Suddenly feeling at a loss, Henry pondered his future with Sarah. He then thought of Hannah, of how she would look when she was carrying his child – a nymph with a rounded belly, her braided hair wrapped in a silver blonde coronet atop her head, ringlets dancing at her temples, one hand resting protectively at her midriff while the other held a flower to her nose. He could hear her laughter, the melodic sound coming in response to Harold as he barked and bounded about at her feet. He smiled at the thought of her delicate face alight with the glow of impending motherhood. He thought of her holding their babe in her arms, of how she would look holding it to her swollen breast as it feasted on her, her feet tucked under Harold as he napped in front of the rocker. He could almost feel jealousy at that thought, that his son would be held so close and Harold would always be by her side. Jealousy and ... he nearly stumbled as he thought about the image he had created of her and their child and ... Harold.
Harold was in his mind’s eye, but he would not be. Could not be.
Henry tried again to imagine Hannah with just the babe and found he could not. Harold had been a part of her since he met her. He’d been her constant companion for a very long time.
Shaking his head, Henry was suddenly aware of where he was headed.
Tom Cavenaugh’s cottage, he realized. Tom had what he needed to give Hannah. She would need something to get her through the next year, until she would give birth to their first child and have something of her own – of theirs – to love.
He wondered if she would ever love him. God, what am I thinking? He married her because she would tolerate Sarah. And, apparently she had found Sarah so agreeable, she had asked the woman to move into Gisborn Hall!
What was she thinking?
Did she not realize he couldn’t host his lover under the same roof as his wife? Such an unselfish act, though, he considered. What other woman of the ton would not only marry him knowing he had a woman he loved, but a bastard son, too? Most would be too scandalized to even consider his suit. And yet Hannah had done so knowing she might be ostracized by the ton should they discover his secret. They would, of course. Probably in the fall, after Nathan was enrolled at Abingdon. Word would get out that the bastard son of the Earl of Gisborn was attending school. And the boy’s stepmother was the Countess of Gisborn, the daughter of the Marquess of Devonville. Having a father for a marquess could only go so far to assuage the ton.
Mistress.
Henry winced at the label. He’d never thought of Sarah in those terms until the past two weeks. She had borne him a son. He loved her. But did she still love him? His heart clenched again as a strange feeling passed through him, one he was sure he hadn’t experienced before. Perhaps he would stop at Sarah’s cottage. Just to look in on her and Nathan. It would only take a few moments. He would be able to tell from Sarah’s reaction if his fears were unfounded or not.
A curl of smoke was wafting out of one of the chimneys of Sarah Inglewood’s residence. At least she was home, he considered. He strode up to the front door and rapped on the painted wood. “Sarah?” he called out. A quick glance about the property made him realize Nathan must be inside or at his tutor’s house – the yard was deserted but for two chickens who pecked at the ground.
The sound of a bolt being thrown made him turn around. Another moment, and Sarah appeared in the barely opened doorway. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “My lord?” she said with a hint of question, her legs bending into a curtsy. She opened the door wider but did not step aside to allow him entrance.
Henry regarded her for a moment, stunned at how different she looked. Her hair, normally wound into a tight bun at the back of her head and sometimes covered partially with a mob cap, was rolled into an elegant chignon. Ringlets surrounded her face. Her usual muslin day gown, brown or gray and topped with an apron, was replaced with a deep blue round gown, and she wore white gloves. Henry bobbed his head in a bow. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, the appreciation in his voice evident. “Are you ... about to make calls?” he wondered, never having seen her dress quite so nicely unless she was headed to church.
Sarah blushed. “No, my lord ...”
“Henry,” he insisted, his eyebrows furrowing at her formal address. She never called him by his honorific. He’d expressly forbid her to do so.
“Henry,” she hissed, stepping aside and using one hand to invite him in. “It’s not proper for you to call on me here. You’re a married man now,” she whispered hoarsely.
Annoyance replaced the sense of satisfaction he felt upon seeing Sarah looking so smart. He wondered if the gown was new. Had she purchased it with the pin money he gave her every week? Or had she made it from fabric purchased in Bampton? “You’re the mother of my child. I’ll call on you when I wish,” he responded more harshly than he intended. He dipped his head as if apologizing. “Where is Nathan?” he asked suddenly, expecting his son would have come out of his room when he heard his father’s voice.
Tensing at the severe way in which he spoke, Sarah lowered her gaze. “He’s with his tutor, of course,” she replied with a heavy sigh. She was none too pleased at the earl’s appearance. If he didn’t leave soon, the man who was scheduled to take her for a ride to Bampton would show up to claim her, and then she would have to tell Henry who he was and why she was going for a ride with him. “I’m sure Mr. Thomas would not mind you paying a visit. And I’m quite certain Nathan will not object.” She said the last with a forced smirk, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.
Henry seemed ... distracted. And short-tempered. Were things between him and his new wife already strained? Had Hannah decided she did not care for Henry’s high-handed manner?
Or was it something else?
Had he come expecting to bed her? Not now, Henry, she thought as she pinched her lips together. “How is Lady Gisborn fairing? I take it she found the dog?” she half-questioned, hoping the change of subject would remind him he was married. Honor your marriage vows, she pleaded in silence.
“I fear Lady Hannah is quite ... distressed,” Henry replied, remembering the quest he’d been on before he detoured to the dower house. “The dog died yesterday. Out near where Nathan was found.”
Both of Sarah’s gloved hands were suddenly covering her mouth, her eyes wide. Moving into the parlor, she stood very still for a moment. “What ... whatever happened?” she whispered as her face suddenly contorted into grief.
Surprised by her reaction, Henry wondered if perhaps the loss of Harold was more serious than he had figured. “He was ... old. All the excitement from the day before ...” He moved into the room and watched as a tear collected in the corner of Sarah’s eye. Oh, not her, too, he thought, suddenly wondering if all the women in the village would shed tears for the deceased beast. “He was just a dog, Sarah,” he said, his teeth suddenly clenching.
Sarah’s eyes widened, a flash of anger unmistakable in their smoky green depths. “How can you say that?” she demanded, her fists turning to balls at her side. One held her gloves – they would be terribly wrinkled if she held onto them like that for much longer.
Henry leaned against the settee on his outstretched arms, his head turned slightly to one side. “What? That he is a dog?” he countered. “A good for nothing beast who ...”
Not having his attention on Sarah, Henry was at a complete loss to understand why his cheek suddenly stung with a sharp pain and his vision was impaired by a series of stars that danced across his eyes. For, until it made solid impact on the side of his face, he was quite unaware of the flat of Sarah’s hand as it arced through the air.
“You ass!” Sarah cried out.
She didn’t bother trying to shake out her hand. The shock of the impact had to have caused her as much pain as she inflicted. Henry knew it had to have hurt. She might have even broken a bone or two. But the rage on her face made it quite apparent it would be some time before she was aware of anything but her anger toward him.
Recoiling from both the pain of her slap and from her ir
e, Henry stared at her in disbelief. “Sarah,” was all he could manage to say as he stared at her.
“You’re an ass, Gisborn!” she spat out, her head shaking back and forth. “I cannot believe that sweet, beautiful woman would agree to be your wife when you are such an unfeeling, uncaring beast!” Her hands back to clenched fists, she stalked to the fireplace and turned around, anger still evident on her face. “That dog saved our son’s life ...”
“I am quite aware ...”
“That dog is the reason your son was able to wake up this morning ...”
“And I do appreciate ...”
“That dog is the reason we still have a son!”
“I understand the ...”
“That dog was Lady Hannah’s only friend!”
Henry stared at Sarah, his face contorted into a look of startled disbelief. Never had she raised her voice like this. Never had she challenged him. Although she had punched him that one time, when he’d left her alone at her request (she demanded he do so, as he remembered it). And a few other times in their youth, but usually because he had started a fight.
“That dog was like a child to Lady Hannah. He was all she had in this world!” she whispered hoarsely, a wave of her hand indicating her definition of the ‘world’ was Gisborn’s earldom. “And now he is dead, probably because he saved your son’s life. And you have the gall to claim he is just a dog? How dare you?” At some point, tears had sprung to her eyes, and now several escaped to stain her cheeks. “How dare you?” This last came out as a whisper.
Not sure how to respond and even more discomfited by Sarah’s tears, Henry took a deep breath. And then he did whatever he did when tears were involved. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing Sarah against his body, wanting to provide comfort and soothe her anger away – especially to soothe away anger that was directed entirely at him. Her shoulders were tense, unforgiving, though. Her head did not bury itself into his shoulder to take comfort there. After a moment, Sarah let out a very long sigh, her shoulders finally giving in and her entire body relaxing under his hold. She wept quietly into his shoulder. Her words still echoed in his mind.
That dog was like a child to Hannah ...
Well, he supposed he should have treated Harold like a ... like a stepson, then. The dog had saved his son’s life.
Henry pondered what to do. What to do to appease Sarah as well as to honor the hairy beast. Give him a proper burial. Bury him in the family plot on the east side of the property. Order a headstone from the local mason. Allow Hannah her bereavement. Having recently been in mourning for her mother and sister, the woman must certainly knew how to grieve.
“I am on my way to the Cavenaugh’s,” Henry finally spoke, his voice soft against her hair. “I mean to ask about the litter of puppies their bitch gave birth to before I left on my trip to London.”
At the mention of the puppies, Sarah sniffled. Angling her head up a bit, she regarded her protector. “They are adorable, Henry. If I could afford to feed a dog as large as they will be in a year, I would have you select one for me, too,” she claimed, her face lighting up with the statement. She was furiously wiping away tears with a handkerchief she must have pulled from her gown. Henry realized quite belatedly that he hadn’t offered his.
If I could afford to feed ... What did she mean by that? He supported her. He could certainly afford food for a dog! “I will see to it,” he stated with a quick nod. When he saw her surprised expression, he wondered again at her nice clothes and hair. “Were you about to go ... on a call?” he asked then, an uncomfortable sensation suddenly creeping into his awareness. “Or is someone ... about to call on you?”
Her eyes closing for a moment, Sarah swallowed. She lowered her head. “The latter. Mr. McDonald offered to take me to Bampton. To shop,” she added, hoping the arrangement didn’t sound as scandalous as she was suddenly thinking it would. “He has a very fast curricle, so I shouldn’t be gone long, and Nathan knows to go to Andrew’s house when he is done with his studies.”
Henry had thought her slap quite painful, but now Sarah’s words were like a blow to his stomach. A man was calling on her. Another man. A man for whom she was dressed rather nicely. She looked ... pretty, he thought. Certainly not like Hannah, for Hannah was far younger and more beautiful in her nymph-like, fairy tale princess way.
But even though Sarah would turn heads today, she was still his. She would still require his permission to make the trip. It wasn’t as if McDonald was considering anything beyond being a driver for her. The man certainly knew Sarah was his. She was of an age that she no longer required a chaperone. And she wouldn’t think about taking a lover. She couldn’t. She was the mother of his child. “I take it Mr. McDonald is due at any moment,” Henry said, his ears detecting the sounds of horses coming up the lane. Sarah deserved an afternoon shopping, he realized. He could not begrudge her that simple delight. “Give him my regards, and enjoy your trip,” he added as he leaned over and kissed Sarah on the cheek. Surprised at his comment, Sarah kissed him, a quick peck meant as an acknowledgment of his blessing and perhaps as an apology for her having slapped him. She rarely kissed him.
“Thank you, Henry, truly,” she spoke in a whisper, her eyes opening to meet his. He was sure he saw surprise there, perhaps even relief. He nodded and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.
Before he could change his mind, Henry departed the dower house. He nearly ran the length of the path to the lane, avoiding Tad McDonald’s curricle as it had taken the circular drive along the side of the house. The man owned a nearby posting inn and tavern, the profits of which made McDonald one of the wealthiest men in the Bampton area. Henry supposed if Sarah were seen in McDonald’s company, there would be talk. But everyone within two miles of Gisborn Hall knew Sarah was his ... his mistress. He grimaced. The word seemed so wrong for what they had shared. Sarah was more than a woman he bedded when he felt the need for release. He had loved her for ... almost his entire life. She would have been his wife – his countess – had she not been so damned stubborn!
He shook his head and remembered why he had set out on this trek to begin with. Why hadn’t he thought to ride Thunder? The horse was probably still saddled next to the stable. He could have been at the Cavenaugh’s and back home by now.
Reaching into his pocket, he felt for coins and pulled out several. How much would Cavenaugh want for a puppy, he wondered? The man was so proud of his brown and white long-haired beast, claiming it had been a gift of a friend who’d returned from a Grand Tour of Europe. Apparently, the dog was pregnant when it arrived in Great Britain, although there was nothing said about the breed of the dog or if the puppies were fathered by a dog of the same breed or not.
He wasn’t sure what to expect, exactly. He’d only heard tales from his valet and Mrs. Batey that the pups were brown and white like their mother and made “adorable mewling sounds” – this last a comment made by Mrs. Batey, not Mr. Murphy.
Had Mr. Murphy made such a claim, Henry thought he might have to dismiss him.
At least six weeks had passed since the pups were born; perhaps he’d be able to take one home to Hannah now.
Approaching Cavenaugh’s small farm cottage, he heard the dogs well before he saw them. And when he did, he had to admit to being a bit shocked. For at least three of the beasts looked like miniature versions of Harold. Well, not so miniature, he realized when he got closer to the pen. Several were bounding about, grabbing at one another’s tails and jumping on each other’s backs. The “adorable mewling sounds” had been replaced with yips and yowls. The ‘woof’ he heard had come from the bitch, who had pressed herself against one of the pen’s wooden posts and was watching the chaos with a distinct look of annoyance. On closer inspection, Henry thought she looked enough like Harold to be the same breed. If Cavenaugh’s friend had taken the Grand Tour of Europe, he had no doubt included the Alps in his trek and come across the same monks that Henry’s father-in-law had during his tour there
ten years ago.
“My lord!” Tom Cavenaugh called out from the edge of his field. He trotted up to the front of his property and gave the earl a bow before extending his right hand.
“Mr. Cavenaugh. I see you are the proprietor of a rather large nursery,” Henry said with a grin as he nodded toward the pen filled with puppies. Were there four? Or five? They didn’t stand still long enough to be counted, and they were certainly larger than Henry expected for dogs that couldn’t be much more than six weeks old.
The farmer rolled his eyes. “When ol’ MacLeod dropped off Maggie, here,” he pointed to the mother of the brood, “I thought she seemed a bit larger than she was supposed to be. He thought it quite the thing to bring a pregnant bitch from the Alps, the bounder. But the man has no place to keep such a beastie. And I’ve grown rather fond of her. She’s a good mouser,” he claimed with a proud nod.
A mouser? Well, given how large the dogs were, he supposed they had to be able to eat anything. Perhaps one of the dogs would be good for something more than a companion for Hannah, Henry thought. “Are these ... Alpenmastiffs?” he wondered as he waved to the pups.
“Heard of ‘em, have you?” Tom commented in surprise. “They’re rare, apparently. Some men in a mountain cave ...”
“St. Bernard monks,” Henry interrupted him.
Tom’s eyebrows shot up. “You know the story then?” he questioned, impressed by the earl’s apparent worldliness.
“Until he died yesterday, Lady Gisborn had one,” Henry explained quickly. “Harold MacDuff was ten years old. She is quite ... bereft at his loss. I was hoping I could buy one or two of these off of you.” He knew just the one for Hannah, too – a male whose patches of light brown and white most closely matched Harold’s. Although he was fairly rambunctious, Henry thought perhaps the little monster would settle down a bit as it aged.
The Seduction of an Earl Page 27