Connor’s teasing voice floated overhead. “He’ll be fat as his namesake within a year.”
A pleasant shiver chased over her skin as he stepped up behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his powerful legs against her back. She had the passing thought that it was a pity she’d not had the foresight to agree to his original demand of sharing her bed ten times a day.
“He’ll not,” she said pertly, tilting her head back to give him a smile. “And he’s not named for the Prince Regent. He’s named for his mother’s father.” Who had been, now that she thought on it, a bit round about the middle as well. “Perhaps you’re right.”
She reached to put the plate of pastries away. One was more than plenty, really.
“Leave it.” Connor stepped around and bent down to take the plate from her. “Spoil him a while longer if it gives you pleasure.”
He set the pastries back down, took her hand, and drew her to her feet. Worried green eyes swept over her face.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Quite well, considering. I feel . . .” She closed her eyes on a happy sigh as he traced the line of jaw with his thumb and brushed a feathery kiss across her cheek. “I feel myself. I feel more like myself than I have in ages.”
She felt his lips curve against her skin. “Have you been someone else?”
“No. And yes. Parts,” she reminded him and smiled sheepishly when he pulled back to look at her with a curious expression. “I used to enjoy being carefree, even a little reckless. When circumstances changed for my family, I set those parts aside. I suppose I forgot about them.” Because she’d had no other choice, she thought. Careless, reckless, individuals did not make for ideal heads of households. “I think I’ve begun to remember them.”
“Am I to understand that you are not the woman I thought I’d married?”
“You’ll find your bride was far more biddable than your wife.”
“If I had a pound for every new husband to have heard those words . . .” He smiled when she laughed, tapped her chin lightly with his finger. “You were never that biddable, love.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed. But she had been more cautious, less interested in taking risks, being silly, and exploring the world around her. Which reminded her . . . She glanced out the window toward the stables as Connor bent down and helped himself to a small slice of pastry.
“So you’re feeling reckless,” he said and ate half the pastry in single bite.
Oh, drat. In light of what she was about to ask him, reckless had not been a wise choice of words. “Not reckless, really. More . . . Responsibly adventurous.” She smiled at him sweetly as he polished off his food. “May I ride your stallion, Midas?”
Connor stared at her, swallowed, and said, “You may.”
“Really? When?”
“When I am dead, buried, and in want of your company.”
“Ah.” She tilted her head. “That was very nearly romantic.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled mischievously as she laughed, then jerked his chin in acknowledgment of the footman who entered. “What is it, John?”
“Begging your pardon, sir. Mr. O’Malley, Mr. Birch, and Mr. Sefton have sent me in search of you, sir.”
Connor dismissed the footman with a quick nod, bent down to give her an equally quick kiss, and walked out of the room.
Adelaide frowned at his retreating back, then the empty doorway, then at George.
“Was I just dismissed?”
George grabbed his second pastry, squeezed mightily, and looked mildly disappointed when the folded end piece failed to produce a gush of pudding.
“Take a few bites, darling, then it will mush.” She glanced at the door, tapped her foot. “Do you know, I believe I was dismissed.”
Connor might as well have nodded at her and kissed the footman. Just like that, she and her questions had been put aside. If she wished to continue their discussion, she could do so after he’d finished meeting with his men.
To the devil with that, she thought. She wasn’t staff, and she was heartily sick of being put behind his men . . . and Sir Robert. No one should have to come after Sir Robert.
“We’ll just see about this,” she muttered.
Mind set, she scooped up George and his pastry and chased after Connor.
The heels of her half boots cracked loudly in the hall, a quick staccato that pulsed in time to her rising temper. Thought she’d been unbiddable before, did he? Thought he was the only one with moods and parts? Oh, she’d show him unbiddable. She’d show him a mood.
She caught him with one hand on the study door. “Not your stallion, then. Another.”
He didn’t start—as she’d rather hoped would be the case—merely paused and lifted a brow. “Beg your pardon?”
“I want another horse to ride,” she ground out. Honestly, the conversation was less than thirty seconds old. Just how easy to dismiss was she?
“Ah. Right. So choose another. We’ve a dozen mounts.” He opened the door and stepped into the study.
Determined not to be brushed aside twice, she took a steadying breath and followed. Gregory, Michael, and Graham sat around the desk arguing and digging through a veritable mountain of papers. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt at her entrance.
Good, she thought. Let them wait.
“We’ve several horses suitable for pulling carriages, along with one stallion and one old nag,” she pressed, shifting a squirming George.
Connor walked around to the back of the desk and shook his head at Gregory, who’d reached out to put the papers away. He turned back to her. “Why can’t you ride the nag?”
Gregory withdrew his hand, shrugged, and resumed his argument with Michael and Graham. It was irritating, trying to carry on a conversation with Connor when there was another conversation being carried on two feet away. It was particularly annoying that Connor appeared to be giving both equal attention.
“I have been,” she said, raising her voice over Gregory’s. She dodged a careless swing of George’s pastry-filled hand. “But I should like something that can go faster than a plod. Why on earth do you even own an old nag?”
“I thought George might like to sit her in a few years.” He turned to Michael. “That’s not the baronet’s seal.” He turned back to her. “You’ve funds of your own. Buy a horse if none of those in the stable suit you.
“I don’t know the first thing about purchasing a horse. Do stop waving your hand about, George. It’s food, not a sailboat.”
“The stable master will advise you.”
“Where’s the map?” Gregory asked.
“The stable master has advised me. He suggested I ride the nag.”
Connor pushed a paper toward Gregory. “I’ll speak with him.”
“I don’t wish for you to speak with him.”
“Not that map. The other one.”
“There is no another one,” Graham put in.
“I wish for you to speak with me about what sort of horse I ought to buy.”
“I’ll be happy to, as soon as I’m done here.”
“I would rather you set this aside—”
“This one has black ink. I want the one with blue—”
“George, will you please—”
Too late, she recognized her error in bringing George into the study. His fingers squeezed the half-eaten pastry and an enormous glob of pudding shot out of the center. Adelaide watched in helpless horror as it sailed toward Connor’s desk and a piece of paper she was almost certain Gregory had referred to a moment ago as “the key.” It landed with a thick splat, and Adelaide swore she could feel the force of its impact under her feet. Or perhaps that was the shock of her heart colliding with her toes.
Oh, no. Oh, no.
She stared, unblinking, at the mess, and knew with awful certainty that everyone else in the room was doing the same. The men said not a word, moved not an inch. Even George seemed to understand the enormity of what had just occurred. He’
d gone stiff and still as a tin soldier in her arms.
Slowly, and with great reluctance, she dragged her gaze up to face Connor, but he was still looking at the desk. She searched for something to say, some way to fill the terrible silence, but nothing seemed adequate. What if the damage was irreparable? What if the paper was irreplaceable? It had to be important. It wouldn’t have been on top otherwise. Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. Revenge was Connor’s world, it was all he wanted, everything he had worked for. And she’d let a toddler drown it in pudding.
“Connor, I—”
She broke off with a start when Connor moved. Very quietly, and very deliberately, he dipped his finger into the center of the goop, taking away a sizable amount. His eyes lifted to George’s. And then, to her absolute astonishment, Connor stuck the finger in his mouth and pulled it out again with a small pop.
“Manna from the sky,” he said and winked at her.
George couldn’t have understood the words, but he knew that eating fallen food—with one’s fingers no less—was the height of silliness, and a definitive naughty. Or he simply liked the popping noise. Whatever the cause, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. He trembled and shook in her arms, his small body struggling to contain the magnitude of his glee.
That alone was enough to turn Adelaide’s heart over, but what struck her deepest, what took her breath away, was the expression on Connor’s face. He looked enormously proud of himself. Proud, delighted, and a little bit stunned. All because he’d made a little boy laugh.
And in that moment, Adelaide fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love.
The realization was stunning, and for a woman already contending with a considerable stun, it proved debilitating. Her heart galloped, the air backed up in her lungs, and her mind turned to mush.
She could do nothing more than look at Connor and make the patently absurd offer of, “I’ll clean it.”
Connor shook his head and pushed the paper to Michael. “I’ll send a letter to Lord Gideon at Murdoch House today and we can visit tomorrow. I wager he has a horse to suit you.”
Horses? He wanted to speak of horses?
“I . . . Thank you. I’ll just . . .” She backed away, hid a wince when Connor came around the desk to gently take her arm.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, as he led her to the door. “Truly, I am. I know how much this matters to you. I’ll get you another.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“It’s the blue map,” Gregory muttered from his seat.
Oh, she wanted to sink into the floor and take what remained of George’s pastry with her. “I am sorry. So very—”
Connor gave her a gentle nudge, gently propelling her over the threshold. She’d have taken the opportunity to bolt, but his next words, spoken softly, stilled her feet.
“Do you know the real reason I didn’t make you my mistress, Adelaide?”
Was there a false one? She shook her head.
“For the same reason I’m not angry about the pudding. You matter.”
And after imparting that astounding bit of information, he closed the door.
Adelaide stared blindly at the wood grain in front of her until George grew impatient and began to fuss. Slowly, she began to walk down the hall.
You matter.
It was hardly a declaration of love, and heaven knew, she could have done without having it punctuated with a door shut in her face—but still . . .
You matter.
It was lovely. The initial panic she’d felt in realizing her feelings for Connor slid away. Uncertainty remained, but it was tempered with hope. Connor might not love her, but she mattered, and that was a fine start. It wasn’t foolish to believe a fondness might grow into something more. It wasn’t imprudent to have fallen in love with a man who cared for her. It was dazzling and exciting.
She felt bold and reckless and brimming over with hope . . . Until she spoke to the housekeeper nearly eight hours later and discovered no missives had been sent to Lord Gideon at Murdoch House.
Connor had forgotten. She’d tried not to draw any conclusions from the news. After all, he was not the first person on earth to have forgotten something. Life was rife with distractions. Only last year, she’d carried a squirming, squalling George halfway back from the village before remembering she’d left Isobel waiting at the butcher’s. In truth, she’d only remembered then because she’d reached into her pocket for something with which to distract George and pulled out one of Isobel’s hair ribbons.
Everyone was susceptible. Everyone needed a reminder now and again. She’d remind him when he came to bed, he’d be suitably contrite for having forgotten, the letter would be sent, and that was that.
She fell asleep waiting for him, and she awoke alone the next morning with only the vaguest memory of him crawling into bed with her during the small hours of the morning and crawling out again at dawn.
It was disappointing, but she refused to give up faith. Connor would remember, she was sure.
But as the hours passed and Mrs. McKarnin began to deliver the news—in increasingly sympathetic tones—that still no missives had been sent to Murdoch House, Adelaide’s patience began to wane.
She found reasons to pass—or to be perfectly accurate, stomp—by the study door. But her efforts were for naught. All she heard were voices pitched low in anger and the single phrase, “The bugger’s run off to devil knows where!”
Oh, she hoped he had. She hoped Sir Robert had fallen into a bog somewhere or taken it upon himself to emigrate to Australia. She was tired of the shadow he cast over their lives and more than ready for Connor to let go of the past and see what was right before him.
It was high time they all ceased tying themselves into knots over Sir Robert.
By noon, when it had become apparent that Connor did not intend to take her to see Lord Gideon’s horses, she decided it was also high time she stopped waiting on Connor Brice to remember she mattered.
Chapter 26
The bugger had run off to Edinburgh.
Connor left his study with the thrill of the hunt still coursing through his veins. It had taken the better part of thirty-six hours to track down Sir Robert. Nearly two days of frustration and a fortune spent on bribing Sir Robert’s new housekeeper. The woman wouldn’t think of betraying her new master . . . for anything less than a hundred pounds.
Connor couldn’t help but admire the woman’s gall, and he’d paid the price without bothering to barter. Now everything was set, and with a perfection that he could not have planned. Sir Robert’s flight to Edinburgh was a welcomed bit of serendipity. The man sought refuge amongst his own kind. He would dine and dance with Scotland’s elite, gathering his peers around him like stones in a defensive wall.
What a sight it was going to be, to watch those boulders come crashing down on his head.
Connor grinned. Almost, almost he had reached his goal. A few more weeks and he would be done with Sir Robert . . . Maybe two months . . . Six at the most . . . He’d revisit his time-line after Edinburgh.
For now, he wanted to savor the pleasure of impending victory with a glass of brandy and the company of his pretty wife.
The first could be had without difficulty. The second was nowhere to be found—a state of affairs Connor had trouble accepting. How could she not be home? What the devil was she doing, running about the countryside by herself? Granted, she wasn’t alone in the strictest sense of the word. According to his butler, Mrs. Brice had taken a maid, a driver, and a pair of footmen. But she wasn’t with him, and that was the pertinent point.
Connor had grown accustomed to knowing where she was every minute of the day. Even when he sequestered himself away with his men, all he needed to do was inquire after her whereabouts.
The missus is gardening. The missus is in the nursery. The missus is on the veranda with Miss Ward.
He liked that. He liked knowing he need only look out the window to see her or walk down
the hall to speak with her. He liked having her at hand. And wasn’t the convenience of having a lovely woman at hand suppose to be one of the benefits of taking a wife?
She bloody well wasn’t at hand now. And it was damned inconvenient. Worse, not a soul was willing to tell him where, exactly, she’d run off to or how long she intended to be gone. That they knew was obvious. That they were unwilling to tell him was equally clear.
Don’t know, sir.
Couldn’t say, Mr. Brice.
She’s gone out.
This last came from Isobel, who then proceeded to shut her chamber door in Connor’s face.
He stared at the wood, torn between bewilderment and a rising temper. Eventually, the latter won out.
Enough was enough. He lifted a fist and pounded. “I damn well know she’s gone out! Where? What the devil is going on here?”
The only response was the sound of a key turning in the lock. It sent his blood to boiling. Damn if he’d be locked out of a room in his own bloody house! He spun on his heel, intending to find the nearest bellpull and ring for assistance in taking the door off its hinges, but the soft jingle of keys snagged his attention.
“Mrs. McKarnin!”
The housekeeper stepped out of a nearby room and eyed him with poorly concealed distaste, as if he’d stuck his foot in something foul, and,like a good and loyal servant, she was doing her upmost not to notice.
Had everyone turned against him? “It’s a bloody insurrection.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“Nothing.” He stuck his hand out, wiggled his fingers. “The key to Miss Ward’s chamber.”
She took her sweet time, retrieving her enormous ring of keys from her apron pocket, flipping through the keys, studying each one individually.
Connor tapped his foot, ground his teeth, then tapped his foot some more. “Before nightfall would be—”
“I don’t appear to have it on my person, sir.”
He dropped his hand. “What do you mean, you don’t have it?”
“I remember now, I put it away for safekeeping. What if someone should get hold of the ring, I thought? What if that someone should have wicked intentions?” She sniffed and gave him a long, pointed look. “All precautions must be taken to protect a lady’s virtue.”
An Unexpected Gentleman (The Haverston Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 26