally glanced over at Samantha, her look of surprise still in place. Samantha’s face was a mirror of her own. As if on cue, the two began to giggle, their embarrassment at having been discovered causing their cheeks to redden. “I do not know what has come over me,” Julia said as she dared another glance out the window. “But I am quite convinced that groom is much too handsome to be a groom.”
Samantha settled herself on the edge of Julia’s bed, her arms crossing in front of her. “What would you have him be?” she wondered as she watched Julia’s careful observation of the stables below.
“Well, not a groom, certainly,” Julia replied after a moment. The groom’s attention was back on Thunderbolt, one of his hands gripping the bridle as he led the beast into the stable. When he disappeared from sight, Julia turned around to face her friend. “Not a servant of any sort, in fact.”
From where she sat on the bed, Samantha regarded Julia with a raised eyebrow. “What then?” she countered. “A shopkeeper? A solicitor? A vicar?” She lifted her head as she considered her friend’s implication. “Or a gentleman?” she added to her list. Her eyes widened. “You think he should be a gentleman just because he is ... handsome?” she spoke with a hint of disbelief. “Julia!”
But Julia was shaking her head. “Not just because he is handsome, Sam,” she replied, glancing out the window from a safe distance away. “He holds himself as if he is a gentleman, as if he were born to it,” she reasoned.
“However can you tell from this far away?” Samantha countered, her eyebrows rising in disbelief.
Julia gave a shrug and turned back toward the window. “I just can,” she replied. “In fact, if I were to have my brother’s valet dress him, I would wager he could walk down Bond Street, and everyone would think him a gentleman.”
Samantha’s mouth dropped open. “Wager?” she repeated in shock. “Julia,” she spoke in a scolding voice. “Be careful what you say, or I shall be tempted to dare you to do such a thing.” She paused, thinking of how those from the country sometimes sounded when they spoke. What if the man was from Wales? Or Scotland? Or any of the northern counties? “I rather think as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, anyone who hears him will know he is not a gentleman.”
A smile appeared on Julia’s face. “Indeed?” she replied, a mischievous expression appearing. “Then, I shall go one better. I believe he can be taught to speak like a gentleman,” she boasted, suddenly wondering from where the groom hailed. She could only hope he wasn’t from Wales or Scotland. Or any of the northern counties.
Rolling her eyes, Samantha grinned. “And perform a perfect bow?” She rather liked having fun at her friend’s expense. “He cannot be a true gentleman unless he can dance at a ball,” she teased.
Julia straightened when she realized what her best friend was doing. She was daring her to make a gentleman out of the groom! “He can be taught how to bow. And how to dance. I am sure of it,” she claimed, the color in her face turning to a pinkish blush as she made her case.
Samantha uncrossed her arms and stood up. “All right, then. I dare you to do it,” she stated, the edges of her mouth curled up to indicate she wasn’t completely serious. How could Julia make such a claim? “I dare you to make a gentleman out of your groom.”
Crossing her arms and angling her head to one side, Julia regarded her friend for perhaps a few seconds too long. For just as she was about to admit she was perhaps a bit too boastful and concede defeat, Samantha said the only words that could make Julia change her mind again.
“I don’t just dare you,” Samantha whispered, her eyes closing to almost slits. “I double dog dare you.”
Chapter Three
Being Watched
The hair on the back of Alistair Comber’s neck did something it hadn’t done since his return to England over a mo
nth ago—it lifted from its resting place. The sensation was familiar, one he’d learned to trust during his time on the battlefields in Europe while fighting Napoleon’s forces.
Something—or someone—was watching him.
Had he still been in Belgium, he might have ducked down or taken cover, but given his crouched position next to a horse at least sixteen hands tall, one hoof cradled in his hands, he merely stilled his body and considered his options.
He knew the head groom of Harrington House would be returning soon from driving Lady Mayfield’s carriage through Hyde Park. The fashionable hour on Rotten Row was nearly over by now. A kitchen maid was busy in the herb garden, but he would have noticed if her head had popped above the level of the rock wall that bordered the back of the garden. Lord Stanley Mayfield was presumedly in his study enjoying a brandy, or whatever the man drank after his early afternoon ride on the very horse Alistair was brushing at the moment. Their son, William, was away at Cambridge for his second year of school. Besides any other servants that might have cast a glance his way, that left Lord Mayfield’s daughter—he found he couldn’t remember her name, but he could be excused since he hadn’t actually met the chit—the only Harrington in residence.
Before he had a chance to consider the repercussions of his action, he angled his head and dared a glance in the general direction of the windows of the mansion’s second story. A face—no, make that two faces—were staring down at either him or the horse he was brushing. Given the realization the faces were of a feminine nature, his ego decided they were staring at him.
At least, they were before they both suddenly disappeared.
He blinked, wondering if he had imagined the two young women who he’d caught staring. But no, he decided they were very real. Young, but no longer in the schoolroom, he guessed. Old enough to be out in Society? Perhaps. Pretty? Very. They had probably made their come-outs during the past Season or would at this one and would spend their summers at their family estates in the country.