Aggie’s mouth tightened. “Can’t say, sir.”
Harry frowned. “Will you be accompanying her?”
“No, she’s found me a place as housekeeper to the vicar, so I’ll be all right,” the old woman said with emphasis. “Well, the poor man needs it. Getting old, he is, and forgetful. And he’s going to take that dog of hers, too. She’ll miss her Freckles something shocking, poor lass, but she can’t take a dog, not where she’s going.”
So she was going alone. Harry didn’t like the sound of that. The vision of Nell sitting drenched on that cart haunted him. “Is she not going to some family member?”
Aggie snorted. “The Irish cousins? Not them! Anyway, if she’s to run and fetch for folk—” She broke off guiltily. “Look at me, runnin’ on about nothin’. I’ll be off and get the last of my things.”
Harry nodded absently. He was reading the list she’d given him. On it was a list of names.
“Mrs. Deane,” he said to Aggie. “Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the meaning of this. Your name is here, too.”
He showed Aggie the paper. She squinted at it vaguely. “Sorry, sir, never was much of a hand with reading.”
He started to read it to her.
“It’s so unfair,” Aggie burst out before he was halfway through. “Near worked herself into the ground, she did, keeping this place goin’ when her pa was busy dragging it into the gutter. Miss Nell ran herself ragged, squeezing out every penny she could to make sure nobody on the estate starved. Just about knocked her endways, it did, when she come back and found out all her scrimping and saving had been for naught and that her pa had gambled it all away.”
He held up the paper. “And this list?”
“It’s everyone who worked here in the last year, sir, them who stayed on after the money ran out, stayed on for Miss Nell. After she got taken away by her pa last Easter, they all got turned off without so much as a penny or a promise. She never knew until last week.” Aggie wiped her eyes with her apron. “I dunno where she went. Come back a shred of her former self, she did, and with such sad eyes.”
“So these people need jobs?”
Aggie looked up, her old eyes lighting with hope. “With you, sir? They would. Oh, sir, and if you tell Miss Nell, it’d take a load off her mind, it would. Worries about everyone, that girl.”
Harry nodded and shoved the paper in his pocket. “I’ll be back in a week, all going to plan, and I’ll follow these people up then. I value loyalty. No one who worked for Miss N—Lady Helen will go wanting this coming winter.” Last winter, he knew, had been exceptionally hard.
“Oh sir,” Aggie said, her voice cracking. “I take back every bad thing I ever thought about you.”
Harry headed for the stables. He found Nell standing at the stall half-door, watching the scene with a dreamy, oddly wistful expression on her face.
He peered over her shoulder. The colt was on its feet and drinking from its mother. All that could be seen were four long, splayed, spindly legs, a small dark rump, and an excited, waggling tail. Harry smiled. He never tired of the sight. And it was a good omen—the first foal born in his stables.
“He looks a strong little fellow,” he commented.
“Yes, he’s lovely.”
“That note you gave me with the list of names, I’ll take most of them on. Aggie told me they’re all loyal workers.”
There was a long silence, then she said, “Thank you,” in a choked voice. Tears glittered on her lashes. She turned away so that he would not see, saying, “It shames me that they have been so ill-used. Some day I hope to pay them all what they are owed, but in the meantime . . . Thank you.”
He caught a glimpse then of the rage and utter humiliation she felt at her father’s careless, spendthrift ways.
She pulled out a handkerchief, blew her nose fiercely, and began to mix a hot mash for her mare. Harry watched. She knew her way around horses; he could not have bettered the mix.
“What will become of you?” he asked her after a few moments.
“Me?” she repeated. “I’m going to London.”
He said nothing and didn’t shift his gaze. It always worked and this time was no exception.
“If you must know, I have found a position, a job—a very good one.”
“As?”
“As a companion to a widowed lady. And there’s no need to look at me like that,” she added in a crisp voice. “It is what we ladies come down in the world do. I’ll probably spend my time reading to the old dear, taking tea with her, and visiting the sights of London—it will be a most agreeable life, I’m sure.”
True enough, he supposed. It was the kind of things ladies did. It’d bore him rigid. “No family?”
She shrugged. “Some distant cousins in Ireland that I’ve never met. And since they’ve already been burdened with Papa’s debts, I have no intention of adding myself to their problems. There is no shame in working for one’s living.”
He said nothing for a few moments, then, “You could work for me.”
She frowned. “As?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure of the term. You could work with the horses, training them as you’ve done here. Aggie told me you’re born to it. Doing what you did before, only for me, not your father.”
Nell stared at him. To stay here and continue working with her beloved horses. Did he have any idea of what he’d just offered her? Her dream on a dish. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining it. But it was impossible.
She had to find Torie.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s a fine offer, but it’s not possible.” She had no intention of explaining the real reason; luckily there was no shortage of others.
“Why not?”
“There would be a great deal of talk. Bad enough for you to take on an unmarried woman of gentle birth to work in your stables, but to have an earl’s daughter as one of your trainers—it would be a scandal.”
“You’ve already survived the scandal of your father’s bankruptcy,” he pointed out bluntly.
“Yes, but this would ruin us both. I am an earl’s daughter, and you are—you are . . .” She faltered, not knowing what to say.
“I am the natural son of an English earl and a maidservant,” he finished for her.
She looked at him in surprise. “Are you?” she said. “I didn’t know. I just thought you were not of the ton. But if you are what you said, then, yes, that would make it worse. They would gossip about me, of course, but they would hold it against you. They’d resent it that someone they considered an upstart could employ a lady in a menial position.”
He snorted. “I don’t care what they think.”
She laid her hand on his arm and said earnestly, “No, but you must. You seem to be an ambitious man.”
She paused and he gave an offhand nod, confirming her impression.
“Well, if your plan is to breed and train Thoroughbred racehorses, it is the gentlemen of the ton you must deal with—they are the ones who rule racing, who purchase the horses. If you employed me, those same gentlemen would see it as an insult to their class. They’d hate you for it. They’d refuse to do business with you and you’d be politely and invisibly blackballed.”
He shrugged. “They wouldn’t if you married me.”
Shocked, Nell let go of his arm and took two steps backward. “Married you?” She couldn’t believe her ears.
“Why not?”
She stared at him dumfounded for a moment. Why not? “I’ve only just met you. You can’t want to marry me.”
He just looked at her as if to say, why not?
She felt her face heating. Her first ever proposal—probably the only one she’d ever get—and it was delivered with as much emotion as a grocery delivery. She had no idea how to respond.
“Y-you can’t possibly l-love me.” She flushed as she heard what she’d said. How gauche! How stupid! Ladies of her class rarely married for love. It was all position and money and land. Not that she had any o
f that.
He gave her a bemused look, as if she’d said something foolish. “I’ve only just met you,” he reminded her.
“I k-know. Which is why you can’t possibly mean what you just said.”
“I meant it.”
She stared at him, at the big, quiet, self-assured man. A man of few words. But those few had the power to rock her. He’d marry her? The handsomest man she’d ever met in her life would marry her, poor, plain Nell Freymore, the gambler’s daughter?
“Why?”
“I think we’d do well together.”
“Do you know how old I am?” she asked him. She’d been on the shelf for years.
“I thought about five-and-twenty,” he said.
“I am seven-and-twenty.”
He shrugged. “I am nine-and-twenty. Does it matter?”
She stared at him. He didn’t seem to understand. For a moment she considered it. Skinny, plain Nell Freymore, who’d been on the shelf for years, marrying this beautiful man, this tall young lion with the deep voice and the steady gray eyes.
Oh God, but the temptation, just for a moment, was appalling. She could just leave her past, her problems behind, stepping into a secure, comfortable future. It was exactly what Papa had planned for her.
But she would have to choose between this handsome stranger and Torie and she couldn’t. There was no choice.
His face was impassive, his gray gaze unreadable. Was he already regretting his impulsive offer? She could never regret it. To know that someone had asked her, at least. Even if the very idea was impossible.
“No, no, thank you. It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid it’s impossible,” she said softly.
“I’m not being kind,” he said, still in that calm, deep voice.
“I’d better leave now,” she murmured. “The coach will be passing the church in an hour or so.
He said nothing, nothing about the coach and nothing about his amazing offer. It was as if he’d never spoken.
Nell took three more steps, then stopped and slowly turned, the woman in her unable to leave it alone. “I have to know,” she said finally. “I have a question for you. Will you tell me the truth?”
His eyes narrowed, but he said, “I will.”
She examined his face intently and then gave a little nod. “Is it because of my title? The reason you asked me, I mean.”
“I suppose that’s part of it,” he admitted. “It would do a man no harm to have a titled wife.”
She nodded. “And my skill with horses would be useful, too, I expect.”
“It would. I don’t deny it.”
“I see. I thought as much. Thank you for your honesty.” She turned to leave again.
He cleared his throat. “But they are only part of the reason I asked you to be my wife.”
She turned back. “What else could there be?”
He swallowed and looked uncomfortable.
Stupid Nell, she thought. What was she doing? Angling for compliments now? Pathetic.
His face darkened and he cleared his throat.
“No, don’t worry—” she began. “I didn’t mean it.” She turned proudly away.
He cleared his throat. “The thing is, I am—” He swallowed again. “You’re lovely and I’m very attracted to y—”
“Stop it. Please.” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to listen.” She didn’t want, couldn’t bear labored, insincere compliments for the sake of misguided male gallantry.
He stared at her. “You did ask. And I thought women wanted to hear such things.”
“Not when they’re not true. And we both know they’re not.”
His brows snapped together. “Are you calling me a liar?”
She gave a miserable shrug and mumbled something about if the cap fits.
“Well, it damned well doesn’t.” He stepped up to her, so close she could smell him, the faint scents of leather and horses and expensive cologne and man.
She forced herself to stand her ground. She’d asked for this, so she must face the consequences.
His cold gray eyes blazed with emotion as he said in a low, vehement voice, “I am not a man of words. I have been likened, in fact, to a stump. My attraction to you is not an easy thing to admit to, especially since you’ve turned me down, but I promised you honesty. And that’s what I gave you—every word of it.”
Nell could not meet his eyes. She wanted to believe him—what woman wouldn’t? But she was under no illusions about her own looks. She’d had her nose rubbed in them all her life.
He’d been kind again, thinking she wanted compliments—even false ones—and then she’d shamed him, exposing the lie. She wanted to sink into the ground.
There was a long silence, then he added quietly, “If any man called me a liar as you have done, I would knock him to the ground.”
She flinched and braced herself.
He said softly, “You may think me a bastard, but I’ve never harmed a woman yet, and I don’t intend to start. But since you refuse to take my word, and since I refuse to let you believe me a cozening, insincere liar, I must resort to the most basic way of convincing you that I do indeed find you most attractive.”
She looked up, puzzled.
“Lady Helen,” he said. “Forgive me, but—”
To Nell’s shock, he kissed her. With complete assurance, he seized her by the waist and planted his mouth very firmly over hers. She’d never experienced such a thing in her life. Her mouth had been open with surprise and the hot male taste of him coursed through her body like a red-hot poker sizzling in a jug of spiced wine.
She made no attempt to struggle, had no thought of it. She was too shocked, too . . . amazed by the sensations surging through her. One hand waved ineffectually, then settled lightly on his shoulder. Her other hand was caught between their bodies and gradually she became aware of what the back of her hand was pressed against: his male parts. His very hard, very aroused male parts.
She should have pushed him away, struggled, something, anything, but her body seemed to have no will of its own. The taste and heat and power of him poured into her; she was helpless to resist. And all the time she could feel him, there against her fingers, hard and hot and growing larger and harder by the minute. Like a big human stallion, throbbing and urgent against her flesh.
It did not last long—less than a minute, she thought later, though at the time it felt like forever, and then he released her and stood back.
They were both breathing heavily.
She tried to speak but there were no words.
“Forgive me,” he said stiffly. “I should not have kissed you, I know; not on such short acquaintance. But I wanted you to know that what I said was no lie. None of it. I realize my suit is unwelcome . . . but I wanted you to know.” He gave a jerky bow.
Know? Her whole body throbbed with knowledge.
He did find her attractive. She blinked. Very attractive, he’d said, and his body had demonstrated . . .
No man had ever found her very attractive. The only time she’d ever attracted the attention of a man had been for quite other reasons . . .
He’d made her no false promises—God, as if she believed in promises anymore. But Harry Morant had given her evidence. Hard evidence.
Her fingers still tingled. Very hard.
But no matter how tempted she was, a marriage between them was just not possible. She could not make the choice he would demand of her once he knew. She felt like weeping, but she had no tears left.
There was no question of what—who—she would choose. But it was so hard. The most beautiful man she’d ever met in her life and he wanted her.
Every part of her body throbbed with the knowledge of that wanting. Her blood was afire with it.
She managed to acknowledge his bow with a nod. “Thank you,” she said in a choked voice, “but my answer stands.” Head held high by some miracle of training, Nell managed to walk away from him with some semblance of dignity.
She fe
lt him watching her leave. A woman could burn forever in the banked passion of those cold gray eyes. That was another part of the problem.
She’d endured much in her life and she knew she was strong. She mightn’t have beauty, but she had strength. Nothing and no one could break her spirit—not even this man.
But he could easily break her heart. And he would, when he found out what she’d done—birthed an illegitimate daughter whom she loved more than life itself.
When Harry Morant, who’d spent his life living down his own birth, discovered that, he would turn away from her. And that would break her heart.
If it wasn’t already broken . . .
Until now, Nell hadn’t ever thought of herself as a coward, but as she marched away from Harry Morant, her head held high so he wouldn’t imagine she cared the snap of a finger for what had just happened, she had to admit it: she was a coward through and through.
Four
Nell sat squashed between a large man who smelled of cloves and another, even larger, who reeked of onions. She felt a little queasy. It wasn’t their combined smell though; it was that she was leaving her home forever.
Her home, and all her girlhood dreams.
They weren’t anything special, her dreams; just a man to love and horses to breed. And babies . . .
Torie . . .
She faced the back of the coach. Through the window of the coach she could see the village getting smaller and smaller, until at last she could only see the church spire. Then, finally it was gone.
The stagecoach lumbered along the muddy road, swaying and jolting. It was marginally faster than the dray she’d arrived in and a great deal warmer and drier.
Her two neighbors had spread themselves comfortably, knees planted wide apart and arms relaxed comfortably, while she was wedged in tightly. Two couples sat opposite, the men taking up twice the space of their wives, even though both women were comfortably built and one of the men was positively skinny. Why was it that men always took up more than their fair share of space? At least they kept her warm, she told herself, albeit in a clovey, oniony way.
And she was on her way to London, not directly, but soon. The arrangement was to meet her new employer in Bristol, then she and Mrs. Beasley would travel to London.
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