A Proper Guardian

by Carolyn R. Scheidies

  His companion had been the green-eyed redhead, Lady Bridget. Throughout the performance she flirted with her mysterious eyes, with the warmth of her body next to his, and with the possessiveness of her hands.

  Lord Alistair returned home alone, irritated and frustrated. He thought to break the tedium of his life since returning to London by escorting Lady Bridget around town. However, her lack of decorum grated on him in a way it might not have done before his evening in the company of Winter. Did Lady Bridget simply wish to sit in his pocket or to have something more permanent? He certainly did not see Bridget remaining faithful to him throughout the years, nor he to her. That gave him pause.

  Winter was different from any woman he had met in London. His mother would have liked her. So, too, his aunt. Despite her problems, she exuded an inner strength, an inner joy that sparkled from her large blue eyes.

  Since their encounter, his own life seemed like so much drudgery. Yet he knew, from his own experience, the mindless revelry of the young bucks with too much money and not enough sense also led to boredom and emptiness. Not that he completely cut himself off from the frivolities of the social world. Though his responsibilities lay heavy upon him, they did not keep him from occasionally putting his duties behind him. On the upper corner of his desk sat his latest invitation.

  Lord Alistair bent his head over his work and forced himself to attend to his manager’s latest requests. Two hours later he leaned back. Putting his morbid thoughts behind him, Lord Alistair strode up the wide staircase to his bedchamber. “I’ve decided to attend the prince at Carlton House tonight,” he announced to his valet.

  Instead of riding in state in his fine red-and-black carriage with a coachman, Lord Alistair drove his own phaeton with his tiger hanging on the back. He counted on a lighthearted evening with friends to divert his depressing reflections. The dinner at Carlton House, Prinny’s residence and hub of his rakish social circle, would invariably contain courses too numerous and too rich to set comfortably.

  “I’ll just have to eat and drink sparingly,” Lord Alistair told himself. Unlike many of his circle, he despised those who imbibed to the point of idiocy.

  Then again, since debutantes were invited for the evening that would end in a ball, mayhap Prinny’s more bawdy cronies—especially those most likely to tempt a husband-hunting mama—would absent themselves. He smiled to himself. If he stayed, he would take care not to fall into their clutches.

  The majordomo announced Lord Alistair into the opulent hall, already crowded with ladies in costly gowns with scandalous décolleté and dripping in jewels, side by side with young women in modest virginal white and gentlemen in their own finest formal wear and jewels. As he sauntered into the room, the crowd parted to let him make his way unhindered to Beau Brummell, who stood by his friend and sponsor, the Prince of Wales, the next King of England. Both men effusively greeted Lord Alistair.

  After properly greeting the Prince, Lord Alistair nodded toward London’s fashion leader. “George.”

  Brummell scanned him bottom to top. “Nicely done. Not too much. Just enough.” Grudgingly, he gave his approval to Lord Alistair’s elegant but simple well-tailored turnout.

  As expected, the dinner was a long drawn-out affair. The lady to his left simpered through each course. When she spoke disparagingly of the farmers, he coldly turned to the gentleman on his right only to, once again, find the gentleman totally engrossed in tipping his wineglass.

  As the meal dragged on, Lord Alistair wondered why he ever thought to find diversion here. All around him he heard the latest on-dits, latest speculations, latest shallow comments that grated on his nerves. His lips twisted with cynicism as he thought of their response if they knew of his own involvement with the government affairs they spoke of so disparagingly and with such ignorance.

  After dinner, when he would have excused himself, he found himself carried along to the ballroom. Sighing, Lord Alistair joined a group of well-dressed gentlemen, conversing quietly among themselves as they critically surveyed the couples on the floor.

  “Alistair, good to see you again. Heard you were rusticating in the country.” A beefy hand shook his.

  “Lord Heywood.”

  Lord Heywood grimaced as he glanced toward the dance floor. “Look out there, Alistair. What do you see?”

  Alistair viewed the young women dancing politely with their rather bored partners. “I see nothing unusual. A bevy of debutantes, desperately seeking wealthy, titled husbands, and the more dashing beaus flirting with the more available and less confining widows.”

  Lord Heywood chuckled. “Exactly so, Alistair. Look at those chits. Not an original among them.”

  Lord Sear, a thin gentleman who nervously tugged at his lapel, spoke up. “Still, they are lovely decked out in their finery.”

  “Ah, but all of the same mold,” said Heywood. “I’ll wager there isn’t a chit among them who is educated in more than manipulating her way to the altar. What do they care the treaty is disintegrating, and soon Boney will be at our throats once more?”

  Alistair glanced around the room. “Since the Treaty of Amiens last year, most of our countrymen assume Napoleon has become respectable.”

  Lord Heywood snorted. “Once a conqueror, always a conqueror. He won’t be satisfied for long.”

  Sear nervously fingered the glass in his hand. “Serious about a unique entry into this season’s marriage mart, Heywood? A serious wager?”

  “Right and tight.” Lord Heywood grinned. “I’ll put up a thousand pounds just to see a unique, intelligent woman popped off.”

  “Intelligent?” Alistair’s thoughts turned to Winter. “Just what are you looking for?”

  “Well, let’s see. Someone who doesn’t ape this crowd. Someone not out just for a warm body with deep pockets and a title.”

  Sear frowned. “Heywood, that’s the whole reason those chits are in London. Their parents don’t lay out hundreds and hundreds of pounds just for them to have a good time.”

  “You want a bluestocking?” This from Alistair.

  “Spare me, Alistair. I said intelligent, not badly turned out. No, I am looking for someone who wants more. Someone who looks beyond herself. And,” he added, “the chit absolutely must not simper or giggle at every word spoken to her.”

  “My, my.” Lord Sear shook his head. “Don’t ask much, do you? Just who is to be the judge of this paragon?”

  Heywood puffed out his barrel chest. “Myself, of course. After all, it is my pockets to let if someone produces this original.”

  “The season has already started. How long do we have?”

  “A week or so, mayhap.”

  “There you are, Justin.” Lady Bridget, having just arrived, possessively looped her arm through his. “Come. Time to leave your stuffy conversation.”

  Reluctantly, he allowed her to drag him away from his friends, his mind already busy with a very interesting idea.

  She tried to focus his wondering attention on herself. “How long have you been back in London? I haven’t seen you about.”

  “I’ve been busy,” he grunted in response.

  “Was your trip excessively dreary? Poor man, having the burden of some dimwit on your hands.”

  Laconically, Alistair smiled into her jealous green eyes that suddenly reminded him of cat’s eyes. “Not so dreary after all, Bridget.”

  A light shown in his eyes as he thought of his innocent ward. He only later realized his companion thought the warmth of his eyes was for her.

  Unique, thought Alistair. Heywood demands unique. He envisioned the unpretentious Winter done up in the new simple-but-fashionable style, her gorgeous hair rippling down her back.

  Of course, why not bring Winter to London? How many even knew how long ago Lord Renton died? To own the truth, she needed to get out of the country an
d meet someone more suitable than Lord Derik.

  Though he had not attempted to contact her since leaving her and returning to London a couple of weeks earlier, he had not been able to get her from his mind. High time he made a visit. High time he brought her to London.

  Meeting and parting with Bridget in the minuet, Alistair’s thoughts remained on his ward. He noted Lady Bridget’s attempts to get his attention and pulled back when she pressed her sensuous body against his. He wondered, not for the first or tenth time, about her motivation for seeking him out. From the on-dits at his club, she seemed less than ready to settle down, and yet her hints were too specific not to make him think elsewise. He needed to take care or he’d find himself leg-shackled. He eased away from her clinging arms.

  The next morning Alistair climbed into his carriage, an elegant, well-sprung red-and-black vehicle with the family coat of arms emblazoned on the doors, and let the coach carry him to Renton Hall.

  Not until he stopped for the night at a posting-house did Lord Alistair realize he had not considered bringing along a lady’s maid or a chaperone for Winter.

  “Surely she can find someone to travel with her,” he told himself, then frowned. Not having a chaperone on the journey could easily cause a scandal and ruin Winter’s chances in London.

  The next morning, rested and eager to be on his way, Alistair climbed into the carriage. After the footman closed the door, Alistair laid his head back, his expression softening at the thought of Winter’s large blue eyes and silvery hair.

  * * *

  The past couple of weeks had gone swiftly for Winter, who stayed busy overseeing the tenantry, the farms and cottages, the household, gardens, parkland, paddocks and stables. For the first time, she began to admit the load was indeed a heavy one to bear. Even when her father was ill, he had been there to advise.

  Warmer weather brought forth the old rivalry between the farmers Jones and Andrews, and she rode out to find them yelling at each other.

  Jones growled, “’Tis mine to farm this year.”

  Andrews countered, “You had this strip of ground last year.”

  “Turn and turn about. That’s what the old lord told us, and it’s my year.”

  Seeing her, they nodded stiffly and tersely claimed the right to farm the small strip of land between their farms that had been a point of contention for years.

  “Did not my father say each of you could use the land on alternating years?” Jupiter shifted restlessly under her tight rein. “So what is the problem?”

  “Jones here was sick last year, and I farmed the land,” Andrews told her. “Now he claims the right to it this year.”

  Winter asked, “That’s a problem?”

  “Not for me.” Jones shrugged. “What difference, one year to the next?”

  Andrew leaned on his hoe. “Ah, but my lady, I was trying that rotation system of yours. I need this year to balance out last.”

  “Very good, Andrews.”

  Jones protested. “I need the land, as well, m’lady. Martha is increasing again and we need the income.”

  Glancing toward the neat cottages, Winter spied the wives of the men standing close together, their hands clasped. She sighed, frustrated at the continued fighting between the men over such an insignificant parcel of land.

  Wheeling Jupiter, she rode up to the women. “Martha, congratulations. Jane.”

  A smile of pleasure crossed the faces of the women, who curtsied awkwardly. “M’lady.”

  Jane stepped forward. “I am sorry they are at it again. We tried to stop them.”

  “As though,” Martha grumbled softly, “they are the only ones without enough land.”

  Winter straightened. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, m’lady,” Jane said. “Between us we have barely a spot of garden large enough to feed our—” she grinned slyly at her friend before continuing “—growing families.”

  “I see.” Winter knew the women were not only long-time friends, but cousins, as well. An idea formed all of a piece. “There is no need to brangle about this. I know what to do!”

  Motioning the men to her side, she declared, “From now on this contested land will be shared equally.”

  The two men glared at one another. The women sighed.

  “You don’t understand.” Winter smiled toward the wives. “From now on Martha and Jane, this is yours to garden together.”

  She was rewarded with the smile and fumbled gratitude from the two women while the men took it in more slowly. The excitement of their wives decided them.

  Jones scratched his head. “Well I’ll be.”

  Andrews agreed. “Done right well, m’lady. His lordship be proud, he would.”

  Winter blinked back tears as she accepted their thanks. Not until she was out of sight, did she let her shoulders droop in exhaustion. She had thought to handle everything herself, but it was getting to be too much. Mayhap it was time to find an estate manager, but... Her pride alone kept her working without the interference of a manager.

  Her thoughts turned, as they often did, to her tall, commanding guardian. Mayhap he could find her a manager. “No,” she said aloud, “I will not give him cause to doubt my abilities. Besides, he has probably all but forgotten me.”

  That thought did not cheer her as she had intended.

  Truth to tell, her loneliness grew with each passing day. As she passed through the wood, she heard the twittering of the birds as they set up their nests, watched one rabbit follow another across the path.

  She thought of Duncan and his wife, but, however dedicated they were to her, they had each other and their family.

  She had only one friend and to him she had insisted she needed no one but herself. After only two weeks, she was finding self-sufficiency decidedly uncomfortable, especially where Viscount Derik was concerned.

  Several times he had dropped by on one pretext or another. Once he was looking for a horse, another time he complained of a downed fence. Always he was arrogant, and always assumed that sooner or later Winter would be forced to accept him.

  She found him waiting for her when she returned home. At his condescending smile, she rubbed her forehead, feeling the headache start as it had been wont to do of late whenever she dealt with the viscount.

  “Not today, Anthony. I don’t wish to argue with you today.”

  “Fine. Don’t argue.” Impatiently, he tapped his riding boots with his riding crop. “Just agree you’ll have me. If you agree, I am certain that your guardian, who seems less than interested in your welfare, will be glad to get out from under his obligation.”

  His statement so closely mirrored Winter’s own assessment, she winced. Her head pounded and her eyes blurred with exhaustion—or was it tears? “No. And again, no! I do not love you. I do not even like you, and I certainly will not marry you. Not now, not ever.”

  When he reached for her, she stepped back and rang for Duncan. “You have overstepped all bounds of propriety with your continual visits.”

  He smiled sardonically. “Who’s going to stop me?”

  Winter shivered under his threat. “Oh, Anthony. Go, please.”

  The butler, standing in the open doorway, cleared his throat. Frowning, Anthony took the hint.

  “I won’t wait forever, Winter. I have plans for you...for us. You will marry me.” With that the viscount pivoted smartly and strode confidently from the room.

  Winter felt the bars of his cage closing over her. Brushing aside the feeling, she left the room for the study, where, one by one, she hauled out the different ledgers.

  Opening one at random, she buried herself in book-work in order to bury also the viscount’s threat. After an hour or so, she closed the book with a snap. She ached from head to toe.

  Though the sun had not yet hit its zenith,
Winter felt she’d already worked a full day, and she wasn’t far wrong. Fingering her dusty Bishop’s blue habit, she decided that a warm bath and a change of clothing before luncheon would not be amiss.

  Purposefully, she set the ledgers back into the drawer and closed it, before leaving the room. She met Duncan in the hallway.

  “Duncan, would you have someone draw me a bath.”

  “Very good, m’lady, but you have a visitor. I put ’im in the east parlour.”

  Winter’s heart sank. “A visitor. Not Lord Derik again.”

  “No, m’lady. Saw ’im out myself.” She didn’t miss the satisfaction in his eyes.

  “Then it must be Lord Nelson. Probably his usual once a week pilgrimage.”

  “No, m’lady.”

  Her face brightened. “The reverend? Haven’t seen him since father died.”

  “No, m’lady. In the parlour.”

  Irritated at his unusual reticence, Winter struggled with hostility, born of the depletion of her strength, pricking at her. All she needed was one more dubious and insulting proposal.

  With effort, Winter straightened and attempted to walk slowly and gracefully, but gave up. She was just too exhausted to disguise her limp, for her leg was always weakest when she was tired. It did not bode well for her visitor.

  Entering the open, heavily carved double doors, Winter stopped. “Lord Alistair?”

  Hearing the lilt of welcome, he grinned, and she blushed. He made her acutely aware of her dusty skirt and mud-splashed riding boots.

  Instinctively, she smoothed her skirt and limped toward him, her fury rising under his steady gaze. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” she complained, then bit her lip.

  “Like what?” he asked. “As if you were a nymph rising from the sea, her moonlit hair streaming behind her, cheeks kissed by the breeze?”

  Winter stared. “What! I thought... Oh, never mind.”

  Alistair raised her hand to his lips as he looked down into her face. Gently, he traced the tired lines etched under her eyes. “I was not mocking you, my dear Winter.”