"Oh, there's one as I could name."
"Miss Harwood?" Molly asked, thinking of Sylvain Harwood's comment that Theo had been interested in her sister.
"So you've heard—did Mr. Theo tell you of her?"
Molly shook her head.
"I'm not surprised. I doubt he even thinks of her anymore, really. Cecila Harwood was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood, but flighty as a pheasant in shooting season. Nothing but a relief—even for Mr. Theo, if you ask me—to see her married off. And I wish her well of it, and hope she found a gent who can settle her."
"But now Theo's brought me home—is that out of the pit and into the fire?"
Mrs. Brown tipped her head and regarded Molly, her stare so direct it almost unsettled. "A day ago, I'd have said yes, but now—well, let's just say that maybe this pot ought to simmer a bit more before I can tell if it's to my taste or not."
#
Things were not going well, Theo decided, as he dressed for dinner.
He had been out on George—his favorite hunter—for most of the day, but had not found his usual relief in such escape. All day he had worried over Molly. How was she faring? Was his father being abrupt with her, or avoiding her? What, in fact, was she doing during the day? He had stayed out until his seat was even sorer from the saddle than yesterday, his stomach grumbled, and his head had begun to ache.
Of course, his head had ached for the past two days—and not from either hunger or the aftereffect of strong spirits, thought his father was enough to encourage any fellow to find relief in a bottle. But there'd been no appeal in any thought of venturing to The Four Feathers for a pint, for someone would ask about his wedding, and he didn't want to talk about that. Nor did he want to hear lewd speculation on Molly.
Damnation, this entire scheme ought to be over and done so he could get back to a bit of fun!
Still, he'd been shooting with his father enough times to know him for a canny, patient sportsman who usually managed to outdo his sons in what game he bagged. Only Theo was not going to let the squire best him in this.
Scowling at his reflection and the mangled cravat that now hung in a limp mess about his neck, Theo wondered if he ought to have hired himself a valet when he had last been in London. He had thought about it, only it had seemed such a nuisance to have around, and an expense. Terrance didn't have a valet, after all—only Burke to look after his horses for him.
Unknotting the cravat, Theo tugged on the bell pull to summon help. At least he could do something about this without having to wait.
A few minutes later, one of the footmen—Albert—knocked and entered. After glancing over the servant's dapper turn out to his livery, Theo thrust a fresh length of starched linen at him. "See what you can do with this."
The footman looked surprised, but stepped forward to create a neat enough tie that Theo gave him an approving smile and tipped him a shilling.
His mood improved, he went downstairs. And he found himself the first to enter the drawing room.
Glancing around the room, he scowled. Blast it, but he wanted Molly here. He wanted some time with her before his father came in. In fact, now that he thought of it, those few days with her before his father had come home had been...well, they had been nice.
But none of that has anything to do with the plan, he reminded himself. And he could almost wish that plan—and Terrance with it—at perdition. Only he couldn't really. It wasn't what one did with a brother.
Straightening, he thought about going up to Molly's room. He might, with some luck, catch her half-dressed. He smiled at that, but reason intruded. Even if he did find her in her shift, she'd probably have a maid to help her dress, and what he really wanted was to be the only one helping her undress.
Restless now, he stalked over to the decanters and poured himself a glass of burgundy. He stood beside the open window, for it had warmed after the rain, turning almost muggy. That didn't help. He kept thinking of Molly. Wondering if her hair was still down. It had been glorious to see it lose and glinting in the candlelight, and to wind his fingers into its softness.
He drank some of his wine.
Really, he had been wrong to leave this matter entirely to her. She was just a bit of a thing, plucky, yes, but he ought not to have thrown her in his father's path and stood back. Uneasy with such thoughts, he started to pull at the cravat that Albert had tied, and stopped himself.
No sense having spent the time letting the fellow tie it only to tear it apart. And there was no sense, either, in tearing up his plan to force his father into accepting Terrance as his heir again. He had to see this through.
Drinking his wine, he made up his mind. It might not be pleasant, but he'd just have to take a stronger role in matters. And, blazes, but he wanted to see more of Molly. He couldn't do that if he stayed out on a horse all day.
Frowning at the gathering twilight outside the house, he wondered just why, anyway, he had allowed his father to drive him away—and he saw suddenly that was what had always happened with Terrance. He had simply copied that pattern.
There had been a time, of course, when he could recall wanting to please the squire, to earn his praise. But was quick to learn that nothing he did even earned an ounce of notice, and so he had looked to Terrance. Now he saw how he had sought his brother's approval, earning it by copying how Terrance did everything—even by losing his temper and storming off.
But why carry on with that now?
Of course, his father could make a room—or a house—damned uncomfortable with his moods. Certainly a good reason to avoid him. But, likewise, Molly could make a fellow feel a number of other things, all of them quite pleasant. He started to smile. Blazes, if he kept his focus on her, who gave a damn what his father was doing.
His thoughts were still on those attractive aspects of Molly when his father came into the drawing room, trailed by Cesar, Marcus, and Plato. Theo tousled silky ears as each dog thrust his head into an outstretched hand for a greeting, and he gave his father a cheerful enough hello.
When Molly stepped in, Theo came forward, the pleasure genuine behind his smile.
"You look a rare treat," he said, setting down his wine glass so he could take her hands. And she did, done up in that red gown that hugged her curves in ways no proper gown should, giving her a glossy sheen like a ripe apple.
He kissed each hand, watching how the blush spilled up from her throat and across that translucent skin of her cheeks. That had to be her most amazing skill. He really would have to ask her sometime how she managed such a show of innocence.
For now, he contented himself with steering her to a seat near the window and the cooling breeze and asking about her day, and teasing her now for her resistance to learning how to ride.
"I could take you out tomorrow on a slow, very short donkey. That'll at least get you astride something."
She made a face. "If you want to take me someplace, I'd rather you offer that picnic you promised."
"Shall I? You only have to tell me your favorite foods and I'll have Mrs. Brown prepare them all for you."
"But I've no favorites—or at least, I don't have any unfavorites when it comes to her cooking."
"Then we're going to have a lot to eat for she'll have to cook everything she knows, and you can sample a bite of each and set your favorites."
She smiled at him, and he thought that put a gleam in her eyes like sunlight glinting on a meadow. Before he could turn that thought into words, the squire cleared his throat and demanded to know if Theo had settled the other details of his wedding.
Not caring to be distracted from Molly, Theo answered absently that there was still time for all that, and turned back to his sweet Sweet.
The squire watched this exchange, uneasy for the first time since he had come home and had heard the tale from Simpson of the unsuitable woman that Theo had brought home.
As soon as he had seen his son and the girl together, he had known it to be some mad lark. The lad was too young, yet, to think of tying hi
mself to any female—why, only look at how his seeming interest in the Harwood girl had been nothing more than boyish infatuation. This would prove the same—and he could swear he had already seen Theo's interest wane over the past few days.
Just don't give him something to push against, and he'll soon fall out of it.
Only now he wondered about that, for something else lay in the air between these two tonight. He noted how Theo bent close to say something to this tart of his, his tone low, for her ears only. And how she looked at him, a dancing light in her eyes that'd be enough to start a fire in any man. Why had he not noticed this before?
But it wouldn't last. The boy was taken in by a curvaceous figure and a clever woman's skills—you could see at a glance that this one had more thoughts than did any man good. She was a schemer, right enough. He had been tempted a half dozen times to toss her out—only he knew Theo would follow her, and he had no sons left to spare.
Still, the girl had spirit. She wasn't one of those wilting types—and that twisted the old pain inside him as nothing else had in years.
Turning aside, he poured himself a glass of wine, drank it, and poured another. Unable to stop himself, he glanced at his son and the lad's intended—rubbish that anything would come of it. He need only wait and let Theo tire of her vulgar ways.
He kept telling himself that throughout dinner.
With Theo's full attention fixed on her, the girl blossomed as she had not on the other evenings. She flirted and joked, and the squire had to fight the impulse to smile himself at some of her more outrageous jests. They showed a coarse sort of humor that didn't suit a young lady, but she wasn't a lady, even though she seemed too young for her trade. Ought to be in some schoolroom, the squire thought, glaring at her. Only there was that figure of hers which showed a woman's maturity and allure.
She didn't turn to see his disapproval, and she was, in fact, off with some new story—this one about India and monkeys—that the squired fought not to listen to.
No wonder the lad's fascinated, he thought, covertly eyeing those glowing red curls, the expanses of white skin displayed by a scandalous gown, and the curve of her lips. He forced a frown. Infatuations never lasted. This would be no different. He, better than anyone, knew the cruel truth of that.
He noted, too, that she slipped bits of meat to the dogs when she thought no one was paying attention. And he realized that all of 'em—Cesar, Marcus, and Plato—had attached themselves to her during mealtimes.
A soft touch, he thought. Soft and bright as new copper. She'd brought smiles and laughter back into this house.
He deepened his scowl.
Far better she had never come with a reminder of feminine graces—and brought back to him what his cursed disposition had made him lose forever.
#
The patter of rain on the windows woke Molly. She lay with her eyes closed, dreams fading—they had been such nice ones with Theo kissing her. She smiled. He had kissed her just once on the stairs last night, before his father had come across them and had dragged Theo off, saying something about wanting to talk about the harvest schedules for the home farms.
Theo had left her with reluctance, but for the first time she had also noticed that he had not turned sullen and brooding under the lash of his father's abrupt tone. In fact, he had not even seemed to care about his father's mood.
Something had shifted in him. In a rather interesting fashion. He had seemed...well, older almost. She had wondered if he might stop by her room later, and she had thought she might ask him about it, but he had not.
And that is just as well for me.
Dreams of kisses seemed far safer just now that the actual ones—though they weren't half as nice.
With a yawn, she opened her eyes and stretched. Today they were to picnic. But a sound intruded and woke her fully. Sitting upright, she stared at the window.
Rain pattered down on the pane, streaking the glass. Slipping from the warmth of her bed, she ran to the widow, a wet chill in the room slipping around her bare legs. It had to be just a slight summer wetting, which blew out just as quickly as it blew in.
Gray skies, muddy lanes, and dripping trees told a different story. It looked ready to rain in earnest for the rest of the day. Somerset, she decided, had worse weather than London.
To cheer herself, she put on her favorite gown. One of her own for a change—in purple silk over a square neckline and short, puffy sleeves. She had found it at a stall in Covant Garden which sold used dresses—some discarded from wealthy houses, some given to maids and sold to supplement salaries, and some very likely pilfered from the closets of ladies who had more dresses than they could count. This one had cost her dear—four pounds and ten from her savings. An extravagance, but one she had never regretted, for she adored the dress and that it fit almost as if made for her.
Feeling cheered, she found the breakfast room empty and settled down to enjoy her morning.
By the time she finished her last sip of tea, she had begun to wonder if the squire had kept Theo with him all night and the morning through. Neither of them had appeared downstairs. With nothing else to do, and poor weather for doing anything outside, she wandered the house, looking at portraits.
Every other painting seemed to be of a horse or a dog. She soon grew tired of reading the brass plates that gave their names and sometimes their pedigrees. The people in the paintings seemed not to deserve any such notice—or perhaps it was assumed that anyone looking at them would know who they were. Most had the look of Winslows—straight, autocratic noses, tall foreheads, stubborn chins, and a good number of them with those startling blue eyes.
None as handsome as Theo, however.
When she tired of walking, she made her way to a room that had a number of books. Not so many as to be called a library, but more than in the rest of the house that she had seen. Her education had not been overlooked at St. Marylebone's—numbers and reading were taught to everyone, as was a careful hand. However, the only reading encouraged had been the bible for books were dear to buy, as was a subscription to a lending library.
However, Sallie considered it part of her calling for all her girls to be able to carry on a conversation about anything that might interest a gentleman, including politics, literature, and history even. To that end, on Sunday afternoons Sallie read from every fashionable work she could find, and encouraged lively discussions after.
Molly had often taken away the books to read on her own.
Now, as she searched for something to interest, all she found were books and magazines on hunting, shooting, boxing, fishing and the occasional thick volume with a long title that seemed to deal with farming.
Theo found her still prowling the room, searching the shelves.
"What in blazes are you doing?" he asked.
She had climbed up onto a chair in order to see the titles of the works on the higher shelves. Glancing down at him, she said, "Don't you have anything to read that doesn't involve either killing some animal or digging up the ground?"
One black eyebrow lifted and he said, scorn thick in his tone, "Read? I thought we were having a picnic?"
She started to climb down from the chair, but he came to her and put his hands on her waist, holding her in place. With her feet sinking into the soft cushions of the chair, she stood just a little taller than him.
"I think I like having you look up to me," she said, unable to resist teasing him, and her pulse quickening at his touch.
"So it's a pedestal you want after all? Shall I get you a proper one—all white marble and high enough that I can kiss your toes?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I don't aim for great heights."
"But you might like your toes being kissed and nibbled on."
Pulling back, she tilted her head to the side. "It sounds a bit ticklish."
"And is this ticklish?" he asked. He pulled her close to kiss the hollow of her throat.
Closing her eyes, she leaned into the sensation. She straighten
ed with a reminder to think about her fifty pounds. "Here now—I thought you said something about a picnic?"
He pulled away with a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm going to have to start calling you my hungry Molly—how can you eat like a trencher and not weigh in at twenty stone?"
"I don't eat like a trencher. But I could just now."
With a laugh, he took hold of her waist, swung her off the chair and once around before setting her on the ground. She clutched his neck, half out of breath from the surprise of it.
"You are a dangerous fellow!"
He flicked her chin with a finger. "Not a bit—tame as a lamb. Now, I've promised you a picnic, and it's a picnic you shall have."
She glanced at the windows as he started to lead her from the room. "We'll be soaked through."
With a grin, he kept hold of her hand and started up the stairs. "So little faith. Close your eyes. Come along—closed, I said. You'll have hold tight and trust me."
"I already do too much," she muttered, but she shut her eyes tight.
Where he led her, she could not tell. She lost track after the stairs turned twice, and it seemed to be ages down a corridor that smelled musty from lack of use. She heard a door creak open and closed behind her. Her nose twitched with the wafting scents of food—curry, she thought. And a pork pie, and roast...roast what? Ah, pheasant.
She could have stood there all day with her eyes shut, breathing those tantalizing aromas.
Taking her shoulders, he turned her about. Standing behind her, he leaned close and whispered to her, "Now you may look."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Theo had spent the morning arranging this, and now he waited for Molly's reaction, more eager than he would ever have thought possible. His father had kept him up late last night with excuses of estate business—and he had actually found himself growing interested in the details of managing the four-hundred and sixty acres that comprised Winslow Park. Twice he'd had to stop himself from making suggestions on perhaps crossing some Romneys with their Dorset Horn sheep to improve the wool yield, or to see about replanting the aging apple orchards that lay to the south and with an eye to selling the extra cider production.
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