A Gentleman’s Game

by Theresa Romain

  With fingers and lips and whispered words, they rediscovered one another. And the most important of these words came as she untied Nathaniel’s cravat, as he watched her with eyes that pierced and caressed at once.

  “I love you,” he said. “Which you probably suspected.”

  Though she was nude, she felt warm all through. “And I love you,” she replied. “Which you probably knew.”

  “I didn’t.” He shut his eyes against the tease and tug of his clothing. “I hoped.”

  Rising to her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss against the hollow of his throat. A pulse pounded there, as steady and strong as it was vulnerable. “I hoped for you too. I hoped for you from the first time you made a Houyhnhnm joke and showed me laughter could be slipped into any moment.”

  “I hoped for you from the moment you declined to check the lucerne for mold. When you trusted me.”

  “I trust you,” she said breathlessly.

  He took her to bed. And it was sweet and hot as he moved within her, a blade of joy reforged into passion.

  Because she knew it wasn’t just tonight. It wasn’t just for now.

  Not yet, but soon, it would be for always.

  Twenty-six

  The following morning, before Nathaniel could haul himself into the crested carriage opposite his father, Sir William shut the carriage door and traveled in it alone. The next day, he did the same. And then next, and the next.

  Nathaniel realized that the celebration of the first leg of the journey had come to an end. Now the baronet had more to think about than how quickly Epigram had taken the lead, or whether Pale Marauder could ever be coaxed to spend his energy during the race instead of at the starting line. It seemed that when one learned that one’s secretary had been a spy, albeit an ineffective one, and that one might or might not have a previously unknown daughter, one required some time to become accustomed to these facts.

  This suited Nathaniel, because he had much to think about too. And he never thought so well as when his hands were busy. Tinkering with a water pump or hauling around a trunk. Or in this case, holding Bumblebee’s reins as they trotted up the road.

  As England slid past them in familiar lines, Nathaniel brought his thoughts into order.

  If he wanted Rosalind—and God, how he wanted her—he needed to support a wife. If he wanted to support a wife, he could no longer work in this half-formed job for his father. He didn’t have a home. And he didn’t want the role he had, which would only get smaller and smaller until he became less than he was.

  But Chandlers knew nothing except horses, and Nathaniel knew no other places but the roads of England. What was he fit for except the same things he had always done?

  The road was dusty, the wet spring promising a hot, dry summer. On Bumblebee’s back, Nathaniel followed the carriages. Their wheels tossed clouds before his vision, and he dropped further and further behind.

  And then, around a gentle bend in the road, he caught sight of a familiar hulk of scorched brick. He imagined he heard the whinny of a massive Suffolk chestnut horse, the call of a punter on a small river he could view in his mind’s eye.

  “We’ve reached Kelting,” he realized. After a moment’s hesitation, he urged Bumblebee into a canter. When they caught up to the rest of the party, he called for a halt. Sliding from the horse’s back, he handed the reins off to Lombard and opened the door to the crested carriage.

  Within, Sir William frowned. “You cannot keep calling for a halt whenever you have a shirt to return. For God’s sake, Nathaniel, use the mail.”

  “It’s not a shirt I want to leave here. It’s me.”

  Sir William blinked. “You.” He slid over on the squabs to peer at his surroundings. “You want to stay here? Where is here? We’re not to halt for the day until we reach the Dog and Pony.”

  “This is the village of Kelting. It’s a fine spot along the road, with a river and—”

  “Ah, the fete. This is where that fete was. The one that…”

  When he trailed off, Nathaniel finished the sentence for him. “The one that Anne Jones wrote about to you, yes. It was a wonderful fete.”

  “Life in a tiny village isn’t all fetes, you know.”

  “Of course I know that. Nor is life like that anywhere else. Sometimes life is sick horses or blocked pipes. Sometimes it’s a broken felloes.”

  Sir William’s brows knit. “When did my carriage have a broken felloes?”

  Nathaniel hurried on. “And sometimes life is working in a scullery. Sometimes it involves pulling a pistol. Sometimes it’s abandoning a house that doesn’t suit one anymore.” He squinted at the burned-out walls of the Cock and Bull. “And sometimes it’s rebuilding.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  Nathaniel gestured at the building. “I want to buy that inn. I want to rebuild it. And I want to live in it and return it to use.”

  He wanted to make it his home, and Rosalind’s.

  Someday, if they washed dishes together, he wanted those dishes to be for their own guests or family. When they cared for horses, ill or healthy, the horses would be sturdy geldings and cobs. Horses like Bumblebee and Jake, good-tempered and useful.

  He still had more than thirteen hundred pounds. Far more than enough to buy the land and its remaining building. Enough to rebuild, too, if he was careful with his money. And if he did much of the work himself.

  His hands flexed, eager to begin.

  “A fine dream, but not one to be taken up at impulse,” said Sir William. “Remount, and let’s be on our way again. We’ll be home at Chandler Hall by nightfall tomorrow.”

  “That’s your home. But it’s not my home.”

  Sir William shifted the walking stick from one hand to the other and back before replying. “It could be, you know. If you wanted it to be.”

  Why, that was almost a declaration of fatherly affection.

  In the late light of afternoon, the burned hulk of the Cock and Bull cast a slanted shadow across the road. In its shadow, Nathaniel had kissed Rosalind, who had been burned and who was strong. Who was herself always striving to be better than circumstance wanted to allow.

  Maybe that kiss was when Nathaniel had begun to change. Or maybe he had begun to change long before—the first time he wanted a drink and decided not to take one.

  Maybe both, and every moment in between and since.

  “Thank you, Father, but I’ll stay here,” he decided. “Only let me fetch my trunk, and then you must continue as you like.”

  “And how will that be?” Sir William’s hands went tight on the head of his cane.

  The baronet had given up a great deal for his family, and now he would be alone in an echoing house. Built to suit him, yes, but just because one had everything the way one wanted it did not mean one wasn’t lonely.

  “That’s for you to decide,” Nathaniel said. “But once this inn is rebuilt and open for custom, you’ll always be welcome here. I’ll turn this inn into the sort of place horse-racing travelers need. Secure and safe and healthful, with generous stables.”

  “Hmm.” Sir William set aside the cane, then drew himself up. “You’re decided?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly, the baronet nodded. “Write to me if there’s anything you need.”

  “Are you offering help?”

  “If you’re not too proud to take it.”

  “Oh, I’m proud. But not too proud for that.” Nathaniel grinned. “Though I hope I won’t need it.”

  “Maybe you won’t. If you meet a milkmaid, you’ll know what to do.” After a moment, Sir William’s stern expression cracked into something kind.

  Nathaniel bowed farewell, then said his good-bye to the rest of the party. Once his trunk was unloaded, he turned away. He didn’t need to watch them leave.

  For once, he felt the road had brought him exactly where he ought to be.

  * * *

  A month went by, a month of work that tired Nathaniel to the bone. A month of tracing
the owners of the Cock and Bull, contacting them, and buying the property; of drawing up plans and ordering supplies. When it came time to build, Nathaniel hired all the help he could from among the people of Kelting, but he still did much of the work himself. He was good enough with a hammer or saw, and if he didn’t understand some piece of the plans, he didn’t mind asking around.

  When he designed the family quarters, he built in a bathing room with piped water. That was the only bit of Chandler Hall he missed. Though there was something to be said for the charms of a copper tub, too.

  June had turned dry and warm. In Newmarket, the Jockey Club would be preparing for the July Course races. The summer race meet would bring gamblers and jockeys and trainers and horses from all around England. From beyond.

  He didn’t miss the turf itself, though he’d have liked to visit the new crop of colts. And he couldn’t help but wish his inn were ready to take some of those travelers’ custom.

  George Hutchins, who knew everything and everyone in Kelting, introduced Nathaniel to the inhabitants and shops. Everyone he met was friendly and delighted the inn was to be returned to use, to draw travelers and their business. Many people remembered Nathaniel and “his lady” from the Whit week fete. Not a few young women also inquired about Peters, whose feats of wrestling in his shirtsleeves had made quite an impression.

  Throughout the month, Nathaniel wrote to Rosalind. A month of letters in which he told her of his plans and schemes, and took her advice on how their shape might be planed and smoothed. A month in which he wrote to ask her a question.

  And she said yes.

  I will ask you again when we see each other, he wrote back. When I have a home for us both.

  I would be willing to live in a stall with you next to Old Toby’s brewery, she replied.

  He laughed. Old Toby would be happy to leave the cramped quarters of the Cock and Bull stables. He had sold them back to Nathaniel and would instead rent brewing space in the basement of the newly rebuilt coaching inn. Nathaniel would buy all the ale Toby was able to produce for the taproom.

  He had spent some time with Toby to view the equipment and design the space. Once offered ale, Nathaniel had declined it. And then he explained that he didn’t feel like himself when he drank, and he would rather not anymore.

  Old Toby accepted this with a nod. “Canno’ be someone besides y’self, Chandler.”

  Nathaniel grew used to the smell of ale again, and he neither minded it nor craved it. He didn’t plan to test himself with a pint, but he thought he’d be quite all right having it around.

  He wrote to Rosalind:

  Until there is room at the inn, I am renting a chamber from Hutchins. Shall I get a marriage license from the bishop, or would you rather the banns be called in the Kelting church after your arrival?

  The answer came more quickly than ever before.

  A license, please, so we may marry all the sooner. When you are ready for me, I will come to you.

  Though their letters made the trip in a day on the swift coaches of the Royal Mail, on horseback or in a carriage Rosalind would need several days to reach Kelting. So he summoned her once the inn’s new roof was completed, then worked almost day and night to finish a room or two so they might begin to live there.

  Dear Rosie,

  If you come to Kelting I will give you a posy.

  Dear Nathaniel,

  When I come to Kelting I will bring a spaniel.

  “She’s as horrible a poet as I am.” He smiled when he read this latest letter. They were spending a small fortune on postage, but Nathaniel knew Rosalind had a bit of money on hand. She had, after all, won her wager on Epigram.

  He wondered whether Rosalind was being serious about traveling with a spaniel. He liked the sound of that. Every coaching inn should have a dog or two running about, keeping an eye and a nose on the people who traveled by.

  Not a sheepdog, though. Customers wouldn’t like being herded.

  Rosalind arrived a few days later in a much-traveled carriage, with a large basket over one of her arms. Once she descended the carriage steps, her parents followed. Plump Mrs. Agate and lanky Mr. Agate looked travel weary but gave Nathaniel the warmest of greetings.

  “They wanted to see us married,” Rosalind explained. “My brother Severn was in transports over being given charge of the Eight Bells for a few days.”

  “We wouldn’t have done it,” Mrs. Agate explained, “except our oldest, Bert, came to visit.”

  “A good steady lad,” Mr. Agate added. “Bert will make sure Severn keeps his eye on the business and not on the ladies.”

  With some rearranging of the building materials strewn around inside the half-restored inn, Nathaniel made a room for the Agates and stowed their luggage. They dutifully promised to be on their way after the wedding breakfast, leaving the bride and groom alone, which convinced Nathaniel anew of their goodwill and good sense.

  Arriving at their destination seemed to bring back the Agates’ energy, because Nathaniel’s future mother- and father-in-law were eager to be shown around the inn and its outbuildings. After asking whether he wanted their advice—good Lord, these were fine people—they offered several hints based on their experience of operating a coaching inn. Which he noted with thanks.

  “And of course Rosie knows everything about it too,” said Mrs. Agate. “Anything from scullery to budgets, she’ll chime in. With your hard work and her—”

  “Hard head?” interrupted Rosalind.

  Her mother gave her a fond smile. “If you like, yes. I think the two of you will rub on quite well.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” replied Nathaniel, shooting Rosalind a look that was intended to convey all sorts of salacious meanings.

  She colored. “Not to change the subject, but you have not yet seen what’s in the basket I brought.” While Nathaniel had been assisting her parents with their luggage, she had stowed the lidded basket in the stables.

  The foursome trooped in that direction. The low-slung building had long since lost the scent of horses, and Nathaniel looked forward to bringing it back. Instead, the smell of yeast and wet grain overlaid the air. Old Toby was seated on a bale of hay, cleaning some piece of brewing equipment with a cloth. After the introductions to Mr. and Mrs. Agate, he turned to Rosalind with a wink. “Your little fellow’s been exploring. He’s in that stall.”

  “Oh!” She darted behind the wooden partition.

  When she emerged, it was with a bundle of puppy in her arms. White face and silky brown ears, pink tongue and bright eyes. It yipped a greeting at Nathaniel, who rubbed its little head until the puppy squeezed its eyes shut, wagging its tiny tail in canine delight.

  “Is this a water spaniel?” Nathaniel asked. “He’ll want to be splashing in the river all the time.”

  “She will.” Rosalind smiled. “Look, she has a green ribbon to match mine, so obviously she is a girl.”

  Nathaniel apologized for overlooking this transparent cue. Indeed, there was a bow around the little spaniel’s neck, the same shade as the one on Rosalind’s bonnet. “The color of your eyes,” he said, loving the way she blushed.

  “It makes me feel pretty to wear this ribbon you chose.”

  “I probably ought to say it makes you look pretty too, but I don’t think you need the help of a ribbon to be lovely.”

  She offered him a wicked smile. “I will wear my lace fichu with my wedding clothes. Only wait until you see that.”

  Mr. Agate cleared his throat. “Ah, let’s have that little pup and, ah, we’ll walk her about a bit. Toby, maybe you could show us around? Outside?”

  They collected the spaniel from Rosalind and left her laughing and alone with Nathaniel. “I’ve named her Sheltie, by the way. I liked the idea of having our own Sheltie about the stable. Do you mind?”

  “It’s perfect.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “And now I must show you something too. For the inn.”

  At present, he was using the stable to store some it
ems, including a few papers. Once he found the correct stall, he shuffled through a stack until he laid hands on the right one. “I was thinking of a new name. To make the inn truly ours, not the Cock and Bull anymore. How do you like this for a sign?”

  He handed over the paper.

  She studied it for a moment. “A red deer. I do like the image. Is that what you wish to call the place? The Red Deer?”

  “Ah, not quite. It’s the Rosy Hart.”

  Her brows knit. When the words clicked—Rosie Heart—she turned a most lovely shade of pink. “I can’t think of a better name. It’s perfect.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” Nathaniel set the paper down, then took her hands in his. “Because it’s yours. The inn. My heart. This stable. Well—not Old Toby’s brewing equipment, but every other part of the stable. Oh, and this.”

  Releasing her hands, he pulled something free from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her.

  She held it up to the light. “Is this your medal? From Whit Tuesday?”

  “Yes. Because I can’t think of anything you would want to win that you could not.”

  With a smile, she hung it around her neck. “I love you. Thank you. And what of you? How may I win you?”

  “I am already yours, as I said. I love you dearly, Rosalind. You’ve agreed in writing, so I’m going to hold you to it. But I’d like to hear your answer with my own ears. Will you marry me?”

  She reached for him. “‘I’ll have no husband if you be not he.’”

  Nathaniel took her in his arms. “So that’s a yes?”

  “That’s a yes from two Rosalinds at once.”

  “Ah, your namesake from As You Like It. I once thought it a foolish play, but it does end with a wedding. I got the license of the bishop four days ago, so we have only three more to wait before we can be married.”

  “Three days.” She pushed back her bonnet. “That’s not long to wait. I suppose.”

  “As always, your short sentences are unconvincing.” He lowered his head to the curve of her neck, kissing the line of it. She smelled of soap, the sort he’d used at the Eight Bells when having a bath. Just before he and Rosalind made love for the first time.